**Flecks of Joy on Stony Palms**
For thirty years, Arthur and Evelyn Bright had been married. Three decades of quiet, measured existence, stitched together from habits, silent understanding, and that peculiar, hard-worn tenderness that replaces passion. They had long accepted that their union was an island for two, cut off from a future without the laughter of children. Then, in their thirty-first year, God granted them a child.
Evelyn was fifty-four. Doctors tapped their temples in disbelief; friends, masking envy with slices of cake, shook their heads. «You’re condemning yourself to suffering,» they murmured. «Too oldyou wont manage.» But Evelyn only rested her hand on her swelling belly, feeling the mysterious stirring of life beneath her palm. She didnt consider ending it. Instead, she walked the springtime lanes, swaying like a ship laden with its most precious cargohope.
And she did manage. Their daughter was born, fragile and pink, with almond-shaped eyes wide open to an unfamiliar world. They named her Lily.
But soon, joyful anticipation gave way to cold, clinging dread. The baby was too quiet, too listless. She struggled to nurse, her breath sometimes breaking into ragged, whistling gasps. The district doctor, avoiding their eyes, delivered the verdict: «Down syndrome.» The world shrank to the fluorescent glare of an office and that word, heavy as a tombstone.
The stunned parents rode home in silence to their dying village. The doctor, trying to be kind, suggested securing a place in a special facility. «Theyll teach her, help her develop»
«And then what?» Arthur muttered, pressing back into his seat. «The madhouse?»
«A care home. Or a psychiatric ward,» she corrected, and in that correction lay the soul-chilling cynicism of the system.
The road home stretched endlessly. Arthur spoke first, his usually steady voice trembling.
«It cant be She wasnt born to waste away in some home, surrounded by strangers and lost souls. She wasnt.»
Evelyn exhaled, as if shed been waiting for those words. Tears spilled from her eyestears of relief.
«I think the same. Well raise her ourselves. Love her ourselves.»
And never once in the years that followed did the Brights regret their decision. Lily grew. Her world was small but dazzlingly bright. She found joy in simple things so purely, so wholly, that adults couldnt help but catch her wonderthe first rays of sun through the window, sparrows dust-bathing in the lane. She had her own tiny garden, a few rows where she and her mother grew peas and beetroot. Each year, she grew better at tending them.
And she adored the chickens. Not just feeding themshe guarded them like a loyal sentry, chasing off stray cats that dared trespass into her feathered kingdom. She spoke to them in a language only they seemed to understand.
In summer, the village briefly stirred to life. City grandchildren were brought to breathe air scented with fresh-cut grass and woodsmoke. Among them was Paul Harrison, a reckless city boy, the ringleader every child admired and feared in equal measure.
But beneath his troublemakers front, Paul had a noble heart. He snapped the slingshots others used to shoot at birds, stood up for the bullied. One day, he saw local boys climb the fence to taunt Lily, mimicking her and pelting her with acorns. She stood pressed against the shed, crying softly, bewildered by their cruelty.
Pauls fury was swift and terrible. He scattered the bullies, then gently wiped Lilys dirt-streaked cheeks. «Dont be scared. No one will hurt you again.» From that day, he became her guardian angel. Because of him, the Brights dared let her venture beyond the yard. Paul had given his word, and his word was iron.
But the village was dying. First, the school closed. Then the bus to town, which had run hourly, dwindled to twice a day before vanishing altogether. The final nail was the shuttered shop. Once a week, a van came with meagre supplies. Life flickered only in vegetable plots and the handful of homes still keeping chickens or goats.
The elderly passed away; their houses, like skulls, gaped with empty windows and slowly crumbled, swallowed by nettles and weeds. Pauls grandmother fell ill and was taken to the city. Her house was boarded up. The blacksmith, James, a kind craftsman whod moved from Yorkshire years ago, left with his family for places where his skills were still needed.
Only a handful remained. The Brightsbecause they had nowhere else to go. They lived on Arthurs pension and the meagre earnings from Evelyns «famous» bread. Once a week, she fired up the old brick oven and baked fragrant loaves from a recipe passed down through generations. People came from neighbouring villages just for «Brights bread»it stayed fresh for weeks wrapped in linen.
Lily was kept away from the oven. Fire was the only thing Evelyn feared.
