There is a cabin in the mountains
Short fiction
There is a cabin in the mountains, tucked beyond the thick forest, where the path is kept clear only by the quiet passing of small creatures.
And yet, there it stands. A place where no one would think to build, let alone live. But this is where Siraajo, as her name appears in a tea-stained journal, calls home.
You might imagine that so far from human eyes, she would live as feral as the world around her. But each morning, when rest has filled her bones and life is calling her forth, she rises, not hurried, not slow, but with the rhythm of a life that belongs entirely to itself.
She wakes to birdsong and the soft chaos of small beings. She washes her face, runs cool water over her skin from an aged porcelain bowl. Pulls her thick greying braids back, tying them with a scrap of indigo cloth. Slips into copper-colored linen pants, then a purple pullover with uneven sleeves which smells just like her. She butters her feet into wool home shoes.
The gas stove flares to life with a thick match. A black iron teapot settles over the flame. In her garden, where everything grows with quiet insistence, she moves aside the basil and the coriander and picks fresh mint. She rubs the leaves between her fingers before dropping them into the pot. Buns warm in the oven. The berry jam, the butter, the small bread knife, all laid out on the wooden table just outside her kitchen door. There is only one chair, enough and steady in its solitude. She pulls a shawl from the edge of her bed-frame and drapes it around herself without thought.
She is about to sit when she sees the flowers, withering in their glass vase, the one that kept her company these past few days. She lifts it gently, empties it into the pile of returning organic matter. Wanders to the edge of the forest, where the daffodils bloom. The brightest of the season. She bends, admiring their reach, their color. Cuts a few, carries them back in both hands, like an offering.
Water in the vase. Flowers in the centre of the table. She pauses. She adores them. She adores the setting.
And then, as if conducting a small orchestra it begins; the gentle pouring of tea, the careful cutting of a bun, the firm twist of the jam jar lid. A sweep of butter, then jam, then together, playfully spread. The scent of fresh mint rises with the steam. A sip. Warmth all through her body.
She licks her lips before taking the first bite, eyes closed. It is always so delicious, the first meal of the day. A reminder of why she loves it there.
There, high in the mountains, where no one would think to find a home. Where the wild things win. Where the earth does not ask anything of her, except to live.
I Love this!!!