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Our first place High School winning entry is by Lorien P. Strange from Cavendish, Vermont, who attends the Expeditionary School at Black River. Ms. Strange also won last year and the year before in the Middle School Category, and thus becomes one of the relatively few authors to win in multiple categories. |
It was a cold night in the misty hills of Vermont. The sun had dipped below the horizon just moments before, and the earth was succumbing to the creatures of the night and darkness. Dark, sweat-soaked figures huddled around a crackling campfire, shifting in silent competition for the warmest spot. Their clothes were rumpled and coarse; many had smudges of dirt and dust on their garments and face. Their eyes were trained on the flickering form of the flames, but all attention was focused on the weary, murmuring voice of one of the men.
“…Me wife could never hae imagined that the next year a’ o’ our bairns would be deed, deeder than…” The man stopped and put his large, rough palm to his deeply lined forehead. “Auggh, I dinnae ken. It’s no the same since she passed. She had a memory larger than a forest, she did.” He stared into the fire again.
“What was it that killed her?” a man with a round face asked softly.
“I dinnae ken. It happened so sudden; maybe it was the sìth.”
A few of the men nodded grimly. “Ay, I’ve had a brush with the aos sì before. They took me youngest ‘un,” said a man with a dark, broad face. “She was fine that night when we put ‘er to bed, but the next mornin’…” His voice trailed off with the smoke into the night sky. The men listened to it drift away in silence.
The dark and the cold of the night began to creep into the gap between words. “Say, Phineas, buachaill,” said the man with the round face, rushing to end the silence. “Have you ever met with the Fair Folk?”
The others around the campfire shot the round-faced man harsh, reproached expressions. What? He mouthed, eyes wide as he shrugged.
From behind him, a medium-sized figure in a dark coat turned out of the darkness, his head to the side, his back to the fire. He was younger than the other men—perhaps twenty-five; no older than thirty at the most—with a face remarkably free of wrinkles. “Do you mean the fairies?” he inquired, his voice almost hopeful.
The men around the campfire shifted uncomfortably. “Ay, that’s right,” they murmured, almost to themselves, the fire casting uneven orange light across their faces. The stars winked in ever-changing patterns above them, dancing with the cold wind.
The young man was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I’m not sure what you’d call them in Ireland—or Scotland,” he added hastily, glancing toward the man with the heavily wrinkled brow, who stared back darkly, “but I did meet something of that sort once.”
A sudden burst of wind fluttered the flames, which reared back angrily. The
workmen shuddered from a cold deeper and harsher than the wind could ever hope to be. The young man turned to face the fire, his countenance hopeful and unsure.
“May I join you?”
After a pause, the men reluctantly made a space for him beside the fire. Some regarded him with dark eyes and cast quick little looks at him, while others stared at him grimly. A few continued looking into the flames with steadfast determination, eager to ignore this unwelcome intrusion. Only the round-faced man nodded and accepted the young man into their circle around the fire.
The young man took a few steps forward, stopped, then tentatively sat down, horribly conscious of the group’s animosity. He rolled his shoulders back a few times and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his legs and clasping his hands softly. His eyes darted left and right once, peering at the circle of men around him. The round-faced man nodded encouragingly. The young man shifted, swallowed, and then began.
“It had been an exceptionally cold October that year. Our neighbors were rushing to finish harvesting the wheat before the first frost, and all of the pumpkins were brought in early. My father spent most of his days chopping wood and and I spent most of mine stacking it, and my mother and sister were constantly engaged with cooking and knitting in anticipation for the cold months to come. Game was shot when we could get at it, but already the bears and squirrels were retreating into their hiding-places, and the deer were thin and skittish. Three of our geese were taken by a willful fox. The wind blew colder each day, whispering to us what we dreaded most: Winter is coming, winter is coming…
I was only nine years old at the time. My sister Lura was seven and only just able to knit a sweater without wasting too much yarn. Roswell was four and couldn’t lift a split log yet (though he asserted otherwise), and Dexter was one—he couldn’t do much at all except babble concernedly. And though my mother worked as hard as any of us who could work, but you can’t do everything when you’ve got a fifth child on the way.
