Lady Valetta Writes

The River

Not gonna lie. Although I strongly believe that any creative endeavour is basically just work, slog, and does not rely on ‘inspiration’, some things can clog your mind. I’ve barely been here, in this space, since Mum died last August. If anything can clog your mind, it’s death. Presumably, one’s own death will clear one’s mind, but the death of somebody so loved, so integral, seemed to take up space there, and not shift. Finding my place in this new space where she isn’t, has taken a mental energy that I didn’t fathom. I’m not there yet, maybe I never will be; this is a new normal.

But, in the interests of not descending into the blubbering heap that would not only have irritated her, but probably upset her, I am setting a new fire within my creative space.

Last weekend, my little town held its second Book Festival. A joyous weekend, and I had fun helping out. I was also persuaded to enter the writing competition, up to 1000 words on the subject of, The River. Reader, my entry was judged ‘Highly Commended’. Here’s a avery astonished Sam receiving her prize(please excuse the rather shabbty pub location!) and my story is below.

THE RIVER

My chest wants to burst with each breath, but I must remain silent. I bury my face in the grass beneath me, straining my ears in the darkness. An owl’s night-time call is distant, but if I pull all my wits to its hollow siren, I barely notice the burning of my lungs as they strain against the constriction of my ribs.

I cannot be seen, I dare not be noticed. I must not be found.

My escape had been planned for many weeks. My mother set our food on the table after a long day’s toil in the fields; the hardness of her expression could not hide the misery in her eyes. They had lost any hint of joy since my father had been slain by the invaders. Soldiers had captured my elder brother, after he set at one with a scythe in his anger and hurt at seeing the brutal murder of our father. We never spoke of it, but we knew we’d never see him again.

“I will not lose another child,” she looked directly at me, her voice clear and determined.

I knew what she would ask of me, but she cut me off before I could argue.

“No!”

The knife she was using to carve the bread clattered onto the wooden table.

“You must go to the other side of the river. My brother is there, you can make a good life.”

“Not without you, not without Sarra and Elspeth.”

Those eyes pierced my very soul.

“Your sisters will follow.”

“But you…”

“I cannot make it across. You know that.”

She glanced briefly at her withered leg, a burden she’d carried since a sickness in early childhood.

“Then you will lose another child, if I go…”

I could not continue, as the words tangled with the sobs in my throat.

I now lay with my eyes closed tight against the damp grass, straining to draw her kindly face to my mind. The line of her jaw, the light blue of her eyes, always reflecting the azure sky on summer days. My breath came easier, but again I forced back more tears that fought to flow at the thought of never seeing that face again.

Plenty of time for tears to fall on the other side.

Nobody knew what had brought the invaders. Why do invaders come? Some said it was because our crops were of a particular value that they could not recreate in their own soil. Others said it was because this land had once been theirs, and their leader was of a mind to dominate it once more.

All I knew was the bloodshed that had followed; the agony of sorrow at how our family was riven. The lack of hope that pervaded our homestead, our fellow farmers and villagers.

I must have fallen asleep. I am aware of new calls, of birds trilling their morning worship, and I feel a warmth on my back.

I lift my head slowly, my eyes blinking as they adjust to the light.

Dawn. No sound, save the echoing of the birds’ chorus. I move slowly. Ahead of me is a slight rise and beyond that, I know, a sharp escarpment that will lead me to the river.

I crawl along the damp morning grass, not daring to glance behind me, for fear of finding a legion of my enemy, stalking me. Others who have tried to escape have not been so lucky, trapped before they reached this point. Beaten and bloody, then paraded through our streets as a warning. The invaders seem to want not just our land, but our labour, our hearts, our souls.

“They will not get our spirit,” my mother declared.

If I could only summon such courage. Many times, I saw her turn away from one of the soldiers, spitting on the ground as they passed, showing her contempt, her hatred in the only way she knew. If they had seen, her fate may have been similar to that of our neighbour, clubbed with the hilt of a sword. The elderly Annie had simply expressed dismay as they trooped through our town on their first day, and lost her life in the act.

That’s how they instilled the fear; unafraid to make examples. Word had reached us of a leader of a far-off land who promised liberation. For weeks we lived in hope, but then it was clear that this was no saviour; his aim was to plunder the very resources that had temped our invaders.

I reach the edge of the horizon and peer over the cliff: the river. Relief floods my body, swiftly followed by a shaking, that starts in my belly and soon reaches every extremity.

I try once again to control every breath. Now is no time for fear and I turn my body so that I can edge down towards the river.

As I was promised, a small skiff is at the water’s edge, hidden among some nettles that show my skin no mercy as I release it. With only a gentle lapping of the water, I climb aboard and steer a path towards the narrowest part of the river, focusing only on the gentle lights before me. I am not used to the sway of the skiff and more than once I risk tumbling into the icy water. I remember how my father taught me to swim in this very river, his hands, rough with years of work in the fields, guiding my body through the rills until they were no longer there, and I was afloat.

I risk looking back once more towards what had been home. Still no soldiers, I am safe. I look ahead, the small dwellings becoming larger as the water becomes shallower. It is now close, I can see it, smell it.

Freedom.

Freedom? Or a lifetime of imprisonment by loss?