The Wishing Fruit by E. E. Lucek

The season of the Wishing Fruit was upon them, the village Wise Woman said. A century had passed since the last one. She gathered the eligible daughters, and of them chose two to uphold the sacred quest. Whosoever ate of the Wishing Fruit would get their happy ending.

Britta and Dur appeared most alike, so that they were often mistaken for sisters. Perhaps this is why the Wise Woman chose the both of them, not able to tell the two apart.

Britta left immediately, only waiting for the family’s hired cook to pack a picnic, eager to secure her deserved happily ever after. Dur stayed back to arrange care for her mother and younger siblings during her time away, and managed to put by some extra flour for their bread. But eventually, she was able to set out as well.

The forest beyond the village bounds proved no challenge for Britta. She wafted through a stately, golden landscape, trees spaced well clear of each other, the ground flat and carpeted with leaves.

For Dur, however, following behind, the forest was close and dark. Undergrowth threatened to trip her every step and branches raked out to catch her clothes and hair. But eventually, she was through. One last leaf clung in her hair, and she plucked it out and put it in her pocket.

Beyond the forest, there was a swamp, though that was too crude a word for the fairytale wetlands that Britta traveled through. A land bridge, cut firm and straight, guided her feet. On either side, blue-green willows tumbled into the water and fairy lights danced over the mirror-still surface.

As soon as Dur approached, however, the bridge dissolved back into muck. Every miniature islet invariably suctioned her down into the mud. The water, which was dark and greasy, hid slimy, slippery things that slid past her skin. But eventually, she was through. This time, a vine had wrapped itself around her arm. She carefully disentangled it and took it with her.

Here, then, was the final obstacle. If the Wise Woman were right, the Wishing Fruit grew at the top of the mountain beyond the swamp. It was difficult to credit, as the mountain did not seem a land hospitable to any vegetation, much less that of the miraculous sort. Solid, reddish rock rose up and up.

A light sheen of sweat bathed Britta’s brow, and frustration gnawed in her gut. Before her, broad steps spiraled up to the summit. It appeared a long and arduous journey to the top.

As always, Dur followed after. The smooth stairs that had been carved into the mountain melted away into spikes of rock. Her climb at times became a crawl as the rock scraped her hands and little, skittering lizards ran across her clothes. But eventually, she was through. She stopped to dig out a stone that had found its way into her shoe, and placed it in her pocket instead.

The top of the mountain stretched into a broad plateau. In its center, a tall, scraggly tree stood. And at the tree’s base, Britta knelt.

Dur took a deep breath and strode forward to confirm what she knew in her heart to be true.

Yet Britta’s fingertips were not stained rosy with juice, and no secret smile played on her lips at an assured future. Britta was kneeling in defeat.

The story came out, brokenly. By the time Britta arrived, a brigand had already reached the Wishing Fruit and ate it while she watched.

“There are no happy endings left,” Britta sobbed. “And the brigand said the first part of his happy ending would be raiding all the towns in his path.”

From this vantage, Dur could see the thin trail of dust where the brigands rode.

“We must hurry back and warn the others,” Dur said, but Britta shook her head and looked at her blankly.

“There are no happy endings left.”

Dur glared down at the other girl, whose despair morphed strangely into confusion. She realized suddenly that there was a new weight at her arm, that shade had replaced sun beating down on her head.

Dur’s souvenirs had transformed. The leaf had become armor, a snug helmet to protect her. The vine had become a spear, straight and balanced. And the stone had become a shield, round and sturdy.

She took one last look at the girl she had, at times, wanted to be. Then she hefted her newfound shield and spear, and strode off towards her village.