Tower Story Challenge Submission
Joanna R. Glass
I suppose that not many people have been awakened in the early morning by the bickering of wood sprites. But let me assure you: it is not a pleasant thing. Such awakenings, however, are almost customary when you live right next to the woods where sprites live. Every time they wake me up, I ask Mother if we mightn’t move just far enough away that we can’t hear them in the morning. “Maybe someday, Myrian,” is all she ever says, and then she smiles sweetly and by luncheon I’ve forgotten how angry I was at the sprites and their bickering.
Mother’s smile has always looked a little sad to me. I can’t blame her for being sad if she is, though. After all, when one has spent eight years living in an old abandoned tower out in the middle of nowhere with only sprites for neighbors, and when one’s husband has been gone for all but one of those eight years, how can one avoid being sad? That is what my younger sister Cecily always says. At least, that what she means; she’s not quite old enough to use such big words.
I was only two years old when Mother and Father brought us here to the Tower to live. But Father went away again soon after and we haven’t seen him since. Mother says he found work far away in the mountains and has to stay there until he raises enough money to take us somewhere else to live. She always says what a nice building it is, though; so I don’t understand why she would want to move – unless, of course, it is to get away from the morning quarrels of our sprite friends; and I believe my big brother Edward is going to have a talk with them soon. She says, though, that Father’s dream is to take us far away to the other side of the big, blue mountains, the ones that we can just barely see out of the highest turret window. So I suppose we will.
Our tower is not a very large tower (I think it a bit too small), but it has a garden all around it and a stone wall around the garden to keep away unwanted creatures. And often times Cecily and I will spend our afternoons playing in the garden together or helping Mother wash clothes near the little well in the back. But most of our time playing is spent with the wood sprites. For all their bad tempers, the sprites really are loyal companions, as pleasant as you’ll ever find so long as you don’t argue with them. They bring us food every morning and ever evening, and when our clothes get too small they make us new ones. My favorite outfit is a red jumper with a dark brown sash and an enormous brown cap to go with it. Edward doesn’t like the wood sprites, however. He says they’re ornery and spoiled. Mother calls them “proverbial nuts”. I just wish they wouldn’t wake me up in the morning.
As for Edward, he sometimes plays with us in the garden or down in what Mother insists on calling the parlor. Usually, though, he sits indoors and reads out of the many books Mother brought with her. (There are so many books in both the upstairs and the downstairs room, incidentally, that one can scarcely find a place to sit down; but Mother says that they are good for the mind.) Our wood sprite friends like to tease Edward about being a “scholar”, whatever that is. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t like them.
And Mother does many things. She reads, and she sews; she knits and she writes; she paints pictures and makes tapestries and braids beautiful rugs for our floors. And every night before she goes to bed, she goes outside and hangs a lantern on the gate so that when Father comes home he’ll see it and know where we are.
Today it is very hot outside, so we are all sitting in the parlor – everyone, that is, except for Edward who is upstairs reading again. Mother is saying again how nice it is to only have the room upstairs and this downstairs room and the spiral staircase in between to clean. But I do not think it is so very nice. One day, I’m going to marry a noble with lots of money and live in a castle. And I’ll never have to share my room with anybody ever again.
What is that? It sounds like a horse coming to the tower. Mother hears it, too. She’s gasping – smiling – laughing and crying at the same time. Now she’s rushing out to see the handsome man in the black coat. I wonder who he is. Is it Father? Mother’s calling all of us out. She’s saying something, but she’s crying so hard I don’t know what it is. The man seems to know me. I’m sure I’ve never met him before – although he does look a lot like the man in the picture Mother painted so long ago. What did he say? He’s calling out my name. Oh, sweet stars above! I can’t believe it. That man in the black coat is my father; Father’s come home for us at last!
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