So, it ended as it had begun. Rain or mist, it was always rain or mist, except when it was mud or dust. She wasn’t waiting, she was busy, she didn’t need it, she had the goats for company. Stop it, keep together, move along, wave a stick, conducting the goat band. Her ankles are wet, but her hair is wrapped away, her hands are cold, but warm with walking. The goats move in time.
What is that now, spilling low from that little cave? Don’t look, come away my goats, come away, no, not in the cave, come away. Let’s not get involved, come, dance to my tune. Oh, now see, you had to look, now I must look also. Bright, no, bright orange oranges in the cave, falling out across the broken paving of rock. Not potatoes or potatoes, not apples or other, no, nor pears, no, too bold, too bright.
She looks around, no one, not a sole or sole person abroad. She calls, no one, silence, she calls again, Whose oranges are these?
The mist is mute, Not mine, it might say, Too bright.
I shall look away until I darken my eyes, she says to the herd. The goats lose the rhythm and spread about, the furthest dimming in the mist.
Picking up, this cannot be here, she thinks, holding, turning in her fingers. They will say magic, they will say miracle, divine intervention, angels and spirits interfering, saints and sinners manipulating, they will run about making fretful narratives. They will bend and twist until we are lost in a mire of woes.
Maybe I didn’t see them, she turns her back, Perhaps they weren’t there. What can I do anyway, hide these blazing oranges behind a curtain, build pyramids in the cowshed, roll them under my bed. They will be discovered, lying there, fizzing with colour, waiting to be misinterpreted. I shall cover them with my sacking cloak before any damage can accrue, put aside this outrageous sight and action a plan of action.
I will send them away to be broken down to a fragrant compote, lifted with herbs and sugar. Distribute with ribbon and garlanded gifts for everyone. I shall invent an glass vessels and call it a Jarborundum or Jar for short and the condiment shall be called Marmaduke or Marsquerade or Orangeaide. I shall decide soon. In this way I shall prevent the Coincidence of the Oranges from fomenting discord and unrest.
And so it passed quietly into legend. The past caught up with the present. With the help of her friends and co-workers, the Oranges were taken in fully secret covered away and safe at last.
The Guardians of the Cave 