t is not until the flames are burning low and the moon has sunk below the sea that Ipomoea finds himself alone once again.
At first he came only to listen to the vines in the night, to see if their leaves had turned to the same silver spun from light as the flowers in the meadow. He had wanted to know how deep the magic ran, to know if the fireflies from the river would follow him to this place to fill the gaps between the fruit hanging heavy on the branches.
But there are no fireflies or fairy lights pretending to be miniature suns rising over the vineyard. There is only fog curling across the ground and dewdrops glistening on the leaves, and a quiet so profound he can hear his own heart echoing in the night. And beneath it all the magic still hums like something living, something breathing, a creature lying in wait. He can feel it there, as much in him as it is in the earth and in the air.
Everything is still —
Except for him.
His heart feels too heavy to walk quietly between the vines tonight.
His lungs tremble like dying leaves, his wings beat again and again and again like caged birds flying to freedom. With each step he takes the leaves whisper noisily around him, so that when he tilts his head back he can see the stars blinking like eyes above him, watching him. He knows he shouldn’t think of them as ghosts, or as lonely things weeping in a bruise-blue sky, millions of miles apart from one another —
But oh, tonight Ipomoea thinks he understands why some stars fall so quickly from the sky. And the wind that reaches him starts to smell like rotting leaves then, like a world about to once again bare its skeleton to the cold and wintery wind.
As he walks the aisles he wonders if the trees can feel it, too: that other world simmering just below the surface of this one, the ghosts escaping with the mist that hangs low over the ground. Sometimes he liked to imagine there was another tree growing at the ends of their roots, another orchard spun from foggy lights hanging upside down beneath the earth, another Ipomoea wandering like something lost beneath their boughs. Was there music there, too, the same notes lingering like memories on the wind blowing in from the meadow?
And when he lays his cheek against the cordons and leaves unfurl to press against his skin, he thinks he can hear it.
All his magic shivers and drags its teeth against the dirt at the sound of it.
He is all alone and all he can think is how much he would like to bury himself in the earth beneath the grape vines, where the roots twist themselves together and reach for the magic running like a river in the dark. And even when he hears footsteps moving softly at the end of the aisle (soft enough to almost be a ghost, escaping that other-world and wandering this one instead), he does not pull away from the vine.
Ipomoea only closes his eyes, and breathes out memories of blood and petals instead of air.
§
you have dug your soul out of the dark
do not go back to what buried you
snuck away from the Dawn soldier for a moment. I know he's probably looking for me and is worried, but I don't care too much. I still don't know where Momma Zahra is, but these lands are far too pretty not to spend time exploring.
I've found a lot of trees and flowers. Something about this place is more fresh than home. We have the breeze from the sea, but this is different. It smells like damp earth and crisp leaves. It's more alive somehow and it feels like a dream.
I end up wandering to the meadow, but this is a different part of it I think. There's a weird formation of plants with long vines. It smells fruity almost and my eyes are wide with wonder. I notice there are small round fruits on these plants and I'm tempted to try one. Momma Morr told me once not to eat fruit off bushes and things though. She said that a lot of the ones that look the tastiest are poisonous, so I frown and step back. Maybe I can try them another time when I'm sure they're not going to kill me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man with a splotchy pattern all over his body. He's leaning over one of the plants with his face in the vines. I start to walk over and see that his eyes are closed. I'm wondering if I shouldn't talk to him, but something tells me I should anyway.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to figure out why it looks like he has his ear up to the plants. They seem to be moving on their own as if they're reacting to his touch. "Are the plants saying something?" It does kind of look like he's listening to them. Maybe there's a language I don't know about but this guy knows it. It just makes me more curious (and confused).
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
e can feel himself slipping. It’s all too easy — all too tempting — to give into that other world, the one of roots and vines and blossoms. The longer he stands there with his skin pressed to the earth, the more it calls to him. He can hear its song, when he closes his eyes and listens. He can feel it, echoing loudly in his bones, calling him, calling him —
— calling him home.
There are no secrets in the vineyard tonight. Only longing, and memories, and an ache that runs deeper than blood and sap.
Some nights he lies awake listening to it. The melancholic cry of a loon, the knowing whisper the trees exchange with the wind, the restless rustling of the grasses and the flowers. It was on those nights that he could not sleep, that he wandered the garden or the forest reading the signs and sounds of the earth the way other men read books, all the while seeking in them an answer — or perhaps a meaning, a purpose, a name for that mysterious ache living in the roots of the meadow that called for him to come.
He presses tighter against the vines now, and in their slow-moving veins he feels it. But nature has a way of moving at its own pace, and no matter how he begged or cajoled or demanded — it would not be swayed. Not yet.
