Chapter Text
The Strawberry Thief
Chapter 1
It was quite an ordinary morning, on an ordinary Tuesday in mid-April, when Rio noticed something entirely out of the ordinary in her garden.
It wasn't the spinach leaves that had chewing marks, or the little hole that had been dug under her wooden fence, no, it was the missing strawberries on the bushes right next to the gate. Now one might say that she could have easily mixed them up with another particular set of berries, but the day prior, Rio had taken a good long look at them and decided they would stay on the bush for another sunrise to soak up a more deep, red color from the sun.
Squatting down next to them, she let the empty stalks glide through her hands. They looked too clean for the strawberries to have been chewed off by a door mouse or a bird. No, the fruits had been ripped off clean with the green hood still attached like only a human would. Which was odd - because there was no other house for miles, only prairie and forest and the old stream that contently rippled along all day in and out. The closest town was a day's ride away. And folk never wandered out here on a whim. Most people in town had little love for her since she had bought old Joseph Riddock's land to extend her fields and create even more distance between them and her. She was a county of one and she liked it that way.
Looking back at her stolen strawberries, Rio wondered if it could have been some vagabond that was wandering the lands, possibly heading westward to seek better luck out there. Whoever it was, they were long gone and likely not to return. So instead of fretting over it any longer, she took a white handkerchief out of her pocket and filled it with as many of the remaining strawberries as she could.
The day was still young and with her belly full, she decided to take her mare out to the small pasture to graze. Looking into the sky, she judged that the weather would hold for now, even though the breeze sang of an approaching thunderstorm. If it came with hail again, she needed to get some of the softer spring fruits picked while the sun was still out. She could always turn them into jams and marmalade for the winter, she reckoned.
On her way back she checked in on her hens and collected the eggs they had laid since yesterday. They would make a fine second breakfast once she was done with the more time-critical tasks around her house.
She loved working under the sun, her old straw hat drooping into her face, shielding her eyes just enough to let her focus on the soil and the blooms. At this time of year, the land was brimming with gentle life, tiny butterflies and beetles emerging from the warming earth, her bee hives humming steadily as the first workers began gorging themselves on the golden pollen dusting her flowers. The air smelled of damp grass and sweet petals, and everything felt quietly alive.
Rio spotted one bee asleep in a half-open blossom, its legs tucked in like a child curled under a blanket. She smiled as she reached for a handful of early raspberries and mirabel plums, their skins warm from the sun. She paused for a moment, listening to the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of birds, and thought about how good her quiet little life was - how lucky she was to be allowed to watch sleeping bees in her garden, to witness the earth’s ever changing seasons without rush or noise.
She hummed when she took lunch under her old willow tree, a few hard-boiled eggs, some home-made deer sausage, and rye bread. Wiggling her bare toes in the long, green grass, she listened to the ripple of her stream and wondered if tomorrow would be a good day to fish, in case the weather would calm down enough over night.
When she walked back to her cottage, she saw the first dark clouds claiming their place on her part of the sky. They were thick and grey - almost black - against the light blue of the firmament. Judging by the breeze that was slowly picking up and the swallows that were already flying lower than usual, she had about two to three hours left until it would start to pour. Rio put her hair into a tight bun before she started collecting all of her gardening tools, storing them in her shed and locking the door properly so the wind wouldn't open it. When she walked her mare back in from the pasture she wondered if she should do the same with her gate. It had once come loose during a windy fall night and hit against the fence all night while Rio had tried to find sleep. But then her glance fell on the strawberries. She didn't like the thought that someone was stealing them. But she disliked the thought of someone going hungry even more.
When she had packed up all of her things, bound the last plants together so that they would support each other against the wind, and locked up the chicken coop, she took a long piece of rope and tied several knots over the gate posts. If someone really needed to come in, they would manage to untie it.
Walking back up the path to her house, Rio felt the first thick drops of rain land on her bare arms, cool and sudden. The sky had deepened into a shade of blue so rich it was nearly purple, like ink bleeding across the horizon. A hush fell over the garden, broken only by the rising wind that rustled the trees. By the time she reached her door, the branches were shaking, and moments later the rain came in earnest: heavy, fast, and loud. A jagged flash bolted across the sky, followed by a low, rolling growl of thunder.
Rio paused beneath the small roof that extended over her doorway, watching the storm unfold with quiet awe. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and crushed leaves, a perfume she had always loved. It reminded her of childhood summers and long-forgotten stories whispered under the sound of the rain. She lingered for a moment longer, letting the rhythm of the rain settle her thoughts, then stepped inside, content and calm. The house greeted her with its familiar stillness, and she decided to rest for the remainder of the day.
She replaced nearly burnt-out candles with new ones, fluffed up her bed and washed herself over her small basin to get rid of the day's sweat and grime. Face to face with herself, she pinched her left breast and sighed. When she had been younger, she had always hoped they would grow a little more, make her a little more attractive. It comforted her that no one saw her much these days and it therefore did not matter how big or flat they were. Combing her hair, she tried to compliment herself on her sharp jawline and big triceps. There was rarely ever a thing she was unable to lift or drag over her land. Perhaps that meant that one could never have it all: Feminine curves and strong muscles, independence and happy children in her garden.
