Freshly Dusted

I stood on the roof and cried, tiny pinpricks of light filling my vision with their brilliance. The cosmos stretched above me, tall and brilliant, and I was so close to reaching it. I sneaked over to the ledge, glancing out over the entire surroundings and the nearby highway. One A.M. traffic was scarce, and as the last vehicle rounded the bend in the road, I breathed a deep breath in and let it out.

I was alone, with only God standing between me and the rest of the universe. My thoughts scattered in a myriad of directions, always coming back to reach the same emotion of wonder and awe.

Nearby, the Toyota American flag rippled wildly in the wind, the cool breeze stretching it beyond my own imaginings. How my fingers itched for a chance to catalog the momentous glory of the universe. I lifted my cell phone, always present, to the sky, pulling up the camera app with a single click. When I finally took the picture, the glory of the stars became a single brightened pixel in a sea of black. The dark wisps of clouds that drifted across the atmosphere were lost to poor optics, and I grunted in disapproval and disappointment. I hesitated for a moment, and reluctant to leave my hotel ceiling perch, a new idea came to me.

Four minutes later, I was back on the roof, a camera dangling from the strap around my neck. I lifted the device to the sky, allowing the camera to filter to the right lighting setting to capture the brilliance I saw before me. Yet, when I scrolled through the pictures, although significantly improved from the phone, they still did not stand a chance of capturing the brilliance I saw before me.

I paused, glancing between the camera roll and the sky above me. Another car zoomed its way across the highway, and I jumped, as if startled. I tried a couple of different shots, but the outlook was already the same. Eventually, I gave up, setting the camera aside, unsure of whether to be disappointed by my inability to photograph the sky, or disgusted that the thing that was so beautiful to me would not be beautiful to others.

I turned my attention back to the universe, the reason I had climbed the last bit from the fourth floor to the roof. I was not the first to come this far, as evidenced by the beer cans and other paraphernalia. But no one had been here in a long time either.

Wind rippled through my hair, and I sighed, breathing a deep breath in and out. The moon climbed high above my head, and the occasional pair of headlights split the darkness. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance, and I realized in that moment, that I had tried to describe a myriad of emotions and sense in just a single picture. Of course it wouldn’t be as good.

I smiled, and the awe of minutes before returned, surprising me with its power. Who was I to seek to capture something like this?

Thus 1 am turned to 2 am, and soon I slipped back down to the fourth floor hotel room, confident I had paid my respects to the new day.

Alone and afraid, although she would never have admitted it to anyone, including herself, Red sneaked into Bravery’s only tavern, a shuddering place that cast lengthy shadows into the void created in the rafters below.

However, Red refused to be dominated by darkness, and she stepped into the flickering lamplight of the room. Contrary to her expectations, not a single one of the old veterans noticed her entry, so absorbed were they in relaying on their battle stories. Courage and confidence flooding through her veins, Red strode towards the bar stools at the front and leaned herself against the side.

“I’ll take a beer,” she announced to the barista.

He turned, ready to serve, but he only shook his head when he saw her. “Ha! Get lost, kid, before I boot you out of here,” he replied, before turning back to the display case filled with wine, beer, and other forms of frothing liquor.

Sighing, Red resorted to begging. “Please? I don’t have a mama.” Sure, she shouldn’t play the mama card so casually, but she could not stand being ignored.

“None of us have our mamas anymore,” the tender responded, but sure enough, his face softened, and he filled up a filthy glass about a quarter of the way with something golden at the tap. Red’s face lit up, surprised the trick had worked. Her delight did not fade, even after he filled the rest with yellow water, swirling it around until the two mixed into one diluted drink.

“Mighty thankful, sir!” she cried as he handed it across the counter. In turn, Red proffered the coin she had found buried in the mud of the dandelion valley, but he shook his head.

