Lottery

The sights, sounds and smells of spring had once again come to the lands of Lunaria.  As far as the eye could see, the bare browns and dull oranges that had spent the winter licked by frost or dusted under drifts of gentle snow were giving way to vivid rainbows of color as early spring blossoms lifted their petaled heads to the warming sun.  One tiny patch of bright purple crocus flowers almost seemed to sigh as the rays of morning light glittered down from a cool blue sky, the first tiny honeybees of the season alighting on them to seek sweet nectar…and then the bees darted away in panic as the flowers were squashed under the pattering paws of a group of overexcitable pups. 

“Watch where you’re going!” an elderly Earth waja cried out.  He shambled forward to delicately readjust the rumpled plant with one large but deftly experienced hooved foot.  The pups whined softly in the rebuke, but brightened when the oldtimer chuckled.  “Ah, no harm done.  See?  Better already.”  Indeed, the flowers had only been compressed a little, the puppy paws too light for a single step to cause real damage.  “But why don’tcha go chase dandelion fluff out in the meadow instead?  The bees need these flowers to help their hives recover from the winter.”

In the end, the pups did not venture to the meadow to chase dandelion fluff.  Instead they spent the morning in the company of the old beekeeper, helping him tend to his hives and flowers with all the eagerness of the young and bright.  But other pups soon found their way to the meadow, and even some adults joined in the play.  Spring had come at last, and although winter was also a time of great fun in Lunaria, there was something special in the way the land returned to lush green life every year that brought a certain unique joy to the world.    

Above the treetops already speckled with the beginnings of new leaves, a small flock of spring sparrows fluttered by, letting the soft breeze carry them through the air.  The goings-on below were of little importance to them; they continued on their way without interruption.  Occasionally alighting on branches, fluttering down to check familiar bushes for what few frostberries might remain, flitting through the skies.  Eventually their travels brought them underneath the shaded boughs of the grove of trees that never gave way to the golds and reds of fall or the barren branches of winter.  Their conversational twittering fell to soft whistles and chirps as they settled there, for even the wild animals of Lunaria knew and respected the power of the mother Pear Tree.  But even as they kept their birdly conversations quiet in respectful deference, they started settling in for the day.  Here in the sacred grove, seeds and berries were plentiful, and very soon there would be other spring birds joining them to enjoy the grove’s ever present bounty.  And the mother Tree practically glowed under the gentle sun, her boughs lush with her own sacred bounty.  Peace and quiet and calm awaited this small group of feathered friends on this lovely spring day.  

Until it wasn’t.  In the quiet of the grove, the sound that suddenly split the quiet air was so sharp, so unexpected that it sent the sparrows scattering in startled fright, turned the heads of the squirrels and chipmunks studiously digging around the earthen duff on the forest floor, and made the Forest and pair of Corsies gently tending the mother Tree’s precious infant almost jump out of their fur.  Then the noise echoed again.  And then again.  The three grove tenders left their charge, rushing to the aid of the stricken source of the noise.  More birds fluttered about in unease as it echoed a third time.  A fourth.  A fifth.  Singular, snapping sounds familiar to all, but perhaps not with such volume.

AH…CHOO!!!!

******

Soft morning sunlight shifted to the high bright of noon, and then further on to the warm sweetness of afternoon.  The oldtimer beekeeper had sent off his new helpers back to their mothers for lunch and was now making his leisurely way down well-trodden roads.  The shops and stalls of the markets were bustling with activity today, the need for wares to clean out the winter clutter of dens, prepare gardens, or even something as simple as finding a treat for oneself to celebrate a lovely day.  The spring warmth not only promised the start of another good and bountiful season, it had in it the hope of great things to come.  The distant sounds of activity echoing from the distant Murky Forest did not dampen as the season bloomed.  Soon, very soon, there would be great changes, and expectation ran ever high in the old and the young.  

For today, however, the oldtimer Earth kept his pace steady, turning an old ear to the distance for only a few moments before making the familiar trek down the road and into the heart of the markets proper.  His thoughts drifted amicably as he headed deeper into the markets.  At his age, it was more habit to let familiarity guide his way, though he did take care to mind the steps of his heavy hooves.  By a glance towards a certain storekeeper or a particular colorful canopy top, he knew where he was and where he needed to go even through the crowds of other shoppers and those there just to enjoy the atmosphere.  It had been a long time since he had seen something new in a route so familiar.  

So when he did spot something new and unexpected, it surprised him enough to look around, though his hooves continued forward.  And bumped into the much smaller waja ahead of him.  

“Oop!  So sorry, little lady.”

Thankfully the oldtimer hadn’t knocked the poor Spitzen completely off her feet.  He picked up her dropped basket while she steadied herself, smoothing down her mussed pink and gray fluff with a delicate paw and readjusting the sparkly bow on her head. 

“No harms done,” the Spitzen replied politely.  

Reassured, the old Earth returned his gaze to the unusual sight that had distracted them.  It was as busy as usual around the all-too-popular stand of Florrie the Pear Dealer…but Florrie herself was not the one offering the precious fruits for sale.  A timid-faced African sat there, familiar in face but not in the occupation of selling pears.  As they watched the poor African tried to adjust the display a little, only to send a bushel scattering across the ground.  

“What is Miss Ruffles doing manning Miss Florrie’s stand?” he asked, as other wajas quickly came to Ruffles’ aid.  

“Miss Florrie’s taken ills,” replied the Spitzen.  “She went this mornings to the Pear Tree like always, but couldn’t come back.  Miss Ruffles is trying, but she’s awful nervous.”

The conversation between the oldtimer Earth and the young Spitzen was only one of many that began echoing through the crowd as the news began to spread.  Florrie was ill?  The rumors and debate spread as fast as the news itself.

“She’s got the sniffles!  She musta let her paws get wet.”

“Little woodpeckers are tap-tapping in her head and making it all ouchy.”

“She ate too many sour frostberries and now her tummy hurts.”

The truth of her affliction, however, was obvious to any who came by her den to give well wishes.  The sounds had not lessened even after she had been escorted home to rest.

AH-CHOO!!  AH-CHOO!!!

“Her allergies have gotten really bad today,” was Winnie’s far more accurate assessment when her assistance was called for by Florrie’s worried den neighbors.  

“Can you help her?” one of the neighbors asked.  

“With a bath to wash off what’s making her sneeze and some rest, her allergies will settle down again,” Winnie assured.  “But I can’t imagine why they’ve suddenly gotten so bad.”

It was the tiniest and youngest of Florrie’s neighbors that suggested it.

“Maybe the Pear Tree’s mad at Miss Florrie.”  

It didn’t seem possible, as Florrie and her family had been the trusted gatherer of the Tree’s pears for many years, but Winnie couldn’t simply brush the possibility aside.  

“Keep an eye on her,” she instructed.  “I’m going to go see for myself.”


To be continued...