Juniper’s Gift

It was an ordinary day in the ordinary village of Lyria, Massachusetts. The town was bright with fall colors of goldenrod and maroon, peppered with hearty browns and the occasional stray phthalo green. Leaves blew in brisk, miniature tornadoes across cobblestone streets, kicking up the oddly pleasant smell of decay that came with the changing seasons.

Crunching through the leaves and sticks were children on their way home from school, all eager to romp and play under a cloud dusted, cerulean sky. Thoughts of math and literature were quickly traded for fantasy as groups of varying ages gathered at the park in the heart of Lyria, but not every child flocked to the vibrant equipment.

One small girl took a different path than her peers. Walking along in a quilted frock was seven year old Juniper Darling, her laced boots clicking along the road while she looped through side streets. Her hair, dark and tightly coiled, was tied up in two buns on either side of her head, and a velvet, viridian headband tucked stray curls away from her forehead. She was as her name stated, a darling child. Bold eyes, shining smile, though more often she could be found with a downcast expression, and even more frequently, buried in a book.

True to her nature, she carried a notebook in her arms as she wound her way out of the town towards her favored playland, the pine forest for which she was named. The book in her arms was unassuming at first glance. Small, with a black leather cover, it seemed to be a journal, though if opened, it appeared blank. To anyone but Juniper, that was.

She had discovered the book a week earlier, or more aptly put, the book had discovered her. In the forest she had long ago created a tent structure made of fallen branches and a tarp borrowed from her parents. The little nook was where she spent most of her free time. It was her haven, peaceful, cozy with the addition of a time worn quilt and overstuffed throw pillow. The previous Tuesday, Juniper had arrived to find the notebook sitting innocently on her things, as if in wait for her. Without question, she took it in as hers.

In the days with the book in her possession, it revealed to her its contents. Every afternoon, synched to her departure from school, the fifty some pages came to life with a fresh story. Each was a perfect work of lore and illustration, allowing Juniper to spend her afternoons tucked away, alive in the words.

As soon as Juniper hit the tree line, she eagerly opened the cover, but to her disappointment, the pages were blank. She flipped through them as she walked, hoping that she had missed something and any amount of artistry would be discovered. Giving up halfway to her hideaway, she journeyed the rest of the way with a pout set on her lip.

Once at the fort, Juniper plopped down into the comforting blanket and set the book in her lap. She stared at it for a long minute, but eventually closed her eyes. Her hands laid on the cover, right thumb stroking the bound pages as she wished for another story to appear.

The seven year old held still like that for several minutes, silent and hoping, until she finally opened her eyes and once more flipped the cover over.

When the notebook fell open, Juniper let out a small gasp at what she saw. The crisp pages were still blank, but tucked against the spine was a pencil carved from a tender, young branch. The tip gleamed with gold, and as the child picked up the writing implement, a voice rustled through the wind.

“It’s your turn now. Create and you will receive.”

Juniper was overwhelmed with the urge to create, and the small girl easily fell into a quick, story telling pace. Her pencil glided over the pages, writing in shimmering gold, Juniper weaving a story about an elderly woman falling backwards through time.

She wrote for over an hour, unaware of anything but the notebook and the tale she detailed. When she finally came to the end of the story, she carefully signed her name at the bottom of the page and lifted her pencil away. As the motion was completed, the pages visible rustled despite not a single gust of wind. The golden marks grew brighter by the second, nearly glowing at their height before all together fading into simple graphite. What was left over, though, was a single gold leaf resting just below Juniper’s signature.

Bewildered at the magic before her, Juniper picked up the delicate leaf and tucked it into her pocket, still in a state of milk shock over everything that had happened.

Knowing that it was time to venture home, she collected her notebook, the still metallic tipped pencil, and her school bag, packing her belongings carefully away to leave for the night.

That afternoon of fantasy wasn’t the only to come. Each day over the following month, little Juniper disappeared into the forest to spend her after school hours writing, and subsequently receiving a leaf after signing her story to completion. The wind whispered to her on different occasions, words of encouragement and praise before she was given her leaf. Each treasure was made of gold, a bit heavier than natural foliage, but shaped as uniquely as if it were from a living tree. After the fourth gift, she’d brought a tie bag from home to collect the leaves in, knowing they were safer tucked away in her fort than stuffed under her bedroom pillow.

Juniper Darling managed to keep her gifts a secret until the first snowfall of the year. That day marked thirty five stories, thirty five leaves, and thirty five days of sheer wonder about to be interrupted.

The snow came while school was in session, and many of the children were ill equipped for the weather, Juniper being one of them. Without gear for the cold, she ventured home instead of to her forest fort. When she arrived, she planned to make a beeline for her bedroom, but her father, a gentle, round man was waiting inside.

“My little chickadee, come here, would you?” Came the calming voice of Harold Darling. He smiled at his daughter and waved her towards a seat at their simple dining table.

“Yes, Papa.” She nodded, shucking off her boots and coat, and sliding into a seat across from him. She opened her mouth to ask what he needed, but before she could get a word out, Harold placed a bag on the table. Her bag of leaves, to be exact.

“I’m not upset, Junie. But where in the world did you get this? I went to pack up your fort today and found it. This..these.. they’re easily worth twenty thousand dollars.” He looked and sounded baffled, weighing the bag in his hands before sliding it over to his daughter.

Juniper faltered, stuttering wordlessly for a moment as she reached out to touch the bag.

“They’re presents, Papa. From my little notebook. From the trees!” She explained, moving from her seat to open her book bag. She pulled out the leather bound book and showed him, a meek, shy smile starting to cross her face.

“Every time I write a story, it turns into one of these,” she patted the bag softly. “The wind, it says I can grow up to write even more. And that the leaves will help me.”

Juniper looked at her father with excitement and hope in her bright eyes. She smiled and pushed the bag back towards him, her expression asking for permission.

Harold rubbed the back of his neck, looking between the gold filled bag and his daughter. As a child, he’d heard stories of the magic filled wood, but never encountered it for himself. He had always believed, to some extent, that there was more to the world than he could imagine, but now that thought seemed to be a fact.

“Alright, chickadee. The trees, the forest..they want you to write. So be it.” The corners of his lips turned up and he passed the bag to her once more.

“You’ve always been a fantastical girl. I suppose something out there wants to give you a push.” He chuckled.

“Thank you, Papa!” Juniper grinned, running over from her seat and throwing her arms around his middle in a gracious hug.

The pair held each other close, both beaming with affection and delight. After all, it isn’t every day that your child wins favor from the ether. Twenty thousand certainly goes a long way in encouraging a young author, and Harold Darling did just that.

All but one of the gold leaves were taken into their local financial institution and placed in a trust for Juniper to grow into. The single leaf that had been left out happened to be her first, and it was crafted into a necklace that the proud writer wore each day as a reminder of the fortune the trees had bestowed upon her. The little black notebook was soon filled to the final page, and while no more gifts came, Juniper cherished the notebook that started a lifelong love of writing.