“Keep that and buy yourself something nice to put your hair back with. A young lady such as yourself shouldn’t be wandering around in taverns,” he said, a trace of kindness fighting its way through the harsh curvature of his face. However, as if embarrassed by this display, he turned away, motioning for her to run along.

Red grinned, taking the glass and heading towards the rambling men who shouted at the shadows which cavorted above their heads. In their voices, she could hear the sounds of battle, and she watched the enraptured eyes of men who had fought against mighty beings of myth.

Tonight, all the men laughed and played Grimoire, perking up their ears as a veteran held up his copper arm and described a world, the likes of which Red had never heard before.

However, from where she stood in the middle of the room, Red could not hear hardly any bit of the story, and she huffed in frustration. The only logical approach now would be to approach the storyteller and plop herself down beside the others listening. For a moment, she wondered what her lovely mother, Heaven bound to the World Above Worlds, would have to say about her actions, but inside her heart, she thought her mama would agree.

From what the others in Bravery had told her, her mama had also been a story-collector. Without another moment of hesitation, Red pranced over to the table and plopped herself beside the man with the copper arm.

The others abruptly cut off their conversation, studying the girl who had emerged among them. When none of them said anything, Red took a sip of her beer, and announced to the table, “What are all you bozos staring at?”

That only made them stare more, and she rolled her eyes dramatically before turning back to the one-armed man. “Well, are you going to continue the story?”

“Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?” he retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“Do ya think I’d be sitting here if I had a mama?” Red asked. The others’ eyes never left her, so she just fixed her gaze on the man with the copper arm.

“Aww, lay off her case, Tinker,” a younger guy on the other side of the table piped up. “What’s your name, little lady?”

“You can call me Red,” she replied, doing her best to sound mysterious.

“I can see why,” he laughed, reaching across the table to tug one of her red curls. “How old are you?”

The others had all stopped their game, watching her and waiting for her answer. A quick peek back at the bartender revealed that he too stood and stared, his expression the epitome of hopelessness.

“I’m twelve,” she announced proudly. “How old are you?”

He laughed, and the others joined in. Unsure if they were laughing at her or with her, she smirked, raising her glass to her lips again.

“I like her,” the younger guy said. “I’m thirty-eight. Tell me, have you ever played Grimoire before?”

Red shook her head, leaning forward to study the layout of the card game.

Murry, as he later introduced himself, showed her how to play, asking his comrades for a single round with an open hand for her benefit. The next round, he dealt her in, and she proceeded to make it to the seventh hand before striking out.

The others around the table also seemed to warm up to her presence, gradually settling back into their patterns of storytelling, gambling, and drinking. Soon, the men were drunk enough that they didn’t even bother to censor themselves in front of the child.

“He was the biggest man I ever saw in my life!” Richie exclaimed. “As tall as a giant, and so big around that everyone at this table could hold hands and still not reach around his waist!”

Red, drink long gone, marveled at the tale.

“The sight was enough to make any man wet his pants. But I stood strong in the face of the impossible. I lifted my bayonet, and I ran forward, screaming like a madman, and the monster heard my feral roar, and ran away, frightened that he be taken out by a simple man. I laughed, maddened by adrenaline and half-crazed with insanity, and I rushed him, jabbing my bayonet into his back, and bleeding his guts out all across that frozen ground.” Richie enunciated each word, and Red felt him drive them home the same way he had forced his bayonet through those mounds of flesh.

She listened, eyes wide, as he described the gore that had covered him to his toes, stinking to high heaven.

When he had finished, he bowed, and Red clapped wildly. The others had all grown tired of hearing and telling the same tales again and again, yet in the face of an interested child, they competed vigorously to be the one to fill her ears with bravado and splendor next.

She commended each for the bravery, and it was only after Landon finished his tale that she spoke her mind. “I want to be a soldier too,” she declared.

Tinker—the man with one arm—glanced up suddenly, and the others all paused what they had been doing for a moment.

