Bjarn

Author's note: This story isn't finished, but since I haven't posted anything new for quite a while, I've decided to post this as-is.

Ned Fairborn slipped into his seat as the teacher rapped the edge of his desk with a yardstick.

“All right class, all right. Settle down. Yesterday we were telling of the origins of our family names. We left off with Pru Milner. We are still marveling at the fact that a Milner is a person who makes hats, and that Pru probably descends from someone long ago who held that honorable profession.

“Next up we have Ned Fairborn. What can you tell us about the origins of your family name, Neddy?”

Ned rummaged in his desk for a piece of paper, cleared his throat and walked to the front of the class. “My name is Fairborn. This name used to be given to people in olden times who were born from fairies.”

Several rude snickers surged through the class.

“So your mom’s a fairy?” one girl asked.

“No,” Ned answered.

“Oh, then it’s your dad,” a large boy at the back of the room called out, and the snickers resumed.

Ned scrunched his face, his eyebrows leaning over his blue eyes. “No,” he said, “not that kind of fairy.”

“Well, what other kind is there?” the boy asked.

The teacher rapped on his desk to still the giggles that had erupted, “Quiet now, quiet. Let’s give Neddy a chance to explain.”

“In the olden days,” Ned continued, “a fairy wasn’t a gay person, or even a little Tinkerbelle kind of thing. A fairy was a regular size person, but they weren’t really human. There was something different about them, something magic. They were sometimes called the Fair Folk, and they lived in a different place that only they knew how to get to. They were supposed to be really pretty or really handsome too. In the olden days if people thought that one of these fairy people had been the real mother or father of a baby in the town, they would call that baby fair born. And that’s how my family got its name."

“So one of these special people was your great-great grandfather or something?” a girl asked.

“Kind of,” Ned said. “There’s a story about how a fair born boy entered our family over eight hundred years ago.”

“Is there really?” the teacher asked.

“Uh huh,” Ned nodded.

“Well why don’t you share that story with us, Neddy. Quiet class, Neddy is going to tell us a story.”

His classmates, fidgeting minimally, quieted down. “It’s an old story handed down over lots and lots of years. It’s about my way-in-the-past ancestor, Bjarn Harthrivsson. Some great-great aunt of mine finally wrote the story down, and here it is.” Ned cleared his throat and then began to read from the paper in his hand:

“The sun burned at his back as Bjarn set scythe to wheat. He kept a good rhythm, helping him progress up and down the rows. After a long while, he paused by the edge of the looming forest. A water flask lay at his hip. Unfastening it, he drank.

Lowering his head from a swig, he saw her. A woman with golden rivulets of hair cascading past her shoulders and running to her waist. She stood among the trees at the forest’s edge, watching him.

Slowly Bjarn removed the flask from his mouth. He moved with caution, thinking too swift a movement would send her running like a hart to the trees. “Hallo,” he called softly.

She didn’t spring away, but came striding toward him, stopping within a pace of where he stood.

She wore a layering of thin skirts, the outer embroidered skillfully at its hem with flowers in deep colors; a blouse, open at the neck; over this, a laced bodice.

“What is your name?” she asked, her voice rich, lower than most of her gender.

“I am Bjarn,” he said, a little startled at her boldness.

Before he could ask the questions that had begun to fill his mind, she spoke again. “And what sort of man are you, Bjarn?” Her eyes traveled him over.

Bjarn laughed. “Why, I am the best sort of man.” And now it was his eyes which traveled over her, taking in the most beautiful of maids he had ever beheld. “And what sort of maid are you who comes so boldly forth without fear.”

Her eyes, of clearest blue, held his. “What is it that I should fear from the best sort of man?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice soft and low.

She took a step forward and brought her hand to within a breath’s span of his cheek. “I will give to you a gift, Bjarn, if first you give to me what I wish.” With her movement the scent of dew on a spring meadow came to Bjarn.

“What is this gift you speak of and what is it that you wish from me?” he asked. Sweat from the work of harvest dripped from his brow, down the side of his face.

Her hand drew closer still. “I wish you to give me a daughter, Bjarn, and in return I will give you a son.”

Bjarn smiled, beginning to laugh, but just then the woman’s hand held his cheek, caressed the side of his face, stole to the back of his neck, and drew him toward her. “Will you give me what I wish?” her lips whispered.

Bjarn’s arm found her waist. “Lady, I know not your name.”

“And I cannot give it,” she said. Her lips met his.

He drew her close, and the golden field ready for harvest became a bower for lovers—”

“Thank you Neddy!” the teacher said, jumping quickly up from his perch at desk’s edge and ushering Ned to his own. “That was a wonderful story.”

“But I’m not done yet!” Ned protested.

“Oh yes,” the teacher said, “you are quite done.”

Love

Author's note: The inspiration for this story was this John Mayer song.

Gabe’s finger, moving seemingly of its own accord, jabbed itself into an empty socket in a row of lights atop his friend’s popcorn cart. The lights dimmed as their power source momentarily rerouted through Gabe.

“Whoa, man!” his friend Patrick shouted, hands thrown up in the air, “What’re you doing? You’re gonna short out my whole cart!”

Gabe yanked his hand back as if he’d just leaned on a hornet’s nest, his nerves feeling like they’d been strummed by a rake.

“What did you do that for?” Patrick asked.

“I don’t know.” Gabe flapped his hand absentmindedly at the end of his long arm. “I don’t know, I guess it’s because she said yes. I still can’t believe it. I’m dazed, man. I can’t be held responsible for my own actions.”

“Who said yes?” Patrick asked, checking the popper for damage.

“Her,” is all Gabe said in his deep voice.

Patrick looked up. “Not the her in your class?”

Gabe nodded, his large nose leading the way.

“You actually asked her out?”

Gabe kept nodding, with a silly smile and a far-off look in his blue-green eyes.

Patrick lifted an eyebrow. “Is she really as hot as you said?”

Nod.

Both eyebrows lifted. “And she said yes to you?”

Nod.

His friend smiled and reached up to punch Gabe on the shoulder. “All right, Romeo. Don’t mess it up.” He then gave his attention to a campus couple wanting some popcorn between classes.



Gabe attended the local university and his parents helped pay rent on a small apartment close to campus. He owned a used Camry in which he had installed a wicked Blaupunkt sound system that he was extremely proud of. This was fortunate because being what he thought of as less than handsome and overly lanky he had never had much luck with females, and a totally kick-ass sound system was at least something.

In his own estimation he was too tall, his limbs too long, his nose too big, and his ears too prominent to be covered neatly by his black hair. History thus far had proven that there was nothing much there to attract the type of female who attracted him. Or so he thought until this morning when one of them had actually said yes to a date.

As he pulled up to the dorm, she was standing there already, waiting for him. Her long black hair shone like blackbird wings catching the sun, and when she recognized him in his car she smiled that perfect, pearly smile and waved.

Gabe gulped. Her legs, long, but not overly, coursed down from a pair of denim shorts, thick socks poked over the tops of well-worn hiking boots, a sweatshirt hung, loosely knotted, around that perfect waist, a white, ribbed tank top, straining in the right places, held those absolutely— Shit! He’d jumped the curb.

How goddamned embarrassing.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed, rolling down the passenger window.

“That’s okay,” she said, leaning over to peek in the window.

