The start of something, or possibly just a snippet…I’m not sure yet!
It started with a doorway; and with a man, kneeling in the small garden, hands cupped around the fragile leaves of a tree just rising through the damp soil.
He glanced up, briefly, at the blocked doorway no-one could have come through, and the person standing there; and then rose to his feet, knees of his trousers damp from the grass and fingers mud-stained from the soil.
“I was expecting someone,” he said with gentle politeness, and gave a short nod.
Her eyes widened; whatever she had expected here, it was not the winter garden around, sleeping trees and evergreen bushes tangling with the too-long grass and unraked leaves. It was not the dilapidated wall and peeling door, the scarred wall and bricked-in doorway behind her. It was not this stocky man with his careful movements, reserved manner, sympathetic gaze.
But she hesitated, one hand on the brickwork, as if waiting to see what this world held before she pushed open the door to another.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he added.
And she smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
The inside of the house was as shabby and run-down as the outside, and almost empty; a bed, a table and two mismatched chairs, some scattered kitchen utensils, and a desk with a closed laptop on it. The walls were faded white, and the floor clean but aged. She sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the man, in his jeans and old buttoned shirt, hair pulled back into a knot.
“Progress hasn’t been good, I’m afraid,” he said, carefully filling the kettle.
“This site is slower than I’d like.” She was silent, as if waiting, and he weighed how to explain his failure. He didn’t want to turn and see what judgement was in her eyes. “It’s been hard to encourage anything.”
“Look, I – wait, I don’t know your name.” Whatever she’d been going to say, it was derailed with a smile and an easy laugh.
“I go by Fydor, here.”
“Ok. Well. I’m…apparently not what you think I am.” He carefully set down the mugs and tilted his head a little, waiting on her next words. “I don’t really understand what you mean by the site, or encourage. Do you normally have regular visitors?”
“They haven’t been for a few years, but yes. I had assumed that you were another, here to check on my progress.”
“And they’re…they come through the same door?” She suddenly relaxed. “That’s why you didn’t freak out. You’re used to it.”
“You arrived by distinctly unusual means, as they do.” His smile twitched the corner of his mouth and creased the corners of his eyes. “What were you expecting, then?”
“I didn’t really know,” she admitted, smiling again. “That’s…it was a bit of an…unusual doorway.”
She was looking at him, studying. He let the silence hang, filling both mugs and then finding a spoon to stir them.
“I followed the light,” she said eventually. “It opens to where I need to be, even if…I’m not sure why.”
“I understand that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I move a lot.” He looked down to the mugs, and then picked them both up to bring over to the table. “I…get drawn to places. That I need to help, to heal. So I’m never in one place very long. A year, two at the most.”
She was still watching him as he set one mug down in front of her. “But you said here hadn’t been making as much progress with the site. What do you do?”
And suddenly, the smile lit his face. It was like watching an unfolding leaf, a growing bud; it was a blossoming. “I make things grow.”