Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by William Meikle

One Spring Eve

Why won't they just go away and leave me alone? she thought, but didn't say it. That would be impolite.

All her life, all seventy-eight years of it, she tried to live up to her standards — always be polite, never shout, always comport yourself with dignity. But sometimes it was hard. Especially when your son-in-law was of the opinion that old age meant you should be treated like a two-year old; you were automatically deaf; and you were not to be trusted on your own.

He was at it again.

"John — come away and leave your Gran alone — you'll tire her out."

As if she wasn't capable of a few minutes play with the boy. Hadn't she brought up three children of her own? And not the easy way either. They were always going on about how hard life was today. They didn't know the half of it.

Did they have to queue for hours — ration book in hand — just to get a couple of eggs? Did they have to walk home in the dark in fear that any light might bring a bomb down on their heads? Had they had to stand by helpless as their eldest son died of pneumonia through lack of medicines? She knew the answer to all of these.

But she mustn't complain. Her life had been easier than her mother’s, which had been easier than her mother's before that, and so on, back to the Roman times she supposed — it was they way of things, that was all. Sometimes she wished that the way of things was a bit more exiting, that she could tell them all just to go away, that she could leave everything behind and go, just go somewhere, anywhere, apart from these few square miles which had bound her whole life. She realised that Dick was looking down at her.

"Are you all right, Gran?"

She wished he wouldn't call her that — it only made her feel even older.

"I'm all right,” she said. "Don't fuss over me — I'm not a dog."

She saw the look he gave over his shoulder to his wife — eyes wide in amusement. She had to do something, otherwise she was going to scream in frustration.

"I'll just go and put the kettle on," she said, pushing herself out of the chair.

"No — don't worry Mum — we're just leaving," her daughter responded.

She tried not to show her relief.

There was a flurry of coats and handbags, and umbrellas were found, a brief wetness at her cheek as she was kissed goodbye, and then they were gone, leaving her alone once more. She was always guilty about the relief she felt when they left. They were her only family, and you were supposed to feel happy when they came to visit, but recently she just wanted to be left alone. Too many people had been fussing over her — the butcher who insisted that her meals would be delivered to save her the walk into town; the postman who always waited until she answered the door just to make sure she was okay; the doctor who always called twice a week. It wasn't as if she was an invalid — it had only been a little fall. She hadn't even broken any bones.

Ever since he had found her at the foot of the stairs, Dick had been trying to get her to move down to the town to stay with them. She'd refused point blank, and he couldn't understand why she'd been so angry.

She had been born in this house, her mother had been born in this house, and she wasn't going to leave it — no matter how much she might want to. She had her duty and she wouldn't leave. Not until they came to take her out in a box.

Nestling back in the armchair, she looked around the room — the clutter of a long life surrounding her, with the place of pride taken by her wedding photograph. Tears welled up in her eyes as she started to fall asleep, dreaming of John and the long years, which separated them.

She woke, bleary, tired and stiff, still sitting in the armchair. The light above her shone hard and bright in her eyes as she struggled to sit upright. Outside all was quiet and the clock on the mantelpiece told her that it was past four o'clock in the morning. The noise — the same one which had woken her — came again — a rustling and a crackling from just beyond her kitchen door. Groaning, feeling the old age, which had settled into her bones, she pushed herself out of the chair, teetering unsteadily at first as the blood rushed back to her legs causing them to tingle and tremble before she was finally steady. The noise came again as she headed for the door.

The kitchen lay in darkness, only a stray shaft of moonlight illuminating a piece of faded linoleum. Outside the door there was only a wall of silvery blackness. She couldn't make out any detail through the slightly warped glass, but as she peered out, something moved smoothly and silently across the lawn.

Fox, she thought. Many times over the years she had watched them from her upstairs window, seeing them slinking through her garden as they stalked some small prey. They never ceased to bring a sense of wonder and a sense of jealousy. She envied them their freedom.

The old door handle rattled as she touched it; a small, almost insignificant noise, but she knew it was enough to scare away anything that might have been there. She opened the door anyway, just in case.

The lawn stretched out before her, silver and grey in the moonlight. The beech tree overhanging the garden at the far end rustled slightly in a sudden breeze, but apart from that all else was still and quiet. She turned her back to go indoors and the noise came again — a whispering and a rasping and a cracking.

