Blackthorn

[ Chapter 1 - A Quiet Life ]

My father once told me that no child born in Arwyn is afraid of the Blackthorn; but of what's in it. I came face to face with what lurked in the darkness when I was merely ten. But all of it had started when mother and Adelaide fell ill.

Spring had descended upon Arwyn and the wild poppies were in full bloom as my brother and I played among them. The brown, crumbly dust of the wood pile getting into our eyes and making them water. Sawyer crouched beside me, hair falling over his eyes and dirt nestled in the crook of his elbow.

"How do we get them to come to us?" He asked with a twinkling gleam. I smiled with one hand clutching a leather sack and in the other a thimble from my mother's sewing drawer. Sawyer snatched the sack from me and opened it to find freshly baked butter cake. His eyes widened.

"You stole cake?!" He asked.

"Maybe."

I broke off two pieces, one for me, one for Sawyer and crumbled the remainder into crumbs.

"The sprites love sweets—and shiny things...that's how we get them to come to us. If we offer this to them and they're satisfied...they'll bring us good luck." I said, feeding the crumbs into the thimble and placing it alongside the various things that my brother and I had collected. Some buttons, my mother's brooch, robin eggshells, and a cluster of poppy petals.

There was a crunch through the underbrush as our bloodhound, Bayaard, emerged from the edge of the forest, followed by my older step-brothers, Isaac and Sebastian, then my father. They had returned from checking the traps, and as I could see were successful with two hares hanging from my father's belt. My stomach rumbled at the thought of food. Our heads popped up from the tall grass and came running when we heard our father calling to us. In typical childish manner, I hid the sack of cake behind my back.

Sebastian approached us first. He towered over me like a giant and snatched the bag. Taking a glance behind me and seeing the offering of crumbs. He looked at me, then at Sawyer.

"Feeding your little fairy friends again?" He teased maliciously tossing the bag aside, crumbs spilling into the dirt. His boots digging into the tips of my toes and pinching them under his weight. I yelped and pushed at him, barely able to move him seeing he was practically built out of stone, or just the fact he was three years older than me.

I crossed my arms, digging my heels sharply into the dirt, "They're not fairies," I huffed, "They're sprites...and they're lucky!"

"If by lucky you mean annoying, they steal our grain and then you give them whatever food we have left!"

"They do not!"

"Do too!" He argued back, tugging on a lock of my hair. I cowered back in the grasses. It was rare I ever stood up to my brothers, especially Bash. He scoffed, snapping his fingers to command Bayaard to sit beside him.

I heard my father's voice come from behind us. He had heard our scuffle.

"What's happening here, Bash? Chandler? Both of you come here this instant." Sebastian pushed me aside and I followed closely on his heels.

"Chandler's wasting food again..." He muttered through clenched teeth.

"Am not!"

I was met with a stern look from my father. My head dropped. "Chandler," He began, "—you know better...we barely have enough food to feed ourselves, let alone feed your little friends that don't exist."

I knew they existed and at times I'd steal a glance of them. Sometimes I felt that they only showed for me and Sawyer, seeing as my brothers and father waved them off as myths. My father refused to see the world the way my brother and I did. Full of enchantment and mystery. He was a man of 'seeing is believing' so naturally with that mindset, creatures such as the sprites were nothing.