On a hot sultry day, there stood a man, his silhouette against the setting sun. In his hand was a worn leather knapsack, filled with things which bespoke danger and intrigue: a map of the Indre Valley, a stillet knife, several small green glistening stones, and some incidentals.
He was looking into the distance, as if looking right through the mountains beside him. Was he looking at the beyond, or back to his scattered past? The sound of a distant coyote stunned him from his reverie, making him throw the knapsack over his shoulder, taking off his hat before smoothing his hair with his fingers and continuing his journey. He held his dusty hat in his hand for a while, dusting off some of the accumulated dust. He noticed his knuckles were cut and bleeding. "No wonder," he thought, "after what I've been through." He put his hat back on and pulled his neckerchief off, rolling it around his knuckles as he did so. He was thirsty, so he headed for the nearest building he could see. It looked promising, with a wooden sign out front saying "Ice Cold Beer." That sounded good.
As he approached what he assumed was an inn, he felt like he was being watched. He'd felt like that all day. He clutched his knapsack closer, as if he could protect the contents better that way. He took a casual glance around him. There was an old, dusty pickup truck, which may have been a deep green if it were ever to be washed. Some old wooden egg crates were scattered in the back, a reminder of what the truck had been used for in its heyday. There was a rocking chair on the porch, swaying with the breeze. He could hear the wind blowing through the tree in front, the branches waving at him as if to welcome him.
He walked up on the porch and took a couple steps toward the door. That's when he saw inside the door's window. It wasn't an inn, but someone's house, a derelict farm. There didn't seem to be anyone inside, but he knocked anyway. It seemed the polite thing to do. Of course there was no answer, he knew there wouldn't be. He took a try at the doorknob, and thankfully it opened. The cool of the inside was refreshing as he closed the door behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he looked around at the contents of the room, surveying for any danger. His eyes caught on a picture setting on the mantle. "Funny," he said aloud, his voice ragged and drained of its former power. He stepped closer to the picture, careful of his steps on the worn floor, wary of any weak boards. As he came closer, his first instinct was to run out of that house, but instead, he held his breath and took the picture from the mantle. He stared at it for a long time, remembering and caressing the picture, before putting it in his knapsack.
His next action was to find out if this house had any running water, a source of power, anything to ease his present woes. His eyes led him to the kitchen, where the pantry was slightly stocked with some canned goods. There was an old refrigerator, a throwback from the 50's. Inside was cool, with a glass bottle of his favorite beer inside. He closed the door, thinking he would return after finding a way to clean up his wounds, for they were many. He didn't have time for infection just now, not when things were so chaotic....
“Why did Jesse have to be so darn adventurous?” she thought as she drove her truck along the irrigation canal, the dust flying from the wheels. She was headed on her rounds; the back of the truck was loaded with full egg crates. Business was going well, she had her loyal customers. She’d be all right.
She drove up to the Bailey farm and honked the horn twice, like everybody did around here. It was their way of saying “Hello, I’m here!” She liked living where everyone had known her since she was born. She had inherited the farm from her parents when they died. It was a struggle to keep it up, but she liked the work. Stanley Bailey had helped her learn plumbing basics so she could repair her own sink when the time came. And it had. And she did. She always threw in a couple extra eggs to thank their family. She drove on to her next stop, and so on. Her mind was elsewhere today, so she mechanically went from farm to farm. She knew why she was so absent-minded; IT was tomorrow, after all. Would she ever be able to live through that day without thinking about Jesse? She knew the answer, and she knew she couldn’t. How could she forget about Jesse?
