Universe: underEarth
Place: The Valley of the ‘Dillos
Time: Earlier
In a different universe, wood-nymphs and gnomes, angels and Molemen, Spinners and flies-of-butter along with many other souls and creatures, flora and fowl existed, most in harmony and some not. This wondrous land had many special places, The Well of Wishes proved to be one of the places spoken of with hushed wonder and smiles. Sprawled out over seventy and six squares, stone pathways trimmed with pseudoranthemum, circular, perfectly formed clusters of tiny, scarlet flowers tipped with yellow, framed a well. Indeed wonderful wells, with cedar roofs and copper buckets held in place by braided manatee’s whiskers, given freely on the day of shedding, collected by Melody while on ‘er trek to collect sweets and salts.
Nay a soul or spirit would pass by without sampling one or all of the seventy and six wells and their ambrosia water, aye, sampling of several, after all, each tasted different than the next. Seventy and five were for drinking only, but one was a granter of dreams-come-true. If one made a wish upon the mouth of the ‘one’, that different well, that wish would be granted.
The Grunk, the minder of the wells, lived subterranean, a magical, plump imp that flavored the water. A delightful occupation but he did more. The Grunk visited a different well each day and that well became the ‘one’. If anyone spoke a wish there and he overheard it, he had no recourse but to grant its eventuality. Many wishes, though, got lost and that truly grieved Grunk, especially if it was the wish of a selfless.
Forces embedded in the desires of wishes and dreams-come-true often skew the ethics of many good people. Many tried to trick the Grunk, but he could not be easily duped. Fifty-four and seven hundred harvests provided him apt experience. A selfish had been known to try to stand above the same well every day and make the same wish. Whereas, the wells were connected and he heard the genuineness of the calls, he had learned and trained his marvelous mind to never hear the pleadings of the selfish soul, for the Grunk, a remarkable being, remembered every selfish and their wishes of greed, vengeance or vile. Thus, a selfish wish never had a chance to be granted reality.
The Grunk pledged he would only gift the goodwishers.
The wind carried the conversation of two young men, both embroiled in individual quests, one without a name, aye, both on the cusp of being heroes.
"Did you see the storm last eve?"
"Did," responded Vasa, understanding the hound of that storm.
"Why did it rain red?"
"You saw?"
"Aye. Blood red!"
"Indeed. Bloody."
"Did. Yet, in the morn the red had faded. It gone. Why?"
"The day’s sunenlightment blanches that red."
With the back of His hand, He mopped the morning’s dapple of dew from His face. "Why blood... red?"
"The clouds, they do, bleed." His brow knitted tight, a common gesticulation when he reflected concern, as he continued, "They often do. You see, they are mostly made of ghosts. Ghosts temporarily lost. Those new and recent doppelganger."
"Ghosts?" A tinge of concern drew some color from His face. Was Vasa an oddy, prone to fantasy?
"Aye, they congregate within the clouds, easier to hide, a mist within a mist. They wait. Seeking answers, huddled one to the next. Their blood... the blood you saw... comes as tears. Tears of their pain. Their haunt. They are un-underEarthly spiritual entities, scared."
"Was that the sorrowful sounds I heard? Their moans?"
"Aye."
"Grieving, it was. Grieving they do."
"Many a fresh ghost is heavy-hearted, anguishing beneath the huddle of their private hurt. That is the simple mantle of becoming a ghost. Their first night more so than any others is terrifying to them. The Sunnyshine arrests part of that pain with ‘er morning-burn, which provides them a lighted path from their cloud segue into their forever-after. Most follow ‘er beams discovering their whats-to-be."
A white-throated sparrow chased across their vista, playing gitya-I-can with another its age.
Three morns later, not in but bordering the province of angels, found south of Nanarrbeth and east of Split Sparkle Falls, lived a gentle people. Though they simple fFolk rather than angels, they embraced the charm and merciful devotion equal to any angel, nay a schadenfreude amidst them. Oops belonged to one of the families, she a sweet girl-child with eyes the color of warm honey, and hair nearly a match which trailed passed ‘er waist, ripples twisted with ribbons. She, delicate and gracious, reflected kindness and purity. Many families were blessed so by sweet, lovely wee ones but Oops’ family especially so.
On ‘er birthing day, aye, the blessing of ‘er family, the clouds miraculously pin-pointedly parted and the radiance of the Sunnyshine, laced through, and only cupped ‘er in its glow. All who witnessed understood, Oops was unique, and the bask of lumens a miracle.
A playful, jovial child, merry in every way, she was a jubilant idiosyncrasy, endlessly idolized simply because she brought joy to someone every day, the warm fuzzy longed by all to be hugged.
The Wells of Wishes claimed Oops attention on more than one Sunnyshine day. After all, almost at the dawn’s side of seven harvests, Oops could fully enjoy the smells she knew to be marvelous and endless mazes only a child’s mind could appreciate. She tasted the refreshment of every well, yet, unlike the preponderance of the visitors, she never asked the wells to hear her voice.
