Every Time a Bell Rings

“Listen…”

             Mrs. Lewis lowered the storybook she had been reading aloud from and turned to face her six-year-old daughter. Marie was no longer nestled in her bed as she had been previously, but was instead perched at the window, gazing intently out through a few holes she had rubbed in the frosty glass. There wasn’t much to see through the dim moonlight, only the shady outline of the dense forest that loomed ominously only a few dozen yards away, but her brows were furrowed in concentration.  

“It’s coming from the woods!”

             Now curious herself, her mother rose from her rocking chair, the stiff fabric of her dress rustling until she stopped by her child and lifted the window, ignoring the chill of the freezing air as she strained to hear what her daughter did. Sure enough, there was the sound of a very faint jingling coming from the darkness, nearly imperceptible unless concentrated on. It continued intermittently, sometimes drifting through the still, silent night, sometimes drowned out by the creaking boughs of the bare trees.

             But before Marie could ask what it’s source was, now that she had seen her mother heard it as well, Mrs. Lewis slammed the window shut and nearly ripped the curtains off their rod as she pulled them closed. “Mama?” the girl asked, mildly alarmed. But she was ignored as she was lifted into usually gentle arms and all but dumped back into her bed. “Mama?!” Now there was the beginnings of fear budding in her large eyes. The young woman paused in the doorway she had all but run to, realizing her strange and unexpected actions had frightened her daughter, and smoothed her expression, saying calmly “It’s nothing. I just didn’t want you to catch cold. It’s time to sleep now.” 

But Marie was still not placated. “You haven’t finished my story!” Mrs. Lewis turned and extinguished the flame of the oil lamp that she had been reading from, assuring her “We’ll finish it tomorrow night, I promise. For now, it’s late and I have something to talk over with Da.”  Then she left the room and closed the door behind her. Though still confused and the slightest bit disturbed, Marie snuggled back into her blankets, though her eyes remained open the entire night as the ominous jingling continued until well after the sun had risen.

~*~*~*~*~*~

             The next morning, Marie’s nanny came in bright and early in order to dress her, as the first snow of winter had fallen in the night and the young girl was eager to see it. But although she was excited to go out and play, she also wanted to know more about the noise that had kept her awake.

             “Ana, did you hear that jingling last night?” The old woman’s hands froze at the girl’s words while buttoning her wool coat, a lump forming in her throat. “Jingling?” she managed to croak out after a moment. “Can’t say I did, dear.” Marie looked slightly crestfallen, disappointed her nanny (who always seemed to have knowledge of everything) was clueless. “Oh.” 

Seeing her sad expression, Ana decided to humor her, though in truth she badly wanted to change the subject.  “What kind of jingling? Like a bell?” Just as she expected, the child perked up. “Yes! Like a little bell off in the woods! Are you sure you did not hear it?” Ana responded as she stuffed Marie’s hands in their mittens “Yes, dear, I am sure.” “Well what could they be?” 

Ana thought for a moment and then began lacing up her boots. “Well... Mr. Hans Christian Anderson says that in winter times, the flowers have secret balls and the wild hyacinths and white snowdrops jingle little bells. Perhaps that is what you heard.” A large smile spread across the young girl’s face, as she remembered the tale and had enjoyed it very much when her mother had read it to her. “Really? Quick, Ana! I want to go out and look for them!”

             As soon as she was dressed, Marie practically sprinted through the large house, very unbecoming of her age, she knew, but she was much too excited to care. The air in the back garden was bitterly cold and the sunlight reflecting on the snow was nearly blinding, but to the young girl, it was a wonderland. Though not allowed in the woods where the sound seemed to originate from, she spent many hours in the garden, scoping every nook and cranny for evidence of a grand flower dance, peering under the birdbaths and poking through the frozen flowerbeds, at all times keeping her ears open for the jingling of bells and peering every so often into the ominous forest that surrounded her home. But the bells did not ring again for the whole day and indeed she had all but forgotten about them until dinner that night. 

Mr. Lewis was the small village’s only pastor and his duties kept him out of the house for much of the day. He was a kind, gentle man, with soft eyes and a compassionate soul that the people loved him for. But that night, an uncharacteristic frown marred his face as he stared at his untouched plate, expression frustrated and weighed down with melancholy. Every so often, Mrs. Lewis would peer over at him, a sympathetic look in her gaze. At last, she reached out and laid a hand on his. 

