O. basilicum, part vii
By the summer that Basil turned eighteen, the state of affairs in Verdigris had begun to change.
Long before then, Jim’s mother had passed away unexpectedly, and he had followed his older sister out of town. His parting gift to Basil had been a new cane, as his old one was much too short to be of use to him now.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jim had assured him. “I don’t know where I’m headed, but wherever it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Basil had been skeptical, but he hadn’t voiced his concerns. It was a dangerous world out there, but who knew? Maybe Hank was right. Maybe there was a better world out there. If Basil had resigned himself to never leaving, perhaps Jim could see enough of it for the both of them.
In the weeks and months that followed, Basil took up fishing alone. Throughout the warmer months, whenever he wasn’t running errands for Frida or working in the community garden with Dusty, he could often be found down in the creek, wading up to his knees. Other times, he took long walks in the woods with his cane, staying out as long as he dared before Frida would start to worry.
She worried less, these days. That was one of the more surprising changes. Perhaps Basil was just growing up, or perhaps it was something else. Either way, Frida spent less time fretting over him and more time lauding him for how far he’d come since arriving at her doorstep, battered and broken. She did still worry for him, of course. Such was the natural way of things: the sun rose every morning, Basil did not have a heart, and Frida worried.
After all, for how much things may have changed in Verdigris, others would always remain the same. Basil liked that just fine.
All of that to say: by his eighteenth birthday, Basil had become so firmly rooted in Verdigris that the thought of calling anywhere else home felt incredibly foreign. Where he had once been a stranger wearing someone else’s clothes, now Basil walked the dirt roads of the village like he’d been born there, his unsteady gait the only visible indicator of his former life. Two more years and he’d have spent half his life in Verdigris. Already, Swallow’s Point felt like a distant dream.
Basil had long ago given up any intention of ever returning to Amistadia. It wasn’t home to him any longer; being driven out of it had severed those ties completely. Even if he wanted to return, even if he thought it was safe to do so, he doubted he could manage it. And what would be the point in returning? Nothing awaited him there. Why leave Verdigris, the only place he’d ever truly been accepted as he was? Here, they were left alone. Basil had no doubt that passing travelers knew they were out here—but whether those strangers recognized them as Heartless, he couldn’t say, and did it matter? So long as they kept to themselves out here, no one thought of them as a threat. Sure, there were some who understood—Jim’s mother had been one of those precious few—but most never would, so it was best not to bother.
Even so, Verdigris was a small place. And Basil knew, from Hank’s many stories, that the world was much bigger than this. But he was no king, no god, no hero—after everything, a quiet life suited him just fine.
Basil hefted his pack over his shoulder as he walked home from the creek, barefoot in the tall grass. In it he kept his shoes and his canteen, and his cane hung from a leather loop attached to the outside, should he need it. Fireflies rose up from the grass around him, blinking softly as if keeping time with his own steady breathing. Crickets chirped and cicadas hummed their mournful evening song, like a choir all led by the gentle summer breeze blowing through the hillside. Basil walked slowly, taking it all in, though he didn’t have time to stop and rest a while. He was already late for supper; the sun was starting to set earlier than he had gotten accustomed to anticipating.
As he crested the hill, Basil squinted through the evening’s dying light. Dusty stood at Garth’s front gate, gesturing wildly. Raising a hand to keep his sunhat from blowing away with the breeze, Basil hurried up the road to meet them. His bucket slapped against his thigh as he went along.
“...and that’s what I don’t understand!” Dusty was saying animatedly when he arrived.
“What’s this?” Basil asked, expertly dodging Dusty’s waving arm.
“Ah!” Dusty said, pointing. “You! Tell the old man here to stop being so damn difficult.”
“Oi, don’t involve the poor lad in this,” Garth cut in, voice gruff. He was hunched behind the fence, leaning on an old, sanded down tree branch he used as a walking stick.