The only thing Oops liked better was visiting the Angel House of Seng. At a tender age, the Angels of Seng recognized that ‘er voice held the hauntingly melodic voices and soul captivating dirges befitting any song-gifted angel bar one. She after her fourth harvest was summoned to the House of Seng and offered opportunity to be taught their remarkable sounds. She often sang with Lece, the eldest daughter of the Seng House, and learned many of their vocalized wordless psalms. Ultimately she became known the valley over for ‘er voice, she always ready to please with a short verse to whomever she met.
Oops was a gift because of ‘er voice, but mostly because of ‘er kindness, aye, which resonated from within ‘er songs.
But the soul and spirit who enjoyed ‘er voice the most was ‘er g’Marma, not ‘er Marma’s Marma, but ‘er Fa’s. Birthed Saly, a short for She Always Loves You, she has grown into g’Marma and loves all it means. Oops one of ‘er seven grands, pride was ‘er daily mantle, shown clearly in ‘er blue with silver streamed eyes.
Lece and Oops have been practicing a most challenging and stunning discourse to be shared at an upcoming ceremony, t’was Lece’s offer, knowing that Oops wanted the most perfect song for ‘er g’Marma’s wedding. G’marma had been alone for a long time, and everyone thought she’d never stop missing grandSoopa, ‘er love for fifty-four and two-hundred harvests past, and she never did, however, she did start to smile again. Macaroon blessed ‘er with that newfound want to joy. And surprisingly to no one, one day she found that friend, a sincere friend, had became a love, shared.
Knot nuptials announced; Oops joyed with hum and song. In fact, everyone was overjoyed, but none more than Oops, and she instantly knew ‘er gift to ‘er g’Marma would be a special song she had never sung before. She pled with Lece to teach ‘er such a piece.
On the day of the wedding after last moment practice, Oops rushed through the pathways of the Well of Wishes and out the other side, straight to the Angel House of Seng, where she plaintively asked Lece for two new notes for this grand song. She knew, as those of song and verse know in their knower, that these notes would be notes to cement kindness and draw the tear, they the perfect bow upon the gift.
She took longer than she had expected to master the notes, but she finally did. On ‘er return ‘er steps doubled on ‘er way, hair streaming out behind ‘er like curling ribbons upon the wind.
"Hurry," she told ‘er legs. "Hurry," she ordered ‘er lithe body.
In ‘er rush, she didn’t see a misplaced rock, a rarity on the Wells of Wishes pathways, for Melody was its devotee to perfection. Tripping over it, she landed face-first against a well, ‘er head hit hard, pain gushed through ‘er and try as she might, she could not get to ‘er feet. Tears spilling, she tried over and over, failing over and over, eventually, she wishing over and over again to be able to get up and sing for ‘er g’Marma at ‘er wedding. With soul tears and kind cries she asked the winds, "Please, let me sing for my g’Marma, please let me cement kindness in ‘er love for Macaroon. Please."
Not far away Grunk heard the wish, it a soft whisper peppering the wings of flies-of-butter, and painted upon his sensibilities. He sighed, knowing instantly the selflessness that existed in the child’s heart. His duty apparent and with a noble respect for it, he spun, danced an oddity, snorted, nodded a round face, winked one eye, then the other, and the wish was granted.
"Where can she be?" asked g’Marma, ‘er hands folded over themselves, concern apparent on ‘er face. "I cannot marry without my little Oops."
Macaroon took ‘er hands, squeezed. "You know how children are..."
"Not, Oops. This is important to ‘er. This..."
"It’s all right," they heard from Oops’ Marma. "She’s here!"
g’Marma smiled, a smile that warmed ‘er features and reflected ‘er joy, not just of the day, but at the beauty of ‘er Oops. Never had the child looked more glorious, despite a smudge on ‘er dress and a few pseudoranthemum tumbling about ‘er hair. It was as if a light blazed from behind ‘er eyes. The softest hum accompanied ‘er walk as she made ‘er way to a place near ‘er g’Marma and Macaroon, she rehearsing the song beneath ‘er breath.
At Oops appearance, ‘er family’s worried expressions dissipated with hugs shared.
"You’re cold," stated ‘er Marma.
"Been running," she replied, implying the perspiration cooled.
They had little time to ask ‘er where she had been, but as do all those who love, did and she told them she needed to get new notes from Lece. The family understood and the wedding began.
"Places," Yent, the schatchen instructed, she also Oops’ elder aunt. "Places," Yent scolded with a clap of ’er hands.
At the edge of the Forrest of Mythical Mirth, g’Marma and Macaroon stood beneath a flowering, pink Serissa tree. She gowned in a perfection of white with embroidery of pastel gaGreen and gentle yellow. He robed in almost all gold with striped beading of maroon, one band for each harvest he enjoyed.
