What Might Have Been

Just east of the village was a stump, and on that stump sat Margueritte.

She sat with her head in her hands, looking like a lonely statue in the dim light of the stars. She had been certain that Elidyr would be her husband. Though he had come to the village just six months ago, she thought the comfortable life she offered there would convince him to leave the hard life of the Way.

Here he could have been a blacksmith and lived in a good house, in a good village, with an excellent wife. Instead, he chose to walk on. Endlessly. To some unknown end, for “curiosity,”.

She sighed heavily.

“There you are, Rita.” Came a tender voice,

“Hm,” she responded. She didn’t need to look to know it was her grandmother.

“I thought I saw you come this way,”

“Hm,”

“Well, good,” said her grandmother, “you can help me carry this home.” And suddenly there was a basket pressed between her arms.

“Eh!” she grumbled,

“Oh, none of that now,” said grandmother, “Come with me for tea and grieve where it’s warm,” She gently pulled at Rita’s arm and tucked it in hers. She patted the girl’s hand.

“I heard the boy chose to walk on.”

“mm-hmm,” she grumbled.

“It’s hard to imagine choosing that life over this, isn’t it?” She said as they walked, “our walks are short, and we always know where we’ll sleep at night. But not one of those Way Goers know what lies beyond the journey’s end.”

They walked in silence to her grandmother’s house, a little cottage further along the same path as the stump.

“Just set that on the table, dear.” Said Grandmother, “I’ll make some tea.”

Rita placed the basket on the table, then sat heavily and lay her head on the smooth wood. Her grandmother poured water from a pitcher into her kettle, then placed it on the fire hook to warm. She came to the table with a small tray of jars and a mortar and pestle.

“How could he,” Rita asked, as her grandmother sat down across from her, “How could he leave me after all the time we’ve spent together?”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Just ‘Goodbye,’ to me and ‘thank you,’ to father. No ‘we’ll meet again,’ no ‘I’ll always remember you,’ just ‘goodbye,’. Like some stranger.”

Grandmother was slowly working through her jars, deciding on what herbs to use.

“It takes courage to walk to the Way like they do.”

“He said the other day people follow the Way out of “curiosity”. They wonder what lies ahead.”

“There are a lot of reasons to follow the Way. I used to be a Way Goer as well, you know.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I followed the Way for many many years, but stopped here when I met your grandfather. Although,” She paused and looked out her window, “We built our home out here so I could seek the Light in my own way.”

“So he could have stayed,”

Grandmother smiled, “Or you could have gone with him.”

“What?” Rita was horrified, “and leave father? Who would help him with Sophia? Marcille? Pah! She barely manages to clean plates let alone diapers. And can you imagine her at the forge? She’d burn the whole town down. And Alessandra is far too frail, and the others too young.” She shook her head, “I couldn’t think of leaving.”

Grandmother placed a few flower buds in the mortar, then tea leaves, and placed a stick of cinnamon beside it on the table.

“Perhaps he felt the same way about his walk. He may be of age, but he’s still a child.” She gestured to Rita, “Come look at the blend here, Rita. People are a bit like teas, after all; made of different elements. As for you, you are defined by your love of your father, your sisters, your village, the forge, these are your elements.”

She took the cinnamon stick and placed it in the bowl,

“But now a new element appeared, which made you aware of a new potential: The love of a husband. But,” she took pestle and firmly ground the elements in the bowl, “just because the boy leaves doesn’t mean the love leaves too. Instead, this experience reshapes your love for all of them. He chose to walk on. Are you choosing to stay?

Rita stared at the light mixture,

“Grandmother, leaving isn’t an option.”

“Why?”

“Because father, and sisters… I told you!”

Her grandmother smiled, “Look out my window, Rita. Can’t you see that Light? Aren’t you even a little curious about it?”

Rita stared at her grandmother, then out the window. The light was there shining in the darkness, shimmering as though waving.

Rita stared a moment, then said, “It’s kind of soothing, isn’t it? Like a silent lullaby.”

“We don’t see it much in the villages,” said grandmother, taking the tea mixture and placing it in a tea pot, “we have too many fires and mirrors, but nothing compares to the real thing. I walked the Way for as long as I could, but I wanted to marry. I wanted to have children and build a home. I chose to stay here when I met your grandfather, and I’ve done what I can to keep the Way even here.” She folded her hands on the table, and looked at Rita, “Are you choosing to stay here because you love your family, or are you staying because you think you can’t choose to leave?”

The kettle began to hiss and splutter, and grandmother rose to retrieve it. Rita watched her as she came back to pour the hot water into the pot then returned the kettle to its place by the fire.

Could she really leave her village? Leave it all to follow Elidyr and walk with him along the Way. She looked out the window at the Light, and the scents of the tea began to fill the air. Her grandmother sat back down at the table and stirred the tea before letting it settle.

“If I spoke to father,” Rita said, “I’m sure I could leave with his blessing. But,” She shook her head, “I can’t imagine walking forever. I choose to stay here.”

“And the boy chose to walk on,”

Rita scowled, “He still abandoned me,”

“Maybe so,” Said grandmother, pouring a cup of tea and pushing it towards her, “And you must feel your grief, child. Feel your loss like the water feels the fire that brings it to boil,”

Grandmother took her own cup, inhaled the fragrant steam, then turned her gaze out the window, “Yes, grieve for all that might have been, the journey you might have had, but remember: it’s the hot water of suffering; of loss, of separation, of failure, that show us what we’re made of.”