Once upon a time there was a little village nestled deep in a valley between two snow-capped mountains. It was a peaceful and happy place, with bustling shops, a lively town square, and cobblestone roads lined with thatched roof cottages. In the village lived a boy who wore copper framed eyeglasses and a green tweed cap. His name was Callum, and he lived at the western edge, on a hill by a shallow pond.
Callum was terribly clever and serious, and he was terribly serious about his cleverness. That is to say, he was a student, and a very earnest one at that. He had every intention of becoming a great scholar one day, and nearly all of his time was spent with his nose in a book. Callum was the sort of fellow who had it all figured out quite young. He knew exactly which texts he was going to study and in what order, and he had already secured apprenticeships with some of the most learned teachers in the land. Because of this, he could tell you precisely what his life would look like in one, five, and even ten years. The villagers quite liked this about him, though. It was reassuring to be in the presence of a young man so grounded, even one not yet two decades old.
On the eastern edge of the village, just at the point on the road where travelers could justifiably say they’d arrived somewhere, lived a girl with no plans at all. She couldn’t tell you what her life would look like in five days, much less five years. What she could tell you was which month to plant peas, the quickest route to river, and the best way to dry cinnamon bark. Her name was Chloe, and she was greatly liked by everyone who liked the kind of girl who knew such things—which is to say, most people. Chloe’s days varied wildly. Some she spent in the garden. Some she spent in the woods. And some days she spent doing her favorite thing of all: painting. Chloe loved nothing more than to wile away an afternoon at her easel, and the villagers who’d seen Chloe’s paintings knew them to be colorful and a bit chaotic—just like her.
- - -
Every spring, the villagers held a great dance. The square was hung with lanterns, and the trees on all sides festooned with garlands of roses and ribbon. The dance was followed by a magnificent feast, so the day’s music and revelry that lasted far into the night. It was a grand and much-loved event, and even Callum put aside his studies when it came around each year. Chloe never missed it either, though she tended to wander in late and disappear early.
Now, Callum and Chloe of course knew one another. Villages are small, and they’d both lived in this one all their lives. But sometimes, knowing someone at one age is an entirely different experience than knowing them at another. We tend to change quite a bit over the years, after all. This was what it was like for Callum and Chloe, who’d played together many times as children, but who’d spoken less and less as time went on. Callum wasn’t even sure he’d seen Chloe at the last year’s dance, or even the year’s before. At least, that’s what he was thinking tonight, when he noticed her in the crowd. Because he was quite sure he’d have remembered if he had.
If you’ve ever been to a dance like this one, you’ll know that at some point in the festivities, the same thing always happens. All of a sudden, it’s as if the whole party gets a good shake. Everyone at all once dispenses with shyness and gets on with the business of having fun. Some say it’s in the ale. I say it’s in the air—in the music and moonlight that, when mixed in just the right way, cast a delightfully inescapable spell. That’s how we find Callum and Chloe tonight, in the wonderful jumble of young folks who’ve decided to make their night as merry as they can.
For some reason, Chloe is wearing Callum’s cap. He’s still got his glasses on, though, which is why he can see very clearly that Chloe is far more beautiful than he’d ever appreciated, in all the years that he’s known her. It’s a bit distracting, too, because he wants very much to focus on the funny story she’s telling him about the traveler who mistook her cottage for an inn. In all fairness, Chloe is having trouble concentrating herself, because the lopsided way Callum is grinning at her feels like a challenge she doesn’t quite understand, but wants to. They’re standing together at one of the wooden barrels scattered throughout the square for use as tables. A small bonfire burns nearby, sending up sparks that seem to dance along with everyone else.
“So I told him he was more than welcome to sleep in the vegetable garden, as long as he wasn’t scared of rabbits.” Chloe pushes Callum’s cap back from her face, where it keeps falling.
“Sounds like a winning business model,” Callum nods. “Chloe’s Garden Lodge. Breakfast in bed every morning.”
Chloe laughs. “Your choice of cabbage or carrots.” She pushes the cap back again and hoists herself onto the barrel. The two are quiet for a minute, listening to the music.
