Jonce Palmer

 Old woman Agatha Featherwood snaps the curtains that overlooked the vegetable garden shut. The kettle on the wood-fire stove begins to howl. It’ll be her second helping for the day, the caffeine isn’t good for her heart she knows, now little and frail with age. But after the visitor Agatha had just had, another pot of Earl Grey wouldn’t hurt.

Her little cabin sits primly on a hill in the middle of nowhere. For miles in any cardinal direction, there is only the endless expanse of green, the deep indigo cutouts of mountains in the distance that pierce the gray sheet of sky. It is cozy. Quiet. There isn’t much to do but tend to the garden, bake sweets, and drink tea down to the leafy dregs– London fog with extra cream, extra vanilla.

And of course, there are the children.

One comes every few months or so. Sometimes it is two. Rarely is it ever a full party (the cabin is too far into the journey for all of them to have survived.) They’re usually filthy, hungry, and haunted from the things they have seen. Agatha is sure to whip up something sweet. She believes that her cooking has a kind of magic that can mend the soul, even if it’s only for a little while.

As Agatha pours another cup, there is a knock at the door. She peers up at the cuckoo clock. It isn’t even noon yet.

“Another already?” She sighs as she deposits her spoon into the sink. “I hadn’t any time to make more finger sandwiches.”

She goes to the door. It had started to rain in between her setting the kettle and tidying up after the last visitor. It sounds like stones pounding on the tin roof, but after all this time it has become lulling, melodic.

Standing on the porch, soaked through and looking like a drowned cat, is a boy. He can’t be older than twelve or thirteen. He is covered head to toe in dirt. A rucksack is thrown over his shoulder, a longsword sheathed at his hip. In the downpour, Agatha isn’t sure if his baby-blue eyes are wet from the rain or tears.

“Hello…” the boy mumbles. There is a cut red and curved like a sickle on his left cheek.

Agatha smooths the front of her apron. “Hello there. Would you like to come in?”

The boy nods. Agatha steps away for him to enter. Too weary to worry about a potential threat, he takes off his boots and socks, dropping his bag and sword by the door. Feet rooted on the worn Welcome mat, he looks about the cabin. Shelves are cluttered with spices, tea tins, painted porcelain dishes and carved wooden figurines in the shape of dancing bears. Bundled herbs are suspended from the ceiling to dry. A fire crackles giddily in the hearth.

“Come sit! You must be cold to the bones.”

The boy sits down hesitantly. Within seconds a cup of tea is set before him, and a towel is placed over his shoulders. He wipes at his neck. “Are you a witch?”

Agatha laughs. “Oh heavens, no. I’m just a gardener. It’s hard to get good produce all the way out here, so I decided to grow it myself. Milk and sugar?”

He nods, doesn’t tell the old woman ‘when’ until the tea is completely cream-white. A plate of blueberry-cherry scones are set down next. “What’s your name?” Asks Agatha as she finally sits.

“… Nathan.”

“Nathan. That is a good name, a strong name.” She takes a sip, peering at the latter. “My name is Agatha Featherwood. You look like you’ve come a long way.”

“I didn’t think that there would be a house all the way out here.”

She smiles. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that. Where are you headed?”

Nathan swallows down the last bit of his scone, reaching for another. “To the mountains.”

“Let me guess. A giant? Dragon?”

“Dragon,” murmurs Nathan.

Agatha nods solemnly. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

Thirteen. Such a young age for such a quest. “That’s a daunting task for a thirteen-year-old.”

“What does ‘daunting’ mean?”

“It means difficult, intimidating, formidable.”

“Oh,” Nathan picks at his scone. “Then yeah, it is.”

“Well, if you’d like my advice, don’t take anything from the dragon’s horde, that’s a one-way-ticket to losing your head. And bring a shield, you’re gonna need it for all of that firepower.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I’ve had a lot of heroes like you come my way, some of them had to slay dragons.”

“These other heroes… were they—”

“Children who have had their fates written on an old slab of rock?” Agatha’s smile grows sad. “Or perhaps an old book? It’s always something with a prophecy they must fulfill.”