“A woman soldier?” someone laughed. “Keep dreaming, girl. You’re better off finding yourself a husband and taking care of the family. You’re a bright kid; go find love and happiness rather than waste your time with doddering old fools like ourselves.”

She knew he meant well, but Red still felt the sharp pain of rejection linger in her chest. “Women can be heroes too!” she proclaimed, face heating up. “I’ll prove it. Just you wait and see.”

Richie opened his mouth to correct her again, but Murry gave him a swift kick under the table. Even though the veteran was drunk, he got the point and dropped the subject.

Tinker however, had leaned forward, meeting Red’s bright green eyes. “What did you say?” he asked in a low voice.

“I said I’ll prove that women can be heroes. Wait and see,” she repeated.

Tinker threw a roll of coins onto the table to pay for the drinks. “You remind me of someone,” he drunkenly whispered to the girl, before he turned and stumbled out the door and away from the tavern.

Red shrugged, glancing back at her Grimoire cards, where a pair of Merchants rested behind her blurry eyes. With a decent bluff, she might be able to pull out a win.

“Hey, where do you live, Little Red?” Murry asked her.

“Oh, just with my uncle,” she said. Glancing up, she noticed Murry’s concern. The others were all too drunk to care, and even the barista had disappeared somewhere behind the counter. “Don’t worry, I’ll head home after this game.”

He nodded, satisfied, and Red slipped her second card facedown across the table and onto the draw pile. “I call seven,” she cried.

Murry laughed, and called her on it, laying a Knight on the table beside her. Red sighed as she flipped over the card to reveal the Merchant.

“Let me offer you a word of advice,” Murry said. “When you are bluffing, start off small and work your way up. If you tell a lie, include just enough truth that people don’t think it is a lie at all.”

Red nodded, storing the information away for later and laying her other card faceup on top of the table. “Thank you for the good evening, sir. Gents,” she added, acknowledging the others in the group.

Then, she left, slinking through the darkened shadows of the midnight bar, head buzzing with new stories.

One by one, Red added them to her collection: The Courage of Bravery.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of the rubber ball slapping against the wall has driven me mad.

Bubby, as the locals call him, sits near the stone brick, throwing his ball and catching it on the rebound—bang bang bang—over and over again until I want to run over there and slam his face into the ground, daring him to do that even one more time.

We lost the playdoh yesterday when Greg, a 350-pound-man, fashioned it into a pointed stake. The nurse had taken it away, afraid that if it hardened, it could be used as a weapon of self-harm. None of us bothered to tell her that the stake she caught Greg making was only one of 100 he had already hoarded in his room.

I had made a note of it in my journal the night before, but the headline: "Nurse bans mental illness patient's playdoh" did not sound like a feature worthy or award-winning piece. In fact, no newspaper would publish it, and if they did, the article would die alone and neglected in a comedy section somewhere.

Bubby's throwing has become more insistent now, drawing me from my reverie, and the ball slams against the stone wall with a mad, entrancing speed. Bang-bang-bangity-bang-bang. The nurse glances up from the corner where she sits, reading a trashy-looking romance novel, but she shrugs it off as ol' Bubby up to his games again.

I heard that the last time someone tried to steal Bubby's ball, they got punched in the head and ended up in the hospital for more than a week. The nurses took it away from him for a little while, but he started throwing other, more dangerous items against the wall until they gave it back.

Others crowd the dayroom at the mental facility, of course, but not a soul speaks, cowed by fears impossible to put into words. For instance, on either side of my chair are two silent, brooding individuals, forced here on doctor's orders. They wouldn't be alive had they not gotten caught planning suicides, and from the looks of their faces, neither had wanted to get caught. Yet, if they stay silent and pretend to be recovering, soon they can go back home to their nooses, guns, and sleeping pills, and no-one will be the wiser.

