Chapter 7.1 - The Waters

The end of fall had always been a wonderful time in Claire’s household. It was the time of harvest when fruits, vegetables and herbs were processed, stored and preserved for the winter. 

It was the time for planting carrots in the root cellar, next to the large demijohns of fermenting grape juice and plums, the time for storing grains in the silo, the time for taking huge braids of onion and garlic and large bunches of dill and lovage to the attic to dry.

The smell in the house, Claire had tried many times but was unable to describe it to strangers. It was rich and happy and wholesome and abundant, a blend of baked apples and fragrant fruit preserves simmering on the stove. It was heavy with vanilla and cinnamon, and had the delightful sweetness of overripe fruit. Comfort itself, coming to a person through the senses: the warmth of the hues of October, combined with the aroma of home cooking and generously accompanied by the sweetness of fresh grape juice with just a hint of sharpness before turning into wine. 

Grandmother liked to decorate the house with colorful leaves, berries and gourds; pumpkins and apples were always present at the table in one form or another.

The soul of October was warm, wholesome and delightful, and in spite of the declining temperatures outside, it made Claire happy.

“What is that delicious aroma?” Claire asked rhetorically, because she already knew, one couldn’t mistake the scent of caramelized quince for anything else. In a large cast iron cauldron the quince preserves were simmering slowly, filling the room with a sweet tart fragrance, heavy with vanilla.

“Your grandfather’s favorite,” Grandmother smiled pleased. She dipped a large wooden spoon in the bubbling mixture, then held it over a cold plate until a few drops of syrup dripped on it. The droplets hesitated for a moment before they lost containment and blended into each other, creating a small sugary puddle. “Still not ready,” Grandmother commented, turned down the heat under the cauldron and put the spoon down. She looked at Claire intently. 

“You know, just because you shipped your work to the gallery, that doesn’t mean you can stop painting now. What are you working on?”

“Nothing much,” Claire replied. “It’s a vision I had,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“A vision!” Grandmother joked. “That sounds serious! Of what?”

“I’m not sure, that’s what I’m trying to find out,” Claire answered honestly.

“Give me a hand, will you?” Grandmother gestured towards the pantry, where a large vat of plums waited to be pitted. Claire grabbed a bowl, a pitting tool and a towel and started working. Grandmother had been quiet, but she restarted the vision conversation suddenly.

“Your grandfather wouldn’t let me hear the end of this if he knew, but it’s been known to happen in our family.”

“What, visions?” Claire asked amused. “What kind?”

“How many kinds are there?” Grandmother frowned, upset that her extraordinary revelation was met with such indifference.

“Did you have any?” Claire couldn’t help herself.

“Sadly, no, child. I don’t have the gift. Your mother, on the other hand…”

“Surely there must have been stories,” Claire tried to entice more details out of the old lady, who was still weighing whether to discuss this further.

“Your mother, she saw. I can’t tell you exactly what, we don’t have words for it, but it’s like there is a whole other world around us, on top of this one, blended with this one, actually occupying the same space. We never see it, of course, we only see odd details or unusual occurrences in places where the two collide, things we usually pass as accidents or coincidence. Put some lemon and sugar on those plums, will you? I don’t want them to turn brown.”

“What exactly did she see?” Claire was now possessed by a single minded curiosity.

“The waters,” Grandmother whispered, looking behind her as if afraid that somebody might hear. “That’s what they used to called them in the old days. Places where reality melts, where things become fluid and you can reach through them to the other side.”

“You mean like gateways to their world?” Claire asked. None of them seemed to need clarification about what they she was referring to.

“It’s more than that,” Grandmother frowned, trying to explain in words something that defied reason. “You know how when you throw a rock in a pond it makes circles? The rock eventually falls through to the bottom but it’s effects last for a while, growing wider and more diffuse around the spot until they finally dissipate. You can still see the rock on the bottom if the water is clear, but you also see the water lilies floating on its surface, and the waves, and your own reflection, and the sky, that’s why we call them the waters. As I said, it’s impossible to explain.”

“What are you two talking about?” Grandfather sneaked in from behind, unexpectedly.

“Oh, just some local folklore, I thought it would spark Claire’s creativity,” Grandmother downplayed the forbidden subject.

“She’s plenty creative already. More than that and none of us will be able to sleep again,” grandfather retorted. “Is that burnt caramel?” he asked. 

Grandmother rushed to the stove, worried she might have scorched the quince preserves, but it was only a few sugar crystals that had found their way into the flames. She grabbed the wooden spoon and tested the confection again, this time creating perfectly round drops of sweet amber. She turned off the heat and let the preserves cool down so the fruit could release its excess water before being boiled a second time.