ThistledownKit Calvert
1000 words Ernest and his daughter move into the cottage on a mizzling afternoon: the day that summer truly dies. His mind can’t perceive the wild magic that kept the place cheap. It’s small, slouching up against a riverbank; backdropped by conifers and sticky-sapped pines. A waterwheel churns up froth. Inside is cobwebby but warm, once they get the ashes swept out from the grate. It turns out that the mainland is a bright and open and green place, even this late in the year. Ernest prefers it infinitely to the cramped flat they’d been renting in the city. He’d thought the bustle would be a distraction. He’d learned the hard way that grief rings so much louder against noise. *** Ysa—resourceful, even at ten—picks through the papers and discovers they also own the patchwork fields around the cottage. It takes them a full hour to walk from one corner to the other, and by the end their breath furls out, intermingling white and misty. The season’s not right to start tilling furrows into the hardening earth. Truthfully, Ernest doesn’t have the spirit left. But when spring comes, he spends some of the coin they have left on five sheep with sooty noses and great bellowing cries. “Five’s the minimum,” the neighbouring farmer says. “Like us, they need company to thrive.” The breath falls out of him, at that. For the first time, he’s glad that he left Ysa at home. Ysa’s island-born, and at first yelps whenever the sheep eye her. But soon the flock yields three lambs with soft, snuffly noses. They tail her like she’s their mother. Ernest wishes her laughter, high and pealing as she runs around the yard, was enough. *** Every year the spring comes, and the blossoms hurt his heart. In his past life, Ernest was a dyemaker; caretaker of a sprawling garden of flowers and vegetables that’d boil down to become halfway beautiful. The real magic came from piecing the cloth together, coupling his colours with gentle hands and gentler stitches. He hadn’t talent for that, but they’d worked together so wonderfully as a pair. Time goes on enough that he begins keeping a patch at the back of the house for squash and kale and other vegetables: stuff more suited to soup than silks. He does the front planters with nasturtiums, and doesn’t think about how nicely the scarlet layers against the grass. Ysa shoots up as fast as the bean vines, and mostly wanders alone with the flock. But after four years of living in the cottage, that forgotten promise of wild magic bears fruit. “Come and see the lambs,” she says, one morning. “They’re lovely.” The lambs cluster together under the trees, lapping water from the humming brook. Their coats are soft and thready, shot through—if he’s not mistaken—with purple. “It looks like thistledown,” says Ernest, crouching. The lamb bleats, pleased. “Odd.” “Don’t you think it’d make a beautiful yarn?” she says. “I wonder what it’d look like dyed with brambles.” He stiffens. “Absolutely not.” “But—” “No, Ysa.” Ernest’s belly roils. “I can’t.” *** The next spring brings a crop of lambs even fluffier than the spring before it, but Ysa doesn’t invite him to meet them. When summer comes, Ernest spends a dazed week along the bramble hedge. Half the crop goes to mush: for every berry, another four are so taut-skinned that they burst in his hands. When he mounds them up, palms livid with juice, it feels like too much all at once. Instead, Ernest sneaks cupped handfuls to the sheep, weeping, and then turns the rest into jam that afternoon. That night Ysa brings in the scent of petrichor with her, and Ernest busies himself with the stove so she won’t see his damp cheeks. “What’s all this?” she asks. The kitchen is littered with jars. “I tried,” he admits. “But I still miss her.” Ysa’s arms wrap around his middle; her cheek presses to his back. If he twisted an inch, he could see the pale gold curtain of her hair. “Me, too,” she says. “But more than anything, I miss how your eyes used to crinkle up at the corners when you worked together. I miss the colour in your cheeks, even when it was woad-blue smatters. I’m worried you’ll grow old without wrinkles there, da. It’s a sad face, one without wrinkles.” *** The next summer Ernest’s prepared for the going to be slow, but he’s not prepared for grief to swamp him; to stall completely. He grinds the brambles under his boots, and curls himself up, face pressed against the kitchen tile. He emerges come nightfall to find Ysa already dozing in the barn, cheek pillowed against a sheep. She might be sixteen, but his back isn’t bad enough yet that he can’t carry her through to bed like he did when she was wee. “Ach, love,” he says. For one moment, she’s ten again, clutching onto the pillow like it’s the only thing stopping her from drowning. “You deserve better than me.” As she sleeps, he swaps a silver coin for six bundles of the undyed thistledown yarn she keeps for the market, and stows them away. His fingers are clumsy at first, but soon he remembers the way of it, knitting by candlelight through the rare nights that he’s awake later than his daughter is. Weeks become months. Frost cracks down into the red earth. And then it’s finished, and he manages to catch her before she takes the flock to graze. “I worry about you being cold, love. I made you this. It’s not much, but—” “It’s wonderful,” she says, pulling on the jumper, tugging down the right sleeve. It’s gossamer-pale, and suits her. “It’s perfect as it is.” “It’s not,” he says, unfurling her clenched fingers. The sleeve springs up again, shorter than the left. “But the next one will be better. And if it’s not—” He sighs, and smiles at her. “Well, then we just have to keep going.” |
|
Kit Calvert
Kit Calvert (she/her) is a Scottish speculative fiction writer and scientist, currently based in Edinburgh. Her work weaves together nature that’s wild and weird, domestic magics, and unapologetic queer joy. When she’s not writing, she enjoys foraging for treasures in rockpools, painting, and consuming an irresponsible amount of soup. To keep up with her work, visit kitcalvert.com.
|
|
Baubles From Bones © 2025
|