The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  It’s not that I don’t know that.

  She likes you, lad.

  It’s now or never.

  If you can’t tell her the truth, you need to leave her alone.

  Which will be impossible

  with Agnes inviting her to the store all the time.

  The inevitability rolls in on me like high tide.

  I can’t let myself get any closer.

  I’ll just have to stay busy.

  Keep my distance.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Evie

  She remembered that word from the poem.

  the powers of awen

  engraved upon rock…

  What powers, exactly?

  Evie wasted no time opening her laptop when she got inside the guesthouse. She typed the word into the search engine, and time itself took a bated breath as more than two million search results populated her screen.

  The first result was Wikipedia.

  Awen is a Welsh, Cornish and Breton word for “(poetic) inspiration.” In the Welsh tradition, awen is the inspiration of the poet bards; or, in its personification, Awen is the inspirational muse of creative artists in general.

  Okay, Agnes had told her that, nearly verbatim. And she had called Oskar a bard just the other day—Evie remembered wondering what the heck that meant at the time.

  But it was the second result that sent a shiver tingling down her arms.

  It was the website for the order of druids in the UK.

  She clicked on it and realized immediately where the powers came from. The awen was also their representative symbol. Agnes was a druid.

  And maybe Oskar was too.

  “I THINK THERE’S something in those cherries,” Evie told Agnes with a conspiratorial grin, showing off her latest painting.

  The awen was living up to its name, because every time she ate cherries, inspiration flowed like a volcanic eruption of creativity. Evie knew now that it wasn’t an accident. She just wasn’t sure how she fit into all of this. She’d spent hours on the druid website, trying to make sense of things.

  Druids were spiritual beings, extremely in touch with the forces of the earth. They believed in the power to influence others, to influence outcomes, through meditation and spells and fellowship with nature. It was when she’d read the line about how druids have conversations with nature that everything clicked into place. She read about their rituals—the sacrifices of their own blood and sweat they used to fuel their spells, and the importance of gratitude in everything they did.

  Evie glanced up at the framed poem on the wall and read it again.

  Bless this orchard

  As we sow

  Limbs and bark of

  Ev’ry row.

  From midsummer

  To Samhain

  Gestate cherries

  Red from green.

  Take blood and sweat

  For ripened fruit

  Our sacrifice

  And gratitude.

  That’s why these cherries grew in Iceland for Agnes, but nobody else.

  “You’re really very talented, lass,” Agnes said, bringing her back to the present.

  Between the fibers of her canvas, colors swirled together into a lifelike composition of the scenery beyond the barn. Shrouded within a secret cove, a pond the color of jade stretched beneath a low-lying layer of clouds. Puffy white flowers grew in the tall grass surrounding it. The razor-back cliff rose up and shrouded them from the sea. The lighthouse stretched skyward on the horizon, like a steeple marking holiness. The sky sang in hues of pink and orange and lavender.

  But it wasn’t the exceptional landscape that made this painting feel special.

  In the middle of the pond, a graceful woman draped her arms around the neck of a tall man who held her in an embrace. Her chin lifted toward the sky, and her thick red hair wisped down her back, grazing the surface of the water.

  Evie had never met these people, but she knew they were in love.

  On a small rock to the left of them, two white-haired boys dipped their toes in the water. She’d been working on this one ever since she opened her new canvases, a little bit of progress each night.

  “It’s lovely.” Agnes took it to the back to the shop and propped it below the recessed lighting on the bookshelf. She stood back and examined it for a minute. Evie may have been imagining it, but she thought Agnes had tears in her eyes.

  “The man,” she said, running her fingers over the bumpy paint of his close-cropped blond beard, “reminds me a lot of Erik.”

  “Your husband?”

  Agnes grimaced, and Evie wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have asked. She could tell Agnes didn’t like talking about the accident that had taken her family away. Now that she knew the story, she understood Oskar’s guarded behavior a little better too. How hard it must’ve been to lose everything, and then fall under the guardianship of a family member from a different country.

  She thought of Abuela again, as a teenager. Abuela had nobody but the nuns.

  “No, lass. Finn was my husband. Erik was Maggie’s husband. Oskar’s father.” Agnes opened a drawer next to the sink and pulled out a silver gilded photo frame. She handed it to Evie. “This was Finn.”

  He was stout and round with a head full of red hair and a face full of smiling beard, perfect teeth peeking through. He held a giant salmon up—it must’ve been two feet long, maybe more. “He caught that on Loch Ness on holiday. I’ll never forget how happy he was then. He was a truly contented man. He loved his family.” Agnes sniffed. She took the frame back from Evie and put it in the drawer.

  Evie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. She glanced out the window, looking for Oskar. She’d been back every day this week, learning new recipes and helping Agnes around the store. Most days she stayed until the shop closed, sometimes later if they were waiting on something in the oven. Oskar had kept to himself, though, since the day they’d gone to Kolaportid. Whatever bonding she thought might’ve taken place between them had seemingly evaporated by the next day.

