Alone at the Gate

The children said she was a witch. Then they grew up, and stopped
talking such nonsense, though they didn't stop believing it. New
children came, and they also called her a witch, until they grew up as
well, but even they still believed it.

She lived alone. Her cottage made that abundantly clear. When you
opened the door, directly opposite was a fireplace. To your right was
the armchair, a single chair for a single person, in front of an old
black and white television and a desk with an old typewriter and a
single chair. To your left was a square oak table with a single chair,
and a place set for a single person. There were two doors on the right
side of the room, one to a small bedroom with a single bed for a single
person, the other to a smaller bathroom. There was one door on the left
side of the room, to the kitchen. That was it.

Behind the house were a few chickens, a vegetable patch, and at the end
of an overgrown garden, a river. Enough for one person to manage,
though it seemed that that one person may have required some help with
the garden.

It was the third generation of children that finally stopped believing
she was a witch. They believed she was an alien. Times change, she said
and smiled, Times change and so do people.

She sat at the typewriter and began. Times Change, she typed. Then on
to the next line. She lived on her own, but not alone. Her cat climbed
on to her lap, purring. He had long dark fur, silky to the touch, and
claws that would scalp a bear, had there been any left on that island.
There were tales attached to the cat as well, that it was immortal, and
had lived longer than most people in the village, longer than any cat
should. Maybe they were right.

When she finished, she took the manuscript and placed it on a small
table next to the door,. Then she put on her coat and stepped out side.
She walked around the side of the tiny cottage, sighing when she saw
the state of the garden, and collecting some feed of a shelf nestled
under the eaves of the cottage, and proceeded to feed the chickens. She
collected the eggs in a small basket and took them into the kitchen,
laying them carefully on the sideboard next to the oven. Then she took
the basket back outside and put it under the eaves with the chicken
feed. She tucked her hands into her pockets and walked through the
knee-high grass, deftly avoiding the thistles and nettles, down to the
river. She stepped out onto a roughly built jetty, and tugged on a rope
attached to one of the struts. Up came a net, with three medium sized
trout in. She pulled the free and hit them against a nearby tree,
making their deaths short. Grimacing slightly, she carried them back up
to the cottage and placed them next to the eggs. She washed her hands,
went back out one more time, and pulled up two carrots and a large
potato from the vegetable patch.

Someone watched her do all of this, and it wasn't the cat. Someone new
to the tiny village a mile's walk down the road at the end of the
track. This someone didn't believe in Aliens, or in witches. This
someone crept up to the kitchen window, and watched her make lunch for
herself, setting aside a singe fish for the cat. This someone was
practical and pragmatic, noticing that she can a gas cooker, and
electric lighting, and running water, and came to the conclusion that
this woman must pay bills to someone some time, and must also need to
buy things occasionally. There was no mills nearby to grind flower, no
spinning wheel on which to make wool for clothes, and logging factory
to produce the paper on which she wrote. This someone smiled.

She peeled and grated the carrots, boiled and sliced the eggs, baked
the potato and fried the fish. She got out a plat, and laid the two
fish, the carrot and potato salad, and the baked potato now cut into
two on it. Then, as though she had suddenly remembered something, she
got out another plate, and put one of the fish on it, half the potato
and half of the salad. She left one plate on the side in the kitchen,
and took the other through to the main room, where she sat at the
single place setting and ate her meal.

The someone watched this with puzzlement, then a trace of humour. The
woman wasn't a witch or an alien, just mad. She must have lost her
husband, or child, or someone, and forgot sometimes. This someone
watched her eat in silence, and then return to the kitchen, where she
washed up both plates, and the cat's bowl, before returning to the
sitting room. This someone was already half way home before something
struck this someone very hard indeed.

The girl stopped still in the middle of the dirt track. The food on the
second plate had all been eaten. As dusk fell she ran back and pressed
her face against first the kitchen window, then one of the windows
looking in on the main room, then through her bedroom window. The moon
had risen high behind him, so that she had to cup his hands around his
eyes to see anything. Nose against the window, hands around his eyes,
she stared in.

"See anything interesting?" The voice was pleasant and melodious. And
male.

The girl swung around. "You know, it's not actually very nice to stare
through strangers window," the stranger reprimanded him, "but seeing as
I've done it myself I can't really complain. So, did you see anything
interesting?"

The girl shook her head. An ordinary man, no fur or feathers as she had
half expected. The clothes were rather dated, but not enough for the
word ghost to come to the forefront of the girl's mind. She didn't
believe in that sort of thing.

"I watch her often. I wonder how she can be so alone, but not so
lonely. She write books."

The girl didn't move, gazing up at the young man before her, maybe in
his mid twenties? Nice blue eyes, pleasant smile, wavy brown hair. A
smart uniform, she suddenly realised. Maybe a little more dated than
she had realised, judging by that uniform. Judging by the medal that
she had seen in her history books. Now the word ghost occurred to
her.

"We all watch her. We thought she was a witch, but now the word is
alien. Some of the others here, they say she's one of the faerie folk."
He smiled down at the girl. "It may by better if you run along home
now. Some of the others take exception to the living." The girl nodded,
and fled.

