Dust and Faeries

Hank sat in his antique chair in the dark library, it smelled of old

parchment, leather bound books, and musty years gone by. While he sat at the windowsill a sliver of light gleamed through dark maroon tapestry holding back the full onslaught of day, he watched a symphonic ballet of dust particles dancing, swirling, and churning, floating up and down and around to unheard music, a sudden gust of wind disrupted the tranquil overture that had him transfixed.

“Hank, Hank! You must come see what I have found.” Sarah said

rushing in the room.

Hank turning his wheelchair towards her, “What is it this time, Sarah?”

“You won’t believe what I’ve found in the garden Hank, you just

won’t.” Sarah said

Sarah a precocious ten-year-old with long black hair and piercing green eyes, she was well read and curious beyond her years. Hank, two years older than his sister, was more sensible and grounded, less distracted by frivolous things many children their ages were preoccupied with. It might be because his early childhood was wrought with doctors and treatments that most children that young never had to endure or it might be, that was just his nature, either way, he rarely had time for nonsense.

Quite frequently his sister would come to him with some

adventurous idea which he would simply shrug off as child’s play,

however, today he seems interested, intrigued even at what she going on about in the garden.

“Faeries, Hank! Honest to goodness real faeries in the

greenhouse!” Sarah said.

“Oh, Sarah, please, not faeries again. We both know that is just

fantasy.” Hank said.

“I swear it this time Hank. They’re real, honest to God Hank, real

faeries.” Sarah said back.

“Sarah, you shouldn’t take Gods name in vain, remember what

Mum told us.” Hank said.

“Well it’s true, they’re real. I’ll show you.” Sarah told her

brother.

Before he could protest Sarah took ahold of Hank’s wheelchair

and started out the door to the greenhouse toward the back of the garden.The air was crisp, fresh, with a bit of a bite, but it felt good against the skin.

“Ca-clump” Ca-clump” the wooden wheels of Hank’s chair

sounded on the cobblestone walk as Sarah pushed him.

The garden was well manicured, the melody of song birds could

be heard mixed with the rhythmic tunes of wind chimes as they

reverberated their harmonies in sync with the winter and seasonal fowl going about their daily routine.

The greenhouse had fallen into disrepair over the years. Once

used to grow fruits, vegetables, and even on occasion an award winning flower; it now housed old tools, broken birdbaths, or any number of forgotten items that could still be of use if only “fixed-up”.

Once the children reached the greenhouse, Sarah pulled open the old door, despite its protest. The bottom scratching vigorously against the cobblestone ground and the hinges wailed in agony with a “screech”.

Entering the greenhouse the few degrees difference in warmth

was welcome, for the wind had picked up considerably, while the cold had turned bitter in the moments it had taken them to walk from the house to the back of the garden.

Looking around the disheveled sight spread out in front of them,

the greenhouse still held some vegetation that grew here or there

amongst the broken or tattered debris. More now a museum of historic landscape tools or yard decorations that had long since gone out of style it was full of curiosities of old. Items that would spur the imagination of those who still had wonder and delight in their eye.

Bitter chilling wind still whipping at their backs Sarah reached to

close the door of the greenhouse to give them a respite from the

elements that seemed to change at a moments notice this time of year.

Tuning back to her brother Sarah leaned down to Hank’s right

ear and said softly while pointing. “There, Hank, in the corner, under that old tapestry. They’re in there.”

Taking hold of Hank’s chair again, Sarah began to push him

slowing towards where she had pointed.

“Ca-clump, ca-clump”

Sarah gently wheeled Hank’s chair up to an old dark red tapestry

that covered an antique birdcage.The birdcage was made from bamboo, probably brought back from a vacation to India or Sri Lanka, faux crystals lined every other horizontal bar of the cage. A small mirror still hung within the confines of the sanctuary or prison, depending on your view of such things.

Although Hank was generally more grounded and sensible, he

was still a child, had child dreams, had child hopes, and had a child’s

heart. Hank’s heart was racing, he could feel his pulse quickening, feel the blood pumping in his head and neck. He felt more alive at this very moment than he ever had, was he about to see something he’d dreamt about for hours while sitting in the library staring out the window.

He had never felt more joy than he was feeling right now at the

thought of something new, unknown, mysterious, being revealed to him, that he would be a part of something so special, something only he and his sister would share. That he would have a special time, a special moment with his sister, not because of his condition but because he was her big brother and they shared it together.

A sliver of light gleamed through tapestry. Sarah pulled back on

covering, disturbing dust as she did. The particles began dancing,

swirling, and churning, floating up and down and around, revealing

something behind, something that indeed looked peculiar. Hank instantly became mesmerized, transfixed on what he was watching, the beauty of the dance, the colors, the rhythmic tunes, and reverberating harmonies, all came together fascinated Hank, he could not stop staring. He had spent hours in the library dreaming of such things, when a sudden gust of wind disrupted the tranquil overture that had him transfixed.

“Hank, Hank! You must come see what I have found.” Sarah said

rushing into the room.