The Springborn

SABELLA

OCTOBER 5, 1886

LATE MORNING

T he storm stripped every bright autumn leaf from the trees and bushes, but the long-missed, golden sunshine returns now to clothe the bare branches with a becoming sheen. The maple tree closest to the house hosts a flock of merrily twittering sparrows, fine replacements for the absent foliage. In the distance, the creeks whoosh and splash, boasting that they have left their beds like a pair of naughty children.

As I peg the last of the towels to the clothesline, one of the hens scurries past me. She’s splattered with mud and clucking excitedly, obviously thrilled that she’s escaped the coop.

“Silly bird,” I scold. “You’ll be a fox’s dinner if you wander off. Come here now. Here, chicky.” I approach her with caution, but she panics and dashes into the orchard. I give chase, tripping over my own feet, dousing my dress and apron with muck and puddle water.

Finally, I corner her near the house. I dive headlong onto the grass and catch her by the legs with a victorious cry. She responds with distressed squawks and flailing. A few reddish-brown feathers flutter to the ground as I adjust my grip on her round middle.

Gloating over my achievement, I get to my feet. I hold her fat body away from my chest, hoping in vain to spare my soiled clothes from further sullying. Mother would be horrified to see me in such a state.

The squelching of footsteps in the mud startles me. I pull the hen close and turn toward the sound.

“Hello,” Calder says, his fingers fumbling to button his shirt. His grin is flame-bright. Eye-stingingly bright. “Sorry if I frightened you.”

I cannot breathe. Oh, heavens! He is here and I am all happiness and no words.

The chicken wriggles and squawks, objecting to the increasing tightness of my embrace.

“You said to come, so I flew here as soon as I could.” He takes a few steps toward me, his brow wrinkled with worry. “Did you change your mind? Please say no.”

“No,” I say too loudly. He is close now, close enough for me to see bronze specks in his irises. The tender longing on his face bestirs the butterflies in my belly. They plummet and soar, waltz and jig.

Calder’s smile turns mischievous. “Do you enjoy washing clothes since moving out here?”

“No, I do not,” I say. The hen pecks my arm but I hardly feel it.

“Well then, I am sorry,” he says, brushing his fingertips over my cheek to remove a tear I shed unknowingly. “Because I do believe this shirt I’m wearing is about to become completely filthy.” He wraps his arms around me, sandwiching the muddy hen between us, and kisses me. I kiss him back, and soon I cannot tell who is kissing who, but nothing matters other than the fact that I am in his arms, finally. Finally.

We kiss until the bird’s cackling escalates to an earsplitting volume. Calder pats the unhappy chicken’s head and she snaps at him with her beak. “She’s feisty, like her mother.”

“I hardly consider myself this chicken’s mother. And as I am neither your mother nor your maid, I am not washing that shirt, Calder Hadrian.”

“Fine. But what will Robbie think I’ve been up to when I come home in such a state?”

“He’ll think you’re nothing but a slovenly cad. Which he already knows full well.”

“I love it when you call me names. Did you know that?” Flushed and mud-smeared, he looks far more impish and irresistible than a person should be allowed to.

“Stuff it,” I say, borrowing Robbie’s expression.

He cups my elbows in his hands and frowns. “Now is that any way to talk in front of the poultry?”

I fix my eyes on his. “I have missed you.”

He kisses my forehead. “Let’s never fight again.”

“Oh, Calder. Always wishing for the impossible.”

“Why not? I like impossible. My wings, your antlers, Robbie’s ridiculous lower extremities. Impossible is a grand thing. I would go so far as to say that I love it. But there is nothing in the world I love more than you, Sabella. I hope you don’t mind that it’s still true and always will be.”

“If you do not mind hearing me say that I love you as well, I believe I can bear it.”

“That’s settled, then. Now, let’s put this unsightly bird away and find something to eat besides chicken. Flying makes me famished.”

We return the disgruntled hen to the coop. Filthy water drips from my hair onto my shoulders and my shoes squish like full sponges as we walk toward the cottage, but these things do nothing to diminish my joy.

Tugging Calder’s arm, I say, “I have a gift for you.”

“Saucy wench.” He laughs and then adds, “I know, I know. ‘Stuff it, Calder.’ I’m hoping it’s food, actually.” To emphasize his point, his stomach growls like a bear.

“The gift is quite inedible, but I’ll feed you soon, I promise.”

We shed our soggy shoes at the door and I wipe my hands on the least dirty part of my apron. My pulse thuds with anticipation as I fetch my handiwork from the basket near the fireplace. Just this morning, I sewed the last stitch into the blue shirt and folded it neatly, as if something in me sensed that today would be the day Calder would arrive.

“What’s this?” he asks as I place the rectangle of folded cloth into his grasp.

Blushing, I watch him unfold and examine it. When he turns the shirt over and discovers the slits in the back, he shakes his head in amazement.

“You, my love, are a genius.” He starts to unbutton his mud-stained shirt. I blush harder and I turn to face the wall.

A long minute passes before he says, “Modesty restored. Behold the rewards of your labor.”

I turn, acutely aware of the swish of my skirts, the damp warmth of the room, and the pattering of my heart.

Thanks to the slits, Calder’s green and gold moth wings spread wide behind him. Their colors seem magnified by the sky-blue fabric. He fiddles with the cuffs and bites his lower lip as he awaits my appraisal.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I think that he is glorious indeed, this wonderful, exasperating young man. I think that I want to spend the rest of my life with him—but I will keep that notion to myself for now. So I say, “I think you should never hide your wings again. And I also think you should fly every day, weather permitting. Such a rare gift should not be wasted.”

“If that is what you wish, I shall do everything within my power to obey. My wings and I have come to an understanding of late.” He sets his hands on my waist and glances over my head. “You know what I shall ask in return: to see antlers always atop your head, rain or shine. Day and night.”

With both hands, I reach up to touch the velvety branches that extend from my head. I run my fingers along their curves, find their points with my fingertips. They seem weightless to me now, no more a burden than the air in my lungs.

“Well? What do you say, Sabella?”

“Yes,” I say to him.

And then I say it again more loudly, this time to myself.

Yes , to all that I am, to all that I have been, and to all that I will become.