Toward Home
(Author's Note: Written to honor the passing of David McCallum)
The farmers' market in the little village ofLes Vignes sur Merwas busy, typical for an afternoon in late September. The crowd, mostly locals, wandered from stall to stall, filling totes and baskets with the last of summer's bounty—auberginesand vine-ripened tomatoes, sweet Provençal peaches and jars of lavender honey.
Illya accepted a sack of nectarines from Monsieur Armengaud, and passed over a handful of euros with a sigh. "These prices, Maurice—a scandal."
"Oui, Monsieur," the portlyvendeurchuckled, stepping into his accustomed role. "More expensive every season." It was an old joke between them.
Illya inhaled the wild, fruity scent of the nectarines, and his face relaxed into a smile. "But worth the sacrifice of a few euros, I suppose."
"Naturellement!"
Their weekly ritual thus completed, Illya slid the nectarines into his basket beside a jar of tapenade, some lovelychanterellesand a bottle of the local wine, and started up the long hill toward home.
It was a beautiful day. It had rained the previous evening, and the hot breeze that blew off the Mediterranean ruffled the tall grass growing alongside the road. The air was tinged with the saltiness of the sea, and the scent of lavender from a nearby field. Illya paused, inhaling the pleasant fragrance.
If only Napoleon could have lived to see this place…
He waved to his neighbors—old Monsieur Besson and his grandson tending their flock ofmerinoson the adjacent hill—and Madame Vuillermoz hanging her sheets out to dry.
Salt of the earth, these people,he thought fondly.
He passed an olive grove, the trees laden with fruit. Sparrows flitted among the branches, favoring him with their song, and he stopped to listen. A favorite poem by e. came to mind—
May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living.
He continued on his way, his step light and unconcerned. It really was a beautiful day.
The sun was bright, the very air shimmering. The dirt road wavered with heat. Eyes watering, Illya dug into the basket for his sunglasses, only to realize that he had left them on the bench at Monsieur Armengaud's stall. He thought about going back for them, but the prospect of retracing his steps back down the steep hill was daunting. A glance at the contents of his basket decided him.
The mushrooms will spoil in this the wine…He shook his is time on.
The hill grew steeper, the sun beat down, and Illya began to feel lightheaded. Sweat beaded his brow; he wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve. His left hip—injured in Survival School all those decades ago—began to throb.
I am not as young as I used to be,he admitted with a Gallic shrug.
He spied an ancient plane tree a few hundred yards ahead, its green shade beckoning, and he doubled his pace, suddenly desperate for the promised coolness. He stowed his basket beneath a nearby bush and stretched out beneath the old tree's arching boughs.
Ah, better!He reached out, retrieved a nectarine from the basket, peeled off the skin. He bit into the succulent flesh and sighed in !Sweet juice dribbled down his chin. He devoured the nectarine in a matter of moments, and reached for another. He took his time with the second one, relishing the flavor of each segment as he teased out the juice. When the last piece was gone, he tossed the rind into the bushes and licked his fingers clean, one by one.
A perfect day. I could not have asked for better.
Drowsy now, he stretched out upon the grass, pillowing his arms beneath his head. He no longer worried about the mushrooms in his basket, or the wine. He felt relaxed, untroubled, peaceful. His breathing slowed. He closed his eyes. Above him, bees buzzed and the birds sang their songs. A tender breeze caressed his hair.
Afternoon turned to twilight. Monsieur Besson and his grandson guided their flock toward home and supper. Madame Vuillermoz took down her sheets, crisp and dry and smelling of sunshine and lavender. The first stars began to appear. The moon rose.
In his dream, he stood upon a cliff overlooking a bright blue sea. The air around him shimmered, golden with promise. Beside him, an old friend waited.
Illya turned, his eyes alight with surprise and !
Time to go,Napoleon said softly. His voice was like honey, like warm chocolate. Brown eyes sparkled with mirth.
Time to go,Illya agreed.
