Names

Between harp song and The Apple Gardener's long-practice with her art, the stump was positioned into the ancient wheel barrel and moved to the heap of trimmings -- evidence of culling. She sought no help from me though I was good at the smaller tasks. The harp was nearly silent, humming like a maiden aunt tending a soup simmering over a low fire. When I first met The Apple Gardener she walked with a stick and a decided limp; I assumed the limp was permanent. Now healed the ankle and knee were mended, "Repaired like all old trees, I'm as good as any of them," The Apple Gardener included herself as one of the trees and took the naming seriously. "A fruit bearer, that's me." That was several months ago now. Near enough to spring we worked in the gardens.

"I am considering the name of the child, the one not sought, yet found because it was looking," I leaned on a shovel as I spoke.

"It will be a male child," The Apple Gardener said, not stopping she pointed to my  shovel. With two shovels cold soil like pastry, we cut the clods into small bits. Her muscles were strong from a lifetime of digging, pruning and hauling the parts of gardens that were in need of amputation. I had heard her describe the destruction of her work with a sad resignation. Acceptance. So when she told me of her knowing, I accepted her statement as truth, and nodded to her reply.

The seasons were early this year, not so much odd as in step with things as they knew far better than most human weather gauges. The circular bed was scattered with perennials The Apple Gardner wished to be left in place. "Leave those where they be." The names of some I once knew, I queried her about and hoped my memory was hearty enough to maintain somewhere inside the bank. "We'll need to cover with leaf mulch, still too early to leave the tender ones without cover." Once the bed was loosened of hard lumps we walked to and fro the pile of wet and rotting leaves from which we made a quilt thick and comfortable.

"The name, Mothan, sits easily as his name," I said when the work was done. My arms tingled from the light workout. Aches after such minimal exertion. How easily I became lazy, preferring mind work over the physical. In contrast my friend delighted in her work, prodding the repositioned stump into the far corner of the garden.

"That is a name that comes with time Pale," she answered. "The creeping plant is different in its native state. Its wildness is potent when it is not sought, yes. A cultivated version will have some recognition of all its power; but not so much. Have you spoken with Raven about the name?"

"No, you are the first to hear it." I could feel my certainty wane, my clinging loosen, and my jaw slacken. This was a good sign; evidence of a softening nature, but then The Apple Gardener was expert at softening nature.

"Help me with this, please." The stump was reluctant to roll into place. The harp must have drifted into sleep, or was simply cooperating as instructed. There was room for me to push one side of the huge old tree with my right boot.

"Into the corner post," the gardener directed. "Lean it up. There's enough life left in her to send shoots by Spring. We'll train them into stretching arms. Beautiful enough to attract many birds."

We smiled. The harp woke. The wind sang.


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