Nathan doesn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, when he does speak, it is softer than a whisper.

“Do… do they come back?”

“Some of them do, yes.”

“But not all?”

Agatha grips her teacup. “No, Nathan. I’m afraid not.”

Silence falls over them. This is always the hardest part of these visits. The children that come through are already halfway defeated. Their worries are too big for their too small bodies.

Agatha needs another cup, she fears.

“What is this place?” Nathan asks, as if he isn’t sure what to ask anymore.

That is something Agatha has wondered for a long time. When she bought this tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere all those years ago, never had she thought her little fixer-upper would be right on the vein of a ley line. After some research, Agatha learned that ley lines are formed through a straight highway of energy garnered by the Earth. Between these lines, strange phenomena are known to occur. It is as if Agatha’s little cabin sits in the crossroads between universes. For the forty years she has lived here, Chosen Ones from different places, different eras, different worlds— all of them have ended up right on her doorstep. All of them have shucked their boots and unloaded their weapons on her doorstep and eaten cookies or scones or finger sandwiches. All of them have been young— always too young to be so far away from home. Always too young to die for a prophecy they had no say in.

Agatha has learned not to grow too attached. She had stopped drawing them baths or letting them stay the night. She keeps to baking instead of cooking suppers. It was easier this way for the children to just pass through. It dulled the hurt when a lot of them didn’t return.

“This place,” says Agatha. “Is a checkpoint for Chosen Ones.”

Nathan, without warning or preamble, drops his head into his hands and begins to sob. The rain continues to beat on the old cabin. Gray-washed light filters through the sheer curtains and spills onto the floors. Agatha hopes it doesn’t drown the tomato stalks she just recently planted.

***

The rain has finally stopped outside, leaving the smells of earth and storm behind. Nathan stands at the door, much dryer, bandaged up and back in his boots. His sword is sheathed at his hip and rucksack slung along his back. The load is a little heavier with a bundle of blueberry-cherry scones and a thermos of tea.

“Righto, there you are.” Agatha straightens the collar of his jacket, stepping back to get a good look at the boy. “Looking like a proper hero.”

Nathan says nothing. Agatha places a gentle hand on his messy blonde head.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispers.

The old woman steps back, crouching down to Nathan’s height. She takes his chin in her hand, lifts it so he will look at her. In the daylight, the boy’s eyes are an electric blue. Like a deep island lagoon, or a fresh coat of paint on a cottage door.

“No, I don’t think many do either,” Agatha says. “But one thing I learned about Chosen Ones is that they’re a different kind of breed. They’ve got guts.”

“Is that what you tell all the others?” Asks Nathan.

“You caught me.”

To her surprise Nathan smiles a little, albeit it is a little melancholy. He hikes his bag further up his shoulder. “Goodbye, Miss Featherwood.”

“Goodbye Nathan.”

Agatha watches Nathan walk down the dirt, serpentine path that winds up and away from the cabin, all until he is nothing more than a small speck on the horizon where land meets mountain and sky. When he is finally out of sight, she checks on her tomato plants and heads back inside to fill the kettle again. It’ll be her third helping of the day, the caffeine isn’t good for her heart she knows, now little and frail with age. But after the visitor Agatha had just had, another pot of Earl Grey wouldn’t hurt.

 

 

Ambriel Hurst is a healthcare worker and English literature student residing in Virginia. Her hobbies include reading, writing, swimming, and spending time with her two dogs. Her favorite things to write are all things strange and mystical. She is currently working on her second novel, and hopes to become a best-selling author one day.

Twenty-one. I am twenty-one. The thought repeats itself in my head as I hurriedly stumble and skate up the uneven, stoned land, up to the cliff. My Nike sneakers slide surely against the ground yet I can barely remember stepping forward. I feel like I am holding my breath, although I am breathing normally, my chest moving up and down in the normal rhythm.

Energy builds up inside my muscles and bones knocking in my lungs like gas particles in a jar. I Imagine Brownian motion, small fast particles violently colliding with large slow ones at random. I want to leave a mark in the world, I tell myself, yet at twenty-one I barely know my place. I hate to admit it, but I am confused.

