leaves: now everything, everything must change.

The house is quieter these days. The larger bedrooms are mostly vacant, but Mose has grown fond of his attic. It’s…cozy. There are still family gatherings for big events and more importantly, the harvests. Sometimes there are funerals to celebrate (Brigitta Mannheim follows Grandmutter to the Great Beyond only a few months later). Sometimes there are weddings to mourn (Uncle Grit marries a nice old man three times her age that runs the roadside asparagus stall next to the Schrute beet stand, a surprise to everyone). And sometimes kin just leave and never come back (Heindl’s twin sister Shirley took all the good copper pots to Atlantic City and no one has seen her since. Mose is convinced Shirley and Dwight’s mother are one in the same, although no one seems able to confirm this).

With only Dwight and Father Schrute around the house for company now, Mose starts spending so much time out in the grove that the wildlife stops being scared of him. He makes friends with a chipmunk and a mother raccoon that brings her cubs by for handouts from Mose’s rucksack. He ventures further each day, until the horizon is more sky than branches.

            Eventually he reaches the northernmost border of the family land. His eyes adjust from the cool shadows of the forest to the vibrant green of a field. There’s a pale blue farm house is nestled in the distant foothills, more than an hour’s stroll from where he stands. He imagines that Pennsylvania is the underside of Finland, the green on the bottom and the blue on top. The trees and plants wave like the ocean currents and the sky is often hard and stony like the shoreline. If he gets back on the plane that brought him here and flies up, straight up he will surely find himself back home with Ukko and his mom and dad, looking down at the blue sea.

A flash of movement catches his attention. He shades his eyes and at last picks out a figure down in the field, one foot in the neighboring oat field and the other in the ivy of the Schrute forest. A young girl with skin the color of milky coffee stares up at him in surprise. After a few minutes, she begins to move towards him. Instinctively he wants to bolt, but her eyes hold him steady. He stands fixed to the earth as she climbs the slope hand-over-hand until she’s less than two feet away, her ivory dress smeared with dirt.

She reaches out to touch his hand. “My name is Cecilia,” she says in Creole.

His fingers curl against hers, finding them damp from her climb to meet him. “My name is Mose,” he responds in Finnish. They don’t understand each other at all.

It’s pretty much love at first sight.

*

Another five days pass before Mose can sneak away from his mid-morning chores. He follows the creek into the grove, pausing to lay his hands on some of the larger tree trunks. He has been working on a theory since the last time he was here. The older trees have a presence and he suspects that it’s where people go when they die. Adults bury the dead in hollow columns of wood; it must mean something - preparing the body for where the spirit will go. In their turn, the trees die to make the coffin. If he searches this grove carefully enough he will find Grandfather and Grandma Schrude’s trees, side by side. He is almost certain of it. There’s a particular maple that leans over the oat field that bends nearly to the ground so that Mose can easily climb into its limbs. He names the tree Mother and waits in her arms, blue eyes scanning the green field.

His stomach has started to rumble by the time he sees the oat stems rippling in the distance. Cecilia walks right up to the roots of his tree, shielding her eyes against the sun as she calls out a greeting he doesn’t understand. Her smile is wide and he grins right back. Two biscuits are produced from the pocket of her apron. He is offered the larger one and they sit together on the small cliff overlooking her farm.

She speaks constantly, her voice blending well with that of the sparrow chirping overhead. He doesn’t know what either of their songs mean, but he loves the sound all the same. He listens as she describes the kitchen she made the biscuits in and her bedroom and the little garden she tends behind the barn that her father doesn’t approve of since her mother used to care for it before she died from the new baby. Of course Mose can’t follow a word. She swells with her language, it bubbles out of her like a fountain and he wants to stay there forever. It’s been so long since anyone took the time to talk to him. She explains about raising chickens and farming oats and the Kentucky uncle who taught her all about whittling. The sun is getting low before he has spoken a single sentence in return and suddenly she’s running back down the slope waving over her shoulder.

Darkness has settled by the time he reaches the farmhouse, but he’s still safely in bed when the bolt is thrown to trap him in with the fairytale goblins and German parables.