“This is actually very good news,” she said softly. “It’s a second chance for him. How many other people get this opportunity? This was the Good Lord’s will and it does not reflect on you in the slightest.” At these strangely veiled words, Marie set down her spoon and pushed away her bowl, her attention now focused worriedly on her father. Even bathed in the warm glow of the hearth, his face looked pale and tinged with green. “Don’t blame yourself for this,” Mrs. Lewis continued, more earnestly now. “If anyone is at fault, it’s Dr. Richards.”

After another few moments of stillness, the pastor sat back in his seat and cleared his throat. “I know you’re right, my dear,” he said, turning his hand over to grasp hers. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get the sound of those damned bells out of my head.” 

The shock Marie felt at her father’s use of a curse word was overshadowed with delight at the mention of the bells. “You’ve heard them too?” she asked excitedly, dispelling the dense air of a serious conversation with her light voice. “Mama and I heard them last night! Ana says they’re the flowers having a marvelous ball outside. Remember when we read that in the storybook, Mama?” 

But her momentary delight quickly faded when she saw the expressions of her parents.  They were shocked. Instantly, the young girl wanted to shrink down into her seat to escape their piercing gazes. What had she said? Were they angry at her for speaking out of turn and interrupting their discussion? Had she offended them somehow? Was she not supposed to bring up the bells?

“Marie,” Mr. Lewis’ voice was soft but firm, a tone the child didn’t recall ever hearing from him before. “Why don’t you go up to your room and play for a while before bed. We have some more things to discuss here.” 

His daughter was up in a flash, eager to escape the uncomfortable situation that had turned frighteningly serious, and she quickly made her way to her room where she crawled into her bed and pulled the blankets over her face, mortified at having been scolded and sent away from the table.

~*~*~*~*~*~

             Marie quickly learned that the adults of her village reacted to her claim that the jingling was due to a flower dance just the same way her parents had. Indeed, ever since the first night the sound was heard, a heaviness seemed to weigh over the whole town, including her home and family.  Mr. Lewis’ powerful sermon the following Sunday about Christ’s miracles involving healing the sick and raising the dead sparked many whispered discussions among the congregation after the service, and Dr. Richards seemed particularly sought out for conversation.

The next time Marie dared to mention the bells was several days later when her curiosity could not be ignored any longer. “Ana,” she asked cautiously whilst having her hair combed one evening. “Do you think the flowers are still having their dances? I haven’t heard the bells at all.” Her gaze was fixed on the old woman’s reflection in the mirror, noticing it instantly freeze. She watched as her nanny swallowed thickly, eyes shifty and downcast, the same reaction she had displayed the first time Marie mentioned the jingling sound, though this time much more obvious. “Ana?”

The woman quickly recovered herself, though she avoided eye contact, and instead of answering held up two silk ribbons. “Which would you like to braid your hair with tonight? The pink one or the green one?” “Pink. And what do you say, Ana? About the bells?” But her question was ignored once again as a swift tug on a particularly stubborn knot broke a few teeth off the wooden comb and the nanny went off on a distracted tangent about cheaply made goods.

“An-a!” Marie was getting impatient, frustrated that no one would speak to her about the jingling and did everything in their power to avoid answering her questions. Even the woman who first introduced the idea that the flowers were responsible had become shaken and afraid, tiptoeing around the topic using any excuse she could find! 

“Oh!” the nanny exclaimed with an undisguised sigh of relief as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed nine o’clock. “It’s time for bed now! Come along and say your prayers, you have lessons in the morning, remember.” Before she could protest and with her hair not even fully combed, the poor child was swept off to bed and left alone in her room without so much as a bedtime story.

“Ana!” she called out, hoping her voice would carry through the halls.  But no one responded.  “An-a!” Still nothing. Extremely annoyed and confused, Marie relit the oil lamp on her bedside table and went to her bookshelf, pulling out Hans Christian Anderson’s tale Little Ida’s Flowers. Perhaps, she thought, some answers could be found in the work that would shed some light on the strange situation. Because she could still barely read, she flipped through the pages and inspected the pictures, wishing beyond all wishes that the flowers would appear to her and reveal the truth.

And then she heard it. 

             Far off in the distance, the familiar jingling wafted to her ears, causing her to drop the book and rush to the window. She struggled for a moment, but her little fingers eventually succeeded in prying the frame upward just as Mama had done all those nights ago, and she nearly fell out in her eagerness to hear more clearly. 

