The color of
fortune
and
fervor,
of mornings
and sunsets,
of fate
and flair
and feelings
and flame
lays its claim
to the leaves
again.
And we –
only passing and
making our way
in this world –
we get to see
for the briefest time
this lucky red
that dyes
the ties
that bind.
How fleeting,
fading fast,
it seems,
and nothing lasts,
they say.
But this,
surely this
we can hold,
always there,
bright
and bold,
in our memory.
Picture it:
A cool breeze
and a constant drizzle
in the newly gold-tipped trees,
and inside
a warm house,
two lovers sit by a fire,
drinking tea.
“Rain all weekend,”
says the one, and
“That’s not so bad,”
says the other.
And it’s true,
you know –
there are worse ways
to spend
a couple of days
than inside, together,
just watching
the autumn world
turn damp and gray.
The air had turned crisp and the leaves had only started to fall when the news reached the Burrow about Lady Enfield.
“They say it could happen any day now,” said Bronwen, Beau’s mother, as she fretted with her apron. “I wish we’d heard sooner!”
“How many is she expecting?” Beau’s sister, Betsy, hurried around their tiny kitchen, clanging pots and pans and moving in an almost perfect imitation of their mother.
“They say fourteen.”
“Fourteen!”
From his seat at the table in the corner, Beau watched quietly as the two of them clamored around pulling carrots and potatoes from the cupboards. He had just started to wonder what his job might be in all this ruckus when Betsy whined: “Beau’s daydreaming again!”
“I am not,” he replied. “I was thinking about how I might help.”
Bronwen twitched her nose and thought for a moment. “Somebody will need to take the basket over, once the pies are done and cool enough.”
“I could do that,” said Betsy.
“No,” answered Bronwen. “Beau can do it. It’ll be later in the evening by then, and I’ll need you here to help put the little ones to bed.”
Betsy sulked, but Beau was happy enough with his assigned task. It would be dark once he left Farmer Hutcheson’s place, and the moon was set to be full tonight.
“All right, mother,” he said. “I’ll go and get ready now so you don’t have to wait for me.”
The fact of the matter was this – though he hadn’t been daydreaming just then, Beau did have a dream. A big dream, and one that his mother and sister called ridiculous and impossible. But Beau knew that he could make it happen, only he didn’t quite know how.
“You big dummy,” Betsy’d said, the night he told her about it. “No rabbit can jump as high as the moon.”
“One rabbit did,” Beau had replied. “And if he could do it, then I can, too.”
“And what would you even do up there?”
“I don’t much care,” said Beau. “All I know is, I’m sick to death of brambles and foxes.”
Betsy had only shaken her head, and it hadn’t taken long for his gossip of a little sister to share his dream with every creature big and small from the Burrow all the way to Little Washington.
It didn’t bother Beau that he became a laughingstock. He figured everybody laughs until you prove them wrong. And he was intent on proving everybody wrong. He’d let them talk their empty talk, and then he’d give them something to really talk about.
And so, on the night he took the basket of pies and fresh-picked crabapples over to Lady Enfield, it happened like this.
He had just started out on the path to Enfield Farm when he met Felicity Fieldmouse on her way home from seeing the Lady herself.
“Evening, Mrs. Mouse,” he said.
“Good evening, Beauregard,” she said. “On your way over to see Lady Enfield?”
“Mother and Betsy made pies,” he said. “I’m only the delivery boy. Is she all right?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Felicity said. “Just fine. But you be careful now. It’ll be full dark and fox hour by the time you head back.”
“I will, ma’am,” he said.
“And Beauregard,” she added, “don’t you go on worrying your mama with your big talk and silly ideas.”
She nodded at him and moved on.
Beau walked a ways longer, almost to the farm. The shadows had grown and the sun had dipped below the horizon. Soon, the moon would rise.
“Almost time,” he said to himself.
“For what?” a voice answered.
“Who’s there?”
“I’ve gotten myself all tangled,” came the reply.
“Who might you be?” Beau asked.
“Well, I’m not sure I should say, on account of I don’t think you’d help me if you knew.”
Beau wasn’t a scaredy-hare, but he knew better than to get too close to a carnivore, especially alone and in the dark. And so he asked, “Well, do you plan to hurt me if I help you?”
“No,” the voice answered.
“And if I help you, you won’t change your mind?”
“No, sir,” said the voice. “I’m a bird of my word.”
Well, Beau thought to himself, that sure could be useful. But he didn’t have a chance to reply before the voice cried out, “Oh! I shouldn’t have said that!”
“It’s all right,” Beau said. “As long as you won’t harm me if I get close, I’ll help you get unstuck. But if you’re a bird like you say, I wonder if you might do me a favor in return.”
“I reckon that’s fair,” said the voice.
“All right, then,” Beau said.
“Oh, thank you,” said the voice. “Thank you very much! I’m just over to your right, I think.”