She was still smiling. Good.

“Hop in,” he said, making sure the locks were unlocked. She clambered in, legs first. Gabe swallowed.

“I thought we’d eat first and then go hiking,” he said, once she was settled in the passenger seat.

“Oh, I thought we’d be hiking first, you know, because the park closes when the sun goes down.”

Gabe smiled, pulling off of the curb and away from the dorm. “Yeah, it does, but I know the back way in, so we’ll eat first and then see what happens in the park after dark.”

Lydia smiled.

Gabe pointed the car in the direction of the pizza place. He couldn’t believe that he had met a girl who actually liked to do things outdoors. He’d been admiring this one from afar, knowing that she was a star in the heavens, out of his earthbound reach, when today she had come to class wearing those scruffy hiking boots. They looked for all the world like she actually used them for hiking and not as mere fashion accessories. He had gathered the nerve to strike up a conversation with her, and then almost foolhardily had asked her out.

“So how do you know the back way into the park?” Lydia asked, raising her voice to be heard over Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker which had begun to thrum through the car.

Gabe turned the tune down a bit – slowly, to give Lydia a chance to bask in the waves of superior sound. “I work for the parks every now and then, building trails, clearing storm debris, helping out with fauna and flora inventories.”

Gabe practically lived outdoors. When he wasn’t putting in a few hours at a nearby deli, he did odd jobs for the local parks, and in the summer worked at summer camps or outdoor adventure outfits. He spent his spare time rock-climbing, hiking, and backpacking. The physical activity and the out-of-doors filled up most of the empty space in his heart where a girl should have been. It also took up the space in his head where plans for the future should have been. He took college classes, yes, but with no particular aim in mind, mostly to please his parents. What time he didn’t spend outside he spent with friends – also with no particular aims – getting high.

“What a cool job. I would love that!” Lydia said.

Gabe took his eyes off the road to look at her. “Really?”

“Red light,” she replied.

“What?”

Lydia braced herself and pointed out the windshield, “Red light!”

“Oh crap!” Gabe slammed on the brakes. Their seatbelts snapped tight, cinching them to the seats while a couple of empty soda cans and a CD case went flying. “Sorry,” he said. “You okay?”

Lydia laughed, “Yeah, I’m fine. You don’t have to look at the person you’re talking to if you’re driving, you know.”

“I know,” he said, “but you make that kinda hard.”

Was she blushing?

Her hazel eyes met his. “Green light.”

“What?”

Lydia raised her hand slowly and uncurled one finger until it pointed up and out. “Green light.”

A car honked.

“Oh!” He put his car in gear.

Over pizza he tried to explain. “It’s just that most girls don’t seem to be drawn to jobs like that. They’re too physical, or dirty, or something.”

“Girls?” Lydia asked, smiling up at him before biting into her pizza.

“No, no!” Gabe said, “The jobs.”

Lydia put her slice down. “Well, I’m different.” She proffered a bicep. “Feel that.”

Gabe wiped his fingers on his pants and reached for the tanned arm. He squeezed. Solid, he thought. “Hmm,” he said.

“I work summers at my friend’s father’s landscaping company.”

Gabe raised his eyebrows.

“It’s pretty demanding… I mean, physical and dirty work.” She took a sip of her birch beer. Gabe momentarily lost track of his thoughts watching her extricate the straw from between those rosy lips.

Oh man, he was in way over his head. Why, oh why was he doing this to himself? There was no way this chick had any interest in him. She must have said yes out of mercy. This was a mercy date. He’d had a couple of those before. They were painful. Best to get it over with quickly, he thought, and then go their separate ways – as he was sure she intended.

Lydia leaned back in her chair. “So hurry up with your pizza.”

Yep. He sighed, slouching a little. But then she tucked a strand of that long hair behind an ear… and smiled.

“I can’t wait for my personal tour of the park by moonlight,” she said.

Gabe’s lanky frame inflated. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

Gabe drove his Camry down forested back roads until finally he turned right onto an inconspicuous dirt road leading up into the trees. “Here it is,” he said, “the back door to the park.”

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, its light already turning dusky. The air still held its warmth as they left the car and headed into the forest. Gabe led Lydia along hidden service paths that criss-crossed the park, going up hills, down into ravines, and skirting streams and tributaries. They came to a meadow where he showed her the bluebird houses that would fill in spring with the tiny birds.

“I have to come out here every so often when they’re nesting to count eggs and hatchlings.”

“How?” Lydia said, trying to peek into one of the holes, “I can’t see anything in there.”

Gabe flipped the top open. “Like that,” he said.

Lydia peered over the top into the little house. “There’s a snakeskin in there,” she said.

Gabe glanced into the house and then at the unadorned pole it sat atop of. “It’s missing its snake blocker.” He pointed to another house with an inverted cone attached to its pole. “Those keep the snakes out. I’ll have to fix this one before next spring.”

Lydia looked up at him with those sparkling hazel eyes. “That’s so cool that you do things like count bluebird eggs,” she said, smiling. “Most guys don’t do things like that, don’t really care, ya know?”

Gabe latched the lid back into place. “It’s an excuse to be outside,” he shrugged. “I hike around out here and get paid for it.” He took a breath and looked into her upturned face. “You can help me count next spring if you want.”

Lydia shivered.

Oh man, is the thought that repulsive? Gabe thought. To be polite he asked, “Are you cold?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just that…” she cleared her throat, “It’s your voice.”

“My voice?”

“It … um…does something to me.”

Gabe stared. His voice was kind of low, but—

“In a good way,” Lydia hastened to add.

Gabe closed his eyes and gave his head a little shake. “I usually get the Ichabod Crane comparison, but never, ‘Your voice does something to me in a good way.’”

Was she blushing again?

“I’m sorry,” she said, “maybe I shouldn’t have—"

“No! No, that’s okay.”

Lydia cast her eyes around. “It’ll be dark soon. Did you bring a flashlight or something?”

“We don’t need one,” Gabe said, trying to wrestle his head back down to earth. “I can find my way around here with my eyes shut.”

Between Gabe and the light from the waxing moon, they made their way around the park. They talked quietly and at times came across deer, and foxes, and opossums. At one point while they rested on a flat-topped boulder next to a small stream, Lydia demonstrated a great horned owl call. A response close by, in the branches of an enormous beech on the opposite bank, startled them. They laughed.

“Wow!” Lydia said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one call back so close.” She looked up into the branches of the beech. “Oh!” The exclamation came almost as a sigh. She pointed to a break in the tops of the trees. “Look at the stars.”

Gabe followed her gaze. A swath of blinking stars filled a patch of ink-black sky surrounded by a silhouette of fluttering leaves.

“That’s so beautiful,” Lydia murmured.

Gabe turned to say something, but Lydia was now lying on her back looking up at the stars. He stretched out on his side, propping his head up on an elbow, facing her. “Why do you like the outside so much?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. She took her eyes off of the stars and put them on him, “Why do you?”

He smiled. “I don’t know.”

A small grin came to her lips. “I’m glad you asked me out, I was hoping you would. You seemed so nice in class, and now I know you are.”

She was hoping he would ask her out. That had to sink in for a second before he could wrap his mind around it. “I was kind of in shock when you said yes, I mean literally. I accidentally electrocuted myself afterward.”

She giggled. “Not seriously?”

