She takes the mushrooms one by one, cleans them of leaves, pine needles and moss and puts them into a cast iron pot. With a twin orange mushroom cap in her hand, her thoughts drift. With a knife in the other hand, her gaze wanders to a distant point. Beyond the woods, where her church stands. On opening its doors, she sees grass growing, birds nesting in the window arches and moles loosening the soil around the altar. She prays there. She very much believes in God. She loves Him, even though He took away first her son and now her old dog. He gave and He took away. Now they are in His hands.

In the yard, the floods of rain have gnawed out paths. Traces of the flood. Earth veins. In His hand.

The twin orange cap mushroom in hand, she gazes at the greyish light emanating from the woods. It always seems to her that the light has thickened into a human shape and that her son is approaching the house from the woods. Sometimes he comes holding an axe and kindling, other times, a basket of wild mushrooms, sometimes a jug full of berries, sometimes with boots on, sometimes in his bare feet, sometimes with a hat, and other times with his hair falling loose to his shoulders … While he does not disappear, she knows the joy of waiting for him and her heart fills with love.

In front of him today, like a messenger, an envoy or someone searching for footprints, trundles a small matted ball of light – the old dog! Come home, doggy, doggy come home, wet little thistle, swamp sponge – Maria wants to call out over the field. Her son follows – drenched, hatless, hair wet and barefoot. Come here, my son, I’ll fire up the old sauna, brew some tea, you’re drenched to the bone, come get yourself warm – Maria invites the light to enter the low-ceilinged kitchen.

At the wattle fence surrounding the flower garden her visitors disappear.

Maria throws the twin orange cap into the cast iron pot, leaves the other mushrooms uncleaned, wraps herself in a warmer shawl, calls her dogs and heads out for her church.

Somewhere far, far away it is still thundering. The three of them manage to wade down the rained-out path across the field. Brown thistles get caught in the dogs’ fur and Maria’s shawl. They leave no footprints, only lightly trodden down tufts of grass, which soon after they have passed by, straighten up. No one will ever know what path the three have taken. No one will follow them. No one shall trouble this journey.