An Encounter at the Orchard

Miriam walked to school every day. No, it wasn’t often snowing. No, there weren’t uphill stretches both ways. No, she didn’t have to walk there in her bare feet. She simply walked to school because school was within a reasonable walking distance of her home. She loved walking to school—and walking home, but that wasn’t as nice because sometimes the sun had already set by the time she passed the orchard.

Even in winter, the orchard was beautiful. The stark, naked branches of the trees, all in neat and orderly rows, had a charm all their own, and the various fruit flowers, each in their season, emitted the most lovely aromas—not to mention their prettiness by themselves.

Some enterprising colonist on this world had decided that the park between Miriam’s home (which was not to be built for centuries yet) and the school (which had been there since the early days) would have an orchard of peach, pear, apple, cherry, and plum trees. The orchard was technically owned by the colony council, but its produce was always sold after harvest to the local fruit merchants and restauranteurs. The descendants of that original colonist were paid to maintain and harvest the orchard with a portion of the colony’s taxes to the council.

One morning as she was walking to school, Miriam saw a little boy a few years younger than she was reaching up to the branch of a pear tree that had overgrown the orchard’s enclosure.

Not wanting to startle the child, she quietly but quickly approached him.

“Citizens aren’t allowed to pick the fruit, you know,” she chided. “Your parents should buy it from the market like everybody else does.”

Despite Miriam’s caution, the lad jumped at the sound of her voice. Now that she was closer to him, she could see the state of his clothing. There were scuffs on the toes of his shoes, his gloves—which she noticed just before he stuffed his hands behind his back—had no fingertip covers and were threadbare, and the shirt he was wearing looked three sizes too big for him.

“Mum and Dad died in the land slide last month,” came the mumbled reply. “We just came over from Sirius system before that, and there’s no one we knew yet. Got no other family ‘sides the littles—my sisters and baby brother—and we’ve run out of food leftover from before.” By the time the finished his quiet recitation, head hung low, Miriam could hear him sniffling.

Looking left and right, she made sure there was no one else on the street to see the transgression she was about to commit, and then she reached up and snatched the very same pear that the boy had been reaching for from its branch. In the same movement, she sank to one knee and reached for her pocket handkerchief to wipe the tears from the boy’s cheeks.

“Here,” she said, and handed over the pear. “I’m Miriam. What’s your name?”

“Zeke.” The boy’s green eyes were as wide as avocado stones.

“Okay, Zeke,” Miriam said. “You go to the school just up the road?” At his nod, she continued, “Me too. I’m in the high school, though. Come find me after school, and we’ll go get your siblings to have dinner at my folks’ house. I’ll bet my ma and pa will know how to help you.”

Zeke nodded vigorously, shoved the pear in the bag Miriam hadn't noticed until just then, and then ran the rest of the way to school, Miriam following at a more sedate pace as she used her communicator to inform her parents of their dinner guests for the evening.