Fantasy

• Annabelle Potter, Grade 3
• Short Story
• 2022

Miserable rain fell, as the bleak sky released its bitter tears. Stella cursed, trudging morosely back to her tiny cottage. Reluctantly wrapping a scarf around her stinging face, Stella cast one last longing look at her favourite place in Carriella. The horse stables. A bitter wind sliced through the miserable sky, the icy draft biting at her exposed skin. She quickened her pace, running as fast as she could, almost being ripped in two by the force of the ruthless gale.
Relief crashed over Stella as she thundered to a halt outside her grandmother’s tiny cottage. The lights were on, shining pinpricks in the ever-darkening surroundings. Knocking three times on the large oak door, Stella was instantly greeted by a slightly worried, mostly relieved face.
‘Stella!’ Grandmother breathed, the worry fading from her lined face.
‘Well come in then, You look freezing!’ The old woman said, eyes narrowing slightly. Stella entered, her body almost melting at the warmth and cosiness of inside. Kicking off her sodden boots and equally soaked socks, Stella placed her bare feet in front of the roaring fireplace. As she soaked up the heat radiating from the flames, Grandmother spoke sternly.
‘Where were you?’ She asked sharply.
‘The horse stables.’ Stella mumbled in reply, blushing slightly.
‘The what? The- the horse stables!’ Grandmother said incredulously, giving Stella a rather disdainful stare.
‘My granddaughter! My granddaughter! Skulking around a mangy old dung heap and playing with feral beasts! My granddaughter!’ Grandmother shouted, towering over a cowering Stella.
‘They’re not feral Grandma,’ Stella replied timidly. Grandmother sighed, composing herself.
‘What I meant to say,’ she said, carefully phrasing each word.
‘What I meant to say,’ she repeated.
‘Is that I was worried!’ Her Grandmother’s eyes seemed to be pleading, beseeching her forgiveness.
Stella stared out the rain spattered window, Carriella was far from beautiful, it was grey and infertile. The people, wan and tired looking, craved the non- existent sunlight. It was never sunny in Carriella, no warmth, the little houses were old and drab, barely enough space for a family. But over the hills of dirt a palace lay. Large and stone, the castle cast a shadow over the tiny village. Only one person lived in the palace, ruthless and friendless, the king ruled Carriella. The curse as grandmother called him.
‘Once,’ Grandmother said, as she always did to start a story.
‘Carriella was beautiful.’ Stella recognised the familiar lilt to Grandmother’s voice as she told her tale.
‘The land was green and the sky was blue, it was warm and bright and-’ she said, faltering slightly.
‘Our people were happy. In that time we were ruled by the eternally youthful Nymphine.’
‘The Nymphine?’ Stella asked.
‘Who are the Nymphine?’
Grandmother sighed, her face seeming to age twenty years.
‘The Nymphine, my child, were our leaders. They lived in harmony with all, until…’
Grandmother trailed off, her eyes fixated on the golden tongues of flame before her.
‘Until what?’ Stella prompted.