Through The Yew Hedge: A Tale of Identity Magic by Islay Corwin
PROLOGUE
“Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand." -- William Butler Yeats, “The Stolen Child”
The Foretelling
Under the stark flicker of fluorescent lights, white moths flutter cryptic scripts: What does Virgo portend? The prophecy of place and time, the raison d’être? She, the child of changing seasons, was pushed into the Autumn Equinox, delivered in sorrow on the first day of fall under a sapphire sky, on the cusp of Libra, the Just.
The bus ticket vibrates in Ellen’s coat pocket, her choice like the weight of lead: an escape, a remedy, but not a salvation. She trembles as she sets the baby basket behind the farthest bench, out of the cold gusts of wind that rush across the concrete platform.
She pins her plea, penned in loss and stained by tears, to the Mercy Shelter baby blanket: Protect Ruth Ann, Sweeten her life. She places a memory, a kiss like honey and salt on the infant’s forehead.
The Taking
Three elvish figures, wearing sparkling silver and green, emerge through the ticket-booth surveillance mirror, luminous and clear in their purpose.
Ellen shudders at their chiming voices. Familiar and foreboding, they stand full height around her baby. She knows them from shiny surfaces, reflections, in the shelter where they cajoled her until, distraught, she acquiesces to their coaxing in the twilight.
Your baby will be safe, she’ll be found, assures Eleris. In the ancient garden, she’ll come into her heritage, predicts Cedra. Under the human’s care, under our vigilance, she shall blossom. She’ll bridge worlds, promises Selwyn.
Accepting she is flawed and cannot be a proper mother, Ellen turns to board the waiting bus.
Hurry! Harmful fumes! They shriek, they shape shift, they shrink. They lift the baby in her basket, disappear into the reflective portal, and float on the Winter Solstice breeze to the Garden where blue morning glories bloom in the snow.
PART ONE: Ruth Ann
“For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.” --- W.B. YeatsTHE GIFT
The Finding
Sarah rose at dawn to record frost patterns in the monastery garden and observe solstice alignments. Her boots crunched through hardened snow as she approached the concentric rings with her spiral notebook and camera. What she saw in the half-light stopped her mid-stride. Past the first ring, the sentinel border of rosemary, across the second ring of medicinal herbs, the innermost circle was free of snow. A misty vapor rose from what should have been icy ground, and it emanated a gentle warmth into the winter morning.
Heated utility pipe? Geothermal phenomenon?
The scene before Sarah appeared surreal. There, within the lush, aromatic tangle of rosemary, in a wicker Moses basket, she found an infant swaddled in a pink blanket.
I recall the whispered promises of the fae who carried me through mirrors and placed me in the fairy ring. At three months of age, I had a primal awareness of cold that isn’t cold. Blue flowers that bloom in winter.
Sarah broad-jumped across the triple herbal boundary, landing in the center of the Inner Sanctum. She crouched next to my basket, touching my cheek with her bare fingertips. I was warm and alert despite the freezing temperature.
Nothing in Sarah’s scientific background could explain the morning glories that flowered through frost, nor the black rose that appeared on the garden wall as she lifted me into her arms.
“Hello, little one, how did you get here? Where did you come from?”
As the woman’s eyes adapted to the broadening daylight, my eyes also had to adjust to the new day.
I don’t know this woman. Her hair is light, not like Momma’s. I’m not crying. Not afraid. Who is she, talking to me, smiling at me? I reached toward her face.
Sarah opened the safety pin to remove the note from my blanket. The unsigned note was written in sparkling blue ink:
Please protect my Ruth Ann. Born on the Autumnal Equinox. Sweeten her life. Preserve my memory.
I was dressed for the temperature in the circle, about 68°F, and didn’t feel cold. Sarah’s academic instincts prompted careful documentation, but her nurturing heart told her to get help.