“Don’t involve me in what, exactly?” Basil asked again, setting down his bucket with a sigh. It looked like he wasn’t going to be home for supper after all.
“Old man Garth here won’t accept anything from the town garden,” Dusty explained, crossing their arms over their chest. “Not a single bite.”
“I grow my own food,” Garth said firmly. “Save what the town grows for others who need it.”
Dusty gestured at Garth’s garden, incredulous. About a week prior, animals had gotten into Garth’s yard and eaten most of his late summer harvest. Something had also eaten one of his chickens.
“I have enough,” Garth insisted. “I preserve most of what I grow. Save your charity for those who need it.”
“Save my— I don’t understand what you think the point of a community garden is if not to feed the community!”
“Stop,” Basil said. Dusty actually quieted. Despite being one of the younger folks in town, Basil seemed to have that kind of sway over people. Even Dusty, from time to time.
Basil glanced down at his bucket of fish. Only a few measly brook trout sat at the bottom, still with their scales (he was too squeamish with a knife to skin them himself). He’d been hoping to take these home to Frida; it was a poor afternoon’s catch, but it was something. Basil frowned. Then, he picked up the bucket and held it over the fence toward Garth.
“Here,” he said. “At least take this. Just in case.”
Garth peered in the bucket, wary. He raised his bushy gray eyebrows.
“I don’t need charity from you either, lad.”
“Don’t think of it as charity.” Basil shook the bucket. The fish slapped around wetly inside. “Think of it as payment. I still owe you for this.” With his other hand, he reached behind and pulled out his cane, tapping it against the dirt.
Garth’s expression softened. “It was just scraps, Basil. Jim did all the work both times.”
“Jim’s not here, so I can’t repay him. Besides, you taught him everything he knows. Please?”
Garth was quiet for a moment, scratching his short beard in thought. Then, finally, he sighed and took the bucket.
“Thank you, lad,” he said softly.
Basil smiled wide and turned to walk off. If he stayed any later, Frida would certainly have his hide. Dusty stared after him, feigning suspicion.
“I still expect your help in the garden tomorrow,” they called after him.
Without looking back, Basil lifted a hand and waved. He understood the code for what it was: he would almost certainly be interrogated tomorrow. Dusty liked to challenge and taunt him, whether that meant a mandatory heart-to-heart or getting his hands dirty. Often, it was both. Whereas it had once embarrassed him, now Basil found himself looking forward to it. Not that he’d ever admit it.
That was the greatest change since Basil’s arrival in Verdigris, although it was mostly an internal one. In a way, the people of Verdigris had become family to him more than even his own parents had been. Thinking that way made Basil feel guilty, but he hadn’t seen his parents in eight years, and doubted if they were even still alive. Maybe they had loved him unconditionally—they certainly risked a lot for him. But Basil wasn’t too concerned with love, not anymore.
The people of Verdigris had taken Basil in exactly as he was. They’d sheltered, fed, and clothed him. They—Frida, Hank, and Ann especially—had raised him, and saved his life. Basil wasn’t very strong, nor was he particularly skilled; but he would be there for them in return, in the only ways he knew how. But it wasn’t out of a sense of indebtedness—that wasn’t the kind of debt that could be repaid, anyway. It was simply what felt right.
Frida was waiting on the front porch with a lantern when Basil finally arrived. He committed the image to memory, deep within the well of his chest, of her standing with a light in the dark, waiting however late into the night for his safe return.
She looked at him disapprovingly.
“Sorry,” was all he said.
“You’re never going to listen to a word I tell you, are you, Basil?” Frida asked fondly. She glanced down and tilted her head, as if noticing he had arrived empty handed. “No catch today?”
“I gave it to Garth.”
Frida hummed, urging him into the house, not caring for the dirt on his feet.
“You make it difficult to be upset with you.”
Basil beamed ear-to-ear, which only seemed to weaken Frida’s resolve further.
“Come now,” she said. “Supper is getting cold.”
