Diapensia Lapponica
She isn’t for everyone; even those born with her kissing their cheeks red can sour from her outstretched arms.
I wrote this short story last year. Perhaps you’ll notice the difference, between my style then and now. It’s certainly more poetic than the stories you have read recently, but I’m still very pleased with it.
*Diapensia Lapponica is the latin name for a pincushion plant commonly found in mountainous regions of the world, including the Scottish highlands where this story is set.
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The Cold; she isn’t for everyone; even those born with her kissing their cheeks red can sour from her outstretched arms, letting spite slip from their blue lips. They’re smothered by her tight grip and grow tired of the songs she sings in their numb ears; perhaps her repertoire needs updating. Then she might suffer less at their hands this time of year.
Those living in the valley below would become reluctant to see her go. “Just one more song,” they’d plead, reaching for her hand. But the Cold knows only a few melodies, and they've heard them before. “Not again,” are the words cascading from mouths below in clouds of hot air. But people don’t waste their breath plotting against her. Instead, they save their energy to chase after Spring; sitting by their windows with laced shoes, ready to run at the first sight of her golden light or blooming buds. They've not caught her before. Spring is slippery, coming, then going before returning for good. Like us, Spring enjoys the Cold and the melodies she sings; Spring waits happily out of sight, listening to the hymns hum along the hillsides. It’s the soundtrack to the Hare as she hops and hides in the snow, or the Red Squirrel as he forages the frozen floor. The Cold enjoys our attention. She lives from our love as we live in her breeze: gusting or calm. We're married, locked in a codependent existence.
Spring is running; there she goes, chased by those living below. “They’ll never catch her... they never have. Even with the Sun cheering them on,” says the Eagle, coming to eat on the boulder next to me. He’s right too. His are the keenest eyes on our hill. After years of tying their laces, Spring runs faster than any of them, faster than a breeze thrown ashore from the surface of the seas. "Faster than me.” He’s pecking at the white corpse in front of him. “And that’s remarkable,” I answer. When he descends, plummeting to the ground like an impatient raindrop, the only visible sign is the flash of white left behind by his tail. He’s faster than a glimpse of the Sun in winter or a mood swing in the valley below. We’re wondering, watching and listening. When will they realise? Next year? A decade? “Never.” He takes off, leaving behind white fur and bones.
Spring is running again, but she’s just warming up. The Fog’s lingering, clinging to the hills like our mattered root, stuck in place until the last ounce of energy dissolves. We’re the same, him and I, cushions waiting to be rested on and like us, the Fog thrives in the Cold, spurred on by her humming hymns and biting breath. Even our colours are the same; two shades of white grown from a bed of deep green. “I like this one,” he whispers, not wanting to disturb its rhythm. “It’s one of my favourites too.” She's singing her morning melody, it’s bracing and staccato, a heavy touch on a delicate piano. Somewhere beyond the cliffs, harmonies throw themselves into the mix from the crashing waves, battling to find a harmonic consensus. They’re two souls dancing for the first time, awkwardly getting to know each other. We wait, lying together, listening for the moment we know will come. Then, eventually, it does. The awkwardness dissolves as fast as the Fog under a clear sky.
She’s close now. Her breaths drift between my stems and along my petals. The people are gathering below, readying themselves for another sight of Spring. The Cold comes later than usual. She’s distracted with her packing; “This is my least favourite part,” I tell her, and she gives me a nod of recognition. She knows I’m not just speaking for myself. “It’s true, even I like you, and there's less for me to eat.” It’s the Squirrel, he’s nibbling the carcass the Eagle left. “You better be careful on that rock. He’ll see you as clear as the Sun in Winter's sky.” He pays no attention to me. Red Squirrels have always been the most stubborn creatures on our hillside. No wonder you see less each year. “Don’t worry,” says the Fog. “I’ll cover you while I’m here.” It’s a hollow promise, but the Fog is forgetful and doesn’t know how soon he’ll be gone.
She’s within striking distance now, and the people below know it. They can feel her on their skin. They’re making plans, or so the Eagle tells me. “I think you might be on their list,” he says, coming to eat by my side. “Who’s been eating on my rock?” He asks. I don’t want to tell him, but I have no choice. “The Squirrel,” the Fog says before I have to. The Eagle has been kind to the Squirrel this year. Not once trying to taste his flame-coloured flesh. But there is only so much the Eagle can accept. “You cannot hide him forever,” he tells the Fog, lifting off into the sky. Spring is so close now that the Sun’s emboldened, poking her face through the curtain of grey. It’s the last of the Fog, but he’s clueless.
Spring’s no longer running. She’s here; full and frantic. The morning arrives without a visit from the Fog's white coat, without a song from the seas. The melodies of the Cold are still floating in the air, but just; they’re fainter, slipping off the hillside note by note as the ground thaws. “You shouldn’t be here.” The Squirrel’s back on the rock engrossed in his breakfast; I’m not even sure he heard me. There’s a new sound coming up the hill, and it has none of the beauty the Cold manages. “People,” the Squirrel says and vanishes. There’s no mistaking it; people are climbing the hill. “They’re looking for you.” A Hare hops past to avoid their gaze; he knows their kind well. The people below are so unpredictable, rarely doing what they should or as they have before. Instead, they always hunt for something new, rare, or dangerous. Of course, they’ve come for me. I’m a perfect expectation, an anomaly, there’s nothing they like more. I hear feet crunching the frost-bitten grass and displacing loose gravel; they’re closing in now, and I hope in vain the Fog might visit one last time. But he won’t, not now. Not with the Sun out as she is. They’ve never been good friends; they’re like old lovers who can’t bear the sight of one another. If there’s a party, one will come, but the other won’t. The people are so close now I can hear them panting like dogs. Out of the sky, the Eagle comes racing down, he’s come to eat on his rock. “Don’t worry, my friend. Even the bravest people daren’t come too close to me.” He’s right; they revere his kind. It’s a reverence filled with fear, built from wide wings, sharp sight and terminal talons. “Thank you,” I say. “I hope you’re right. I’ve only got one flower. If they take it, what am I to do?”
The Eagle vanishes in a gust of wind and then returns in the next. “They won’t see you now, my friend.” He says, and I hear him pecking at something fresh. Warm blood trickles off the rock and onto my cushioned leaves. “The Fog will not be happy,” I say. But he doesn’t reply. He’s feasting.
“Look,” a person says. “That eagle’s eating a red squirrel.”
Love, Luke
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace.
UK - HERE
NL - HERE
Blurb -
A young man, torn apart by grief, struggles to forget his past and find his way into adulthood. Living close by, an elderly lady battles her deteriorating mind, trying to hold on to her memories. Serendipity and the elements pull them together in a café trapped in time. Their peculiar relationship blossoms, helping one come to terms with life and love and the other with death and loss.
'Love, Loss & the View from My Window' is Luke's debut novel. This strange and sombre tale was inspired by his experiences with dementia and shame. Luke watched both of his grandmothers suffer from various types of dementia. He was perplexed by the lack of understanding modern medicine can provide. While growing up, he dealt with shame in its various forms. These two factors have been brought together in this book to question the illusion of a 'normal' brain and to celebrate our ability to succeed in light of our shortfalls.