A Kiss to Build a Spring On

Writer's Weekly 24 hour Prompt: She was on her annual trek to the Spring Fair to obtain that one essential item. She walked quickly, ignoring the tiny purple flowers dancing in the breeze. It had been a hard winter. While she knew it was wrong, this year she'd have to try to steal it... (844 words)

She walked as fast as her aching knees would allow. Her stomach grumbled loudly in protest. Last year’s crop lacked the vigor to produce much of a harvest. It was a wonder she had any energy left to rouse herself from her long wintry slumber to make the trek to the annual Spring Fair.

               Each year, she obtained the essential ingredient at the communal celebration that was the difference between bounty and a gentle winter versus starvation and brutish storms. This year had been especially hard, the tiny purple flower heads dancing just above the small drifts that still clung to the chilled ground. The snow would have melted by now had she obtained what she needed from the right source last year.

               At the end of Winter, Cybele woke just as the crocuses were arising from their slumber as well. Upon donning a cloak woven from the lust fevered dreams of female virgins and the vigor of young men keen for adventure, she appeared as a beautiful young woman to the throng of mortals gathering at the seasonal event. There, she would spy a young man from whom she would enchant with her beauty until he gave her a kiss. The younger, the more virile and stronger he was, the more she was rejuvenated, and the more robust the crops grew and the more abundant the harvest.

      The vitality of the man reflected in how Cybele aged for the rest of the year. Just as a crocus can appear fresh upon emerging from its scaly and withered looking tunic, so did Cybele. However, last year’s kiss resulted in crops that did not ripen and fruit that had shriveled on the branch. Instead of emerging as a comely maiden, she appeared as an elderly crone, lacking what she needed most to thrive until the next yearly cycle.

      When Cybele arrived at the Spring Festival, she would have to steal a kiss from a young roborean male. His kiss would ensure that no one would starve this next year. She abhorred taking what was not given but was desperate.

      Entering the town, she saw people still covered with thick winter wool cloaks. The people would normally be in their lighter tunics, basking in the warmth of Spring. Showing off their virility, men would walk around bare chested, their togas peeled down to their waist or wearing a simple chiton, their skin aglow in the sun. Covered up, it was much harder for Cybele to target the most virile of men.

      Now looking like an old crone, Cybele no longer garnered the stares of young men, their eyes sliding over her as if she was not there. It was going to be much harder this year.

      In a stall stood the wine merchant that had caused the privation of the world this past year. An older man with thin, gray hair, back slightly bent, and impotent, resulting with the seeds in the ground unable to germinate. Last year, Cybele was talking to the wine merchant’s son, a man in his prime, of strong back and broad chest, a thick golden mane. A kiss from him would have secured a glorious season of productivity in the fields. Just as Cybele was threading her fingers through the young man’s hair, parting her lips for that necessary kiss, the old man yanked her out of her son’s arms and stole that revitalizing kiss. His thin, withered lips, and gray teeth bruised her mouth, roughly grabbing her breast.

      Looking at the assembled meandering among vendor stalls, children who should have grown inches over the past year were nearly the same size as the year before, arms thin and spindly. The thieving wine merchant was the cause of the misery plainly painted on everyone’s face.

      Walking up to the wine merchant, she cast a harsh glare at him.

      “What do you want, old crow?” he barked at her harshly.

      “For you to rest,” she said simply, her wrinkled hand caressing his coarsely whiskered cheek, which became sunken under her touch. By nightfall, the man who stole from her and everyone else would be gone.

      The man faltered. His son, who she almost kissed last year, came to aid him to a nearby stool, ignoring the women he was enthralled with the year before.

      Wandering about, it appeared that there was no worthy man willing to revitalize her with a simple kiss. Stealing it would be harder than she imagined, men easily shoving away the approaching wizened lips of a crone.

      Sitting upon a fallen log, she placed her face in her face and began to cry. Hunched over, she only noticed the boy of sixteen had sat next to her when he laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. His own shoulders were broad; muscles firm from working the land.

      “I know it was a hard year; I had lost an infant sister this Winter. Hopefully, we will be blessed this next year,” he said with optimism. Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss upon her cheek.

      “Now we will be.”