The Deal

The Scrying Mirror

Moustier-Sainte-Marie is a small commune in France between Nice and Marseille. The decaying homes and neglected farmlands are tucked between two rocky mountain sides that threaten to crumble and wipe away the town at any moment. Hidden by thick forest on either side, the only road leaving in and out of the village is so small, you could blink and miss it.

If you do find the road into the community, it feels like stepping back in time: the streets are either cobblestone or dirt, electricity is scarce, and modern plumbing only works half the time. The streets are narrow and steep and the lamps are manually lit every night. The only attractions are the heavenly boulangerie with warm almond croissants, the old antique shops, and a pristine lake hidden just behind the village. The lake is deemed one of the most beautiful places in France, and is often filled with any number of the 700 residents of Moustier-Sainte-Marie.

On the edge of this town, past an overgrown meadow and decaying wooden fence, stands the house my grandfather built for Nan.

The home where my grandparents fell in and out of love, where my mother was raised, and where she eventually fled from stands exactly how it was the night Nan left to come to my rescue after my accident. A relic, holding the late-night cup of tea she was sipping on —now black with mold—, the slippers she haphazardly left discarded by the door, and all the plants now shriveled and dead in their pots.

I didn't have much of a plan when I first left Harry on that dock and packed my bags, I only knew I wanted to get away. Knew I wanted to leave town for the first time in over a decade. To let my soul heal and the deep wound of grief to scar over. 

The first place I could think of was a place I had never been, but from where much of my history branched from. From where my story truly began and from which I know very little.

But, once I got here, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. From one small town to another, there aren't a great many things to do in Moustier-Sainte-Marie.

All I could do was tend to the long-neglected home and tend to my own heart in the process.

So, the first few weeks at the house were spent clearing out cobwebs, pounding the dust off of pillows, and airing out the house.

Then came the harder work: repainting the chipped wooden walls of the porch, replacing a window that had somehow broken in the past decade, and slowly replacing the rotted wood of the fence encasing her yard.

Even if the house remained empty for another ten years, it deserved attention and care. It didn't deserve its own abandonment. Like people, it too, deserves a second chance.

So, in between my projects, I spent the most time listening to Nan's old records and reviving the garden behind her home.

My mother's ghost reluctantly clung to my shoulders as I ripped the weeds out from the packed soil, careful not to disturb the nests of newborn bunnies. I replaced the dirt in the neglected garden with fresh soil, broken up by pebbles and twigs. A clean slate, I planted winter-resistant flowers, root vegetables, berries of all kinds, and a patch of sunflowers tucked into the corner of the yard near the long-neglected swing tied to the oak tree.

Over the next few weeks, I nurtured the plants like a mother: overanalyzing their sprouting leaves, adjusting their water intake based on the weather, humming to them underneath the warm Spring sun.

My hands heal the Earth and, in turn, the Earth heals me too.

By the time the leaves fight their way to the surface of the soil, the branches grow full and heavy, and all traces of Winter are gone, the garden is bursting with color and life and so am I.

Two months pass without my even noticing the clock ticking by.

It's a simple life, a quiet life, but I can almost feel my soul reviving... my heart mending itself again. A rebirth.