EC's 2021 Summer Solstice Contest Winner: The Queen of Summer, by Lissa Sloan

Editor’s note: EC is excited to announce Lissa Sloan as the winner of our 2021 Summer Solstice Story contest! The long, midsummer days, the casually imparted wonders, the rivalry between two sisters, and the love, too, are all beautifully interwoven by Lissa in her story. Lissa is an old friend of EC, so we are very happy to have new work from her!

My sister was always the lucky one. If she forgot to bring the washing in, it would be a clear night with no rain. And in the morning, shirts and shifts and petticoats would all be hanging on the line, just as she had left them. If she spent the afternoon daydreaming and burned the only meat we got all week, my father would come in from the mill and go straight to bed, saying he wasn't hungry.

 

She was the pretty one, too. Women at the market slipped her extra sweet pastries, and men gathered around her like cats after a piece of fish. She was the pride of the village and a prize to be won.

 

It was not her fault, of course. Nothing ever was. "It's not like I ask for these things to happen," she told me one year at Midsummer as I wove daisies, honeysuckle, and forget-me-nots into a garland for her hair. She would be queen at the festival that night. Again. She had been chosen every year since her slim body rounded into curves.

 

So of course, last year when the king rode by, it was my sister that Father bragged about. He never would have said I could spin straw into gold. No one would have believed it of me. But of the girl so beautiful the village elders ignored the rules that the Queen of Summer must be a different girl every year? A daughter like that was someone to be proud of.

           

When the king ordered her to the palace to prove my father's claims, I thought I would never see my sister again. Yes, she was lucky, but to do the impossible—to spin three rooms full of straw into gold in the course of three nights? Each room bigger, each night shorter, than the last. Even my sister was not that lucky.

 

On the shortest night, I didn’t go to the village green to see a new summer queen crowned. I didn’t pick seven flowers out of my own garland and lay them on my pillow, hoping to dream of who my future husband would be. I went to bed before the sun had set and lay awake all night, wondering what my sister could possibly be doing in that room full of straw with only a spinning wheel for company. Not spinning, if I knew her at all.

           

And yet, somehow, she was lucky again. She accomplished the impossible. The next morning, after a night so short it seemed the sun had barely gone down before it rose again, the king announced their betrothal with her at his side. I had to admit she looked beautiful, smiling as if she deserved it all. I choked down the question on my tongue: how lucky was she really? To marry a king so enamored of gold he would put an innocent girl to death if she couldn’t create three rooms full of it at his command?

 

I knew she couldn't have done it. She wasn't even good at ordinary spinning. Surely she would tell me later—how she had gotten away with it. But no. She just sat there in our kitchen, going on about carriages, dresses, jewels, and servants. I couldn't ask her. She would only stare at me, her wide eyes reproachful—didn’t I believe in my own sister? So I said nothing and went on shelling peas. And speaking of servants, I must come with her to the palace to be her waiting woman. She couldn't do without her sister. I would come, wouldn't I?

           

I packed my things.

 ***

It has been a year, or nearly so. The shortest night is almost here again. Everywhere feasts are being prepared and Midsummer bonfires are being laid in village greens throughout the land. Garlands woven for new summer queens.

 

Now, at last, she has told me. I came into her room with some fresh linens, and there she was, clutching the baby to her. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Now I know about the odd little man, and the horrible bargain she made.

           

"I guess that's that," I say. She has been caught at last. Oddly, I don't feel the sense of satisfaction I thought I might. How can I, with her sitting there, clinging to my nephew, her eyes red rimmed. She is not even pretty like this. Her face is blotchy; her nose is red.

           

She asks what I mean, her voice a whisper she can barely choke out.

           

"You gave your word," I say. She looks as if she doesn't understand me. "That you would give him up."

           

“If I lose his son, he’ll kill me.” She holds the baby tighter. Again, I wonder at my sister’s  luck. Married to a man she cannot confide her wretched bargain to. Because he was the reason she made it. Her tears begin again.

           

I don't know. Of course she can't give him up. But this time, she may have to. I say the obligatory words. That I wish there was something I could do.

           

She grabs my sleeve. There is something I can do—if I can guess his name—he gave her three days. I could find her names—all the names in the kingdom. She has hope now.

