THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
She was on her annual trek to the Spring Fair to obtain that one essential item. She walked quickly, ignoring the tiny purple flowers dancing in the breeze. It had been a hard winter. While she knew it was wrong, this year she’d have to try to steal it…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…
The day had arrived. At last. Just in time. She was out of nearly everything. Meadow Vera threw open the gates to allow the animals to spread over the hills, and in typically cautious fashion they did just that. It had been a brutal winter. Snow still remained in many of the shadowed vales. She watched the beasts slowly spread out for a few minutes, then prepared for her own journey, the much-anticipated three-day trek to the Spring Fair in Witherspin.
In her best checkered Meadow-Gown she set out from her station. She was desperate for one thing in particular, for she had been without for nearly a month, and it had been hard indeed. She’d grown sluggish and blue and unappreciative. Nearly all that occupied her mind was Revival Replenishment. As she marched, she took scarce notice of the diminutive purple and crimson spring flowers blooming throughout the valley, a sight that typically brought music to her heart and a lightness to her step.
She slept that first night along Martin’s Creek, the stream wild and high with spring run-off. The next morning, she trudged on with sluggish haste; if that be an oxymoron leave it be. She yearned to quicken her pace, but without life-giving brew coursing through her bloodstream her feet seemed heavy as anvils, and she made slow progress. Tired, she was, weary as a hibernating bear.
She collapsed and slept heavily that second night in the cottage of Adelia Heatherspoon, the midwife. Adelia had already gone on to the Fair, but had left her door ajar for travelers.
It took Meadow Vera an hour the following morning to revive, to awaken, to move on, such was her fatigue. But by mid-afternoon she could see the banners waving in the cool breeze that announced she was within sight of Witherspin. She perked up.
She joined throngs of revelers in the cobbled streets, greeted many, but stopped to talk to none. She soon entered the Allotment House to receive her much-needed provisions. Waited in line only a short time before facing jovial Artie McFlounder, the provisioner. He, with the apple cheeks and yellow smile, greeted the Meadow Woman. “Ah, tis good to see you, Vera. I’ve got your necessities stowed in the handcart for you.”
“Thank the stars,” Meadow Vera exclaimed. “I’ve been swooning for a pot of coffee for near a month.”
“Ah, well, there’s the hitch, ain’t it,” Artie said. “No coffee available, ‘cept twenty pound for Squire Castleman up to the estate.”
At first the woman failed to understand, and her smile remained. “What?” she said at last.
“Aye, no coffee, Vera. It’s promised.”
She could see the big sack on a shelf back in the shadows, inviting, luring.
“No, Mister McFlounder. I must have it. I canna do without!”
But no help for it. After further pleading, Meadow Woman was escorted out, to sit beside her provision cart near the stone bridge, in despair. Music and colorful dancers imbued the village with cheer, but Meadow Vera thought of death. Till late at night, when lights were extinguished and silence descended.
She pried open the window with a bent tomato knife. Oh. she knew it was wrong, a sin, but Good Heavens, she must have her coffee. Who could not understand that? She made a terrible racket getting inside the Allotment House, but aroused not a soul. She dropped the heavy burlap sack of roasted beans into her cart positioned just outside the window. With a wicked thrill she pushed the cart ahead of her out of Witherspin. A wheel of the cart cried for grease, alerting night creatures, but again, no one answered. She got away.
Despite her weariness she didn’t stop all that night and the following day. The flowers sprinkling the valley with color had never been as lovely, and she sang loudly and greeted the birds in the budding trees like old friends. That night she stopped again beside Martin’s Creek, the strong current a symphony that plunked Meadow Vera into delicious sleep.
Finally reaching her cottage beside the Meadow Gates, she laughed with guilty pleasure, and stored her provisions. “Squire Castleman is an arrogant philanderer, anyway,” she said out loud in justification. “He’s got everything already. If he wants coffee he can send a servant to the city. I needed my coffee. Everyone understands that, for goodness sake.”
Whilst grinding beans and preparing the enamel pot for her first delectable pot of life-giving nectar, Vera chanced a careless glance at the bean sack, and her heart stopped. She fell to the floor, stifling a sob. Hoping against hope that perhaps she had misread, she cautiously arose to look again. “Oh God no, it can’t be,” she groaned with fading spirit. “It’s decaffeinated.”