             Yes, there it was! Drifting through the trees in the still, cold night, its delicate ringing seeming to call to her, enticing her to come find the truth of its origins. She considered calling out for an adult, but the humiliation and irritation she had suffered every time she brought up the topic deterred her. 

             And then a brilliant idea struck her. If the source really was the flowers dancing at a magnificent ball, then perhaps she could go to them and earn their trust, thus proving to everyone that she should be taken seriously! Marie wasted no time and set to work dressing herself, which took longer than usual due to her lack of aid. Then she filled a small basket with sweets she had been gifted for her birthday and creaked open her bedroom door. 

             The halls were empty and dark, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis probably either asleep or reading in the parlor and the few staff away in their quarters. The young girl crept through her home with her breath held, silent as a mouse as she navigated the winding halls. She made it all the way to the back door, pausing only momentarily to wrap her scarf snugly around her head and make sure the basket was secure in her hand. Then she undid the latch, turned the knob, and stepped outside into the night. 

             All was well as she crossed the garden, but Marie's confidence began to ebb away as she neared the dark forest that she had to enter in order to find the dance she so desperately wanted to be a part of. “Don’t you ever go in those woods, Marie,” Mama had once told her long ago. “It’s full of brambles and wild animals and you could easily get lost.” And indeed, they looked sinister and foreboding, not at all like a sanctuary for delicate flowers. But Ana always did say she was fearless and the persistent jingling pushed all doubts from her mind. So she began weaving through the branches without even a glance back, hands extended before her to prevent any twigs from hitting her face.  If it had not been for the cold light of the full moon sifting through the treetops, she would have been utterly blind. Still, she often stumbled and tripped and her coat caught on thorns multiple times, but her imagination was so enthralled with the idea of dancing flowers and a magic ball that she barely noticed. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she knew the bell would not lead her astray.

             At last, Marie reached a tree-line and stepped out into a clearing. She didn’t know how long she had been walking or what time it was, but she was chilled to the bone and a damp mist clung close to the ground, obscuring the view of her feet. Doubt began to creep into her mind once more, a strange uneasiness churning her stomach. But the jingling was closer than ever—just a few feet away. She cautiously weaved around several tall, square boulders, apprehension mingling with excitement, until she stopped. There were no flowers. There was no party. There were no hyacinths and snow drops. There was only a small bronze bell suspended on an iron rod, tied to a string that disappeared into the dirt.

A fresh mound of dirt at the base of a headstone. A headstone in a vast graveyard.

             The basket of sweets fell from her hands as Marie realized where she was and the truth behind the sound she had been chasing. Tears welled in her eyes and her chin began to wobble. A choked sob escaped her lips as she stumbled back and covered her face with her hands. It all made sense! The reason why no one wanted to talk to her about the bells and why Mama rushed off when she first heard the jingling! Why her father had sent her away from the table! Why Ana was so shaken up! The bell was rung by the living dead!

“Mama!!!” she began to wail, terror clutching her small heart as the bell began ringing more frantically than it ever had before. “Ma-ma!!!” She thought her head was going to explode with the pressure building up in it and her screams and the icy air scratched her throat raw. “Ma-ma!!!”

             “Marie?!” The voice came from off in the distance, accompanied by other men’s voices and the baying of dogs. “Marie, is that you?” The girl was on her feet in an instant, eyelashes heavy with frozen tears and chapped cheeks blazing red. “Da!” she screamed, scrambling toward a swarm of glowing lanterns that was quickly making its way down a path through the trees. “Da!” 

The next moment, Mr. Lewis ran into view, scooping up his daughter with a cry of relief. “Da,” the girl sobbed, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “It’s not true! There are no flowers! Ana lied! There are no flowers!” “I know,” he said softly. “I know, but it’s alright. It’s just a person.” Then he took her aside and set her down, wrapping her in his coat. They sat there together, praying softly while Mr. Lewis clutched his Bible to his chest as the men with spades began to excavate the grave of the woman he had hosted a funeral for several days earlier. The second person Dr. Richards had falsely proclaimed dead in less than a month.

             From that night on, Marie was haunted by the jingling bells that had once inspired wonder in her young imagination. She knew that when she heard that sound, the men with shovels would set off to dig out some other poor soul from their grave and recount them amongst the living once again. There were no flower dances to be found, and she never looked again.