Beau placed the basket gently on the side of the path, and made his way toward the right, into a thicket of dead twigs and creeper vines. As he tiptoed carefully along the ground, he saw the stranger. He gasped and said, “You’re an eagle! How’d you get all twisted up in this mess?”
And the poor eagle was sorely stuck.
“Well,” said the eagle, “the truth is, I just wanted to see what was down here. My ma says I’m too curious, but I’ve always wondered what it might be like, just to walk around on the ground. Don’t do much of that, you see?”
“I see,” said Beau, and he set about getting the eagle untangled. It was quite the job, but Beau was patient. And the eagle was friendly, as it turned out.
“My name’s Everett,” he said.
“Beauregard Bunny,” said Beau.
“What’s got you out so late, Mr. Bunny?”
“Well,” Beau explained, “the Lady Enfield’s about to have piglets, and my mama and sister baked up a storm this afternoon so she’d have some nice treats once they’re born.”
“That’s mighty nice,” said Everett. “My ma’s not much of a baker.”
“Neither am I,” said Beau, “so I agreed to take them over. But, and here’s where I need that favor you promised…”
“I’m listening,” said Everett.
“Well, see, you might think I’m crazy.”
“No crazier than an eagle who wants to live on the ground.”
“I have a dream,” Beau started, and then stopped. “It’s a big dream. See, I think we’re only as small as our dreams, and I know I’m a small animal, but this dream is pretty big. And I think you might be able to help me, just like I’ve helped you.”
“And you have!” Everett crawled out of the vines and fluffed his feathers. “I was worried I might be stuck in there forever. I surely do owe you one, Beauregard Bunny.”
“Okay, then I’ll just come right out with it,” Beau said quickly. And added, “You better not laugh at me.”
“I would never,” said Everett. “You didn’t laugh at me.”
“I want to hop as high as the moon.”
“The moon?”
“Yep,” said Beau. “And I figure, if you fly me up as high as you can, that’ll give me a good head start, right?”
“Why would a rabbit want to go to the moon?” Everett asked, and cocked his white head to the side.
“The same reason you want to explore the world down here on the ground, I reckon. It’s something different, right? And some people say there’s already a rabbit up there, and maybe even a goddess, and I’m just so tired of doing the same thing every day.”
“All right, Mr. Rabbit,” said Everett. “You helped me, so I’ll help you. Climb on up.”
“Well, I’ve got to drop this basket off at the farm first. Would you want to walk along with me?”
“That sounds nice, actually. Real nice.”
And so the two new friends walked along the path together until they reached Enfield Farm. Later on, several of the Bunny family’s neighbors reported seeing them, an odd pair, laughing and talking together. They remarked that Beauregard had always been a bit different, and that they weren’t surprised at all, and what probably happened was that that big old eagle ate poor Beauregard for dinner. But Beau and Everett didn’t notice anyone at all. They found they were a lot alike, really, and then they laughed about that, too.
Lady Enfield had indeed delivered fourteen little pink piglets, and she was grateful for the lovely basket, she said, and for the apples, too. Beau said she was welcome, and wished her well, and told her to send a message if she needed anything.
Everett hid on the edge of the farm. He didn’t want to scare anyone. But when Beau was in sight, he called out, “All right and healthy with the Lady and her littles ones?”
“Right as rain in summer,” Beau said.
“I’m glad,” said Everett.
“Me, too,” said Beau.
“Now,” said Everett, “about that favor. Are you sure you’re not afraid to fly?”
“Oh, I am afraid,” said Beau. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”
“Then climb on up, and hold on tight.”
Beau had wondered what it would be like, to rise up and soar through the sky. It was better and scarier and more amazing than he’d ever imagined. He trembled to be so far off the ground, but he also breathed in the cold air and looked up at the stars.
“I’ve never seen them from so close,” he yelled over the rush of the wind in his ears. “They twinkle like diamonds!”
Higher and higher the friends climbed, until Everett said, “This is about as far as I can go. Is it enough, do you think?”
Beau shook off a wave of fear and doubt. “It’ll have to be,” he said.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I am,” Beau said. And then again, louder and firmer, “I am.”
“Then I suppose I should thank you before you go. I’m glad it was you who happened upon me in that awful mess.”
“You know,” Beau said to Everett, “you’re awfully nice, for a bird of prey.
“And you’re awfully brave,” Everett said to Beau, “for a tiny rabbit.”
“I’m glad you got stuck in that thicket,” Beau said. “Thanks for helping me.”
“Thanks for helping me,” Everett said, his voice thick with tears he was determined not to show. If little Beau could be brave, then surely he could too. So he just said, “Now hop, and hop high, and I just know you’re going to make it. And when you do, I’ll look up every night and I’ll think of you.”