Not before the girl finds him, at least.
Ipomoea blinks his eyes like he’s coming awake and seeing the vineyard for the first time — and, in a way, he is. The girl stands before him young and curious and he — he feels as old as these vines, planted years, decades before his birth. He smiles at her, and despite the turning of his lips there is a sadness there, too.
“They are,” he says, pulling away from the leaves and the grapes. “Can’t you hear them?”
He motions for her to come closer, offering her his spot nestled against the trellis. And when she does he whispers to the grapes — not with words, but with his magic. It leeches out of him slowly, wrapping gently around the roots of the grapevine. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, the fruits begin to swell and brighten.
“They’re saying eat me,” he whispers with a wink, only a moment before plucking a bunch from a nearby vine and popping several grapes into his mouth.
His laughter is soft, weaving as it does through the vines. “Go ahead, they’re as ripe now as they ever will be.”
§
you have dug your soul out of the dark
do not go back to what buried you
he man says that they're talking to him after all, but I look at him funny when he asks if I can hear them. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to, but I definitely don't hear anything besides our voices and the rustling of the leaves around us.
He gestures for me to get closer so I do. I take the spot where he was and try to listen, but there's still nothing. "I don't hear anything. Maybe I'm doing something wrong?" I ask, feeling a little disappointed.
Suddenly, I notice that things around us are changing. It's like time has sped up, but it's only in this spot as the plants and fruit grow. My jaw drops and I just watch in awe. The fruit looks brighter and more… tasty?
I guess this isn't a totally crazy thought because he tells me that they're saying "eat me". I wonder why they would say such a thing since that means they're… dying kind of? Since we would be mashing them up with our teeth and swallowing them. What a weird magic this man has. Though, when I look around, the other vines don't look the same as these. Maybe this had been his magic too? I guess that's pretty cool.
He eats some of the fruit (are they berries?) and assures me they're safe to eat. I crinkle my nose at them for a moment, but he seems nice enough so I think it'll be okay. I try just one first and when the flavor bursts in my mouth, I jump a little.
"Wow! What are these? They taste so good!" I exclaim, my mind blown. "We don't have these back home." I've had apples before and those are good, but they're nothing like these. They have a sweeter flavor that I can't really explain.
I eat a few more before realizing I might be taking more than I should. I look at the man, feeling embarrassed. "Oh... sorry," I apologize, although it might be hard to understand me because my mouth is full. Once I swallow, I speak to him again. "Did you do that? Like, speed up time or whatever so they can be eaten?" I'm always fascinated by magic that others have (just as long as it's not fire).
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
here is a part of him that can almost-remember what it feels like, as he watches her, to be young. He feels like that orphan again standing here in the vineyard, the one who vowed to grow a garden larger than the Oasis one day (and to not put up walls or fees between it and the sun-sick people who toiled in the desert.)
And there is another part of his heart that turns almost-soft again, that stops and starts again when he realizes that it will not be long before he can grow a garden of fruit for his own children. The smile that turns the corners of his lips is shy then, a little sad and a little joyous (he thinks he will never be able to feel happy without also feeling a little bit sad now. The two were as tangled as pond-reeds in his chest.) Maybe that is why his voice turns as gentle as it does when he speaks to her, how he slips so easily into someone-not-quite-himself, but someone he hopes children can look at without being afraid of the bits of darkness dwelling in the cracks of his soul.
The magic flows from him like a river and he sighs because of it.
“Grapes,” he tells her, when he finally takes a step away from the vines. Leaves are still unfurling, and grapes are still ripening, but slower now (like the beat of his own heart.) “These ones will someday be turned into wine and grape juices, when the rest of them ripen.”
He offers her a smile, and nods his head. “It’s okay. I know the owner, I don’t think he’ll mind much."
Ipomoea takes a few more of the grapes himself, as if to show her. He chews thoughtfully, looking across the field to where the lights are still glowing from the festival. He looks back to the girl.
“Did you come here with your parents?” She looked too young to be unaccompanied by someone — Delumine was often more relaxed in letting their children wander (the whole “it takes a village” mentality ran a bit too strong sometimes), but with winter drawing near (and memories of last winter all the stronger because of it), most mothers kept a more protective grip on their young.
§
you have dug your soul out of the dark
do not go back to what buried you
rapes? Wine? Grape juices? These are all such unique things I've never heard of before. One thing is for sure though, these sweet berries - grapes - are probably my new favorite thing ever. I wonder if there's a way I can stash them away and bring them back home to Momma so she can try them. I bet it'd blow her mind too.
