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1.
‘There’s another—not a sister.’
Gilbert Blythe had not any intention of proclaiming that specific line with such tenderness that was solely reserved to the girl that challenged the brilliance of the sun. Even as the days grew shorter, and the nights longer, bearing the drought of light and warmth, there she sat, with her eyes fixed with his, and he could not help but feel his knees grow weak. It was a miracle that he had managed to finish his piece—a piece he could not help but feel manipulated into delivering.
“It’s my birthday, Gilbert Blythe,” Diana Barry demanded requested, with a sweetened tone that he could not help, but feel overthrown because they were friends, and frankly, he did not wish to once again bring the wrath of Anne Shirley-Cuthbert by disheartening the wishes of her dearest bosom friend, so he pulled his books aside, and began memorizing the “Bingen on the Rhine.”
But as the series of applaud began echoing across the room, his gaze was still fixed with the splendor dressed in the coat of soft, green dills, and embellished with the blossoms of dewdrops pearls—her eyes, sparkling the delights of a thousand beams, and her smile, allowing him to transcend into his sweetest dreams. Locking his eyes with hers in a room crowded with familiar faces was a different matter from where she began to draw herself closer. The closeness of distance brought about a shortness of breath and an ache in his very heart, as if he was the hero reborn, with his heroine before him, lit yellow sunlight shine on the vine-clad hills of Bingen on the Rhine.
“Gilbert,” she breathed, initiating a recollection three years back, where two people unsure of their standing in each other’s lives, share an exchange of relief as the meeting of acquaintances brought reprieve amidst the ever-growing perils of life. “You were magnificent! You delivered the poem with such ache—as if you were the very hero in the poem!”
“Not to mention the pining,” Diana Barry quietly added, with unmistakable mischief painted over her saccharine smile, instigating another unsolicited reaction to Gilbert Blythe. When asked by the very cause of such responses why he appeared beaten and red, he reasoned that the fear standing before a large audience had finally dawned upon him, so he excused himself to take refuge out in the biting cold. Diana Barry had unfortunately found him shortly after, and offered him a cup of hot apple cider—another teasing, he knew, but he welcomed the warm drink even so.
“I understand that you still haven’t asked her about the letter,”
“I understand that Anne doesn’t know that her dearest bosom friend is such a capable conspirator,”
“Tease all you like,” the girl returned, affecting another recollection that made Gilbert uncomfortable, for what are the chances that Diana Barry would repeat the same lines Bash did? He was beginning to wonder if they started a club of some sort. Ridiculous, of course, but how could one ever tell? “But do come in from the cold, Gilbert, or you’ll catch your death.” He took his time before he returned to the party because he did not take pleasure of sating Diana Barry’s schemes, but found himself incredibly powerless to the girl’s ploys as she included the very person Gilbert would not be able to avoid—not that he wanted to anyhow.
“How about sharing a dance with Gilbert, Anne? I believe he has something to say to you, and I daresay require some fortification, so if you’ll excuse me.” Diana Barry left the two standing equally lost and—probably not as equally—bemused by such an obvious tactic. This is Anne, Gilbert comforted himself, although the whole of Avonlea already knows, here she is, still—
“Unaware of what, Slate Face?” The very endearment came from the conniving Diana Barry, so of course, Gilbert hated it, but when Anne said it the first time, he noticed how at peace she was since their disastrous first meeting. He felt as if they were embarking on a new beginning, so despite the apparent insult carefully tailored by their sweet, sweet friend, he found himself liking it as time went on. What shook him to the core, though, was that he was speaking his thoughts aloud like a complete dolt!
“I—I was just unaware that the brilliant Anne Shirley-Cuthbert could have cold feet,”
“I find it hesitant to dance with toad,” Anne returned with equal humor, lightening the mood between them. It was funny how an accidental declaration of unmitigated adoration had been shaped into the very diversion that kept the air between them from igniting a series of concealed passions that Gilbert was still unprepared to confront. He knew, of course, of his prevailing—affections for the girl, but this felt safer. An exchange of innocent coquetry that knew its place—that never overstepped the bounds, was his only way of keeping his loud—incredibly loud adorations for the girl to be muted in its own, peculiar sense.
