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Celia and the Stream

A Tale From the Child's Realm

By Isla WildePublished 2 years ago 5 min read
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Celia ran through the grass, a kitten in her pocket and a great, dark dog at her heels, stirring the fragrance of the purple flowers that bloomed beneath her feet. She jumped over the ditch bank, sliding barefoot down the barrow, and crept into her thinking place; a hollow in the brambles with a moss carpet on which to dream.

Folding her legs beneath her, she sank to the ground. She placed the kitten in her lap and rested her hand on the great dog's back, winding a sprig of watercress between her fingers. Together they watched a dozen water skippers quietly maneuver the current of the stream. A caterpillar lay struggling in the soft mud at the stream's edge, and she coaxed it onto a thin willow leaf, lifting it gently to the safety of the brambles. A dragonfly rested at the tip of a green reed. They watched the evening sun glimmer across its iridescent wings.

Celia thought of how, some time ago, a man from the tall house had warned all the children in the village to stay away from this place. He had told them a scary story about an enormous ogre who lived under the wooden bridge that spanned the stream. As the children, who trusted everything the man had ever said to them, gathered around him with big, frightened eyes, he had told them the ogre ate three younglings every day for his supper. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, the man whispered that the ogre was waiting and watching for them even now, growing hungry and mean, just hoping one of them would dare approach the forbidden water.

The children believed the man from the tall house. From that day forward, they stayed well away from the stream.

All except Celia. As soon as the man had finished telling his story, and as soon as the terrified children had fled to the safety of their mothers and their cottages, Celia had hurried home to fetch the handmade bow from under her bed. She had sharpened her willow-slip arrows and tightened the bow's string, and then she had crept quietly down to the stream. Hiding behind the trees, Celia had waited all day for the ogre to appear. She had been trembling and tearful, afraid the ogre would catch her at any moment and tie her by her feet to the bottom of the bridge, keeping her for its supper.

Even more than she was afraid, though, Celia was angry. Angry enough to try her best to save the beloved stream -- for herself, and for the other children, too.

"Thank goodness the man from the tall house warned us!" she had said to the dog. "And thank goodness I have my bow and my sharp arrows. I will take care of the ogre, here and now."

Celia had waited all morning for the ogre, and all afternoon. She waited into the evening, until her back ached and her feet throbbed, and her stomach rumbled with hunger.

The ogre never came. Celia was astonished when she realized that the man from the tall house had lied to them all. She ran as quickly as she could to tell the other children.

She was even more surprised to find that the other children would not believe her. Though she had seen with her own eyes that there was no ogre to fear, and though she had told the children their beloved stream was as safe and as beautiful as ever, the children believed the man in the tall house.

The more the children repeated the story to one another, the more the story grew. In their imaginations, the hungry ogre stood as tall and thick as a cottonwood tree, with knives for teeth and brimstones for eyes. The children were even more afraid to visit the stream.

Celia was lonely as she learned to live without the companionship of the other children. Though she missed playing with them next to the stream, most of her sorrow came from feeling "other." For, in choosing to believe the tall man, the children had unchosen Celia. They avoided her in the village, and they no longer sought her out for wandering and dreaming.

After a season of sorrow and longing, the music from the water and sky became her solace. The great dark dog and the tiny kitten were friends enough.

And so it was that Celia lay on the pillowy moss inside the hollow, listening to the water and admiring the blue, open sky, knowing that the sooner she could be silent and still, the sooner the music would begin.

She listened to the sound of the wind, and marked the slowing rhythm of her heart beating. She became quieter and quieter. Before long, Sparrow called to her from the branches that bent across the stream. Robin sang from the green, swaying boughs of the willow tree. Red-winged blackbirds busied themselves in the reeds. The stream spoke to her in gentle, watery words, and above them all a soft voice misted down from the sky, drifting from the lovely clouds that had watched over her for as long as she could remember.

Celia rested her chin on her knees and listened. The music had no words, but she understood every note. Celia understood the silence between the notes, as well.

As the evening wore on, the kitten napped against her neck and the dog looked up at her with soft, adoring eyes. She whispered to him, telling him every wish and worry in her heart. He was the keeper of her fragile secrets; the protector of her crystal dreams.

Finally, the sun faded into a faraway hill and the air chilled. A grownup voice called to her.

Celia tightened her cloak around her shoulders and stood, rubbing the magic from her eyes. She gathered the kitten into her pocket and climbed from the barrow. Then, she touched the dog's ears and took off running, her footsteps so fast and light she was certain her feet did not touch the ground. She flew across the pasture and through the garden, her winged feet alighting only when she reached the hard steps leading to the back door. She pulled open the door and stepped inside.

"Where has she been?" a grownup voice murmured from the other room.

"Outside, I suppose," another answered.

Celia fed the dark dog and filled the kitten's dish with milk. She crumbled a square of rich cornbread into a bowl and filled that with milk, too, and sprinkled the cornbread with sugar. While Celia, the kitten, and the dog quietly ate their supper, the glow beyond the window faded into moonlight and stars.

She went to her room and drew a warm, lavender bath. Then she turned out the light, opened the curtain and tucked herself into her bed.

The kitten purred from the hollowed curl of her body. Outside the window, she heard the last call of the robin. The stars whispered their secret lullaby, giving light to her dreams, and the great, dark dog, resting his head between his paws, watched the sky.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Isla Wilde

Isla Wilde is a writer and visual artist living in the Pacific Northwest, USA.

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