*

They’re both perched high in one of the grove’s trees, away from home far too long, but neither can find the heart to go. They don’t get to see each other every week because it’s so difficult for her to escape her father’s watchful eye and he has more responsibilities on the farm now that he’s getting older and cleverer at learning tasks via mime. Once the harvest season begins, it’ll be nearly impossible to meet.

Cecilia is demonstrating the best way to carve realistic bear fur, when a man’s bellow echoes across the field. Cecilia snaps her head up, eyes wide. Her blade slips across Mose’s knuckles and the shock unseats him from the branch. The world tilts and spins as he’s delivered to the earth with a series of loud cracks.

For the first few moments, everything is black. His eyes must be open – he can feel himself blinking – but there is only sound to tell him he survived the fall. Birds call to each other, unsettled by the disturbance of their territory. Cecilia’s voice trills, alien music until his brain can collect itself enough to translate. Gradually, his field of vision is filled with swaying new green leaves, dancing in that way they have, choreographed by the winds and whims of nature. He lies on his back, dreaming of branches and people swirled through life by fate.

Cecilia appears in the dream, at his side. Her eyes match the leaves overhead – vibrant with green and motion. There’s pressure on his lips and suddenly he’s awake, reaching with his fingers, lifting his head to meet the touch.

Her cheeks are red when she pulls back. The pain in his head is non-existent as he takes her hand and promises that he’s unhurt, even though his ears are ringing. It takes some convincing to get her to leave before her father comes looking for her. “Cecilia,” he begs in her language. “You won’t be allowed to come again. Hurry.”

“I’ll check on you tomorrow after my morning chores. You’ll be here?”

He’s young, but he replies “always” with the passion of Aragorn. “When we marry, it won’t be in a grave. I promise you, Cecilia.”

She laughs and touches his chin. “Okay, silly. We’ll get married over there, under that big maple. We can plan everything tomorrow.” She’s humoring him; it’s her way. She picks up the hems of her skirts to keep them clean when she runs across the field and he loves her even more as he walks back to the farm, rubbing the lump forming on the base of his skull.

*

The year he turns thirteen, the family discovers that Mose, despite his apparent stupidity, has a gift for numbers and organization. They begin training him to oversee the beet farm. This takes far more time than a teenage boy even of Mose’s prodigious talents would care to devote. His thoughts are of Cecilia: instead of assigning brain cells to cutworm eradication and ideal harvest temperatures, he practices Creole as though his life depends on it while chisel plowing in the Autumn, since his achievements elicit her praise and often some kind of delicious baked good from her morning in the kitchen. This earns stranger than usual looks from the family. Dwight calls him a half-wit. Mose isn’t sure what that is, but it feels nice to be a half-wit so he graciously accepts the compliment. In response, Dwight nails him in the head with a chunk of manure, laughing. It’s wonderful to play.

As the years pass, his Creole becomes fluent. His farm management skills are not much improved. Unfortunately, the family does not catch on to this fact and suffers a blow at the hands of the fickle international beet market down the line.

Cecilia, it turns out, is a far more talented tree-climber than he is a businessman. They spend most summer afternoons fulfilling dares of who can climb the highest, jump the farthest and find the most woollybear caterpillars in one tree. When she calls down “Seven!” triumphantly from a smallish maple, he climbs up after her to see with his own eyes. There’s only one really thick branch, so he has to crowd up next to her to keep from falling. “Cheni,” she instructs, pointing to three visible caterpillars and revealing four more safely tucked in her palm. Mose offers to shake her hand (he is a good sport if nothing else), but she demands a kiss as reward instead, tugging his outstretched hand until her lips meet his. Then she pulls away, laughing, her fingertips trailing through the leaves overhead. “Feuilles.”

“Feuilles,” he repeats dutifully. This is one of the words Dwight has taught him in English, while explaining that it has another meaning – when someone goes away, they leaves. Mose touches Cecilia’s shoulder and implores her: “Please don’t leaves.”

She laughs again at his misunderstanding and kisses him lightly. “No leaves. Only feuilles.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon having woollybear races before an appreciative audience of hungry robins until she can’t stay away from home any longer without raising suspicion.

