When I was seven, I had seven grandmothers. Two slept in the closet to keep greedy sprites from stealing my dresses. Two slept beneath my bed to keep laziness away. Two were kept, one in each of my shoes, so that I would walk with purpose. The last grandmother stayed beneath my pillow to ensure that I dreamed of success. When sleep took me, I dreamed of stitches and patterns, lace, and needles. A child lucky enough to be blessed with seven grandmothers must show her appreciation by working hard and repaying their kindness.

On the seventh night after my seventh birthday, my grandmother was not underneath my pillow when bedtime came. From beneath the bed, my grandmothers whispered goodnight, told me no bed bugs would bite. There was much to be done in the morning so I knew that I must sleep; a young seamstress of such talent is much in demand. I rubbed the lamb oil into my blistering fingertips. I said goodnight to the Moon and the room, the grandmothers in my shoes, and the ones in the closet. I laid my head to rest but rest did not find me.

Outside, the ancient branches of the live oak, festooned with moss and lichen, scraped against my window.

The night is its’ own animal.

Afraid and unused to sleeping without Pillow grandmother, I asked the grandmothers beneath the bed to please join me. When they did not answer, I knew something was afoot. Idle grandmothers can whisper lullabies; grandmothers battling spirits cannot say a word. I pulled the sheets, blankets and duvet over my head and burrowed down.

An unfamiliar wind, harsh for that time of year, rattled the windows and doors of the cottage. It blew down the fireplace, scattering last month’s ashes. I heard my shoes pattering about and peeked from underneath the covers to watch as my grandmothers stomped out errant sparks at the hearth. The wind fanned a flame, and my poor little left shoe was singed. It lay upon its’ side next to the fire poker as my right shoe nudged it frantically.

The wind picked up my sewing basket, unspooling yards, and yards of golden thread, spilling little seed pearls and scattering silver beads. It chased the beads into the seams between the wide planks of the floor. It drove the pearls into mouse holes and nooks. It carried the golden strands and threaded them through the window stiles. I watched as the threads swirled through the breeze outside. Undulating and cresting, ultimately the golden thread wove into a spectacular being, luminous and delicate. I sat up in bed to get a closer look as it moved toward the window, seemingly beckoning me.

The door to my closet was thrown open and my work dresses flew to the window. One furiously battered itself against the panes while the other came to me. Gently, gently the corduroy sleeves pushed me back into the pillows. One sleeve caressed my forehead as the other pulled the covers up, up, up trying to shield my eyes. I could hear my right shoe excitedly hopping about the hearth. Then the radiant light from outside seemed to dim. My corduroy dress lay beside me, its’ twin still affixed to the window. Not a whisper from the grandmothers beneath the bed but my right shoe had hobbled from the hearth and now lay on its side next to my dresser, spent and scorched. The deep quiet of the room was all the more eerie given the excitement of just moments ago.

Then with all the force of a hurricane, an electric charge rushed down the chimney. The seed pearls and silver beads, the golden thread embroidered their way to me lifting the bed from the floor. The windows burst from their frames and the magical cloth carried me upon my little twin bed, like royalty on a litter, out into the night.

The moon was full and radiated a golden sheen throughout the sky. The stars lowered a little more toward the ground and seemed to knit themselves together. I felt a veil of stardust settle over me. I glanced back toward the dark cottage and saw it collapse upon itself. The earth swallowed the ruins.

My little bed was lowered to the mossy earth. The enchanted breeze unraveled itself from my sewing supplies. With a kiss bestowed upon my brow, a small wind whispered: Celené, your mother watches over you from the world away. One day, you will return to her sky, with your sisters, the stars.

Seven years passed, happily, as a child with no duties to be filled. Seven more years and though I am still a seamstress, I no longer sew with silver and gold; I gave those back to the evening and night. The little pearls I cast into the sea. I watched as they skipped and ran along the foamy waves. I live in a new little cottage that rose up around me that night of my liberation. The windows are half-moons and tiny clusters of stars light the ceiling in the night. I no longer have seven grandmothers, who were never grandmothers in truth. The sparrows and the butterflies, the hedgehogs, and the chipmunks, have told me all about the seven witches who flew to the blood moon and stole her firstborn. When I spin and sew now, my garments and creations are for me and the foundlings villagers leave upon my doorstep. One day, if my beloved charges wish to learn my skills, I will teach them patterns of constellations, rainbows, stars, and of course, my mother, the moon.