At any other moment, their story would have intrigued me. In fact, I contemplate leaning over to engage one or the other in conversation, but I doubt I would hear anything over the—

BangBangBangBangBang.
Furious and frustrated, I stand up, ready to march over there and demand that he stop, hell to the consequences, when suddenly Bubby misses the ball on the rebound and the ball goes flying behind him and towards me.

It rolls to my feet, and the man mutters an apology, shuffling over to retrieve it. Annoyed as I am, I contemplate withholding the ball and making him beg to have it back. However, no good comes from attempting reason with the mentally ill, and I kick it towards him instead.

He gives me a lopsided grin, before reaching down and snatching the ball. Although his form is fearsome up close, what surprises me the most is the evident clarity in his gaze. With a wink, he turns, walking towards the door. Others shuffle in that direction as well, and I glance around the room, eying tensed individuals playing at nonchalance all around me. Suddenly, I realize that something isn't right.

The nurse opens the door, preparing to let in the guards with the lunch, and I whirl around.

"Ms. Hatchaway!" I cry in warning.

She turns, mouth open and questioning, but Bubby steals the momentary distraction to hurl his ball at the first guard's face, sending the huge man crumpling to the ground. The others in the room leap upon his body, playdoh baked stakes in their hands. In the corner, Greg laughs and laughs, hoisting two half-baked nails high and impaling the fallen guard. The others continue to steal his weapons and guns with complete disregard for law and order.

The other guard panics, reaching for his taser, but he only points it aimlessly in front of him, scared to shoot. However, the others jump him as well, relentless through adrenaline and insanity. As they yank the taser from the guard's hand, the nurse breaks away, running towards the alarm. Bubby has his ball in his hand again, and he throws it towards the nurse, aim coldly precise.

She crumples, yet her chest still rises, enough proof of life for Bubby to move on, scrambling with the others to snatch a gun or two.

My fingers itch, and I wish for a camera, a recorder, or even a notebook and pen. Yet, no such implement makes itself available, and I back away. Always before, my camera has been my shield and my pen my sword, but now I am weaponless in the face of revolt and attack.

I want to write, and I want to run, so instead I choose to cower in a corner. I imagine that with my press gear, I would be respected, allowed to run amok with the others with little to no consequences. Yet, some silent part of me whispers that a press badge means nothing in the face of chaos.

Someone shoots, and I hear the gunshot reverberate within my chest, taking the place of my heartbeat as it plays again and again. More officers and guards are coming to the room, and I realize I am huddled against the wall, head between my hands, struggling not to throw up.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Gunshots echo throughout the room, squeezing themselves in next to the sound of my pounding heart.

I crouch in this corner, waiting for everyone to go away, waiting for the smoke to clear and for the sounds to stop. I had come here to investigate corruption, not to get involved in a fight for my life.

Bang...bang...bang...
The gunshots have retreated down the hall now, and I wait a moment before silence descends upon the ravaged room.

Afraid, I look upward to see who else remains, but Bubby's form blocks my view. He stands next to me, looking down, and for an inexplicable reason, I will not meet his gaze.

"Come with us, my friend," he says, extending a hand towards me. "We're getting out of here."

In that hand, I see my entire journalism career exploding into sparks and flames. To join them, I would become a criminal, on the run from the law... assuming we even made it out of this building alive. I glance behind the towering giant, and I see the nurse's body and several other guards lying face down, maybe dead.

Ripping my eyes from the sight, I meet Bubby's gaze again, ready to clarify. Words tumble from my lips, and he watches me impassively as I tell him my story and explain that I am not actually mentally ill.

"Don't hurt me," I babble. The shock of the violence has gone to my head. "I'm a journalist undercover, searching for corruption and just trying to get a break. I'm going to go home and write articles about asylum life. I am not one of you. If you leave me alone, I will say I didn't see where you went...I'm not one of you," I repeat.

I stop suddenly, unwilling to meet his eyes, shame slithering through my pores for reasons I could not identify. "Don't hurt me. I'm just a journalist," I say again. My voice sounds loud in my ears, pleading, begging.

