The Chamomile Wood

Chapter 2- Milton Pepperstone

The early morning sun sends sheets of light over the entire forest. Strips of sunrays cut through Edith's curtains and filled her home with yellow light. The ashes from last night's fire seemed almost gold. The rows of glass jars on the cabinets scatter the light into hundreds of tiny, rainbow shards throughout the cottage. Even the leather spines of the books on the bookshelf in Edith's room glowed.

The sun nudged Edith, who was cuddled among a mound of cream bedding. The pale bluebells and lady bugs that were embroidered on the edges of her comforter rippled in a wordless calligraphy over the bed. Nudging once more, the sun awoke Edith, who stretched her arms in a tight loop above her head. As her arms brushed against the wood, the delicately carved toadstools on the headboard shuttered awake, almost perking up in the mirage-like golden sun. Sitting up slowly, Edith rubbed her eyes until sharp stars flowed around her vision. At the same pace, she folded back the blankets and swung her legs off the side of the bed.

For a couple minutes, Edith just took in the morning, feeling the warm energy of the new day.  The short window that faced the house's front lawn displayed the bright autumn forest like a painting. A chest sat below it, unclasped with bits of Edith's clothes peeking out.  In a seamless brushstroke, ribbons, banners of mismatched floral fabric, and string of glass beads were strung around the top of each wall. Messy candles in colorful jars sat in odd places or on the windowsill.

"I wish it was cloudy," Edith said to the window, as if it could change it.

Stretching yet again, Edith stood up and started her day. Slipping out of yesterday's wrinkled dress, she shuffled through her chest in her undergarments. Privacy was relative in a cottage whose neighbors were mainly nocturnal. Her market outfit sat deep at the bottom, winding up there with the loose rotation of her clothes. Yanking out the rosy-gray trousers and simplistic white blouse, Edith gave a delighted cheer as if she had won a wrestling match with the chest. She pulled on the pants and tucked in the blouse, buttoning up the middle and rolling the sleeves up to her shoulders.

The morning was a rush of excitement as Edith bustled around, stopping only to sort the mushrooms she collected last night into their respective pouches that were set in a large basket. Breakfast for her was a particularly soft bread roll and a fat slab of butter. Only a few minutes after waking up, Edith was nearly ready for the day. With one last round about the cottage, she snatched up the few linens and signs she needed for her stand's display and, as gently as possible, shoved them into her basket. Edith laced up her boots, slipped into a dark red cotton sweater and stood to leave.

"Oh! My hat!" Edith said.

She dashed over to the main room's window seat and clutched the hat. It was a broad-rimmed, floppy thing. The hat boldy resembled a toadstool with it's white spots woven among red straw. Tying the slick black ribbon under her chin and away from her loose, brown hair, Edith was finally ready.

Fresh air greeted Edith as she stepped outside and locked her door. In the light of day, her yard was a marvel. Patches of wild flowers bloomed freely and stone bird baths welcomed whatever winged friend had nestled in one of the countless, colorful birdhouses for the night. A couple of the birdhouses were suspended on white poles in the lawn but most hung from the tree branches that encircled the clearing. A plot of the grove was fenced off and bursting with weeds, retired since it's autumn crops were harvested. The skinny path of stones, smoothed from the heels of shoes, that Edith was walking on winded from the front door to the trail. She skipped along them as if she were a child, though her 19th birthday had just passed under the last full moon.

Soon, Edith was far into the trail. The wind wasn't accompanying her today, but songbirds chirped joyfully from within the thickets and that was enough for her. Humming delightfully, Edith attempted to match their rich tunes but she was no musician. Last night's blustery wind had pulled the last leaves off the trees and dumped them along the trail, erasing all proof of the gravel beneath. The ground had become a vivid patchwork of red, clementine, and brown.