  He hung around in the shop, mostly ignoring them when he wasn’t in the orchard. If he really wanted her to teach him some English words, he hadn’t shown any immediate interest. For some reason, she didn’t believe he was really down with the idea to start with. His tone that day—whatever he said to Agnes—didn’t seem like agreement. It sounded like a hiss.

  On those late nights she stayed, she’d watched Oskar leave and head to the lighthouse, or go up the stairs to the loft and disappear. Curiosity tugged at her, and she wished she had an excuse to go up there and see his room, to see the place where he slept. She wondered if his room was clean or messy, what texture his sheets were—did he prefer flannel or silk against his skin, or just plain old cotton percale? Maybe he slept in pajamas, maybe it was boxers, or maybe it was nothing at all.

  Agnes spoke and heat blasted Evie’s face, bringing her back to the moment. “I hated him with a fiery passion, that Erik.” She tensed her jaw.

  Evie found it hard to believe Agnes could hate anyone. “But why?”

  “Well, he took my sister awa’, of course. Came to Scotland on holiday and left with her as a souvenir. She was positively mad about him, lass. She left me behind, and it left me heartbroken.” She trailed her fingers down the painting, sighing deeply. “Growing up, it was just she and I, y’see. Our mother died when we were young, our father was in prison. Our mad old aunt raised us on her orchard—she was a witch in more ways than one—and she died, too. So when Maggie left Scotland, it was just me, until I married Finn. I was angry for a lot of time. By the time I forgave her and came here to visit, I only had seven days left with her. Turns out, all that time she’d just been trying to make this place look like home.” Agnes slung an arm toward the window. “With the cherry orchard. Planting an environment like the one we grew up in. She was as homesick for me as I was for her.”

  Evie searched her brain for the right words but came up short.

&nbs
p; “Aye, well,” Agnes said, seeming to shake it off. “She gave me Oskar. I love him as if he were my own. Don’t tell him I said that, though.” She elbowed Evie with a chuckle.

  Oskar strolled into her line of vision then, ladder hoisted on his shoulder. His mouth pulled down at the corners, eyes glued to the ground. He moved with programmed purpose, like he’d flipped an autopilot switch. Arms and legs followed a pattern. Robotic. He was just going through the motions. She’d seen someone else in her life behave this way, but it made her stomach hurt to even make the connection.

  No. It was different. He’d lost his family. He didn’t give them away on purpose like her mother had.

  “I know you said it was a long time ago, but he seems like he carries so much pain.” Agnes followed her gaze out the window. “When I heard him play that night by the fire, it came through in the music.”

  They watched him together.

  “Music has always been his therapy, lass. After the accident, though, he lost his drive to play. He just needs a swift kick in the pants. I tell him all the time he’s wastin’ that talent. He doesn’t want to play for anyone but himself now.”

  Evie gave Agnes a side-eye. She didn’t believe talent was ever wasted. Why was playing for himself not enough? It was his. He didn’t owe it to anyone. “I get where he’s coming from,” she said. “I never wanted to share my paintings with anyone except Abuela until I found your cherry orchard.”

  Agnes turned to look at her through beams of dusty sunlight, serious expression etched into her plump features. “You only wanted to share it with your grandmother, lass, because you knew she’d love anything you painted.”

  Evie thought about that for a moment. She guessed Agnes had a point.

  “Everyone needs validation. Someone to believe in them.” Agnes stooped and hoisted the large green tub of cherries from under the counter and plopped them next to the sink. “This orchard wouldn’t even be here if nobody had believed in my sister. Erik did that for her. He spent his life’s savings to buy this property when it was still a barren lava field and an abandoned lighthouse. Maggie thought the springs running beneath it, mixing with magma deep in the earth, would create the perfect soil environment to grow cherry trees, like the ones we grew back home. So she bought that tree there.” Agnes pointed to the tree at the top of the hillside, towering above the others at the back fence. “The Aisling tree, from a greenhouse in Reykjavik. Planted it. Fostered it. Believed in it. When it began producing, they bought more. They kept adding to the orchard every planting season.”

  The word rang a bell for Evie. “What’s Aisling? Is that a specific strain of cherries?”

  “’Tis what Maggie named it, lass. It’s Gaelic. Means vision or dream. For her, it represented everything this place could be, and did become, even though she didn’t get to witness it herself.”

  Evie thought for a moment. The other poem she’d found was about that tree. “So it’s special. Is that why you tell people not to pick from it?”

  “Aye.” Agnes looked away quickly and busied her hands, putting away utensils and wiping up crumbs. Evie picked up on her skittishness, but said nothing. “’Tis a good reminder, lass. When you believe in something, it bears fruit.”

  Evie gathered her courage to ask Agnes about the poem that had to be a spell. Had to be. But then she glanced out the window again and met Oskar’s gaze. She tore her eyes away as he headed for the door and charged inside with another full bucket. He froze at the counter, looking past both of them to the back of the shop. Evie followed his gaze to her painting.

  He glanced over at her, and then back to the painting, tensing his jaw. Annoyed? God, she couldn’t keep obsessing over everything he did like this. “So what are we cooking tonight?” Evie asked, pointing to the tub of cherries, trying to appear busy and completely oblivious to Oskar’s presence.