I risk a glance upward, and he stares at me with the softest, most sympathetic gaze that has ever been directed towards me. "No," he says. "You are not a journalist."

He does not believe me! Yet, as if his words had opened up a gate left closed, images and memories of gunshots surge through my mind...but not the ones I had seen here.

Lightning whizzed through the air, nicking the side of my ear. Bang. I raised my camera as I fell, but another gunshot plowed right through it, obliterating it. Bang. My press badge might as well have been a sticker in the face of this carnage, and I felt myself falling... falling... falling... Bang.

"I'm a journalist! Don't shoot!" I cried.

"I don't care," a voice replied. Bang. My head hit the ground, but everything else was blurry, like a smudged camera lens. I cry out, trying to force the memories away, but they will not go. Bubby extends his arm again, offering solace, refuge, and hope. "Come with us," he says. "We need you. You are one of us."

Somewhere in the paper tomorrow, a headline will read: "Three dead and seventeen injured in New York mental health asylum." Yet, as my fist closes around the stake in Bubby's hand, I realize that I do not care to write such a paltry article. The true story lies with Bubby and his men, fighting for their freedom in the midst of unbelievable odds.

We grin together, and when Bubby tosses me a gun a few seconds later, I take it, before following him to where the others are fighting. When I submit this article, every paper in the United States will run it. I desert the room, laughing at the absurdity of what I have gotten myself into. Another guard appears before me, and almost instantly, the gun leaps in my grip.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of bullets has driven me mad.

Author's Note: What do you think of this story? I wrote it for a contest on Wattpad, but I wanted to share it here too to see what y'all thought. Please let me know in the comments below! I beam every time I see a comment.

“Mother, what did the world look like before the Denomination?”

At the unexpected question, Mother Rachel glanced sharply in Ellie’s direction. “What have I told you about speaking before you are spoken to?” she asked. Chagrin crossed Ellie’s face, and the girl studied her shoes, mumbling a contrite apology. Surveying the girl, Mother Rachel determined that she had been suitably castigated.

“Now, why would you ask about what the world looked like?”

Ellie hesitated, raising her head only briefly to meet the nun’s eyes before looking away again. She whispered an answer, and Mother Rachel threw her hands impatiently in the air. “Speak up girl, for crying out loud, I can’t possibly hear you when you mumble like that.”

“I read about it in a book,” Ellie braved.

“A book from where? I don’t recall you having access to any books about the intricacies prior to the Denomination.”

Ellie closed her eyes tightly, and Mother Rachel inwardly sighed as she watched the trembling girl stumble through her answer. “W-w-well, there was this book from the Restricted Section, but it was just lying open on the table, and I didn’t know it was from the Restricted Sec—”

“Oh, don’t lie to me, child. Be quiet and let me think for a moment,” she snapped, pausing in the middle of the corridor. The noon bell rang, and other nuns and pupils began to exit from the rooms stationed throughout the convent. They wove around Mother Rachel, Sisters and students alike giving her a wide berth as she contemplated the matter at question.

The girl was not yet ready for the knowledge of what lay beyond her walls, yet of any student in the nunnery, Mother Rachel believed the knowledge would best serve her.

Eloise Armstrong’s grandfather had died fighting in the Denomination Battle, leaving her father a penniless orphan boy. Yet, somehow, he had captured the heart of the former princess, an action Mother Rachel had never approved of and still did not. Because the prior Emperor would have never agreed to their union, the two married in secret, but the princess ultimately died in childbirth.

Ellie’s heart-broken father had brought her to the convent’s doorstep, sharing this story and begging the nuns to take care of his daughter. Mother Rachel had taken the night shift then, only a Sister at the time, but she still remembered the sight of rain pouring down the man’s face, mingling with the sea-salt of his tears.

