Evonne

I rise with the lark and stoke the hearth with aching back and swollen knees, while youngsters dream about the dance where they will meet the one, heedless of cockcrow and rising sun, of the toil and sweat that makes a home: the tending of bee hives, milking, mending, the churning of butter and kneading of dough.

They rise from carefree slumber, to dally or frolic in endless play, till all ends in rough and tumble, and tears flow freely down dimpled cheeks. Come to Evonne who kisses cuts better, for cuddles and crooning, till tears cease to flow. Love me while the daylight lasts, till Iris and Willow return from the fields.

When the day is over, then will I ponder the time, not so very long ago, when Sorrel nursed us three as children and how she tends the hearth no more.

Back then it was Sorrel who kissed us better, we three who slept without a care. But now, it is I who play the nurse, while the children fill my days and nights. And Fleur, sweet apple of my eye, the daughter I would have wished for, but for a cursed enchantment.

Sweet Fleur, who makes me happy, but also often sad; to think that she may be the one gifted with the second sight, who lives her life for others’ sakes, another Sorrel or Evonne. To watch the seeds of others grow, when she is dry and barren, for the sake of wheat and barley, and summers that never end.

Children, tell me yet again what your mothers urge you to say: “Dearest, Evonne, but you are our mother, too.” But never ask why my sisters are young, while I am shrivelled and old.

Down in the meadow amidst the clover, lies the grove that brings all our luck, where only poisonous yews can grow. It spreads its life-giving magic afar, making the land so fertile and staving off winter’s dearth.

It had to be me whom Violet befriended, when she came out from the grove. My eyes only, could see her reflection, as we paddled together in the brook. Like tiny bells her laughter rang, enchanting nobody’s ears, but mine.

Sorrel would cry as she held and rocked me, though would not tell me why. She gave up the ghost at last and left us mourning at her wake, as we buried her near the grove.

And so we played, just Violet and I, throughout that fateful dalliance, weaving endless daisy chains for crowning one another, and pledging friendship forever.

In time, I could look on Violet full and clear, not just reflections and shadows. Her voice was tender and infantile, her form like a budding maiden’s, made from nine kinds of fruit, and all of them so ripe and sweet. I thought she was my sustenance, but life itself she took from me.

The grove looked tiny from without, but the glade within stretched far and wide. That magic place where time flies by, stolen away upon the breeze. A life lived in the moment, no care for what would come to pass, sipping from stagnant pools of thought where conscience never rains.

And all the while, did Violet sing, her loving arms embracing. She sang I was the fairest one since love and time began. In spellbound sleep with limbs entwined, we'd curl up in our bed of moss.

The dreamtime passed in the twinkling of an eye. Seven years I gave to her, but decades did she take. And when I returned a dried-up crone, young Hazel took my place.

But that was then, and now I see how Fleur, she runs to greet me. She tells me what her eyes beheld in the mirror of the brook, and of the beauty of the song still ringing in her ears.

Hazel came back from the grove, her body worn, her spirit spent. And not a word would she speak, nor pay heed to others, but pined away at the dark grove’s edge, for all that she had lost.

I held Fleur close and wept to think she’d soon be old and I’d be dead.

Then, in the grove I dared to go and challenge Violet to appear. Although the sight had left me, dandelion clocks gathered in the air and slowly formed her image.

“Oh, Violet, though you are a stranger to pity, hear my plea I beseech. Make me young once more, and yours to play with for all time. But let Fleur live her finest years, and bring forth life herself.”

Mocking laughter filled the glade. “You were the fairest of them all, but how your beauty faded. Even I could not restore a flower so cruelly withered. Do not begrudge my only comfort, in this endless loneliness.”

So Iris wept her tears of joy; her husband beamed with pride, proclaiming Fleur, their elfin maid, the life blood of the fields. The folk rejoiced and drank and sang: “Fleur shall dwell within the grove for seven years, to bring us luck. She shall wear a crown of jasmine and be mother to us all.”

The hearth is mine by right of care, and so I took a flaming brand, to cleanse the curse so long endured. The grove was dry and sparked like tinder; crackling flames, they rose and spread. Violet laughed, but fled the blaze and sought another grove to haunt.

Fleur will watch her own seeds grow and know the love of children born her. Summer fades and days grow shorter, faery charms to know no more. But we shall huddle through the winter, sharing love to keep us warm.