Bren loathed mushrooms. The bag tapped against his leg as he walked, releasing their earthy, pungent fragrance, not unlike mold, he thought ruefully. And that was why he found himself gathering this morning--mold had erupted in the storerooms. It was his job to gather more.
The forest was quiet and still, and unnaturally clean. This was the way his people cultivated the woods. Not planting themselves, they instead took prodigious care of the existing wooded area--clipping here, cleaning there, and gathering. Always gathering. He had to admit, though, the walk was pleasant. The grass was a yellowish-green, and the trees were turning from green to golden with the barest hints of orangey-red. The light that filtered through the trees was also golden, and made kaleidoscope patterns on the path before him, and danced on his bare arms and his face.
It was easier to walk through the well-tended areas than it would have been to pick a path through thick underbrush, and easy to stalk and to spot his prey. His mocking "hmph" disturbed the silence as he bent to carefully loosen his quarry from the hidden hollow at the base of the tree--his dangerous prey. His grandmother had often chided him for such thoughts as a boy. Mushrooms were dangerous, she countered. They could be deadly. But that was not quite what he had had in mind--then or now. To a mind with a little discriminating capacity, an edible mushroom and a deadly one were not enough alike to pose a problem. Of course, there were the little children who, every year, ate the wrong mushroom and fell sick. Every now and then, one would die in the course of training as a gatherer, and the community would mourn. His mouth twisted uncertainly as he reconsidered--maybe there was some skill involved after all. Again, his mouth twitched into a hard smirk--skill a 10-year-old could master.
Bren found the clearing where the gatherings occurred, and sat on one of the fat, hewn logs that made their sitting, resting, and occasionally trysting places. This one was split in two and laid on its flat side, the curved part forming a seat wide enough for three. In front, a slice of tree trunk three feet in diameter formed a perfect surface for eating.
He pulled his rough-weave bag over his head. He unbuttoned and removed the sling that held the mushrooms and set it aside carefully. The old women would scold him if be bruised or broke them. From under the sling, in the larger compartment of the bag, he withdrew a finer cloth and spread it over the tree-slice in front of him. He shuffled the mushrooms further away, and brought out two small brown loaves, a bright white wheel of cheese, and a small net of pinky-brown figs. He brought out a small wooden plate and a small, bright knife. He took the knife, pinched it between a fold of the fine cloth, and swept it free again, removing any dust particles that might have settled on the blade. Then, he drew a fig from the net, clipped off the stem and very precisely, deliberately, pared the thin outer membrane from the fig, leaving only its moist, glistening red flesh. He set it on the plate, and reached for another.
As he clipped the fourth stem, he saw her moving through the trees. She appeared for an instant, and then disappeared behind another trunk. She was moving smoothly, slowly--almost gliding through the flickering light filtering through the leaves. Her grey work dress was the color of the smooth trunks, so that she could have disappeared completely. But she was wearing, instead, a dress of deep pumpkin that rippled and floated with her motion.
He leaned his head to the side and watched her absently, a smile spreading on his lips as he peeled the last fig, leaving it naked and tantalizing on the plate with the others. He cast a cold glance toward the mushrooms.
She paused at the edge of the clearing and met his eyes with an answering smile. He rose as she approached his table.
"Alina. You came."
"Didn't you know I would?"
He colored slightly, and shrugged. "Well, I hoped..." He glanced down at the lunch. "But you know, it's not the usual day. I thought you might not..." She slipped beside him and brushed his cheek lightly with her lips. He squeezed her hand briefly.
"Are you hungry?" She nodded, looking at the meal with shining eyes. He broke one of the small loaves and handed it to her. Then, he wiped the knife again on the cloth and sliced the cheese into thin wedges. He moved the plate of figs between the two of them. She took one and popped it into her mouth with a bite of cheese. "Delicious!" He did the same.
For a while, they ate in silent contentment, letting the light ripple over them, savoring the sourness of the cheese and the rich sweetness of the fig, punctuated by the toasty brown flavor of the bread. The leaves moved faintly with the breeze, and a small chipmunk scurried across the clearing, stopping for a moment to chatter to the light breeze.
