With cold creeping down his collar and into his old-man bones, Hamblin
hurried along under a glowing gray sky. Tree branches glittered, knife
edges in moonlight.
This'll kill me. Or she will. Doesn't matter, I'll be dead soon anyhow.
Hamblin clutched his bundle tighter, though his arthritic fingers objected.
His gift to her, all he had left. Would it be enough?
Her tower loomed. He’d seen her only once, when he was a young man, but
he'd wanted her for all his lonely, wife-less years. She'd walked the
moors, black fox at her heels, wearing an evergreen dress. Her hair had
danced like flame in the devil winds, and her eyes had been as black and
cold as burned-out stars.
What will she do to me, with those eyes?
Hamblin’s heart rattled in his chest. He reached the squat tower of red
stone but saw no door, so he chose a sheltered spot, laid aside his bundle,
and dug.
The soil's surrender was reluctant. Hamblin’s hands stung, his joints
screamed. Frigid air crawled down his neck.
Finished, Hamblin sat back and reached for the burlap-wrapped bundle.
Greater men bearing greater gifts have died for disturbing her.
"I don’t care," Hamblin whispered. How would her pale lips look, curved
into a smile? He’d seen the hope of it in those eyes, he thought. Let
others try to buy her power--he wanted only her smile. He'd wished a long
time for the courage to try earning it. Impending death had given him that,
at least.
Hamblin was tense with anticipation of doom as he unwrapped the lily. Its
snow-white petals shivered in the wind, but he thought it might survive the
cold. He eased the flower into the hole.
"It's yours." His voice quavered. "I want you to have it."
He tucked loose earth around his gift.
It might have my blood for fertilizer.
Something tickled the back of Hamblin’s neck. He croaked in alarm and spun
around.
Between Hamblin and the tower stood the black fox.
Time for me to die?
Something in the fox's mouth glittered in the moonlight. It dropped the
object and nudged it toward Hamblin. Its head bobbed; its sharp nose
pointed at the key on the ground. Hamblin picked it up.
Faint lines glowed in the red stone of the tower--a keyhole.
As Hamblin stood, a breath of warm air caressed his neck. It wafted past
him, sparkling into mist as colder air condensed its moisture, and encircled
the lily.
The lily disappeared.
The fox nudged Hamblin’s leg and pointed its nose at the keyhole. With fear
buzzing in his ears, Hamblin stumbled forward and pushed the key into place.
It clicked. The world tilted. Cold became warmth, darkness became light.
Gone the moon and the naked trees and the moors; Hamblin was surrounded by
emerald leaves and jewel-colored blossoms. Directly before him was the
white lily.
The witch crouched beside it, her face hidden by a cascade of ruby hair.
Her slender fingers stroked the lily's petals. Then she stood and looked at
him.
"For me?" Her voice shimmered into Hamblin's heart and held it for a beat.
"If you want it," he stammered.
Her black eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
"To make you smile." Hamblin felt stupid saying it, like the young man
who'd been infatuated by a mere glimpse of the beauty that stood before him
now. But he was infatuated still.
Her voice again, like sweet mead rolling down a parched throat, speaking
words Hamblin didn't recognize. Paradise faded into a dim room with red
stone walls. Wintry cold crackled in the air, even with the fire that
burned in the far wall.
She faded, too, emerald green dress to willow gray, ruby hair to snow,
smooth skin to sallow wrinkles. Only the lily Hamblin had brought her
remained the same.
The lily, and her eyes. He glimpsed the same promise of a smile he thought
he'd seen in the eyes of a dream decades before.
"And now?" Her tone was husky with age, but sharp, and Hamblin remembered
to be afraid. Despite her decrepit appearance, she might kill him yet.
Or was it she who was afraid?
How long has she lived here alone?
He was ashamed, suddenly, of his obsession with her physical beauty.
"It's still yours," he replied, then blurted, "And so am I."
The garden returned, brilliant color and warm breath of perfume. She
remained the same.
"My name is Arabeth. I'm old. I'm dying."
Hamblin nodded and reached for her hand. It was dry and cool in his.
She smiled.
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