When she got home, she threw some cool water over her face, reaching blindly for a towel hanging from the fridge handle. Later, her headache subsided as she sat on the rocking chair on the porch, the soft breeze blowing her hair off her neck. A glass of lemonade sat beside her, the condensation dripping onto the wicker table. As she drifted off to sleep, she began to dream about the Indre as Jesse had always described it. Mountains higher than she’d ever seen, trees green as her eyes, houses older than any she’d seen, a place where generations gone by dwelled with the present generation. With names of towns like Chassignolles and Chartres, Boutain and Chatauxroux, it sounded so mysterious. After a few minutes, his descriptions were not understandable, since he would get so excited, he would tell it in a foreign language. This made The Indre sound so beautiful and interesting. She never needed to know the language to understand his fixation. If only her parents had been well when he left, she may have gone with him. Now she was left with this farm to care for. Would he ever come back?
“Of course Cary’s gone.” Jesse thought as he sat on the porch with his beer. He felt empty, even though he’d just finished some chili he’d heated up on the wood stove. Thankfully, Cary had never purchased a new stove for that kitchen; otherwise he’d have to build a fire outside. He wondered how she’d gotten on with this farm. He figured she moved into town once her parents died. He remembered reading about their accident in the “Hartfield Crier”, the local paper he’d had shipped to his location once a month. How he had yearned to return, but his work kept him there. And he didn’t think Cary would take him back, after all he’d said and done. He didn’t deserve it. So he worked. He worked through any pain, any hardship. He didn’t deserve it. Those were his last thoughts as he drifted off to sleep, clutching his knapsack.
He woke up the next morning, a crick in his neck. As he stood up, he stretched his arms and back, turning and bending his head to break up the crick. He looked out over the front yard and noticed an unfamiliar truck in the front path. He jumped and went to grab his knapsack, but it was gone! As he frantically thought over what he was going to do, he heard sobbing coming from inside. He closed his eyes, he knew full well who it was. As he gathered up the courage, he went to the front door and knocked lightly. He heard the sobbing stop, little sniffle sounds, then a blessed sound, “Come in, Jess.” He closed his eyes and opened the door, carefully stepping inside.
Cary had taken longer than usual at her rounds the next day. She wanted to keep busy so her mind wouldn’t play tricks on her. She had to get over Jess, it had been so many years since he’d left. “Five years,” she thought as she pulled up to her last stop. As she got out of her truck, she looked over toward her farm and noticed a light on in the house. She assumed she’d left it on that morning, and went on with her work.
When she got home about an hour later, she noticed someone was sleeping on her porch as she pulled up the road. She stopped short at the path and cut the engine. She gingerly reached the porch and looked longingly at the man occupying her rocking chair. She’d waited so long for this moment, yet it was so different. She noticed Jesse was clutching a knapsack, and he looked rather cold. She went inside and fetched a throw. She carefully removed the knapsack and placed the blanket on him, noticing his bandages. She didn’t want to wake him, not just yet. She went on to bed, leaving the knapsack in the living room.
As she awoke early the next morning, her thoughts drifted to yesterday, and she smiled. She changed quickly, running down the stairs-but Jesse was still sleeping. She saw his knapsack and picked it up. As she pulled out the picture, she noticed the green stones. They were as beautiful as he’d told her so many times before. She held them for several minutes together, as she remembered him telling her where he’d find them. An old legend passed on in his family was about a family in Chassignolles who had been given the jewel eyes from the sarcophagi’s of Egyptian kings as payment for their help to a stranger staying at their inn. The jewels had been passed around from generation to generation until they disappeared into a legendary status. No one in 100 years had seen the stones. Legend had it that the patriarch had hidden them somewhere in the Indre. Jesse had finally found them. Her eyes strayed to the picture, their wedding picture. They were so young then, so naïve. She picked it up and held it tight, sobbing with her thoughts of what had been lost, what might still be. Oh if only he would wake up and come in….
As soon as Jesse saw her, he knew things would be ok. He wanted to erase those sad tears, find a way to deserve her forgiveness, and make her happy. He walked over, took the picture from Cary’s arms, and placed it on the mantle, never to be removed again. When he saw the sparkling green stones, he looked at her eyes and knew what had driven him for so long. They were a perfect match. And they were, too.