She finished the last fig. "How is the mushroom gathering?" He scowled, and she laughed.
"See for yourself!" He nudged the detatched pocket, which brimmed full of mushrooms.
"Oh, Bren! They're lovely! What a wonderful harvest. The women will be pleased."
He snorted a "hmph," and she looked at him reproachfully. "Well, they will, you know." He grumbled under his breath. "You have a very important job, Bren." She pulled a delicate lacy white variety out of his pack. "This is such a fine specimen!" He wrinkled his nose slightly. "I know." She squealed over what was, admittedly, his finest--a vivid green and orange banded mushroom, and one of their more useful medicines. Gradually, he let her draw him out of his discontent. Alina always made him feel appreciated, important--manly. Even as a gatherer. The fact that he was one of the best seemed little consolation--except when she was near.
He brushed away the crumbs from his cloth and wrapped the remaining cheese with his knife, in the cloth. He tucked these into his gathering sack, and replaced the mushroom pouch, which took up almost all of the space in the bag. He had gathered all he could without crushing the ones he had, or without returning to deliver his harvest. But was early. He could spend some time with Alina before heading back--as they usually did.
She rose before he did, and he watched her balance along the top of the log-seats, hopping to another as she came to the end of one. The thin layers of her dress fluttered below her knee. She had made the dress, he knew, and dyed the fine silken tree-fiber fabric with alder bark and bloodroot. She had embroidered the intricate leaf pattern that spread over the dress, also--perhaps with the help of one of her sisters. Magda was the most gifted at such things. The garment was simply draped over her slender frame, and her fine, firm calves showed beneath its edge. Bren caught his breath and looked away, but not before considering the texture of her creamy, white skin. He rose, slung his bag across his shoulder, and moved across the clearing, moving slightly west, opposite the side of the clearing from which she had appeared. He would have to return before long, but for now, he turned away. She was waiting for a sign, and drew up alongside him quietly. They had been friends a long time, and these meetings had tended the same way since he was ten and she was eight.
There was a cool fresh spring that they could reach before the sun tilted into the western half of the sky. As they walked, Alina grasped Bren's hand like a schoolgirl, and swung her arms in time to their steps. Her fingers were warm and reassuring. He knew what he wanted. But he did not know what she wanted. He did not think they wanted the same things, somehow, but he did know that he wanted her.
"What are you thinking?" Her voice was warm and rich, like spice cake. Her brown hair somehow picked up the orange tones of her dress, and she fairly glowed with the warmth of firelight in winter. He was thinking of these things, and of the trees thinning in front of them. But he sighed. He knew what she meant. It was a trick they had.
"I'm thinking about these foul mushrooms. About a future of mushroom gathering. And about pushy old ladies. And you?"
"I'm thinking about you. Wondering what you have in mind... for the future. Wondering... what it is you really want. I am your oldest friend."
He squeezed her fingers. "I know." He wanted to lace his fingers with hers. He wanted to pull her close and crush her against his chest. But he couldn't. How could he? All he had to offer her was a lifetime of mushrooms and servitude. Well, not quite. He was free. And he would serve her. But he knew it wasn't enough.
"I'm thinking about going away."
She made a little choking sound, then cleared her throat. "I thought you might."
They walked in silence for several minutes. As the trees thinned, a wall of rock rose before them, and they heard the tinkle and burble of water. It was a small pool, with clear water from the rock above. The water was cold and sweet, and both of them sat and drank deeply, thirsty from the walk and the salted cheese. Alina looked down now, and Bren felt shamed by her drooping mouth. But he could barely stand it.
"Alina--be fair! What can I do? What is there for me?"
"My friendship?"
He faltered. "Well... Yes. But what is there for you?"
She sighed. "I don't know. You? My family? You know I have never wanted to leave."
That was true. When they were small, they played games in the firelight during the gatherings. He thought she was a cousin then--and now, he was glad that she was not. He played like he was going on an adventure. She cried if he left her alone, and yet she refused to go on his journeys. He smiled a little. Things did not change so much. Except that he no longer wanted to make her cry.
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