 

And what do I have? I have the three longest days. Surely I can do the impossible for her this time. And unlike the odd little man who rescued her last time, I will not even ask for payment.

 

I’ve always been the good one, she says. I’ve always been the clever one. I can find his name. She sighs contentedly, as if it is already done, and runs her finger along her baby's cheek. "I can keep him, and no one will ever know." She looks at me. "You will do it, won't you?"

           

I get my cloak.

***

I have walked the kingdom. Up to the mountains and down to the valleys the first day. I came back with my cloak ripped ragged by brambles, and my head full of names. Names like William and Liam and Billy and Bill. James, Jamie, and Jim. Hans, Sean, Ian, and John. But none of them were the one.

           

The second day I went to the ocean; I crossed brooks and rivers and creeks and streams. I came back with my skirt caked to the knees in mud, and my head full of names. Names like Edgar, Edmund, and Edward. Reginald and Archibald and Willibald. Frederick, Francis, and Frank. But none of them were the one.

           

Today, the third day, I crossed meadows and moors, marshes and bogs. I am coming back with my feet rubbed raw and blistered, and my head full of names. Names like Thumbling, Thrushbeard, and Rinkrank. Shorty and Shifty and Handy. Longshanks and Crookshanks and Stumpy. Surely one of these will be the one.

But what if I have failed? Will my sister be unlucky for once? Will her bad bargain come down on her head at last? I do not wish it on her, not really. I am not as bad as all that. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. 

           

I must hurry on. He will be at the castle at midnight, and my sister will need the names. They are her only chance. But there is a stone in my shoe. It has been there through the last three villages, so I stop to take it out. That's when I smell the wood smoke and see the firelight flickering up ahead. Perhaps, even now, there is one person in the kingdom I have not asked about the names they know. 

           

I am not good, but I am dutiful. I step off the path and through the trees. And I hear a lone voice singing. Should I make this one last stop? Who would be singing in the middle of a wood? Everyone in the kingdom has gathered in their village greens and squares, decked in ribbons, crowning their new summer queens with flower garlands. They are dancing, singing, eating, laughing, jumping over midsummer bonfires, young people sneaking off into the woods in pairs. The light is fading, my stomach is rumbling, and my feet are aching. I should get back.

I am not clever, but I am thorough. I edge closer, toward the firelight, toward the voice, and look out from behind a tree. I see one extraordinary man dancing around an ordinary fire. An odd little man. He is singing about how happy, how lucky he is. How he will take the baby because the queen can never guess. He is the lucky one because she will never guess that his name is...

           

In the firelight, there is a sweetness to his face. I feel almost sorry for him, because he is wrong. He is not the lucky one. My sister is the lucky one. Again.

***

Bio: Lissa Sloan's poems and short stories are published in Enchanted Conversation, Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus, Frozen Fairy Tales, and Skull & Pestle: New Tales of Baba Yaga.  “Death in Winter,” her contribution to Frozen Fairy Tales, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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Image is “Dante’s Vision of Rachel and Leah,” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Midsummer Magic, by Kelly Jarvis

Editor’s note: This story has everything I like. Herbs, potions, the solstice, bonfires, folklore! There are imaginative delights all through this story. I told Kelly that I want her to develop this character and story into a full book. I hope you’ll agree. (Kate)

The dusky light of the longest day stretched itself across the sky and looked down on a raging bonfire that had already drawn the villagers to its side.  

Maidens, draped in garlands of summer flowers, blushed as young men competed for their attentions, and older generations celebrated, toasting one another with solstice joy. 

Arabella Porter kneeled in the shadows cast by the flames, her cloak the color of twilight. She thrust a branch into the dark ashes at the bottom of the fire and twirled it until it was coated with blackened soot. She was scraping the hot remains into a small leather pouch when a young man grabbed her and pulled her into the throng of revelers. 

There was a moment of shocked silence. The Porter Cottage, which sat alone at the edge of the sea, had been a pilgrimage for weary villagers seeking solace as long as anyone could remember, and Arabella, the last living healer in a long line of gifted women, had always been treated with wary respect.  

The young man smiled, lines of mirth deepening around his glossy eyes. 

“Will you take my hand and leap over the fire with me, Arabella?” The honey mead that had emboldened his actions slurred across his words. 

