Skie and Avery
12-21-14, 10:16 PM
The fire was dying in the hearth when Agatha Mireton leaned over it. Her gaunt face was wrought with lines of both laughter and worry, and her spine was bent from more weight than any person should have to carry in 26 years. She pulled the grey threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders so it wouldn’t drape over the glowing coals. She stirred them with an iron shovel, knowing there was flame needed tonight. Her voice came as a whisper, as quiet as the steady breathing of the children piled on the single mattress of the one room dirt floor shack. As her voice fumbled over an ancient incantation and her hands worked a few sparks from the pit before her, the fire flared and brought light to the room.
Beside her on the floor, a fine woven basket with an ivory handle sat filled with summer berries. They had been expensive to come by in the middle of the winter, when the cold wind blew in from under the door and snow threatened to spill from grey clouds. Now was the time of year when the sunlight came at a premium and Agatha’s services as a washer woman were used less. The longer it took for clothes to dry, the more it seemed people were willing to walk around in dirty britches. It was something Agatha was used to, but the children asked questions. Now that they were getting older and asking the kind of questions that made them believe less and less in Father Winter and the gifts that he seemed to bring to all children except for them, Agatha had gotten desperate. It didn’t help that a deep cough had settled in to her chest, and every day she felt her heart pound harder, the phlegm she coughed up growing darker with a rusty hue. For the last Christmas they had a mother, Agatha was sure that it would be one filled with magic. Proper magic, even – the kind she’d read about. She hadn’t understood all of the words, but she had found enough to cobble together a plan.
Plunging her fingers into the berry basket, Agatha felt the yielding flesh of the fruit as she scooped and squeezed as much as she could. The blueberries gave most easily, and her palm was wet with juice when she flung her hand into the hearth, causing the coal to sputter and sizzle. Her incantation said, the offering placed, she waited. She didn’t have to wait long before the smoke from the burning berries began to curl and waft around her. It seemed to snake down her hand, embracing the dark stains on her hands, a tendril lingering before the fog dissipated. Where it had stayed, there now lay a being. The sprite was vaguely humanoid, a face and arms and hair and shoulders that seemed to move downward in somewhat of a bodily shape until there was nothing there. “Wisp,” Agatha breathed, still quiet because she knew that when you lived in a shanty town there were many more ears listening than just the children in the room. Somehow she knew that the spirit would not want her to tarry, that its patience was as short as the life of the coal in the fire and the length of its tiny razor teeth.
“I summoned ye to ask for gifts for m’children. Tomorrow is the Feast of Father Winter and I want them to have a full meal like the rich folk do, with sugar plums and small toys.” Her mouth felt dry after she spoke. It was hard to swallow. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard that she thought she would run out of breath for the work it did. It did that a lot these days, so she steeled herself and waited for the sprite to answer. However, it blinked languidly at her with bright blue eyes, and not a single word came from between the thin lips that sat pursed on the face that was not quite human. Instead, the answer came to her as a terrible urge, a horrible image, an awful dream she had even as she crouched before the fae, wide awake and full of terror.
There is always a price for such things. She had three children, but one was so young and surely it would have the hardest life after she died. If she sacrificed it, the other two would know the wonders of the wealthy the next day. Something about the promise made it feel like more than just a feast and toys. There was something bright and warm in the deal. Agatha had a feeling that the fae may even save her life. Behind her, one of the children stirred and the shifting of small feet under the worn coverlet brought her mind back to the price of what she asked.
Beside her on the floor, a fine woven basket with an ivory handle sat filled with summer berries. They had been expensive to come by in the middle of the winter, when the cold wind blew in from under the door and snow threatened to spill from grey clouds. Now was the time of year when the sunlight came at a premium and Agatha’s services as a washer woman were used less. The longer it took for clothes to dry, the more it seemed people were willing to walk around in dirty britches. It was something Agatha was used to, but the children asked questions. Now that they were getting older and asking the kind of questions that made them believe less and less in Father Winter and the gifts that he seemed to bring to all children except for them, Agatha had gotten desperate. It didn’t help that a deep cough had settled in to her chest, and every day she felt her heart pound harder, the phlegm she coughed up growing darker with a rusty hue. For the last Christmas they had a mother, Agatha was sure that it would be one filled with magic. Proper magic, even – the kind she’d read about. She hadn’t understood all of the words, but she had found enough to cobble together a plan.
Plunging her fingers into the berry basket, Agatha felt the yielding flesh of the fruit as she scooped and squeezed as much as she could. The blueberries gave most easily, and her palm was wet with juice when she flung her hand into the hearth, causing the coal to sputter and sizzle. Her incantation said, the offering placed, she waited. She didn’t have to wait long before the smoke from the burning berries began to curl and waft around her. It seemed to snake down her hand, embracing the dark stains on her hands, a tendril lingering before the fog dissipated. Where it had stayed, there now lay a being. The sprite was vaguely humanoid, a face and arms and hair and shoulders that seemed to move downward in somewhat of a bodily shape until there was nothing there. “Wisp,” Agatha breathed, still quiet because she knew that when you lived in a shanty town there were many more ears listening than just the children in the room. Somehow she knew that the spirit would not want her to tarry, that its patience was as short as the life of the coal in the fire and the length of its tiny razor teeth.
“I summoned ye to ask for gifts for m’children. Tomorrow is the Feast of Father Winter and I want them to have a full meal like the rich folk do, with sugar plums and small toys.” Her mouth felt dry after she spoke. It was hard to swallow. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard that she thought she would run out of breath for the work it did. It did that a lot these days, so she steeled herself and waited for the sprite to answer. However, it blinked languidly at her with bright blue eyes, and not a single word came from between the thin lips that sat pursed on the face that was not quite human. Instead, the answer came to her as a terrible urge, a horrible image, an awful dream she had even as she crouched before the fae, wide awake and full of terror.
There is always a price for such things. She had three children, but one was so young and surely it would have the hardest life after she died. If she sacrificed it, the other two would know the wonders of the wealthy the next day. Something about the promise made it feel like more than just a feast and toys. There was something bright and warm in the deal. Agatha had a feeling that the fae may even save her life. Behind her, one of the children stirred and the shifting of small feet under the worn coverlet brought her mind back to the price of what she asked.