*  

Mose keeps track of his own birthdays in the back of a passport he’ll never use again. He makes little notations to celebrate. Most of them read: Cleaned out chicken coop and prepared dinner for six. Or: Early Winter weather this year. Halloween bonfire was my belated party. Some kids from the next farm over threw eggs at my head to wish me good tidings and a fertile eighteenth year. At the start of his nineteenth year, Cecilia offers him pumpkin cupcakes and some other things that he dare not put in writing.

“I told Gertie.” Cecilia reveals afterwards, as they finish the last of the baking. She carefully corrals and removes the cream cheese icing with the tip of her tongue. It both makes his face flush and reminds him of their childhood. The feeling between them is like that sometimes. Best friends; childhood companions; a place of solace in hard times; lovers.

“What did she say?” He can’t stop watching her mouth.

Cecilia ducks her head shyly at his attentions. “I think she already knew. She’s worked in our household since my mother died and probably knows me better than the shadows of my bedroom. She even helped me with the cupcakes and covered for my afternoon chores.”

“So she won’t tell your father?” A speck of icing is lingering in the crook of her smile.

“No, she’s a romantic at heart. I want you to meet her someday, you’ll love her.”

He agrees easily. Today is their last together for the next few weeks. The temperature is nearly perfect for the beet harvest and after that there will be plenty of pickling and canning and mulling to keep Mose busy. He loves harvest time; working around the clock to get all the beets out of the ground before the weather changes; the new people and all their stories that come with the giant hauling trucks; Cousin Elsie takes the week off from fashion school in New York and always brings him goodies from the tiny Scandinavian shop near her apartment.

            Cecilia stirs at his side, bringing him back to the present. “It’s getting late. My father will be wanting dinner soon.”

            “I know. Just another half hour? The trees will be bare next time we meet.”

            There’s a tremor in her voice as she agrees. Scarlet and ochre leaves drift lazily to the forest floor from the canopy overhead. The fickle breeze determines their trajectory while Mose’s mind tries to find a pattern in the whirls and twists. Just as he’s about to crack the odds of red following yellow, Cecilia presses her nose into his shoulder and sighs. “What are you thinking?”

He pulls her closer and rearranges the fleece blanket around her shoulders to make sure she’s warm enough. He speaks in Creole so she will fully understand his meaning. “I was trying to predict in what order the trees might shed their coats, and where they will land based on the current direction of the breeze. But just when I think a rusty one will land on that stump, it falls in the stream.”

“Leaves fall where they will.” Her voice is slow and thoughtful, like the dropping leaves themselves. Her hair has their scent.  

“It’s true.” He thinks of all the people he lost, only to find Cecilia. She consumes all the bad memories like a warm log fire, the kind you build with red cedar so the whole house will still have that glorious smell days later, even on the coldest of winter mornings. He has plans to steal her away from her father and he tries explaining these ideas to her one day as they cool their toes in the pond next to the grove. Her eyes are wet as she answers that it would kill her father if she left, that she could never imagining him learning how to use the oven, because it was really tricky and…and…He doesn’t press her on the subject, even when her upper arm has a bruises like a constellation of fingertips from arguments at home she won’t speak of, even to him.

*

In September or October of some later year (Mose can never get the details straight anymore; grief and anger confuse his mind about months and days), The Storm sneaks across Cecilia’s dale without warning. One moment her fields are emerald green with afternoon sunlight and the next the shadows are so deep and fierce the oat grass churns like the deepest part of the sea, mirroring the angry swirls overhead.

It’s the worst storm Mose can remember in all his twenty years at Schrute Farm, even counting the tornado Dwight swears he saw in 1989 which left no eyewitnesses or damage. The cellar floods and Mose and Dwight work through the afternoon lugging baskets of beets to safety. The farm’s superior irrigation system protects the fields, leaving only the house and the cemetery vulnerable. Grandfather Schrude is probably going to be very soggy in his oil drum tonight.

Once they’ve battened down the hatches as best they can, Mose leaves his waterproof gear on and grabs the storm lantern. Cecilia will be waiting. They’d promised to meet rain or shine since they haven’t seen each other in almost a month. Even with the lantern, it’s difficult to see and the chill of the air drives straight through his bones. She’s there at the edge of their lands, sheltering at the base of his favorite maple - the one he first spotted her from all those years before.