“Seriously,” he smiled, “I never thought in a million years you would say yes. I mean, look at you, and then look at m—"

“Gabe,” she rose up on her elbows until she was face to face with him. Something like an aftershock from the popcorn cart to flowed down Gabe’s spine.

“I don’t know who would compare you to Ichabod Crane. You’re nothing like that… You’re… Most of the guys I go out with don’t get that I’d rather be someplace like this than at a party. They aren’t really… my type.”

Oh my god. “But I am?” Gabe asked. His voice came out soft and low.

Lydia shivered and closed her eyes. She melted back into the rock face. Gabe couldn’t help but follow. She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

Gabe lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. It was the most natural thing he had ever done. A hand slid to the back of his neck, an arm came up around him, and inexplicably, unbelievably, she drew him to her.



They were nearly inseparable after that. They hiked together, occasionally sneaking away for a long weekend to go backpacking. Gabe taught Lydia things like rock-climbing and orienteering and took her to all his favorite haunts. They also enjoyed milder pursuits like going to movies, eating out, or hanging out with friends, usually Gabe’s.

One night, at a birthday party for one of Gabe’s friends, he overheard someone in the next room talking to Lydia. “You know, we hardly see Gabe anymore.” It sounded like his friend, Patrick.

Gabe could hear the smile in Lydia’s voice. “Sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to hog him.”

“No! That’s a good thing,” Patrick laughed. “I’ve never seen Gabe so happy. He’s in a good place right now, and it’s because of you.”

“Well it’s worked both ways. Gabe is an incredible guy,” Lydia said.

The smile didn’t leave Gabe’s face for the rest of the night. He couldn’t imagine why someone like Lydia was with someone like him, but he had long since given up tempting fate by trying to figure it out.

Lydia often skipped going back to her dorm and stayed the night with Gabe at his apartment, especially on weekends. One night, Lydia lay curled against him in bed. Gabe couldn’t help thinking that every part of him knew every part of her, even his heart. His heart was so filled with her that it barely fit inside him anymore. And he couldn’t help thinking how their lives meshed together in so many ways.

He gave Lydia a gentle squeeze and whispered in her ear, “We fit together perfectly.”

Lydia rolled over, facing him. “Our bodies?” she murmured.

“That too,” he said, kissing her forehead.

She nestled against him. “I love your body,” she said in a drowsy voice. “It’s so strong.” She took one of his hands and put hers against it. “And you didn’t get that way by stinking up a gym two hours a day. You got that way by just being you, hiking and rock-climbing, and clearing fallen trees from trails.”

“And counting bluebird eggs,” he added.

She laughed a sleepy laugh. “And by counting bluebird eggs.”

Gabe wrapped his hand around hers, drawing it to him, and hugged the rest of her close. The best part of his life right now was if she was here in his arms, or standing nearby, or even in the kitchen, when he woke up. When he woke up, if she was here with him, that was the best part of his life.



When spring semester started Lydia had a packed schedule so they saw less of each other during the week. They made up for it on weekends – until the Friday night guest lecture series started for Lydia’s philosophy class. Attendance was required.

Gabe went with her to a couple of lectures when he wasn’t working at the deli, but they didn’t really float his boat. He ended up hanging out with friends on the Friday nights he didn’t work, until the lecture was over. Then he would head over to pick Lydia up. On one particular Friday she climbed into his car after the lecture.

“How was it?” Gabe asked.

“It was pretty interesting tonight. I think you would have liked it.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss. Straightening up, she stared at him. “I smell pot,” she said, “Are you high?”

“I had a couple of tokes at Patrick’s while I was waiting for you.”

“Oh,” Lydia said.

Gabe saw the smile slide off her face.

“I know driving stoned isn’t cool, but I’m not stoned, Lydia. It was just a couple of tokes.”

“Okay,” she said, but she grew quiet.

“Should we go somewhere?” he asked.

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m pretty tired.”

Oh shit. He knew he shouldn’t have indulged. Lydia never touched the stuff. She had never really said anything if he lit up while they were out with his friends, but she always got quiet. Not mad quiet, more like hurt quiet. He had partaken less and less lately when opportunities arose, and, truth be told, he hadn’t really missed it. Tonight it had just been something to do to pass the time.

Back at his apartment Lydia went straight to bed. Gabe stayed up for a while watching Monty Python. It was funnier than usual. He probably was stoned.

Later, he slid into bed next to her. Lydia reached for one of his arms and wrapped it around her.
“I’m giving it up,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Monty Python?” she asked.

He kissed her ear. “No. Dope,” he said.

“I’m not a dope!” she whispered.

He nibbled her earlobe and she giggled. “You know what I mean,” he said.

“I know what you mean, and I’m not asking you to give it up.”

“I know, but I am.”

“Gabe, I don’t expect you to change who you are just for me.”

Just for her. Like there was anything he wouldn’t do just for her. “I’m not changing who I am, Lydia. I’m just giving up dope.”

She snuggled against him.

His heart ached with contentment.



“Hey Gabe,” Patrick said, sitting down on the couch next to Gabe, beer in hand. Several friends had gotten together to watch a basketball game on TV.

“Hey.”

“How’re things with you and Lydia?”

“Great. Why?”

Patrick leaned back and took a swig of beer. “I don’t know. You’ve just been hanging out here a lot lately, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, not taking his eyes from the game. “Lydia’s been busy with school.”

“You guys gonna pack it up to High Rock this weekend for our Annual Climb in the Cold?” Patrick asked.

“You bet, as long as there’s not an ice storm like last year.”

“Aw, it wouldn’t be fun if we weren’t in danger of losing a few fingers to frostbite.” Patrick downed another swig. “Besides, you’ll keep Lydia warm. I’ve seen you light her up just by lookin’ at her, you lucky sumbitch.”

Gabe grinned, “Well, even I look good next to you morons.”

Patrick let out a laugh.

Gabe knew full well that he was lucky to have Lydia in his life. That he somehow did something for her the same way that she did something for him was what really astounded him. Because of her, he had begun to think about his future and had finally chosen a major: Recreation and Parks Management. It seemed like a no-brainer, but he hadn’t had the focus to see it before now.



Hiking the three miles down the mountain back to the car on Sunday afternoon after the frigid weekend of rock-climbing, Gabe took hold of Lydia’s hand. It didn’t seem all that receptive. Kind of limp, actually. After about a half-mile, he let go.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

That was all, just, ‘No’.

“You don’t want me to hold your hand?” Gabe asked.

“No, not really,” she said. “It’s a little awkward with the pack and going downhill and trying to keep balanced while holding hands all at the same time.”

The words came out as if they’d been held in under slightly mounting pressure. Not so much like a pellet shooting out of an air gun – more like a kettle just beginning to steam.

“Okay,” Gabe said.

Lydia increased her pace slightly.

It’d been a pretty cold weekend, and his friends had joked around a lot about how they imagined Gabe and Lydia were keeping each other warm at night. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to mention he was pretty sure that he loved her.



Lydia went to Bermuda for spring break on a mini-study-abroad trip through the Geology department for a quick tour of the island’s geology. Gabe finally saw her again late on the Sunday night before classes resumed.

“Did you bring me a rock?” he asked.

She had just gotten back. She glowed an amazing copper color. He imagined he’d feel the warmth of the sun if he touched her skin.

