Scattered Stars

IV

Sprig sobbed hopelessly.

Chirp had visited. He had seen the entire thing from his tree. Thistle had drowned in a flash flood in the woods. Now Sprig could say that a little bird had indeed told her that her best friend was dead.

Her short breath came out rabidly, and she sobbed wetly with every small exhale. She buried her head in her pillow once more, her sobs shaking her body so hard that all of her wooden bed shook too. Tears flowed from her eyes into the already-soaked pillow; it just leaked right onto the blankets--which were damp in seconds. Every two minutes a fierce, terrible pain would stab through her chest, and her sobs became heavy-hearted wails when this happened. Her eyes were a violent shade of scarlet and her forehead burned with endless headaches. 

Sprig rolled over in her bed and felt the cold sting of tears on her back; her bed was drenched, and she didn’t care. Even moving her head a bit made the room spin, and Sprig felt extremely lightheaded.

This was the state of her life the past two days, ever since she had gone out to check every place Thistle might’ve been in; her tree, the Mother Tree, Walnut Grove, the Silent Cliff, everywhere. The world didn’t seem right without Thistle in it. 

Since then Sprig had been crying so hard she felt sick; she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t speak. Her breathing was short and fast, and a lot of the time she fainted. Her face ached and her entire body was droopy and fatigued. Not that she noticed this, of course; she was busy being sad.

Her parents were a wreck. They didn’t know what to do with her. They had heard of et labebantur Domini malus anguis (more commonly known as death by sadness, or to humans like you and me, broken heart syndrome), and fear was stitched into them like fabric is into a handkerchief. The healers of Willow Village had said that Sprig carried many of the symptoms of death by sadness, and told her parents to just let her be; for et labebantur Domini malus anguis was untreatable, and that if one day she ever just went silent and still, and her heart wasn’t beating, to just take her down to the Mother Tree--she would be gone. 

So you can imagine how panicked and stricken they felt.

Sprig was in the middle of a break from sobbing when her mother and father opened the door.

“Hey, honey,” Momma said in her soothing voice.

“Hey, Momma. Hey, Daddy,” Sprig whimpered, her voice breaking. The tears came and dribbled down her front, chasing away her words.

They came and sat down on her bed, Momma on her left and Daddy on her right. Momma squeezed her tight and Daddy laid his head on her shoulder.

“We just wanted to let you know that we love you,” Daddy said in his deep, warm voice.

“Very much,” added Momma. “And we’re very sorry about Thistle.”

Her parents hugged her tight.

“Thank you,” Sprig whispered. “I love you guys too.”

Daddy stood up and, picking up the dim lantern on the table, lit the fireplace in Sprig’s room. (It was the only room in the house that had a fireplace).

“We hope you feel better soon,” Momma said, standing up.

Daddy kissed her on her head, and so did Momma. Then they walked out the door and quietly shut it behind them.

Sprig felt so tired--she was so, so tired. She sighed (was there a touch of content in that sigh?) and flopped down on her bed. Her whimpers lessened and eventually stopped.

Her eyelids felt so heavy, Maybe I’ll just rest a minute…. 

Meanwhile her heartbeat, deep inside her body, was so tired as well. It was slowing… slowing… slowing… slowing… slowing… 

Sprig felt her mind go soft and silent.

Slowly… slowly… slower… stopping… stopped. 

Then Sprig felt the world drop away, and someone take her up in their large, warm arms, and spread their large, soft wings, and lift her away, away, away.