Leaves Rising Upward

“Thomas…Thomas!”

He heard the voice from a far-off place. The leaves were whirling. He was sitting in a stack of dead, brightly colored leaves that had fallen to the ground and the wind was cold.

“Thomas!”

He couldn’t see. The air was filled with bits of deceased foliage. He was in the center of a maelstrom, red and gold. Leaves in his eyes, in his mouth, choking. He couldn’t stand up.

He was being shaken.

“Thomas! Wake up!”

The boy drew in a deep, shaky breath and opened his eyes to his mother’s worn and worried visage.

“Thomas, my beloved child--you need to sit up.” Her face was bright with relief.

He did so, slowly, with her help.

“Mother…” His voice was soft, raspy. Had he been calling out?

She sat beside him on the clapboard bed and put her arms around him.

“You were screaming, Love, in your sleep.”

He closed his eyes. Tiny leaves, embellished in bright hues, flared behind his eyelids.

“I-I…was outside, wasn’t I?”

The woman blinked. Worry infused her thoughts.

“No, Love…you were only asleep.” She soothed

And then you stopped breathing, she didn’t say.

There were always a lot of things his didn’t speak out loud. She herself did not want to hear them, truth be told. Thomas was her sole male offspring, and he had barely survived his birth.

Her only son was a fragile being, at best. suitable only for handcrafts and scholarly pursuits. His six older sisters ran the farm.

Marta was a hard, practical woman in most things. She has always been a no-nonsense sort, the kind of woman who got things done. That drive was why they enjoyed electric lights and indoor plumbing. Maybe they could have gone without it; most folk out here did just fine.

But there was the welfare of her boy child to consider.

For her small, delicate Thomas, however, she was softer and more indulgent. Their Thomas was a beautiful, sweet-natured child. His red-gold hair and green eyes weren’t nearly as beautiful as his spirit to her way of thinking. Happiness was his true gift to their household, and his sisters adored him.  

Seventeen years was not nearly enough.

Not yet, she silently pleaded.  

Not yet.

With his mother’s urging, Thomas pulled himself out of bed and went to shower.

The hot water was soothing against his pale skin. His was a thin small build. Sometimes, he traced the bluish veins along his arms. Today, the boy stood beneath the gentle waters and thought of leaves.

It didn’t take long to wash and dress.

He made his way to the kitchen, bare feet quiet on the hard, dark wood of the oak floor. Murkin, the family cat, purred softly around his ankles. Thomas scooped him up, cradling the small, grey body close.

The cat looked like a tiny, silver lion, Thomas thought.

Perhaps he is royalty among his kind, and we just don’t know it.

He smiled to himself at the whimsical notion.

Murkin simply cuddled and purred.

He heard the raised voices of his family in the front room as he passed. It wasn’t hard to hear.

“It’s bad, Mother.” Imogene, his eldest sister, sounded tired.

Thomas pressed himself to the wall and listened, his heart pounding. Every year, it seemed the harvest had been less. They would cease talking or change the subject if they knew their brother was here.

“Is it?” His mother’s voice was quiet. “I thought our crops had fared better this year.”

“Barely.” Said Juliana, the youngest next to him. “And it is not just our farm suffering this season.”

She flipped her long, black braid over her shoulder. Juli did not look tired; she was angry.

“If growth doesn’t improve this next year, we will need to start selling off our land.” She continued.

The autumn wind rose like a ghost outside their home. It whistled; it howled.

And Thomas imagined leaves rising upward.

…Look up…look up…

His reverie was interrupted as Murkin rose in his arms. Placing a velvet paw on each shoulder, the cat met the boy’s gaze with his own grave, golden eyes.

“And what are you trying to tell me?” Whispered the young man.

He slipped away from his family’s conversation.

“What does the land want?”

Juliana’s angry question trailed after him.

In his mind, brightly painted bits of foliage were twirling tightly together. His mind wouldn’t clear. It was almost like a dream that refused to end.

Murkin had tucked his warm, furry head under Thomas’ chin as he went to the kitchen to get them both their breakfast.

But the thought was there, hovering in the air before him, if he dared to think it:

What does the land want…or need?  

…And what if it’s not the land that needs?

No. No nonsense. Land is land. If we understand the nature of our land—then we can provide for it, and it provides for us.

Foolishness. What did he know of it, after all?

But there were things to take his mind from those thoughts. There was porridge for him and a bit of chopped fish and a dish of cream for the gratefully purring cat. Then there were clothes to mend and his studies. Thomas’ mind moved away from his dreams.

He went to take care of those things…

Repairs were first, wear and holes in his sisters’ outdoor garments. It was truly no more than an hour’s work.

There was plenty of time for studies this evening. Thomas filled the fire place and stoked the flames until they were high and bright. He settled down with a large book and a warm cup of tea in front of the fire.

“What are you reading about?” Imogene asked, dropping onto the worn, flowered sofa beside him.

In the lamplight, her brother’s eyes shone bright green as he glanced up from his book and smiled at her.

“I’m spending the evening with ‘Ancient Folk Traditions,’ my dear.” He quipped charmingly.

