Glenhollow and The Beauty
A memory of a Day of Fall, Year 199, and the morning of the 63rd Day of Spring, Year 218
The brisk autumn wind blows softly through the old pear grove causing the canopy of leaves to shudder and dance. Their seasonal transformation has already begun as the foliage turns from tints and shades of green towards yellows, oranges, and deep reds. Some ripe fruit has already fallen to the ground … much to Ringo’s chagrin, but to the delight of the local insect population.
“I should have started picking sooner,” Ringo mumbles with a furrowed brow. He prods the fallen fruit with his big toe causing it to roll as ants, beetles and flies flee from their breakfast in alarm.
Ringo stretches then scampers up the nearest tree in a flash, jumping from branch to branch with an agility and ease that could only accompany the fearless invincibility of youth. His wild mop of auburn hair bursts through the leaves on the top of the tree as he leaps up through the limbs, reaching up and touching a bit of sky before deftly landing among the treetops. He can see all of Glenhollow in the mid-morning light from the top of this thirty foot tall old pear tree … his tree. The town square, the houses on the hillside, the mountains beyond. They’re all part of his childhood kingdom.
The cool wind blows through his hair and he lets out a wild laugh with his arms outstretched. He allows himself to slowly lean back, and then falls. The leaves and limbs begin to rush by him in a blur as he descends, whistling softly he deftly snatches ripe pears on his way down, one, two, half a dozen. Ringo turned nine years old today, and his world is perfect.
THUMP! He catches himself with the back of his knee on the lowest hanging branch, and dangles upside down with his arms full of ripe fruit. One by one he places the pears into the basket a few inches below his head.
A pair of fine leather shoes come into view beside the basket just as Ringo drops in the last pear. Startled, he falls the short distance from the limb he was hanging on and lands flat on his back.
“Uff-war-chirp-ble” he exclaims as the wind is knocked out of him. “Ugh, hey … hey Uncle Jin.”
“Hey sprout.” Jin said with a chuckle. “If you keep pulling stunts like that you’re going to break something one day.” The sharp dressed halfling pushed his square framed glasses up the bridge of his nose, straightened the tie at the center of his tweed suit, and placed a small leatherbound notebook into his coat pocket before offering Ringo his hand. “Take a break. Let’s walk the grove’s path, and listen to the trees.” Jin smiled gently, his piercing deep grey-green eyes looking down at the boy. Somehow those eyes always looked all-knowing and confused at the same time, and it was confoundingly reassuring. Ringo jumped to his feet. Uncle Jin tousled the child’s hair, and hefted him onto one shoulder. They walked the path … quiet enough to listen. To truly hear anything, you have to embrace the silence …
The deck of the Beauty was silent in the pre-dawn twilight. Silent except for the soft patter of Warbler’s feet as made his way to the box. He sat beside it slowly; using his staff to help lower himself as the joints of his twisted left hip and knee creaked and popped from the effort.
“Hey, I um … I saw something, while I was a lobster … long story … and it got me thinking. Those fangs, beaks, and, well whatever you’re transforming those snakes into. It’s just …
“It’s just that everyone assumes you’re a monster, and up until a few months ago I thought … I, I assumed that witches were monsters. They eat children, and turn you into a newt, and all that, and how would I know any different until I met them, right? Until I saw them fighting Swans, and found out they were heroes, but not like storybook heroes, more flawed than that. I might even be a witch, y’know? At least that’s what the others seem to think. I mean …
“What I’m trying to say is that WE’RE not monsters, at least I don’t think we are; even though we were scared and put you in that box, and it is a horrible place, that box. One of our friends was locked in there for … well, for too long.”
Warbler lets out a long sigh, clears his throat and says confidently, “Ahem, what I really wanted to say is that I’m here to listen.” He spoke in a voice that sounded more like rustling leaves than syllables and consonants.
Warbler sat in silence, feeling foolish, but that was a familiar feeling. He knew how to be the fool.
Episode navigation
Back to: