Ume

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Once upon a time there was a maiden who had a beautiful garden. People came from miles around to walk its curving paths, sit on its stone benches and admire its pretty flowers. Men came from even further away, for the maiden was fair; fairer than the fairest flower in her garden. They brought her exotic gifts, wrote her songs and poetry and waited on her hand and foot, yet all were turned away, for there was no room within her heart for any but her garden. The men despaired, but what were they to do? She had made up her mind that none would possess her.

One day a strange boy came to the garden. He did not glance at the girl, did not speak to her, did not bring her gifts. He walked in, sat down on a bench and began to read. The girl thought this very strange, indeed, but as he was quiet and did not disturb her, she let him be.

The next day a new suitor came, and the boy closed his book to watch. The suitor brought the maiden a present, which she took, but when he tried to approach her, she turned him away, as she always did. Despondent, the suitor left, like countless men before him.

The boy watched in silence.

"Do not judge me so," the maiden said to him.

In response, the boy picked up his book and began to read once more.

The girl was irritated by this strange boy. He did not glance at her, did not speak to her, did not bring her gifts, did not do anything. He simply sat and read. She wanted him to go away, to leave her and her pretty garden in peace, and so she devised a plan to chase him away.

The next day, the maiden walked over to the boy's bench. The boy looked up and closed his book as she approached.

"Boy," she said, "Since you have decided to stay, you must earn your keep."

The boy stared back at her.

The maiden hesitated. She was not a cruel person, and what she was about to say was unnatural to her.

"Fetch me a bag of manure from the shed."

The boy held her gaze for a moment longer, just long enough to unsettle her, then placed his book on the bench, stood and brought her a bag of manure from the shed. The maiden was unsure if her plan was working as intended, so she continued to make demands of the boy, hoping that one day he would have had enough, and she would wake to an empty garden once more. But every morning she awoke to find him on his bench, reading his book. The maiden's irritation came to be replaced with something new, something she had never felt towards anyone, man or boy before, and she became afraid. She did not know what to do with this strange new seed within her, which grew with every passing day, and she was afraid of what it meant for her beautiful garden. So, one summer day, she decided she had no choice: she packed herself a small bundle and left in the night, planning never to return.

The boy awoke. The maiden was gone, and he missed her; he, in turn, had come to love her, for in her demands he had felt the first stirrings of her feelings. But she was gone, and did not return the next day, nor the day after that, nor the week after that. The boy grew sad, for he felt in his heart that her fear had won, that she would not, could not return to him. So he closed his book and stood, turning his face towards the sun with a silent wish. His whole body began to lengthen and grow; he put down roots and his fingers stretched towards the sky, as if it were his pretty maiden's face. And he was content.

Summer turned to autumn. Autumn turned to winter. And as winter turned to spring, the young tree hoped the maiden would return to her garden. He shot out blossoms just before spring, five petaled blossoms which showed how he had kept track of the passing days: five fingers at a time. Visitors marveled at this new tree, and praised the maiden for making her garden even more beautiful.

But the maiden did not return.

In time the tree bore fruit, round plums filled with all his unshed tears and unsaid words. People picked them, but they were so sour that they could not be eaten. The people shrugged; "Nothing is perfect," they reminded each other with lemon-faced chuckles. The strange tree was certainly beautiful, even if its fruit was inedible.

The seasons marched on; spring turned to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter and winter approached spring once more.

And then, one day, the maiden returned.

She had travelled far, only to find that she could not, did not want to forget the strange boy and his even stranger silences. She loved him, and came back to find him and tell him so. But the boy was gone; his book lay on his bench, but it was cold and empty. Beside his bench was a tree, a tree she knew she had not planted and had never seen before. She ran her hands over its young bark, marveling at this strange miracle, and as she did so its blossoms burst into bloom: red, white and pink, with five petals and a strong fragrance that brought tears to her eyes. And she knew that the strange tree was her strange boy.

The maiden wished he could be her strange boy once more; but some choices, once made, can not be unmade. So she cared for the tree, picking his fruit and pickling it so she could taste his strange flavors, taste his tears and feel his love, even when snows covered the land. People came, and she allowed them to take cuttings from her beloved tree, spreading the strange boy's love for her, and his tears, all over the world. As the years passed by, the people who returned noticed that the maiden had ceased aging; like a tree, her growth was undetectable to the human eye. Seas rose and fell; the land around her changed, but the maiden's garden and her strange tree remained untouched. And there, high in some forgotten mountain range, they remain, and will remain until the end of time: a beautiful maiden, her pretty garden and her strange plum tree.