Such familiarity with a Porter woman would have been unthinkable on any other day of the year, but Arabella laughed at his innocent display of midsummer madness. 

“And what would the village do if I make merry with you and forget to brew my remedies?” she teased. “I’ve no time to celebrate with you tonight.” 

She had been working since the quickening of the season to plant medicinal herbs and collect the items she needed for the dark half of the year. Her seaside garden was already thick with foxglove and fennel. Rosemary and lavender bloomed in the salt spray. Arabella coveted one more ingredient for her cupboard, and it could only be gathered at midsummer. 

She treated the young man to a flirtatious wink before moving toward the dark line of the forbidden Fae Woods, her cloak fading into the twilight of evening. 

# 

The sun lowered itself toward the inviting caress of the trees as Arabella approached the Fae Woods. The music of the villagers’ solstice celebration gave way to the sound of humming insects. Fireflies throbbed in the bushes, searching for mates. 

Although the healer had been visiting the Fae Woods since her childhood, she always crossed the threshold of the forest with caution. All summer long, she left offerings of bread and cream at the tree line, hoping to appease the Still Folk who lived there.  

A bloodcurdling howl rang through the air, birthed by the wind whipping through a grove of weeping willows. Arabella hurried to a small clearing and kneeled reverently, waiting. 

She heard the distant song of a swallow. She heard the faraway chime of silver bells. She watched as the sun paused on the horizon, lingering in the doorway between day and night, its last rays suspended in the humid heat of eventide.   

Arabella shivered and blessed herself three times.  

She did not blink, for fear of missing the moment she desired.

The sunbeams swirled through the clearing, and out of the dappled light emerged the ethereal figure of the Midsummer Queen. She was clothed in translucent robes woven of summer foliage. She wore a crown of white flowers which twisted themselves through her flowing hair. Glittering butterflies darted between the blooms and iridescent sprites the size of mustard seeds followed after them, sprinkling glowing dust like falling snow.  

Arabella bowed her head and recited an ancient incantation. Shimmering fractals of faery dust floated into her leather pouch, joining the ashes she had taken from the solstice bonfire.  

Thunder pealed across the newborn night sky. A wild wind whispered. 

The Midsummer Queen melted into the rose-scented shadows of the forest.  

# 

Once inside her lonely cottage on the edge of the sea, Arabella emptied the contents of her leather pouch into her cauldron and slid a thin blade across her palm, squeezing three drops of blood onto the fusion of bonfire ashes and faerie dust. She stirred the mixture over a flame, adding sweet nectars from her garden until it thickened into a smoldering liquid that rolled and glistened like dancing starlight.

The healer poured the precious fluid into glass vials and placed them into the cupboard which stored her dried herbs, her wax candles, and the sacred elements she had been gathering since the earth had started to thaw.  

She had harvested pearls under the April moon, and plucked pink tree blossoms the moment before they dissolved into the dewy green of summer leaves. She had captured the throaty melody of songbirds and collected the misty rainbows created by warm water rushing through the glen. The heat of the midday sun, which she had harnessed with her magic, still smoked and bubbled in metal pots, and the damp smell of life itself, which she had amassed from the verdant growth of the meadows, permeated the cupboard like fresh falling rain. 

Arabella wrapped her wounded hand with a wet cloth and wandered outside to watch the moon rise over the windswept sea. Her cat purred at her feet, his black fur shining like velvet. 

The healer sighed happily, knowing she had finally secured everything she needed to brew her balms and enchant her elixirs. Now, when the villagers sought her help through the lean, hungry months, she could use the mystical moments she had stored in her cupboard to mend their broken bodies and fix their fractured hearts. Her spells would not stop the wheel from turning, but they would fill the barren winters with priceless memories of warmth and light.

The inky darkness of the shortest night settled around Arabella’s shoulders and listened as a faraway strain of silver bells serenaded the dying solstice with the fleeting music of midsummer magic

***

Bio: Kelly Jarvis teaches classes in literature, writing, and fairy tale at Central Connecticut State University, The University of Connecticut, and Tunxis Community College. She lives, happily ever after, with her husband and three sons in a house filled with fairy tale books. She is also Enchanted Conversation’s special project’s writer.

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Image is “Flora,” by John William Waterhouse