in this week's assignment for my creative writing module we were asked to 'write a short story about where we come from.' My immediate thought was that there isn't a damn thing I could write about the achingly dull village where I grew up, so thoughts turned to Colchester and perhaps waffling on about soldiers or castles or whatnot. But then an idea popped into my head, a Lughnasad tradition I started a while ago that I've done every year, always being home around that time of year. Here goes....
She wakes up in the morning with a mission. The weather is
perfect for it today, a red hot Sun rising and the sky a sea of piercing blue.
She picks out a plain green dress and slips on some sandals, then ‘pat, pat,
pat’ goes the sound of her feet as they skip over the carpet down the stairs.
She takes from the dining room table a small paper bag she’s set aside for the
occasion, then heads out the door.
It’s still fairly early in the morning but already the heat
is rising. Today would be scorching. She lopes along the side of the road at a
leisurely pace, closing her eyes to breathe in fresh, summer breeze with hints
of lilac as it wafts over from a nearby garden. Joggers already exhausted from
the heat squeeze past on the narrow pavement, followed by dog walkers and
families out for a Sunday walk. The birds don’t know what to make of a heat
wave and their songs float downwards, confused and frantic yet as sweet to her
ears as any music.
She turns a corner and heads down a quieter road, the only
noise now from the occasional passing car. Up ahead is the farm track, worn by
tractors and weekend walkers yet ever on the brink of succumbing to nature’s
grip of bursting green. She pushes through the bushes and her feet hit the
track, rock hard and cracked by an unrelenting Sun. In the winter she’d be
ankle deep in mud here. No rain for a week now. Thank goodness it’s harvest
time, she ponders, else the crops might suffer. But to her right stands a sea
of gold, tall and proud, and waving gently in a soft, warm breeze. She looks
left, then right, then goes in.
She wades through an ocean of barley, bright golden yellow
and ripe, treading carefully so as not to break any of the fragile stems as
they swish past. Beyond are the wheat fields and the orchard, stretching into
the distance in a haze of heat. Finally
she comes to the spot, a tree stump in the middle of the field, a small
clearing where the crops cannot grow. And she just sits. She listens to the
wind as it rushes through the barley, whispering news of more heat to come, no
sign of rain, and of darkness beginning to close in as the nights grow longer.
She feels a white hot Sun beating down on the crown of her head. She soaks in
the energy, the warmth and life the Sun brings.
Carefully, she takes four stems of barley, bending and
breaking them off near the root, and begins to weave a corn dolly. She becomes
absorbed in her work, bending and weaving each sheaf around a small frame of
stems. When it’s done, it isn’t perfect, or as symmetrical as she’d like it to
look. It’s just a small square with barley heads sticking wonkily out at each
corner, but when she holds it up to the sunlight it glows and radiates with
heat and light.
Out of the corner of her eye she spots a small patch of grass that had not been there last year, with some daisies sprouting out of it. She plucks three daisies and arranges them haphazardly in the middle of the dolly, poking the green, fuzzy stems between lines of gold, then sets it down on the ground.
Out of the corner of her eye she spots a small patch of grass that had not been there last year, with some daisies sprouting out of it. She plucks three daisies and arranges them haphazardly in the middle of the dolly, poking the green, fuzzy stems between lines of gold, then sets it down on the ground.
Strong gusts of wind begin to race over the tops of the
crops, bringing the strong scent of earth and ripe grains. The barley heads nod
and wave. She closes her eyes and listens, staying until the Sun has moved in
the sky and thin, wispy clouds begin to roll over from the West and take the edge
off the heat. She picks up the dolly, places it carefully in the paper bag and
removes three hairs from her head, laying them on the ground. She turns and
admires the view, gold bathed in gold, then turns, and begins to make her way
back towards the farm track.
It is done.
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