Sighing, Mother Rachel glanced back at the girl, who was staring at the ground again. “Stop looking at your shoes and keep your head up,” she snapped. She really did love the children she taught, but often her irregular temper flashed before she could quell it. If she showed Ellie the convent’s secret at such a young age, Mother Rachel had no idea what would happen. After all, children were easily tricked and prone to bad decisions. Yet, Ellie did not deserve to never know at all. The land that lay beyond the convent’s border should, by right, belong entirely to Ellie.

The others in the hall had all passed on by now, and the corridor was empty except for the two of them. “Come here,” she said in a softer tone, walking towards a nearby window. When the girl had joined her, Mother Rachel pointed out at the surrounding environment. “Listen carefully, because I will only tell you this once. Before the Denomination, composed mostly of chemical and biological warfare, Earth was clean and pure.”

Ellie blinked in surprise, and Mother Rachel smiled slightly to herself, glad she had gotten the girl’s attention.

“The sky wasn’t always this golden-red color,” she mused. “In fact, the sky once held the most glorious shades of blue and white that could possibly be found anywhere on the planet. Often, pure water would collect in fluffy white clouds above, before falling from the sky as rain. The rain was pure and good, and you could tilt your head to the sky, open your mouth, and catch the raindrops on your tongue.”

“Like ashes?” Ellie interrupted, face alight.

“Like ashes? What do you mean, ‘like ashes,’ of course not! It was cool, and it certainly didn’t singe you when you touched it. The rain was wet and clean, like the water that you drink with your meals. Which you should be grateful for and never spill by the way, because that isn’t exactly easy to purify.”

A quick glance at the child’s face revealed that she was either enthralled or did not believe what Mother Rachel was saying. Shaking her head slightly, she moved on. “The trees were giant, taller than several people stacked on top of each other. Green grass grew everywhere, and plants and flowers of all kinds flowered in the most unlikely of places. Rivers were blue or clear, like the sky, not red or yellow.”

“What about the mountains?” Ellie asked, pointing out the window towards the gray monoliths the convent rested between.

“Those have remained about the same,” Mother Rachel said, shrugging. “It was the other things, green, growing, and alive that I miss most about the world before the Denomination.”

“Were you alive back then?” the girl asked in awe.

Cringing before she could stop herself, two thoughts crossed the nun’s mind. First, did she really look that old? And second, if she didn’t watch her tongue, the children would discover the garden, and she would not be able to blame anyone but herself.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Mother Rachel said instead of answering. “I told you what you asked for, now you have to do something for me. Go back to Sister Lauren and apologize profusely for disturbing her class with these kinds of questions. Then you can ask for her forgiveness. If she says yes, you can have your dinner with everyone else. Otherwise you will take supper in your room, understand?”

Ellie bobbed a nod and a curtsy, turned, and practically ran from Mother Rachel’s presence. Pressing her fingers to her forehead, Mother Rachel sighed, wishing the headache that had just sprung upon her would go away. Although the chemicals in the air no longer harmed the mutated humans or other life forms, everyone and everything had changed. Green plants were nearly non-existent, and whenever a scrap of living matter was seen, it was instantly scooped up, devoured, or sold.

In fact, Mother Rachel believed that the convent housed the last refuge for Old Earth available anywhere on the planet. Their garden greenery was small, but it was growing, old species of plants thriving with the careful tending and growth that they were being given. The air was pure and clean inside the conservatory, and she intended to keep it that way at all costs.

~ ~ ~

Ellie should have waited for Ruth, her best friend, before she went exploring the forbidden areas of the convent, but the information Mother Rachel had given her buzzed through her mind like a hive of bees. New ideas pricked and stung her every so often, and she felt a delightful wave of excitement coursing through her.

Truth be told, she had sneaked into the Restricted Section for books about the Denomination, but it was for good reason! None of the teachers would talk about life before the war, saying that it was secret for when or if they joined the nunnery. Secrets were unacceptable for Ellie, and she was determined to find out what lay beyond the one Mother Rachel hid at all costs.

