A Pocket Full of Posies

A little blonde girl stands in the middle of what seems to be a village square, the breeze ruffling her ringlets. She's looking intently at something before her, clutching a rag doll to her with one arm. She is dressed in a plain dress and her feet are bare, and she seems to be perhaps five or six.

Except for her eyes.

The look in her eyes speaks of ancient sorrow, centuries or millennia old.

And she opens her mouth, and begins to sing, in a quiet, breathy voice.

When she falls silent, so does everything else, except for the sound of the wind in the trees and the buzz of flies.

Not far from her lies a man. He seems to be asleep except for the agonized expression on his face and the blood that has run from his mouth. Farther on, a woman, her skirts in disarray, lying in a heap next to the waypost marker.

A peaceful village, set on a sward of jeweled green. Houses with neatly thatched roofs and white walls cluster between fieldstone walls.

The scent of death coming from those houses tells that nobody in them lives. A curious goat nibbles at some laundry, left out to dry; the washerwoman slumps under a nearby tree, not breathing.

The little girl walks among those houses, her bare feet making no noise. She looks in every house, as if searching for someone.

Finally, in one of the last houses, she comes upon a small house with a front door that has been painted blue. The door opens to a touch of the little girl's hand. In the front room, three children lie, wrapped in burial shrouds. The oldest is perhaps ten, the youngest a toddler. In the back room, a woman and a man lie, both recently dead, the smell of illness and death thick and close.

Leaning on the windowsill, a girl of perhaps fifteen stands, propping herself up with her hands. Her long brown hair is tangled, as if she hasn't bothered even to comb it for days. She turns at the sound of the door opening. "What..." Her question is interrupted by a fit of coughing, and she presses a cloth to her mouth. When she manages to stop coughing and catch her breath, she croaks, "What are you doing here? This is a plague house. Go away, little girl. You'll end up like us."

The child shakes her head slowly. "No. Not you." Gravely, she places her doll on a straight-backed chair next to the bed, and turns back to the girl across the room. She holds out her hand. "Come with me."

The teenager grimaces, and shakes her head. "I am dead. Dead as my sister and her husband and my nephews. I'm just still walking. I can't leave. Where would I go?" Again, she convulses with coughing, face twisted in pain.

The little girl steps closer, her hand still held forth. "Not you. This isn't where your story ends. Take my hand, Lisel Dubois. Come with me."

The teenager stares at the little girl, confusion on her face. "Who are you? Did my brother send you for me?"

"You'll understand soon. But you have to come with me. Please?" The little girl's ancient eyes were pleading. "Please?"

Uncomprehendingly, Lisel reaches out and takes the girl's hand. She is led out of the house and onto the road out of town. The little girl gestures at the air, and a glowing rectangle appears, looking much like a door.

In the house left behind them, in the close room where two bodies lie, the outline of the doll shimmers and twists. Moments later, a limp body that looks much like the girl who had just been led away falls forward and tumbles out of the chair, lying sprawled on the floor.

As the blonde girl leads Lisel through the glowing door, she begins to sing again.

The words linger on the air long after they depart and the door disappears behind them.

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