  A slow smile spread over Agnes’s face. “Not cooking tonight, lass.” She nodded to Oskar. “I have a project for you two instead.”

  Evie glanced over at Oskar, hands becoming insta-sweaty. “Uh,” she fumbled with her fingers. “For us?”

  Agnes nodded, hoisting the tub onto her hip. “Follow me outside.”

  Oskar stepped aside and motioned for Evie to go first behind Agnes. She gave him a weak smile and shoved her damp hands in the pockets of her jeans to hide the fact that they were shaking.

  Out back, Agnes led them away from the orchard and the sea, to a spot about twenty meters from an inland misty pond. She set the large bin of cherries on the ground in front of two chairs, a bucket-like contraption with a crank, and a garbage pail. Evie studied the equipment, confused and nervous. Oskar looked away.

  “Och, you two look like frightened sheep.” She laughed. “Relax. Ye’ll be making wine today. But it gets verra messy, which is why you have to do it outside. You’ll sit here and punch the pits into this pail,” she motioned to the garbage container, “and then drop the cherry inside this cheesecloth liner in the wine press. Once it’s done, Oskar will press the juice in this bucket here, we’ll cover it for a bit, and then add the additional ingredients when the time arises.” Agnes demonstrated how to use the corer to remove the seed of the cherry, pointing it toward the waste bucket. It made a snapping noise and shot the pit across the mossy ground. “Aye, well, you get the idea.” She grinned. “Any questions?”

  The two of them stared at each other, then at Agnes.

  “Oh,” Evie said, “do you need to tell him how to do it in Icelandic?”

  Agnes cut her eyes at Oskar, and Evie thought she sensed a little irritation. “No, dearie. The demo was for you. He knows how to do this.” She winked, spun on her heels and left the two of them alone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Oskar’s Journal

  She sits next to me on a chair,

  our backs to the fleeing sun.

  Her toes tap inside her flip-flops

  to an imaginary beat

  as she works.

  Every time the wind blows

  I smell her hair.

  I wish I could bury my face in it.

  Tell her how beautiful she is.

  Like some romantic hero.

  But that kind of shit

  doesn’t happen for guys like me.

  I’ve tried to stay away.

  Foil Agnes’s plan.

  Yet here I am.

  She sneaks a cherry.

  Plops it between her lips with a grin,

  like she’s just done the most criminal thing in the world.

  I chomp on my gum to hold back the laugh.

  I can’t believe you don’t make yourself sick eating these, she says.

  I haven’t eaten a cherry since I lost them.

  It’s better to avoid the tartness

  of taste and memory.

  I wish you could talk to me.

  She mutters it, under her breath, as she looks at the ground.

  My silence is an elaborate net of lies I’ve trapped myself in.

  It doesn’t even feel like my choice anymore.

  I’ve been learning some Icelandic words, she says.

  Reaching into the bin in front of us,

  she grabs a cherry

  and holds it up by its stem.

  It sways a little in the breeze,

  sunlit dew gleaming.

  Kirsuber.

  I don’t know if that pronunciation is right.

  It isn’t.

  A grin takes my face by force.

  That’s another one I know!

  She points to my mouth.

  Bros. Smile.

  She air-quotes the translation

  with stained fingers.

  Like that will help me understand it.

  You should bros more.

  Smile.

  You’re crazy hot when you bros.

  Pink dusts her cheekbones and I break our eye contact,

  returning to the task at hand,

  pretending not to pick up on it.
r />   Ripping the hearts out of these cherries

  is a great metaphor

  for my life.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Evie

  The clicks and pops of their cherry pitters filled the silence between them as they finished emptying the bin.

  Evie was glad she’d worn a black shirt. The apron Agnes lent her wasn’t catching all the cherry juice. It splattered the knees of her jeans and the tops of her feet. Oskar wasn’t much better off.

  “You look like you just came from a murder scene.” She laughed, pointing a thumb at his white t-shirt, soaked with red dots of varying sizes. He looked down at it, and then at her from the corner of his eye.

  Her leg was starting to get a cramp from holding it rigid. Sitting so close to him, she was terrified her thigh muscle would get lazy and accidentally lean against his leg. She glanced down at his jeans. His stiff knee—the one closest to her—trembled. She smiled, glad she wasn’t the only one worried about what her leg was doing.

  They both reached for the last cherry on the bottom of the container, and their knuckles bumped. Evie drew her hand back, letting him have it. He discarded the plucked stem into an overflowing waste can at their feet, shot the pit in with it, and dropped what was left of the fruit into the press.

  Oskar stood and tucked the cheesecloth that lined the wine press into the top of the container. He placed a five-liter bucket beneath the spout and began twisting the crank. His arms clenched as he turned the handle, tattoo moving with the motion.

  “I can’t stop wondering if that tattoo means you’re a druid,” Evie said quietly. “Maybe you’ve put a spell on me.”

  He glanced up at her briefly, then back to his work. Evie watched his hands, stained a bright shade of pink. His nail beds were a deep crimson. She noticed then that he must bite his nails. They were jagged on the ends.

  He looked up and caught her staring.