Beneath the ancient boughs of a plane tree, under a sky filled with stars, Illya inhaled a deep, satisfied breath. A final exhale, and he farmers' market in the little village ofLes Vignes sur Merwas busy, typical for an afternoon in late September. The crowd, mostly locals, wandered from stall to stall, filling totes and baskets with the last of summer's bounty—auberginesand vine-ripened tomatoes, sweet Provençal peaches and jars of lavender honey.
Illya accepted a sack of nectarines from Monsieur Armengaud, and passed over a handful of euros with a sigh. "These prices, Maurice—a scandal."
"Oui, Monsieur," the portlyvendeurchuckled, stepping into his accustomed role. "More expensive every season." It was an old joke between them.
Illya inhaled the wild, fruity scent of the nectarines, and his face relaxed into a smile. "But worth the sacrifice of a few euros, I suppose."
"Naturellement!"
Their weekly ritual thus completed, Illya slid the nectarines into his basket beside a jar of tapenade, some lovelychanterellesand a bottle of the local wine, and started up the long hill toward home.
It was a beautiful day. It had rained the previous evening, and the hot breeze that blew off the Mediterranean ruffled the tall grass growing alongside the road. The air was tinged with the saltiness of the sea, and the scent of lavender from a nearby field. Illya paused, inhaling the pleasant fragrance.
If only Napoleon could have lived to see this place…
He waved to his neighbors—old Monsieur Besson and his grandson tending their flock ofmerinoson the adjacent hill—and Madame Vuillermoz hanging her sheets out to dry.
Salt of the earth, these people,he thought fondly.
He passed an olive grove, the trees laden with fruit. Sparrows flitted among the branches, favoring him with their song, and he stopped to listen. A favorite poem by e. came to mind—
May my heart always be open to little birds, who are the secrets of living.
He continued on his way, his step light and unconcerned. It really was a beautiful day.
The sun was bright, the very air shimmering. The dirt road wavered with heat. Eyes watering, Illya dug into the basket for his sunglasses, only to realize that he had left them on the bench at Monsieur Armengaud's stall. He thought about going back for them, but the prospect of retracing his steps back down the steep hill was daunting. A glance at the contents of his basket decided him.
The mushrooms will spoil in this the wine…He shook his is time on.
The hill grew steeper, the sun beat down, and Illya began to feel lightheaded. Sweat beaded his brow; he wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve. His left hip—injured in Survival School all those decades ago—began to throb.
I am not as young as I used to be,he admitted with a Gallic shrug.
He spied an ancient plane tree a few hundred yards ahead, its green shade beckoning, and he doubled his pace, suddenly desperate for the promised coolness. He stowed his basket beneath a nearby bush and stretched out beneath the old tree's arching boughs.
Ah, better!He reached out, retrieved a nectarine from the basket, peeled off the skin. He bit into the succulent flesh and sighed in !Sweet juice dribbled down his chin. He devoured the nectarine in a matter of moments, and reached for another. He took his time with the second one, relishing the flavor of each segment as he teased out the juice. When the last piece was gone, he tossed the rind into the bushes and licked his fingers clean, one by one.
A perfect day. I could not have asked for better.
Drowsy now, he stretched out upon the grass, pillowing his arms beneath his head. He no longer worried about the mushrooms in his basket, or the wine. He felt relaxed, untroubled, peaceful. His breathing slowed. He closed his eyes. Above him, bees buzzed and the birds sang their songs. A tender breeze caressed his hair.
Afternoon turned to twilight. Monsieur Besson and his grandson guided their flock toward home and supper. Madame Vuillermoz took down her sheets, crisp and dry and smelling of sunshine and lavender. The first stars began to appear. The moon rose.
In his dream, he stood upon a cliff overlooking a bright blue sea. The air around him shimmered, golden with promise. Beside him, an old friend waited.
Illya turned, his eyes alight with surprise and !
Time to go,Napoleon said softly. His voice was like honey, like warm chocolate. Brown eyes sparkled with mirth.
Time to go,Illya agreed.
Beneath the ancient boughs of a plane tree, under a sky filled with stars, Illya inhaled a deep, satisfied breath. A final exhale, and he soared.
/