Mrs. Deacon has lived her entire life in the valley. As a matter of fact, she lives in the very house she was born in. She sleeps in the same four poster bed her mother gave her life in as her own drained away in a sea of pain and red. Her own baby’s cries drowned out by the impassioned cries of her father. Cries brought out by tremendous loss of his only love, and also the fear of having to bring up little Barbara all by herself.
Mrs. Deacon herself remained a childless war bride. As a rambunctious child herself, she matured into a strong headed young lady off to see the world. She met Mr. Deacon high atop a mountain in the Himalayas where both were learning the basics of Eastern mysticism. They walked hand in hand through the greenest of the world’s pastures in the plains of Golok. Those long walks between supping on yak’s milk and deep fried breads, shared, with no desire for repayment by the locals. The tribes seemed to enjoy learning about their visitors as the visitors were enjoying learning of the tribes. Tribespeople who marvelled at Barbara’s pale skin and hair. Barbara marvelled at the richness of the weaving and the adept horsemanship of every man woman and child.
Arthur had only a couple of weeks to spend with Barbara, there in the Himalayas before going back to duty in East Asia. They were married only hours before parting ways. Arthur held her from the minute they were married until the moment he boarded the train. She could feel him still, to this day. One could not love more than Barbara had loved Arthur and there was no question of ever loving anyone else.
For a time upon her return after the funeral held in his home town, her friend urged her to again marry. It was not going to be. Instead she threw herself back into the small town that was her cradle, and now her mission to keep it as it was and always had been, a safe and nurturing place to live and grow old. Barbara became a midwife and the other teacher in the small town. She would teach when the other teacher fell ill. Arthur had provided for her so she had no worries and could dedicate herself completely to keeping the perfect little world of the valley as it was then, and to in no small part her credit, is the same peaceful valley to this day.
Her fervent belief in mysticism might have started in the valley and not the Himalayas. The valley teemed with unseen life of fairies and other creatures of the woods, such as the dragon and the halloweenies. Being that she was an only child and her father worked delivering the mail all day, she spent much time with Big Slow Fred. He introduced her to fairies at the goose races. Fairies were small gossamer creatures, very playful, very kind. She saw them too at the graveyard, which though the caretaker was far too old to do a lot of grounds keeping was nevertheless pristine and manicured. It was the one place she truly felt she had a mother, for there was a gravestone with her mother’s name Clara Jeanne Lloyd -Brown. It said right there “mother of Barbara Jeanne and wife of John Brown”.
As Barbara grew older she took responsibility for the grave’s appearance thinking as much of Arthur as her mum. It was all she could do to honour them. As with most everyone she had stopped seeing the fairies as a grown up. In the setting of the Himalayas there was a profound sense of presences, and with each shifting of the light, Barbara was sure she had seen them, small creatures, gossamer, flitting in and out of the shadows. Tending to the sick, in among the yak herds, playing with the local children and looking after the elderly. Engaging the elderly in conversations as a way to keep their minds from shutting down before their bodies were ready for the next lifetime. Barbara was grateful that she had met Arthur there. They studies the beliefs of the tribes, of the holy men, to this their own beliefs and the love between them and for their fellow man. They both knew it was a matter of time only before they once again would be paired off in another lifetime.
The time before her travels abroad she had studied other cultures formally in one of the more prestigious universities on scholarship. It was the one time in her life that none of the unseen were ever hiding in the shadows or flitting about. Sometimes Barbara would notice their absence and wonder why. Not until her travels in the east did she notice that only in the peaceful and pastoral places were the unseen present. Her own theory was that the great noise of the cities and the cruelties man visited on man in these places, out of frustrations of poverty, sloth and impatience, had caused the unseen to retreat. Perhaps they were outright killed off by the negative acts and the hopelessness, just too much for the gossamer little creatures. Fairies need flowers and peaceful clean breezes, carefree play and laughter of children, and the kindness and insights of the elderly to thrive.
On her return to the valley she became one of a group of devout valley inhabitants determined to keep the valley as it was. Grown children could choose to move away, but would always be welcomed back. In order to avoid what they saw as the great problems of the modern work, greed, poverty and loneliness, it was made certain the values were taught at the earliest of ages, sharing and cooperation, and friendships among all that no person should every be lonely or wanting for the basic needs and as much work was contributed by each citizen as was needed and no more, the rest was for family and community. It had worked here. Some had moved away, some returned. Occasionally a new citizen would arrive as a guest and never leave. Grown children sometimes moved back to start a family with a fiancee from elsewhere.
Now Barbara was old, and time had stooped her posture. She used a cane to get around and at home had a wheelchair. Her tired arms struggled to pull her up and down from chair to toilet, and to bed. Fairies would help, and in the scariest of night when she felt powerful pains in her side and her chin and she could feel her heart slow, they would sit and tell stories until the pain subsided.
So it was that one night when her good neighbours had sat with her the afternoon and her hands were dutiful at work on yet another carriage blanket for an expected child in the neighbours family, the pain started one more time. A lovely group of fairies all sat beside her crossed knitting needles on her lightly heaving abdomen, and the fairies were telling stories. Stories of her own travels, stories of Arthur stories of all life’s high points.
In the morning when the neighbours came to check on Barbara they found her no longer alive, but smiling serenely. Beside her on her bedtime table lay a finished carriage blanket. Perhaps finished by fairies, or perhaps by Barbara.
A new headstone came to the graveyard in the valley “Barbara Jeanne Brown-Deacon, wife of Arthur Deacon and a good friend and neighbour”. On a balmy day in the valley, if you should happen to come by there, you might catch a fairy here and there, keeping the grounds tidy, spreading new seeds for next years wildflowers. In the wind you can hear their chatter, sometimes they even sing. At least you can if your heart is at peace and you can stop long enough. You might never leave. Just one warning, there have been stories of the dragon making very sure not one fairy or citizen is ever badly treated. That’s for another time, as it has nothing to do with Barbara.