Then, into their stagnant, almost prehistoric silence, came a roar. Bulldozers. Growling machines, kicking up dust like primeval beasts, began tearing through everything in their path. It turned out all the empty homes had been bought by one mana Mr. Thornton. The area was divine: pine woods, mixed forests, a clear river. Silence, serenity. The perfect place to destroy it.
Thornton himself was rarely seen, but his presence was felt in the screech of chainsaws felling ancient oaks and the rumble of bulldozers flattening cottages with their histories and ghosts. He cleared nearly an acre, fencing it with three-metre walls topped with barbed wire and cameras that hummed ominously at any movement outside.
When his monstrous mansion was finished, the villagers breathedtoo soon. The noise gave way to fireworks. The master of life loved hosting parties, deafening the world with celebrations no one else wanted. There were crumbs of comfort: new lampposts, the main road freshly gravelled. Tokens from a man who hadnt even bothered to introduce himself.
One summer morning, Arthur and Evelyn left for suppliesflour, cleaning things. Lily, now eighteen, stayed behind. They forbade her from leaving the yard. Evelyn, with inexplicable fear in her eyes, repeated, «Do you hear, love? Nowhere. Those men on their metal beasts they wont see you. Theyll kill you without noticing.»
Returning at dusk, they found Lily gone.
The silence in the house was piercing, absolute, chilling to the bone. Evelyns heart plunged into an abyss.
They rushed to the neighbours, the Wilsons. Had she visited? But they hadnt seen her. Arthur, dark with foreboding, led Evelyn to old Tom Drapers cottage on the outskirts. The man had always watched Lily with strange, guarded interestgiving her sweets, bright scarves. And she, beaming, thanked «Uncle Tom.» Rumours swirled about hima poacher, seen in the woods with a crossbow.
But Draper was deep in a drunken stupor. No sense could be gotten from him.
Their last hope was Thorntons mansion. Loud music and drunken shouts spilled from withinanother feast in the midst of ruin. As they approached the iron gates, a spotlight flared, and two cameras whirred to focus on them.
Finding no bell, Arthur hammered on the metal. Eventually, locks clanked, and a hulking guard with a Neanderthals face and dead eyes appeared.
«What dyou want?» he grunted.
«We need to speak to the owner,» Evelyns voice shook. «Please»
«He expecting you?» the guard sneered.
«Listen, lad, fetch him. Its serious,» Arthur stepped forward.
«Whats the fuss, Rob?» came a strange voiceneither quite male nor female.
«Couple of old folks,» the guard grumbled.
«Our daughters missing!» Evelyn clutched the gate bars. «Please, help us!»
«Hold on,» the guard snapped the gate shut.
A minute later, it reopened.
«Now, Rob, thats no way to treat neighbours,» said the same odd voice. The owner emerged from the shadows. «Show them to the gazebo. Ill join them.»
They were led along immaculate paving to a lavish cedar gazebo. Thornton was slight, trim, with silver hair slicked back. His dark, keen eyes studied them with cold curiosity. He clappedsoft light bloomed overhead.
«There,» he said. «Now, explain.»
Evelyn sobbed out the story. Arthur stood silent, fists clenched, reading not sympathy but boredom in the mans gaze.
«You have vehicles, people!» Evelyn collapsed to her knees, grasping his expensive suede shoes. «Please! Find her! Ill do anything!»
«Evelyn, get up!» Arthur tried to lift her.
«Calm yourself,» Thornton stepped back, wrinkling his nose. «Ill help. Rob, gather the men. Search the woods.»
All night, quad bikes snarled. Their roaring through the silence gave Evelyn a ghost of hope. She sat on the porch, chanting, «How could she leave? How? I told her not to» Arthur said nothing. He knew this was theatre. These men knew something. They were covering tracks.
Tom Draper found Lily. Hed gone to a clearing by the old marsh, choked with rusty reeds. On a withered bush fluttered a scrap of yellow ribbonjust like the one on Lilys cardigan. He led Arthur there.
Her body lay a few metres away. Investigators called it drowning. Bruises on her neck and arms? «Just lividity,» they said. The Brights didnt believe it. But to fight, they needed connections, money, strength. They had none.
After the funeral, whispers spread. An old woman claimed shed seen Lily climb onto a quad bike with «some lads.» But the rumours were smothered, and the old woman soon recanted: «Just my eyes playing tricks.»