After she reported to Sister Lauren, Ellie chose to head back to her room instead of joining the others in the lunchroom. If going without lunch meant solving this mystery, that was just fine with her. With everyone else at lunch, slinking through the halls towards the Restricted Wing of the convent was much easier than it would have been otherwise.

In fact, after not seeing a single soul for several minutes, Ellie abandoned caution in favor of speed. Through hall after hall of the nuns’ quarters and study halls she dashed, finding nothing that looked even remotely out of place. Finally, she stopped running, confused and dismayed. Had she taken this risk for nothing? There was nothing back here! Why didn’t Mother Rachel allow people to come into the Restricted Section if there was nothing hiding here?

The sound of a closing door reverberated through the hallways, and Ellie squeaked, darting towards a different hallway, and pressing herself up against a shadowy tapestry on the wall. Please don’t come this way, please don’t come this way, please don’t come this way…

Silence fell over the area, and Ellie dared to peek back around the corner. As if standing guard before a lightly ornamented door, Sister Lucia paced back and forth before turning and striding off in the opposite direction as Ellie. Unable to believe her good luck, she counted to thirty under her breath before dashing towards the doors.

Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated for a split second, but she cracked it open and slipped inside.

A burst of warm air hit her immediately as Ellie closed the door without a sound. Yet when she turned around, Ellie saw a veritable wonderland of bright life, beautiful plants, and enticing creatures. Unable to believe her eyes, she took an unconscious step forward, marveling at the exotic landscape.

Above her, glass windows allowed sunlight to fall onto the growing plants, but the glass adapted and distorted the light, creating yellow-gold rays of light that stretched and danced across rows of brilliant flowers. Made only of grass and rich brown soil, the ground called to her, begging her to roll around and play in it, or maybe camp out for hours, smelling the glorious scent of…manure? Wrinkling her nose, Ellie wondered how such a beautiful area could smell so bad.

“The manure is good for fertilizer,” a gentle voice murmured behind her.

Ellie cried out in surprise—she could have sworn that she was alone—and she whirled, ready to throw herself prostrate to the ground and plead for forgiveness. Yet, when she lay eyes on the woman behind her, she was so surprised that she stopped in shock and her mouth fell slightly ajar.

The woman, arguably the most beautiful she had ever seen before, had hair as black as the darkest raven or a midnight sky. Her olive skin caught the light, somehow making her shine even further than seemed humanely possible. However, her most surprising feature was the spotless white dress the woman wore. Though modest, it fell freely to her shins, fluttering around her with the woman’s every movement.

Every Sister Ellie had ever seen had worn a solid black robe, stretching nearly to the floor. Hair pulled away from their face or tucked away into a black cap, few had even the slightest bit of adornment on their gowns. Only Mother Rachel had gold thread embroidered into her clothing, and even that slight means of differentiation was hard to pick out for those not looking for it.

Yet here was a woman in the most inner, sacred area of the nun’s convent, wearing nothing but a spotless white dress. “Who are you?” Ellie breathed, too shocked to remember her manners.

“Call me Jade,” the woman said, smiling. “And as for you, I take it you are the princess?”

“W-what? No, not at all, I’m Elli—Eloise Armstrong.” She felt like it was necessary to use her full name in the presence of such a woman.

“Eloise, that’s a beautiful name. And yes, I can see it in your eyes and the set of your jaw. You are the princess, and you will be the one to rescue us from the Red Queen.”

Bewildered, Ellie could only shake her head. “You certainly have the wrong person. I have no idea what you are talking about.” The woman frowned slightly, and the action sent a wave of remorse rippling through Ellie’s heart and soul.

“Don’t the Sisters teach you anything about your government or leaders?” Jade asked, perplexed.

Ellie felt a sudden need to defend the Sisters. “Yes, Empress Serenity is the ruler of these lands, and Sister Florence thinks that she is doing a good job.”

