In a few minutes we sat on one side of the square garden. The plot was small enough that with ours legs stretched out toward one another we nearly touched feet. The weeds were green and had thick stalks. They pulled out of the ground as easily as late-risers pulled themselves out of bed in the morning. I tugged and yanked, and in a half hour my hands were sore and blistered. The garden gloves protected me from the thistle and other sharp points, but nothing could protect me from my wimpy, inexperienced fingers.

I sighed and leaned back. The sun was still high in the clear sky and a few cloud wisps slipped by overhead. “This isn’t as easy as I was hoping,” I commented. Fin smiled and continued his excavation of the garden. I leaned toward him and frowned. “How can you always be so happy? It’s enough to drive a person crazy.”

“Am I? I hadn’t realized it,” he mused.

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Fin led me down the beach. The sun dried our clothes and the air from the close waters kept us cool. Our shadows walked beside us and the green grass to our left waved at us as we passed. We passed beyond the boulder confines of the bay and the beach changed from sand to pebbles that the unblocked sea pushed ashore. Birch and alder trees shaded us from the hot sun and their fallen branches, long ago scraped of their bark, tempted me with their long shafts and knotty, curved peculiarities. In that way they were much like the owner of the island who I found myself wondering what sort of a man could leave paradise for the drudgery of city life.

I stopped in front of a tall, old gnarled tree and noticed a fine walking stick. It lay on the ground half covered in sand and pebbles. The shaft was crooked, but sturdy, and I stooped and snatched it up from its fate as fertilizer. I tossed the stick into the air length-wise and caught it in my curled palms. “What sort of tree did this come from?” I asked my guide.

Fin stepped up beside me and pointed at the tree under which we stood. “This is an alder.”

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