"What did you tell her?" The woman walked up behind the young
man.

"You know, I think she thought I was a ghost."

"Get away! You?"

"Yes me. Wondered when it would happen, to be quite honest." He smiled
at her. "Got a poppy?"

"Wrong time of year, and you know it. Now, skedaddle." The young man
nodded pleasantly, and walked down towards the river, his feet leaving
marks in the dewy grass. "Ghost indeed!" She followed him a short
distance, then turned to her right, along another path through the
grass, towards a small patch of woodland.

She came to a tree stump, ringed around with mushrooms in the grass.
She sat on it, looking up at the moon. A flash of silver caught the
corner of her eye, but she had trained herself not to look at it. She
saw it several more times before she lowered her head, to look into the
eyes of the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, though she saw
it every night.

"Hello you," she whispered, taking the velvety muzzle in her hands.
"Hello you indeed."

The white head bobbed and nuzzled her, before lowering itself to crop
some of the grass at the base of the stump. She had to move out of the
way to avoid the horn. She stroked the silver neck and ran her fingers
through the white mane. It was worth being alone, if only for
this.

She was young, truth be told. At least young for what would happen in a
few weeks. But the girl, who had been staring through the window, she
had been younger. She wanted so much to stay a little longer, perhaps
to even tell the girl what would happen. She wished the gate would just
stay closed, but it needed someone's foot jammed against it. She
sighed, and bid her fare-thee-wells to the unicorn. It nodded its regal
head at her as she walked away, back down the well-worn path to her
cottage, and climbed back into bed.

The girl was in the same place that she had been before when again she
stopped, something else having just occurred to her. At least three
generations of people mentioned this house and its mysterious female
occupant, but that would mean that she had to be at the very least as
old as the oldest who spoke of her, and spoke of her as an adult while
they were children, but this young woman couldn't be more than
thirty.

The girl stood hesitantly, torn in two by her curiosity and sense of
self-preservation. She had a cheap ring on her finger, and tomorrow
night Tom had promised would be the night, and she had a nice warm bed
and parents who would start worrying very soon, but here was a mystery
that ought to be solved as soon as possible, so that she could be
certain of getting the credit. And it wouldn't take that long.

She turned and ran back, just in time to see the woman open her front
door and step inside. The young man was no where in sight. She crept
around the back of the house, and saw in the moonlight the path the
woman had walked dull amongst the dew. She followed it
determinedly.

She stared as she approached the tree stump. The unicorn stared back,
then slowly began to approach. She fled. If she had believed in such
things, she might have known a little more about unicorns in general,
such as you or I might know, but she didn't. She fled back down the
path, at least having recognised the beast as a unicorn. It followed to
the edge of the woods, then whinnied pitifully as the girl continued to
run. She ran straight into the young man.

"You know, you really weren't supposed to see that for at least another
fortnight. That woman in the cottage? She'll be most displeased about
this. You've cut short her time." The girl struggled, but her held her
tight. "Tell you what, guess my name and I'll let you go." He smiled
encouragingly, as if this were supposed to be some game that she might
enjoy as well.

"Uh, James?" She asked, feeling as though her mouth was full of cotton
wool.

"No. Have a better look." His clothes were different now, in fact, they
were almost non existent, and his hair was more curly than wavy, and
his eyes green rather than blue, and his ears were a little more
pointed.

"Um, Frederick?" This drew a frown. He shook her slightly.

"Rumplestiltskin?" He shook his head, his frown deepening.

"Three guesses, that's all anyone ever gets. Surely you must know?" he
sounded almost as though he were pleading with her. She started to cry.
"Oh come on, do buck up. It's not that bad, you know. Come on, let's go
back to the cottage and you can have a nice cup of tea."

She sniffed, and trailed after him as, clutching her arm, he led her
back to the tiny cottage. He crept up a friendly banter, but she wasn't
really listening. She thought he was as mad as the woman, and only
wished that she had decided to go home.

"I'm consort to a king I am, and a queen, and to anyone who asks,
really. I serve most graciously, though I am not always so fond of my
work, though I enjoy the mischief. And meeting people like her in the
cottage. It will be your cottage soon, sooner than I would have liked,
I must say, and I suppose you will find something to occupy your time
with as she has. She took up writing, I mentioned that to you earlier?
The one before her, she was a painter. Beautiful, her works were,
beautiful. Got any hobbies?" There was no reply, so he continued,
"You'll find one soon enough, once you're there on your own. I keep one
side, you'll keep the other, but it can only last so long, I'm afraid.
I suppose it must be a nice place she'll be taken, and you in your
turn, since no one ever tried to come back, at least, I don't think
they do, but I'm happy where I am."

They had reached the cottage, and the young man rapped on the window.
The woman opened it, a little grumpily. It seemed that she had been
about to get undressed for bed.

"What is it now, Puck?"

"She saw the unicorn."

"But I'm not ready!"

"Neither is she, but we have to get this sorted tonight, I'm afraid.
Look at it this way, it's not as though you have anyone to say goodbye
to."

