When Autumn Leaves: A Novel

Table of Contents

 

 

 

First published in the United States in 2009 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
New York

 

NEW YORK:
141 Wooster Street
New York, NY 10012

Copyright © 2009 by Amy S. Foster

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

 

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-590-20372-9

T
HERE IS A SMALL BRONZE PLAQUE IN AVENING HEATH among the brush and wildflowers, shining like new even though it’s been there for a century and a half. People walk by it in every season (the people of Avening are not the type to let a little thing like the weather keep them from going out of doors). But who knows how many of those citizens have actually ever read it?

This is what the plaque says:

Both the ambiguity and the biblical—or is it heretical? —tone of the words on the plaque have only added to the legend of Avening. As with all creation stories, ask anyone on this island about the town’s beginnings and they will each give you a different story. Some claim Avening was settled by a different sort of pioneer: a collaboration of matriarchs looking to escape the religious rigidity of the time. They traveled the length of the continent, east to west, guided only by a vision of Serafina Avening, who led them through blue-black waters to a land of cedars ringed by snow-capped mountains. Others claim Serafina’s intents were less noble, that she and her followers came in search of fabled West Coast gold. Others still say it was shamans of the Salish, a tribe of First Nations peoples, who shipwrecked Serafina Avening’s boat here during a thunderdance. There are non-believers who doubt that Serafina Avening even existed, or believe that she is an amalgamation of many different women. But Autumn Avening, who claims to be Serafina’s very direct descendent, has always insisted the woman was, indeed, real.

Like Serafina promised all those years ago, Avening is a haven and a refuge from so many of the troubles that circle other small towns and hover over the concrete sorrows of big cities. Most everything begins with a good intention. But too often those intentions, lost to greed and politics, become simply ideals, irrelevant to progress. Not so for Avening, cradled on a piece of lush Pacific coast. The town’s founders, whoever they were, their ideals, their framework and forward thinking, created a foundation that stuck.

Serafina Avening was the one who instituted the pagan holiday system. Not because she was a witch, like some people have called her. It was because those holidays center around the seasons, the harvest, night and day, tangible things that people could see and count on, a common thread that united them all. Not everyone may believe in the same thing, but everyone can believe that even the darkest, coldest winter will move over and make room for spring. And so they all celebrate together, and it’s enough to create the shared community that a town needs to thrive and bustle.

It is true that only a certain kind of person feels comfortable living in Avening. People are drawn to it or repelled by it like a magnet. Those who fit will stay; those who don’t move as soon as they’re grown, or pass it by when planning a holiday. One could say (and many do) that the town itself chooses whom it wants.

How Avening came to be isn’t what matters. All you need to know is that Avening, beautiful and enchanting, nestled off the coast of British Columbia, began with a secret. But even the secret isn’t really important, not anymore, or at least, not yet. So we won’t begin there. This is a different beginning.

The morning of December 12th was wet, the sky a heathery gray. Autumn Avening opened her eyes and rolled onto her back. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn that she was in one of those kitschy motel rooms with the vibrating units in the beds. But Autumn knew it was-n’t her mattress that was vibrating; it was her spine. She groaned. All the tingles in her brain, the humming in her nervous system, were signals. Something—or more accurately, someone—was coming.

Autumn had been in Avening for a long time. For a while, she’d fought the suspicion that she was on borrowed time. Now—she just knew it—they were going to make her leave.

Life callings are strange. Many, many years ago, Autumn was just an ordinary girl, who led an ordinary life. Then she was called to join the Jaen and she began to lead an extraordinary one. She did a lot of interesting, often dangerous work. Then it all seemed to come full circle; for the last little while, her life had become fairly ordinary again. And while what was normal everyday stuff for her would be fairly wondrous for anybody else, Autumn had grown accustomed to a life of relative peace, safe and smooth and lovely.

Autumn tried to ignore the buzzing in her spine all day, but later that day, as she sat at her desk, she knew. She didn’t hear the gate opening, but knew a gate had opened somewhere in her house, because she felt the presence of a visitor, one of her own, in her house. A couple moments passed, and Autumn sat unproductively at her desk, fighting down a mixture of sorrow, anticipation, and annoyance.

“Halloo,” she heard from the bottom of her stairs. Autumn knew the voice; it was Sister Neal. At least they had sent someone she actually liked. Technically she was meant to love all her Sisters in the Jaen. And she did love them, in theory. In reality, there were many that she couldn’t stand.

“Sister Neal,” Autumn called with genuine pleasure as she met her old friend on the stairs. The two embraced and touched foreheads, as is the custom of the Jaen. “Let me look at you,” Autumn said brightly. “It’s been too long, Sister.”

Neal raised her eyebrows by way of an answer. She had aged; her hair was almost completely silver. Before too long she would take her place as an Elder. “The years have caught up with you as well, Autumn,” Neal said in her thick Irish brogue. “Keep that in mind before you say something cheeky.”

Autumn laughed. She should have known better than to think too loudly around Sister Neal. “Let’s go through to the kitchen and I’ll make some tea. I had a hankering to make soda bread yesterday, so you’re in luck.” Autumn hooked Neal’s arm through her own and led her to the kitchen. The kitchen was not in fact part of her living quarters, but down on the ground floor in Demeter’s Grove, Autumn’s store. Demeter’s Grove was a “new age” kind of store, as they were calling them these days, and Autumn sold everything from incense and candles to especially elemental stones to clothing to books. She was used to inviting all kinds of strangers and friends into her kitchen; demonstrations—cooking, baking, tincture or poultice-making—were another dimension of her business.

Autumn motioned for Neal to sit at the old table in front of the stone fireplace, under the drying herbs suspended from the ceiling. “Well, this is a treat,” Neal said playfully. “And I see you’re as prescient as ever, my dear.”

“You sound surprised.” Autumn flicked on the electric kettle and pulled out just the right kind of tea from a canister sitting on an open shelf.

“Well, I am, honestly.” Neal smiled, but Autumn noticed a hint of caution in her eyes. “You must know why I’m here.”

“Of course, yes. They sent you to tell me it’s time for me to leave. You’re here to give me my year’s warning.” Autumn swallowed her unhappiness. “But we’ve been friends a long time, Neal, and I believe I owe you one or two. Did you think I’d shout the house down?” Autumn asked, leaning against the dishwasher.

“Hardly,” Neal assured her. “But . . . we expected you to be on the defensive.” Autumn bit the inside of her lip. It was an unconscious move, one she did to keep herself from speaking. “We know, we really do, how much Avening means to you.”

“And you know why, Neal, and why this situation is unique,” Autumn said slowly, turning her attention to the kettle, which had popped. She poured the steaming water into the teapot. Neal said nothing, just waited for the tea to be poured, for the bread to be cut and buttered. She waited for Autumn to sit down so she could face her.

“You’re not the first, Autumn, nor will you be the last to play such a central role in a community. Things change, technology, wars, politics. The Jaen changes accordingly. Other Sisters will do what you have done.” Neal took a sip of tea. “Oh, this is lovely.”

“Yes, I realize things change. It’s just hard, to let go.” The Jaen knew Autumn respected Neal too much to ever lie to her, or be disrespectful; that was surely why they’d sent Neal, specifically, so Autumn couldn’t put up too much of a fuss. This irritated the hell out of Autumn, that they could be so calculating.

Neal took a bite of bread, wiped her fingers off on her napkin, and reached into a pocket sewed on the bottom of her tunic. She pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the hardwood of the table.