The Chronicles of Ether Drive 5

CHAPTER 5: The Spare Sun

At the House of Winds, the sun had finally emerged from behind the clouds with a cheerful arrogance, following a long, rainy night that had left behind a physical and mental exhaustion difficult to shake off. Thirsty, it evaporated the droplets from the windowsills and the glass top of the wrought-iron table, while Anemo, barefoot on the still-damp grass of Ether Drive, stretched his stiff neck. He listened to his vertebrae clicking discreetly to the rhythm of a fado melody drifting through the half-open door of number 49.

Beside him, a coffee with a pinch of pink salt, cinnamon, and a thick collar of whipped cream promised to resuscitate the spirit. The furry residents had already occupied their strategic points: Aeolus watched everything discreetly from a bed of yellow daffodils and tulips; Mistral was sprawled in the sun on the porch swing; and Sirocco stalked a dragonfly fluttering among the flowers with absurd concentration.

It seemed a well-deserved break when, perched like a bat on the fence towards house number 47, a little girl appeared. She had chestnut pigtails, somewhat messy from play. She first spotted the orange tuft in the grass and immediately tried to catch its attention:
— Pst, hey, Ginger! Ginger!

Sirocco didn't make a move, unaccustomed to this borrowed name. Instead, Anemo opened his eyes and looked at her in wonder: "Where did this little tufted thing come from?"
— Good morn... good day? I’m Fleur, your neighbor, uh... your neighbor. We moved into number 47 three days ago.
— Really? Anemo asked, immediately joining the game.
— Yes, but I don’t like this neighborhood much so far. Don’t you have any children?

Mistral opened one eye and pricked a single ear, evaluating the newcomer: "Really?" he seemed to mimic the writer. "Why does this creature, so utterly lacking in style, think we need more children in our peaceful neighborhood?"

Anemo approached the fence where the girl was perched, amused by her wonder at his "cloud" of coffee. He lifted his new neighbor over the fence, depositing her onto Mistral’s swing. Fleur immediately stood up on the seat, gained momentum with all her might, and then, in a moment of ecstasy, appeared to fly toward the spring sky.
— You know, my mom found my name in a saga... Do you... do you know what a saga is? But what’s your name? And the furry ones?

Mistral had, by necessity, abandoned the swing and retreated to the shade among the daffodils and tulips, grumbling about the little storm of a girl who had descended upon his philosophical (or just lazy?) peace: "This girl is worse than Remi Storm... her and her book. What’s more, she’s living proof that not only women, but even little girls with scraped knees, cannot be tamed!"

In the midst of that whirlwind, a heavy flapping of wings was heard at the fence towards number 51. It was a flutter in which almost nothing could be made out. Fleur leaped instantly like a stuntman.
— Nooo!
A hawk had snatched a pigeon almost as large as itself. It had grabbed it under the left wing and was struggling to rise with its prey.
— Nooo! Fleur shouted, instinctively reaching for the garden hose and releasing a powerful jet of water. The hawk, surprised, dropped its prey from its talons but lunged at it again as soon as the flow stopped.
— I said no! the girl shouted again, and this time with a new, strong and prolonged jet, she drove the hawk away for good. The pigeon immediately took refuge in the very narrow space between Anemo’s shed and the wooden panel fence.

Anemo finally reacted and shouted over the fence to his neighbor at number 51:
— Noel! Hey, Noel! Come see this... Noel!
Noel, the hyperactive and jovial neighbor, finally showed his face. There was a small struggle there—an unidentified growl wouldn't let go of one of his slippers. Because he couldn't manage otherwise, Noel left the slippers to the growling creature and came to the neighbor’s call, also barefoot.
— Quick, Mr. Noel! Fleur took the lead. "A... uh, something bad tried to steal the pigeon, but I chased it away with the hose!"

The pigeon was now sheltered in the narrow gap between the fence and the two wooden sheds of numbers 49 and 51. Anemo and Noel tried to pull panels from the fence, but the space was far too narrow for an adult. Noel looked at the little savior:
— You’re our only hope, little one! Only you can fit in there.

Guided by Noel’s voice, Fleur penetrated the damp and narrow space like a speleologist into a newly discovered cave. Once she reached the injured bird, with a care and delicacy you wouldn't expect from a little "storm," she lifted the bird with both hands.
— I have him, Noel! He’s here! Fleur’s muffled voice called from the wooden tunnel.

But before coming out, the girl froze. In the faint light, she discerned something Noel or Anemo could never have seen. There, on a bed of sawdust, shone the Yellow Treasure: a few yellow gloves, her yellow-framed sunglasses, her sunflower-shaped brooch, a yellow plastic salt shaker, a tennis ball, an amber-colored pipe, and several other yellow, golden, or amber objects stolen who-know-when and dragged into this border space.

— You won’t believe what else I’ve found, the girl said more to herself, carefully slipping the brooch into her dress pocket. Noel immediately took the patient from the girl’s hand.

— He’ll be fine, little one! Don’t worry, my daughter is a veterinarian; she’ll know exactly what to do.

After Noel’s departure, Fleur pulled the sunflower brooch from her pocket.
— Look what I have here! I thought I lost it when we moved and, and... there are a lot of things in there. Do you want me to bring them? I think I need a few trips... someone, maybe an elf, wanted to build a sun. It rains so much here; we really could use a spare sun.

The girl went in and out, bringing something yellow from the damp space overcome by spiderwebs and rebellious red ivy. Mistral twitched his whiskers discontentedly toward Aeolus:
— This Fleur is giving me a terrible headache, as if Daisy Queen, Madam Mother, and Remi Storm weren't enough. These women invade everything with their order and disorder!
— She’s interesting and clever, the little one! the mouse replied, completely absorbed by the girl’s charm.

Sirocco, now called "the Ginger," approached as if drawn by a magnet to the place where the back-and-forth was unfolding.
— Is the mystery of the yellow gloves deepening, or is it finding its resolution right here under my nose? Anemo mused when, through the opening between the yards, a barking ball of fur burst in.
— Skye, no! Stay still! came a voice, but the little Morkie grabbed a glove and scolded Fleur without stopping, planting her paws firmly on her prey.
— It’s our puppy, a birthday gift for my wife, Noel apologized. She’s a Morkie—more noise than stature.
— Mr. Noel, Skye wanted to build a spare sun! Don't scold her! Oh, how I love this neighborhood!

Anemo took out his notebook and, while the girl spun joyfully, accompanied by barking, meowing, and growling, he wrote:

"Today, the universe sent me a survival lesson via a seven-year-old with pigtails. While I was philosophizing about literary defeats and salty coffee, Fleur pulled out the hose and declared war on the hawk.

Lesson No. 1: Sometimes, to save something, you have to get your hands dirty in narrow spaces where adults cannot fit because of their own pride.

Lesson No. 2: Remi Storm writes that women cannot be tamed, but Fleur proves that they, quite simply, master the storm.

I watch Fleur as she presses her sunflower brooch to her chest—her great treasure recovered from Skye’s den. There is a purity in her joy that makes me feel ridiculous with my crumpled manuscript under my arm. She recovered her 'sun,' lost during the move, from a tunnel full of spiderwebs.

If a dog could build a spare sun out of gloves and yellow trinkets under my shed, perhaps I, too, can rebuild something from the remains of the letter Mistral violated. Some things are not lost forever; they are merely stored in places where we are too lazy or too afraid to crawl on our bellies to recover them."

Anemo closed the notebook, as Skye’s barking and Fleur’s laughter transformed the garden into a true playground, free of hypocrisy and the pretenses of grownups.