Spring Equinox

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Registered :: Thu March 29 21:49:31 UTC 2012
Title :: Spring Equinox
Category :: Literature
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MCN :: CE9K4-PFH5G-DD37M

Loud jeers erupted from the men in the crowded town tavern when its youngest acquired member hit the bull’s eye with a single dart, granting him a round of drinks from the men crowded around him. The older and more experienced generation kept a watchful eye on the younger men of the town who were also celebrating their acceptance of manhood in the tavern to keep them in line. George Walker was jostled slightly against his bar stool by one of the celebrating men and tried to close the space between him and the bar as much as he could as to not be in the way. He covered one of his ears with a large, square hand to block out some of the racket, while the other gripped his mug. His knuckles turned slightly pale from the strength of his still, steady, tight grip that came from years of laboring on a farm and in a blacksmith shop.

The jeers died down to the more normal, low level of sounds and buzz of the tavern. It was only occasionally that there was an outburst that rose up from the crowd. George swished the liquid in his mug for a moment and brought it to his lips; he paused and gave a heavy sigh, setting it back down. He ran a weathered hand through his pepper grey hair, his thoughts consuming him once more.

“George,”

He blinked and looked up to see the owner of the big, brass familiar voice, “Louie,” he greeted, “Your tavern’s busy tonight. By far the most famous bar in all of East Sussex, if not England.”

“George . . .” Louie said again, pointedly eyeing the mug in the old man’s hand, “This is yer-”

“Third. I only just started on it.”

“Normally I’d let you have more. But ye know what the weather’s looked like today. We’re in for a storm, and it’s getting t’ be late. An’ ye live a mighty fair distance away from the town, not like these blutered’s ‘ere.” Louie scratched at his graying, red beard thoughtfully before adding, “Snow storm this late in the season, and it’s un-natural. I’m a might worried abou’ ye gettin’ home. Seein’ as ye’ve got no one that would be able t’ come t’ look fer ye if’n somethin’ happened. Something strange is goin’ about with the happenings of this weather I tell ya.”

“Oh, come off it Lou! No one wants to hear about your witchin’ stories tonight. We’ve got young lads in here for the very first time. You don’t want to scare them away with your Fae legends, do you?” A gentleman in his late thirties gave George a nod as he set his glass down for another shot.

“Adam Benjamin Grizzwald, I tell ye! Ye dunnae know nuthin’! Ye aven’t been ‘round long enough to hear some of the things I ‘ave.” Louie obliged him anyways and filled his glass, “The Fae have had plenty going-on’s with this town. I’m not the only one who believes in them.”

This statement caught the attention of a few other men in the bar and caused a debate over the existence of such beings. Any form of a fairy was said to bring bad luck because they were mischievous little creatures. Yet others said they went around doing well and were a people of art and craft. George didn’t know what to think or believe about the idea, all he knew was that if they existed, they had not ever come around to help him.

“I think you’re right, Louie,” George interrupted the big bar keep and slid his mug across the bar to him. “Whether or not mystical beings have anything to do with this storm you say is coming on, I find myself not wanting to be caught in it.”

As George waded his way through the tavern and reached for his coat and lantern, he couldn’t help but overhear the murmurings around him. “Poor old man, lost his wife quite a few years ago—“

“Heard it was pneumonia—“

“Tore the family apart after that—“

“Can’t blame him. A man throws himself into his work after losing someone as sweet as Mary was,”

“But his kids, Ned, they needed ‘im.”

“Had to provide—“

“Still lost his—“

“Same way too,”

George slammed the thick oak door behind him, blocking out the last of the conversation and the warm light from inside. Darkness and a chill wind fluttered around him. The only lights that could be seen were those of other homes and shopes. Where the lights could not reach, eerie shadows hung thick in the air and patterned themselves on the icy and muddy road in a foreboding manner. George shivered against the small rise in the chill wind and tightened his wool scarf securely around his neck. The wind was cold and sharp, the night sky foreboding as light from the heavens could not penetrate the thick clouds that hung ominously overhead that twisted and churned, threatening to spill over with the predicted storm.

“Yep . . . going to be a white night . . .” he muttered to himself as he fumbled for his matches to light his lantern. He struggled with the flame for a moment, but finally persuaded it to stay lit. “You get to be my guiding light tonight, seeing as there are no stars.” He told the little glowing emblem gently as he sheltered its fragile form. He had grown accustomed to speaking to inanimate objects over the last ten years of living alone.

