Barren Fields

Content warning: The following story has implied physical abuse. It also contains mentions of death and of a sacrifice.

Soap, water, scrub, repeat; soap, water, scrub, repeat; soap, water, scrub thirteen times you wash. Thirteen times we scrub our hands clean before we enter the church. In the name of the Son the Father the Holy Ghost. Three times we make the cross with the holy water; three times we watch as those behind us mutter curses under their breath as we take too long at the church door. 

Not the left side or the back, can’t be the middle of the aisle must be the third row from the front and three seats along. We sit our crisp skirts scratching the bare skin of our thighs as we wait. She will count now; she will tap out her little rhythm and then we will listen to the sermon before we get up to leave. She will drive us straight home. there are no neighbourly smiles or friendly talks, only weary eyes watching as the three of us leave, our heads bowed down as we follow her to the car. 

It must be soon. Surely time has not slowed its way in the darkness. I hear the dulled shuffling footsteps. Her timeworn boots on the worn hardwood floor above as she moves around the kitchen. The early morning sun tries in earnest to make its way through the boarded-up window; its effort in vain as even the dust mites lie still. I try to turn over on the narrow cot, my frame too big now. The heavy chain pulls at my ankles as I attempt to turn over to try to find a position that doesn’t put pressure on my bruised ribs. I hear him come through the front door, my spine stiffening as I listen to his heavy footfalls across the threadbare rug. Twelve steps, a turn and a door, five more steps. thump thump thump thump thump. They whisper their voices careful not to be carried, but I make out a few words. 

“It can’t be today she’s not ready.”

“She has no choice; time is up, the price is owing.” 

A price is owing. There’s always a price.

I remember a woman with soft brown eyes and short red hair. She would cradle me gently in her arms as she sang in soft voices of a man named death, of a spring and blossoming fields. I close my eyes tightly trying to conjure an image of the woman in my mind. It’s like a fog has stolen all the features away; every time I try to focus on something, it blurs. I sigh quietly. It’s always the same. I remember soft crooning and gentle hands. Gentle hands. I don’t understand how even now, in the darkness, I can remember the softness of a touch from the woman with the lilting voice and hair that matches my own. A tear slips down my cheek as I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. I shouldn’t cry. I shouldn’t waste the tears, the water. I’ll need all I have to survive.

A sharp sound of metal on wood jars me from the restless sleep I’d been attempting. The lilting voice luring me to the fields of blossoms and springs dies out as I wake. It’s darker now, although I can’t be sure how I know that. Not when the sun can’t even make its way through the boards. Three steps down on heavy feet before a heavy key is thrust into a rusted lock. Metal clicks echoing through the musky darkness. Five heavy steps, a rough hand at my leg pulling my foot toward him. He releases the chain and stands me on unsteady feet. He knows I won’t run. He knows I can’t. Is it time? My only hope now is that it’s time.

The world was once a place of laughter and joy. Babies were born and mothers doted over them. Lovers wed and families celebrated. The sun would shine, the rain would fall in a cycle that would let the world turn and the plants grow. The fields used to be alive with color and noise. Animals would roam and frolic merrily as the hunter would catch only enough to feed his family. The streams would flow freely, and the fish would swim lazily, as the gatherer would forage along the banks. I walked those shores and through those fields. I talked with the people as their families grew. The years were kind to the people. My visits not so frequent as they learned the ways of the land. They moved from hunters to farmers, working with the animals and the land. The years passed faster and faster as I made my way through those same fields. I watched as colors bleached and rivers stilled. The animals left and the plants died. Lovers no longer laughed and babies stopped being born. The world turned again and again as I walked through those fields but now the people feared my visits. Now I had a new name.

Three slow steps up a rough hand calloused against the bare skin on my arm. The light was dim in the tiny kitchen, the smell of putrid rot barely hidden by the burning of ash in the tall brick fireplace. I keep my head down, my hands firmly in my lap. I know the routine; I know the way the night must go. I swallow a silent prayer. I pray it’s my turn. I pray the time has come. A small bowl filled with brown water is placed at my feet. A smaller bowl in front of me at the table as the woman tears a cloth into little rags. I don’t look at her, I don’t acknowledge her as she lifts my foot, the skin at the ankle raw from the rubbing of the heavy chain. I count. one breath, two breath. She mutters her own counting at my feet as she washes them in the dirty water.

Soap, scrub, rinse, soap, scrub, rinse. She finishes her count and carries the bowl to the chipped white sink that sits under the window. The heavy man stokes the fire before sitting in the only other chair at the table. The room is small and dirty. The wooden floors are well worn and the only window has a large crack in one of its glass pains. The fireplace takes up one wall, a hearth where I assume they cook what little they have. There is a candle on the table, its flame dances casting shadows I trace with my eyes as I pray. Please be my time, please be my time.

A comb missing teeth is set in front of me next to the bowl and I fight the grimace. The woman pulls the long braid from behind my back. untying the cord as she begins to work her way through the matted mess. She should cut it. I wouldn’t mind. The heavy weight of it does little to keep out the cold in the dark months and only makes the sun months that much hotter. The man stands again, his movements brisk but without purpose, he’s agitated and restless. As if he were the one who was being prepared. As if his time may be up instead of mine. The broken face of the clock ticks thunderously in the silence. There’s only time for a rough braid; the woman’s constant scrubbing and fussing whittled down the little time there was for preparation. There are no words. No instructions no soft touches or warm embraces. There are no goodbyes as the two stand and clear the bowl and comb. The candle left burning as they leave the room, shutting the door firmly behind them. A rusted key turns in the lock. As if I would attempt to run. There is nowhere to go. There is no chance beyond waiting, waiting to see if today I am chosen.

