Ava’s house was filled with all sorts of odd, dusty antiques. Broken clocks and old photos sat between yellowed books in bookshelves that went to the ceiling. A cracked snow globe rested atop the corner tables in the parlor, a porcelain doll in tattered clothes sat beside it, and on the mantle, there were two gold candlesticks. To most people, these antiques would seem worthless and decrepit, but to Ava, each piece was significant. Each antique was a unique story, a story her Grandma Adina knew by heart.
Ava loved to hear her grandma talk. Grandma Adina knew everything, and she had a deep voice, perfect for storytelling. She could tell the most extraordinary story about the most seemingly mundane object. She knew when to pause to draw Ava’s attention, or when to spit out her words with the rising tension… or when to speak slowly and mournfully, so evoking it could bring Ava to tears. Grandma lived with Ava and her mom, however, it was rare that the two got an evening alone together.
“Are you two going to be all right by yourselves?” Mom bit the edge of her ruby lips. Her delicate eyebrows creased. “It’s not too late to cancel with Mark.”
Grandma Adina placed her bony hand over Mom’s bare shoulder. “Leave, Sonia. Have your date night,” she said in her deep, expressive voice, patting Ava’s head. “Ava will be a perfect angel. Won’t you, little heart?”
Ava nodded. “Come on, Mom!” she exclaimed. “You were looking forward to tonight! You’re just nervous.”
Mom sighed. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Mom gave a thin smile. She kissed Ava’s forehead and Grandma’s cheek and opened the door. “Make sure she gets something to eat. And make sure she doesn’t stay up too late. Call me if anything happens. Anything at all.” She hovered at the doorway, a step away from the chilly winter air. “Actually, it’s really no problem if you want me to stay. Mark and I aren’t very serious yet---”
“Sonia,” Grandpa Adina snapped. She gave her a small push out the door. “Be back by one. We’re fine here.” She slammed the door in Mom’s face. Ava looked at Grandma Adina, who gave her a wicked grin. “It looks like it’s just us tonight, little heart. Why don’t you put some logs on the fire and I’ll make you some hot cocoa?”
Ava hurried to the fireplace and folded her legs under her on the textile rug. She threw two more logs on the near-dying fire. Although she was already thirteen years old and she wasn’t scared to put her hand so close to the fire, she knew she could never be too old for hot chocolate with Grandma.
Grandma Adina returned from the kitchen. Grandma was an old woman: her face sagged with age, and her thin-framed reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, but her eyes had a fox-like quickness. Ava never got away with trouble when her grandma was there.
Ava thought Grandma had very odd clothing. All of the other girls' grandmas wore pearls and atrocious sweaters and dress pants… but all of Grandma's clothes were full of color and patterns, with multiple layers of cloth draped over her shoulders like a snake on a branch. Grandma wore a red scarf over her hair tied under her chin, and a green, embroidered shawl. But Ava supposed Grandma wasn’t born in this country, she was from far away, where she told Ava the grass was more green and the flowers more perfumed.
Grandma Adina handed Ava the mug---which had delicate, pink roses painted on the porcelain surface---and sat on the floral-patterned armchair beside her. She leaned down with a groan and placed a pillow behind her to support her bad back.
The fire in the fireplace popped, startling Ava. The noisy flames warmed her face, while the cocoa warmed her hands. There were bookcases on each side of the fireplace, filled with thick, dusty books. Ava absentmindedly wondered what was in those books. As if reading her mind, Grandma Adina pulled a book from the shelf and began rifling through its yellowed pages.
“What are you reading, Grandma?” she asked. Ava tried to get a glimpse of the cover, but it was too faded. “It must be old.” Ava took a long sip of her cocoa. It was just cool enough that she didn’t burn her tongue.
Grandma Adina patted her knee. “You’re not too old to sit on my lap, are you? Come get a better look.” Ava set the mug on the coffee table and climbed onto the chair beside Grandma, who wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Ava fit her head into the crook of Grandma Adina’s neck.
Ava touched the withered page. “This isn’t English.”
