Little Blue

Little Blue- By Beatrice Racine

(This story, although set in a fantasy world, is about finding yourself through journeys and the importance of knowing where you came from. Little Blue shines a light on how many people feel connected to their ancestors even if they don't know who they really are. It's about learning and seeing where life takes you!)

Weeping willows swayed aimlessly in the cold breeze, their limbs reaching weakly for the leaf-littered ground, the earth hard and frozen. A shadow loomed over the dreary forest, casting shades of violet onto the moss-covered boulders and crumbling rotten logs, dewdrops glinting dimly in the waning light. The sound of waves could be heard in the distance as they crashed onto rocky shores, the cold water leaving slick stones crawling with rust-colored crabs and spotted with pale barnacles. Clouds rumbled and cried above the lonely beach, rain freckling cracked mountain tops as the salted frothed and churned and sprayed. The trees whispered to one another, sharing secrets and lies within the rustling of leaves and shaking of hollow branches, like aging bones rattling under the skin of dying men. They groaned, reciting tall tales of the animals burrowing under their bark, their claws hooked in the dirt. 

"Why do you shriek?" The large Firs croaked, throats dry as sand. They pointed their gnarled fingers at the wailing sky, every crack of thunder bringing forth another sob from the clouds. Birds chirped in agreement, possums laughing on their backs, tongues lolling between gleaming teeth.

"Why do you weep?" The wind retorted, its bitter gales whipping the willows and oaks, leaves fluttering to the ground before getting swept away by the quarrels of nature. 

In the skin of a small girl, a nameless spirit lay, sprawled in the soaked grass clearing between tree and sky. Standing no taller than a chestnut, she wandered between green blades, hoisting herself onto a flower. Her small foot slipped on the slick surface, the curve of the petal catching rain in its pearl-colored crescent. She made little splash, her hair sticking to her flushed cheeks as she coughed and sputtered.

"Why do you fight?" She pleaded for an answer, her lilting voice weak and whispered. Possums gasped and scampered up bug-ridden trunks, birds flying to their nests and tending to their young, clicking beaks and shaking their feathers free from the dreadful cold.  

“Fight they must.” An old Crow told her, its scratchy voice aged and wise.

“And fight they will.” A silk-spinning spider added, weaving between droplets as they plummeted from the sky, his small body barely visible through the bramble. 

“Siblings often do.” A sapling chimed in, its growing limbs swaying in the gusts of wind that tried to uproot it. A moment later the little plant was ripped from the soil with a sickening cry. It seemed its young roots hadn't found purchase in the mud. 

The spirit shook her small head, sitting in the petal-made basin, shivering as cold seeped through the strips of fabric plastered to her pale body. Blue as ice, her skin gleamed like moonlight over still water, her hair spun of silver, and eyes like the violet of a spring Hyacinth just beginning to bloom. 

“Do not cry, little spirit.” The Crow told her haughtily, inky black beak raised to the rain.

“Do not weep for the wind.”

The girl lifted her head, water clinging to her lashes and streaking down her blue cheeks like tears. 

“You’re much too small to cry over such trivial things.” The Crow nodded and preened its wet feathers, beaded eyes glinting in the flickering light. 

The little spirit did not answer, watching as wind and willow cried out in unison, thunder rumbling like the belly of a hungry beast. The spider whimpered and burrowed under the sodden earth, eight limbs peeking from beneath the dirt. Birds shielded their nests; possums and squirrels hiding within the holes of trees. The forest’s creatures cowered in fear. A flash of lightning rang out across the soaked land, striking rock and wood alike with a deafening crack. Smoke curled up towards the clouds, licking at the gray sky before dissipating into the rain, the air heedy with the scent of blooming flame. 

Without a moment's hesitation, the Crow swooped down from its perch, talons outstretched. It snatched the girl from her flower, soaring up, up, up, the spirit's cries carried away in the gales that rustled trees below. 

“Let me down!” She wailed, little legs kicking at thin air. Droplets pelted her body and left welts on her icy skin, purple blossoming from her blue pallor.

