Lessoc Fountain - a fairy-creature tale

Ch. 1 The Bottle in the Cellar

Cocot knew she had no choice but to go through Jean-Baptist's workshop and down into the cellar. She stood by the side of the chalet, staring at the closed door. It had always been her mother's job before, even if she was supposed to go along and help count and sort the jars and cans of food.

"He's in there, you know, Mother," Cocot had dared to say once.

"I know," had been her mother's reply. "I used to come and sit with the memories when I was waiting for you, just as I would come and watch him before I became—before I—before we were married."

Cocot leaned forward and put her head on the door to the workshop, her hands trembling. Just another one of her mother's explanations that she had not understood and another problem that had not been fixed in time. She swayed in place, rolling her forehead on the cool wood, and whispering to herself that she could do this, she had to do this. She could not let Jean-Baptist's shadow keep her from the storage cellar any longer. There was something she had to see.

Standing straight, left hand flat on the door above its carved rose blossoms, she whispered her charm. "Open, for I mean no harm here. By my voice, by my heart, know me and let me pass." She removed her hand to search for the key on her cluttered key ring and unlocked the door.

As always it was dark, dusty and very dry inside. The windows had been shuttered since Jean-Baptist passed away. A few timid beams of sunshine knifed their way into the room, lighting the floor and table in stripes where they fell. Cobwebs stretched across the walls, animal droppings and dead flies littered the corners and dust covered the wide table and work bench where wood working tools lay in neat rows.

She checked the tools before stepping inside. Shadows and memories cannot lift iron, steel or wood, but she wanted to be sure all the same because Jean-Baptist did not know he was dead. He paced the room endlessly, trapped between the four walls, repeating the same gestures as in life, on and on. She could feel him there. Sometimes, she could hear him at his work.

Today, the room was silent and the dust was just as thick as ever. She would have to cross the entire floor to reach the trap door to the cellar. It was three running leaps, or a dozen quick steps, depending on how fast she could make her legs go. She tried to lift one foot, but it was full of lead. Behind her, the afternoon sun was bright in the garden.

Hands shaking and heart beating its way up through her chest, she forced herself to study the dark interior of Jean-Baptist's domain. Nothing can hurt you here, nothing can hurt you. She put her hands on either side of the door frame and half crouched in a racer's stance. Three steps was all it took, if she ran fast enough. Go!

Cocot dashed across the room, counting out four steps this time before she reached the trap door in the far corner. She flung herself down to unlock the latch and yanked the door up. There was a lantern hanging from the roof of the cellar below and she grabbed it. Sitting with her legs dangling on the ladder, she fumbled for the flint and steel in her pocket and struck them together, frantic for a spark to light the wick.

A floor beam creaked behind her.

"Nothing can hurt me here, nothing can hurt me," she whispered, striking the rock and metal bar together again. "Come on, light!"

A spark flickered and she blew on the cotton wick until a tiny flame bloomed. Relief washed over her—so long as the lantern shone, nothing could harm her, her mother had promised. Twisting from where she sat, Cocot waved the bone and glass lantern at the empty workshop. There was nothing behind her, and her heart began slowing now that the lantern was lit.

"Keep this lantern at all times in the cellar and use only this lantern to light your way," her mother had said. "The oil will never burn out and the flame will never fade for as long as you trust it to protect you."