The grey of daybreak faded to pale blue and left nothing but a chill in the air and droplets of dew on the blades of grass that glinted in the first light. The quiet of the morning swallowed the sound of Maggie’s footfall as she stepped from the narrow path onto the grass. In between the hawthorn trees, gnarly and ivy-hugged, she paused to take a deep breath. She still smelled winter in the air, crisp and with a hint of snow, and the sun was not yet strong enough to warm her face. And yet, there were signs that spring was waiting just around the corner. In the hazel catkins, weaving traces of yellow into the breeze. In the daisies that peeked out of the ground it waited. They shook out their silver hair, a pink blush seeping from their heads despite their almost-still-winter audacity, anticipating the arrival of spring.
Maggie smiled at the catkins, and at the single hawthorn tree that stood, far from its sisters and dreaming of May, by the hazel bush at the other end of the park. The wet grass clung to her boots as she made her way towards hawthorn and hazel. And there, by the slope of the hill where their roots dug into the soil, she found what she was looking for. Her eyes fixed on the specks of purple amidst the green, she crouched down. With one hand in her sling bag, she felt for a jar. Her fingers brushed against the smooth cover of her notebook, pushed her keys out of the way, and finally, touched the cold hard surface of glass. She pulled the jar out of her bag, unscrewed it, and carefully placed it on the dewy meadow.
One by one, she picked the violet blossoms and placed them in her jar. Her fingers turned red from the cold and her legs began to ache, but Maggie did not mind. Only a few more, she thought with a glance at the steadily filling jar.
The jar was nearly full when a croaking chatter broke her focus. She turned her head and found herself eye to eye with a magpie. So close was the bird that she could see hints of her pale face and dark hair reflected in his eyes. The magpie tilted his head and looked at her expectantly.
“Hello, Mr Magpie.” It was a silly superstition, really. And even sillier to attempt a conversation with a bird. But better safe than sorry, Maggie decided. “How are Mrs Magpie, and all the other little magpies?”
The bird ruffled his feathers as if he were pleased with her greeting. And then, he spoke.
“How nice to know there’s still some folk around what has some manners. Mrs Magpie’s doing just fine, thank you for asking. And the wee ones are quite well, too. Although the youngest one’s a bit nervous. Doesn’t trust her nest-building skills, you see.”
Maggie swayed on her spot, her eyes wide, and the jar tumbling into the grass, the violets spilling onto the ground.
“And just last week, the oldest one’s been in a right state. Couldn’t find his favourite coin. But the Missus took just one look at the nest and found it in no time. All the way down at the bottom, it was,” continued Mr Magpie in his hoarse voice. He seemed unphased by Maggie’s astonishment, and, while still chattering, briskly turned around and strode towards the hawthorn tree. “But we don’t have all day; so, come along, now. And be a dear and bring those flowers. She does love violets. Oh yes, she does.”
Hastily, Maggie scooped the flowers back into the jar, and caught up to the magpie with a few steps who proceeded to walk around the hawthorn. I’m dreaming, she thought. It’s a clear case of overly active imagination at best, and at worst I’m completely off my rocker. If anyone sees me walking in circles around a tree, what will they think?
Once they walked around the tree. Then another time. When Maggie stepped out from behind the trunk for the third time, she stopped dead in her tracks. The park was still there but the apartment buildings behind it had given way to dense woodlands, and a soft and hazy light lay over the meadow. And there, halfway between Maggie and the forest, stood a woman who had not been there moments ago. Her hair was wild and white and her skin as dark and weathered as the hawthorn branches. Her green dress seemed to move and catch the light at different angles even though there was no wind. And when she spoke, her voice was like the rustling of leaves.
“I told you to bring me the flowers, not the human.” She frowned at Mr Magpie who unabashedly preened his feathers.
“I can’t carry them very well, can I?” The tilt of his head had all the semblance of a shrug. “And her jar’s as good as full. Much better for me to send her instead of picking them one by one, innit?”
The woman in green squinted her eyes, and the magpie quickly jumped a few wingspans back. “Now, don’t be mad. If you send her back now, I’m sure no more than a few years will have passed.”
She did not grace him with a reply and instead turned her gaze to Maggie who stood there clutching the jar of violets. The woman smiled but her smile was as calculated as it was kind. She made a small gesture with her hand and the violet blossoms rose out of the jar into the air. Their scent engulfed Maggie. So intense was it that she could taste it: sweet and floral but with a subtle earthiness at the same time. Yet, in a heartbeat, they disappeared into the meadow becoming barely more than purple specks, and gone was their scent, as well.
“I thank you for your gift.”
Now it was Maggie’s turn to frown. “I did not…”
“I will not forget it.” …pick them for you. “You better hurry to return to your own world. Too much time has passed already.”
The woman gestured towards the hawthorn tree and Maggie involuntarily stepped towards it. Her hand brushed against one of the low-hanging branches. It got caught on a thorn, and for a moment dizziness swept over her. When the world stopped spinning, the woman was gone. So, was the magpie. And so were the park and the tree. Where there had been grass, there now was concrete. Drones, not birds, moved through the sky and a loud and monotonous hum came from the direction of the street.
But Maggie’s gaze was fixed on her hand. The thorn had left a shallow cut in the palm of her hand, and around the cut on her skin darkened and became knotted like hawthorn wood. Maggie smiled and took a deep breath. The air was cold and dusty but under its stale and lifeless smell waited another scent, sweet and floral with a hint of earthiness.
Written by Merle Emrich.
Cover photo by Amr Abbas.