“Hush, little blue.” The Crow scolded, diving down to the beach and dropping her atop a slick boulder, moss clinging to the wet stone. The black bird flapped its wings to stay aloft, leaving the girl to clutch at ridges and crevices decorating the rock’s smooth surface.

“You do not belong within the petals of a flower. You need a name, spirit girl, a place in this warring world. Make your way to the water, and tap a clam twice.”

“I cannot swim.” 

“Nobody asked you to.”

The rain continued to fall heavily, water rolling off the slab of stone and splattering onto the girl's face.

“Tap the clam, little spirit. Tap, tap, tap, and the crabs will take you as you are, small and all. Bring a name, or find it in the wind. Those under the sea will call you what you are.” The Crow sneered, haughtily sparing her one last glance before beating its wings and following the earth's cries back to its perch.  

Wind and willow continued to argue, each retort accompanied by a crack of lightning or the shrill shriek of split wood. The grating sounds startled the blue girl, her silver hair fluttering as she attempted to climb down to the soaked earth. Her foot slipped on the precarious surface, sending her tumbling down the jagged slope. She groaned quietly, her head pounding as she landed in a pile of slick pebbles, each little stone digging into her battered body. A name, that's what she needed. But how to get one was beyond her, for she could only hear despair in the wind's deep groans. Not a word traveled through the breeze, no letters carried upon cold currents. 

Tap, tap, tap. The Crow’s voice bounced off the walls of her little head as she rose to her feet, shielding her violet eyes from the mist and drizzle. Clambering over broken branches, she tripped over the half-rotted wood, falling to her knees until they cracked and bled. Only the faint crashing of waves and downpour of rain cut through the beach's eerie silence, the spirit's heavy breathing punctuated by skittish gasps and the occasional whimper. Her knees stung. Her eyes watered. What a pointless journey this was.

Finally, at the ocean's edge, cold water lapped at her milky blue legs, trembles wracking her chestnut-sized body. Ocean winds lashed at the beach, whipping the shore and leaving gashes in the damp sand, deep canyons carved into the mud and earth beneath. Her amethyst eyes thinned to slits as she waded through the waves, sand clinging to her lashes and crusting upon her face. Skin wrinkled and shriveled from hours spent splashing through frothy waters, blue fading to sickly silver. Within the sea of gray, pink peeked out from the shifting sands, opal ridges shining in the pitter-patter of rain. Her little knuckles rapped against the gleaming surface, a hollow thumping sound echoing within. The shell cracked open and a small pair of beady black eyes poked from the thin opening, watching her warily. They were ugly eyes, she thought to herself. Black as night and round and fat. She quite disliked looking at them.

“Who are you, little thing in the waves?” The voice between shells croaked, the point of its red pinchers visible as they gripped the interior lip of the clam. The spirit stayed silent, watching as the creature blinked slowly, its lids sheer and opaque as they closed over sand-flecked orbs. How vile, the girl thought. They looked coated in slime and wet and terrible. She swallowed, shifting on her feet as rain splashed onto her head, droplets dripping from the silver strands that hung limply down her back.

“I do not have a name,” she replied softly, averting her gaze from the unblinking balls that bore into her soul. She shuddered, then rubbed at her spindly arms, little bumps dotting the color-leeched skin.

“Bahh!” The creature scoffed, “Everything has a name, big or small, long or short. Even the wind moans its name between mountain passes, thunder rumbling like a hungry beast. So what is your name, child? If the wind knows its own?”

She stared at him blankly, for she had no name. She was simply a spirit, with hair of spun silver and eyes like the violet of a spring Hyacinth just beginning to bloom. 

“I do not have a name.” She repeated.

“You speak nonsense, Little Blue, and nonsense has no place under the sea.” He dismissed her, retreating within the clam, “Perhaps ask the wind to bring you where you must go, between the branches of willows, atop the petals of fallen flowers.” He practically sneered. "Ask the wind for a name, and see what it says."