He found himself laughing at the very luster that this girl emit—the girl so full of charm, of humor, of beauty and of life altogether. He wondered how long until he could contain no longer, nevertheless, with a familiar audacity, he stretched his hand for her to take, and uttered, “Maybe you can break the curse, Carrots.”
“I make no promises.” Her grandeur reflecting every gleam that appeared like a cluster in the dim décor of the closed apartment. Still, she took his hand, and allowed him to lead her to the front where a group of youthful vigor appeared hushed, for he had only eyes on the very being that reflected the radiance of the sun.
“I would expect none,” he returned, and tried to draw his hand to her waist, before he remembered himself—such that one would remember not to linger too long under the sun, and settled it on her back instead, trying not to think of the warmth of her body at the press of his skin.
2.
“Stop!” Gilbert Blythe started, his voice weak, but was nevertheless disturbed by Anne’s casual suggestion of touching the very features of her beautiful face so as to help inspire his attempted outline.
“I apologize if I was being too forward, Gil, but you don’t have to look so—so mortified with the idea of my touch,” Anne returned, withdrawing her hand and, looking undeniable hurt at his recoil.
“It’s not like that! It’s just—it’s unfitting!”
“Unfitting? How on earth so?” when Gilbert offered no response, Anne continued, with possible tears forming in her eyes, that made Gilbert pray for his demise, “I was only trying to help you with your artistic prowess, Gilbert. You could have easily said that you’re not comfortable with the idea, and I would have understood, but seeing as you are too—I can’t even speak of it! Best forget I’ve said anything then.” Anne began collecting her books from his nightstand. She was reading to him a short while ago, a thoughtful gesture from a friend who came to visit him at the hour when his body grew weak of a cold. She stopped, however, possibly remembering Mary’s request to tend to Gilbert for a while since both the members of his loving household just magically had errands to run even before Anne had a moment to knock on the door.
She was quiet for a while, before she broke the silence, and asked if he would like a cup of tea. He nodded, careful and coy, fearful that any more exchanges would result in the breaking of the new beginning, and watched as she left the room without another word spoken. He knew she was only trying to help—he wanted to draw her at such an untimely hour, and found himself frustrated at the thought that even with her physical attendance, he had failed to capture the inner trimmings of her soul down to a piece of parchment, so she suggested an invented method she would practice whenever she too felt frustrated that she could not arrest the secret qualities of an object or a feeling.
“I call it ‘tangere’,” she started, “a bit perfunctory, if I may say so myself, but Latin is one of the romance languages, and I think it fits the practice perfectly. The air of delicacy appears to reflect the simplicity of the title, and I learned, not long ago, that there’s more to a feeling than its name, much like a certain—intimate exchange. So, if I may?” Without much thought, Gilbert nodded to Anne’s eccentricities, and found himself unable to breathe at the occurrence that she was brushing the cold—but welcoming sensation of her hand on his flushed cheek, and that was when he began to panic.
“I’m sorry,” Gilbert began after she returned with another set of freshly-brewed tea, “The idea surprised me, but it was wrong of me to assume the—virtue of the situation,”
“Very wrong, indeed. We’re friends, Gil, seeing you act like that was—,”
“I’m sorry, Anne,”
“Tell me true, Gil. Are you—” Anne faltered, and it bore Gilbert more guilt that he had caused her to feel this way, “Do you find me filth—, no, uh, repulsive?” Gilbert had to pause for a minute to process how much hurt he had unknowingly effected upon her. This particular response of recoil from him had caused a thousand more anxieties to the girl who could command the tides of the sea from her very air alone. It ached his heart because despite his continuous attempt to add more footing to the pedestal he had built on his ideals of this girl—she was still just a girl. A girl still in need of validation from other people, be it those she cared about or not. A girl still desperate and scarred from her years of isolation. A girl still longing for the touch of warmth. Thus, he stretched out his arms, subtly asking for the consent of her touch. When he felt her acceptance with the weight of her embrace, he tightened his grasp on her back, breathing out tales of apology and comfort to reset the pace that he had managed to deface. Until, of course, he began to sneeze, ruining the moment, indeed.
