Dust glittered in the golden light streaming through the now broken window. The air was musty, patchouli and candlewax. Jade’s inky black eyes narrowed as she scanned the basement for anything she might want to reappropriate.
She overheard her mother gossiping just this morning about how the old lady was in hospice care now. This was the perfect time to have a look around. The old woman, Magda, had lived there for as long as Jade could remember. There was bound to be something of value amongst the neatly stacked boxes labeled in bold black marker: clothing, photos and books. The KitchenAid sat in its original packaging. Dust shrouded jars and colored glass bottles lined the shelves on the far wall. Mixed amongst these ordinary objects, there were finer things. Ornate tapestries piled on top of the round table in the center of the room. A crystal ball refracting little rainbows made from a rogue streak of sunlight.
A wooden trunk that might have come off a pirate ship. She knelt before it and ran her hand across the surface, smooth like driftwood. There, carvings, some eroded. How did it open?
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the carvings as they once were, taste the salt air. She watched herself fly over choppy water. A harsh wind blew through the feathers of her great white wings. Then a voice, a discontent. It screamed and skittered around inside her until it erupted. There was a click.
The trunk had popped open. The lining was dark crushed velvet. In the center, lay a single white feather. Not cream or snow white. The purest distillation of white, a divining wisp.
She picked up the feather and violently twisted it into her hair. As she walked out of the old woman’s house and down Main Street, she felt like the warriors of old.
Main Street was crowded. It was the first warm day of spring and half the town roamed the streets, shopping and luncheoning. Normally, it would annoy her, the niceties. But today, she smiled. She walked up to the first person she saw, Mrs. Dennison from the bank.
“Hello, Jade. How is that savings account coming?”
Jade did not answer but stared at the woman. Her eyes burned into her. She leaned close and whispered, “Revolution.”
Mrs. Dennison pulled back, shocked, but then nodded. She repeated the word. “Revolution.” And tendrils of thin light spindled towards her, that pure white, and she glowed with it as if infected. A feather of her own materialized in her wavy brown hair and she turned to follow Jade down the street. They marched, now, in unison.
At first, Mrs. Bergen did not recognize Jade. She stared quizzically, as if the girl’s name was on the tip of her tongue. Jade whispered the word, again. “Revolution,” and Mrs. Bergen nodded and repeated the same way Mrs. Dennison had and a feather blossomed in her sandy hair and they continued down Main Street together, the three of them walking in step.
The same spell infected Dr. Amado and the waitress from her favorite diner. She whispered the word at the library and the Post Office. She whispered it to the workers at the old mill and all of the teachers at the school. She even whispered it to the local pastor, who followed with a crooked smile on her weathered face.
The town followed her door to door until they had formed a small army and made their way to Magda’s house. The nurses resisted at first, like the others, but let her in with a whisper.
Magda lay frail and withered in her bed. The old woman fixed her dull grey eyes on Jade and sighed in a familiar way, like she had been waiting for her. In a feeble voice she said, “My old friend, I thought I’d lost you.”
“Revolution,” Jade said and smiled.
The feather appeared in the old woman’s stark white hair and a nimbus formed around the women. They whispered in unison, the distant thunder of many voices.
Revolution.
Revolution.
Revolution.
I love this story Jenn. I read it several times.
A much needed revolution is brewing. A feather. Small gestures do create followings and it begins. Keep writing!