And Beau did hop. He hopped as hard and as high as he could, right off of Everett’s back. And as Everett watched his new friend go up higher and higher into the night sky, he couldn’t help but shed a tear.
“You’re right, Beau,” he said, but to himself, because Beau was much too high up to hear him. “We are only as small as our dreams.” And with that, he flew away.
There are some who say that Beauregard Bunny never made it to the moon, that he fell back to Earth, just like he should have known he would. They say he was a foolish rabbit. Others believe he’s still up there, and on the brightest nights, when the moon is a round, golden orb in the dark sky, you can see him. Everett, for his part, looks up every night, even to this day, and smiles at his unlikely friend.
And Beau? Well, he’d tell you that it’s an awfully good view from up there.
************
Thank you for reading! This is the nineth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here are the first eight, if you’d like to read them:
The Day My Grandfather Met the Devil
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of October.
To fade,
to fall,
to create space –
Nature doesn’t just
let go
in autumn.
It makes room
to grow.
In your life,
may you be
curious.
I wish you
questions,
and the
patience
and the
time
to find
answers.
I hope you
feel the joy in
not knowing,
and in
learning
and growing.
May you never lose
that
spark,
that wondering,
wandering
eye,
that makes you
think
and try
and ask,
“But why?”
Rain, rain –
big fat drops
on the roof in
pings and plops,
gathered on the spider’s web
and pooling in the garden pots.
Monday comes.
Time never stops.
Autumn is a time for ghosts.
When the days turn,
when the world comes to rest,
there’s space and time
for those who’ve
stayed behind.
In the changing of the leaves
and the chilling in the air,
the smoky breeze
and the golden sky,
they join us,
just there.
As close as a breath,
and far as they’ve always been,
as fall to winter and winter to spring,
they wait for us in that place
between.
Inspiration…
lacking.
And slacking on the list.
Hours turn to evenings with
nothing to show.
I know, I know –
I can do better than this.
(One breath,
one step,
one task
at a time.)
Just choose the words
and make them rhyme.
Take a moment
and let it grow,
let it live
and sing.
Just make something.
(Anything.
Yes, you can.)
The last dress rehearsal did not go well. In fact, it went very, very poorly.
“You know what they say,” Mitch told me.
“You know I don’t,” I answered.
Why would I? Years of restaurant experience had led me down a dead-end path and straight into the wings of the Old River Theatre. Desperate times, Mitch had said. And anyway, I’d only be the assistant to the Stage Manager. He thought it was funny that I was going backwards.
“You’re supposed to wait tables while you try to make it,” he’d said. “You’re working the other way around.”
Now, as we closed up the final dress for the season opener, he clapped me on the back and said, “I forget sometimes. Feels like you’ve been here forever.”
“Is that a compliment, boss?”
“Frank’s been here forever, too, man.” And he pointed up towards the catwalk.
Frank managed lights, sound, and all other things technical and sundry. And he drank himself into a stupor every night. He was probably at it now, somewhere up there, taking swigs from his hip flask and tapping his foot to music only he could hear.
I rolled my eyes. “He’s a liability, Mitch,” I said. “Anyway, tell me, what do they say?”
“Bad dress, good opening. Should be a great show.”
I didn’t feel so confident.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “We’re all professionals here.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Even Frank,” he added. “Let’s finish out and go grab a beer.”
This year, Old River decided to open its fiftieth season with The Sound of Music. The playbill proudly proclaimed it “America’s favorite musical!” Could have fooled me. Ticket sales moved fast enough, but the cast and crew came in every day looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“Twenty fucking minutes of ‘Do, re, mi,’” the director said, one evening, after a particularly grueling dance rehearsal. “What do you even do with that?”
The production so far honestly seemed sort of cursed. We’d been hit with a volley of issues starting on day one. Bolts of fabric that never arrived to the costume shop, a music director who lost hearing in one ear halfway through, three von Trapp kids coming down with the flu on the same night. Just one thing after another, culminating in a last dress rehearsal from hell.
“Is all of this normal?” I asked Mitch as we started on our second beer at the dive bar down the street.
“I’ve seen a lot,” Mitch told me, “but this one does feel sort of different.”
“Different how?”
Mitch sat for a moment, and then took a deep gulp of the rest of his lager. “Every show has a few issues,” he said. “I had a lead actress a few years back who used to get laryngitis during every tech week. But this cast, I don’t know. Normally, it starts to feel like a family, you know?”
I nodded. I did not know, but I thought it might be nice to see, one day. Lots of restaurant owners say that about their staff. It’s never true.
“This one just feels off. Maybe it’s just me. I’ve never liked this show.”
I hummed an agreement.
“Next up is Midsummer, and I’m looking forward to that one. Shakespeare’s wild.”
“I think I read that one in school,” I said.
“Trust me, it’s better on stage. Fucking funny.”
