Foca

The late afternoon sun still held the open field firmly in its grip. Still far from the horizon, yet slowly edging towards the tips of the tallest poplars. It was clearly on its way out, but its embrace felt stronger than ever. Its presence absolute.

There was no wind, yet the air seemed to move.

There was no fog, yet the atmosphere felt stifling and saturated.

There was no sound, yet heat shimmered above the road.

The world was still there. Green. Brown. Yellow. But muted, shifting, undefined, as if boundaries were melting and contours no longer mattered. Closing the eyes, one would feel the other senses slipping away, dissolving into the all-encompassing warmth holding the evening at bay.

Time seemed to have stopped, hollowed by the blazing force of an ancient entity basking in its zenith.

Life was waiting. Hidden. Quiet. Shaded from its direct touch.

A lone road stretched across the field, stitching villages together. New, yet already old. Its surface cracked and patched where the years had gnawed at it. On either side, the edges blurred into dust and brittle weeds. The wear and tear of tired feet and worn-out wheels showed its direction.

A row of poplars stood tall along one side, their shade alive, stretching restlessly to the middle of the road under the will of the one unwilling to yield, yet brutally aware of the coming fall. The other side laid bare to its full onslaught. It waited, exhausted, for the poplars’ cooling tips to reach it and signal the end of the siege.

On that lonely road, within the burning oven painted by sunrays, something moved.

A flicker.

A flame, it seemed at first glance, dancing against the scorched horizon. Small yet lively, the sole movement in the sun's embrace. But it wasn't flame. It was hair. Red as burning leaves, rising with the waves of heat, flowing even when the air stood still.

A little girl was playing on the sunbaked asphalt, her feet bare. With each light step, her soles sank slightly into the surface, leaving marks as soft and shallow as handprints in raw dough.

“Grandma! Grandma!” called the small apparition joyously. “Look! My feet are in the road. I can make my own way home.”

The grandmother, walking beneath the shelter of the poplars’ shade, smiled warmly at her granddaughter.

Stopping, her gaze drifted to the other marks etched into the faithful asphalt: horse hooves, thin bicycle threads, thick cart ruts, and pairs of light shoe prints. Some fresh, some older. Some a bit too deep. She lingered for a moment on the parched, glassy verge. A bit too yellowed. Then she lifted her eyes to the fields, brimming with the height of summer harvest, when every hand should be busy and every cart full. Yet she found them empty.

Surrounded by her grandchild’s innocent lilt, she whispered to the waiting fields of early August as she resumed her walk.

“It’s nearly upon us.”

***

The road took them closer to the village, fields giving way to loosely fenced, paint-touched houses. A lone figure, tall and stately, was slowly but steadily making her way into the sun’s open-air furnace. The waves of heat rising from the age-worn asphalt reflected a form that floated more than walked, an apparition of green and blue, breaking the heat-hushed stillness with her presence.

“Going back home, girls?” she asked, pausing in the poplars’ shade to catch her breath and wipe the sweat from a face open to life and to time. A few strands of golden hair, escaping from beneath a green kerchief tied low at her nape, fluttered weakly in the heavy air.

Briefly looking at the heat-dulled sky, she sighed, hand fanning ruddy-red cheeks, and said lightly.

“Not sure who’s madder – me for heading out, or you for coming back.”

The grandmother glanced once at her sun-happy granddaughter, then turned to the woman in front of her and replied.

“I thought we’d head back a tad earlier today, to ready things for tomorrow.”

“Aye, tomorrow!” the younger woman took over confidently.

“That’s what I had in mind too. But me husband’s still out there, tying straw. We sowed two hectares of wheat this year, hoping to sell a bit. Make some money. But it’s hard work, and that old tractor keeps stalling.”

Without waiting for a reply, she took a long gulp from the bottle of water in her hand and added, nodding towards the fields.

“I’m taking him a drink. Tell him to leave it now and come home. It’s enough for today.”

Glancing back to the other woman, she concluded matter-of-factly.

“Foca doesn’t always wait. What was it? Just last year. Fiodor’s barn burned down, didn’t it? Just ‘cause he trimmed a few dry branches out back.”

The grandmother, watching her lively charge, answered in the voice of things passed along without much thinking.

“I heard he’d lit a fire and roasted some old potatoes. Late at night.”

The younger woman nodded, picking up the thread with the practical confidence of someone used to piecing together what everyone sort of knows already.

“Aye, aye — he chopped wood in the afternoon and lit the fire just before midnight.”

Then added, her voice steady, working through memory as if laying out facts.

“Some said that old barn of his was falling apart anyway. But old or not, it doesn’t catch fire on its own, does it? There’s no flame where there’s no spark.”

In unison, their eyes settled on the little girl twirling in the middle of the road, her hair loose and wild – a living flame, basking in the embrace of the one still fighting to reign.

“Grandma! Grandma! Did you see?” the girl cried, running towards the two now-silent women. “I was flying!”

She looked up at her grandmother, grinning, missing the thoughtful glance the other woman gave her wild red hair.

But the grandmother saw it. Smiling softly, she began to stroke her granddaughter’s hair.