“You know,” she started again, offering a clean cloth to help ease his discomfort, “If you have listened to Diana, this wouldn't have happened. You should have returned to the party as soon as the first chill began to rise. What were you doing brooding about the cold anyway? And what did she mean when she told me you have something to say? It couldn’t possibly be your not-so-clever banter, that’s for sure and certain—,”
“—Mercy, Queen Anne—,”
“—I was thinking of joining you, of course, but Diana’s cousins had questions about the poems I recited. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes’. Isn’t that bewitching, Gil? I long for the time when a person can manage to enthrall me to write such beautiful verses,”
“Such a time that will be, indeed,” Gilbert could only add, for he may not be a writer, but he knew from the moment she had hit him with her slate that he was hers—in whatever way she would allow—forever.
“You’ve grown quiet. Are you tired, Gil? Would you like me to read you to sleep?” Before she could list the cradlesongs she could recall off the top of her head, he reached for her hand, and pressed it in quiet grace. She found his intentions clear as she guides his hands to her reddened cheeks, presenting a soothing smile with the streams of the afternoon beam forming a crown of golden gleams. He found his voice caught on his throat, but he prevailed with a weak request for her to continue delivering Lord Byron’s poem. With sheer delight, she complied, and he fell asleep with her melodious voice singing verses of enchanting reprives.
(He felt another familiar stroke, gently scrubbing his face, and when he opened his eyes, he found Mary’s warm smile, softly whispering that Anne has gone home, for one more hour, and Marilla would have come stomping on tow.
“Did you ask her about your love letter yet?” she asked, just as gentle, but with a playful tone that only made Gilbert groan. A similar, yet much louder inquiry from his dearest, adoptive brother, had rung the comforting silence of their home, making Gilbert lock his face into his pillow as the teasing titters of Bash and Mary replaced the remaining lyrical lilts of the girl whose smiles win, and heart glows.)
3.
He might have known he would happen to stumble upon Anne Shirley-Cuthbert at the front of the P. Herald's Pub a few blocks away from the pawnbroker’s shop where a breath of silent elation and comfort were exchange by two lost souls. Of course, he found himself not as lost as he had despaired, for he now had a new-found family, a calling he was determined to answer, and the girl who had a gift of decreeing the very movement of the tempest as his friend.
Grateful he was to the making of a new beginning, he found dubious feelings growing more and more—insistent to dictate another foundation to this blooming state of overly-optimistic fantasy. So, when he was invited by Josephine Barry herself to a night of reprieve from the damp and the cold, he politely refused her invitation, for Mary required a capable aid to help her expecting condition. However, the two connivers just coincidentally required the much more capable aid of Dr. Ward on the day of Josephine Barry's winter soiree. Nevertheless, Gilbert offered no further complaints because Mary was their principal priority. However, after the couple had asked him to buy some things at the general store just beside that establishment, he knew it was not as spontaneous—and clever as they would have thought.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were to stay in Avonlea to help darling Mary,” Anne probed, curious—and looking positively hurt as to why Gilbert would lie about his situation.
“I was! We—they're at an appointment with Dr. Ward. I was just running a few errands, but I believe we’ll return in a short while,”
“Is Mary your friend who is with child, dear Anne?” the older woman inquired, with a dominating air that made Gilbert’s skin crawl. The girl affirmed the older woman’s testimony, and returned to Gilbert, “I believe the trains have stopped running because of an incoming storm. Goodness knows where you can find shelter. Please, allow me to provide you and your companions a refuge for the night, and need I say I won’t hear another dismissal.”
Thus, here he sat under the foot of a large canvas illustrating a particular ritual of some kind, trying not to gain too much attention, but failing miserably since Bash appeared to be too enthused to engage with as many people that would catch his notice.
“Smile, Blythe-y! Wallowing there like a lost pup would definitely not sweep Anne’s feet, if you ask me,” Bash offered, and handed the boy a cup of festive punch after he exchanged pleasantries with a woman crowned with a golden headdress underneath a braided wig.