She greets him with a kiss, holding her black umbrella over both their heads. “I thought you might stay on the farm. I’ve never seen such rain.” The shoulder of her damp wool coat scratches his cheek when he wraps his arms around her. They stay for hours, risking the view of her father before she has to sneak back home. The air is nearly electric; clouds boil and shift with potential for destruction. A distant rumbling warns of danger, but they are lost in their own moment until lightning makes its first strike. The smell of charred wood finally breaks their mood and Cecilia reluctantly agrees to head home.

“Next Saturday my father will be away. Will you come for dinner?” Her hair is a mess from the wind and he smoothes it carefully.

“I will. Saturday, then.” He turns back to the south and slowly begins the trek home, walking along the edge of the grove a ways to make sure she makes it down the slope safely.

The lightning comes again just as he’s turning to wave goodbye for a third time. It misses her, barely, forking through a large maple instead. Mose is already running back as the tree begins to topple towards Cecilia, its branches connecting solidly between her shoulder blades. He overturns his ankle in the wet dirt trying to avoid a collision himself. When he climbs to his feet again he can’t see her among the debris at first. Then he spots her, much further down the slopes than he would have thought, as still as the stones surrounding her.

“Cecilia! Can you hear me?” He has to shout over the thunder and wind. She doesn’t stir or respond. When her reaches her side he can feel the flutter of a pulse under his nervous fingers, so he hooks his arms under her knees and shoulders. Her head lolls against his neck.

The route to Cecilia’s farm will be the quickest to navigate with a sprained ankle. The decision is reluctantly made – he’ll go to her farmstead and risk being shot for bringing home a man’s only daughter unconscious and bleeding rather than chance a trip all the way back the his own house.

His progress on the flat ground is slowed by thick mud and his injury, allowing Mose far too much time to think about the worst possible outcome. He is halfway across the field before he realizes that this is the first time he’s been off the farm in fifteen years. His adrenaline surges and he covers the rest of the distance in record time.

Cecilia’s skin is like ice by the time he reaches her front door. His voice is hoarse from shouting for the last hundred yards. Gertie is waiting with a furrowed brow and wool blankets ready to receive the unconscious girl. She doesn’t chastise or chase, she simply accepts her charge with an air of authority.

Mose begins to explain, then realizes he’s speaking Finnish and switches to Creole. Cecilia is a good teacher and his accent is decent. The old woman understands easily enough and seems to know who he is; she calls him by name even though he hasn’t introduced himself yet. Gertie lifts Cecilia easily onto the dining table and instructs Mose to help her remove the bloody coat so they can have a better look. His stomach heaves at the metallic smell when they peel the fabric away.

“What can I do?” He can’t stop squeezing Cecilia’s hand, pulses it like it might restore her heart to full strength.

“You’ve already done your part – she’s home now in the care of her family. Go, before her father sees you. He’ll kill you for sure, with a temper like his.”

The front door opens with a bang. “The last of the animals are safe, no thanks to Cecilia. Have you seen that errant daughter of mine, Gertie? ”

Gertie waves Mose towards the back door and he slips into the shadows. He almost makes it, too - gets caught with his fingers twisting the doorknob.

The man’s eyes flash in his direction. “What’s going on here? Who is this boy?” Any words that Mose could have summoned get trapped in his chest; the lump in his throat threatens to strangle the life from him as surely as the angry man’s own hands. There’s a ringing in his ears, maybe from the lightning strike, maybe not.

Everyone’s eyes settle on the injured girl prone on the kitchen table, clothing dark with blood. Her father cries out: “Cecilia!” and it’s like Mose’s own voice. Before going to her side, before checking for a heartbeat, the man reaches for his shotgun and takes aim. The pellets fly wide to splinter the doorframe at his elbow. Once he’s outside, however, the pursuit ends. Through the window, he sees Cecilia’s father fall upon her and can hear Gertie’s wails as he backs slowly out into the field. There is no longer pain in his ankle – the capacity for physical pain vanishes at the sight of Cecilia’s body, slack in her father’s arms like some broken doll.

The rain gusts ferociously all the way back to the farm and he’s grateful it disguises his wet face when Dwight asks where he’s been. Mose doesn’t leave his room for four days.  On the fifth, he burns his list.