So when the first (and possibly last) warm day of the season shone its golden face above the eastern horizon, everyone was eager outside to work. Hauling wood and cutting corn, lifting and pushing until I felt my arms would fall off—I’ve never been sick a day in my life, but by that afternoon I thought I knew what it felt like. All of our usual routines were thrown out the window in favor of getting other tasks done on that last warm day. By evening even my parents looked as if they’d like to stop at any moment and sleep on the spot. It was difficult not to whine about the extra work, but I restrained from it well enough—my father was a kind man, but he would not tolerate complaining. The evening wore on, threatening to extinguish the golden light we had worked by all day.
I have never dreaded putting the cows away more than I did that night.
We only had three, but they grazed with our neighbor’s larger herds, so it was difficult and time-consuming to separate them from the others and lead them back to the barn. They were stubborn cows, too, fond of tossing their heads to loosen my hold on their leads; often I’d have to take them back one at a time to avoid chaos. My arms ached even more just at the thought of it. But as the sun sank dangerously close to the tops of the hills, I stacked my final load of firewood on the pile and rushed out to finish my last task.
The horizon behind the hills was stained a dull orange, its vibrancy deepening by the minute. The shadows of the trees lengthened into grey, twisting figures, branches extended like pointed claws. A breeze came in from the east, bringing cool air to my face for the first time that day. I shivered and quickened my pace. I could not let night reach the pasture before I did.
I’d been in the forest at night before. I’d heard owls hooting in the hemlocks and seenbats flutter through the skies, squeaking like timid birds at the edge of the forest. I knew all too well the sound of creatures rustling in the bushes, their size and motives unknown. I had overcome those fears long ago, but tonight it was the silence that bothered me.
So I began to whistle. Softly at first, then louder as I grew more confident. It was a simple melody I’d heard a traveler sing sometime before. The lyrics had been lost on me, but the tune was pure and sad, and I recalled it with startling vivacity. The otherwise silent evening absorbed the song, making it sound lost and lonely in the dark twilight world dawning on the forest. I speed up a little bit and struggled to maintain the clarity of the music.
The soreness of my legs got stronger, reminding me of how tired I was, Almost there, I encouraged myself. Almost there, and then I can get the cows and go to bed. But my heart wobbled as if suspended high in the air, and my song faded with the last rays of sunlight. Around me, the forest was dark, eternal, and silent. I stopped walking. I had reached the pasture, but where were the cows? Did the neighbors accidentally take them when they put their cows up for the night? Puzzled, I walked further into the field and started calling.
“Bess? Bessie, Mildred, Daisy, come here!” I whistled for them. “Where have you gone, silly cows?” I ran into the darkling field, shouting and searching. My heart started pounding in my chest like a sick
A single bright star emerged from the treetops, followed by another—and another—and three more, continuing in rapid succession and whizzing around above me, blinking in deliberate, energetic patterns. Fireflies, I thought excitedly, grinning. But what are they doing out this late in the year? The fireflies continued dancing, not floating along in their usual manner, but whipping in circles and pulling figure-eights in the air then descending to the ground, soft as snow.
Some at them circled around me, twinkling amiably with a greenish golden light. Delightedly, I rushed to catch them, dancing with them, enchanted by their vibrant colors. It must have been hours later when the last firefly dwindled just out of my reach and into the forest.
“Wait, come back,” I called disappointedly.
The fireflies had burned their light into my eyes, and at first I couldn’t see a thing. The woods stood dark and deep around me. A horrible, creeping thought inched into my ear and made its way up to my brain. Where am I?
My heart pounded nervously in my chest. My eyes desperately tried to clear the burns from the light of the fireflies, trying to see the outline of the cow pasture. My hands were cold and wet with windblown sweat, and the cold of the night found a home in the tips of my fingers and toes. I realized I was shivering.
And then, out from beside me on the woods, a voice said, “What should we do with him?”
“I don’t know, dis was your idea!”
“Yeah, but you’rwe da one who said we should lure him out here.”
