Earth Dance II

Weslie was orphaned young, as a boy on the cusp of being a young man. His father was still at court, a man of not much importance, lucky enough to be kept at court after the king’s wife had passed away and the king had sent many of the servants away. He was the last of the gardeners and as time went on, he was the only gardener. The queen had loved the gardens; it was common knowledge. Their keeping had been a kindness to her majesty. Following his father’s dream, the king had only kept Weslie because he was barely aware of the boy’s existence.

The gardens were large, there had been too few servants tending to it over the years. For one person alone it was too much work. Parts of the garden were overrun or rundown. Flyblown bushes lined the walls and gates. The only truly thriving places were the gardens just outside the princesses’ bedroom.

The princesses had not been friends of Weslie’s, they knew their place and he knew his but they had spared a kind word for him and he had for them. He took care that they had fresh bouquets in their bedrooms and took turns with what flowers he presented, knowing each princess had a favourite. A week of honeysuckle’s for Brynn, another of irises for Gwynn and a week of white roses for Alice. Elise’s flowers were his favourite to gather, a bundle of apple blossom branches that, in a crystal vase before the window, seemed to emit their own golden white light.

Elise had been almost a friend to him. She had more laughs to spare than her sisters and occasionally he caught her, barefoot among the gardens, playing with his shears. It was when he was far past the cusp of young man that he realized he loved her. Despite their stations he harbored the secret hope that she may, one day, love him back. Elise had no idea herself. Weslie was a kind boy but love never occupied space in her mind. She was far more interested in his art than in him. It was this art that spurred his boldness in the Autumn.

His art took many forms in the gardens. More often than not a kitchen servant would come to the gardens, seeking rosemary or chive and find his sketches amid the sage. The pictures were not well hidden; Weslie did not try. He knew his art attracted Elise and it was this knowledge that inspired his mural.

Weslie ignored the garden and took to his brushes and the spare tiles in the palace storage. The mosaic was built on the wall opposite the princesses’ room. Day and night the mosaic was worked on, jewels and turquoise and water coloured glass in swirls like stars, surrounded by blossoms of pearls and shells of soft blush pink and ice blue. In the centre of the blue green cosmos against the ivory stone was a grand painting of vines and emerald leaves and fiery orange blooms over a midnight ocean clustered with sapphire coral in its depths. Sitting upon the vines were two iridescent peacocks with golden plumes over their heads and golden feather tips. Their narrowed eyes were the most striking feature of the mosaic and when it was finished the peacock stared out of odd glass beads filled with shimmering swirls.

It was a masterpiece, he was proud of it. The cost had been great, all his pay saved since taking his fathers place, and two weeks of gardening lost. Many flowers had died and the princesses’ had not had their flowers since he began. He regretted not giving Bronwyn her hollyhocks or Rowena her brown-eyed susans.

“Elise will be the first to see it,” he told himself and waited anxiously to see her for he hadn’t these past two weeks. Or the rest of her sisters.

The parade of rustling silks on cobblestones and quietly clicking gems on slippers preceded their arrival through the gardens. Weslie stood beside his mosaic, smiling modestly. Their reaction was not one he expected.

Before seeing them he felt their difference. It was mid summer but the gardens cooled. No wind blew but the chill invaded his skin, pricking it like needles. They moved in a pack, wolves smoothly covering land and spreading out in their territory. They had never spent much time outside but they had never been this pale. White as ash with hollow sunken cheeks and impassive expressions. They moved gracefully and synchronized, everything from their footsteps to the curling of their fingers.

Elise’s hair was still bright mahogany, a cloud of curls radiating from her head but her cheeks had lost their glow and her eyes were dismal silver like snow swirling in a storm.

Only the youngest, Alice was the same, long curling blonde hair, a fair complexion with rosy cheeks, but her blue eyes were rimmed with red, as though she had spent many hours crying. Weslie could not guess why she was crying, he was busy with his own sorrow, for as the princesses passed his mosaic they barely spared a glance at him or his art and his heart crumbled, his hopes cracked. As he broke he looked at Alice who seemed to share sadness as well and stayed behind her sisters. Their eyes locked and he called out to her with his heart but she could not help him. She nodded and walked on. 

Art by K Y Craft

Text by Lucie MacAulay