“I didn’t ask, thanks very much,” Gilbert said impatiently, then turned to Mary because he truly was worried for her condition—and judgment, “Why did you agree to be an accomplice of this ridiculous scheme, really?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, truly,” Mary smiled sweetly—too sweet, in Gilbert’s opinion, but the arrival of Anne, of course, had changed Gilbert’s course. Before him stood the girl dressed in a silver-tinted gown, where streaks of candlelit beams trail scintillescent astral spheres, making Anne illuminate an impossible stellar fancy.
“Gil,” she started, completely unaware of the poor, gawking boy—left for day, bearing the very figure of a lonely actor at a dreamy play, “Someone wishes you to recite a poem—Lord Tennyson’s, if you will. They told me that they were moved to tears by your recitation of “Bingen on the Rhine”. They were with Aunt Jo for Diana’s birthday, see? Isn’t that lovely?”
Like so, here he was—yet again confounded by the succession of events. He stood before a large crowd of the most diverse and ostentatious group of people he had ever laid upon, while holding a poetry collection of Lord Alfred Tennyson. A snow fairy, molded with the fiery features of her red, inflamed hair; and a thousand, crimsoned specks, while dressed in—God help him—a bridal, white gown, had her stare locked with his. And thus, he began to recite the besotted lines of the “Marriage Morning.” When he reached the lines:
‘Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning start.’
He found his eyes still locked with the girl afire.
“Although I am fascinated to dwell into the gravity of unrequited love—,”
“—Hello, Cole—,”
“I can’t say I envy the torment,” Cole finished, as he joined Gilbert back to the secluded area where the same ceremonious painting hung above their heads. “I see you haven’t—”
“—Asked her about the letter. Yes, I haven’t. Why is everyone so keen to see me make a complete fool of myself? That was—,”
“Gilbert,” Cole interrupted, with a rather cautionary tone, “If you dare say that was a mistake, or the same kind, I’ll throw you out into the cold myself,”
“No!” Gilbert began, with his voice faltering, his palms sweating, and his head throbbing, for no. He had, not once, thought of it as a mistake. An idiotic gesture, yes. A complete foolery, indeed, but never a mistake. He just could not comprehend how utterly pissed he and Bash were to actually deliver an actual love letter to Anne Shirley-Cuthbert during his time away to discover the world. And to think that months had passed since his return—to the point that he began to have a blossoming friendship with her, and still no words were spoken because he was nothing but a complete and utter coward. He was so much different from the person he was before—once so full of confidence and audacity and charm, he wondered what had happened that forced him to cower behind—to be too terrified of every risk. He traveled the world! Yet, all promises—and dreams left in brisk. His father would be disappointed, that’s for sure and certain. “I—I never found myself regretting such—action. Even after Billy announced it to the whole class—heaven only knows how he managed to get a hold of it—I still found no pang of guilt, but—,”
“You’re afraid,”
“Terrified.”
“I understand, Gilbert, really, I do, but I fear I’m not right person you should be explaining yourself to,” the other boy concluded, leaving Gilbert Blythe to contend with his three-year-long apprehensions that caused to steal his heart away complete.
4.
Gilbert Blythe found it absurd and especially inappropriate to find himself standing before the door of the room he believed was inhabited by the one and only Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. He was certain, of course, for Diana had carelessly exclaimed that theirs was the last room of the first-floor corridor of the right hand side of the manse as the girls began to depart to their room after the crowd had died, and weary lullabies hummed about the hall. He found it unnerving to see himself fulfilling the ploys of Diana, Bash, Mary, and Cole, and he was very much certain that Miss Josephine Barry was a primary patron of this incredibly ridiculous exploit. But, nevertheless, here he stood before the door, waiting for a wave of nerve to come set the call.
Although his reason to go to the lavatory was perfectly credible in his opinion, Cole still bade a knowing “Good luck,” making Gilbert's face red and flushed. He did not know what he expected as he finally lifted his hand from the side, and slowly advanced to knock on the door, but it was certainly not the figure of Anne, still dressed in white, with starlit pearls perched on the trimmings—thus, emanating a series of golden ringings. He too was still in his borrowed garments, but the continual image of Anne looking like a girl betrothed, made his blood run swift, and his heart beat a throb.