“You planning to do something about that tomorrow?” the younger woman asked lightly, arms hugging the lone bottle of water.

“What is tomorrow?” the girl asked, looking from the warm face of one woman to the unfamiliar one of the other.

Neither answered. The older woman kept stroking the red strands; the younger watched.

Getting no reply, the girl wriggled free from her grandmother’s firmer hold and darted off, back to tracing her own path in the sun-softened asphalt.

“She’s not from here,” the younger woman said with a nod towards the small flame flickering to life. “She doesn’t know.”

Following the same flicker of red in motion, the grandmother replied.

“She’s with us for the whole summer. A first.”

Still watching the girl, the younger woman added knowingly.

“Seems her time to learn has come.”

Turning, she bid her goodbye and walked off to find her husband. The grandmother watched her go, then followed her grandchild down the road, the shadowy tips of the poplars now past the midpoint.

***

The road led them deeper into the village, where the houses began to close in and the path narrowed. Short fences, some proudly blue or green, others greyed by time, lined the sides. Broad-crowned trees arched overhead – walnut, cherry and plum. Their shadowy tips nearly touched, leaving only a thin strip of light for the blazing one to claim. A few wicket gates stood ajar. A pair of double cart gates hung open, left in wait, straw bundles blocking the entrance. The asphalt had grown patchy and uneven, trailing into dry earth in jagged fingers, as if reluctant to delve any further.

The air still held life at bay.

“Grandma! Grandma! I can’t make my way anymore”, the little girl protested, her brows furrowing in sudden dismay.

The grandmother stopped and turned, brow damp with sweat and breath heavy, eyes lingering on the small bud of fire and her lengthening shadow stretching ahead.

“Come on, love. Let’s get your shoes on. The road’s getting stony ahead.”

She made for an old sitter’s stump by the roadside, where the shade lay thicker. As she sat to catch her breath, she noticed a figure near the fence, half-hidden beneath the drooping branches of a willow tree.

In front of an old, wooden well stood a woman in a faded brown dress, one hand gripping the rusted winch. Her figure bowed, shoulders slumped, straining to the rhythm of the turning handle as she hauled the bucket up. A summer-worn brown kerchief veiled the back of her neck.

“Fetching some water?” asked the grandmother as way of greeting, having finished tending to her granddaughter’s sandals.

The woman at the well startled, nearly losing her grip on the winch. The hollowed sounds of the cooling depth resonated within the willow’s embrace, as the hanging bucket hit the stone throat of the well and the iron chain creaked with strain.

“Oi, mercy me!” exclaimed the woman, distress in her tone.

She steadied herself, and as the bucket scrapped the rim of the well, metal on stone, whispered hesitantly without turning.

“Ye’ve not come down from the field, have ye?”

The little girl, already nosing about for adventure, stopped at the unexpected commotion and looked back at her grandmother sitting a few feet away.

“Had some onions and garlic to pull,” the grandmother replied, voice steady.

“I’ll go the day after tomorrow to fetch them.”

“The day after tomorrow…” came the echoed whisper from the woman concealed by the willow’s weepy fall.

Her eyes on the rippling water in the bucket, she added, almost to herself.

“If we get that far…”

Then continued in a hurried, strained half-whisper, one hand tightening on the side of the bucket, the other rising in a fist to her chest.

“Only last year – that man from way up the hill. He went in the field. On Foca. Said he couldnae breathe. Laid himsel’ down and never got up. The heat squeezed the air from his chest and left him hollow, it’s what they say…”

“Hardly seen a soul today. But the land is heavy with fruit. It waits. If only the weather would hold,” said the grandmother, her eyes into the distance, her grandchild, silently still, in the corner of her eye.

A brief burst of hot air split the space between them.

“Whether it holds or no – does it matter? If only no one would go out tomorrow…” the woman said in a pleading voice, a slight dryness colouring her throat.

Swallowing, she continued.

“When I was a lass, back home. Same as now. Folks heard the weather wouldnae hold. Big rains were comin’. Still, they went out on Foca. Worked from day till dusk, tryin’ to bring the harvest in. They’d no choice, it’s what they said. Two years on the trot, narry a whisper o’ crop”.

Ending on a heavy note, her hand slid down to her stomach as she sighed deeply, breath catching twice.

As the weepy leaves began to stir again, the grandmother rose and headed towards her charge. “We’d best be off.”

The woman at the well poured the cool water into the bucket at her feet. Stepping out from the willow’s embrace, heavy bucket in hand, the woman at the well gasped audibly. Her body tensed. Her eyes widened. Fear and dismay wove a tapestry across a face that has already seen much, but not enough, shadowed by the deep edges of her kerchief.

At the sharp intake of breath, the little girl turned, as she walked along the lone strip of light, hair swinging in the fading sun’s glow – painted even redder by its efforts to stay.

Time seemed to hold its breath. Woman and girl. One stricken, one unsure.

The grandmother stepped between them, breaking the moment.

As she ushered her granddaughter further down the road, the little girl kept glancing back at the woman, who stood motionless, eyes fixed on her fiery hair.

