Crystal and Magpie

Whoever said that "The more you give, the more you shall receive" ?

My memories are like a fiery sunset. They shade the clear blue sky of my mind with fantastic colors that glow, shift, change, bleed into one another and can paint a different scene every night you revisit them. I cannot be sure how it all happened. The more I try to recall the details, the more they get blurred and distorted, and what had actually happened might be confused with what was wished for. But, I’ll recount the events as truthfully as I can, and you can make of them what you will.

 

It was a moonless December night. The age old trees outside swayed slowly from side to side in the wind that was gathering strength. Although I could hardly make out any shapes, I strained my eyes scanning the yard once again, trying to see or think of anything I might’ve forgotten to take care of before the storm arrived. A weak ray of light lit up the dark, frozen ground just outside my window, and I watched the first snowflakes as they drifted down slowly from the sky.

 

I don’t know how, but I knew there was something moving out there in the dark. My eyes tried to confirm the vague perception in vain. I stood by the window motionless, hoping it was only my mind playing tricks on me. Snow was quickly building up on the windowsill and the quickly dropping temperature made the inside of the panes fog over. The wind hissed, whistled, roared and walloped. I walked to the fireplace and stared at the embers for a few minutes. It calmed my nerves and I felt relieved that my fears about moving shadows in the night were unfounded. I threw a log onto the fire, and watched with satisfaction as a cloud of sparks rose and settled over the log that was getting charred around the edges. That’s when I heard a knocking at the door.

 

The narrow passageway connecting the hidden storehouse of dark, fearful fantasies and the part of the mind that is aware of itself was jammed. Too many thoughts and images of nameless, formless terrors tried to squeeze through and rise to the surface all at once and got stuck in the doorway. The rational part of my mind was equally helpless trying to provide an explanation though it worked frantically. But there was no way around the facts that my farmhouse was six miles to the closest settlement, that no one had ever visited me before, and that it was nighttime, with a brewing storm outside.

 

There was another knocking at the door. It wasn’t too loud, or forceful, but rather like a kind of request, a plea, or a question. I pinched the skin under my chin, which was something I did when I was nervous. I became aware of my eyes being wide open with terror. Who or whatever was out there knew I was in here; “It” must’ve seen the feeble light of the candles through the small windows. “It” must’ve picked up the scent of the smoke rising up through the chimney.

 

When the third knock came, it was shorter, feebler and softer than before, as if to say, “You’ll pass then?” I hated this thought. I wanted nothing more than to “pass” but deep down I already knew I wouldn’t, I couldn’t. No, whatever fate has brought to my door that night had to be let in. A heavy branch broke off of a nearby tree and fell to the hard, frozen ground with a loud crash. One of the small candle flames flickered and drowned in molten wax. I unbolted the door.

 

The wind that gushed in blew out the remaining three candles, ruffled the curtains, and started turning the pages of the open book on my table with frantic speed and fury. A rather small, slim figure entered my house. No words were uttered. They would have been impossible and foolish in the howling wind. A shock of black hair flew in the air about my visitor’s head, obscuring her face, and a long skirt covered her feet making it seem like she was gliding. She moved past me, as I held the door against the wind, and with some effort I shut it behind her.

 

I turned to busy myself with relighting the candles. Once the soft, dim light pressed the darkness back up along the walls, and swept most of it into the corners like dust, I looked to see who my visitor was. I felt ashamed at my earlier terror seeing that it was a gypsy girl about twenty years of age. She stood in the middle of the room with her long, windswept, black hair falling to her shoulders, and her skirt askew. The light of the candles danced in her black eyes that she had fixed on me. I pointed to the table. She waited a few seconds, then with hose gliding steps she went and sat exactly where you are sitting now.

 

She stayed with me for about a year. But, like I said, I cannot be sure. It could’ve been three months, two weeks, or two days. My mind has embalmed the contours of her face, the smell of her hair and the taste of her skin. These sensations are burned into my core, but I have no recollection of the passing of time. Her voice is a never-ending melody in my mind; the memories of our life together are a handful of sand trickling through my fingers.

 

My days went by as they had done before the storm. The farm demanded most of my time and energy, and in between rounds we’d talk. I cherished those moments and hours that we spent discussing this and that. She had a curious mind and an instinctive knowledge of the stars and an insight into the hearts of men. She told me stories of why and how she had tried to run away from her tribe many times and how she finally succeeded. I often doubted the veracity of what she head told me, but I enjoyed listening to her, gazing into her eyes that always remained just as dark as they were that very first night I had met her.

