The Angel by Carla Neggers

window opening high up on the far end, above a mostly intact loft, and another window opening over the doorway—the only entrance, as far as she could see. The main wooden support beam above her looked to be holding firm, but rafters had caved in on each other, fallen leaves, branches and ivy forming their own organic roof. On the wall opposite the loft stood a largely intact chimney constructed of more gray stone.
    “The monk had never seen such a thing in all his life as the stone angel. She was so beautiful, he sat by the fire and stared at her for hours.”
    As Keira’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness inside the hut, she got out her water bottle and plastic bag of snacks—
    a couple of energy bars, nuts, an apple. She tried to imagine the reclusive monk in Patsy’s story, going with the idea that he had existed and had lived here. What would he have look liked? What would his life on this hillside have entailed? It would have been rough, no doubt, dominated by the neces
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    sities of getting food and water, staying warm, maintaining even a modest level of hygiene.
    In some ways, Keira thought, it would have been similar to her mother’s lifestyle in the woods.
    Patsy was a mesmerizing storyteller, taking Keira through every twist and turn as the brothers tried to figure out how the stone angel had come to them and what it meant. They all agreed the angel was a harbinger of good fortune. The monk brother believed Saint Ita herself had sent the angel to turn him and his brothers more deeply to lives of prayer, charity and simplicity as a means of bringing them good spiritual fortune. The farmer brother believed the angel would bring the good fortune of a bountiful harvest and productive cows and sheep.
    The ne’er-do-well brother, of course, had another idea altogether and believed the angel was meant to help him and his brothers—the entire village, in fact—turn a profit so they could open their own pub.
    All three brothers were convinced the angel had Saint Ita’s gift of prophecy.
    They were still arguing about their predictions three months later—on the night of the summer solstice—
    when fairies appeared and plucked the angel from the monk’s hearth.
    Keira smiled, remembering the glee with which Patsy had told that part of the story.
    The monk took the theft as a test of his faith and mettle and resolved to get the angel back. For the next three months, he chased the fairies through the hills, until, on the night of the autumnal equinox, the stone angel appeared again on his hearth.
    He kept its return a secret from his brothers. When the winter solstice came and went without a visit from the
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    fairies, the monk thought he’d won the contest of wills, that he was right in his interpretation of the meaning of the angel and all would be well.
    But his brothers eventually discovered his deception and accused him of lying and hypocrisy.
    They continued arguing, but without animosity—
    arguing was a way of life for them. It was what they were used to, it was what they loved about each other. A good fight offered them a way to be together. On the next summer solstice, the fairies again came for the angel.
    Then on the autumn equinox, the angel reappeared on the hearth.
    On it went, the monk arguing with his two brothers and chasing the fairies, the angel disappearing and reappear
    ing on the equinox or the solstice.
    In her elaborate telling of the story, Patsy had used just the right descriptive detail, the well-timed pause, the perfect tone to convey frustration, amusement, a sense of mischief. She’d teared up at the ending, when, one day, the angel simply disappeared from the hills for good. No one had it—not the fairies, not the brothers. Staying close to the hut’s doorway, Keira sipped her water and let the memory of Patsy’s voice quiet her mind. She could smell the mud and the pungency of the vines and decaying leaves around her in the hut, feel the dampness,