CHAPTER 2 - CHAMOMILE TEA

Lark touched the worn metal handle of the door to her grandparents’ cottage. This had been more of a home to her than the house her father had built along the road. Here, she shared joyful family meals with her parents and grandparents. This was where her grandmother taught her to cook, and her grandfather told tall tales by the fireplace. Her father never lost his temper here, and her mother only cried happy tears. This was where she had always felt safe.

She turned the knob, and the big lock held fast. She reached inside her collar and pulled on a worn ribbon tied around her neck. The key her grandmother had given her the day she left fit into her hand like an old friend. She had squeezed it in her palm so many times that she was surprised the imprint wasn’t permanently pressed into her skin.

The key fit into the old lock and turned with a satisfying click. Lark held her breath as she swung the carved wooden door open. Dust danced on the wide plank floor in front of her as the last sunbeam of the evening slipped in ahead of her. A warm, musty gust of impatient air fled the cottage, and April clucked at her feet. The chicken bounded in, disappearing into the shadows.

Lark took a step inside and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. To her left was a dust covered table with four chairs neatly tucked around it. To her right was a cozy kitchen, smaller than she remembered, but overflowing with aching nostalgia. The wood-burning stove slept in the corner as a mouse scampered along the floorboards into a crack in the wall. In front of her, once white sheets covered several pieces of furniture arranged around the stone fireplace. Her grandmother’s rocking chair was missing from its spot, and whole sections of books from the bookshelves that lined the back wall were also gone.

Lark let out a long breath. The house remained, but grief darkened the corners without the people who used to fill it with love. She pictured her grandmother in her rocking chair at the fireplace, yarn and needles in her lap, and her grandfather fussing with the fire, making sure she was warm. She saw her father at the kitchen table, his notebook open and overflowing with his latest ideas. And she saw her mother, smiling, one hip against the kitchen counter and a hand on the other, telling her to wash up. She smiled back at her mom and held the memory close. The dark corners seemed lighter now.

She turned around and stepped over Boon, who was hovering in the doorway and leaned over the thick weeds that had grown against the house and in the window boxes. The wooden latches that held the shutters closed opened reluctantly. As she pulled each shutter open it felt like turning pages in a book. A new chapter. A new start far from the sick beds and battlefields of war.

“Come on in, silly,” she said to Boon as she scooped up the kitten on her way back inside. He would have to grow a bit before he would be a match for the mice. April had found a perch on the back of one of the dining room chairs and seemed content. Her grandmother would disapprove of a chicken inside the house, but one took what companionship one could find.

With the shutters open, the main room of the cottage seemed more like home. Lark threw off the sheets with a cascade of dust, revealing a small couch and chair. The fireplace had been cleaned out, and the flue closed tight. Lark reached in and with a practiced hand, found the leaver and turned. A small amount of debris, and what looked like an abandoned bird nest fell into the fireplace, but a current of air swooped upwards, and the house seemed pleased.

Boon had settled onto the couch and curled into a tiny black ball. Lark gave him a pat as she continued. Thankful for the firewood, she gathered several dry pieces from the neat stack on the side of the house. She searched the tree line, but saw no movement.

“It’s me,” she said, her voice carrying through the quiet evening air. “I’m back. Thank you for the wood.” She paused, knowing she wouldn’t hear a response. “Everett is gone,” she said with a hitch in her throat. “He’s with Sarah now. He was a hero in the end.”

The breeze rustled the new spring leaves.

Good. Now the forest knew her parents’ story. It would share the weight of the grief.

She brought the firewood in and placed a few choice pieces in the fireplace and a few more in the metal bin beside the stove. She used the tiny bit of sun magic she had inherited from her father and made a spark. With a little coaxing, she had a small fire going. April moved positions and settled on the edge of the couch, her eyes falling closed periodically as she enjoyed the warmth.

In the kitchen, Lark found the kettle right where it always was, in the cupboard to the right of the stove. The water bucket, however, was nowhere to be found, so she took the kettle out towards the well and said a little prayer that the farm still had a reliable water source.

The Trudale well was capped with a pitcher pump atop a wooden platform. Mugwort and dandelions crowded around the pump, filling the air with an earthy aroma as Lark waded through them. The pump had been painted blue at one time, but only tenacious flakes remained. Lark grasped the rusty handle and pushed. It gave way reluctantly. She pushed again, and the pump gurgled deep below. A few more pumps and fresh clear water trickled and then poured out the spout. Lark filled the kettle, overflowing the water and giving the weeds a joyful shower.