She laughed, “No, but I brought you a shell, and a T-shirt.” She reached into the pack on her bed and handed him a scallop shell. “I found this while I was snorkeling. I thought it was so beautiful.” Then she unfurled a white tee. It said ‘DIVE BERMUDA’. “And I found this at a tourist shop.”

Gabe smiled. “Thanks, and I missed you.” He bent and kissed her.

Lydia wrapped her arms around him. “I missed you, too.”

Gabe held her and ran a hand down her soft hair. “Did you have a good time?”

“Oh, it was amazing!” Lydia said, pulling away. “It was a crazy week, we packed so much into every day, but I managed to get in some sea kayaking. It was so fun! And I have a ton of pictures to show you.”

“Great! We can look at them tonight if you want to come back to my place.”

Lydia plopped down on her bed. “Ugh! I’d better not,” she sighed. “It’s late and I have an early class and a lot of unpacking to do.”

On Wednesday, though, they got together for pizza with a few of Gabe’s friends, and then the two went back to Gabe’s apartment. Lydia showed him her pictures and told him all about her week in Bermuda. The glow of her tan, having faded slightly, had been replaced by an aura that shone from her face. She has so much energy, Gabe thought. She was always ready to try anything outdoors, but this was a different kind of energy. He didn’t think he had ever seen her so animated – or passionate – before.

That night Gabe took Lydia in his arms and told her without words what he had come to know for sure; that he loved her. In the early morning with Lydia breathing softly next to him, he decided that he would tell her the same thing vocally, on Saturday when they went to check the bluebird houses for signs of nesting.



He stood waiting for her outside her dorm, a little nervous. He didn’t have butterflies in his stomach, more like honeybees buzzing all through his circulatory system. She came through the door.

“Hi!” he said.

“Hi.”

“Ready to go?”

“Um, no, not really.” She looked kind of down. Like maybe she’d been crying.

Gabe put a hand gingerly on her shoulder and bent to look in her downcast face. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up. “Can we go for a walk… here? On campus?”

“Sure,” Gabe said, wondering what had made her so upset. He put an arm around her shoulders and they headed toward one of the sidewalks that wandered around the campus.

Nothing seemed forthcoming, so Gabe asked, “What is it, Lydia?”

She pointed to a bench by the back corner of the library. “Let’s go over there.”

When they reached the bench they sat together. Gabe’s bees felt less buzzy, like they’d been subdued by a sticky mass of worry. “What is it?” he tried again.

“Gabe, I’m so sorry,” she said, her eyes not meeting his.

“Sorry about what?”

She looked up. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

The bees converged all at once, plunging their stingers into Gabe’s heart. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I’ve just begun to feel… stifled… in our relationship.”

The words acted like heavy blows to Gabe’s head, dissolving any grasp of meaning. “Stifled?” he said.

“It’s a little hard to explain.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “It’s just that I’ve been feeling like all we do is go out with your friends and you’re always teaching me something, or showing me something, or taking me to places you like…”

Gabe stared. “Well… Lydia… I thought you liked—"

“I did,” Lydia interrupted, “but lately… I’ve just felt like I’m tagging along.”

Gabe was silent.

“When I went on my trip,” Lydia explained, “I explored new things, and made new friends, and did things that I really wanted to do. And it kind of felt like… freedom.”

“Lydia, you could’ve said something. You never told me! We can go do things you want to do. I didn’t know … I didn’t mean to …” His words trailed.

Lydia put a hand on his. “I know Gabe, but I really want to be on my own for a while.”

“If it would help, we don’t have to spend so much time with my friends. We don’t have to spend any time with them.”

“Gabe, I don’t want you to do that just for me. I don’t want you to change who you are, and your friends are part of who you are.” Her hazel eyes filled with tears. The little gold flecks surrounding her dark pupils began to swim. A few tears splashed over her lashes. “Gabe, I’m so sorry. It’s been great.” She gave his hand a squeeze and then stood. “Goodbye, Gabe.”

He swallowed. “Goodbye.” The word barely climbed past his throat.

Lydia walked away.

He watched. A whisper came to his lips, “I love you, Lydia.” With the words his heart ripped slowly, agonizingly, in two and lay there beating, ragged and wounded, in his chest.



“Shit! And you just let her walk away?” Patrick said one hand on his head, the other stretched to the heavens. He leaned back in his chair.

Gabe said nothing, just twirled an empty beer bottle on the table in front of him.

Patrick leaned forward on his elbows. “Did you tell her that you’d drop your sorry-ass friends and never see them again?” he said. “Because, no offense, man, but I would drop you like a hot potato for someone like Lydia.”

Gabe nodded rhythmically, staring at the bottle. “Yeah, but it didn’t matter.”

Patrick sighed. “When did this happen? Because you look like shit.”

“A couple of days ago. Maybe more, I don’t really know.” Gabe sighed and leaned back, rubbing his face with his hands and then running them through his hair. “I haven’t slept much. I don’t like dreaming with my heart all broken up. It’s raw.” He closed his eyes tight. “I wake up and think she’s still there, somewhere in my room, but she’s not. The pain takes my breath away, man. That’s the hardest part, waking up and she’s gone.”

There was silence.

Gabe opened unfocused eyes.

“Okay!” Patrick said, clapping his hands together. “Sounds like you need to crash here for a few days, or before you know it, you won’t be responsible for your own actions.” He stood and helped Gabe stumble to his feet and over to the couch.

Gabe collapsed onto the cushions. He watched through bleary eyes as Patrick rummaged through a closet for an extra pillow. “You know, Lydia was right, though” he said.

“And what in the world was Lydia right about?” Patrick asked, tossing a pillow to Gabe, “Because right now I feel like kicking her in the ass.”

Gabe sighed. “She didn’t want me to give up my friends.”

Patrick grinned. “I love you too, Bro. Now get some sleep. And Gabe,” he added before turning out the lamp, “I will be here when you wake up.”

Solitude and Spirits

Author's note: I took third place in a local short story contest with this story. I won a totebag, woot!

Living alone in a trailer in the middle of the desert may not be every gal’s cup of tea. I like the solitude. When I say desert and trailer and alone I mean the desert just outside Las Cruces, New Mexico; a 1977 Airstream Sovereign (thirty-one feet of fully restored, slightly updated, silver beauty); and no one within five miles. When I hanker for something more exciting I get together with friends in town. The solitude hasn’t ever felt creepy, until recently.

Maybe my imagination’s getting uppity, but lately I keep thinking I hear things – little noises that don’t belong. A footstep. A bump. A click. A rattle. A rap. Sometimes, too, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my scalp gets prickly and a feeling grows and spreads, all the way to the ends of my extremities. It’s that creepy all-of-a-sudden-comes-over-you realization that something might be watching you. Something not kindly disposed toward your person. At that point my ears tend pick up every little scrap of noise until, finally, I end up sleeping with the TV on.

It hasn’t bothered me too awfully much, but two Friday’s ago Mike stayed over and something strange happened. In the middle of the night we were shaken awake by a big thump. No other strange noises, just that thump. It was pretty windy and Mike said it was probably a tumbleweed hitting the trailer. Tumbleweeds don’t thump, though. They just kind of thwack and screech.