“Oh? Anything interesting?” Her short, black curls were shining in the firelight.

Yes…but I don’t think you’ll like it, Sis.

“It’s actually fairly brutal. Did you know that in some areas they used to burn a man to death, then scatter his ashes on the fields as an offering to the harvest?”

Imogene grimaced at the thought.

“Barbaric. How did something like that start?”

“Well, according to this, there had once been men who were rulers for a short period. A year--five years, maybe…then they would voluntarily allow themselves to be sacrificed.”

“As a trade-off?”

“Possibly…there’s no way to know.”

Then there was a knock at the door. There was a flurry of movement and a burst of could air as his older sister opened the door for her fiancé.

Thomas was engulfed in a whirlwind of hugs and “good nights” as Imogene and her big, brash blonde-haired Rowan poured themselves out the door and into the windy night, leaving her younger brother alone again.

A small sprig of maple leaves blew into the house…and Murkin pounced upon it as the door was slammed shut. Thomas smiled in amusement as the little, grey lion leaped up onto the sofa and proudly presented it to him.

They are beautiful, he thought, gazing at the mottled shades of autumn red that painted the leaves.

He put the book aside and gathered the cat into his lap. He was grateful for the furry warmth as he pet the dignified, little animal. Murkin sat in his lap and regarded him with his wise, golden, feline eyes--before curling up and purring softly, soothingly. For a moment, there was only the cat’s purr, the crackling of the flames in the fireplace and the sound of his own breath.

The young man tried not to feel lonely in the absence of his sister. Life was difficult sometimes. There would be no fiancé for him, he knew. Delicate, frail and mostly house-bound, there would be no dalliances with young ladies from the nearby farms. No parties, no dances.

He would, likely, never touch or be touched.

As if sensing his thoughts, Murkin’s purr rumbled more deeply.

Unable to keep from smiling, Thomas leaned down and cuddled the warm, sleepy cat.

“Yes, I know you’re here.” He whispered.

“You are the most faithful of friends.”

The cat lay curled up against him as young man twirled the sprig of leaves. The varied shades of scarlet blurred before his eyes as he stared at the fire.

The crackle of the burning logs in the fireplace.

And leaves.

The crunch of leaves beneath your feet if you were to walk outside tonight.

…How long?...

Wait, and in a few weeks, it would be snow for you to step through, instead. Soon, your feet would break through the crust to the softer snow beneath.

…Soon it will be too late…

Walking through the leaves in the old woods, under the moon-lit sky.

And why had the woods gone quiet? Did he hear sounds coming up from behind him?

…Wait for me…this time…wait…

He moved faster…then he ran.

His lungs burned as he gulped in lungfuls of cold air. His body, unused to strenuous activity, ached; he stumbled over the exposed roots of ancient trees.

…Don’t…please…

He could hear the sound of someone running swiftly behind him, hunting him.

The house!

He could see his family’s farm up ahead, the home lit up--cheerful and inviting. Feeling weak and sore, he nonetheless ran to it. The frost-taste of winter was in the air, even as the sound of perished leaves breaking beneath his steps said it was still Fall.

He was almost there! The light from the front window was a halo that surrounded him.

…Thomas!...

Startled, he turned to see his pursuer.  

The buckskin-clad huntress did not enter the circle of light, only stood looking at him. Her long, dark, red hair was tangled from the wind. She reached an arm out toward him imploringly…

And her tawny eyes were filled with tears.

“Thomas…Thomas!”

He blinked, looking up into Juliana’s concerned and determined face.

“What..?” He asked, confused.

He was on the floor. The fire was embers and his sprig of maple leaves was nowhere to be seen.

“Thomas, you fell.” She said, gently, helping him to his feet.

“Murkin came galloping into my room, yowling, until I followed him.”

The boy leaned heavily on his sister. Standing shakily, he saw the cat sitting regally on the arm of the sofa.

His golden eyes were wide in his little, silver face --and he stared at Thomas as if he were somehow speaking to him.

I’m sorry, my friend, he thought. I don’t understand what you’re saying…

But thank you for helping me. You are a true and loving soul.

Juliana pulled him into a soft hug.

“You need sleep, little brother.” She chided in a quiet voice.

He nodded wearily and allowed his sister to guide him to his bedroom. Murkin trailed behind him like a small, furry honor-guard.

He was tucked into bed with a book, a purring cat and a mug of hot cider.

Juliana tried not to fuss over her only brother, but it was hard on her.

Frail and ethereal in appearance, their Thomas had survived longer than any had believed he would. Life had been one, long, unchanging day for him. There was only so much his physical form could take.

At seventeen years of age, he seemed poised on the precipice of something unknown. She could feel it.

Juliana quietly closed the door to her brother’s room. Her heart seemed to squeeze in on itself. Her thoughts were a tangle of worry.

Stay with us, Thomas, she thought.

The boy nestled down into his pillows and featherbed, pulling the warm, faded quilt up to his chin.

He heard the wind crying outside and imagined he could see leaves through his window, swirling through the night sky.

