She lay in the grass one soft April morning, the dew still hanging in iridescent globes on the greenery. The rambling white farmhouse stood on the hill behind her, looming over the slope down to the river behind the house.
The river was a person to little Sorcha Monaghan. So were the trees and the butterflies and every other part of the land on which she lived. She was a little wood sprite, complete with long wavy red hair flowing down her back and brilliantly emerald eyes.
Sorcha was the daughter of one of the most respected and successful farmers in that part of the country. Her mother was a brilliant, beautiful woman who had charmed the young men of the county twenty years ago. Now Sorcha’s older sisters were the beauties of Kensington County, and her brothers were handsome young men. Sorcha was the youngest, the tiny one. The older people were mostly wrapped up in their social lives. The servants took care of Sorcha.
It was the same soft April morning when little Sorcha Monaghan sat up and decided she was going to go down to the river. Normally, she was not allowed. She only heard the crashing of it from up on the hill and called back to it, her friend. Today, though, the servants were all busy - Annie, Sorcha’s nurse, included. Mr. Monaghan was closeted in his study as usual, until ten o’clock. Mrs. Monaghan had been receiving visitors in the parlor, along with the young Misses Monaghan. Sorcha’s brothers had gone off hunting. Sorcha looked around her and made up her mind. Off she went.
Sorcha fled down the hill almost as though she had wings. She disappeared, as though by magic, into the trees at the foot of the hill.
At the kitchen window of the farmhouse a face appeared. Annie’s. Her mouth dropped open and she ran away from the window. Her screams could be heard through the farmhouse walls.
Sorcha continued to run headlong through the trees. Down to the river she went. She came to a halting stop right by the bank. The wind blew, a rushing roar through the trees like the growl of a bear. The world stopped, it seemed. Sorcha stood on the bank of the river, three feet above the water, her arms spread-eagled, her eyes closed. She leaned forward. Another gust of wind hit.
In the farmhouse Mrs. Monaghan fainted, hitting the floor with a thump like thunder. Annie panicked. The oldest Monaghan daughter, Jess, who had been a tomboy like Sorcha years ago herself, gathered up all her skirts, kicked off her shoes, and ran through the house, out the kitchen door and down the hill.
But it was too late. Jess came pelting frantically through the trees just in time to see Sorcha, at the force of the wind, tumble over the side. She was gone.
Jess stopped. It was all over. It was hopeless. She dropped her skirts and sank to the ground, sobbing into her hands, the love of a sister pouring through her tears.