I told my friend, Marcella, about my problem. She told her friend Kai, who’s Navajo. The two came up with a theory. You see, this summer, every morning at 7:30 sharp, a group of archaeologists in a big van drive past on the dirt road that runs by my trailer. They’re on their way to a canyon over yonder a ways where they’re digging up the floor of a rock shelter. It turns out that a couple thousand years ago some Native Americans came to live there every summer.

Anyway, the archaeologists invited me out to see the rock shelter one weekend. It’s kind of a shallow cave that sets back in the wall of the canyon where the sun doesn’t shine, which makes it an ideal place for summer living. Nice and cool. The scene was like something out of National Geographic, square pits all over being dug up with hand-held trowels. In one pit they’d uncovered some bones. Human bones. A burial. And that’s where Marcella and Kai’s theory comes in. They think the archaeologists have disturbed a spirit, and it’s the spirit of this person that’s bothering me.

So now Kai is bringing some sage bundles from her grandmother to give to Marcella to give to me. Evidently if I light the bundles like incense and carry them around my trailer, inside and out, and ask for the spirit to leave me in peace, it’ll go away. Just like that. They call it a cleansing. I call it grasping at straws, but I’ll give it a shot. What’ve I got to lose, except sleeping with the TV on?

Marcella will have the sage bundles tomorrow and she’ll give them to me after work. She says that if I wait a couple of days to do the cleansing she can come, but tomorrow night she’s busy. Kai says she can’t help because she can’t be in a place where the spirit of an ancestor might be, but she’ll by happy to come by once it’s gone.

***

I met with Marcella after work today to get the bundles. We had dinner at Chope’s Bar & Cafe. Note to self: eating the red chili platter at Chope’s equals eating fire. I’m out of Tums so I’ve been spooning sour cream and yogurt into my mouth since I got home. The fire is more like hot embers now, just kinda smoldering from the roof of my mouth down to the pit of my stomach.

I’ve been sitting here reading a book, sucking on my sour cream/yogurt spoon. The story is a murder mystery set near an Irish bog. Although I’m cocooned up here in my silver trailer at the northern end of the Chihuahuan Desert, I feel like I’ve been slogging through a damp, misty bog in Ireland. Which is why, when I heard a muffled shuffle outside and peeked out the window, I got a mini case of culture shock. No boggy mist, just the usual sand and ocotillo and scrubby brush, all fading into the dark, dusky light that hovers out there just after sunset. The noise was probably just some coyotes nosing around.

But wait; was that a rap at the rear of the trailer? I’ll swear that sounded just like a rap, rap, rap.

Maybe I won’t wait ‘till Marcella can help with the cleansing. Why not do it now and get it over with? Then maybe I can read my book in peace.

Okay, I’m taking one bundle of desert sage, tightly trussed in cotton twine, and lighting it until it smolders. Now I’m supposed to walk around inside the trailer, and then outside, and then cleanse myself with the smoke. Phew! This stuff smells like pot! Sheesh, my trailer’s gonna smell like I’ve been partying hardy.

Okay, umm, “Hello spirit. I didn’t dig you up. I’d appreciate it if you would go away and stop bothering me. Thanks.” I’ll just repeat that a few times while I walk around in here, and then go outside.

Good, I’ve got a little bit of moon, so it’s not too dark out here. “Hello spirit…” I’ll walk around toward the back and say it a few times there too.

“Hello-oh— ouch! What the…?” What did I trip over? Oh, my dad-gummed garden gnome. “Sorry, Sven.”

Shoot. I dropped my bundle. Where did it go?

“Are you looking for this?”

“God almighty! You scared the bejeezus outa me! Who is that?”

“Ted.”

Dammit all my heart’s goin’ a million miles an hour. “The archaeologist Ted? Ted Wakefield?”

“The same.”

“What the blazes are you doing out here so late?”

“Watching you.”

Creep alert. “What?”

“But I’m done watching.”

Whoa! He’s coming at me. “Hey!”

Yikes! Groping – tongue in mouth – Bite! Bite tongue! Bite mouth! Stomp foot, thwack ears, pull hair, kick groin, punch! Punch! Punch! Shove! Run to trailer! Get gun! Get cell! Dial 911!

“Hello! There’s a guy here attacking me, he’s… wait a minute and I’ll have a gun on him…okay. Please come quick, My trailer’s about a mile down Box Canyon Drive… yeah, the dirt road that turns north off the frontage road alongside I-10, just past the ‘California this way’ sign… Huh? Yeah, the silver trailer…Okay… An Ambulance? Uh… yeah, I guess – he’s still on the ground… Yes, he was attacking me, but I fought him off. Please hurry.

“You’re gonna get yours, you bastard! What’ve you been doing? Coming out here all these nights playing Peeping Tom? Pervert!” … Sheesh, I must’ve done something serious to him with one of those punches. He hasn’t gotten up – he’s gone all wheezy and gasping.

“You all right there, Ted?”

Wow, he looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. “Don’t expect me to perform mouth to mouth on you… Hey…Ted? … Ted… Can’t you breathe? … They’ll be here in a few minutes. I think I hear them. C’mon, breathe, in … out … in, that’s it.”

***

Marcella screeched and turned pale when I told her what happened.

“And it turns out that he’s highly allergic to chilies.” I told her, “When he tried to french it up with me he got a taste of my red chili platter. It was enough to send him into anaphylactic shock. They were able to bring him out of it and now he’s facing all those charges against him.”

“So you don’t need to finish the cleansing?” she asked, hands over her mouth.

Good question.

You see, the strange thing about the whole ordeal was Ted’s confession. He admitted to coming out numerous nights, hiding out in a nearby arroyo and watching me through binoculars. But he said he approached my trailer only twice - once when he saw that someone was staying the night and he came to peek in hoping to see what we were up to. He said that he left real quick after it felt like someone picked him up and threw him against the trailer. The only other time he came close was the other night when I walked outside and he decided that looking wasn’t enough anymore.

So I sorta feel like maybe there was a spirit there, but it was watching over me. Warning me whenever Ted was around. And maybe, living all by myself way out there, I don’t want to cleanse that kind of spirit away.

Anybody need some sage bundles? I’ve got some extra.

The Fairy's Tale

Author's note: This is based on a novel-length young adult story I've written. This story deals with Eris. The novel is about her sister, Rose.

Eris examined a block of wood discussing its grain with one of her artisan trainees as her assistant approached. Two black-enameled sticks poking from the blonde bun at the back of her assistant’s head bobbed as she made her way past artisans busy at their workbenches.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the slim girl said. Her flowing white blouse stilled artfully over trim blue jeans as she came to a stop. “There’s a young man here who says he’s looking for the sister of Rose … of Par Kluhnd.” She looked with cautious eyes to Eris. “I thought he might mean you. Wasn’t your sister’s name Rose?”

Eris’s face, usually so flush and vibrant, became stone-like and pale mimicking one of her student’s carvings. Waves of caramel-blonde hair glowed in rich contrast around it.

“I put him in your office,” the assistant continued, “but just give me the word and I’ll show him the door.”

Eris stared, unfocused, across the busy room. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No,” the assistant answered. “All he said was that he was looking for the sister of Rose… of Par Kluhnd…” Eris’s amber eyes turned to rest on her assistant as she continued uncertainly, “… Queen of the Lands of Shey.” There was a pause. “Would you like for me to get rid of him?”

