copyright: Eleanor Leonne Bennett

by Peter Farrugia

In this small dark kitchen an hour or so before dawn a little old lady has begun her final, great work.

She brushes breadcrumbs to the edge of a large wooden table and catches the crumbs in the hollow of her hand. The table is notched all over with a pattern of wear that resembles the lines at the corners of her mouth and across her palms. But she moves about the kitchen floor with a light step, joyful in the gloom.

She sips dregs of wine from a cup, stacks them up, then carries the empty crockery to a basin full of warm soapy water. The bitter aftertaste is not so bitter. She sings while she works. The song moves to an upper room, where it becomes the sound of a happily crackling hearth. The upper room glows bright enough to illuminate a patch of flagstone at the top of the stairs.

She rubs red knuckles soaked all over with soap suds, plates and cups draining on the rack. The memory of a moment suddenly transforms her face and she is swimming against the stream of time. A brisk March morning is clearly marked among the accumulated consequences of her life.

She remembers the sounds of birds calling from the trees and fruit falling off the branches. There is a hush outside the kitchen window encroaching on the stillness within. Garden plants lean towards the windowsill. She is in love, something she has just begun to recognise, a message at first unclear, insistent but fragmentary, in pieces individually valuable but entirely incongruous, immediately converges upon her. Without hesitation, she accedes to the mystery.

All that seems so very long ago. She wipes her hands on a checkered dishcloth and smoothes the wrinkles in her apron. The upper room is different, roiling with sparks of a hidden light she has swept out with her broom, into the world. They dance their piece amongst the people, glowing and settling like fireflies. She has set everything aright within the confines of this house and she can be satisfied with that. Outside, the world is ending.

She gently lifts a battered white box out of a cupboard and sits it on the table. The lid slides off easily and inside under thin crinkled paper is an airy blue shawl, embroidered all over with stars. She places it on the ironing board. The old woman irons her veil. Faces of strangers look up to her from the pattern of constellations. Some gnaw madly, some are confused like lost children, a few bow down beneath the weight of their knowing. With an equal measure, she applies steady pressure and all the creases fade out. The crooked corners are made straight again. She drapes the shawl across her shoulders, not worn these many years.

She closes the box and lays it aside, then opens the curtains. A new morning breaks through the small room and the woman is clothed in sunlight. Upstairs, that fiery brightness has become a conflagration and there is no ignoring it. She lifts the shawl over her head and steps across the threshold – a small wriggling thing is caught beneath her heel. It squeals furiously then goes quiet, a broken toy that has snapped its spring.

In that great place beyond the borders of her garden, all people were strangers. For hours at a time they approached one another then stepped back to a more comfortable distance, populating the spaces between them with strangeness. A fisherman dragged his heavy net on big broad shoulders. Inside the net, small creatures with snapping jaws tangled endlessly in the wire. A young girl with red lips and ears full of gold stared at the shadow she cast on the sand, curling a distracted finger in her hair.

A man with broken teeth walked arm in arm with his lover, and a creature neither man nor woman was wheeled in a barrow by some skeletal caregiver. Their passion was lifeless and their happiness streamed behind them. In the solitude of ages unnumbered they struggled against the ebbing tide, justified themselves by acquisition. Who is like us? they asked one another and they spoke in hushed voices, dissimulating sounds without reason. Now words fail them.

The woman smiles and enters the garden.

***

Prodigal son Pete Farrugia thinks that prehistory was a bit of a bore until somebody decided to write about it. He can be found in various cafes across the island, deciphering Classical Hebrew and NeoPunic stelae. Although he digs the Semites, his first love will always be English. When asked why, the prodigal replied “it’s the only language I dream in.”

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15 year old photographer and artist who has won contests with National Geographic,The Woodland Trust, The World Photography Organisation, Winstons Wish, Papworth Trust, Mencap, Big Issue, Wrexham science , Fennel and Fern and Nature’s Best Photography.She has had her photographs published in exhibitions and magazines across the world including the Guardian, RSPB Birds , RSPB Bird Life, Dot Dot Dash, Alabama Coast , Alabama Seaport and NG Kids Magazine (the most popular kids magazine in the world). Visit her site eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com to see more of her work.

December 5th, 2011
Categories: Apocalypse . Author: schlockmagazine

1 Comment(s)

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a comment