In the Grove (c) 2019 Marie Lamb

Another preview from the short story book I am working on.
This is a myth retold, after a prompt asked to take a piece of music and reinvent a story for it.
I wrote this to the music playing of 'Masks' from Romeo and Juliet, Sergei Prokofiev

In the Grove © 2019 Marie Lamb

In the grove there is a tree
where Eternal Summer waits for I
beneath her branches love awaits
desire burns brightly in her eyes

And down, down, below the earth
a hunger greater lurks and spies
to feed upon my bones, my blood
where none nearby can hear my cries.

It is a fine spring day, warming into summer. I have begun walking along the path, from the places I know well, to those that are more in the secrets of the Wild. There is a sweet girl waiting for me in the Valley, and I will take her to the Fair in Bethel. I am dressed in my finest, with a strong dagger at my side and a few coins in my pocket. I have confidence that today will be warm and bright, with no chance of a summer storm.

My step is light and even a bit joyful, the road fairly easy with lots of interesting things to pass by in the woods beside me. There is a bright green to the trees and the shafts of sunlight coming through the leaves is warm upon me. I feel almost like I could take a little spin here and there, but my grandfather’s words remind me: " Perhaps should be looking more at the woods around me than my feet, fine though the boots may be."

And then, I realize why.
But perhaps, I should not have listened to grandfather.
Perhaps I would have passed her by with my boyish glee.
But now, I see her, a forest sprite, one hand on the tree a few yards in front of me. She is the very picture of beauty, freshfaced and wearing only a shift of shimmering gossamer. She is toying with a vine, long wispy grasses playing about her legs while the air remains still and balmy. I can not take my eyes away, she is so striking.

Her hair is nearly green. I know she is no village child or girl lost or hunting mushrooms. As I stop she leans forward, peering towards me, beckoning. As I approach, she swirls around the back of the tree, looking at me, peeking and then returning to the other side. Her voice is like bells, and she seems to know my name, although I have not given it to her. She is playful as a young forest creature.  I am delighted and entranced.  But, I worry about what teeth or sorcery might be revealed in the shadows. I think about Rosalie, waiting for me.  Still, there is this quality to this sprite that I cannot look away.  I am drawn as a moth to a flame.

As I near to her hand, stretched out to me in welcome, I feel the forest warm even further and the wind that was only for her has come to dance about my neck. I am taken with her, with the motion of the world, and the spiralling nature of Time itself. I touch her hand and feel warmth and taste honey.  Her skin is so unnaturally soft.  Her tongue curls around perfectly white teeth, pointy and numerous.  She seethes my name and lovely words, encircling me with her arms, whispering poetry into my ears. I suddenly feel I want to stay here forever, and a day, and the next after that. It would be Eternal Summer.

I can feel that I am falling, and in all of the warmth there is a tiny stab of ice. It has entered through my skin and pricked the heart within. Something deep inside me screams that danger has many faces. A pain cracks deep in my heart that seems to fill with sand and weigh me down like a thousand burdens. I struggle to stay upright, to see her face, to reach for her as I am falling. And then, the tree is my blanket, and the ground my bed. I am wrapped in it, secure and blissful. The hand of the nymph passes over my forehead, as my mother’s once did when I was abed with fever as a child. The colors are beautiful. The music is swirling, marching, slowly and in time. I am drifting. I am asleep for the ages, another grave for the grove, unmarked and unremembered.

I will hear the calls of my searchers through muffled ears, unopening eyes, and never answer.

My last thought before the sleep becomes solid and unyielding It was going to be such a nice warm day, if I had ever made it to the Valley.