damokelly
07-04-2009, 01:13 PM
Barley
Sally sat in the barley field, and ignored her mother's cries. She stared at the mice as they shuffled back and forth near her feet, wanting to go round her but fearing to. She pulled her heels in closer to her folded body, but they still didn't trust her. She was smoke to them and they knew about fire. They scampered from place to place in fear. She felt like that sometimes. The smell of the smoke was all through her dress and her face was striped with tear-slicked sooty marks. Her hair had turned grey, like an old woman's. She wished she were old; and old woman would be excused her mistakes because she was old. She wished she could put it all back. Sally bowed her head, waiting to grow old. She didn't and wouldn't.
Her mother's screams were getting closer now - she felt like running, but she couldn't. She just curled up more and then rolled to her side, lower than the barley tops, so low she could sink into the earth. The mice ran off at the sight of her falling and she felt so alone she could cry. But she mustn't - mustn't make a sound. Her mother's feet tramped the stalks all around her; in circles, in sways, in stumbles and scrapes. Her crying was loud, harsh and imploring. She begged and she swore. She was nasty to God. Sally curled up her fists to her head. The crying was burning her ears. She wished she could put it all back.
Then her mother went quiet, suddenly, as if Sally really had wished her crying away. One wish of three, maybe – like in a fairy story. She wished away the fire. She wished back the barn. But still the smoke came rolling in from the west. With her mother quiet, Sally could hear the crackling and crashing and the men calling as the frame gave way; they were pulling it down to help smother the flames.
Sally caught strains of her mother again - a low moan, tired and soulless. It was worse than the crying and swearing had been; it no longer drowned out Sally’s own voice in her head. I can't put it back, mama, I don't know how. I'm so sorry. I can't put it back. She risked looking up, over the barley tops; barely barley, still young and green and only half-grown. In the rolling of the smoke her mother was rocking. But she wasn't alone.
Sally's father had found her, had followed in silence - a scrap of charred skirt in his blistered right hand. He was crying as mama had been, but all silent, on his knees with his wife. Rocking. His whisper joined with her moan, mixing like some terrible song. She's dead love. She's dead. She's burned and she's dead. And he took her into his arms, though mama wouldn't be held or comforted, and they struggled and cried like that.
Sally started to cry too, more silent still. She wished she could put it all back - put back all the things that she'd taken away. Their smiles, their peace, their hearts. Their daughter.
The mice had returned, to risk entering the smoke again on their way to the mess of the barn; spilt grain and scorched vegetables, a bounty that may never come again. Sally decided she could do right by the mice at least.
With the wind coming in from the west, and the flames choking out at the head of the field, she let go and blew away.
Sally sat in the barley field, and ignored her mother's cries. She stared at the mice as they shuffled back and forth near her feet, wanting to go round her but fearing to. She pulled her heels in closer to her folded body, but they still didn't trust her. She was smoke to them and they knew about fire. They scampered from place to place in fear. She felt like that sometimes. The smell of the smoke was all through her dress and her face was striped with tear-slicked sooty marks. Her hair had turned grey, like an old woman's. She wished she were old; and old woman would be excused her mistakes because she was old. She wished she could put it all back. Sally bowed her head, waiting to grow old. She didn't and wouldn't.
Her mother's screams were getting closer now - she felt like running, but she couldn't. She just curled up more and then rolled to her side, lower than the barley tops, so low she could sink into the earth. The mice ran off at the sight of her falling and she felt so alone she could cry. But she mustn't - mustn't make a sound. Her mother's feet tramped the stalks all around her; in circles, in sways, in stumbles and scrapes. Her crying was loud, harsh and imploring. She begged and she swore. She was nasty to God. Sally curled up her fists to her head. The crying was burning her ears. She wished she could put it all back.
Then her mother went quiet, suddenly, as if Sally really had wished her crying away. One wish of three, maybe – like in a fairy story. She wished away the fire. She wished back the barn. But still the smoke came rolling in from the west. With her mother quiet, Sally could hear the crackling and crashing and the men calling as the frame gave way; they were pulling it down to help smother the flames.
Sally caught strains of her mother again - a low moan, tired and soulless. It was worse than the crying and swearing had been; it no longer drowned out Sally’s own voice in her head. I can't put it back, mama, I don't know how. I'm so sorry. I can't put it back. She risked looking up, over the barley tops; barely barley, still young and green and only half-grown. In the rolling of the smoke her mother was rocking. But she wasn't alone.
Sally's father had found her, had followed in silence - a scrap of charred skirt in his blistered right hand. He was crying as mama had been, but all silent, on his knees with his wife. Rocking. His whisper joined with her moan, mixing like some terrible song. She's dead love. She's dead. She's burned and she's dead. And he took her into his arms, though mama wouldn't be held or comforted, and they struggled and cried like that.
Sally started to cry too, more silent still. She wished she could put it all back - put back all the things that she'd taken away. Their smiles, their peace, their hearts. Their daughter.
The mice had returned, to risk entering the smoke again on their way to the mess of the barn; spilt grain and scorched vegetables, a bounty that may never come again. Sally decided she could do right by the mice at least.
With the wind coming in from the west, and the flames choking out at the head of the field, she let go and blew away.