The Fruits of Labour

The breeze blowing in from the sea chilled her skin. Slipping out of her bed, Marissa closed the shutters and draped her naked body in a soft woollen shawl. She glanced back at him: sound asleep, at peace with the prospects of sunshine and mornings, his bronze skin glowed against the white linen. She bit her lip, then turned away and headed for the garden.

The French doors opened onto a private courtyard; the soft smell of the flowers of the night wafting to her like a memory from a dream. But this wasn't a dream. Marissa's lean form and long, black hair reflected the silver moonlight as she tiptoed through the mossy grass of the garden towards the pear tree. Her fingertips glided over the surfaces of the fruits, testing for just the right one to pick. Full-bodied, ripe—at last, she found her prize. The juicy flesh of the pear was firm but yielded to her teeth. As she savoured her midnight snack, she gazed out into the harbour. Boats of all sorts lined the coast, but the largest was the Spanish galleon.

He would be leaving on the galleon in a few more hours, but before then, he would make time to love her once more before he left—he always did. She knew he wouldn't stay, and there was nothing she could say or do to persuade him; at the end of nearly two-decades of loving him, they had gone the distance. Their path had taken them from childhood sweethearts at the age of five to tempestuous lovers in their late teens until, at twenty-five, she had finally accepted he would never be hers.

It wasn't Marissa he loved; it was the ocean that had his heart and, above all, the freedom that went along with it. Marissa swallowed hard at the end of that thought, the delicate fruit caught in her throat like a stone. She raised her hand to massage the ache away, and her fingers settled on the braided silver chain of her St. Jude's pendant, a gift from the last time he'd returned, nearly nine months ago.

From in her womb, the baby stirred. It liked their midnight walks, didn't mind it was the reason she craved pears and suffered the occasional sleepless night. She caressed her skin, feeling the little feet push back against her palm. Not even the baby had been enough to anchor him to a life on dry land. He wasn't displeased she was with child; he even accepted the plausibility it was his—it was his—but there would be no talk of names or arranging of nurseries. After their last fight, Marissa accepted she would be on her own most of the time, but she had no regrets.

The rippling waves of the ocean danced gently in the distance, playing with the light from the moon and illuminating the beach with thousands of sparkling reflections.

Examining the water objectively, like the beauty of another woman, Marissa could understand why it was his great love. No longer bitter, she had resigned herself to be the mistress. Sometimes life doesn't follow the rules; sometimes, you have to love people the way they are and not how you hope they will be one day. But it would be a mistake to believe Marissa's decision to accept him was anything but a choice of her own free will. She certainly wasn't giving up; she merely refused to argue anymore. He had his life and love, and now—she paused to caress her abdomen again—now she had a love of her own.

Turning her gaze from the sea, she marvelled at the pear tree. With its stocky limbs, deep roots and ability to produce life, it seemed only fitting it would produce a fruit that resembled a woman with child. Marissa finished her pear and returned to their bed, satisfied for the present with her life and love.

~~~

He left the following morning. Not one to cry, she walked him to the pier. On the horizon, where the sea meets the sky, tall clouds filled the space which had been so clear and calm the night before.

"Perhaps you should wait a few weeks, my love."

Marissa's eyes flitted from her lover to the sky, and he followed her gaze.

She was right. There were signs of a storm. However, if he delayed any further, hurricane season would prevent his journey altogether. Leaving today meant leaving the bad weather in his wake. More than that, he knew well why she wished he would stay; the baby was due soon, and though he doubted it was a ploy to coerce him, he nonetheless resented the implication that came along with raising the issue of bad weather. But he didn't want to leave angry, so he batted away the concern as gently as he could.

"It's a short sail, though fast waters. Three days, at most."

He kissed her goodbye. Then lifted the St. Jude's medal he'd given her from her breasts and kissed that as well. The patron saint of desperation and lost causes, the necklace was a private, bittersweet symbol of their relationship. His hand rested on her belly, and with a last, lingering touch of his unborn child, he turned, walked up the gangplank and boarded the ship. Marissa quickly departed for home without looking back; looking back was bad luck, and she didn't need any of that with a babe on the way and a lover going to sea.

But Fortune's Wheel does not care whether you heed superstitions correctly.

~~~

The stormy weather that had been manifesting over the water didn't hit land for another forty eight hours. But when it came, it came with a vengeance that defied logic: never had there been such a storm in early August. When the first of the lightning split the sky, so too did the labour pains that had at last arisen to their crescendo; the thunder that followed hid the anguished cries of both the mother and the newly born child. Marissa's midwife cleaned the baby and brought it to her to suckle. He was strong, clearly determined to come into the world with a fighter's spirit and accept nothing less than what he was due. Marissa sighed. She could already tell he would take after his father.

Once her child was settled to rest, Marissa laid down too, but as her eyes closed, a shutter blew free from her window, exposing her room to the raging storm outside. Marissa's eyes took in the grim tableau of the gale and the violently churning ocean like a mouse might examine the face of a cat. Giving birth had focused her attention on herself and her baby, but belatedly she remembered her lover. Though she was exhausted from nearly 10 hours of labour, she struggled onto her feet anyway, praying that the ships had already returned to the safety of the port.

From her home, Marissa recognized the familiar sails of the galleon. The great ship pitched and rocked, struggling to keep steady and hold her own against the towering waves. It wasn't far from land, but nor was it close enough to be sure it would survive. Then Marissa saw the black smoke billowing high into the indigo storm clouds and the flicker of flames on deck—if the storm didn't claim the ship and its crew, the fire surely would.

She gasped and bit her fist. If only he had stayed!

A blinding flash erupted across the sky, and her beloved pear tree, the one they had planted together as children, cracked open and smoldered into flames before her eyes. While in the distance, the love of her life's flaming ruin of a ship capsized. There was nothing Marissa could do but watch helplessly as the storm claimed its victims. By morning, there was not a trace of the ship or its crew, and all that was left of her pear tree was a ruined pile of ash.

~~~

Epilogue

Jude was able to stand now, and he loved to teeter around the garden while Marissa rested in the mid-summer sunshine. The winter had been bitterly cold, not the least owing to the grief that tried daily to freeze her heart. But Jude was the remedy to her pain. His soft, warm body next to hers while they slept or while he nursed was better than the richest salve when it came to mending wounds. Spring had arrived late, and Marissa was just now looking to repair and rejuvenate her garden.

Playing in the dirt comes naturally to babies, and Jude was no exception. Marissa had had neither the time nor inclination to clean up the remnants of her pear tree. Its absence had left a patch of exposed earth that almost seemed to call out and beg for exploration by small hands.

I better at least take off his clothes. If he's going to get filthy, better it's only the skin than the cloth, too.

Marissa crouched down in her garden next to her child. To her amazement, she found that a small pear sapling had managed to seed itself in the ashes where her tree had dwelt. As she touched the delicate foliage, the corners of her mouth turned upwards ever so subtly, and she thought to herself that the "fruits of labour" had never had a truer meaning.

Story dedicated in loving memory to my late writing partner, Tom Bradbury.

Cover Photo licensed from Shutterstock