I did trust Mitch. I didn’t know what to think, at first, walking into this new world. Actors are a weird bunch, but I’d enjoyed this job so far a lot more than my last three. And the hours suited me fine. Servers get used to late nights and slow mornings.
“Isn’t one of his plays cursed?”
“Shakespeare’s? Oh, yeah,” Mitch said, and laughed. “The Scottish play. Don’t let anyone hear you say the name, ever.”
“MacBeth?”
Mitch bobbed his head. “I think it’s silly,” he said, “but lots of people believe it. I should give you a rundown of all that shit.”
“All what shit?”
“The legends. The bad luck and shit.”
“I don’t believe in that stuff either,” I said. “But I also don’t want a reason to get fired.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Mitch said. “After things calm down. For now, we ought to get going. It’s late.”
I looked at my watch. Just after 2:00, and with an early call tomorrow. I left some cash on the table and stood up.
“I think I left my coat in the green room,” I said. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” Mitch said. “I need to run back and grab my notebook anyway.”
We walked back at a pretty slow pace. The weather had just started to turn. The days still felt summery, but in the evenings, the temperature and the humidity dropped. It was a relief, after the summer heat, to finally feel a bit of fall.
“I bet September’s chilly this year,” I said.
We reached the stage door, and Mitch fumbled with the key.
“It always sticks,” he said, and shook his head. “It’s like the ghost doesn’t want us in there late at night.”
He pushed the door open and flipped the lights to the green room.
“The Old River’s haunted?”
“Every theatre has a ghost,” Mitch explained, a little like he was talking to a child. “That’s why we always leave a stage light on.”
We made our way into the left wing, where Mitch’s station was set up by a small podium.
“We do?”
“Geez, kid, I know you’ve seen me do it.”
I thought back and realized I had. I just hadn’t really thought about it before now.
“Or, at least, that’s what they say,” Mitch added. “Really, it’s for safety, but people love their ghost stories.”
“It’s not on right now,” I said. And sure enough, the stage was dark. The house was pitch black.
Mitch turned to check, and I think he actually gasped. We walked to center stage and I looked up.
“Maybe Frank turned it off,” I offered.
“Frank!” Mitch walked to the right wing, and called again. “Frank?”
“Or maybe he went home,” I said, quietly.
“Nah, he’s here somewhere. Go up and check the catwalk.”
“He’s not on the catwalk, boss,” I said. “He’s out in the auditorium. Er, house.” Now that my eyes had adjusted, I could clearly see someone out there, seated towards the middle, looking straight ahead. I pointed, “You can see him, right?”
Mitch shook his head. “Not Frank,” he said.
“What do you mean, not Frank?”
He didn’t answer.
“Who is it, then?”
Just then, the stage light flickered on. I looked out into the house again.
“He’s gone,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Mitch said. He turned on his heel and practically ran back to his station. He grabbed his notebook and stuffed it into his bag. “Come on,” he said.
We hurried toward the door. At the stairs to the catwalk, Frank met us, smelling like he’d swallowed a whole distillery’s worth of whiskey.
“You’re here late,” he wheezed. Poor Frank.
Mitch just nodded.
“Have you been up there this whole time?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Yeah,” Frank answered. “Just came down when I heard you on stage. Ghost light was out. Got it fixed.”
Mitch didn’t say a word, and the three of us walked out together as if nothing strange had happened at all.
************
Just as Mitch predicted, opening night went off without a hitch. The cast hit every beat, nailed every song, and the orchestra played like they’d practiced together for years. For all I knew, some of them probably had. Even the kids were perfect. It was exhilarating, being part of this kind of magic.
Mitch took us out for a drink after the show. “I’m buying,” he said. “You did a good job tonight.”
“Thanks,” I told him.
“So, are you hooked?”
I thought about it. I’d never been part of anything quite like this before. And so I answered, “I think I am.”
“Okay, then,” Mitch said. “Then there are definitely a few things you need to know, if you’re sticking around.”
“Okay,” I said.
“The first thing is, you never look directly at Mr. Holly.”
“Mr. who?”
“That’s who you saw last night,” he said. “You know I said every theatre has a ghost? Well, he belongs to the Old River.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. I put my beer down.
“I’d never seen him before last night,” Mitch told me. His flat tone indicated to me that he was, in fact, completely serious. “And I’d like to never see him again.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I thought about it again, and nodded once. “Okay. Well, tell me the rest,” I said.
And Mitch smiled. “You’re one of the good ones, kid.”
************
Thank you for reading! This is the eighth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here are the first six, if you’d like to read them:
The Day My Grandfather Met the Devil
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of September.
(…that I definitely didn’t write for myself, because I needed to hear it.)
Your time belongs to
only you.
So take it easy,
slow and steady,
and stop
and breathe
if you need to.
It’s okay to
just be
or to not
be okay.
The rest of the world –
it can wait.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 