“No.” Eris said. “I… I’m… I’ll go see him.”

Eris entered her office, closing the door behind her. A young man stood facing the desk. He turned quickly around. He wore pants of brown linen over worn, brown boots and a tunic, belted and gray. Soft brown curls covered his head, and as Eris came closer she saw that his eyes were the color of green moss covered with dew.

“I’m looking for—,” he began.

“I know,” Eris said, “I’m Eris. I’m Rose’s sister.”

The young man stepped forward, extending a hand. “Then we are related. I am Dashell, a distant kinsman.” The dewy light in his mossy eyes dimmed a bit. “And perhaps you have guessed already what I have come far to tell you.”

Eris stepped past the young man’s hand. She wrapped her arms around him.

The young man embraced her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “The Lands of Shey are in mourning. I was sent to find the Queen’s family to tell them of her passing." At the word passing Eris let go a single sob.

From a young age Eris had excelled in the arts. Graduating early from a major fine arts school with the buzz of a successful career surrounding her, she had taken her talents into the mountains of New York where she founded The Artist’s Studio, a haven for aspiring artists.

Her talents had been inherited from her mother’s side of the family. From her maternal grandmother’s side to be exact. She had discovered this truth at the age of ten when her whole life had been turned upside down – when her older sister, Rose, at the age of twelve, had disappeared.

The story surrounding those events of long ago was so fantastic that she hadn’t been able to confide the details even to her closest friends. Her sister, Rose, had disappeared into a hidden world that lay just beyond an unseen threshold at the edge of the meadow by her grandmother’s house. The explanation her family gave for Rose’s disappearance was that she had gone to stay with relations overseas while attending a private school in France.

When Rose eventually did reappear, every now and again, it was clear that she couldn’t be seen by outsiders because of her arrested youth. She wasn’t ageing as she should. To explain her seeming total disappearance, the family mourned, saying Rose was tragically killed in a car wreck on the Autobahn in Germany while on a weekend excursion from her school.

Now, however, Rose’s death was no ruse. It was real, and Eris had been expecting news of it. In fact, she had already made up her mind to go to the place she hadn’t been allowed to go while under her parent’s control, and hadn’t had the time to go to since –the Other World into which Rose had disappeared at the age of twelve. Eris had learned that her grandmother was from that world. It’s where this young man, whom she now held as if he could absorb all of her sorrow, came from.

At last she got hold of herself. Sniffling and wiping the tears from her face, she withdrew from Dashell’s kind embrace.

“I’m sorry you had to come all this way. One of us should have gone over there before now. I was planning … I intended to…,”

“Eris,” the young man said gently, “Rose of Par Kluhnd lived a long and happy life. She passed away with her husband by her side, surrounded by children, grand children, and great-grandchildren. She spoke with tenderness and love of her family in the Other World and expressed her wish that news of her demise should be taken to them swiftly, along with the message that the love she felt in both worlds was what sustained her whenever she had to leave One for the Other.”

Eris reached out, a faint smile lifting some of the sorrow from her face. She took one of Dashell’s hands. “And how are we distant kin?”

“Your sister, Rose of Par Kluhnd, was my great-grandmother.”

Eris nodded. “Then I guess I’m an aunt of sorts.” The smile faded. “I’d better take you to meet your great-great grandparents. We can break the news to them together.”

The news was not taken well. There were many regrets. Regret over never having gone ‘there’ to visit Rose, though she had come back ‘here’ many times to visit. She stayed for three months each time she came, but Eris and her parents knew (though it was hard for them to grasp) that in the Other World this absence encompassed a span of three years.

It had been explained to them how time was different in each place, how one month ‘here’ was the equivalent to one year ‘there’. How Rose aged differently in each world. Although here, to her parents and her sister, she seemed only to have reached her mid-teens, Dashell told them that in the Other World Rose had reached the age of one hundred and four.

Regret. Rose’s mother had often berated herself for never having believed her own mother’s fantastic stories of coming from a hidden world. Who would have supposed such stories were true? That her mother had been queen over a people who were great artisans and warriors? When her own daughters were born she had forbidden her mother to tell them any of her fantastical tales.

And then Rose had disappeared. Her grandmother had gone after her, but by the time the threshold opened again and she was able to follow, three months later, Rose had been lost in the Other World for the equivalent of three years. Her grandmother had not known what to expect upon going back to that world to find her.

What she found was that Rose had discovered her heritage and had taken upon herself its responsibilities. And she had fallen in love. These things were enough to keep her there. She came back to visit her family in This World from time to time, but she lived in the Other. Eris decided now that it was time she went there. If she hadn’t gone to visit her sister in life, she would at least pay her respects upon her sister’s death.

Eris had to admit that Rose’s choice to stay in that other world had hurt. It had left her to grow up sisterless, and with the feeling that Rose had preferred living in a world with fairies over living with her own family. Even now Eris harbored a hard, secret anger toward her sister. But like countless times over the past many years, she pushed those feelings aside in order to carry on. She made arrangements to leave The Artists’ Studio in her assistant’s care while she took an extended leave of absence.

The threshold to the Other World could only be crossed on the four festival nights of the year. Eris and Dashell made the trip to her grandmother’s old house to await what would be celebrated in the Other World as the festival of Lounessa, at the beginning of August. On that day, they sat on the back porch until the sun sank completely. Through the deepening dusk and blinking fireflies, Eris and Dashell walked across the meadow toward the forest. Where the shadowy shapes of grass and flower merged with dark silhouettes of tree and branch, Eris and Dashell took up the path that led beyond the meadow’s edge.

No flash, or boom, or swirl of time and space occurred. They simply left One World and entered Another.

Eris strained to make out her surroundings. Dense forest encircled them. The meadow was gone. She tried to imagine how Rose had felt the night she had found herself here, alone, encompassed by forest and darkness, not knowing where she was or that she was the granddaughter of a queen.

Dashell took Eris’s elbow. “I can see a light off in the distance,” he said, pointing down a path that led off behind them. “The fairies must be telling stories. Come, let’s join those who’ve gathered to hear the fairies’ tales.”

“Oh look! More people have come!” a fairy exclaimed as Dashell and Eris stepped near a cheery campfire. It crackled in the midst of a tiny clearing beside the path that trailed off through the thick expanse of trees. Fairies floated in the air and glimmered in the branches of an enormous oak which stood just at the edge of the firelight.

The fairies looked exactly like miniscule people except for the wings at their backs and the every-hued pulses of shimmery luminescence that chased in sinuous, swirling patterns over their bodies, shining through their clothing.

“It’s Dashell!” one of them cried.

Several of the glowing fairies flew over to him. “We haven’t seen you for a long time!” one said.

“Where have you been?” asked another.

“I’ve been away, but now I’m back,” Dashell said simply.

“But who is this you have with you?” one of the fairies said, turning mid-air to Eris.

“She’s a friend who I’ve brought with me to hear your tales.”

The fairies fluttered around him, pushing him toward the fire. Some flew over to Eris, taking her by the fingers to lead her there. “Come! Sit with the others!” they said.

Eris and Dashell seated themselves among those gathered to hear the fairies’ tales. The group encircling the fire was comprised of men and women from a nearby town, including young couples staring dreamily into each other’s eyes. A jovial man wearing a brown hat with a long feather rising from the brim passed around a bottle of berry wine. “I’ve another when this one’s empty,” he said with a wink.

