ALL THAT GLITTERS

ALL THAT GLITTERS

Short Fiction by Charles E.J. Moulton





The ring glittered in her hand, the sunlight throwing little sparkles through the trees above down upon it and hitting the transparent stone. The constant splashing and trickling of the river behind her added to this beauty, the dancing sounds offering an audial version of the glory of that what was in that stone. The ring eluded Chantal.

The wind ruffled Chantal’s blonde mane, the green oak trees aligning the avenue behind her giving her habitat a utopian look. The slow rocking of the summer leaves gave way to a sun, letting light into the greenery and letting flashing sparkles in on the diamond.

Chantal stood up, her dirty bare feet treading on nothing but dirt and sand. All the while, she held on to the ring she discovered treading beaten paths. Chantal cocked her head, like a dog would when witnessing a strange reflection. Sounds protruded from her mouth, clear enough to convey surprise, mysterious enough to convey bafflement. This nature woman knew natural beauty. Fabricated beauty such as this was knew to her.

At the crossroads, Chantal stopped. She looked to her right. The bustle of the village life in the distance made her uneasy. Beyond the forest, down in the valley, she heard the clanging of swords, the belching of soldiers and the moaning of tired women. She wondered what it was like to be there, so normal, so accepted.

The villagers treated like a dog. She could never understand them, only that some of them knew she lived on berries, roots, mushrooms, apples, pears, truffles and fresh water from that river. They giggled when they saw her scuttering off in the distance. Strange. Chantal felt strange. Chantal scared them. They scared her. She stayed away.

She grasped the ring tightly in her hand and walked up the slope to her cave, deciding to walk away from that terrifying village. Her step steady and fast, she soon reached the hill and plopped down on the bed of leaves and grass she had made for herself yesterday evening.

Her lower lip came out from its hiding place underneath the front teeth. It trembled. But she couldn’t keep the stone, could she? Her hand shaking, she looked at the ring again.

This precious ring must’ve fell off a wealthy man’s hand. The parade? Chantal remembered hiding behind the trees, taking a peak at the aristocrats as they rode by. The wooden wagon scared her, sealed shut by black blocks of shiny skin. The ring glittered. The connection? One man’s wealth usurping another man’s misery. Who was inside that wagon?

Are you the ring of a famous man? she thought to herself, looking at the ring. Or do you belong to his wife? If you are the culprit that keeps those prisoners in the wagon, I have to give you back.

The belching soldiers making fun of the blacksmiths sounded like a dream now. Chantal knew that they were there, but the remote sound almost disappeared into a fog. Those men lived on other people’s misery.

Robbery. The thought hit Chantal like lightning. My God, what if they caught her, the nature woman. What if they caught her stealing, what would happen to her then? They only accepted her, because she did no one any obvious harm. She collected her berries, sang moody songs by the river and collected sticks. No rituals by moonlight here. But a stealing woman could also be a witch, just like the woman they strapped onto the pole last week, convicted by an angry mobs. A stealing nature woman could be a demon.

Chantal remembered the friendly people vaguely, whose hands had fed her until she turned seven. The clanging of swords then robbed her of those friendly people. They taught her no language, they taught her only love. Their lessons consisted of embraces, kisses, late night suppers under the stars, lady bugs in the sunshine, star constallations and a silence within God.

Chantal knew who God was. Nobody told her this. She just knew. And she knew her own name. The friendly people gave her that name, but disappered before they could use it. Had they been fugitives? She never asked. Lawless, hunted animals at the mercy of that man that dropped the ring yesterday? Maybe.

She looked down into the valley.

That ring belonged to the famous man. If she kept it, who knows what fate awaited her? The same fate as the friendly people? Death by sword? Burning at the stake? Execution?

Chantal started walking down the slope again. First slowly, then faster and faster. Reaching the crossroads, she stopped again, looking left and right and back.

No turning back now, she thought to herself. I have to go through with this. If I keep the ring, I am in trouble.

Chantal began running, faster and faster, until she smelled that unfamiliar stench of burning meat. She hated that smell. The forest ended, the valley opened opened up and all the light hit her like a cannonball of light, one very loud cannonball.

Chantal groaned, covering her eyes, slowing down her step and walking across the grassy hill toward the soldiers tending to their horses.

Bit by bit, her eyes got used to the light and she began gazing at the scene around her. Some men were stretched out on the grass, kissed by wives. Others sat by tables drinking mead. Others had their suits of armour hung up by little assistants. Some scantily clad women giggled as their men grabbed them and pulled them into tents.