And yet she sometimes wondered if something was passing her by that she had no grasp on, no way to hold fast. It was of no use. Here she was, well beyond marriageable age, the sole inhabitant of her property. When she died, it would all go to some distant cousin she had never met. Or perhaps it would all be made into smaller plots of land to satisfy the heirs. She could live with that, she was but a visitor to the ground she stood on. And yet, it sometimes gnawed on her.
Instead of dwelling on it for too long she opened the old hatch that sat in the middle of her living space and led into the root cellar. She stored most of her fresh food down here, small bowls with harvested fruit and wicker baskets full of vegetables. There was still some leftover leek soup from the day before, so she took it with her to warm up on her stove.
When it was steaming, lazy bubbles popping on the surface of the thick liquid, she took it over to the small dining table and looked out of the window and into the growing darkness as she ate. There was a slim line of yellow still visible over the horizon, a last goodnight from the sun.
Rio spent the rest of her evening fiddling with a small wooden contraption she had started working on weeks ago. She was mostly self-sufficient, harvested from her garden, fished in the river, and hunted in her forest. She had two tenants that tended to a few of her pastures and paid rent, but she had once been taught how to woodwork and she very much enjoyed filling her time with it. Sometimes she made chairs and tables, sometimes it was little toys like this, boxes that would jump open if one pressed the right, disguised button. Whatever it was, she usually had no issues selling them to a travelling salesman that passed by her house a few times per year. It paid for new clothes once a year and occasional visits to the doctor or her attorney, but most of it she saved for a rainy day.
Waiting for some of the wood glue to dry, she sat down on her padded bench, burying her face in one of the cushions to listen to the rain for just a second that quickly turned into an hour and then another.
The glue was long dry and her candles burnt down to their stumps when she awoke again. Drowsily, she realized that both the rain and wind had only gotten stronger while she had slept. But then she heard what must have woken up.
Hollow hammering.
Had the gate come open after all?
No this was closer. This was her front door.
Something shot through her - had the storm raged it open? She turned around only to realize it was still closed, the key still turned. She listened, waiting for further sounds, but there were none more.
She wrapped herself into a woolen blanket and tiptoed to the entry way. In the darkness she saw next to nothing through the small milk glass window. Carefully, she turned the key only to feel that something was pressing the door open. Unprepared for the weight of it, the handle slipped away from her fingers and the door flew open at once, sharp drops of rain hitting her as a body fell against her floorboards.
An arm stretched out, her hair wild on her face and chest, she looked pale and blue when a flash cracked through the sky. But that wasn't the worrying part. The worrying part was the thick, hot blood seeping from a long cut on her right calf paired with the fact that she was unconscious, eyes closed, plump lips slightly parted.
Rio kneeled down to her in an instant and reached for her face. She was cold too, too cold.
“Hey,” she tried to shake her, “do you hear me?”
The girl's mouth moved, but no sounds made it past her lips.
Rio sprung up again and pushed the door shut, saving her house from flooding. Then she was on the ground again, hand gently patting the girl's cheek. She reached for one of her lamps to see her better. Her dress was drenched, clinging to her curves like a second skin. Her left hand held a torn cape. Her feet were bare, dirty, and red. Where had she come from? At this hour and in this weather? Was she from town and had gotten lost on an afternoon walk? Nobody would have been able to walk far with that kind of wound, barefoot in the cold.
None of Rio's tries to shake her awake worked. And when she put a hand on her forehead, Rio felt how warm it was compared to the rest of her body. She was developing a fever.
Rio's hand shook when she unbuttoned the stranger's dress. She tried not to look when she peeled off her undergarments, discarding them all in the puddle next to her door. Taking off her own shirt, she pressed it against the wound until the blood flow finally stopped.
It took her the better part of the night to get the stranger’s body dried off, her own arms aching from the effort. Rio wrapped her hair in a towel and hoped it would soak up the lingering dampness. The house was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the tiny, pained sounds that escaped the woman’s lips, soft whimpers that made Rio wince each time. She tore one of her linen sheets apart to dress the wound on the woman’s leg, working carefully, her fingers trembling slightly as she tied the makeshift bandage.
The stranger never stirred. Not when Rio lifted her from the floor with slow, deliberate movements, nor when she laid her gently in the bed, wrapping her in layers of her own sheets and blankets. She lit a small fire in the hearth to chase away the chill, watching the flames catch and grow, casting flickering shadows across the walls. The woman’s breathing was shallow but steady and Rio could see her eyes move rapidly underneath their lids. She was dreaming of something, and Rio only hoped it wasn’t a nightmare.
Exhausted and sweaty, she sat with her while the storm raged on, paying close attention to her breathing, feeling her forehead ever so soften to make sure she warmed up, but that the fever wasn’t getting worse. Outside, dark drops of rain were coating the window, the sky pitch black with anguish. She tried to think of all the things she would have to do in the morning, but none of them distracted her from the woman in her bed and her rosy cheeks, tiny vessels filled with blood underneath soft, translucent skin.
Rio had tried to avert her eyes, had not let them wander purposefully.
But she had seen the swell of her belly. The way it was just a little rounder, a little more protruding than it should have been. Perhaps it was nothing. Simply the way she was built. Rio would not dare to ask her when she would wake up. She was too shy about these things. And it was none of her business. So she took a deep breath and decided to close her eyes for just a minute. Not long at all. Just so she could rest them. The wooden chair felt uncomfortable beneath her, sharp edges cutting into her skin and muscles.
She still fell asleep and did not wake again until morning dawned.