**Flecks of Joy Upon Stone Palms**
For thirty years, Thomas and Eleanor Whitmore lived in quiet matrimony, their days stitched together by the steady rhythm of habit, silent understanding, and the tender affection that comes in place of youthful passion. They had long accepted that their union was an island for two, a life untouched by the laughter of childrenuntil, in their fifty-fourth year, fate granted them a daughter.
Eleanor was fifty-four. The doctors shook their heads, her friends tutted over tea and sponge cakes, murmuring, “Why put yourself through this at your age?” But Eleanor only rested a hand upon her growing belly, feeling the stirrings of new life beneath her palm. She would not turn away from it. She walked the lanes of their village, swaying like a ship laden with precious cargohope itself.
And she carried it through. Their daughter was bornsmall, delicate, with wide almond eyes blinking at the world. They named her Lily.
Yet soon, their joy curdled into cold dread. The child was too quiet, too listless. She struggled to feed, her breath sometimes hitching into a rasping wheeze. The village physician, avoiding their gaze, delivered the verdict: “Downs syndrome.” The world shrank to the sterile glow of the clinics lights and that wordheavy as a tombstone.
They rode home in silence, hearts leaden. The doctor, softening, had offered to secure a place in a special home. “Theyll teach her, care for her”
“And after?” Thomas croaked, gripping the seat. “Where then? An asylum?”
“A care home,” she corrected, and in that correction lay the cruelty of the system laid bare.
The road stretched endlessly. At last, Thomas spoke, his voice fraying.
“She wasnt born to waste away among strangers. She wasnt.”
Eleanor exhaled, as if shed waited for those words. Tears spillednot of sorrow, but relief.
“I feel the same. Well raise her ourselves. Love her ourselves.”
And never once in the years that followed did they regret it. Lily grew. Her world was small but dazzling. She found joy in the simplest thingssunlight through the window, sparrows dust-bathing in the lane. She tended a little garden, planting peas and beetroot with her mother, her hands growing surer each year.
And she adored the chickens. Not just feeding them, but guarding them like a sentry, shooing away marauding cats. She spoke to them in her own way, and they seemed to understand.
In summer, the village briefly stirred to life. City grandchildren visited, filling their lungs with air sweetened by cut grass and woodsmoke. Among them was Robbie Thorntona wiry, reckless lad, equal parts feared and admired.
But beneath his troublemakers guise, Robbie had a noble heart. He broke slingshots aimed at birds, stood up for the weak. One day, he found local boys teasing Lily, mimicking her, pelting her with acorns. She stood pressed against the shed, crying softly, bewildered by their cruelty.
Robbies fury was swift. He chased them off, then knelt, wiping dirt from her cheeks. “Dont be scared,” he said. “No onell hurt you again.” From that day, he was her guardian. Because of him, the Whitmores dared let Lily play beyond the garden. Robbie gave his word, and his word was iron.
But the village was dying. First the school closed, then the bus to town dwindled to nothing. The last nail was the shuttering of the shop. Only a weekly van brought meagre supplies. Life clung on in a handful of cottages where hens still scratched and goats still bleated.
The old passed; their homes crumbled into skeletons of brick and ivy. Robbies grandmother fell ill, was taken to the city. The blacksmith, Khalid, a kind man whod once moved from Lahore, left for work elsewhere.
Only a few remained. The Whitmoresbecause they had nowhere else. They lived on Thomass pension and pennies from Eleanors famous bread. Once a week, she fired up the old oven, baking loaves so fragrant and lasting that folk came from miles to buy them.
Lily was kept from the hearth. Fire was the one thing Eleanor feared.
Then, one day, the silence shattered. Bulldozers came, roaring like prehistoric beasts. A man named Harrington had bought the empty homes. The land was beautifulpine woods, clean rivers, perfect for ruining.
Harrington himself was rarely seen, but his presence loomed in the scream of chainsaws and the crush of bricks. He cleared acres, encircling them with a fence topped by wire and cameras that hummed ominously at passersby.
When his monstrous mansion was done, the village exhaledtoo soon. Nights now blazed with fireworks, drunken shouts. Harrington loved to entertain, deafening the world with his revels. The only mercy was fresh gravel on the roadcrumbs from the masters table.
One summer morning, Thomas and Eleanor left for suppliesflour, washing powder. Lily, now eighteen, stayed behind, sternly warned not to leave the yard. “Do you hear?” Eleanor fretted. “Those men in their metal beaststhey wont see you. Theyll kill you and never notice.”
They returned at dusk to stillness. A silence so deep it froze the soul.
Lily was gone.
