An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: Anne Karppinen
At dawn, the wind blows from the north, over the mountains. The air is crisp and easy to breathe. The landscape sparkles in shades of blue and green; as the sun rises, it adds more tints one by one. This is the time to make a pot of tea and pour it slowly into small cups. No one should start their day with a clouded mind or a burned tongue.
A flock of magpies passes overhead. The only time they’re quiet is on the wing, and even then one of them might burst out into a bright, cackling laugh. Birds are more aware of us than we are of them: magpies, too, keep an eye out for intruders, and make sure none of the flock is left behind if a human comes too close.
After breakfast, I get my foraging-basket. There are people who believe that certain plants need to be harvested by moonshine, while others will lose their potency if cut after midday. I have yet to meet a flower that refused to yield its essence, or a seed that shrivelled up at my touch. I choose the time and the method, and the plants choose how much of themselves they want to give up to my use.
When I return home, it’s midday. The sound of the cicadas is overwhelming; the sun is beating down on my back. I acknowledge the power of the noise and the stifling heat, and withdraw as gracefully as I can. Setting down my basket by the well, I draw up a bucketful of water from the stony depths, and savour the cool taste before splashing my face and neck. The hint of iron stays on my tongue.
Thus, I’m not surprised to find the young warrior expecting me. He has been sitting on the porch, but springs up when he sees me. He’s left his weapons at the gate as is customary; his angular movements and the rapid way he spits out his words are indication enough of his occupation. Men like him are used to bowing to authority. He sees none in me, and is negligent with his honorifics.
‘I was told you have a spell for untouchability in battle.’
Soldiers are also notoriously superstitious. ‘Such spells are expensive,’ I tell him. ‘The best way to remain untouchable is to avoid battles altogether.’
Worry flicks across his face. ‘Are you saying that I shouldn’t go South with the general?’
‘It depends on how badly you want to return home. You have a sweetheart waiting?’ He’s an agreeable-looking young man: chances are that he’s managed to attract someone who doesn’t mind his raucous voice and calloused fingers.
He looks down. ‘We’re getting married next year.’
I move my fingers in the tiniest of gestures.
The young man drops a bag of coins and my feet, and runs down the path.
The evening steals in, gathering in the deep valleys and lurking behind corners before announcing itself with a true spectacle. Orange and bulbous, the moon rolls out of the darkness; it can’t rival the sun with its luminosity, but its perfectly round face is a wonder to behold. I’ve just finished washing up; the blue ceramic bowls gleam in the moonlight as if poured full of silver. While I set the pot over the fire, I keep listening to the sound of hooves.
The banker arrives just as the embers are beginning to turn black at the edges. His horse lets out a trumpeting snort, and starts sampling my flowerbeds. I don’t really mind: this late in the season there’s not much joy in growing things. In my mind I’m already filling the blue bowls with petals, berries and nuts, and counting how much sugar and salt to buy to last through the harvest and into the long winter.
The visitor is in his middle years—handsome, perhaps, if one ignores the quick glances he sends around him. People like him always want to know the exact worth of things. They put sums down on paper, and store their most valuable possessions in vaults. He doesn’t dare to look straight at me with those evaluating eyes of his. He knows that I will look back.
‘My doctor says I don’t have long to live.’ His right hand rests on his purse.
‘I don’t do funerals.’
He starts, then lets out a nervous laugh. ‘I was just thinking… a second opinion?’
‘What seems to be the trouble? Is there pain?’
‘The pain comes and goes. As does my appetite.’
He’s been casting wistful looks at my cooking-fire: the long ride has awakened the fickle flame in his belly. I season the stew with red pepper and late herbs, and ladle some into two bowls. He gulps the food down with the simple greediness of a child, then holds out his bowl for a second helping.
Somewhat sheepishly, he says, ‘It’s the mountain air. Always does one good. Look at you: we must be around the same age, yet you move like a young girl. Hardly a grey hair—mine went long ago. Didn’t even have the courtesy to turn white first!’
Soon, he’s cracking more jokes like that, drunk on his own good spirits. Making an expansive gesture, he tips his empty bowl over. It drops onto the flagged floor, cracking cleanly in half.
‘A thousand apologies! I’ll send you seven new ones, right away!’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, although I know he isn’t listening. ‘Yesterday I had seven blue bowls, today I have six. That’s more than enough for one person.’
He leaves soon after, even though I’ve offered him a bed. The sight of the broken bowl haunts him. Is that my heart? he’s asking himself. Will that be my family, once I’m gone?
The moon skates over the sky, finally disappearing in a silvery halo down the side of the southern mountain. The last of the nightsingers falls silent. In a few hours, dew will start beading the grass: some people stay up all night to gather it in silver vials, in the hope of receiving the gift of continuing youth. In truth, it’s only water. I prefer to take my sleep between cool linen sheets, and wash my face with well-water after sunrise.
There is a secret to long life and contentment. People instinctively know that it’s not high status or money—at least not for most of us. It’s not the joy of the changing seasons or the sun’s daily cycle: not entirely. Magic potions will only take one so far, as can love. But why ask the wise woman of the mountain? My contentment is a bowlful of marigold petals. My long life will ultimately be in the mountains themselves: the cool air, the flowing water, and the black, potent soil.
About the Author:
Anne Karppinen is a university teacher, musician and writer based in Finland. She’s studied Creative Writing in the UK, and has been teaching writing – both academic and creative – for more than ten years now. Her speculative short stories have recently appeared in f.ex. Impossible Worlds and Worldstone; “The Lamplighter’s Daughter” was chosen for the Best of Wyldblood anthology in 2022. Her book, The Songs of Joni Mitchell, was published by Routledge in 2016.
