Hats off
In the township named Blackhat dwell very seriously, on the first sight, citizens. But this seriousness, actually, is very funny. The question is, that every mother's son (except maybe just the tiniest of them) has long-long hair and wears a self-perpetuating black hat.
Yes, differently aged and differently growth people, differently dressed and differently behavioral citizens decorate their heads with the absolutely identical hairstyle and a traditional black hat.
These hats are not sold in special stores and are not sewn to order by a tailor. Living in Blackhat, you can’t choose your hat, because, once, you’ll just get it. And you’ll get it with the little witch. And this witch convinced that this hat is her own dwelling. By the way, you can’t choose one of the little witches, too.
Little witches had appeared in Blackhat long before the ordinary people did. That’s why they think they are full mistresses of Blackhat and may do whatever they want.
Since the dawn of time these feisty women during whole year use to do their own business in private, in isolation from the rest of the world, spending their time in their small, cozy houses, which is nothing else than the same black hat (which everyone here wears).
And there is only one of summer nights, when these pleasant creatures leave their habitual shelters and flock to the hill (where now located town tower) in order to see and to be seen, and also exchange potion recipes and meet some new friends. Also, of course, to fly on broomsticks to the top of their bent. Those who had got along, put the hat-houses in the neighborhood (with an eye to walk to each other's house by stealth during the next year).
When the first human had appeared on the site of the future Blackhat, the first thing he discovered was the same black hat. This stupid human had in his long-haired head (in those days all people, even the smallest, had long hair) an “ingenious” idea: to lift and try on this black hat.
Evidently, he was a very lucky man, because at that moment little witch, living under this hat, was in a deep sleep and, really, was a nice one. But when he tried to take that hat off him, little witch had long been awaking and settled down. And if some kind of place was chosen by this baby, don't try to chase her out of it.
The neighbor of this little witch had sneakily visited her roommate's new house, and it had sent her over the moon and back, and the following morning The Pioneer’s uncomplicated fellow had found himself decorated by exactly the same black hat. And so it was.
Every resident of Blackhat, every last one of them, at one of the summer nights has taken to the streets and — the only time a year — take off their hats, in order to thousands of little witches could celebrate their harmless coven.
After this magical night townsfolk use to move: up to new neighbors and weddings are not uncommon at that time. Old blackhatians are fond of saying: “marriages are made under the hats.” Or: “You can't force someone to live under your hat.”
And as for long hair, the inhabitants still don't know anything about it, you should ask little witches.
© Copyright: Елизавета Лещенко, 2018
Flora’s snowflake
Little Flora was sitting at her desk and drawing. The holidays already came, and the days were short and cold. By Flora’s opinion, drawing was the best thing you could do that time. And, to be honest, drawing was Flora’s favorite business.
She loved to sit and peer into the dark outside the window, warming her tired fingers under the light of a desk lamp, trying to see in that darkness something that only she could see, and then back again to its lines and spots.
Flora's drawings were far from technical perfection, but each color stain seemed to say: “I have always been here, and if you look at me for a long time, I will become live part of your world.” But today Flora wanted something special to do. She did not know exactly what she wanted: she never felt anything like that before.
It was an exciting, mixed feeling, hovering on the edge between mystery, enthusiasm, confusion and revelation. And this feeling, in the motley gamut of its striking contradictions, gave incomparable pleasure.
In obedience to an internal impulse, Flora took a clean sheet, pencils and several paints and began to apply strokes and lines with quick confident movements. She almost did not see what was happening, did not realize exactly where she was.
Suddenly, the lines and the spots disappeared, more precisely, they formed into a single image, and Flora realized that the work was over. She didn’t know how much time had passed: it was still dark outside the window; only the sky had acquired some barely perceptible, but a completely new shade, and the wind became quiet and soft.
Flora looked at the picture again, then, as if seeing off someone, she looked with tenderness out the window. The snowflake girl, with a wink, waved to Flora with a tiny hand, slightly pushed off the sill with graceful legs and flew up, subtly tinkling with silver skirts. Flora winked and waved at the girl and, sneaking a glance at the white sheet of paper on the table, turned off the light, and, smiling, left the room. Soft white light poured from the window. The first snow fell.
© Copyright: Елизавета Лещенко, 2018
https://www.proza.ru/2018/12/15/1894
Paper flowers in the fireplace
As usual, we didn’t plane how to spend Friday’s evening. And this time, without saying a word gathered in the Margaret’s living room. We sat in the cozy glow of a real old fireplace, forming a loose semicircle in the center of the room.
From the vaulted ceiling hung green twigs of mistletoe, with buds ready to bloom above...
In general, each of us was waiting for the onset of Christmas, not without hope for some kind of a miracle.
Today, high windows were framed by thick dark turquoise curtains falling to the floor. There were graceful paper deer in silver sparkles on the window glass. The sofa and chairs were covered with fluffy, almost white covers. The butt of the fireplace was decorated with wreaths of living needles, which oozed with fragrant rosin.
From time to time a rare car drove along the road, illuminating the snow-covered trees outside the window. And then the street winter light for a few seconds merged with gleams of fireplace light and wall lamps. And the decor of the room seemed to be a continuation of the evening landscape of our quiet village.
Involuntarily I recalled the evening of Samhaine, when Margaret’s living room was decorated with orange and black, there were not flowers in the vases, but maple leaves and sprigs with late berries that fell to the ground.
Lamps did not burn at all, but pumpkin faces were smiling from the corners of the room. Lively lights of flame danced in their skilfully carved eyes, and there was a huge black cat which fell apart in the middle of the carpet. The cat seemed to feel at home, although it was the only evening when we saw him here.