A year later, Evelyn took to her bed. At night, Arthur heard her whispering in the dark. At first, he thought she was talking to Lily. Then he listenedand his blood froze. Evelyn wasnt pleading or weeping. She was invoking vengeance with a voice like ancient, pagan fire. She swore the killers wouldnt escape justice. Her words werent prayers but incantations, driven into the heavens themselves.
Three years passed. Paul Harrison, now a medical graduate, returned to his childhood village with his friend, Alistair, son of the blacksmith James.
They hadnt expected the decay to be so deep. On one side of the lanecrumbling cottages; on the otherThorntons towering fence, now peeling and dusty, as if even it couldnt resist the rot. Paul had brought a gift for Lilya childs microscope. He remembered her delight when shed peered through a handmade lens at a dragonflys wing.
The Brights door was unlocked. Knocking, they entered. In the gloom, Arthur lay on the bed, seemingly asleep.
«Alive?» Paul nodded to Alistair: «Water.» He bent over the old man. «Arthur? Its Paul Harrison. Wake up.»
The old mans eyelids fluttered. His milky, tear-filled eyes focused weakly.
«Why?» he rasped.
«Do you recognise me? Its Paul.»
«Cant see Angel? Here for me?»
«No, Im Paul. Harrison. We lived across the way.»
«Ah Paul» A ghost of a smile touched his lips. «Grown-up Im alone. The Wilsons check see if Ive died yet.»
«You need hospital care. Im a doctorI can help.»
«Not leaving. My place is here. With my wife and my girl.»
Paul went still.
«Theyre?»
«Lily was murdered,» Arthur forced the words out. «Evelyn died three years later. Raved before the end But she got revenge yes, she got them»
His strength failed. Paul swiftly opened his bag, prepped a syringe, administered the injection. Alistair watched, impressed.
«Thatll stabilise him,» Paul tucked a blanket around Arthur. «Lets talk to the neighbours. I need to know everything.»
Hope Wilson saw from her window as the young men visited the Brights. Spotting them heading her way, she nudged her napping husband, Max.
«Get upvisitors!»
«What visitors?» he grumbled.
«Anyone home?» came the call from the porch.
«Nobody here!» Hope shoutedtoo late. Recognising Alistair, she flushed with delight. «Good lord! Jamess boy? What brings you back?»
Over tea with last years jam, the Wilsons told the tale. Thornton. The disappearance. The humiliating scene at the gates. How Draper found the body.
«Did they catch the killer? Was it Thornton himself?» Paul pressed.
«Not exactly,» Hope paused dramatically. «At first, he pretended to help. Then we learned his nephewsthose guests of hisconfessed to him that same night. Said it was an accident, gone too far. And he covered it up. Money, threats, falsified reports. Everyone was silenced.»
«But how did the truth come out?» Alistair leaned in.
«Thorntons empire crumbled. Scandals, his son disgraced, business ruined. They say he became a recluse, terrified of something. Then he crawled to Evelyn. Word was, hed gone to psychics who told him this was punishment for his sinthat until he begged forgiveness from the wronged, it would only worsen. He came by night, like a thief, begging, offering money. Admitting hed shielded the killers.»
«And she forgave him?» Alistair whispered.
«Who knows?» Hope looked away. «Evelyn was nearly gone by then But Thornton never made it home. They found him at dawn. An arrow through his heart.»
Paul remembered Drapers crossbow.
«So it was Tom?!»
«Guesswork,» Max sighed. «No weapon was found. Some say a stranger was seen in the woods. A hitman, maybe.»
«It was Justice,» Hope muttered superstitiously. «It found him.»
«No,» Paul disagreed. «Where theres money, death follows. Just the game.»
«No,» Hope shook her head stubbornly. «It was Her. What Evelyn called down. Vengeance.»
The young men finished their tea, took food for Arthur, and prepared to leave.
«Alistair,» Hope called from the doorstep. «Well likely never meet again. Tell your father tell him I remember. Alright?»
«Alright,» he nodded.
Hed forget to pass it on, of course. But Hope would never know. She stood on the porch, watching them go, smiling into the gathering duskcertain that somewhere, distant James still remembered her, and the life left behind that high, rusting fence of the past.