I arrive suddenly, as if I stepped on some brakes. Before sunrise, at exactly four o’clock, I stand erectly at the edge of the steep cliff. My favorite place. I am ready to meet the sun. Tenuously, I study the plain below me. In the darkness, my straining eyes can barely detect neat rows and columns of the slanted wooden shades. Between the shacks are narrow strips of worn out dust roads. Dust roads with indent-like roads in my neighborhood.

For five minutes the air is motionless while the coldness teases the skin exposed by my vest and shorts. All my thoughts disappear, as the sun peeps at the landscape a small upper part oozing upward.  No movement can be detected in the squatter camp below as the sun slowly lights it up pierce by pierce like a fire burning down a string. This, I realize, marks the beginning of another day. The sun rises in exactly the same way yet it’s different.

I thought I would find you here.

I don’t turn to the sweet voice. My mother approaches until she stands beside me. Her eyes study the side of my face, searching, studying and listening. She is the headmistress of a prestigious Catholic girls’ school. The first Headmistress who is not a nun or sister. Mom has found her place with her girls. Ladies, she calls them. I envy her.

Finally, she softly speaks, Happy Birthday, dear.

My mouth twitches. I have no words just as I have nothing to show for being twenty-one, a graduate and employed. The years are merely passing by. It angers me so I remain silent gazing at the sun in no rush to replace the darkness. My skin responds to its warming up. Sounds, although muffled, of people scurrying out of ragged blanket or card boxes reach my ears.

I want to find my place mom. The way you did.

I don’t turn to her as I confess this. Mom keeps her door open for any stray or troubled girls. They flock to her like a moth to flame, attracted by strict and quiet wisdom. When she strides through the quadrangle, greetings and requests follow her steady and quick progress.

The shadow of darkness slowly retreats backwards as the glorious golden sun patiently spreads its rays. At one-point half of the squatter camp is gold and the other black. People smile and greet each other while a delicious egg is shared among all. Small miracles exist here, although mother calls these people unfortunate.

I heavily sigh, tempted to hold my breath and never take another. Sometimes I wish I was a girl, so I could fully lean on her firm at the same time liberating guidance too. Do not misunderstand. As her only biological child, she’s the best mom ever. Absently, I kick a stone hearing it drop down the cliff.

Raymond, said in a you listen to me voice, I am sure you’ll find your own place. I’ll allow you to go as far as need to find it. And even if you venture to the sun, I’m there. My mother’s mother didn’t grant her the same luxury so my mother knows what it’s like to be trapped, when you know your place is out there. Grandmother is not even Catholic yet mother loves being Catholic. But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?

No. I force a smile. My mother doesn’t assume the problems she faced are the same ones I will face. I am leaving childhood mom. It’s safety, to enter the unknown.

A warm smile lights her pretty face matched by a charcoal peplum dress. Blinking slowly, she tells me, You overthink, Raymond.  Remember we part to meet and meet to part. The sun rises to set and sets to rise. In between all the lessons, wisdom and experiences from childhood will be there as a shield or sword. They bought you here. Lightly, she places a hand on my shoulder. Her familiar touch is comforting. You will find your place. And if you are worried fortune will be cruel, remember she has also been favorable. You got me.

Laughter bubbles out of my chest. I have her. She’ll make an egg a meal. A drop of water enough.  I step forward into her arms which hold me tight. I feel safe. Sure, of myself.

I am scared. I breathe the words into her ear. I must forge my own path. At the same time, I must follow other paths already set. Fears gripped my heart so it beat weakly. It’s similar to the feeling I got when I lost my bus fare and only realized it in the bus. If you place it into an equation, childhood plus adolescent equals everything.

You should be, she confirms, otherwise you in the wrong direction. Fear is your compass. Now stop brooding and let’s celebrate. I am also getting older, you know.

And wiser.

 

 

Chido Munangwa is a Zimbabwean poet and Indie author currently studying Radiography at the University of Zimbabwe. Her paranormal romance series, The Color of Trouble, can be found on Smashwords under the pen name Cora Sacha.