A Plum Tree's Neighbors

The Curmudgeon. The Sunflower. Feeling, Yet Saying Nothing.

Between here and there - somewhere over yonder but more than a stone’s throw, and nowhere Man cared to be - in a quiet hamlet called Hollowgarde, lived an old halfling named Harlan Springbrook.

Harlan lived in a cozy burrow set into a grassy hillside, surrounded by untrimmed boxwood bushes. His weathered, round wooden door was painted purple and adorned with a brass doorknob fixed directly in its center. Next to it was a large front-facing window, also circular in shape, bordered by a wooden frame, harboring small panes of colored glass that allowed natural light to flood his home. Tenacious runs of green ivy climbed its sides to blanket an unapologetically-underused garden shed. And although a winding, welcoming path of slate paving stones meandered from Harlan’s front door, a half-height wooden fence circled his property to politely keep the more intrusive rabble off of his lawn.

A stout, Harlan was taller than most, shaped more like a barrel than a pear, and his lightfoot neighbors would say he was thicker-boned if not denser-skulled. Amongst halflings, it was believed stouts shared dwarven stock, yet nobody bothered to ask a dwarf, for most feared doing so would invite war. Thus polite company squelched controversial opinions if nothing else but to spare all from disaster.

Harlan’s manner was brusque. This isn’t to say he was intentionally rude or cruel, and he certainly wasn’t threatening, but unlike most halflings in the Aevalorn Parishes, Harlan proudly kept his own company and avoided the likes of others. Inasmuch, many considered Harlan’s nature so peculiar that they, too, gave him a wide berth, opting to take the longer path home than cross the front of his. And as time slowly crawled on as it does in the Parishes, these behaviors reinforced rote, misunderstood habits. 

Yet, where Harlan Springbrook personified the spirit of a cranky curmudgeon, his neighbor, Eldewine Kettlebloom, was the parade to his rain.

She was an aged lightfoot with hair of golden barley whose smile - most in Hollowgarde agreed - was like love the first day you kissed it. Widowed, Eldewine spent her days tending gardens of tall yellow sunflowers that were as apt to follow her as much as they tracked the sun. At this time of year, Eldewine tended her gardens, aerating the soil, trimming and pruning her flowers, and would keep the memory of her husband by taking fresh cuttings to his grave to remind him of her.

And there, smack dab between their adjacent properties, grew a plum tree. It was an old tree - Harlan’s tree - and if it were to be compared to Eldewine’s sunflowers, its crooked, knotted trunk said as much about Harlan as it needed to say.

“Mister Springbrook? Mister Springbrook! Oh, goodness,” Eldewine beamed, emerging from her sunflowers wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. She waved at him cheerfully as he approached. “Sir, your tree’s roots are invading my flowerbeds.”

“Hmm,” grunted Harlan, squinting at the clusters of ripe fruit. As he reached overhead to pluck a juicy violet plum from the stem to then sample it with a bite, Harlan circled his tree to inspect Eldewine’s garden on the opposing side of his fence. Chewing the fruit, he grimaced and cocked his eyebrow at her, signaling he’d be right back.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully and carried on her business of pruning.

Harlan went to his toolshed to return with a spade full of fresh soil, and, bringing it over his fence, Harlan dumped the dirt into her flowerbed to cover the exposed roots.

“Mister Springbrook!” Eldewine gasped, shocked.

Harlan chortled, taking another slurpy chunk out of his plum. Looking at it, he nodded, and said, “Tart. ‘Nother few days.” He tossed its half-eaten carcass to the base of his tree and left Eldewine alone in her garden.

Confused, Eldewine called after him. “But that’s not at all what I meant. Mister Springbrook?”

Later, Eldewine retreated to the comforts of her home. They’d never really met, given Harlan’s reclusiveness, and although her deceased husband may have carried on well with him, she’d never been properly introduced. Perhaps, she thought, the plum tree’s rambling roots presented a unique opportunity.

That evening, carrying a freshly-made, warm loaf of barley bread, Eldewine exited her home to wander up the road, passed through Harlan’s gate, walked the unkempt path of paving stones, and rapped intrusively on the large window.

“Mister Springbook? Harlan? Hullo?” Eldewine called, squinting into his window while holding up her wicker breadbasket. Seeing him rise from his supper table, she went to the door to join him.

When Harlan begrudgingly opened his front door, his fingertips were stained with yellow paint.

“Mister Springbook!” Eldewine smiled, holding out the basket; the bread was wrapped in a hand-made tea towel. “Good evening! As it seems we’ve never taken the time, I brought you a token of-”

“Thanks,” Harlan grunted, quickly accepting her basket and closing his front door.