Chantal’s knowledge of that game baffled her. The friendly people familiarized themselves with that, but Chantal had been alone for the past ten years.

The stench of the burning meat grew more intense.

Now Chantal saw what it was.

A bore. A wild bore. She remembered seeing one a moon ago with one small tusk and one big one. Yes, this bore tusks were still intact and now it was roasting on a stick.

Chantal screamed. She let go of so much loud air, that all the belching and all the laughed stopped. Heads turned, swords dropped, suits of armory fell to the ground.

Chantal dropped to the ground, clutching the ring, rocking back and forth. She cried, her tears so hot the burned her skin, dropping onto the fresh grass an inch away from her face.

Solemn steps approached her and then then suddenly stopped.

She looked up, away from the grass.

Brown boots, buckles. Golden buckles. My, my, expensive.

Blue pants, another golden buckle. Red, soft fur and a collar with white and black dots on it. Bearded face.

The man said something.

Chantal shrugged.

He gestured for her to stand up.

Trembling, she did.

There she stood, terrified, a head shorter than this man, the obvious leader of all of them.

Chantal bony fingers stretched out, opening up, displaying a ring. It glittered in the sunshine.

The man raised his eyebrows and laughed.

He looked at the woman, took the ring and held it up in the air. For some odd reason, now all of the other men cheered. An eardeafening scream penetrated the valley. They applauded, whistled and stamped their feet.

The man with the golden buckles put his arms around her and said something she did not understand. She tried to imitate the sounds he made.

“Reward.”

He nodded.

Chantal had no idea what he spoke of, so she just pushed the ring further into his hand, nodded and left. She crossed the lawn, passing the horrible stench. Her dead friend, the wild bore, burning like those witches, punished for a crime he had not commited.

The man with the buckles came running after him, whistling. Chantal ran faster. She had done her job. What did he want now?

She turned around, making an anrgy sound.

He stopped and let her leave.

As she walked back into the forest, Chantal heard another voice. A woman’s voice. That voice spat, cursed and shouted. Chantal turned aroun. An elegant woman in a green dress threw her hands up in the air and screamed at the man with the buckles.

Chantal admired the beauty, but hated the anger.

The man said nothing.

That strong man with his rewards said nothing.

Chantal understood one word the green woman yelled, again and again: “Reason?”

What did that mean, reason?

“Parents.”

Another unknown word, parents.

“Dungeon.”

“Enemies.”

“Kidnapped.”

“War.”

“Nature woman.”

“Return.”

“Release.”

“Tell her.”

So many words, so much mystery.

Chantal watched this scene from a distance at the edge of the forest, the place she knew as home.

The woman in the green dress grew quiet, walking away into another tent. The man with the golden buckles stood there for a while and Chantal watched him watching her. Two birds in two cages. One golden cage of glory, one green cage of solitude.

The man seemed to decide something.

He clapped his hands twice and four other men ran up to him. Chantal laughed. These men looked like squirrels hoping for a nut. Why did these rich people give things so much importance? She hid her mouth in her hands, hoping that her laughter could remain anonymous.

The large wooden wagon with the black, shiny blocks on them looked ominous. It creaked and squeeked as it rolled closer to where Chantal stood waiting.

The green woman and the buckled man followed the wagon. When it stopped, quite close to where Chantal waited, the four men removed the lock and opened the door.

The squeaking sound of the door scared Chantal. That sound could have come from the wild bore that now roasted on that stick. As the four men disappeared into the wagon, however, Chantal began wondering what lay hidden in there. The clanking sounds mad her eager to see. The dirty feet of thin people then slowly appeared before the royal entourage, hands grasping hurting eyes.

Chantal saw a man and a woman enter a bright world, skin torn and clothes tattered. Memories came flooding back. Memories of embraces, kisses, late night suppers under the stars, lady bugs in the sunshine, star constallations and silence with God.

The man let out a shriek, fell down on the ground.

Chantal suddenly realized who this was.

The woman behind her grabbed the man and made him stand up. Both couldn’t remain standing and fell down.

The friendly people.

Why had they been gone for so long?

Chantal fell to her knees, kissed them, hugged them.

All of her love poured out of her soul.

No solitude anymore.

The three people embraced, laughing, cuddling and communicating only with their eyes. They ate strange food, drank strange drinks, heard strange music and wore strange clothes. But eventually, the strange people left the valley and left the friendly people and their daughter alone.

Peace returned to the valley again.

And the memory of the glorious diamond ring vanished.

Ten years did, as well.

The gold mine of love mended the hole of time.

The buckled man and the green woman stayed away.