He was stiff from having sat so long, but he made his way steadily through the town streets. Louie’s tavern was the closest to the edge of town, so it really wouldn’t be all that far or hard to make it to his home. It was quite a distance away from the town, but he preferred it that way now; the solitude had been his companion for many years. He was still strong and browned from his work as a blacksmith and life on a farm. He was independent and stubborn, and the walk still was not enough to wear him out. He also knew the path well enough that he probably could have made it without the help of his lantern.

The journey home gave him plenty of time to think, not that he hadn’t done enough of that earlier. The men’s lingering words rang in his ears like the faded echo of a drum. If only he hadn’t have been so foolish. He thought that by somehow working hard in both of his jobs that he would be able to forget his pain, or not feel it. But that wasn’t the case. He threw himself too deeply into his work, so much that it had cost him the loss of his family. The image of his son’s infuriated face was burned into his mind. All the loss he could see there, the hurt, pain and even betrayal.

After his wife, Mary, had died, George had left his family for work and to forget the pain. But he forgot about his family a too well. He wasn’t there for them when they needed him most. His son, Peter, had been newly married just before his wife had died, and George had left him to take care of the family. It had been on a night much like this one that it happened. Anna, his youngest daughter of his three children had contracted pneumonia, just like his wife had. It had scared George to death. He couldn’t face her or his family without lashing out at them from his constant worry and pain over loosing someone else so close to his heart. He couldn’t bear to watch her suffer, and at that time he had no money to call for a doctor.

The week that Anna had gotten sick, he’d left his sons, Robert and Peter, to look after her while he was away to work at the blacksmith shop in town. He had been staying late every night getting ahead on extra projects so he wouldn’t have to face the problems and Anna’s sickness he felt he could not fix at home. He also hoped to be able to get more money coming in to help pay doctor bills. Anna was every bit like her mother, fragile and delicate in every aspect.  The fact that she had the same illness as her late mother made going back home every night almost un-bearable.

The night that Anna had died, Peter had sent Robert to his shop twice to try to get him to come home. By the time he had finally been able to make it home through the belated blizzard that had come, it was too late to have helped Anna. Harsh and bitter words crossed between the three men of the household, especially between George and Peter. George still couldn’t forgive himself for the way he had treated his family and things he had said. Worse still, Peter’s words of him being a coward still stung every time he thought of them. Peter had left in outrage, Robert following the lead of his eldest brother. Since, he’d had little or no contact from the both of them unless it was urgent.

A solitary light up ahead distracted him momentarily from his dark thoughts, just as the first of the heavy and thick snowflakes started to fall. Even though it was his little house, it was void of any real warmth the fire still flickering inside provided. Before he entered, he made sure to stop outside at the shed he had built for his fire wood supply and gather a number of large pieces in his arms to the point where he could carry no more and still hold his lantern. As soon as he had managed his way through his threshold, he dropped his heavy load of wood onto the floor. He turned his attention to the still open door and forced it shut against the now howling wind. He let out a low whistle to himself and set about lighting the candles and lanterns around his home.

As soon as he was finished, he threw in a couple of extra logs to the hungry flames of his fire place. George was glad that he had kept his fire safely blazing in the grate before he’d left. Though he had only been away a few hours, his home would have been frozen inside had he only left it with embers to burn out.

He hung his bulky woolen coat over the back of his favorite wooden chair and then sat down in front of the now giddy fire to warm his hands and the rest of his body. “If only I could go back and fix things . . .” he lamented to his fire, “Everything would be alright now . . . and we’d all be happy here, together . . . we’d be able to start over. Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asked. A few sizzles and pops from the fire devouring the wood was the only response he got before he drifted off into a heavy sleep, just as the snow storm started.

George woke with a start and a slight shiver from the frigid night air that somehow managed to creep its way into the room. Still slightly dazed, George added more wood to the fire to get it blazing again as he tried to piece together the odd sound he thought he had heard. It had to be well past two in the morning. He strained his ears against the bravado of the wind and snow, but heard nothing.