***

The road brought them close to the heart of the village. The shade was denser here, the trees tall and old – a linden sanctuary of memories past. Houses stood tighter together yet looked deeper into their yards. The fence had long since given up waiting, its ashen slats crooked and crusted. Colour was more vivid, green, black and grey painting the scenery, even in midsummer. The air was thick with foliage and heat. A kaleidoscope of sunrays flickered weakly through the leaves, trying to pierce a world where life did not need to wait.

One single thick shaft of light struck the earth – a small victory won through loss, a branch which never came alive that last spring.

It was there that the outraged shriek found the little girl, arms stretched wide, head upturned, basking in the warmth of the fading blazing one.

“Argh! Blight upon us!”

An ancient-looking woman followed the sharp voice, hobbling out of a sagging little shop hidden in the shade of the tallest tree. Frail, small body clad head to toe in burgundy, she walked far too quickly for someone hunched over three legs. Her squinty eyes black as flint in a face where time had once carved life itself, then let go. The kerchief tied under her chin the only thing still holding form.

“Where d’you come from, eh? Who let you out like this? And that hair! D’you not know what tomorrow is?” demanded the elder woman, pressing forward towards the girl, heavy stripy tote in one hand and cane in the other.

The little girl slowly let her arms fall and whispered softly, uncertainly, “Grandma…”

Already on her way, the grandmother came to a stop in front of her grandchild and said, her tone measured and restrained.

“Go on then. Tend to your own doings.”

“I mind whose doings I want,” spat the elder woman, eyes narrowing. Then, with the unwavering certainty of someone fate has never let down, she accused.

“You’ll bring ruin on the lot of us!”

The grandmother stood her ground, feeling her granddaughter’s small hands clutching at her skirts, and stared back.

The elder, peering intently at the little girl, hissed suddenly, “I haven’t seen you about. One like you, touched by flame – I’d have known. She ain’t from here.”

And went on, heedless of the pallor creeping into the other woman’s face.

“He don’t like it. The new!” She snapped sharply, as if to remind all who could hear.

“Only year ‘fore last, that new wife of Foma’s burnt both her hands, did she. Boiled water on Foca! Said she could, without fire. Clever thing. Three days in the hospital, she was. Whatever infernal gimcracks she’s brought, he didn’t like it. That’s what it was!”

She pointed her cane towards the sunlit child, voice hardened with resolve.

“Put her out of sight!”

“It is not young, innocent souls he’s after, but the old enough, who’ve forgot to look under their noses and go digging under the woods instead,” the grandmother replied with quite severity, her granddaughter’s head pressing into her thigh.

“Oh, saints preserve us! Where’s such a thing ever been seen?!” exclaimed the elder, aghast.

“Have you no eyes?! Grass’s gone brittle, leaves all wilting, brook’s near dry. Horses dragging their hooves, cows barely giving, hens’ve gone sluggish, dogs won’t stir. Wind’s blowing hot as a blacksmith’s forge. It’s his year, sure as rain. I feel it in me very breath. Mark me words!”

Turning her incisive gaze on the child, she added.

“In me day, when it came to this time of year, they’d’ve shaved hair like that clean off.”

The little girl’s eyes widened, her small hand lifting to touch her hair.

“Bite your tongue, you’ve enough years!” the grandmother snapped, her tone firm but low, gently touching her granddaughter’s arm.

“Well, I never!” the elder rasped, as she began to back away.

“Get the girl out of sight! If something should happen…” Her warning trailed off, eyes flicking to the blackened windows. As if fearing she’d summoned fate into being, she crossed herself and, hand trembling, took out an ice cream from her tote.

“Aye, aye…” came the grandmother’s low, loaded reply. She took her granddaughter’s hand and set off down the old road beneath the hush of linden trees. Her steps were resolute, her posture straighter, her face tense, eyes turbulent with fury and dread.

As soon as the road curved out of sight, the little girl looked up and asked hesitantly.

“Grandma… am I cursed?”

The old woman suppressed her horror and forced a gentle smile.

“No, of course not. She was talking about the day, not you.”

After a pause, the girl spoke again, more quietly this time, her fingers brushing a fiery strand.

“Then… is my hair bad?”

“No, my soul,” the grandmother said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Your hair is beautiful.”

Hesitating for half a breath, she added.

“Come. I’ll bake your favourite cake.”

“Really?!” the little girl cried, suddenly beaming.

The woman smiled, though her eyes lingered a moment longer on the red tresses tumbling down the child’s back.

“Can I eat it today?” the girl asked, tugging on her hand.

“Tomorrow,” the grandmother replied firmly.

***

Back at home, early evening painting the sky, the little girl sat, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands. A little oven stool beneath her, just four legs and a plank, carved decades ago.

Down her back trailed a long, fiery braid, like an ear of wheat.

She watched as thin tongues of flame slipped around the edges of the old, rusted metal plate covering the oven mouth.

The air shimmered faintly in the glow, sweet and lulling, wrapping itself around the small figure.

Somewhere behind her, a clock ticked.

Then, testing the shape of the word for the first time, she whispered it into the blaze, golden eyes catching fire.

“Foca…”