corradh
all roads lead toward a castle that doesn't exist
The date trees hang as heavy as pregnant women close to term; their fruit is protected by finely woven nets, placed their with the gentle and courteous hands of the orchard’s labourers. The nets protect the fruit from birds and insects. Everything is so quiet. Everything is so still.
Except for me.
Except for me,
pain, heavy breathing,
panting,
thundering,
down the aisle of dates.
Above me the palms cut against the sunrise, the soft pink of a waking sky. I am running with the monotony of a man who runs this route every day; who sees no deviation. I should only see the trees spaced evenly apart, and the sky through them. But the memories paint a vivid and brief mosaic of pain; my mind fast cuts through them like photographs flipped quickly through and:
There is a boy with eyes the colour of marmalade. "Corry, don't be so tough here--"
and a girl who loved the orchards more than me, whispering,
"Just you and me forever, right?"
I breathe out the memories; I let the sweat foam on my flanks and I go further, to the end of the property. It is there I stop and for a moment look out at the desert beyond the orchards. Barren, aside from sagebrush and scrub-oak. I steal my breathing. I try to think of anything else and so I close my eyes and imagine the city, imagine what they must think of a noble-born Solterran running in a low-man's orchard. But even as I wonder I know I do not care. The orchards are one of the few places I find a semblance of peace from the anarchy of my mind.
I know when citizens of other Courts think of Solterra, they do not think of the date orchards. They do not think such a prolific, fruit-bearing tree can possibly grow in the desert. The flesh of the sweeter species tastes rich as caramel; walking through the maintained groves of palm trees, the delicate, mild odour of the fruit permeates the air en masse. Delumine, Denocte, Terrastella; they can keep their rich crops of maize, their orchards of apples, pears, peaches, their fields of grain and grass, their vibrant, vegetables. Expensive imports, perhaps; sometimes not worth the trouble. But these—these palms tower and sway in the wind, heavy with their produce. I don't want them to know about it; I breathe out, out, out. I listen to the rustle of the palms.
I listen to my pulse, my heart beat, beat, b
As far as Solterran summers go, this one has been mild yet; as early as it is in the morning, a cool breeze eases the sweat from my skin. I open my eyes and turn from the fence. I begin to walk down the familiar groves. Panagiota, the owner of the orchard, has allowed me to run it since he discovered me glutting on fruit one afternoon as a child. Rather than complain to my parents, the old man had sat with me a while and shared his crop. It did not occur to me until I was much older that he was middle-class and could scarcely afford losing his crop to a bratty child; it did not occur to me that, as nobility, I had no place resting between the trees in a place far from my estate.
But I do, as if my heritage is not evident in the too-glossy sheen of my skin, the healthy vigour of my body, the way may mane is ornately pleated today, braided by one of the talented servants of our household. My jewellery alone is worth more than an annual salary of a farmer. I think about this as I weave my way through the trees, settling my heart-rate, forcing my heaving sides to relax. I follow a well-trod path to the well at the edge of Panagiota’s property. I draw water up, up, up and drink deeply from the pail. Then I send it back down to crash into the water, a sound that echoes up and meets me.
This is where I am most at peace, if fatigue can be considered such; it is a way to sate the demons, I suppose. It is a way to think of things other than blood and lust and anger, or all the rumours that exist. The sun is up, now, and I turn to leave; I begin walking down the dry-wood fence at the end of Panagiota’s orchard, trotting the path back into Solterra.
I see something out of the corner of my eye, however; there is a horse further down the orchard, removing a number of dates from one of the palms. I know the exact hour when Panagiota’s hired hands come to harvest the fruit, and it is certainly not now. I change my course to confront them, and shout out, “Hey!” I clear my throat to shout a little louder, “You can’t do that!"
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