The gardener

“When the wind blows cold and the birds fly north. The leaves on the trees wither away. Around this time the souls of the departed are captured by the shepherd spirits. They are gathered into one place until the time of harvest where some of them will be brought back to perform earthly deeds once again.” Leshuba entered the house at this point and saw Shuma devouring his food with a hungry concentration. His hands were brown with dirt. A very small black bag was attached to a necklace which hung over his forehead like a headdress. Shuma did not even notice him as he sauntered over and squatted down by his mother’s heal. She continued her narrative. “The body must return to the dust so it can be shepherded to its rightful place. The spirit of the builders before. The gardeners. The holders of the pick and the sickle. The level ground and the firm pillars. These are the spirits we call upon to realise our purpose.” The children began to hum in unison. “The purpose of the rocking chair. Which sways the oak tree back and forth to test its foundations. Fed by the hands which feed the past and the future generations to continue the great work. To do this work ceaselessly. Again and again. Again and again. Again and again.” She seemed to snap out of her trance and turned her head toward the rocking chair. “That rocking chair is very dear to us.” Leshuba began singing an unfamiliar traditional song that Shuma had never heard being sung before. The women began clapping to the tune. Shuma began rocking in his chair. Plate still in his hands, emptied a while ago. The rocking was slight and as the momentum grew, maintained a gentle squeaky rhythm. He continued to rock as the women clapped their hands and Leshuba sang his strange song.