Just as he was about to settle back into his chair, too tired to make it to his bed, he heard the sound again, much closer and much louder. “Crows . . .” he said in surprise recognizing the shrill cries outside. He wondered how he could even hear them over the raging snow storm. Whatever manner of beast dared to brave this storm gave George the feeling that something was wrong. He instantly went to his cupboard where he kept his guns and pulled out his old 13 mm. musket, just in case. He peered out his window for a moment, but with the snow and light reflecting on the waved glass it was hard to see anything. He put on his heavy coat and took up his lantern, bracing himself against the door and the cold.

He tore open his front door and for a moment could see nothing but snow and dark silhouettes of the outlying wood. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and decipher the darker images swirling outside in his front yard before he realized there was a murder of crows. All of them were diving and swooping at something he could not explain. It was so small and so beautiful and full of light that he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Perhaps he really had too much to drink earlier at Louie’s. The crows were so focused on their prey that they hadn’t taken any notice of George. He held up his light to see better, but he still couldn’t make out the rosy porcelain figure that had been forced to the ground and reduced to swatting at the crows whenever they came close to her. They were all swooping and swirling around her, blotting out her figure and little glow from George’s view.

The being was obviously female. He hadn’t ever seen anything like her, and the best word he could think to describe her as was that she was a Fae. He shook his head violently, trying to clear it from the illusion before him, but it would not go away. He took a step back, ready to dart back into the safety of his warm home and away from the madness. Could it really be a Fae folk? He wondered to himself, but he was already raising his gun to his shoulder. Fae or not, ill-willed or not, or however full of bad luck this being was, he could not let such a beautiful creature be attacked, or worse, killed while he stood by idly.

The gunshot echoed in his ears against the ice cold stillness of the snow that drifted in flurries. The crows shot back and darted in alarm for a moment in sudden surprise. It wasn’t a shock to George that he hadn’t hit a single crow, but it almost made him angry that he hadn’t at least hit one out of sheer, dumb luck. He drew a bullet from his pocket that he had taken from his gun cabinet and shoved it into place, not even bothering with the powder like he should have. Hopefully it wouldn’t damage his gun, but it was meant more to scare the crows away than to kill them. He trudged his way through the snow and shot into the air as the crows tried to return. To his satisfaction, this time he somehow hit a mark. He winced at the damage, but kept going.

When he reached the being, she was curled up tightly on one side, her arms up over her head and knees tucked tightly into her chest. She looked injured, her watery dress was slightly torn and her flowing auburn hair strewn about her from the crows grabbing at it.

He didn’t have more time to study her though as the crows started crying wildly to each other. He could sense their anger was directed at him this time. Before he could change his mind, he scooped the Fae up and cradled her tiny form against his chest and lumbered back to his house as quickly as his legs could carry him. He reached his house just in time as the crows came after him. One of them nicked him on the side of his head. George let out a yelp and waved his gun in the air, managing to hit the culprit. Then he was through his front door before the birds could do anything else. Turning sharply, he bolted it shut for extra measure. The birds cawed and shrieked at the door as they pelted it with their beaks and talons in a useless, but vicious, attempt to get inside. Some even started rapping their sharp beaks against a few of his windows.

Infuriated, George set the fairy down on his chair where her little chilled frame could be closest to the fire and get warm. He started moving about shutting all the drapes his wife had made from extra bed sheets so long ago to try to brighten up the small rooms of their home. He made a ‘tsk!’ noise as he felt his right ear and the blood on it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough of a scratch to annoy him. In his upset state, he felt eyes on him and turned around to see the Fae’s large, violet eyes staring up at him. He balked slightly and quickly set down his gun, knowing that the crows couldn’t get inside unless they wanted to burn themselves on the way down his chimney.

George was at a loss for what to say or if the fairy would even understand him. She startled him by speaking first.

“Why did you rescue me?” Her voice was like trickling water or a bubbling stream.

George stared, unable to speak for a moment. “Because . . . I wasn’t going to let you die. It wasn’t proper.” He told her bluntly. Then he quickly added, “Are you harmed?”

The little being shook her head in answer; then sat up to face him better and George slowly took a seat, looking over at the now silent door save the swirling snow, “Proper . . .” she said it so quietly George wasn’t sure if he had even heard her speak. “I thank you. I owe you my life. I’m obligated to repay you for rescuing me. You did not have to.”

It was George’s turn to repeat her words this time, “Obligated? Why should you be obligated? I would have done that for anyone.”