The spirit was left standing there, staring down at a closed clam and the crab hidden inside. The crustacean had spoken in twisted tongues and vague riddles, and now far from the water-filled flower she had called home, she had no choice but to listen to his fantastical ramblings. Her eyes flicked up to a spotted leaf and watched as it fell into the sea, its amber corpse sinking into the waves. Gales huffed their protests, shaking old trees free of their clothes, leaving wood bare and stripped. Would the wind give her a name, whispering to her between claps of thunder and strikes of lightning? Or would she be as forgotten as the fallen foliage? She shook the thoughts from her mind, taking three steps back from the clam, its pinkish shell now halfway submerged in the heavy sand.

Her breath clouded in front of her as she trudged through the tumultuous waters and climbed back upon the rocky ocean shelf, shivers wracking her lithe frame. Cold seeped into the marrow of her weary bones, settling under her skin like a writhing creature of misery and discouragement, whispering the word nameless through one ear and giggling maniacally as it wormed its way down her throat. She would follow the gusts that carried seeds to faraway lands, she decided, scaling back up slickened stones. Through the heavy fog, she stumbled past thorn bushes of molten green and brown, yelping and recoiling from sharp thorns. Her violet tongue slipped out and brushed against her fingertips, arm raising her small hand to the sky. She felt every languid breeze and violent draft, air dancing along the pad of her thumb and forefinger as she pinched the wandering gales and brought the wriggling thing to her mouth. She heard it beckoning to her, its embrace stiff and awkward as it wove between her teeth and slithered down her throat, moving her feet in one direction after the next. 

Finally, she emerged in a clearing surrounded by weeping willows, their limbs drooping as they swayed and danced to Mother Nature’s tune. The wind was stronger here, she noticed with wide purple eyes, the roots of smaller plants loosening in the earth as they were tugged at every which way. She tilted her face upwards, taking in the beauty that decorated the playful trees, feeling an urge to fly, to soar as the Crow did, or float like the sunken leaf. She wanted to be unburdened by her little legs, by the gravity that kept her grounded and trapped to the confines of land. Her feet danced with the wriggling wind that nestled into her stomach, butterflies blooming from the wormy thing and bringing her to a towering sight of bark and leaves. Inch by inch she made her way up the willow, little fingers finding purchase in the buckling wood and creaking branches. 

The trunk stretched on for what felt like miles, looming taller and taller with every bit of progress. With one last push, she surfaced, standing atop one of many willows that made up the tall thicket, her lungs burning and legs aching. Emerging from blooming flowers came little spirits just like her, their skin varying shades from moonlight to ebony, little pink girls and Fuschia boys hiding behind the legs of their mothers. They were like her, no taller than a chestnut with hair spun of silver and eyes like the violet of a spring Hyacinth just beginning to bloom. Wings unfurled from between their shoulder blades, like glittering glass reflecting such light it looked as if the sun had cried upon the crown of their tiny heads. They beat their wings, the force so strong it carried pollen to flowers and swept boats from their courses, crashing them against the rocks of unforgiving shores. The spirits were The Wind in the Willows, moaning their names between mountain passes, thunder rumbling like a hungry beast.

She was struck with awe, speechless. Having lived beneath her own, a grounded spirit meant for wings.

Two of them approached, crowns of twigs resting upon the small of their heads, folded gossamer in their outstretched hands. They stripped her of her thin rags, dressing her in violet petals the color of her pointed tongue, discarding the soaked cloth, and watching as it fell to the ground with a silent thump. Carefully they sowed, the needle piercing her icy blue skin and tugging painfully as gossamer was inserted along her spine. Crimson blood bubbled out from the puncture holes and she hissed through needle-sharp teeth. They gifted her with wings, following the pale scars that marred either side of her torso from where they had once been. Slowly, she unfurled them, wincing as they tugged at her raw back, twitching as they came to life. She beat them once, and her small feet lifted off the ground, the tips of her toes barely brushing the branches below. Again she flapped, and into the sky she soared, rain pelting her as she flew up, up, up, and let the wind moan her name,

“Little Blue”.