"I have you." Puck stared at her.

"Me?"

"Yes, and the others. You said yourself you've never been to wherever
I'm going. I'll never see you again."

"You have me?"

"Yes."

"Me? You? You have me?"

"Is something wrong?"

Puck stared at her. "Can, can I come in?"

"Of course. Enter as you will. I always assumed someone must have
invited you before, I must say, and it was only your choice that kept
you outside." Puck shook his head, and climbed over the window frame,
still holding the girl's wrist. She scrambled over as well.

Puck let go of her, now they were inside, but she didn't flee. Now she
knew who Puck was, they'd done Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer night's
Dream' in English. Faeries and unicorns and who knew what lived around
this cottage. Puck was staring at the woman. Funny, she'd always
imagined him smaller. He took the woman's hands in his, and kept
staring, never blinking.

"You need to say goodbye to me?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Of course, dear Puck." She leant forwards and kissed him on the nose.
"I'll miss you."

Puck ducked his head, blushing. "I, there, we, I, um&;#8230;" he
trailed off, then gathered courage and began again. "If I did what I
want to do to you know, you won't be able to go."

"Oh, so that's what your thinking," she smiled coyly. "Yes, I suppose I
wouldn't be able to go, but I wouldn't be able to stay, either. Eating
the faerie fruit, and all that."

The girl was confused. Their body language told her loud and clear what
they wanted to do, the same as what she was intending to do with Tom
tomorrow night. She was a little bit scared, truth be told, and hoped
in her heart of hearts that tomorrow never came. But she knew it would.
Sometimes she just wished the whole world would leave her alone, but
that could never happen. No one was left alone any more, with mobile
phones and emails and everything else that meant you could be contacted
whenever wherever.

This wasn't Shakespeare's Puck, wicked and mischievous. She didn't know
whose Puck this was, shy and bashful. If she had known more about
Faeries, if she'd known what you and I know, she would have question
Puck's behaviour even further. After all, the little people have no
consciences, do they? If Puck wanted this woman, he'd do whatever he
could to get her. But then, she didn't even know much about unicorns,
so why would she question the Lords and Ladies, as some called them.
All she had to go one were Shakespeare's plays, and she'd never really
listened to them. They were too full of make-believe to suit her.

"You, I suppose you could come with me, couldn't you?" Puck smiled
encouragingly.

"I'd like that, I think. It would be nice to know someone." She lent
forwards and kissed Puck's lips, and he slid his arms around her waist,
pulling her close.

"I know you like nobody else does."

"Nobody else does, that's the whole point." She pulled away and sighed.
"She doesn't believe, Puck."

"Nobody does, any more. But she came. And she returned. Twice."

"I know. I just wish, I just wish it didn't have to be like this." She
stared down at her feet. "I never wanted to, and I believed. I just
wish I could tell her everything."

"You can't tell her anything, you know that." Puck placed one hand on
her shoulder.

"I know. You know, I don't think I'd have survived without you. Seeing
you once a week, it helped."

"I saw you every night, even when you didn't see me."

"Three thousand six hundred and sixty nine nights? Every night?"

"Every night." He nodded solemnly. "And I'll get to see you every night
for the rest of eternity."

"Has anyone ever done this before?" She stared at him, sliding her arms
around his neck. The girl stood mutely in the doorway. She didn't want
to interrupt, she didn't even want to stop watching. It made her
believe in love, watching these two, and question the next night more
than ever.

"No. I'm the only male, you know no one can come here unless they're
meant to. It's just me and you."

"I've never&;#8230; well of course you know that. Puck, I'm a little
scared."

"Honestly? So am I." The girl had been doing some maths. One hundred
years exactly, the woman had been here. Feeling a little light headed,
she wondered if the cat had been here that long as well.

"We should tell her something. Anything."

"We can't."

The woman swung around determinedly. "Guard the gate. Don't let anyone
stay more than a night. Don't mind the unicorn. Send back anyone else
as soon as you find them. They will fear you. In one hundred years get
on the unicorn."

"You weren't supposed to say that." Puck frowned. "She'll only
forget."

"Forget what?" the girl asked suddenly. "Can I go home now?"

"Don't be silly, you are at home, remember?" The girl nodded suddenly.
The woman turned to Puck, "so now we go?" She still looked
frightened.

"So now we go."

Puck climbed out of the window. The woman laughed suddenly,
surprisingly, and followed, hitching up her long skirts to climb over.
The girl saw multiple petticoats, and suddenly a wave of relief hit
her. Tomorrow would never come. She'd never have to see Tom. Tomorrow
wouldn't come for a hundred years. Tom would be long dead, while she
wouldn't look much older.

She knew what she was doing here now. The cottage whispered its secrets
to her. She was the guardian on this side. The unicorn would watch over
her, as long as she remained a virgin. That's what unicorns did. No one
would ever be able to come up to the cottage, not about bills, not
about mortgages, not even about double glazing. And they'd say she must
have run away, and they would be half right. She no longer existed, she
had no name, and she could never be found. They would call her faerie,
witch and alien; and she could do as she wished.

So she lay down on the bed and slept.