His strand of wool seemed to live their own lives, chaotically standing on end, sparkling and crackling. If the cat also purred, it seemed that he was a kind of electric field, or rather, he was like ball lightning, frozen before changing the trajectory.
None of us decided to pet him, although he looked (or tried to look) as peace-loving and kindly squinted his phosphorescent eyes, looking at us.
Margaret was so lively and talkative that evening. She was wearing a gray loose-fitting trousers in a large cell and knitted sweater warm brown color. She braided her hair in two braids, not fixed at the ends, and if one of the braids was unraveling more than half, girl wove it again. At the same time she gently scratched cat’s back by her foot, popping glad cat this time was stretching to its full height and seemed incredibly big, but in some way he took up very little space on the floor.
“This is Cat Sí,” said Margaret, once again weaving a disheveled braid. “She is my guest today.”
At the word "guest" we all involuntarily winced and looked away from Margaret and her sparkling cat, because we heard a knock on the window.
The trunks of the trees growing in front of the house were black against the background of an orange piece of sky lit up by the setting sun of the last autumn day.
An eared owlet perched on one of the small branches scratching the window glass. He desperately clung to the branch with his paws and flapped his wings so as not to fall, and clearly wanted to be let into the room. And this we happily did, because each of us has always secretly dreamed of a hand-feed owl.
Playing with a smart chick, we completely forgot about Cat Sí, and then she gave a vote. Margaret smiled and nodded to her lightly. The cat reached out on its front paws, whether straightening its long back, or bowing. Her fur crackled loudly, and when we turned in her direction again, Cat Sí disappeared without a trace.
This evening, as always, when we, without saying a word, gathered together here, the decor in the living room was special. And what we saw from the window of the room always paralleled what was inside.
But the strangest thing in Margaret’s living room was not this, and not even the fact that our phones and cameras never worked here. We have long ceased to carry them with us, just as call up before gathering in Margaret’s house. The strangest thing was that inside the fireplace there was always a small bunch of artfully made paper flowers that the flame did not touch.
Telling stories (real or not) was the “main theme” of our spontaneous parties at the fireplace. But whenever we asked the hostess to reveal us the “secret of her marguerites,” she, as always smiling at her eyes, quietly replied: “It is a long story.”
We were all fascinated by Margaret (and not just Jeremy, who fell in love with her at first sight). Her half-childish lips always seemed to smile a little, as did her slightly slanting dark-green eyes.
Today the girl was wearing a light beige sleeveless dress, with a long floor-length skirt. At the waist the dress was decorated with a wide turquoise ribbon, embroidered with a silver pattern. Thick hair that was a little darker than her pale peach skin was tied with a satin ribbon in the color of bleached bronze.
Margaret rarely spoke, but each of us enjoyed the sounds of that voice. It was quiet, but ringing, like silvery bells, it reminded of the dance of small snowflakes in the moonlight, of the Sugar Fairy’s laughter, of the melodies of an ancient magic people lodged in tall trees.
That evening, as always, the girl remained quiet and smiling and tried to keep closer to the fireplace, as if her thoughtful look, turned to the fire, did not allow the flame to die out.
Jeremy, who couldn't keep his eyes off Margaret, was now sitting very close to her. She did not move away and looked into his eyes directly, with a gentle smile (whenever he spoke to her). But, as on any other evening, she did not allow his hand to inadvertently touch hers.
I watched them absent-mindedly and tenderly, wondering to myself how long it would take before the curly Jeremy’s head let in the obvious thought: he and Margaret are completely unsuitable for each other. And I wondered if my long-legged and always slightly pale sister (always demanding that we call her not otherwise but Tin-Ting) would ever know that he had desperately tried to draw her attention to him for a whole year, but gave up, deciding that she will never prefer her “mysterious” inner world to real life.
These thoughts, the warmth of the room, the quiet conversations of friends and the cherry twigs' crackling in the depths of the “magic” fireplace made my eyelids feel heavy, and my body limp, and I didn’t notice how I fell asleep.
Apparently, I slept long enough because I was awakened by a strong aching pain in my back, caused by an uncomfortable posture. Finally opened my eyes and stretched my legs, I looked around. Rubbing my temples, I tried to put together a puzzle of memory, to recall how I found myself sleeping inside an abandoned old detached house, leaning against a wall, sitting on my half empty backpack.
Little by little, the fog in my head dissipated, and I remembered how did the three of us get here: for a few days at the resort, we were bored with skiing and sauna, and Tin-Ting persuaded Jeremy and me to walk through the picturesque local village.
My sister, as always, was eager to find something “strange” to photograph. Therefore, we wandered around the village for a long time, and when we finally found what we were looking for, the three of us were pretty exhausted, and in addition to all the strong wind got up.
Inside the old house it was surprisingly warm and dry, and we sat near one of the walls, exchanging impressions of a long walk. I did not remember how I fell asleep, but the sun had not set yet, which means I didn’t sleep long.
Before waking Tin-Ting and Jeremy, I decided to check something out. Going to the old fireplace, I was not surprised to feel the light smell of freshly burned paper. And I was not scared by what I saw when I brushed the warm ashes with my glove.
The inscription, carved with graceful serif font, said: “Thank you all for being with me.” For a split second, the feeling of warmth returned to me, and my ears caught the echo of thin silver laughter.
When we went down to the road, I got a little behind to look around the old house once more. Jeremy held Tin-Ting by the arm so that she did not slide down the slope. I gestured to them that I would drop off and walked a little distance away all the way, catching up with friends only near the camp.
They continued to hold each other's hands.
© Copyright: Елизавета Лещенко, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №219012101691