Empty-handed and disspirited, Eldewine’s face fell, and turning to leave, Harlan drew drapes across his window. Mumbling disquietly, she followed the slate footpath back to the gate.

Inside, Harlan indeed thought Eldewine’s bread smelled delicious, except he had an acute gluten sensitivity, and as the thought of simply throwing it away pained him, Harlan set the warm wicker basket on his table, folded his arms, and stared at it in grumpy consternation.

The very next day, outside in the hot, mid-day sun, Eldewine was busily working on her sunflowers before she swiped at the air around her head.

A swift knock came from Harlan’s door.

“Mister, er, Harlan,” she said sharply. Partially undressed, Harlan modestly kept the door between himself and Eldewine. “I’m sorry, but your plums are attracting wasps.”

Harlan gave her a crotchety frown.

Undeterred, she continued, “I spend a lot of time in my garden, and I’m afraid the wasps will swarm when I come near the tree.”

“It’s that time of year. They’re attracted to the sweetness of the plums,” Harlan grumbled.

“Harlan!” she insisted, literally putting her foot down.

Nodding, Harlan withdrew and growled, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” Eldewine called after him as he shut his door once again in her face.

Later, Harlan exited his home to hang a wasp trap from a limb of his plum tree. It was a wood block, a foot long and six inches wide, with a one-inch diameter hole drilled through its center. An eye hook was screwed into the top of the block from which to hang it from a wire. A mixture of honey, vinegar, fruit juice, and bacon grease was poured a third of the way into it. Attracted to the juice and grease, the honey and vinegar would cause a wasp to sink and would, conceivably, trap the insects.

“Thank you so much, Harlan,” Eldewine waved from her tiny forest of sunflowers. “I feel much better now.”

“Hmm,” Harlan grunted before returning to his home.

Finally feeling as if they had bridged the more tumultuous waters of neighborly communication, Eldewine finished her afternoon work unbothered by the wasps and wandered back indoors for a refreshing tea. Hours later, as the afternoon gave way to dusk, she returned to water her flowers to find the trap - and half of its supportive tree branch - crawling with wriggling and writhing wasps. Gasping, Eldewine dropped her water pail and rushed back inside to stave away the night.

Meanwhile, in the early morning, an hour before dawn, a raucous clamor kept Harlan from slumber. Stumbling through his home, he wandered past his easel and peeked through his drapes to see a banditry of madly twittering black-capped chickadees roosting in his plum tree, feasting on the wasps. Their chatter was absurdly nerve-racking, and putting his hands up to his ears, he returned to bed.

Hours later, in mid-morning, Eldewine exited her home to greet her precious sunflowers and shrieked in abject horror.

Insistent, heavy pounding erupted against Harlan’s door.

Groggy and weary-eyed, an exhausted Harlan greeted Eldewine on his doorstep.

“Mister Springbrook!” she breathed, pointing to the plum tree. Its limbs were inundated by the mass of chittering chickadees who’d shat all over her sunflowers, creating a ring halfway around the tree of thick, copious gray and white splatter.

Shaking his head and grumbling, Harlan turned around to fetch an extraordinarily large and exceedingly old, grumpy-looking cat. He set the bewildered cat at Eldewine’s feet and swiftly shut the door.

“Mister Springbrook!” she breathed, and infuriated, she stomped away, taking the slate-covered walking path to the road. All the while, the cat, glaring despondently at the plum tree, kneaded the foot mat, nestled into a comfortable loaf, narrowed her eyes, and trilled.

Early that afternoon, the fat cat had turned on its side to lazily watch the bevy of black-capped chickadees fester on the plum tree’s branches. They scattered just as Harlan, exiting his home, marched purposefully out to the tree to place a wooden Cooper’s Hawk decoy up in the branches, all in an effort to spook the creatures and deter their loitering. Wandering around back, he went to his well and retrieved a bucket of water.

An hour later, Eldewine was taken aback, finding Harlan amongst her sunflowers with a bucket of water and a paintbrush, patiently wiping away the droppings from each and every one of their petals.

Why, that’s so kindly, she thought, smiling and pushing back her hair behind her ear, and leaning into her doorframe. She wanted to express her appreciation, so she went inside to prepare for him a refreshing respite. And as Eldewine approached with a wood tray carrying a glass pitcher of cold water and a bowl of plump raspberries, Harlan wearily yawned - fatigued by his disrupted sleep schedule - and inhaled a passing wasp.

“Mister Springbrook!” Eldewine cried, kneeling to set her tray down.

Gagging, Harlan was stung in his mouth and dropped his water bucket and paintbrush. She ran up to him and placed a comforting, caring hand on his shoulder. “Vinegar!” he gasped, grasping his throat, for he knew applying vinegar to the sting might reduce the swelling and neutralize the venom.