The man says it's okay that I've eaten so many, so I follow his lead and eat a few more. I like how juicy they are and how they pop in my mouth. It's surprising to me that there are so many out here unless not many others know about this place. I feel like if they did, there would be many more sneaking away some of the fruit.
When he asks me if I came here with my parents, it makes me a little sad. I remember how much fun Momma Zahra and I were having by the river with the fireflies. She taught me dancing and wooing, but then I'm not sure what happened. I don't know if it had been something I did but she stepped into the river and left. She made a soldier walk me home and I thought maybe she'd catch up with us later, but I haven't seen her since.
"At first, yeah, with one of my Mommas," I say, looking down at my feet. I kick a little bit of grass out of nervousness. "She went somewhere and some soldier guy is bringing me home. Mister… uhh… well I forgot his name." In fact, I'm not even really sure where he is, now that I mention him. "I… may have snuck away from him once I saw this place." I feel a little embarrassed that I've been so careless, but I couldn't help it. This place is so pretty and I want to explore as much of it as I can before I go back home.
"My other Momma is back home in Denocte, she's the Regent." I say, always unsure whether I should be proud or embarrassed of this fact. I do love my Momma and it's cool that she's part of the regime, but she can be scary with her fire. I don't know what kind of reputation she has this far out.
I then realize up until this point, I haven't even introduced myself or learned this guy's name. Oops. "Oh! I'm Maeve by the way. What's your name?"
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
he night stretches on all around them, while stray fireflies drift between the rows of vines and his errant magic makes new flowers and leaves slowly unfurl and close again along the branches, a lazy, sleepy cycle that goes on, and on, and on. He can feel the flowers in his lungs fluttering like petals, too, wilting and blooming with every breath.
It feels as close to contentment as anything else he’s known.
And he supposes that is the meaning of it all, of the lights dancing between the shadows and flickering in his soul. All night he has listened to the stories, of how the first rose up from the earth and grew roots, and branches, and lungs. There is a memory of learning how to breathe flashing in colored lights behind his eyes, the feeling of stretching, and reaching, of growing leaves in the first spring.
All this time he has been waiting, but this — this is becoming. Growth did not know how to wait for long. All it needed was a little sunlight, and water, and air.
He looks away from the vineyard and tries not to think of the way his smile has become too sharp, and too sad, for children. He tries to not let himself slip into the shadows that grow longer and deeper between the corridors, opening like a mouth to swallow him. He tries to only remember the way he had been like her, once — so full of life and growth and naivety.
“My name is Ipomoea, King of Delumine,” he tells her, but his smile softens the way the title feels hanging from his teeth. “And it’s an honor to be in the presence of such a noble lady. Please, call me Po.”
He plucks a few more bunches of grapes from the vine, and bumps his shoulder gently against Maeve’s. A string of fireflies drift closer, as if lighting the way for them. “Come on,” he says with a soft laugh. “There’s a lot of other hidden places in the meadow just as pretty as this one, and then we can go back to the party.” And this time, he’ll make sure the guard remembers to keep a closer eye on her.
He wouldn’t let her be abandoned a second time.
§
you have dug your soul out of the dark
do not go back to what buried you
he fireflies distract me for a moment. It makes me think to where Momma Zahra took me where we danced with the light-butt bugs. But that had also been where she left and here we were. It's kind of sad now that I really think about it. I'm thankful for the flowers and leaves that appear too (from his magic, maybe?) because at least these moments haven't been ruined. I've got good company and really tasty fruit- what more could I ask for?
When he tells me his name, I just kind of stop and stare at him blankly for a moment. Whoa! I've been talking to the King this entire time? I start to feel self-conscious and hope that I haven't said anything stupid or rude. Momma probably wouldn't appreciate it if I had. I also don't expect him to call me noble, so it really makes me tongue-tied.
"Oh… I.. um.. wow!" is all I manage to get out after a couple minutes. I clear my throat; now I'm sounding stupid. It makes me feel a little better that he tells me to call him by his nickname. It's like we're already good friends and I don't have to worry about being all formal and proper. I haven't had enough practice for that anyway.
I watch him take a few more grapes and I follow his lead (mainly because they just taste so good and I'm going to miss them). He talks about more special places and my ears perk. Suddenly all my worries about him being a Very Important Person drift away. "Oooh! Yay!" I say with a few hops in my step.
I'm feeling really happy (and honored) to have made such a cool friend. I know I'll have so many great stories to tell Momma once I get back home. For now, I follow Po through the meadow with my heart racing in anticipation for this new adventure.
§
she listens to wind secrets
and echoes of distant star songs