Grandma Adina nodded. She chuckled. Her voice was warm and low. “That’s right. This book is written in a very old language. Few know it today.” She traced the lettering. “This was written by my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother? What book is this?”
She replied, “It’s a collection of stories her mother used to tell her, and her mother before her.” She gestured to the shelf. “My grandmother was a very prolific writer. With her words, she was able to bring to life stories that otherwise would have been lost to time. She preserved hundreds of stories, yet there are thousands more she wasn’t able to. Even I have begun to forget some of her stories.” Her face grew serious. She looked… older than Ava remembered.
“What did your grandma look like?” Ava asked, snuggling closer and resting the side of her face against the woman’s aged but soft skin. She waved away the thought of what her friends would think of her right now, and she closed her eyes to savor the moment. Grandma Adina kissed her cheek, then pulled an envelope from between two books on the shelf beside the fire. She opened it, revealing an old photo of a young woman.
“Her name was Camelia Lecaer. You look quite like her, little heart.”
Ava held the picture and peered at the strange woman. She wore a collage of patterns and embroidered clothing. A scarf was wrapped around her neck, and her hair was wrapped in a headscarf—similar to the kind Grandma wore. She also wore a unique coat. Trimmed with fur, it was embroidered with hundreds of flowers that burst from their stems like light from stars, colored scarlet, fuchsia, tangerine, dandelion; they were flowers Ava had never seen before, with thin, trumpet-like mouths, with wide petals that stretched apart. The details of the flowing petals were a gradient of warmth, so detailed, so real Ava could almost feel the fabric between her fingers.
Ava asked her grandma, “What sort of coat is this? I’ve never seen anything like it,” and she handed back the photo. Grandma Adina put the photo back in the crusty envelope and hid it back between the books.
There was an odd expression on her face---like she knew something Ava did not. Whether it was a good something or bad something, she didn’t know yet. Grandma closed the book on her lap, causing a cloud of dust to float into the air. When Ava had stopped coughing and swiping at the dust, Grandma Adina had already set the book aside and focused her attention on her granddaughter. Her brown eyes were staring at Ava’s, twinkling like the stars. Her face was lit as bright as the moon.
Ava knew that face. It was a good something: Grandma Adina knew a story, and she wanted to tell it. Ava leaned off the chair to snatch her hot cocoa from the corner table, then she settled back in for what she knew was coming---those magical words.
“Did I ever tell you the story… of Death and the Man in the Starry Coat?” Grandma Adina’s voice was as rich as honey. It was like a musical instrument, soothing to Ava’s ears. “It’s right here,” she stroked the spine of one of the books on the shelf, “but my grandmother told me the story so often I know it by heart.”
Ava shook her head. “Tell me the story, Grandma.” The small smile on her face couldn’t well express the excitement she felt inside.
Grandma Adina grinned. “Okay, little heart. Are you all settled? This will be a long one.” Grandma Adina recited the first phrase of the story, the phrase all of her stories began with, “Long, long ago, back when giants walked the Earth…”
About the Author: Elizabeth E. Sloan
Before I wrote, I drew. Ever since I could hold a pencil I was drawing, drawing people, cats, dogs, my family, original characters. In late elementary school, I started writing stories about the original characters I drew. I brought all of my ideas together in one universe, one story---a book I wrote in my bed every night before I went to sleep. I have strong, wonderful memories of writing that book, even if in retrospect the finished product wasn't exactly... quality. I finished that book when I was twelve. Writing that book gave me the realization I loved writing, it fulfilled me, and I wanted to write books for the rest of my life. I came up with the idea for this novel in middle school. After a good handful of other (finished and unfinished) books, I decided to revisit this story idea. Since I started writing it a couple of years ago, it's changed and developed into something new compared to the original idea. I've grown to love this book as much as I loved that first book I wrote with a spiral notebook, a whittled-down pencil, and a child's imagination. I want to change people's minds with my writing. I want to make people cry (like the books I sobbed to 4AM growing up). I want to touch people's hearts.
To learn more about this novel check out Elizabeth E. Sloan on Instagram @bethsloan9613 and @elizabeth_e_sloan