“Oh, Gil,” she breathed, weary but expectant, and reached for his hand to lead him out into the corridor, “I had the most peculiar dream.” And Gilbert, too entranced to speak of words, carried his weight as she led them back to the scene of the crime—just for the night, of course, seeing as P. Herald's Pub appeared to be the primary locale for auspicious trysts—or possibly the schoolhouse, or maybe it was the pawnbroker’s shop—or Avonlea altogether—no, the whole of Prince Edward Island it would appear! Even so, she led them to the curious picture that had caught his interest a few hours before, mostly because it was withdrawn from the joyous clamor, a secret point almost, and here was where Anne posed her thoughts.
“It was a story of two lovers—a boy and a girl,” she began, causing Gilbert to grow still before he could even found his seat, “A pair of lovers, entwined by fate as the hours of their wrists stop at the particular moment they meet their soulmate. Strangely enough, the first thing I’ve thought the second my eyes open was of your drunken ramblings that narrated the lines, “journey’s end in lovers’ meeting.”
“Anne,” Gilbert could only mouth, for he bore the weight of shame, and defeat, and especially fear, feeling the heavy ache of his indisposition to confront the affections he had long held dear. A touch—her touch, of course, gladdened his heart, as it began to relieve a runaway tear.
“You forget, Gil that the journey doesn’t end. Love transcends, but you must remember to live as well,”
“Love? And live?” he asked curiously.
“They come in pair, you see. From my dream, it was the girl who was afraid to accept her fate. After watching cheerless pairs matched by the order of the heavens continually thunder curses of hate to one another, she will not accept such perfunctory take because love, be it to kin, a lover, or a friend—should be rewarded to those who merit its grace,”
“I—I didn’t mean to make you feel unworthy,”
“Of course not, Gil. You were just scared, but a wise person told me that you should never shy away from true love. Especially a love that burns through the coldest and most loathed regions of your being, for to love is to live, making the journey go forth,” she finished with her touch tracing the outlines of his face, “And isn't that the most wonderful sort?”
"Anne," he could only muster, for hearing her echo the words from his stripped confession made the warmth stretch out to every corner of his apprehensions.
“A prince needs saving too,” she said after a while, as she, yet again, brushed away the tears forming in his cheeks while he found himself unable to stifle an adorned chuckle stirred by the impossible volatility of Anne's streams of reveries.
“Didn't the frog’s spell only broke after the princess threw it against the wall. In disgust, if I may add,”
“I daresay recall already hitting you with a slate,” Anne returned simply, joining Gilbert's laughter with her movement drawing the very fires of the still-lit candles that illumine the celestial bodies embellished in the draperies of efflorescent collage.
“Why here though?” he could not help asking, for although he most certainly would like his heroine to break whatever curse that continued to hinder him from taking a step into a different, new beginning, fear lingered still.
“For luck,” Anne supplied, drawing closer and closer, and Gilbert most certainly felt his body shiver, “Mistletoe was a significant part of the ancient Celtic religion. The druids cutting the mistletoe on the sixth day of the moon, as it is entitled—of which I’m surprised you have overlooked—presents the Yule-time All-Heal ritual.”
“Mistletoes are considered parasitic to trees,” he had managed to utter before she took his hand, and entwined it with hers, silently giggling at the defeated, love-struck sigh that escaped Gilbert’s lips.
“That may be so, but the ancient Celts believed them to be a midway between heaven and earth—a gateway to another world. Thus, to bless a family from all the evils, a spray is given to strengthen the spells and the prayers. Protecting its inhabitants and inducing the sweetest of dreams,”
“And the kiss?”
“The kiss is a promise of peace,” she finished, less than a breath away. Gilbert felt her trail a fingertip caress, right on the throbbing of his chest, and eye her respire in relief—certain she looking for the similar beat. But, of course, as the dawn of love continued to bloom, they both knew the hour was not in tune. Nevertheless, both pressed a long kiss, first hers, then his, to each other’s hands, and breathed in a final cease with their noses a few breaths apart, lips unmet, but the promise of tomorrow hanging in the air.