Murkin curled up on the pillow beside him. Thomas finished his cider and turned off the light on the nightstand. The cat’s fur was silky-soft beneath his fingers as he pet the sleepy-eyed feline.

Thomas closed his eyes and drifted off to the sound of soothing purrs in his ears.

The wind gusted through the forest and beat itself against the side of the sturdy, old farmhouse. Dead leaves rose in a wave before it. A tempest at the forest’s edge.

The winds pounded like a fist against the wall outside Thomas’ room.

The young man’s eyes flipped open. He had been dreaming of walking through a grove of trees in the sunshine. As he walked, the leaves had turned a multitude of different colors, any color that had come to mind.

Then the forest had gone dark.

…Alone…

He was awake. He sat up. The entire house was dark and quiet. The only sound was of his own breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

The crunch of leaves.

Moonlight spilled across the wooden floor.

Thomas quietly went to his bedroom window. Murkin was suddenly by his side, his sinuous, silver body moving silently through the dark room.

Peering through the window the boy though he could just make out the shape of someone huddled against the cold.

The crunching of their footsteps, leaves flying through the air…

He was at the front door--then he was outside, clutching the quilt around his body. The boy moved as quickly as he could, the cat racing along beside him.

“Wait!” He called to the figure up ahead.

…Alone…and too late…

He could make out the figure of a woman, wrapped tightly in a ragged cloak.

It was so cold now, but he made his frail body move.

…You left me!...

She moved into the forest.

Leaves whirled around him. In the back of the boy’s mind, his mother and sisters seemed to call him back.

Thomas couldn’t hear them over the wind. He needed to reach the woman in the cloak. It was important, he knew it was.

…Alone…

Frantically, he pushed his body forward faster. His heart and lungs screamed at him, and the boy paid them no attention.

Leaves crushed under his feet…leaves in the air. Murkin ran swiftly ahead of him, and Thomas followed.

In a clearing among the oldest oaks, in a pool of cold, pale moonlight she waited, her head was bowed. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

Thomas, nearly broken by the hard run, leaned heavily against the knotted bark of the most ancient of the forest giants and tried to catch his breath.

“Why…” He panted. “why..?”

Her head was down. Her entire body trembled as she cried.

“You left me.” She said, her voice harsh with tears.

‘I…do not understand…”

She raised her head and looked at him, her tawny eyes wide and filled with the deepest sorrow.

The huntress from his dreams.

Thomas stumbled, his weary body crumpling into the cold cushion of the fallen oak leaves. Murkin was beside him. His dreams had been real? He buried his hands in the cat’s soft, warm fur. The noble, little animal stood strong beside him.

He dragged himself backward across the ground as the woman stepped forward and approached him.

How worn she was; how tangled and tattered were her dark, red tresses! How long had she wandered like this?

There was something at the edge of his thoughts…

“Of all my sisters, only I am expected to die every year,” She spoke through her tears. “only I am expected to give all I have so that others in the world can live. Only me.”

The last words were a heartrending sob.

He was freezing, he realized. He struggled to breathe the icy air as she moved closer.

“You were my gift, my comfort, my solace. With you, I was wealthy, with you, I was joyful, for I would never be alone. When my time came, I knew you would be there to walk that hardest path with me.”

He could not move. His vision had become a dark tunnel. She, the huntress, was all he could see.

She took another step toward him.

“Without you, I am impoverished. Without you, I am bereft. I have nothing of my own. I have nothing left to give.”

This is not you, he thought. This is not you as you are meant to be.

He knew her; he did.

And why had he thought it was cold? It was really very warm here. The young man sat up. He rose to his feet and walked to her.

“Autumn,” said Thomas, “my bride.”

Leaves swirled around them as he approached her. Her careworn face was suffused with joy. The tangles of her long, wavy hair, the deepest, darkest red, smoothed out and shone. Leaves wove themselves around her graceful form. The rags of a wandering huntress were replaced by a splendid gown, touched with all the colors of her season.

He gently wrapped his arms around her. He was tall and strong, His red-gold curls tumbled down his back. He cupped her precious face in his huge hands and kissed her lips, sweet as apples after the frost.

He belonged to her. He always had.

In his vision he could see all at once. He glanced at the farmhouse that had once been his home.

Hugging his bride tight to his body, Thomas whispered in her ear.

“Do not punish them for keeping me--for they have loved me, too.”

They rose upward in a gust of howling wind and a rush of dying leaves.

Then the air was still…and the leaves fell, burying the frail body beneath them in a gentle blanket of red and gold.

A single snowflake tumbled from the sky as quiet of the old woods was rent by a cry of soul-deep anguish.

In the distance, jewel-colored eyes began to move through the forest and the leaves. Small, powerful, furry bodies moved gracefully in silence through the night air, then stopped. Circle after circle of them surrounded the clearing and waited, listening.

In the center, sat the one who had called them. His fur shone silver in the dark as he gazed at the pale moon above him.

It is said that cats cannot weep.

But there were tears in his golden eyes and running down the fur of his face, as Murkin, the King of Cats sang a song of mourning for his dearest friend:

Thomas, the Year-King.

~The End~