The leafy green smell of the weeds reminded her of the herb garden. Some of those herbs were perennials, and her grandfather always had a few hardy varieties. On her way back to the cottage, she detoured to an overgrown space to the right of the nearest greenhouse. Among the dense spring foliage, she saw several varieties of mint, rosemary, oregano, and, swaying in the breeze, the cheerful white flowers of the chamomile plant.

Lark set down her kettle and carefully popped off a dozen chamomile flowers. Then, she picked a few mint leaves, smelled each one, and chose the variety her grandfather called Apple Mint.

Back inside, Lark closed the bottom half of the Dutch door and opened the kitchen and dining room windows. She set the kettle to boil on the fire, choosing to wait to wake the stove up until tomorrow. She cleaned a ceramic teapot and a tea cup and removed her traveling provisions from her backpack. She had a bit of bread left, as well as some more smoked fish and some berries. She cleaned a plate next and arranged her meager meal artfully. When the kettle whistled, she poured the water into the teapot. She then added the fresh chamomile and a couple of small mint leaves. She brought her meal to the living room and sat on the couch beside Boon. She shared a bit of her fish with him and gave April a few bits of bread. After letting her tea steep for several minutes, she poured a warm fragrant cup.

The fire crackled. Boon purred on her lap and kneaded his tiny paws against her leg. April settled back in front of the warm hearth, and Lark sipped her tea. It wasn’t what it was before, but it was home.

Lark awoke the next morning still on the couch. The fire was out, the morning sun and a cool breeze floated in from the open windows, and Boon and April were gone. Lark stretched. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch, but it had been more comfortable than anything she slept on in weeks. The thought of airing out the bed and sleeping with a proper pillow and under one of her mother’s quilts gave her a lovely glimmer of anticipation.

She found both of her companions outside. She wasn’t sure how the tiny kitten managed to escape the open windows, but she found him playing in the grass near where April was contently pecking and scratching. The chicken gave a little polite squat as Lark neared, and she stroked the soft feathers on her back.

“We are going to need to fatten you up,” she said, "and give you a proper place to lay some eggs.”

The coop was in bad shape. It would take her some time to clear the fallen tree. Perhaps there was a spot in the barn she would fashion a nesting box out of.

For the rest of the morning Lark tackled the bedroom. The cottage had two small bedrooms, one on each side of the main room. The room to the right, past the kitchen, had been her grandparents’ room. Only an empty wardrobe and a bed and bare mattress remained. Good. This must mean her grandmother was able to take her things with her to town.

The other room had been hers after her mother died and her father left. Those days it had been full of sadness, but before that it had been where she played or napped or spent the night when things were too much at the house by the road. It had been a safe and happy place then. Today it looked precisely as she had left it. The same old quilt was on the bed. A wood dresser and matching bedside table, as well as a small desk under the side window, filled out the rest of the room. She pulled the dusty quilt off the bed and stripped the musty sheets. By mid morning she had her linens laundered and handing on the line and her feather mattress airing out in the sun. She would sleep well tonight.

With that chore done, she eagerly set out for town. Boon had curled up in his new favorite spot on the couch, but April had taken to following her around. As Lark started off for town, April followed. After a few minutes of trying to convince the hen to stay, Lark gave in and headed down the main road with a yellow chicken bobbing along behind her.

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After about a quarter of a mile, the Bly farm came into view. They were the Truedales’ nearest neighbors and had always had the freshest eggs and best poultry in town. Today, just a few birds could be seen in the fields around the house.

The waist high stone wall parted in front of the farm's entrance. The once immaculately mowed front lawn was overgrown, and the house, fifty yards or so from the road, was run down, paint peeling from the wood siding. Mrs. Bly sat on the front porch in a rocking chair. Lark waved.

The woman stood and then waved back as she rose quickly from her rocker. Lark met her halfway down the long driveway, and the older woman embraced her with a soft, familiar hug. Mrs Bly had always been a hugger. This hug was extra long, and Lark didn’t mind at all.

Mrs. Bly was plump but less so than she used to be. Her hair was fluffy and white, and her cheeks were always rosy.

“I’m so sorry about your father, Lark,” she said as she finally eased out of the hug. Her eyes were sad and full of tears.

