A Memory of a Day of Spring, Year 208
Glenhollow
It was just before dawn in the town of Glenhollow. The warm glow of the day’s emerging light had begun to color the sky a pale blue. This was the best time of day. Just before the bird song, and just after the dark gave way to light … Ringo was walking the grove’s path just like every other day of his life; beads of dew were shimmering on the grass, and the promise of the dawn shone just out of his reach. He breathed in the crisp morning air, and slowly let out a long sigh.
“I couldn’t ask for a more perfect life,” he whispered, smiling from ear to ear. “How did I get to be so lucky?” he chuckled, as he recalled the night before, surrounded by friends and loved ones; pitchers of the Glenhollow Cidery’s latest release at every table, a song on everyone’s lips, his best friends dragging him onto the dance floor … the flecks of gold in Frori’s bright green eyes. He felt like he could fly.
He stretched, and crouched into a runner’s pose. He could see Jin’s greenhouse on the hilltop to the west, and the beams of sunlight just starting to creep over the mountains behind him. “I’m not late for work yet … I just have to show up by dawn. I have to beat the light.” he thought.
His smile brightened and he broke into a sprint, the wind rushing through his hair, the leaves rustling as he passed like a crowd cheering him on. The world blurred around him, his muscles ached, his lungs burned … he felt alive. He skidded to a stop and threw open the wood framed glass door just as the first light of dawn shone over his shoulders.
“That’s quite an entrance, sprout. Illuminated as you are. You look like a hero arriving to save the day.” Jin laughed, adjusting his glasses, then taking a sip from a steaming cup of black tea, which left his spectacles wreathed in fog.
Ringo, out of breath and bent over, rested his palms on his knees, looked up, and simply smiled and nodded.
“Well then young hero, this sapling is in distress. Come on over here and let’s plan a rescue.” Jin said with a smile.
The sunlight slowly filtered in as night surrendered to the day. The little twisted trees covered rows upon rows of handmade wooden benches, all of them different sizes and shapes. Three out of the dozens of trees that surrounded them rested in front of Ringo’s uncle in shallow clay pots. Uncle Jin pruned away a few small cuttings from the largest of the three, a two foot tall ancient bonsai that the Potts family had been tending for at least three generations, probably more, Ringo wasn’t great with history. The trunk of the bonsai was of the same variety of pear that Glenhollow was known for. The bark was a smooth slate grey, the fruit a deep crimson, and the leaves a pale almost phosphorescent green, but grafted onto it were four other varieties of pear ranging in color from white-gold to a purple so dark it looked like a cloudless night sky; each had their own distinct character and flavor.
Uncle Jin cut off a portion of one of the lowest branches and handed it to Ringo.
“Graft that onto the little one there.” he said without looking up. “How was the cider launch last night? Did Os and Zef get you into trouble again?”
Ringo sliced away some of the bark on the smaller tree, which was eight years old, and only a sapling by comparison to the ancient bonsai that was donating a piece of itself to heal the younger tree. He then began tying the graft into place with a piece of twine.
“No more trouble than usual.” Ringo said with a mischievous grin.
“Hmph, I’ll bet” Jin snorted, “Here, run into town. We need a few things.” Jin stated matter of factly as he handed Ringo a crumpled piece of tea stained paper scrawled with nearly incomprehensible writing and abstract drawings.
Ringo jumped to his feet, wiped away some dirt, and hung his apron on the hook by the door.
“And take that envelope to your father, while you’re out!” Jin called after him as he made his way out the door.
Ringo ran through the town square, across the cobblestones and around the houses and shops. Stopping briefly to speak with friends and family along the way, and actively avoiding a few.
“Mornin’ Warbler!” They called after him.
“That crackpot Jin have you out fetching things for him again?!” someone yelled.
“Sloooww DOWN!” Old Marmi barked as he sprinted by her while she hobbled along on her cane.
“Tell Goss I said hello for me?” Felda crooned from the bakery’s window.
“Cut that hair, you look like you’ve gone feral!” Aunt Yoyra exclaimed.
“How’s Frori!” Osbin shouted in a chiding tone with a wink and a smile.
He gathered every item on his list into his pack, until the only remaining task was the envelope which read GORM scribbled in all capital letters.
He looked out at the Glenhollow Cidery. The large two story stone and timber structure had a pitched roof, huge windows, and was always emanating steam and smoke that smelled like whiskey and pear cobbler. No, it smelled like Glenhollow, like home. It was the center of the town. It was its heartbeat. He strolled in through the back door to speak with his father.
“The man has lost his mind. He’s not just out talking to the trees anymore, but having bloody debates with them. If we let Ringo follow in his footsteps …”
“He’s the best arborist in over a hundred years, Gorm …”
“He’s the laughing stock of the town, love!”
“So he’s a little off, but the man is brilliant …”
“In the brief moments where he’s not a stark raving lunatic!!!”
Gorm and Faye turned to see their son as the door closed behind him. He held out the envelope for his father.
“Ringo, my boy! I, hehe, I didn’t hear you come in.” his father said, taking the envelope and pulling him in for a hug …
An Afternoon of Winter, Year 217
The Torbjaer Mountains
The winter chill cut through Warbler as he limped along on his broken twisted excuse for a leg. Pain rang like a bell throughout his body with every plodding step. The light had begun giving way to the dark as dusk settled across the landscape. His clothes were in tatters, and the hole in his boot wasn’t getting any smaller in this frozen wasteland.
“Where am I going?!” he shouted to the forest of pines. “I have to rest eventually! Just show me what you need!” his voice echoed through the dense woods as flecks of snow slowly settled on his hair and shoulders.
An image of a path strewn with pine needles formed in his mind. A great stone wall. A memory of fire and smoke, of fangs, and claws.
Warbler thought he heard people call out to each other in the distance.
“I, I heard a voice.” one swan said to the other.
“Bullshit, ‘twas just branches breaking from the weight of the snow.” the other swan replied.
Warbler imagined a great brown grizzly, starving, alone, making her way through the snow. He heard the snap of branches, a roar, then screams, and then the voices stopped …
He leaned against the nearest pine, and began to snore softly.
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