Original published in Crow Toes Quarterly, a now defunct magazine.
Once upon a time, in a small house on a quiet street, with a big oak tree and robin’s-egg-blue shutters, there lived a little girl. She was no more than ten and no less than five, and she loved her mother and her aunt and her grandmother, and they all lived together in the small house with the robin’s-egg-blue shutters.
The little girl loved to dance and she loved to sing and she loved to play, but most of all she loved to run and she loved to climb. She knew every branch of her old oak tree, and made friends with every leaf and twig.
She would sit with her mother as her mother made the morning meal, but soon her legs would itch and twitch to run, run, run. “Be still,” her mother would say, and she would try, but soon the oak would call and off she would go, running through the house and out the door and up, up, up that big tall trunk.
She would lie with her aunt and listen to stories, but soon her fingers would clamber and clench to be off and climb, climb, climb. “Be still,” her aunt would chide her, and she would try, but soon the sky would whisper and off she would go, jumping from the couch and bounding down the steps and up, up, up that big tall trunk.
She would stand as her grandmother brushed her soft curls, but soon her soul would ache and call to go up, up, up. “Be still,” her grandmother would warn her, and she would try, but soon the world would beckon and off she would go, twisting from between her grandmother’s fingers and stealing out of the house and up, up, up that big tall trunk.
One night, when the moon was full and the stars were blinking in a black blanket of night, the little girl heard a sound from her old oak tree. In bed she lay, sleep dripping from her mind like cobwebs, and again she heard the sound. “Be still,” she heard her mother’s voice say, but instead she went, out of her room and down the stairs to the locked front door. She opened it and peered outside. “Be still,” she heard her aunt’s voice chide, but instead she went, out the door and into the dark where shapes were stirring. At the end of her driveway with the oak above her head, she looked down her quiet street and saw a sight that stole her breath. A hunt. Men whose beauty struck her heart like ice, and women with eyes of diamond and hair of waterfalls. Horses made from shadow and moonlight, fairy servants blinking like fireflies in the dark. They saw her. “Be still,” she heard her grandmother’s voice warn, but instead she ran. Ran to her old oak tree and up, up, up that big tall trunk.
She did not run fast enough, climb high enough. With a twist and a snap of their fingers they plucked her from the oak’s safe grip, and as she watched they wove leaves and twigs, made branches shape and change until a girl stood before her. A little girl, no more than ten and no less than five. “Be still,” the Hunt whispered to the little thing of twigs and branches, and then they took the little girl, into the blanket of stars and past the Hedge that separates the worlds.
In a small house, on a quiet street, with a big oak tree and robin’s-egg-blue shutters, there lives a little girl. She is no more than ten and no less than five, and she loves her mother and her aunt and her grandmother, and they all live together in the small house with the robin’s-egg-blue shutters. While her mother makes the morning meal, she is still. While her aunt tells her stories, she still. While her grandmother brushes her soft curls, she is still. But sometimes, instead of hairs caught in the spines of the hairbrush, her grandmother finds twigs and leaves.