Flower Friday
The weather is warm and sunny, the spring fighting away the frost left from the harsh winter. Nature is waking from its long sleep, animals coming out of hibernation and flowers and plants blooming all around.
You love this season, for its beauty and for its warmth that helps to keep sickness at bay. Standing outside the heavy doors of the church, you smile as you look at the orphans that you help the sisters to take care of running around the botanical garden. You haven't lost any children this winter.
Staring a little further ahead, you see the large figure of a man squatting over a patch of garden and pulling out weed and leaves. It’s barely half day, and yet his brown tunic is already soaked in sweat, letting you guess that he had been working for long hours. It isn’t surprising you, the man working hard to earn his keep every day.
One of the girls had found him, half dead, on the shore. With the help of the sisters, you had managed to carry him inside the hut behind the church and seen after his numerous wounds. Since the day he had been able to stand again, he had made sure to show his gratitude. He had first tried to leave, feverish and swatting at the sisters’ healing hands, but you had convinced him to stay at least long enough to heal. It had been the children who had made him stay for good, the youngest of them taking a strong liking to him.
You had endeavored to lure a few words out of his mouth, but you had failed. At first, you had believed that he didn’t speak your tongue, however, the way he would react when you spoke to him, clearly showed that he did. You had abandoned finding out where he had come from, or even something as simple as his name. His tongue still being in place, and you had understood that something important and probably painful hides behind his silence. The cross marked on his back as well as the way he carries himself had told you enough about what he might be. Have been.
Smiling to yourself, you now approach him slowly, while deliberately making noise as you walk. You had learned, through your own mistake, that the man isn’t someone that you should take by surprise. You have a light step and had wished to bring him his meal, but he hadn’t heard you arrive. He’d had you at the end of his long knife in an instant, the sharp edge at your throat. The poor man had looked so incredibly guilty, regret filling his kind eyes, after realizing who he had attacked.
“You should drink,” you speak as you reach him, holding the bucket from the well and handing him a big, wooden ladle filled with water.
His face lifts to yours, sweat running down his tan face and making the hair at his nape and forehead curl more than it already does. He takes the ladle with a low rumble of gratitude and drinks deeply. You fill the ladle twice more, before kneeling at his side and looking at his work.
“Sister Agnes will be pleased, she will be able to plant several new herbs now.”
The silent man smiles faintly, but you can tell that he is pleased that he was able to help out. There is some happy yelling from the children that makes the both of you look into their direction. The oldest of the girls is sitting in the circle of her adopted brothers and sisters and weaving flowers through green leaves and into a crown. The younger ones sit closest to her, entranced by what she is doing, while the others exclaim happily every time she adds another flower.
“Is it done? Is it done?” One of them asks, barely able to sit in place.
“Yes, Alice. It’s done,” the oldest girl says with a wide smile and stands.
“Oh, please, may I do it?” Little Alice requests, bouncing on her toes.
With a fond smile, the oldest girl hands it to her, the little girl running in your direction with an elated cry.
“It’s for you,” she tells the man, who’s eyes grow large when she carefully deposits the crown on his curls, raising on her toes since he is still too tall for her despite his hunched position.
Your heart squeezes as you smile brightly at his awed expression. Alice hugs him tightly, before she runs off towards the other children again, who are clapping and waving at the stunned man. The man turns to you, before a hand lifts to the crown, and he runs his fingers delicately along the flowers and leaves. His face is already flushed from the physical exertion, but you catch the sight of his wet eyes before he lowers his head over the flowerbed again.