“Thank you,” Lark said. “My grandmother, is she okay?”

“Oh yes, June is in town now, at the Widows’s home. She had a fall about a year ago. The new town healer did what she could, but she doesn’t get around as well now. She will be so happy to see you.” Mrs. Bly’s expression grew darker. “Have you seen Garrison? Any word at all?”

“I saw him two years ago,” Lark said. “He was with the 5th Army Mage Corps. He was healthy.”

Mrs. Bly nodded. Garrison Bly had left with Lark’s father. Several years older than Lark, Garrison had been her father’s apprentice. His body had been healthy when Lark had seen him last, but his mind was in a dark place. The sun mages, especially the 5th Army Corps, had seen some terrible things.

“If he’s still with the 5th, they have been disbanded and sent home. He could be on his way here right now,” Lark said. She squeezed Mrs. Bly’s hands in her own.

April rustled the grass behind Lark, and pecked at the ground.

“Oh,” Mrs Bly said, a hint of happiness appearing on her face. “There you are!”

Lark suddenly felt a ripple of panic. She had already grown fond of her little yellow shadow. “Is she yours? She was at the farm.”

“Oh no,” Mrs Bly reassured her. “She was part of your grandmother’s flock. She had me take the rest when she moved. This one and a couple of others never would come to me. I’m impressed she made it through the winter. She must be stronger than she looks.” Mrs Bly beamed at Lark and patted her shoulder. “I won’t keep you. Go see June.”

She hugged her neighbor once again, promising to stop by on her way back for some eggs.

Back on the main road, the monolithic Wheeler house came into view. Unlike the Trudale farm, which was nestled in the woods, or the Bly farm set back in the rolling hills, the Wheeler house stood tall and imposing in the middle of a flat field and near enough to the road for its white pillars and iron gate to intimidate or impress passers-by. The house had not shown the wear that the Bly house had seen. In fact, it boasted a carriage house and barn that had not been there ten years ago. Mr Wheeler did not work his own fields, but he owned many of them. Lark, at six years old, had famously asked him why he didn’t have flowers in his front garden. He had replied that flowers might attract annoying children. Even though she had been good friends with his daughter in school, she had never liked Mr. Wheeler.

A quarter mile past the Wheeler house, just as the Stoney Bridge came into view, a carriage pulled by a beautiful black horse crested the arch of the bridge. A man in a white suit with a substantial gray mustache pulled the horse to a stop as he approached. Usher Wheeler had not changed since Lark had left Mystic Landing.

“Why! Lark Trudale, is that you?” he said, his voice booming through the late morning air.

“Good morning, Mr Wheeler,” she answered.

“Well, May God shine blessings on us all. It is good to see our young people returning from our great conflict victorious.” He grinned a little too much for a man speaking of war.

“It is good to be home. How is Jessica? I was grateful for her letters from time to time.”

“Oh she’s a blessing. Working on creating grandchild number five for me. Tell me, dear, how is your grandfather’s farm? I imagine it is overwhelming. We’ve created a cooperative that can help you. I’d love to tell you about it.”

“Thank you, Mr Wheeler, but the Truedales have always been independent sorts.”

“Yes, Eli was that for sure, and certainly Everett as well.” Mr Wheeler’s voice lost some of its enthusiasm. “But if you need help when taxes come due, let me know. I’m the Mayor these days as well, and we want our farms to be thriving. Come by for lunch tomorrow. My treat. Everyone in the Cooperative gets a hot lunch on work days, we’d love to have you, and you can see Jessica.”

“I would love that,” she replied. “Thank you.”

Mr Wheeler tipped his hat and urged his horse to continue down the road. She was glad to be able to see Jessica, but Lark did not like the sound of this cooperative. The Wheelers had never been known for their charity.

The sight of the bridge and the town beyond lightened Lark’s spirit. She paused at the top of the tall structure and peered south to the river’s mouth. The bay spread out in front of her, a blue sheet of cool water peeking over the treetops. To the left, on the bank of the bay, was the ruins of the shipyard. A few charred beams and debris were all that was left. Belrae’s then elusive enemies from the east had attacked the shipyards along the coast in a gruesome first strike. Fifty people had died in the mage fire barrage that destroyed the shipyard. Sarah Trudale had been delivering apples there that day. Lark took a slow breath. The river rushed by beneath her. Of all the holes in her heart, the loss of her mother was the largest and still raw after all these years.