There is a time each night between the highest point of the moon and the beginnings of dawn where I walk now. The air thick and heavy in anticipation. The houses closed, the families quiet. The witching hour. I’ve heard them call it that. They believe there is a veil I cross, they believe I’m kept at bay by the light. They do not know the reason I stay away. They no longer remember the way we once spoke as old friends. Now they believe I am malevolent; there think me an evil to be prayed away. I listen as I walk through the fields now. I’m tired. So long things have been this way. So long things have been this barren. I wonder if tonight I take one. If tonight I take what they offer. Everything is so quiet as I step slowly; even the dry grass refuses to break the silence. Through the fields where I used to watch the children play, and the colours bloom. I walk toward the ramshackle buildings. There. a few lights still glowing in the darkness. Those who still believe there is a price to be paid. Still believe they are cursed by a benevolent god and not by their own arrogance. The silence is deafening as I tread softly over the low wooden rails. 

Then I hear it. Then I hear her.

I listen and count. Twelve steps, hurried in the darkness before the large wooden door is shut. The rusty key turned. The house settles into the silence. Now I’m alone. I stand gingerly and stretch; trying desperately to ease the ache in my spine from being chained to the too small cot. I look down at my thin frame in the candle light. There used to be softness there I think, now it’s all sharp edges and bruised skin pulled tight over bone. I no longer feel sad or scared. feeling’s it seems are beyond me now. 

I take a testing step away from the table, then another. There’s no food, no water. There isn’t much I can do in the darkness. Nothing I can do but wait. I’ll either be chosen or I’ll sleep in that creaky wooden chair. Until the man and woman return with curses on their lips and pain at the end of the man’s leather belt. I pull the heavy weight of my braid over my shoulder as I step softly around the small kitchen. With quick fingers I undo the twists from the woman. I shake it free, letting it fall down my back; the thick red waves dance as they fall, reaching the small of my back. I’ll have to redo the braid. But for now I relish in the free feeling of it hanging loosely; perhaps I would miss it if the woman cut it after all. In the silence I make shadows with my fingers and hum softly. After I don’t know how long I start to sing. It’s the song of a man named Death and fields of blossoms and springs. I sing what little I remember then I start again. 

The heavy air stills and the candle light flickers. Should i be afraid? Should there be something other than the calm I feel in my bones? I trace a pattern in the dust on the table as I sing. A voice harsh yet smooth breaks the silence,

“Tell me child, what do you know of death?” 

I continue to sing until the verse is finished, then I turn looking at the stranger in the closed doorway. I don’t know what I expected. The Death spoken of in church was always a giant gnarled figure with a skull and carrying a scythe. The thing that leans against the closed door is not that. He is darkness and shadow; his features sharp as if carved from marble. I watch as he watches me, the shadows coming from him. His eyes a silver blue, his hair jet black waves that meld seamlessly into the darkness. He stands tall and broad, and I think I’m meant to cower at the sight of him. instead relief floods me. 

“Have I been chosen then?”

The figure cocks a brow studying me before taking the seat opposite mine. The shadows following in his wake. I watch, fascinated as the shadows dance around him. 

“What do you know of death?” he repeats. 

I frown. If this is a test, I’m sure to fail. I wring my fingers. I want more than anything to be chosen. To be free of this place, of the too small cot, of the dark, dusty cellar, of the rough hands and constant counting. I stare at him, watching for any hint of an answer. When he gives nothing away, I sniff in indignation. 

“I know nothing but the darkness of hatred and the pain of hope.” 

My response seems to shock him. He stares as he flicks his wrist and dances his fingers, making the shadows respond in kind. I study him as he looks about the tiny kitchen. After a moment, his gaze drops to his feet stomping once. The resounding echo seems to answer his unasked question. 

“You live with your parents in this?” I scowl as he gestures around him.

“The man and woman are not my parents. I have no parents.” 

His eyes catch on the swollen bruises of my ankles 

“Tell me then, what is it you think you are chosen for?”

“For the sacrifice. On All Hallows' Eve a child is chosen to be sacrificed by Death to bring back the life to the fields.” I answer my spine stiff under his watchful gaze.

The growl that comes from the man is nothing if not animal.

“There is no sacrifice, no bargain to be made.”

Foolish. Foolish and desperate. The sinking hollow of my stomach screams in silent agony. If not chosen. If not a bargain to be made, I am trapped. This is my life. The pain, the counting, the silence, the crushing weight of an emotion I can’t name. A strangled noise escapes my throat. Helpless I start to sing again. 

‘Not foe nor friend or family,

He strolls the fields of May, 

not sad, not delight or anger; he guides. 

The young, the old, the lucky, and not he guides;

The blossoms bloom, the springs run; the animals folly. 

My child do not fear, do not fret.

The man named Death.’

“Are you not afraid then?” 

“I am nothing.” 

The answer is hopeless. This female. This young one, with hair the color of the sunrise, and voice of the dancing blooms. She doesn’t belong here in the dark, in the silence. This one. The despair, the total hopelessness doesn’t belong on her features. She sings again the same verse. It’s an old song. One from a time when the world was kind, the colors rich and noise free. The bruises on her pale skin, the hollows of her cheeks. This world has not been kind to this one. 

“Would you join me?”

There’s no pause in her lilting voice. She finishes the song and takes my hand.This one, this one is the one I have been searching for all this time. This one will walk by my side.

Twelve steps, a turn and a door, five steps and then down three more. The flames dance in revelry with his shadows as the old house creaks. The distant sounds of splintering wood and broken glass trilling as those flames creep higher toward the light of the stars. I take his shadowed hand in mine as we step softly over the low wooden fence. Toward the darkness over the barren fields.