The Forgotten Sentinel

It was the first storm of the season. He would have to harvest his garden tonight. Although the small plot had little left to be gathered, his cellar and pantry were full of vegetables that he had been picking all summer and fall. The sentinel looked up and saw the storms approaching, dark and menacing over the canopy of the forest. His basket and house could only hold so much, and he filled the basket deftly with the rest of the carrots.

Bringing those inside, he decided to start supper and then see what was to be done about the remnants of the garden. He had not been able to collect seeds from all of his produce, and a collection of pots stood on the windowsill, soaking up the heat and sunlight each day. He planted two of the carrots in a pot, and washed and cut what he needed for his supper. With a watery soup on the fire, he turned his attention to his hut. The windowsills were full of potted plants, the underside of his bed already housed some produce as a make-shift pantry. He looked up. His timber beams could be used to hang braids of onion and garlic, and some of the willow could be shaped into baskets to hang other vegetables.

He grabbed a knife off the counter and with his basket headed out once more. With the supper prepared, he could pile produce on his counter overnight, and spend tomorrow weaving baskets at his post. A few trips brought most of the veggies inside. All that was left was to dig up the rest of the potatoes, and bring them into the cellar with the squash. It was almost black outside, but some light shone through his windows, and was just enough to work by. The baskets could wait until tomorrow.

Finally in from the cold, he washed up and sat down. By the time he finished the volume of poetry, the soup should be cooked enough and he could get some rest. The sentinel looked around, proud of the self-sufficient life he had built for himself.

The next morning, a cold draft woke him from his slumber as the first timid rays of sunlight were also waking for the day. His fire had gone out, but it was not much effort to get it roaring again. A kettle was put on for tea, and some corn and water in a pot for porridge was soon heating as well. The sentinel changed and allowed his clothes to warm through by the fire before putting on a coat to head outside. A small stream ran through his land, winding by the hut and flowing under the bridge. Along it grew willow.

He cut enough to weave baskets all day, and tied them together with a string and left the cuttings in the stream to soak. Trudging back to the hut, he could smell the corn, which was a sure sign it was almost ready. A clay mug, hand-made and hand-fired was filled with loose tea and water. He breathed in the aroma, calmed by the scent of the wild roses he had collected earlier in the year. After breakfast was eaten and cleaned up, he checked briefly on his garden before heading to his post. A thin blanket of snow covered the plot, and some animal prints reminded him that he had left the gate open overnight. He was happy to share the last of his harvest with his woodland neighbors.

Sitting down in the chair, he pulled out a few cuttings and began to form the framework for his basket. He saw the young stranger from yesterday returning. Already? he thought.

“I am on my way to school, but it is so cold out. I thought you might want some hot tea this morning.” He deposited the thermos at the sentinel’s feet and then walked away. Picking up the thermos, he could smell the dark richness of the tea. Earl Grey. He hadn’t had any in a long time. The only tea he drank was that harvested from his land in the woods. The boy returned after school let out and sat in silence for a long time before observing how many baskets the sentinel had woven over the course of the day.

“You made all of these?” He asked, shocked by the productivity he witnessed.

“Yes.” The sentinel was pleased with how they turned out. They would work most marvelous in his hut.

“Where did you get the material?” The boy asked, as he knew the old man never went into town.

“I cut it this morning. It’s all willow, from the banks of the stream.” He turned the one in the sunlight, wondering if he had enough nails. “I had a bigger harvest from my garden than usual, so I needed some more baskets to store it.”

“You garden out here?” The boy looked around, but couldn’t see the hut or garden. There was no sign of life out here than the two of them, sitting and talking. Before he knew it, the sun had gone down, leaving a few lingering rays to light the forest.

“Well, you best be getting home before your mother worries about you.” The sentinel shooed the boy away. He’d have to get supper going soon.

“I don’t have a mother,” The boy answered, while looking at his shoes. “I don’t have a father, either.”

“Then who do you live with?” The sentinel responded, with a harsher tone than he meant to summon.

“I live at Ms. Blackwell’s Home for Children.” He had never heard of it. “She doesn’t care for any of us, just the checks she gets in the mail from the mayor for keeping the likes of us off the street.” He said it in the tone of a child mimicking an adult conversation without fully comprehending it. He picked up his tiffen, books, and thermos, carrying them in his small arms as he rushed down the path toward the village.