It was coming from under the hedge, over in the left hand seedbed. There was something there, something swaying in the stray moonbeams which made their way through the foliage. She tried to peer into the black shadows, but the night was too dark, and her eyes weren't what they used to be. She moved across the lawn, feeling the cold seep through her carpet slippers.

Where, the day before, there had only been dark brown earth, there was now a profusion of thin, silver shoots. The noise she had heard was their growing, thrusting themselves up through the soil, cracking as their leaves unfolded and stretched upwards for the moon. She leaned forward for a closer look, seeing the silvery lightness of the leaves, the thin black veins. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, thudding its beat into her ears as she realised that these were not leaves, these were something new, something rich and strange, something wonderful. Her eyes shone in the moonlight as she stretched out a hand. And, just as her fingertips threatened to brush a shoot, the silence was broken by a laugh, a girlish giggle. The moon went behind a cloud, darkening the shadows and banishing the silver shoots into darkness.

She looked around, but the garden was all in blackness, all silver leeched away. She stood still, scarcely breathing, feeling the cold eat its way to her bones, but not wanting to move, afraid to break the spell.

And she was rewarded. The cloud moved on and the silver returned, spreading away from her across the lawn, hitting the beech and causing its branches to light up in a white, blinding, radiant skeleton. The laughter came again, but she was unable to pinpoint its source. She walked across the lawn, eyes fixed on the tree. Small shadowy buds had formed on the branches and, as she got closer, she could see them sprout, like in a time-lapse film, opening and blossoming into long, fine, diaphanous leaves which glowed with their own inner light. And there, high up in the branches, a brighter light.

It was a boy, about ten years old, but like no boy she had ever seen. He sat, high in a fork in the tree. His silver hair fell in a long swathe to below his waist and his eyes sparkled like diamonds. He seemed to be wearing a cloak made of tiny leaves and he glowed, silver and clear blue and white, all at once. She reached up a hand and was about to speak, but another cloud blocked out the moon and the scene faded into blackness.

Small tears of frustration welled up at the corners of her eyes. She did not notice that her legs had gone numb with the cold, nor that she had no feeling in her fingertips. She waited, eyes raised to the clouds, for a break in their sullen darkness.

The cold sank deeply into her, slowing her heart and thickening her blood until it thudded, slowed, then thudded, then slowed, barely reaching the extremities of her body. And still she waited as the cloud hung heavy overhead. Time passed as she prayed for a wind, a breeze, the hand of God, anything to let the moon shine again. And, finally, she was answered.

The laughter began first, high and clear and beautiful, just as the darkness parted and the silver streamed through the garden in an explosion of blue and grey and silver and white. It was too much for her old eyes. She blinked, twice, and raised a hand to shade them from the glare, then stopped. Her hand was grey and white, radiating pale glimmers of moon dust.

She could see her veins pulsing darkly, could see the small crystalline diamonds of her skin writhe and dance in the cold night air. The cold finally took her and she fell, backwards, full length onto the glassy spikes of the lawn, her eyes full of stars. She heard a movement, a padding of tiny feet, and she looked up into the face of the boy. His eyes watched her, sad and lonely, as he stretched down and placed a feather light palm on her forehead. She felt the cold spread, slivers of ice piercing her brain. Suddenly she knew what he wanted.

She strained her neck in order to lift her head, one last look at the house, her house which now sat dark and empty, a prison waiting in shadows. She looked up into the deep black eyes and saw a question. She nodded, only once.

He pulled and she parted and now she was young again.

Two young people giggled and danced in the light of the moon as the first light of dawn spread in the East. She had one last look back at the old thing she had left behind on the grass, but it was soon forgotten as they chased the darkness into the West.

© Copyright 2003 Willie Meikle

About the Author:
Willie Meikle is a forty-something Scotsman, with two novels published, Island Life (Barclay Books 2001) and Watchers: The Coming of the King (Black Death Books 2003). In 2003/2004 he has two further books coming in the Watchers series, and a new vampire trilogy, Eldren (Black Death Books). He has over 130 short story and poetry credits in the genre press, with four honourable mentions in the Datlow and Windling's Years Best Anthology. For more info visit his web site at: http://www.willie.meikle.btinternet.co.uk