The Fig Tree's Love

Cormac was a toothy old Irish man, living in the French countryside with his young daughter Fayette. His wife, Félice, had recently passed on to the other side due to birthing complications. The child was a stillborn. There was no money for a funeral with a cobbler’s salary, so Félice was buried down by the stream where she played as a child, and their son, Jean, was bundled up with her. His name meant “God is gracious”, but after the tragedy Cormac began to question just how gracious God really was, or if he was even there at all. 

When Félice and Jean were buried, he poured out a bottle of buckwheat whiskey over the fresh dirt before inviting his daughter, with her pouty lips and big brown doe eyes, to lay some flowers down - sweet irises, daffodils, and peonies. Neither of them cried, but there was a thick sadness in the air that day. 

Cormac’s grief manifested in secular ways. He got rid of every bible in the house, except for the La Sainte bible that belonged to Félice. The leather binding of the book was tattered, and the once crisp white pages were yellowed like nicotine. The annotations inside, dedicated to their daughter, were the only pieces left of Félice’s beautiful cursive script. He couldn’t bring himself to open the book and see what she had written, see how much faith and love she had for a being that ultimately took her life and the life of her child. Meanwhile, Fayette’s faith only grew. She clasped her little hands together each night and prayed for the presence of her mother again, and if God couldn’t do that, could he at least tell her if Jean had brown eyes like her and Papa or green like Maman’s. 

Down in the village, news of Félice’s passing spread. Cormac hadn’t told anyone, much less left his home since it had happened, but things that like are destined to get around fast in such a place. One misty spring morning, Benoit Fournier made the hike to Cormac’s secluded home with a turquoise pot in one hand and a faded wicker basket in the other. It took multiple knocks on the old pine door before a disheveled Cormac opened it with a grunt. Benoit removed his hat and held it against his heart as a solemn look washed over his graying face. “Terribly sorry to hear about Félice’s passing,” he said, “she was a kind woman.” Cormac’s eyes darted to the ground as he nodded. Benoit shuffled uncomfortably for a moment. He wasn’t good with feelings. “Listen, I’ve brought you something.” He extended the wicker basket to Cormac, revealing the assortment of bread and pastries inside. Benoit was a baker, and had been honing his craft in the same village bakery for his whole life. “Thought you and your lil’ girl could use something sweet. I remember how she loved coming down on her birthdays to get a pear tart.” 

“She’ll appreciate it.” Cormac said with a deep sadness coming over his eyes. Félice was the one who took Fayette to the village for pear tarts on her birthdays.

“There’s something else, too. Pastor Nathanael wanted you to have this. He’s busy with the service right now, so he sent me with it.” Benoit motioned towards the turquoise pot, then held it out for Cormac to grab. Sprouting from the fluffy dirt was a thin brown stem that slowly turned to a bright and healthy green near the top. There were four large, three pronged leaves emerging from the thin trunk of the plant. Cormac grabbed the pot with both hands and cradled it. 

“It’s a fig tree. Nathanael planted it the day Félice passed. It shouldn’t be this big at its young age. It’s grown surprisingly fast. These usually fruit some five years after being planted, but it wouldn’t shock me a bit if it started fruiting sooner. He wanted you to have it, something about it being a miracle.” Benoit looked to Cormac for a response, but he was still holding the pot to his chest, gazing at it with an earnest expression. The bags under his eyes seemed lighter than they were just ten minutes ago. 

“I should get going. It’s a bit of a walk back to the church. Y’know, its laughably cruel how far the cobbler’s house is from the square, don’t you think?” Benoit joked. Cormac just nodded, still fixated on the fig sprout. Benoit put his hat back on and cleared his throat. “I wish you’d come back to church. Deal with grief, y’know.” He said. Cormac took his eyes off the pot and stared at the baker in front of him. “I’m not interested.” 

“Well, alright. I’ve got to get going now. Tell the little angel I said ‘hello’, and you have a good day, Cormac.” Benoit turned around and began to make his way down the dirt path that led back to the square. Cormac quickly turned around to go back inside, still clutching the pot as though it were a sickly child that he didn’t want to let go of. Inside, Fayette was flipping through her mother’s bible at the kitchen table. Cormac rushed over and dropped the tree in front of Fayette. He then ran to his desk in the other room to grab his red clay tobacco pipe and began puffing. “Look at this gift from Pastor Nathanael. It’s a fig tree, planted the same day your mother passed. It’s gorgeous, it’s grown so fast. Look at it, Faye.” Fayette was already admiring it with wide eyes.

“We’ll plant it in the backyard. There’s something about this tree, Faye. We got to take good care of it. Real good care.” Just as quickly as he had put the pot down on the table, he was out the door with it. Fayette closed the bible and skipped after him, making sure to grab the shovel that was leaned against the backdoor. Cormac had forgotten it in his excitement. There was a certain energy about the tree. It felt familiar. It was inviting and warm. These days without Félice had felt cold. Together, Cormac and Fayette planted the tree in their backyard and promised each other that they would take care of it and nurture it for the rest of their natural lives. 

From spring to summer, the fig tree grew faster than any tree Cormac had ever seen. Fayette spent most of her days lying in the shade of its leaves, reading or quilting, or simply taking in the energy radiating from the tree. It felt like love. Though it had only been five months, the tree was already fifteen feet tall and bearing the ripest figs they’d ever seen. There seemed to be a weight lifted off of Cormac’s shoulders. He no longer spent the days wasting away in his bedroom, only coming out to feed himself and Fayette. His face seemed younger and more jovial, like he used to be. He grew a jolly gray beard, and began to belly laugh at Fayette’s jokes once more. There was a spring in both of their steps as they made their way down to the village square to bring Benoit a basket of fresh figs. Him and Pastor Nathanael were stunned not only at how quickly the tree had fruited, but also at how sweet and soft they were. The juice dribbled down everyone’s chins like nectar as they devoured them, unable to stop. They were the most luxurious purple on the outside, and the pulp was a captivating amber. Nathanael had a knowing smile on his face as Cormac rambled on passionately about the beauty of the tree.

When they returned home, they were surprised to find fully grown figs in the same places that they had harvested from for their basket. This was not a trick of the eye or the product of a faulty memory - the fruit had really grown back that fast. For years after, the tree continued to birth fruit at an impossible rate. It became famous in the village, and everyone came to visit it. Some people thought that the tree was a gift from God himself, since it had come from Pastor Nathanael and grew so quickly. Cormac, though, believed that the spirit of Félice made its way into the heart of the tree to watch over Fayette. And he was correct. Félice’s pure and undying love lived on even after death and kept her tied to the physical realm. Her soul was reborn into that tree, and made its way back to Cormac and Fayette. 

Though she would never be able to embrace her daughter again, kiss her knee after she tripped and fell, or fall asleep holding her, Félice was able to watch her grow up. She fed her with her figs and shaded her from the sun and the rain. In autumn, she embraced her with each falling leaf that landed on her lap as she read. Eventually, Fayette got married to a local painter, and the wedding took place in their backyard. Fayette and her groom read their vows to each other as Félice’s branches towered over them. They were wed on a beautiful summer day, with love in the air. Benoit baked a spongey three-story fig and almond cake for the celebration, and Cormac had created a beautiful display of flowers for the aisle. The bride and groom’s initials were gently carved into the tree’s trunk, so that even long after they were gone, Félice could still have her daughter with her. For the rest of Faye’s life, she would be there to watch her over her from the backyard they once frolicked in. That was all she could ask for.