She felt a soft tap on her boot, then a more insistent peck. April was eager to move on.

From the Stoney Bridge the first buildings of town could be seen. April clucked and flapped as she bounded ahead a few paces. The dirt road gradually gave way to crushed gravel and then to cobblestones. She passed a farmer, and he nodded to her pleasantly. She did not recognise him. The sounds of a small town waking up and getting to work could be heard ahead in the distance.

Lark’s disintegrating left boot caught the edge of an uneven stone, and with her eyes on the familiar square ahead and her mind already arush with greetings for her grandmother, she was unprepared for the jolt in stride. She lurched forward gracelessly as the sole of her shoe gave up the long hard fight with a sigh of ripping leather. April panicked as only a chicken can and burst into the springtime foliage along the road with a squawk and a trail of yellow feathers. Lark caught herself before she landed on her face, bruising only her dignity in the stumble.

She regained her balance and examined the remaining pieces of boot that clung to her ankle like a tattered flag, waving defeat.

A crunch of footsteps from behind her made her turn, her left foot still dangling in the air. A young man with streaks of sun in his long hair and neatly trimmed beard knelt down to retrieve the largest chunk left of her sole. His left arm was bound in a sling against his chest, and a fishing pole was slung over his shoulder.

He stood and turned the boot remnant over in his hand. “Army issue,” he said. “Is a welcome home in order?” he held out the piece of leather, and Lark noticed the blue ink of a tattoo in the shape of a trident peeking out from under the rolled cuff of his shirt. She looked up at his tanned face. The cheerful shade of blue seemed out of place in such sad eyes.

“3rd Army Healers Corps,” she said. “And you?”

“1st Fleet, Belrae Navy.”

Lark nodded and the sailor nodded back.

She took the shoe scrap from his outstretched hand, and forced a whistful smile. “The boots did their job. They got me home.” She put her now mostly shoeless foot back on the ground, the stones felt rough through her worn sock. “My name is Lark Trudale. I live at the farm up the main road.”

The sailor’s blue eyes reflected her smile, and Lark caught a glimps of what he might have been before. “I’m Ian Jacobson,” he said. “I returned home a few months ago.” He motioned to his imoble arm. “Had an argument with some aggressive lines on a mighty warship.”

“That sounds like a good story,” she said. “If you’re a storytelling sort.”

He nodded, “I’d be a poor sailor if I didn’t enjoy a good sea story over a pint with a pretty lady,” His grin widened, and he bowed slightly. “But first, you need a proper pair of boots. Do you know the old mapmakers shop down by the docks?”

“I do,” she said.

“My father is a cobbler. He and my mother moved here from Waterport several years ago. He’s got a good selection.”

“I can’t tell you how much I’d love a new pair,” she said. “But right now, I have funds to feed myself but not much more.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I know June, and I owe her. She wouldn’t want you without shoes. Come by this afternoon. We’ll find you something.”

She looked down at her big toe sticking out of her sock, and then back up at the knowing blue eyes of a kindred spirit and nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

“Good,” he said. “Honor in Victory,” he added as he continued down the road.

“Honor in Peace,” she finished.

She watched Ian go and remembered the sailors of the 1st fleet that she had cared for six months ago. The Battle of Bishop’s Pass had been a turning point for Belrae. She had seen the fireships and the kraken wind. Fighting on land and at sea had been brutal. He certainly deserved a pint and to tell some sea stories. Lark wondered how many others like her and Ian would wander back into Mystic Landing.

Ignoring her now mostly shoeless foot, Lark finished her journey into town. Walking into the main square made her smile, and she felt the presence of her mother beside her carrying her big basket of flowers for delivery. The general store, the post office, and the bakery all stood in a row to the right. The meeting house and the Library sat, as they always had, flanking the road to the docks. The paint was fading, and more than a few shutters were closed up, but townspeople came and went. She waved to a few familiar faces, but did not stop. She was getting impatient to see her grandmother.

On the Southeastern corner of the square, set up on a hill and backed by tall pine trees was a white two story house. The front porch and upper balcony wrapped around it like ribbons on a present and a wide stone staircase spilled out the front and down the hill like a cascade. And rushing down the stairs, white bun bobbing, holding a cane in one hand and her heart in the other was June Trudale.

Lark ran the rest of the way and met her at the foot of the stairs in a hug so tight and so needed that she could feel the warmth of it for weeks.