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This work in progress is set in Celtic Cornwall. |
| <HTML> <BODY> I huddle closer to the warmth of the fire as a draft blows through the small stone house. A spark jumps up from the burning wood and I watch as it lands on the threadbare rag rug. I can see the small brown-rimmed holes where it has been singed by other such sparks. I stare deep into the fire and watch its flames sway and touch one another in brief greeting. The fast-moving forks of light lull my pained mind and the cloud that rests always on my mind lifts. For a while, perhaps and hour, my life will be calm and I will be able to pretend that I am alright. A sickly wail wakes me. I start from where I have drifted to sleep by the fire. I rub my face to coax sleep from my heavy lids, and my hand comes back covered in soot. The beginnings of a sob start in my throat, but I push it back. Crying feels so strange. I have not cried in at least a year. After the first few months in this house, the pain was dulled by shock. I push myself up from my knees and stumble to the bundle of furs in one corner of the one-room house. I lift it in my arms- my child. I tenderly push back the furs to reveal a tiny, yellowed face. Like always, her features are twisted into a scream of misery. She is hungry, but I have nothing to offer; none of us has any food. I try once again to pacify her feeble wails with my smallest finger, but once again, it fails. I pull her fragile body close to mine and rock softly, as much for my own comfort as hers. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> <><><> Hours later, and the thin beam of cold light has disappeared from around the door. I cut what is left of the rancid meat from the carcass that hangs on a hook from the rafters. The cast-iron pot above my fire has begun to bubble with greed, and I drop the last little bit of pork into its waiting mouth. I put in a pinch of the brown herbs that I keep in my soiled belt. That too will be gone soon. I can find nothing more to do, so I sit by the fire again. I stare at my friend, the fire, and watch a flame dance together with its friends in the blaze. They seem to wave to me, calling me to come and join their dance. I reach out my hand to stroke them and let them bathe my hand in warmth. They dance and flicker over my hand, both strange and familiar to my gaze. I slowly pull my hand back only when I feel the sharp bite of the blue flame near the heart of my fire pit. I look at my hand absently, unable to focus my thoughts on the scars and burns that cover it. </BODY> </HTML> |
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