“Then you are a kind man.” She told him. He felt heat rush to his face, and he felt that she was wrong before she continued in answering him, “And obligated because it is a Fae’s law. If something is done for you, you must repay the deed back in full. It keeps balance. You’ve left me with a full debt.”

George wasn’t sure he understood completely, but he didn’t want her to feel like she had to pay him back for saving her life. A constant tap rang on the door for a moment before finally ceasing again. “The crows won’t be gone until dawn, and they’ll be out there all night, trying to keep me from leaving. And Sira is relentless enough that she will not give up so easily,” she commented.

“Sira?” George asked, suddenly very confused and worried that he’d gotten himself into something that he did not want to be mixed up in.

The Fae looked up at him and tilted her heart shaped face to one side, her strawberry blonde hair rippled over her long lavender dress, revealing long slender and pointed ears. Everything about her was long and drawn out, yet perfectly proportionate and delicate; she couldn’t have been more than a third of a meter. “Yenearsira. She is my sister. I’m afraid that I have offended her, in more ways than one that I would not like to speak of. And you humans are paying the price for it by this awfully long winter.”

George pondered on this a moment and then asked, “So your sister . . . is the cause for this long winter? She sent that murder after you too?”

“Yes. Crows are very strong during the winter season. Climate doesn’t bother them as much as it would any other creature.” The Fae could tell that the man before her wanted more information, so she sighed and said, “Sira is the Fae of the winter, more specifically to you humans, the winter solstice. All of my three sisters and I represent a solstice or equinox. We bring about the change to your world in what you know as seasons.”

George could tell that was all the information she was going to give him before he spoke again or asked another question. “So . . . what solstice then are you? Or who are you?”

The fairy pursed her lips and answered, “You ask many questions.” She stated, though George thought she sounded bemused, “We normally don’t associate with your kind.” George didn’t know whether or not he should take that as a compliment. “However,” she continued, “Since you risked your life to save mine, I am indebted to you. What we Fae do is starting to affect you humans. This can pay for at least part of my debt; a name is a powerful thing. My name is Sheelala. You may call me Sheela. I bring the spring equinox.”

George couldn’t help but feel the sadness and irony within his own past as he told her who he was. “I am George Walker.” He told her evenly.

“Yes, I know. I know much if not everything about you. Don’t be alarmed by that, Fae can just read humans easily.” She said softly wrapping her arms around herself again.

George was at a loss for a response yet again, this little being had a tendency to do that to him. The fight between the two sisters more than explained the odd weather and why the birds had come after her. But he didn’t know what the fight was about or why she was here. Though the idea that Louie had been right about the Fae folk having something to do with the weather made him want to laugh. As if reading his mind she said, “I can sense your emotions, much like reading your thoughts.” She told him, “And the fight was over my ‘irresponsibility’. Sira doesn’t think that I’m worthy to change the season, for mine is one of the most important.” She scoffed at the thought, her slender brows furrowed.

“Why is that?”

“Because spring represents a change in all things, a new beginning, life, birth, all of it is connected to spring.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was trying to prove her wrong, show her that I could handle it just as I have been for countless years. However, we argued with each other upon my departure, and she’s been trying to stop me from giving the first touch of spring. She’s the eldest. So for me to have disobeyed her is a very serious thing. It sounds as if she is very cross with me.” She noted at the increased howl of the wind,

George couldn’t help but feel that Sheela was right. “The ‘first touch of spring’, what is that?” George felt oddly at ease with this small being. He didn’t know why after all the horrible rumors he had heard about them even from that day. There was something about her that made him curious and filled his heart with a new kind of hope that he hadn’t felt for a long time, something about her that brought warmth into his home.

“The first touch of spring is the first part of life that I get to create after the winter season. The first flower, the first blade of grass, it can be anything really. Sira is trying to stop me from doing this.” She explained to him.

George paused for a moment before asking, “Your sister truly would not have taken your life, would she?”

“No. Of course not. But she would have taken life from me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sheela stood and calmly stretched out her hand, in it appeared the smallest and most elegant glass staff George had ever seen. It looked as if it had been formed from the morning dew, and glittered as such. “This is the key to my change of season. Without it, I cannot place life into anything that I create. This is what the crows were trying to take from me and what Sira wants. I just have to show her I can do this. If I do not, then my powers will be revoked and likely passed to another. I don’t want that. This gift of spring is and should be mine alone.”