“Uh-huh, but you said dat—”
“Shh. It doesn’t matter. Da real question is, what should we do with da kid?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t we push him off a cliff?”
“Do you see any cliffs around here, bozo?”
“No, but do you have a better idea?”
“Well, no, but it has to be som’n kinda quiet. We’re still prwetty close to his house, and we don’t want anyone to hear him scwreamin’, do we?”
As soon as I heard this, I gave the loudest scream I could muster and started running as fast as I could forward.
Bam! Pain split my head and I fell onto the hard ground, still screaming. Something slammed onto my back and wrapped its cold little claws around my mouth. I rolled around on my back to try squishing the creature, but it clung on doggedly and howled into the night. More furry creatures jumped onto me. My face stung from the hemlock needles and twigs spread over the ground and my knees hurt from kicking the air fruitlessly. They held on so tightly I thought that my chest would collapse.
Somehow I managed to notice a faint glow coming from the tiny, beady little eyes of my attackers. With the small amount of light they provided, I saw a dagger glinting in the clawlike, cold hands of one of the creatures. I twisted around and grabbed it, squishing a few of the animals is the process, and started waving it around frantically. I focused on the biggest creature climbing up my chest and jabbed at it.
Something crunched and oozed underneath my blade.
A horrible howl of pain like a small dog being bitten by a fox erupted from the other creatures. They jumped off of me just as quickly as they had gotten on. They pulled the creature I had stabbed into the bushes, still making that awful, unearthly noise. I stood up and started running as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Branches scraped my face and I tripped several times, but I just kept running until I thought my heart would burst.
Beyond exiting that clearing, I don’t remember the trip home.
I was fine the next day—Mother split her time between scolding me and telling me how worried she’d been, as mothers do. Lura and Roswell hugged me hard and cried for a while before Mother told them to let me be. Dexter was too young to know what was going on yet, but he picked up on the emotion of the scene and started crying, too. Father never said anything, but I think he was more frazzled than he let on. But from then on, I always, always made sure to let the cows in well before dark, lest I be lead into the depths of the woods again.”
Phineas stopped talking. He stared into the fire, watching the flames flicker and dance to the rhythm of the crackling logs. No one spoke. Above them, the stars shone cool and clear as water in a mountain stream. The valley stretched bare around them, save for a pile of tools nearby, and a nearby brook chattered to the unseen birds of the night.
The round-faced man drew breath and said, “Did those creatures say anything as they left?”
Phineas shifted and exhaled through his nose. “It was difficult to tell, but I think they said something about how they swore they’d get revenge one day, no matter the cost. I haven’t seen them since.”
The round-face man nodded pensively. No one spoke for a moment.
Suddenly Phineas rose from his seat. “I’m sorry, I really should get going. Thank you for sharing the fire and letting me talk.”
The men grumbled and began to stand up as well. A few stretched and yawned or rolled their shoulders back a couple of times. The round-faced man stayed seated, still staring at the fire.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow, then,” said Phineas, walking in the direction of the road. Some of the men grunted in reply. Just before he walked out of the area completely, a voice said,
“Wait a minute, Phineas.”
He stopped and turned.
The round-faced man, still seated, stared at him with quiet, serious eyes.
“The oath of the aos sì is a promise most solemn.” said the round-faced man grimly. “Be careful, Phineas, buachaill. They will not forget.”
The young man locked eyes with the round-faced man and nodded. “Thank you, Sean.” And with that he turned back to the woods and walked into the darkness.
* * *
On September 13th, 1848, a twenty-five-year old railway foreman named Phineas Gage had a large iron rod called a tamping iron blown completely through his head by a faulty explosive he had set. Miraculously, he survived, but he was never the same afterward. He became erratic and was prone to seizures, but nevertheless was able to hold several other jobs, even moving to Chile to work as a coach driver. Thanks to the doctors that studied him after the accident, Phineas Gage’s injuries have contributed to our modern understanding of how our brains affect cur personalities. Gage lived for another eleven years after his accident before dying from complications from his seizures.
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