Alder House

It was morning; a sweet fresh morning of the late spring. Already, the Sun had turned its eyes towards the Earth, allowing the tears of dew to slowly dry. Across the rolling fields of farm land and dense forests, nature was awakening. A goose squawked contently as white feathers ruffled and a fox stopped briefly to sniff the air, perhaps looking for its breakfast. Despite the steadily progressing morning, the small town of Ceirt had not yet awakened. Rather, it was still snuggled softly in honeyed dreams while pink and orange mist emitted gently across the horizon. If anyone had been awake and would have gazed at that moment towards the hill, they could have made out a lone figure slowly drawing ever closer.

The grass danced to the music of those footsteps that fell patiently along the weakly distinguished road. Or, was it the wind that inspired each blade to leap against the day? Once here, and then forever gone. No, it couldn’t have been the wind who was much too busy singing to the trees with their leaves shaking in anticipation. Those boots continued with each step determined, yet unsure. Boots that were worn and loved by a man who had kissed the Earth and kept the secrets of the world tucked away, another piece of string in his pocket ready to be twisted with remembrance.

This gravel road quickly ended and Tinne, as his name was, found himself at the edge of a cobbled stone street. From the soft sounds echoing among the many buildings, it seemed that the town was finally awakening. The twigs of brooms played against floors, and shutters opened to allow sunlight to enter. Tinne listened contently to the pleasant sounds as he walked along the road. He hesitated as a fresh smell of familiar bread drifted from an open window. The house hadn’t changed with its purple curtains and wiry tomato plants. Glancing within the open shutters, the man quickly recognized a stately woman dressed in a loose dress and tight polka dotted apron. As Mrs. Doyle instinctively looked up a peek of recognition flooded her almond brown eyes. A cheeky smile instantly followed.

”Oh, I know that face any where!” The woman leaned against the window frame to gently pat Tinne on the cheek, who felt his face redden at the act of affection. “Tin have you come to stay?”

”Yes, ma’am. I’ll be staying in town for a bit.”

”Ah, just a bit? Haven’t found what you’ve been looking for, then?”

”No, ma’am. I suppose I haven’t.”

”Your feet will bring you where your heart is, dear.” Her aged cheeks dimpled a smile, “Come back and have dinner with us tonight, I’m sure little Ben would love to see you again.”

”Of course, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” This was met with a chuckle as she waved him off and continued her morning chores.

The road persisted through the city, weaving this way and that in it’s own passionate fashion. The town, like the Doyle house, had barely changed. The church, the bakery, and the shops were all where they had alway been. The school was larger, Tinne noticed as he walked slowly by, and there were new swings, shiny and red against the blue horizon.

Steadily, the town dispersed into houses few and far between as the road became overgrown with weeds sneaking through the broken stone. Tinne’s mind wandered with time, remembrances breaking through and then meandering off. It was such that when a well known house came into view he was taken aback. It had once been orange; a vibrant orange that his eccentric mother adored. He remembered the look of distaste his father attempted to suppress when he had arrived home one day to find his wife excitedly painting, half the house already done. It had since dimmed as the paint peeled and ivy took over.

”That’s the Alder house,” a small voice spoke from beside him. Tinne looked down to find a small girl peering up at him through a frenzy of blonde hair. Kneeling down slowly, he came face to face with the girl who, he noted, had lost her front two baby teeth.

”And why, young miss, do they call it the Alder house?”

”Cause, the Alder tree’s roots have over taken the floor.” She nodded proudly at her own knowledge, before continuing “A boy used to live there, but he ran away. My mamma says he was looking for the Moon.”

Tinne chuckled softy despite the heavy weight that settled against his stomach. The girl placed her hand on his, her soft fingers touching the intense wrinkles of his worn hands. “Did ever he find the Moon, Mister?” She asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

”No darling, I reckon he’s still looking.”

A tumble of blonde curls waved against the wind as she nodded, and the man could have sworn he saw a wisdom beyond his own years in those green eyes. They stood in silence for only a moment, the young girl swaying back and forth on her heels and the kneeling man staring at the house.

It was only a moment before a noise perked the little girls ears, and she quickly ran off. Small, bare feet pattered against the smooth dirt, her conversation forgotten for a disgruntled crow. The man smiled after her before turning back to the house. The white door hung from it’s hinges, which Tinne tugged gingerly before entering. It smelled of musk, wet and fertile. As the girl had said, large roots pushed up the dirt from under the floor. The stone that had once been well-kept instead created a jagged pattern of which Tinne carefully walked around. The walls had wrinkled with age, and leaves scattered the floor.

Following the path of roots, the man quickly found himself outside once more. The back pasture had overgrown as well, creating a deep jungle of weeds and grass. To his left the tree that had been planted before his own birth leaned heavily against the side of the house. Tinne slowly made his way towards it, careful not to step on a wren that scurried away, surprised and angry. It had flourished in the last twenty years, and the once small trunk seemed larger than an Alder tree should have ever become. He examined it patiently, allowing his hand to smooth over the rough wood. After a moment, his hand clenched and fell to his side.

The name that had long ago faded was barely distinguishable. But, he remembered. Yes, not too long ago young words scrawled freshly against the bark. Tinne sat down against the overgrown weeds and breathed in, his worn boots resting against the grass and roots. From a gnarled limb a silver dew drop fell onto the leather of his boot, the orb shimmering softly against the dark tattered leather. A weary smile crossed his weathered face as sweet grass hinted the air, and wafted up against the ever rising Sun. The heather, he noticed, was in bloom.