A woman in long skirts turned to the man next to her. “I wish they’d get on with the stories,” she said. “We’ll have to leave soon. The festivities are over and we should be a-bed already, what with the sun rising early and tomorrow the first day of the harvest.”

Her companion took a swig from the bottle and nodded. “Hear, hear! Let the stories begin!”

“And what story would you like to hear first?” a fairy man asked.

Dashell answered. “Let’s hear of the Lost Girl who became Queen of Par Kluhnd and all of the Lands of Shey.”

The branches of the great oak standing just outside the circle of firelight swayed for a moment, though there was no wind. The luminous fairies in its branches fluttered.

The fairy man hovered mid-air, turning to each face in the circle. “Ah, you want to hear of Rose of Par Kluhnd?”

“Yes, Rose of Par Kluhnd!” they all agreed.

The fairy nodded. “Very well, but the full tale is much too long for one night’s telling.” He tossed his head of golden hair, which glimmered in the firelight. “For that reason I will tell only the beginning. I will tell the tale in which the Lost Girl meets Parth, the brave leshy of the forest, and is guided by the fierce horse women to the city of Par Kluhnd.”

A fairy maid with flowing black hair fluttered into the circle of firelight and the fairy man with the golden locks began to tell the tale.

This is the beginning of the story of Rose, the Lost Girl, who was a queen though she didn’t know it.

The fairy maid portrayed Rose. More fairies hovered close by, waiting to play their parts in the tale as the golden-headed fairy wove his story and the men and women around the flickering fire watched as it unfolded in the air above them.

She didn’t want to be a queen, the fairy man continued, she wanted only to find her way home. She stumbled into the Lands of Shey from the Other World knowing nothing about us, or that she was the granddaughter of Queen Brigit, who had stumbled out of our world long years before.

The legendary Brigit had unwittingly crossed a threshold – arrow in her lung, gashes in her flesh, and bones broken asunder – during the great battle of Heartland Field, nearly meeting her end lying face down in a meadow in the Other World.

If only you were Dannan, like those who live in Par Kluhnd, the fairy said, then you could cross the threshold too. The very same! For it is just over your shoulders! He motioned in the direction from which Eris and Dashell had come. Down that path only a short way from here.

Every face in the circle turned to look.

But only the Dannan possess the gift to travel between the Two Worlds, whether they know it, or not.

The faces turned back as one to watch the fairies.

And so Rose, unknowing, came here. She was in danger from the start. It was a night much like this when she arrived, and wolves prowled the woods.

Some of the figures fluttering overhead howled and circled the dark-haired fairy maid, running in the air like wolves. The lovers around the fire drew close to one another.

She was soon surrounded by glowing eyes and snarling mouths. If it had not been for the brave fairies of the wood, Rose may have come to a tragic end. Setting their own lives at peril, the fairies came to her aid. They swarmed the wolves, driving them off, and led Rose to the safety of your very own town.

The listeners nodded.

The townsfolk there, your good ancestors, the fairy bowed, could make neither heads nor tails of whence this lost little girl had come, nor indeed who she was. But the Ki-Lin, that noble beast which appears during the reign of true and honorable rulers, sought her out. Bowing to her in the midst of the people, it gave to her one silky hair from its golden mane.

‘We must send her to Par Kluhnd!’ the townspeople cried. ‘There, with her feet upon the Stone of Knowledge it will be made known if she is the heir to the long vacant throne!’

The horse women were given the task of escorting Rose to the city of Par Kluhnd. No less than fifty rode with her. The head of the horse women in that day was none other than Scaythach, most skilled in the Lands of Shey in the arts of war, sought out even by the warrior Dannan for training.

With Rose, also, rode Sienna, who in later years became the wisest of sages, honored and welcomed throughout the lands for her advice and counsel.

Eris realized at this moment that Sienna must have passed away long ago. She would never have the opportunity to meet this woman whom Rose had told her was her closest friend in all of the Lands of Shey, besides, of course, Parth. All of the people in this story, Eris realized, had passed away long ago. She caught her breath at the utter sadness of the thought that she would never know them.

Rose only agreed to the journey because Sienna knew of a man, ancient of days, who lived in Par Kluhnd. Not many of the Dannan remembered how to cross into the Other World, but Sienna had heard that this man knew the secret. So Rose agreed to go to Par Kluhnd. Not because the promise of the throne drew her, indeed, she didn’t believe she was – didn’t want to be – who everyone claimed she was. Her purpose in going to Par Kluhnd was to find this man. To learn how to go home. But in going to Par Kluhnd, once there, she would have to sit with her feet on the Stone of Knowledge, which has ever cried out at the touch of the true king or queen.

Before they began their journey, Scaythach, head of the horse women, made a solemn vow to the lost girl: ‘If with my hands or my horse I can serve you, I will. If with my life I can protect you, I will gladly give it. You have the word of this woman of the horse.’ And all of the horse women spoke the same pledge.

They rode for many days northward through the great Forest of Fid Mor. You sit now at its southern end, very near to Heartland Field. The Lost Girl and the horse women rode for a fortnight and only then did they draw close to its northern edge. One day, before their path led them out of the forest and into the Plains of Mag Midi beyond, they sought news from the leshies, those long-lived guardians of the wood who look much like yourselves, but who can take the shape of anything that lives in their forest.

That is when Parth the leshy first laid eyes on Rose, and his world was forever changed. He and his father warned the horse women of a vicious manticore that had been prowling the western borders of their forest. The beast had only recently headed north and then eastward, into the plains.

The next time Rose and Parth set eyes on each other was late on her first night in the green-golden Plains of Mag Midi. She awoke to find Parth perched as an owl on her saddle bags.

He had volunteered to leave the forest, a rare thing for a leshy to do, and find the horse women to warn them. Men, armed and hostile, had been spotted marching westward through the plains, toward them. Parth then did an even rarer thing. Having found the horse women and Rose, he stayed with them.

Crossing the plains would take a week. They set a northward course toward the Bruighall Mountains and the pass that would lead them through the foothills and into the Valley of Par Kluhnd. Thinking of what they might meet along the way, Scaythach began to train Rose each evening in the arts of the sword, the spear, and the bow.

Each morning over breakfast, and each night over dinner Parth and Rose talked. They became friends. And each day, in the form of a hawk, Parth scoured the plains for sight of the armed men. The horse women and Rose thought Parth brave to leave his forest and search the open plains on their behalf. Parth later said that what he did had nothing to do with bravery and everything to do with Rose.

The leaves of the large oak, rustled gently, as if whispering something to the fairies that the others could not hear.

And so, one day, the last they would spend in the plains, Parth sped back midmorning from his search with the news that he had spotted the armed men. Heavily armed they were indeed, and their numbers outstripped the horse women by nearly two to one. Their pace was swift and they would reach the pass by the Shrine of the Spear of Louk by early evening – the horse women’s very destination for the night.

The shrine stands where the plains end and the foothills begin, by the pass leading into the Valley of Par Kluhnd. In these times you know it as the Shrine of Healing, or the Shrine of Hope. But in that day, it was called the Shrine of the Spear of Louk, built to protect his mighty spear.