They rushed to the neighboursthe Wilsons. Had she visited? They shook their heads. Then Thomas, grim, led Eleanor to old John Drapers cottage. The man had always watched Lily oddlyoffering sweets, bright scarves. Dark rumours clung to him: poaching, an old crossbow.
But Draper was deep in drink, incoherent.
Their last hope was Harringtons gates. Music and laughter spilled beyond them. As they approached, a spotlight flared, cameras whirring.
No bellThomas hammered the iron. At last, a guard lumbered out, thick-necked, dull-eyed.
“What dyou want?”
“We need to speak to Mr. Harrington,” Eleanor begged. “Our daughtershes missing!”
The guard smirked. “He expecting you?”
“Listen, lad,” Thomas growled. “This is serious.”
“Whats this, then?” A voice slithered from behind the guardhigh, unplaceable.
“Some old folks,” the guard grunted.
“Our girls gone!” Eleanor clutched the bars. “Pleasehelp us!”
The guard slammed the gate. But minutes later, it reopened.
“Now, now, thats no way to treat neighbours,” the voice chided. Harrington emergedsmall, silver-haired, eyes sharp as flint. He clapped, and soft light bloomed in a cedar gazebo. “Explain.”
Eleanor sobbed out the story. Thomas stood rigid, reading boredom in Harringtons gaze.
“Youve got men, vehicles!” Eleanor collapsed at his feet. “Please! Find her!”
“Get up,” Thomas hissed.
Harrington stepped back, wrinkling his nose. “Calm yourself. Ill help.” He nodded to the guard. “Rustle up the lads. Search the woods.”
All night, quad bikes snarled through the dark. Eleanor sat on the step, whispering, “How could she leave? How?” Thomas said nothing. He knewthis was a show. They knew something.
Lily was found by Draper. A scrap of yellow ribbonjust like the tie on her cardiganfluttered by the marsh. He led Thomas there.
Her body lay in the reeds. The coroner said drowning. Bruises? Lividity. The Whitmores didnt believe it. But to fight, they needed money, influence. 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; the old woman soon recanted: “Just my eyes playing tricks.”
A year later, Eleanor took to her bed. At night, Thomas heard her whispering. At first, he thought she spoke to Lily. Then he listenedand froze.
She wasnt pleading. She was cursing. Her words were a spell, woven with ancient fury, hurled at the heavens. She demanded vengeance.
Three years passed. Robbienow Dr. Paul Thorntonreturned with Khalids son, Ahad. The village was a ghost of itself. Harringtons fence stood rusting, the mansion behind it crumbling.
Paul carried a gift for Lilya childs microscope. He remembered her wonder, peering at dragonfly wings through a magnifying glass.
The Whitmores door was unlocked. Inside, Thomas lay abed, frail as parchment.
“Thomas?” Paul leaned close. “Its Paul Thornton. Robbie.”
The old mans eyes fluttered. “Angel?”
“No. Paul. From across the way.”
“Ah Paul” A ghost of a smile. “Grown now Im alone. The Wilsons check if Ive died.”
“You need hospital care. Im a doctor”
“No. My place is here. With Eleanor and Lily.”
Paul stilled. “Theyre gone?”
“Lily was murdered,” Thomas whispered. “Eleanor died three years later. But she got her revenge oh yes”
His strength failed. Paul injected a sedative, covered him with a blanket. “Come,” he told Ahad. “Well ask the Wilsons.”
Margaret Wilson had seen them enter the Whitmores. Over tea, she spilled the tale. Harringtons nephews had confessedtheyd “played too rough.” Hed hushed it allbribes, threats, falsified reports.
“But howd the truth come out?” Ahad pressed.
“Harringtons empire crumbled. His son embroiled in scandal, business in tatters. They say he sought mediums, who told himthis was punishment. He crawled to Eleanor, begging forgiveness, offering money.”
“And she forgave?”
Margaret looked away. “Who knows? She was nearly gone by then But Harrington never made it home. They found him at dawnan arrow in his heart.”
Paul remembered Drapers crossbow. “So it was John?”
“Speculation,” Margarets husband muttered. “No proof. Some say they saw a stranger in the woods.”
“It was Vengeance,” Margaret whispered. “It found him.”
“No,” Paul said. “Money and death go hand in hand.”
Margaret shook her head. “It was Her. What Eleanor called down. Retribution.”
As they left, Margaret caught Ahads arm. “Tell your father I remember him. Will you?”
Ahad noddedthough hed forget.
Margaret watched them go, smiling into the twilight, certain that somewhere, Khalid remembered toothe life left behind that high, rusting fence.