“You really could, though.” Chloe turns to Callum, confused. “Open an inn,” he explains. “Can’t beat your location out there.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” she replies. “Would that mean you’d get a share of the profits? For consulting?” Her eyes shine in the firelight.
Callum looks at her for a moment. He takes the cap off her head, turns it around, and places it back on her head. He crosses his arms and leans against the barrel, closer now. “I’m no businessman,” he says, more seriously.
“Oh, that’s right. The great scholar. Remind me who it is you’re off to study with next month? Was it Plato or Aristotle, I’ve forgotten.” Callum laughs. He’s not surprised Chloe knows about his plans. Most of the village does, he supposes. But since she’s looking straight ahead when she says it, he’s not sure if she’s teasing him or mocking him—which is a difference a sensitive soul like Callum would be on the lookout for.
No matter. The moment is over quickly, and the next one is really all that matters, for our story. It’s another one of those inevitable, irresistible shifts in an evening such as this, though even fewer are lucky enough to experience it. It’s not exactly magic, but it’s not far from it. It’s a kind of unfolding of the soul that two people might silently agree to, when they recognize something about themselves in one another. Chloe and Callum talked for hours. They talked about life in the village and life beyond. They talked about their dreams and plans, or lack thereof. They moved delicately around their differences, feeling instead for their sameness, and closing in on it when they found it.
It was a moment that lasted for the few weeks that Callum remained in the village—because moments really can last that long, and still be singular moments. It was singular and it was spectacular—so of course, it had to end.
- - -
Much time passed. Callum’s life unfolded exactly as expected. Chloe’s did, too. That is to say, they grew into the sort of people who were highly unlikely to talk together for hours on a barrel by a bonfire, which is perhaps why their brief time together was so special. Knowing someone at one age doesn’t mean you’ll know them again at another, so it’s important to hold onto people for however long they fit you and you fit them. No one will fit you forever, after all. Far too many people don’t understand this—or don’t want to.
But back to our story. It picks up again with Chloe, who has been painting.
Chloe has been painting a fence that she’s putting up, a few posts at a time, around her home and garden. Most people would put up the entire fence first, but not Chloe. Chloe gets much too excited about painting to wait that long. Instead, she mounts a few posts, then paints them, then mounts a few more, then paints those. She isn’t painting the fence white, either, nor blue, nor black, nor red. She isn’t painting it one solid color at all. She’s painting it like a mural—or rather, a dozen different murals so far. Scenes of various subjects play out across the fresh pine posts, which are about chest-high. Some are filled with people. Some are filled with village landmarks, or those of the next town over. Some are just abstract splashes of colors. But somehow, it all manages to feel cohesive. At least, it does to Chloe—which is all that matters, anyway.
But lately, something strange has been going on. Lately Chloe has begun to feel like someone is watching her paint. When the feeling hits, she looks around, sweeping her gaze from the road behind her to the tree line across. She hasn’t seen anyone, but the feeling persists.
Tonight, Chloe is painting a very special scene. Beneath her brush, the orange glow of a bonfire is taking shape. Chloe layers in a touch of red for dimension and heat. Over the years her talent has deepened, and you’d be quite impressed with the elegant way she dashes small flicks of color, creating the sparks that dance off the fire. You’d be almost as impressed, in fact, as the man standing silently in the road behind her.
Chloe feels the back of her neck tingle. That feeling again: someone watching. She glances over her shoulder, and this time, she sees a figure. She stands and turns to face him. Her eyes narrow, trying to make out the details. Something about him is familiar. He’s wearing a green cap. She hasn’t seen a cap like that since—
“Keeping those pesky travelers out once and for all?” It’s sunset, but there’s still enough light for her to see the copper framed eyeglasses.
“More so, keeping something in.”
Callum walks closer. “I’ve come by,” he admits.
Chloe nods. “I know.”
They stand across from one another in the gathering dusk. Fireflies begin to flash, and crickets start up their nightly song. Soon there’ll be nothing but moonlight and two people on the same side of a fence not yet finished.