The Journal of Evangeline

The old man whistled to himself a tune to mute the silence.

No one’s left but him. His wife and son have died with the rest of them. He would have joined them if he could. It would be better than harvesting turnips from this cursed land.

And he wouldn’t be so alone.

The clouds were a dark and somber grey. This land was once beautiful, but that day has passed. The land has grown old and sick.

He tried not to think of that much. But the broken homes and dead air wouldn’t let him forget.

He would often walk across the road and forage turnips from his neighbor’s garden. His neighbor’s name was  Boris – a good man, hard worker. He knew the secrets of the soil better than anyone.

After all, I was born in the dirt, he would say. It nurtured me, and I now nurture dirt.

Now the soil was bitter, infertile. Nothing grew. Everything turned bitter with the soil.

He found the edge of the asphalt.

And he was shocked to find also a little girl asleep in the middle.

Girl, you must wake up. I have not seen anybody alive here but me. Wake up.

The girl was very pale. She wore a nightgown, stained with the ashes of the road. She opened her eyes wide.

Is the fruit still bitter? Is there good water?

Bitter fruit is all this land grows now. Do you live here, girl?

No, but the trees have told me enough to know that this is not a good place. Do you know where I might find food and water?

The good food and water is at the end of this road. Everyone who didn’t die went there.

Why are you still here?

I wanted to be with my family. They died the day the fire fell, but it will be less lonely to die here from the poisoned food than to die with strangers.

But let’s not talk now. I don’t like being out of my house this late, but I was going to get turnips. I can get them later, but you must come with me back to my house before dark. This land is haunted. Come.

She followed him.

And he was glad to have the company. It wasn’t so silent anymore.