The Village Merchant, pt. 3

The apple presses against his leg, so he plucks it from his pocket. It is shinier than before, rubbed by the cloth of his pants. He eyes it for a moment, then wraps his teeth around it. It is sweet, a little sour, and not juicy at all. He chews the first bite for a long minute and decides he is grateful to have a second one for later.

The horse flicks its ear back and the thrum of a motorcycle grows in cadence. A minute later, it has disappeared down the trail. The Old Man doesn't recognize the rider, as he wipes the dust from his apple. The first tentative bite reveals that the salt of earth had enhanced the flavor somewhat. Or at least I tell myself so.

His plants wave to him as he walks the border. With their tassels, they appear like bystanders in a parade. A celebration for a man, a horse, and a wooden cart. A plastic bag has caught itself in the gate, its belly filled with wind like a balloon. 

He leans his bag against the tree and pulls a drink of water from his bottle. The corn stands in neat rows, and he can see all the way down to the other end of the field. The earth has been worked over so many times that the space in-between is smooth. Every rock has been carefully removed by generations of hands. He pulls the hoe from its place in the tree branches and continues weeding. By mid-morning, the alley is carpeted in ruffles of green.

From a hidden place, he pulls out a worn harvest bag. With gentle bows, he gathers the weeds into the sack, so that the wilting leaves push against the holes. These are added to the compost pile in the corner of the field. By now, the sun is at its zenith but lunch hasn't arrived.

He turns to the second row and attempts to focus. After a few meters, he stops to lean against the handle of the hoe. Hunger has decided to distract him and he pats his pockets. In one is the other apple, but what is in the other now? His fingers close around an unfamiliar packet and withdraw a blue bar. Ahh, Wise Wife.

As he begins to open it, he hears the sound of a donkey cart. Looking down the road, he sees two boys accompanied by several metal bowls. One leaps down from the moving cart while the other takes a long guess before handing one of the bowls down. This is jogged over to the farm gate and left next to the plastic bag still gasping in the light breeze. With a running jump, he rejoins his companion on the cart, which never stopped moving.

He raises his hoe in salute and retrieves the bowl. Unfortunately, this lunch wasn't intended for him. But its hard to complain when you're chewing on a goat leg. 

He sets the empty bowl beside him and pulls from his bottle. The sun and the ground are warm and he drowses for several long minutes. The branch is pulled high by a gust and the sun darts against his eyelids. Not convinced he wants to open them, he does anyway. He purses his mouth to moisten his lips and remembers the blue bar. 

He pulls apart the wrapper to reveal a light brown bar with flakes of yellow. There is a sniff, then he pulls off a tear. It is sweet, and salty, and crunchy. Quickly, it disappears and he stuffs the empty foil into his pocket. He licks his lips, pull himself up, and continues down the next row.

Walking back home, he puts his hand into his pocket and withdraws the wrapper. The name is forgettable, and he promptly does. Below is the ingredient list, the object of his search. Corn, peanuts, sugar, mangoes, banana, and cinnamon. He reads it again to be sure he didn't miss anything. 

The sugar would need to be brought in, but its cheap and plentiful. Cinnamon might be hard, but he had seen it before on a shelf in town. The rest though, the rest could come from the fields; would come from Tubabi's fields. He stopped walking and looked across his neighbors' fields. The wind tugged at the little blue wrapper, but he held on tightly.

The Son was home that evening and the Old Man explained his plan to him. The next morning, the Son rode his bike into town with a pocket full of cash and instructions. The family watched him go.