 

I had regularly placed food out for the birds, the squirrels, and the feral cats that lived in the woods around my house. They took what they needed, but remained wild and never trusted me enough to get close to me. With her silky black hair, dark brown eyes, and her small frame she was like a crow or a magpie that a storm blew in, and I was happy to have her.

 

Soon, she started taking little things of mine - whatever she thought had value. They were trinkets, so I didn’t mind; I wanted her to have them. Every time I noticed that a silver ring, a necklace or a small vial of perfume had gone, I was glad, for I thought of those items as little pieces of myself and I let her have them gladly. I never mentioned this to her, and strangely, the more she possessed of me, the more I wanted to give her.

 

The night she left me I was woken by the sound of drawers being slowly opened, and items being carefully lifted. I watched her as she gently removed items from here and there. She knew where to look, and what to take. What she didn’t know was that I had been leaving things for her to find. From my small inheritance that I kept in a well-hidden, safe place I’d bring out jewels and place them around the house for her to discover.

 

There was another great storm outside, just like the one during the night she had arrived. It was so very much like it that it could’ve been the very same storm. Maybe it was the same storm, I cannot tell. The whole world was being ripped apart and blown away, that’s all I can tell you. I watched her for a while, then went back to sleep. It was not the first time she’d done this, and I expected to find her fast asleep under her blankets in the morning just like I did on many occasions before. But, it was a storm that had brought her to me, and it was a storm also that took her from me.

 

When I woke the next day, she was gone. The world outside was left in disarray. Broken and uprooted trees, barn doors ajar, some ripped clean off their hinges, tiles blown off the roof, and the houses buried under an avalanche of snow, the weight of which was pressing down on me from every side, suffocating me - or, that’s how I felt. For a time I lay in there as if in a tomb. I waited. Don’t ask for what - for a miracle, for the end of the endless winter, for the snow to melt, for the song of birds, and for her to magically reappear.

 

My treasures, the most precious pieces of my inheritance that she had taken before lay scattered on the floor. But, she had taken something more precious, something that I have to recover, as it is something I cannot part with, nor live without. It is a crystal, or something that looks like a crystal. I kept it in a black box that had a crimson, velvet lining. The thing is quite common in itself, you see, but it does have a very special quality. I don’t know how to explain, but it’s as if it is alive. The more you hold it close to you the brighter it shines. Perhaps, it reacts to body heat, I don’t know. I can’t recall how it came to me, perhaps I had found it out in the woods, or perhaps…well, I cannot remember a time that I didn’t have it.

 

While I had it, I thought it was a mere curiosity. Now, that I don’t have it, I realize that it was much more than that. Without it, I’m like a flower that is kept out of the sun. My fading memories contain a pale shimmer of the glow I used to know. That is why I talk so much of these strange events. I apologize, Doctor. Next time you visit, I can tell you about the Garden of Eden my Magpie and I have discovered out in the woods. Oh, it was wondrous! Flowers that you’ve never seen or can imagine grew there, and they never faded or withered! Once, I found a crystal there that …I don’t know how to explain, but it was as if it was alive. The more you held it close to you the brighter it shone.

Reviews

[Lorry]

I think you capture perfectly the fluidity of thoughts and memories here from the outset, with the understanding of how actual events, fantasy and the emotions felt and thoughts thought during the actual events mingle together when senses are added to the equation, especially takinng into account of moods and where you are mentally when recalling them.
And yes, I sound like I am reading truth in biography, just like all those wonderful tales read in my youth, of far off timeless times that engross those young greedy eyes.
She went just as she came and that, along with the crystal being taken where jewels were left only adds to the mystery and adventure.
Reading this a few hours too late, as storm is present but daylight has came, but will read again tonight and time travel back to those youthful days, when words and phrases like mere trinkets, captured my imagination and conjured images of the teller dressed in finery, with chain from gold pocket watch on show, tall hatted and never far from walking cane.
I see Johnny Depp playing this part, orating in his best impression of Morgan Freeman sincerity.

[Laz K.]

Thank you for giving this story your time and attention. Your comments are very insightful and very much appreciated.