Charles was clearing the walks in the Medieval Garden and responded to Sarah’s urgent call. “Miss Caldwell? Is everything---” His eyes widened when he saw Sarah talking on her cell phone while holding an infant.
“Yes, Officer,” Sarah’s voice was controlled despite her racing heartbeat. “In my Garden, yes ... three months old, if the note is accurate. Maybe born in Mercy Shelter... named Ruth Ann. I’ll bring her into my home, the Manor at Silverton Estate ... Entrance on Cedar Lane---black iron gate ...”
“Charles, please help me get her inside. It’s a miracle she’s not frozen.” During the phone call, the Moses basket became encircled by twining blue morning glories. Did Charles see them, too? Sarah dared not ask, but replaced me in the carrier.
Charles’s one-horse sleigh was nearby. Sarah carried me over the ring of herbs, observing once more how the circle emitted gentle warmth, like a small pocket of spring preserved in the Inner Sanctum. Charles took the reins and turned the pony toward the Manor House.
As we passed the medieval garden, Sarah spotted a single black rose on the wall, just as she had seen it the day she visited the Garden with James. Charles helped us from the sleigh, and Sarah carried me into the house, unaware that this moment would alter the course of her carefully structured life. Breathless, she burst into the kitchen. “It’s a baby, Mom! I found her in the Garden! The police will be here soon!”
Helen hurried to put the kettle on for tea. The air shimmered with steam as Sarah’s thoughts swirled. Helen poured with steady hands.
Would the morning glories still be blooming? Or would their impossible blue have faded to ordinary winter brown before the police evidence could be documented? I should have photographed the scene! Sarah’s mind raced.
Helen replied to Sarah’s silent thoughts: “Perhaps we can assist, dear. We’ll do our best.” The doorbell rang, and Helen hurried to the foyer to lead the police officer and Child Protection Services woman into the kitchen, where Sarah sat with me on her lap.
“Good morning, once again, Dr. Caldwell,” said the reporting officer. “Let’s go over what you told me in your phone call earlier, okay?”
“It is hard to believe,” Sarah said, “but she was just there in front of me, in her carrier. She looked so serene lying there ... Yes, in the fairy ring, rather, the circular bed. Why was I out there? I was doing my morning Garden check ... No, I didn’t hear anything unusual during the night ... Yes, I’m certain there were no cars in the driveway or on the street. Everything was silent, calm. As I left the house, the sky was beginning to lighten. The Garden was empty except for Charles, our groundskeeper, the baby, and me. I’m sure Charles would be willing to provide a statement. What will happen to her?” Sarah’s voice caught as protectiveness surged within her.
“She’ll be taken to the hospital for assessment and monitoring. Depending on her condition, we’ll arrange temporary care for her. Finding her mother is a priority. We’re handling this as a likely abduction,” the officer explained, “possibly an abandonment.”
Sarah surprised herself with the calmness in her voice when she said, “I’ll take her.” Helen, raising an eyebrow, supported her, adding, “We have ample space in the Manor, and we’ve both cleared our University background checks.”
The social worker responded, “I’m sorry, it doesn’t work that way. There will be an investigation with procedures and assessments.”
“I understand,” Sarah replied, “but I found her and took her in. I want to be considered for adoption during that process.” The social worker jotted a note.
In a heartbeat, I was in custody and taken away. Feeling forlorn, Sarah held up her empty arms, palms facing upward.
After brief questioning in the foyer, Charles appeared at the kitchen doorway. “The Garden was waiting,” he said in his characteristic manner. The twinkle in his eyes was meant to reassure both Sarah and Helen.
“We’ll get Ruth Ann back, Sarah. We’ll bring her home,” said Helen.
to be continued…
Hope you enjoyed this first taste of my Novella. Come back next Wednesday for the 2nd Installment: Silverton Foundations, and the Continuation of Part One: Ruth Ann,
Thank you — Mel and Islay
Beautiful and poignant ! It moved me to tears. Can’t wait for the rest, looking forward to it. 🫶✨