The Springborn

SABELLA

JUNE 13, 1886

LATE MORNING

A fter Sparrow and I share a quiet breakfast of eggs and toast in the dining room, we rise from the table and leave the house. The sun is bright enough to make us squint. The birds sing riotously in every tree, but all of the other residents of the house are still abed recovering from last night’s festivities.

Side by side, Sparrow and I amble along the herb garden’s paths. Today, her gait is punctuated by limping steps. She grips my arm for support. I gaze down at the fuzzy crown of her head. Weeks ago, she was taller than me, but no more.

Age has stolen her height, the roses in her cheeks, and the fullness of her lips. In an unfair exchange, it has left her with a bent back, a wrinkled face, and cloudy eyes.

To me, she is as beautiful as ever, my Sparrow. My basket babe.

The heat of the day coaxes rich scent from the herbs. A hummingbird zips past us while bees hum and bob over the flowers. Sparrow plucks a green stalk and tucks it behind my ear. “Rosemary for remembrance,” she says.

I pat her gnarled hand where it holds tight to my arm. “Might it not be better to forget the past and start anew?”

“You do not truly wish to forget all of the past, Mama. It would be a great shame to forget the times you whispered stories to me under the quilt we shared, or the times we waded in the streams outside Miners Ridge. Or that time the billy goat got loose and chased us through the woods.”

I smile as we resume walking. “Or seeing you smile for the first time. Or hearing your first baby laughter.”

“Even times of sorrow have their worth and their lessons.” She bends and picks a twig full of tiny green leaves. “Thyme for strength and courage.”

Our eyes meet. In hers, I see certainty untainted by fear.

“No, Sparrow.”

“Before the next month passes,” she says. “I feel it in my marrow.” She slips the sprig of thyme behind my other ear. “I am old, Mama. Ready to go to my rest.”

“You’re a healer. Can you not add length to your life with some concoction? You have not yet had one year with us.” The heaviness in my chest grows, a lead weight of agony that threatens to crush my soul.

She lifts my chin with her knobby fingers and forces me to look into her eyes. “Before I came, why did you wish for me?”

“Because I was lonely and unloved. Because no one understood me or wanted my affection.”

“You needed me then. But now you have others. A family. People who love you, antlers and all. The devotion of a good-hearted young man. I came for a season, and that time is nearing its end.”

“I will always, always need you.”

“And I will always be your Sparrow, whether I stand beside you or sleep under the earth.” She embraces me for too short a time before pushing away from me. She points across the garden. Calder, Robbie, and the three boys have appeared on the lawn. The boys take turns dragging a kite over the grass by its string as Calder and Robbie watch from the shade of a maple.

“Look there,” Sparrow says with amusement. “Should we remind them they need a strong wind for such a pastime?”

I sniffle and dredge up a smile. “Some things are better learned firsthand.”

She pats my arm as if she is the mother and I am the child. “There you are. There you are. Such is life.”

I nod.

But I do not know how I will live a single day without her.

“Come,” she says, pulling me toward the boys.

I want to ask her what Delphine whispered to her before she died. Was there some clue in it that might lead me to a cure for Sparrow’s unnatural aging? She has made peace with death, but I refuse to let her go without a fight.

The asking will have to wait, though. This sunny, joyful moment among friends should be savored for as long as it lasts.

Calder offers me his widest smile, and I push my worries away like a child shoving a paper boat into the current of a swift-moving stream. Unlike the boat, the worries will certainly return.