A digital scan of a text, written in black ink on white paper, somewhat faded. In places, the ink has burnt through the page, leaving only spectral outlines of words.
A story, overheard as I walk with a group from the grove to the river. They tell it together: each speaker offers a sentence or two, and the tale passes to the next.
A child, in a grey smock, plaintive: “The sky is grey.”
A man in a red shirt, carrying a tall staff: “The bare hill is cold.”
An older woman, bag tied to her back: “It is seeking warmth, and so it is pulling on the traces travellers are giving it.”
A younger woman, in orange, with a basket: “The travellers, at their destinations, are exhausted; the hill is holding their warmth. And the hill is no warmer, because the travellers are not giving enough warmth, although they are giving too much.”
The woman with the bag: “The travellers are not stopping. They are not giving any more to the hill than they must.”
The woman in orange: “The hill needs more than they have to give.”
A youth in green, hands empty: “Under another sky, the sun is shining. The ferns are curling over the hill, little green spiralling fans, smirking –”
An interruption from the child: “– hiding friends!”
A general laugh.
The younger woman, brow wrinkled: “Some friends.”
The man: “Hiding… companions.”
The older woman: “Friends for the hill, if not for the travellers. And the hill is distracted by its friends, and warmed by its blanket, and so it is stealing less from the travellers.”
The youth: “Maybe it’s giving to them, instead. Giving them its warmth. A gift, reciprocated.”
The woman in orange: “And unwanted, in such quantities.”
The child: “And so the travellers are tired?”
The younger woman: “The travellers are tired under any and every sky.”
A moment’s pause, as the child considers.
The younger woman: “Here.”
And fruit appears, and is handed round, and its sticky juice drips onto the loose soil of the hillside. Another gift.