Petals drifted downward in a miscellany of stylish tones, but never touched the ground. Instead, they fizzled and sparked, soundlessly in a variety of intense colors, and spritzed their glorious perfume upon the air. A montage of other trees rimmed the clearing, cousins to the Serissa, but bolder, brighter in hue, skimming the shades of rose and plum, today, swaying to beats of hearts-in-love. Their mosaic striking, with each tree trimmed with a litter of yellow birds, hearttokens, decorating them as do children a forevergreen on Joyjoyday. Hearttokens have the clearest tweet-tweety-tweet in all the land and were echoing an engaging song tree-to-tree, their love-opus.
Walls of white and blue-pearlesque bubbles burped by the Ogopogo lined the Chap-of-Gordian, they capturing and reflecting and refracting the Sunnyshine creating a charming luminescence. The Yerd, Tyer-of-Knots earlier flew in upon a Jimplicute, unloaded the ceremonial saddle-packs, prepared his delicate jute and hemp and sentimental twine and vine while his nocturnal dragon found a private place to sleep. Yerd, he tall and slender, stoically stood gowned in off-white with drapes of ties over his shoulders.
Guests wore their finest, gnomes with multi-hued jute-woven trou and spittle-shined shoes, and wood-nymphs adorned in stunningly colorful petal macramé made into gowns, they with berries added to their luxurious twig-infested locks. Forest creatures in well-brushed fur and twirty twit birds in extra plumage. Even the tiniest anty ant and glamour gnat donned an extra color and smidgeon of moss.
Huge bows made of spun sugar decorated pews of petrified blue and ruby-colored podnips. Vines draped themselves over branches, their tips respectfully arched while flowers gathered in bunches added their special decorative blend and bliss to the event. Sitting swans, sprinkled with gold muse, curved their necks and bowed heads in perfect imitation of each other. All agreed there had not been such a glorious event for more ages than they cared to admit. However, none of that could come close to the wonder of Oops’ voice, flowing and dancing, decorating the air with song, gracing every ear with pleasure, it a tribute to benevolence, goodness, and love.
Oops had never sung better, kindness cemented, tears lured from all. She truly emulated the tones and colors of an angel’s voice. Immaculate were the notes, nay a word uttered upon ‘er voice, just hints of them, yet, the message fully embraced.
The reddest cherry chubbs, which are the cherubs-to-be, heard and fluttered to join the carole, they hovered at one side so they could couple their voices to ‘er song. Chubbs doing this was an event that only happened with angels. T’was the first for ‘er foreshadowing it would not be ‘er last. Everyone from the smallest fly-of-butter to the oldest being, and most timid leaf-nester had found poignant tears, none more than ‘er g’Marma.
After the ceremony, Oops followed ‘er g’Marma and Macaroon down the aisle, then slipped away unnoticed. It did not take long for the family, though, to realize she was gone.
From high above the wedding, she in ‘er new cloud segue, looked upon ‘er family, pleased. Joy blossomed in ‘er heart, for she had given ‘er g’Marma ‘er gift. Though just vapor and mist, one could see the image of the girl, but without imperfection, parting cloud matter and peeking through.
A deep, strong voice sounded nearby. She rose, swirled about in the way of a hazy cloud, and saw a wash of white-blue-silver vapor transform into a familiar face and body. She instantly recognized ‘er grandSoopa. Elation that bordered upon bliss clenched ’er. She swooshed toward him, was grabbed up in his big arms. They hugged. Moments later, they drifted away, he ‘er guide to ‘er forever-afters and whats-to-bes.
Below, Grunk, though not invited, had attended the wedding, claiming the last seat in the last row. As moved as everyone else by ‘er song, he recalled she possessed a voice he understood to be a miracle. As he walked back to his well, he cried, not the tears of kindness cemented, no not the tears begat by beautiful angelic song, but tears of true ache. Anger and frustration apparent as he muttered, "I wish she had wished for a longer life."
Cynthia's bio/credits (written under the pen names of Angelica Hart and Cynthia Lawrence) are as follows: Book publications include print and/or electronic versions of nine titles in romance, fantasy, supernatural and paranormal thrillers. She has been an EPPIE finalist on three occasions. Other experience includes published short stories in Writer's Journal, True Romance and small press magazines, a reader's choice award and articles in local news publications and editorial experience. She is a graduate of several Writers' Digest workshops and has an Associates Degree in Business.
William's bio/credits are as follows: Over his forty-years of writing experience he had articles in various local, city and statewide newspapers, a play in production, a recorded song, speeches for politicians, trade articles, numerous technical manuals, along with more than thirty children's short stories presently being illustrated for self-publishing. A member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, he has attended various writer's groups and is a member of Written Remains Writers Group. He has also been a creative editor on numerous newsletters, and is a graduate of Del Tech.
The same literary agent represents both authors, and is presently marketing one book-length title for Cynthia and finalizing two book-length submittals for William.
© Cynthia DiSciullo & William Zigmont
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