“Vinegar!” Eldewine repeated, and she ran into her home to find a bottle of the only vinegar she had. Bringing it to Harlan, he uncorked it and took a fast swig only to realize, all too late, that it was malt vinegar.

Wide-eyed, Harlan’s face turned beet red, and he passed out, his body slumping between the sunflowers in the yard.

Harlan awoke later in his own bedroom and rested atop his bed. The swelling had yet to subside, but he breathed normally, and he was thankful to still be counted among the living. On his dresser was the tray, the bowl of raspberries, and the glass water pitcher beside a sturdy vase filled with clipped sunflowers.

Alarmed - afraid - Harlan bolted upright and forced himself to his feet. Bracing himself against walls and door frames as he went, Harlan wobbled unsteadily into his living room to find Eldewine sitting calmly on the floor, and looking through his stacks of canvases.

Dozens of his paintings surrounded her, some finished, others not entirely, many of them depicting rows of bright yellow sunflowers as they were seen from his window, and more than a handful capturing Eldewine’s beautiful, radiant face in the sunlight. Various pieces showed the flowers as small, having only been planted, just an ankle-high and curling out of the soil, while others showed the flowers rising up to her hips, and others still soaring to their current height and blooming about her head. In every one where she was painted, the center of gravity was drawn to her smile, as if the world itself never existed until it was there.

Looking up at him, shaking, soft tears rolled down her cheeks, and, demuring, she brought herself up from the floor to stand.

“Wait, I-” Harlan rasped, extending his hand as she rushed by him, making headlong for the door. “It-it’s not what you, wait-”

Bursting outside and slamming the door behind her, and unable to give chase because of his condition, Harlan was left alone, encircled by paintings of grassy gardens and blooming sunflowers, portraits of joy and love he didn’t know how to express otherwise.

A day later, when the morning had transitioned into the afternoon, a warm breeze wafted across Hollowgarde’s cozy halfling burrows, and Harlan left his home to pull a clump of plump, juicy plums from his tree. The wasps and chickadees were gone, but Harlan noted sadly the sunflower garden next door was strangely absent of its minder. Biting his lip, Harlan looked to the ground and, glancing only once at her doorstep, returned indoors.

Later, Harlan Springbrook, dressed in an unfashionable jacket replete with a jaunty purple pocket square, a white collarless shirt, clean trousers, and carrying Eldewine’s wicker breadbasket, left his home. He walked down the stone path, opened the gate to his fence, and took to the road. Turning sharply to wade through a sea of waving sunflower gardens, Harlan approached Eldewine’s door and rapped precisely three times.

He waited patiently there, rocking back and forth on his heels, and taking in heavy breaths. He patted his chest with the side of his fist, feeling his old heart thumping wildly.

Hesitantly, Eldewine cracked open the door to find Harlan presenting her wicker basket in both hands, and within the basket, cradled in her own tea towel, were two purple and golden pastries.

“They’re, er, muffins,” he explained, his old eyes wincing. “Plum muffins, made from sunflower seed. It’s the only breadstuffs I can eat.”

“What do you want?” she asked, tipping her chin defiantly up at him, and keeping the door squarely between them.

Harlan looked shamefully at his feet and said, “Er, um, as it seems we’ve, never, um, taken the time, I’ve come to, er, ask … ask you to tea.”

Eldewine stared deeply into his soul. “Why?”

Stammering, Harlan lowered the basket and smoothed his jacket against his body, and glanced intermittently into her eyes. “There’s never a good time, nothin’ that can be said, I think, when we lose someone so close, an’ so dear to us. An’ as the, er - humph - as the years’ve passed, an’ I’ve seen you from my window, lookin’ after your garden-”

“They’re for him, Harlan,” she interjected, sniffing, and rubbing a tear away from her eye. “I miss him every day.”

Nodding, Harlan meshed his lips together, and said, “Yes, of course, I know. It’s just, well, those, er, all of them paintings you saw in my house, those … they’re for you. I-”

Opening the door just a little wider, Eldewine watched Harlan intensely.

Rolling his eyes, Harlan straightened his back, held the basket up higher, and said, “Well, I-I miss you.”

Watching Harlan from behind her door, Eldewine traced the handsome creases along his old face and smiled.

Harlan, barely capable of glancing at her, whispered, “I always miss you.”

Glancing at him, Eldewine rasped, “Tea?”

“Tea,” he confirmed, and she slowly opened her door and stepped aside to invite him in.

And, as the folks of Hollowgarde tell his story, it was on that day, that one perfect day where the summer breeze rolled across Eldewine’s garden of sunflowers, that old Harlan’s life had changed forever, having finally found the words he needed to say if only by swallowing a wasp.