The Farmer and the Girl

Chapter Six - The Strolls

The subsequent days bore a new flavor to the ballerina's so far tedious vacation. She still adhered to her solo morning walk, albeit at more increasing intervals of days. She substituted them with less lonely walks and more productive talks with the farmer in the gentle afternoons. Her stories about her ballet schooling and teachers were still met with curiosity and interest though with less childish admiration as was the case with the evening guests. Surprisingly, it was not to Ava's dismay in the least. The stares of bafflement and the boyish clapping of her cousins were replaced with the farmer's keen interested gentle stares and smiles. And while the girl was immersed in the art, the farmer was also interested in the physics behind it; correcting Ava's impression of him. So he wasn't all empty – headed as his wandering steps and air – filled gaze suggested. He knew things for the purpose of appreciating them.

He was the owner of the largest farm in the area, but he did not take the incredible wealth he had inherited from his father who in turn inherited it from his grandfather and similarly up the family tree for granted. He was also a farmer, if not manually he was intellectually. He knew where every kind of his seeds and fruits that constituted his empire was best planted, and when they were best watered and harvested. How to care for them, how to fight possible infestations. He knew the minute details since the seed is cradled in the soil to its stalks growth till its leafs fruition. And similarly , he knew when to sell and how to market and ship. An artistic businessman, Ava nicknamed him secretly, laughing at the inside joke, with slight admiration.

Day after day, Ava expanded her ventures in the countryside, guided and encouraged by the farmer. They would take long walks around the place, and he would point out the ups and downs of each field they came across, how it would be improved, and sometimes he would tell her a side story of the family owning it. These stories were mostly funny, devoid of any grim details, told for the particular goal of drawing a smile and a laugh.

He spoke in such an engaging manner; everything had a story, it wasn't just a dull fact or an overly rich myth that one had to listen to. Ava appreciated this for now, merely listening without having to speak, it was comfortable. It taught her a lot even if she did not need to know that maple trees can live for more than two hundred years or that not all plants could synthesis their own food and had to deceive fungi into providing their nutrients. Learning that Indian pipe was named ghost plant because of its white color owing to its lack of chlorophyll, the substance that gave plants their green color, was not important to her, but it was fun to know and she wanted to learn more. It was as if these interesting new information were granted another meaning, as if they represented an esoteric analogy that Ava was drawn into by the farmer's profound tone and deep stares.

They also walked down through his farm, or as Ava has called it secretly "the palace". Though she never entered the villa, the girl did not complain. Just like the farmer, she was satisfied with the peaceful saunters they shared throughout the fields of gold and the meadows of green. There was a small stream running across the virescent lawns surrounding the circumference of the villa, and Ava loved to enjoy her rest by the stream. The two would set together to catch their breaths; Ava on an a giant rock on the stream bank, preferring not to sully her dress in the dirt, and the framer down on the grass, either thinking silently or telling a story. Sometimes, he would ask Ava about music and dancing. She would proudly answer the things he did not know, and beautifully widen her eyes in astonishment at the things he knew. When she was in such elated state, she would perfume a short routine or demonstrate a flexible act. He would straighten his back every time she did so, never watching while lying, a show of respect and interest and she appreciated this profoundly. A genuine smile would accompany the act, a gentle clap or shout followed by a transient trance. What was he thinking at times like these, Ava could not tell but guessed he was probably harmonizing the performance or its meaning, more accurately, to the surrounding environment enveloping it. At this thought, Ava started to realize why he wouldn't approach the house, even when she got really tired and demanded a long respite. He did not like materiality. on the contrary, he was escaping it. Sure this garden had fruited a wealth beyond belief and he counted stacks of money with the same hands he gently caressed the leaves with, but he regarded the two as separate. His true wealth was the vernal gardens he'd inherited and would pass down someday. No, not the material coins it poured but the more subtle spiritual value behind it. She understood why the farmer liked it here in this farm yet could not experience the feeling herself in the beginning. However, along the days, this sensation reached her, infiltrating her thinking closer and closer. The ballerina had to admit to herself that upon arrival she was not fond of the place, she really still wasn't as a whole. The grass - laden breezes was not her preferred scent, and the stalks - burdened land wasn't her top - choice view. Why would she waste her time spending all day in a place or in a manner she wouldn't usually enjoy? She had no benefit out of the farm obviously, it gave her nothing, no money, no solutions, no changes! Nevertheless, she slowly learned to listen to the sound of plows, to look for the miracle of beauty and order in every grain, to look through the golden crops and visualize the cradled seeds. By spending even more days like this, she realized something else; it wasn't just the place, or the man... it was these brief straightforward little talks. She learned to appreciate the casual simple conversations with direct responses and honest replies, the absence of worries or struggles within that constant frame of change, patterned in a dull yet honest manner. The land would start bare, grow green then fade in a flaxen gown without a surprise or twists. A static state that calmed the mind as much as the landscapes calmed the eyesight.

For the first time since she had arrived, she felt fulfilled. As if her journey had reached a beautiful stop, not a conclusion yet, but she often found herself wandering, why not?

One afternoon while the sun was preparing to set, the two youngsters sat down in the shade of the ancient oak tree that had a trunk marked like a knight's shield in the middle, a true reminder of the middle ages, to which it might have belonged. They sat close to each other, sharing a lovely snack of different flavored cakes. Ava liked the strawberry taste of the jam, and indulged her taste buds silently along her sight and hearing. The farmer, on the other hand, was focused on the hill across the stream shaded by a similar giant tree. He merely took few bites before suddenly stating :

"One day, I would like to be buried under that maple tree. Not so keen on any type of flowers for now though."

Ava blinked, the subject was startling or rather, brought out of nowhere, but she did not find herself disturbed. Everything floated quietly around this farm without leaving any impact or nuisance.

"I never thought where I would like to be buried, but I would appreciate flowers and maybe some surrounding graves... you know... company?"

The farmer guffawed but did not seem that amused.

"What? You would like to be buried alone?"

Ava inquired, merely curious. She did not intend to hit anything, or direct attention at something; words flowed out of her mouth and landed in the farmer ears and unknowingly to her, they landed in his heart as well.

"I will have to know death first to answer what I would prefer."

The farmer threw his words casually, looking at Ava then lowering his gaze to the piece of dessert he held. He took a bite and added:

"Unfortunately, death is like food, can't discern it till you taste it."