Sheela looked very wise to George, as if she had seen the creation of time. She seemed defined through her wisdom, but there was a light and bubbly feeling that radiated from her as if she were but a child out searching for adventure. Yet he had no doubt the fairy was who she said and that she brought about the spring. There was a determined nature about her as well, a want to prove herself to her siblings, to be equal to them. “Then I will help you.” George told her, “What kind of man would I be if I did not?”

Sheela smiled, “Not much of one at all. But I fear with the crows standing guard outside that I will not be able to finish my task. I have until dawn to complete it or I will be forced to give up my rights as the spring solstice; and my time is almost up. Night gives us a stronger connection to the world than the daytime does, and there is less of a threatening chance that someone who would wish to harm us will see us. Unless we can stop this snow . . . winter will be very long this year I fear. This situation does not only affect me.” The wind and snow had died down considerably, and outside the window the sky was greyer than the midnight black it had been earlier and the snow came in light drifts, but it still had not stopped completely and was enough to keep Sheela at bay.

For a moment George felt despair well up inside of him at the thought of never being able to have another spring, all over a silly family fight. The thought took him back for a moment, making him think about his own family and how long it had been since he had last seen them. Then he had an idea that could change things. “What if you could accomplish it without having to be outside?’ He retrieved a pot from his windowsill he kept as a keepsake that looked like it had not been moved in years before turning back and presenting it to her, it was still filled with dirt “Before my wife died, she would sometimes grow flowers of all sorts inside of this small pot. Perhaps this is all it will take to end this winter.”

Sheela looked at him curiously, and then said, “You do too much for someone you don’t know.”

“I think that everyone deserves to have winter end, this may be our last chance before we’re stuck with winter for too long.”

“What of your winter?” she asked him, “Will you let it end?”

Before George could answer, she held out her staff in a curious little manner and touched it to the dry dirt in the pot, surprising him yet again when inside the little pot was the beginning of some kind of plant, a thread of green already protruding out of the suddenly fresh and moist soil. He looked at her in astonishment, surprised once again to see that something about her had also changed. Her dress was covered in the smallest and daintiest of pansies and she wore an elegantly crafted circlet of silver flowers threaded through her hair so delicate and intricate that no man could have created such a work of art. George had never believed in the Fae or in magic, but here before him, this small being was proving everything he had thought wrong. Carefully setting the plant down in the middle of the floor, George took his seat beside her again as the fairy relished in the sight of the small spark of life growing before her.

“I am sorry I did not warn you. You may not have seen anything but a small bud and leaf appear, but magic is a powerful thing to behold.” She told him, “You are truly a strange man, George Walker.” Sheela told him, “That is twice you have done something for me, yet you have asked for nothing in return.” She paused for a moment, “As many of your stories and legends tell of Fae beings, we can grant wishes, and I feel it is the only thing that I can give you in return for what you have done for me.”

George still couldn’t believe that he had been associating with a fairy all night, he couldn’t imagine asking anything from her, but already he knew his answer to her, “There is only one thing that I could ever wish for in this life again. I want to mend things with my family. Could you grant that wish?”

Sheela sat silently the whole while, pondering for a moment, her answer that she gave him was one of simplicity, “I cannot grant that wish, for you are already on the path of granting it yourself. You want your family back, George, and you’re already willing to do anything for them. Magic cannot restore or heal the human heart like emotion and forgiveness can.

Besides, I am in the middle of a family struggle just like you. I cannot grant you something I do not know how to solve myself. But I can promise you this: Spring is the chance to start over at the beginning, it is the chance to turn over a new leaf and put the cold past behind you. That is why my job is so important. It is not only the idea of new life, but of a new hope.”

George, however, felt slightly disappointed at the idea that his wish couldn’t be granted by a snap of her fingers, but he understood what she wanted him to do. Sheela smiled at him just as the dawn light was coming through his window and parting the clouds, casting vanilla shadows across the cabin.

“George, you have given me the same opportunity to change and start anew that I am now giving you. It’s up to you what you decide to do from here on out. Since I cannot give you the gift you desire, and because your family is so important to you, I want to bless you with this gift for either path you choose. I bless your family with strength and posterity. You don’t have to be alone, but the choice is always up to you.” She said the last few words just as dawn came up over the small town of Sussex.