The legendary Spear of Louk. Only he or his mother, Queen Brigit, could ever wield it. Always it was retrieved by its user, and always it struck its mark. He hurled it one last time before he died. From the highest foothill in the pass he heaved the spear. It landed where the plains and the foothills merge, and sank deep into the earth.

There the spear remained, for none had the power to retrieve it, though many tried. It was said that the one who could retrieve the spear would sit on the empty throne in Par Kluhnd. A protective shrine was built around it, and on this day the shrine was the destination of the horse women.

Realizing that the armed men planned an ambush there, the horse women and Rose rode at a blistering pace to reach the pass first. Scaythach positioned her women to surprise the armed men when they arrived. Then she guided Rose over to the shrine with a guard of women and Parth, instructing them all to take shelter in the shrine if the ensuing battle drew close. She explained to Rose that there were always spears stuck in the ground in the shrine, their owners hoping the Spear of Louk would impart the gift of accuracy to their own weapons. She told Rose to use one if necessary and trust to her fledgling skills. Then she left to direct the encounter with the armed men.

Rose and Parth went to rest under an enormous tree that grew not far from the shrine. No sooner were they under the tree’s crown than Parth put out an arm to stop Rose. ‘What?’ she asked. On the ground before them was the print from a massive paw. ‘There is a manticore in this tree,’ Parth said. ‘Run to the shrine, Rose – NOW!’

The listeners jumped.

Rose turned to run. A guttural screech filled her ears. Branches, leaves and twigs rained down as a manticore, sleek and crimson, leaped from the tree and onto the path before her running feet. It bared its teeth in a snarl and swiped its razor-sharp claws to catch her.

Parth took the form of a wolf, black and terrible. Leaping, wolf and beast met in a dreadful clash. Rose’s heart, pounding as she ran, nearly stopped at the piercing cry of a defeated wolf. Her swift feet carried her into the shrine, the beast close behind. Rose reached, sensing the creature spring into the air, she tugged a spear from the grasp of the earth, swung the tip behind her, and knelt, bracing herself and the weapon for the creature’s assault.

The beast slammed into young Rose, who knelt, head down. But no carnage ensued. The powerful sinews, puncturing teeth and ripping claws of the manticore were all for naught. The creature perished instantly upon the upturned spear braced at Rose’s side. The wounds she received and carried with her for the rest of her life were from teeth and claws that merely grazed her as the beast crumpled upon her in death.

But Parth… out of the shrine Rose stumbled to find him. Though he lay slumped upon the ground, he stood at the door of death, horrible wounds, terrible gashes, draining him of his purple-blue blood. It was then that the armed men arrived. They found not a deserted pass in which to lay an ambush, but a company of fierce horse women waiting for them. As a battle raged around her, Rose knelt, holding Parth’s hand.

Healers did what they could for his wounds. Finally, Parth whispered to Rose that he would turn into a tree. As a tree he might have a chance to heal. Rose, Sienna, and the healers carried him gently to a small stream by the shrine. With the last of his energy, and with Rose supporting him, Parth turned into a tree. An oak, with pale, falling leaves and marks about its trunk and branches as if it had been attacked by crazed woodmen.

Rose sat by the tree and wept.

When at last Scaythach sent women to chase after the remnants of the enemy running in scattered retreat over the plains, she learned of the manticore attack. The men had been the dreaded Feymaer, invaders from the sea, and the manticore had no doubt been sent by them, trained to do their bidding.

Three women Rose had spent the past many weeks with lay dead upon the plains. They had pledged to her their lives and their protection. At first Rose had thought the horse women crazy to make such a pledge. But she knew them now as some of the finest people she had ever known, and three of them had just given their lives for her.

Scaythach led Rose back into the shrine. The beast lay sprawled in a mass of crimson fur and blood. Rose wanted to turn away, but Scaythach spoke, ‘That was some spear work. No one here could have done what you did with that spear.’

Rose knew this wasn’t so, ‘Anyone could have done what I did.’

‘No,’ Scaythach replied, ‘This is the Spear of Louk.’

Rose knew at that moment that she would not be going home. She knew that when she rode into Par Kluhnd she would be greeted as queen. When she put her feet on the Stone of Knowledge it would cry out at her touch. Three women had just died for her, and Parth …

Eris wiped at a tear she hoped no one would notice. She knew this story, but a different version. One filled with fairies and magical beings, and a very small skirmish with a few mean men that had been but a blip on a grand adventure to the beautiful city of Par Kluhnd. It had never been told to her like this before. Perhaps not wanting to scare her sister, Rose had left out or glossed over what now seemed to be the most important parts. The parts revealing that there were complexities involved in her decision to stay in Shey.

Young Rose, the Lost Girl, slept curled at the foot of the ailing tree that night with the Spear of Louk quivering in the ground beside her. At dawn she stood with the horse women as they laid their three companions to rest. She watched as messengers galloped south over the plains toward the forest to find Parth’s father and tell him the news of his son. She then took up the Spear of Louk and rode with Scaythach at the head of the horse women as they entered the pass that led to the Valley of Par Kluhnd.

The listeners watched the fairies portraying Rose and the horse women ‘ride’ into the distance, and then turned again to their fairy narrator. He bowed. Thus ends this part of the story.

“No!” one woman protested, the same who had not wanted to be kept too late. “We want to hear more!”

“Tell us about the Stone of Knowledge!” cried another.

“Did she ever find the old man?” asked one.

“Why didn’t she go back to her family?” asked the man in the feathered hat.

This was the very question that had never once left Eris’ thoughts over her many sisterless years. Now, however, she understood a little better that Rose’s decision had not been a frivolous one based on wanting to live in a world with fairies instead of with her family. Some of the hardness and hurt and secret anger she had harbored against Rose over the years began to soften, as if preparing to melt away.

Finally, people began to say goodnight, thanking the fairies for the tale, and with lanterns in hand, headed down the trail toward the town. Soon only Dashell and Eris stood amongst the glowing fairies by the dying fire.

“There is someone I would like you to meet,” Dashell said.

Eris peered into the fairy-speckled darkness. “Who?” she asked.

Dashell walked up to the large oak. In the dying light of the fire Eris noticed ugly, healed-over scars criss-crossing the tree’s trunk.

“Great-Grandfather,” Dashell said, “I have come back from the Other World, and Eris, Great-Grandmother’s sister, has come with me.”

Eris blinked. The tree disappeared and in its stead stood a man, not old, and yet not young. He had green, tousled hair, a trim, mossy beard, and his skin bore a slight bluish tint. His green eyes, clear and piercing, held hers.

“Eris, I’m Parth,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m so very glad you’ve come. Will you be staying long in the Lands of Shey?”

Eris’s heart swelled. Everyone from the story hadn’t passed away. Parth was here, Rose’s husband, standing right in front of her! She remembered now Rose telling her that leshies live to a mind boggling age. A warm smile spread over her face. “I’m here at least until the next festival night, but I’m thinking that perhaps I’ll stay a bit longer.”

As Dashell looked on, and with tears in her eyes, Eris wrapped her arms around her sister’s husband.

Parth embraced her. “Good,” he said, “We have much to talk about.”

First Post

Hi!

I do a little bit of writing. I've created this blog to share some of my things. Short stories mostly. If you happen upon this blog and stay to read something, thank you. And I hope you enjoy what you come across.