“Empress Serenity,” Jade snorted, wrinkling her nose upward in scorn. “The so-called Queen of Peace who brings forth terror, hatred, fear, and war. The Queen who corrupted the power, bah!” Noticing that Ellie watched in confusion, the woman shook her head again, reaching out to take the girl’s arm.

“Trust me, my dear,” she said. “The Red Queen is a much better name for her.”

Ellie closed her eyes, certain that she had somehow trapped herself in a bizarre and impossible dream. She stood in an exotic garden, beside the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and Jade had chosen the moment to rant about the government.

“So tell me again, who…who are you?” Ellie questioned.

“My name is Jade.”

“No, why are you here? What is this place?”

“I am the Caretaker of the Garden, if you will. I am not a Sister, yet even Mother Rachel does as I command. I am ageless, yet I exist only in this moment. This garden is my home, and I take care of it; hence the name: Caretaker.”

Her tone remained level, yet the corner of Jade’s mouth twisted upwards, and Ellie sensed that the Caretaker was teasing her.

She didn’t know what to do, so Ellie just said the first thing that came to her lips. “Caretaker, I am so so sorry for sneaking in here; I was curious, and I won’t do it again, and I’m sorry, and I beseech your forgiveness…” she continued on in that vein for a few more moments before she noticed that Caretaker Jade was openly grinning at this point.

“Finished?” At Ellie’s nod, the Caretaker smiled. “Good. Because you don’t have much more time left before Sister Lucia comes back. Even I can’t hold her off forever.” The Caretaker stepped past Ellie and reached towards a nearby plant. Picking up a pair of shears, the woman cut a stem with a tightly closed green bud on the top and handed it to Ellie.

Gasping in disbelief, Ellie took the flower, being careful not to prick herself on the sharp thorns.

“This is called a rose,” Jade said. “Put it in a vase of water somewhere safe, and make sure it gets sunlight. When the flower has bloomed and died, come visit me again. I will be waiting.” Jade glanced towards the skylights again, before setting the pliers down and stepping away from Ellie.

“It is time for you to go, Eloise. I look forward to you saving us all.” With a nod, the woman turned her back and disappeared among the rows of flowers as mysteriously as she had arrived.

Swallowing tightly, Ellie tucked the flower inside her vest pocket, just until she made it back to her room, she promised.

~ ~ ~

For the second time that day, Mother Rachel stopped Ellie in the hall. However, this time, she was in a hurry and didn’t have time to scold truant novices for running like the devil himself was chasing them. So saying, she let Ellie off with a warning.

The girl had behaved suspiciously confident, but she was polite, so Mother Rachel could think of no conceivable reason to hold her back and question her further.

As Mother Rachel stepped into the observatory, she kept her head politely inclined downward. “Caretaker, you asked for me?” she called.

The woman appeared out of nowhere, like she always did, but Mother Rachel refused to jump in surprise.

“Yes. Princess Eloise visited me today, and I must say that I am quite impressed with the girl so far. Although, I fear you have trained her too well. She quivered whenever I spoke.”

“A healthy respect for authority is good for children,” Mother Rachel replied.

“But for a princess who will become the authority?” The Caretaker shook her head. “No, we’ll need her to be a strong and confident ruler. I am interested in training her, but the time is not quite right. Until I can take over her education though, make sure she gets plenty of time with her friends and others like her.”

“Caretaker?” she questioned.

“You heard me. She’ll have little enough time with her friends in a year or so. But for now, allow children to be children. I am interested in seeing what comes from exposing Ellie to the garden.”

Mother Rachel strongly disagreed, but even she had to take orders from the Caretaker. “Very well, it will be as you say.”


Author's Note: This post was inspired by a picture prompt given to me by Thalassa Brytaye! The picture is from Pinterest, and it was given to me at this link. Thank you! I really like this story, and I hope y'all did too.