Bricolage Gardening

Luis

Full Moon 27th December 2023

Rowan (luis) follows birch (beith) in the Celtic tree Calendar and I have been struggling for inspiration with this journey I began with hazel (coll) at the end of summer when I moved home to Stanton Drew. Fortunately I haven’t given up and having watched the 1973 cult classic horror movie ‘The Wicker Man’, I was inspired to do try out some creative writing. Below is a piece I have written from the perspective of Rowan, the young girl in the Wicker Man whose mysterious disappearance is used as a lure by the community of Summerilse to bring a policeman to the island whom they can sacrifice to their pagan gods and goddesses to ensure a good harvest.

Their dread was visceral,  a heavy sea mist that clung to the land and had everyone feeling claustrophobic. The soil bore cracks big enough for me to reach my arm down without touching the bottom, I retracted it quickly at the thought of being pulled down into the underworld. Standing in the field were all of the island’s important people of which my mum was one. I smiled at her, but she offered no reassurance in her expression, instead scouring at me like I had just asked for chocolate from the counter in her shop. next to her was Lord Summerilse, he was one of the tallest men on the island and lived in the manor house. Like my mother, there wasn’t a wince of a smile on his face. Their moods were sour like old milk. In the field around were the withering leaves of our crops. Beans we sowed in spring draped like yellow ivy on their hazel polls, the few pods that the plants had managed to produce were small and shrivelled. Just looking at the plants made my mouth feel salty and parched like an albatross foot. A late frost had followed a wet spring and since then a drought had sat on the island. two moons with not an inch of rain. At first the extended sun had brought smiles, many evenings were spent dancing and playing on the village common, with meals outside as the sun set over the horizon. But as days turned to weeks and weeks to months, the mood of  the adults on the island had taken a sombre turn. 

Our god of sun, Nuada and Aellenau, goddess of  orchards, were annoyed with us, for our harvest is dependent on their blessing and if we are seen to have fallen short in humility, they will punish. Lord Summerilse addressed the group, he picked up a courgette and squashed it between his hands, the rotten flesh oozing through his fingers. It reminded me of collecting seaweed, the slimy strands slithering away no matter how hard I grasped. ‘They have spoken’ he commanded. ‘Nuada and Avellenau  have sent us a message, unless we act, we risk widespread starvation on the island. As it is, we are going to have a gruelling winter’. No one uttered a word,  the men’s eyes were glued to their shoes  like the boys in school when they were being told off. ‘We must provide an offering’. I knew about offerings, they are a big part of our life on the island. Each meal, my mum has me take a small amount of food and place it in the hawthorn bush by the house. ‘To keep them in our favour’ my mother would say, referring to the little people that resided in the bushes, rock pools and hidden places. We also did bigger offerings at special times of the year. my favourite celebration was May Day where everyone sings and dances and dresses up. They say the little people come out to play as well, everyone has masks on, so it’s hard to tell who’s who. As part of the celebration there were offerings to the gods and goddesses that sustain our world. I don’t like this part of the celebration, not since my favourite goat Alisa was killed. I  begged my mother to save her, but she wouldn’t change her mind. After that I ran away for two days, crying and eating winkles out of rock pools that reflected my face all puffy and red. Jus the thought of Alisa  had my stomach burning like sea rope twisting on the key. ‘What kind of offering do you refer to lord’ My mother was the first to speak. ‘It is written in our fields, this bears no questioning, we must provide the ultimate offering, that of a human life’. His words took by breathe away as fast as a feather steals a sneeze. Never before had I heard of a human offering to our gods. Again I looked at my mother for reassurance, but this time she was looking to lord with the same desire.

The days leading up to the offering had my mind in turmoil like a leaf stuck in the pool of a waterfall. The plan was to bring a sacrifice from the mainland, a scapegoat for our failings. They had manage to lure a policeman, asked to come and investigate a missing girl. The missing girl was me.  As soon as the man from the mainland had arrived, I was ushered by my mum to the caves where I was to stay until May Day. The walls were damp and smelt of rotting fish. I had been told not to leave until the policeman had fallen into our trap and we could offer him as our sacrifice. My mother and Lord Summerilse had reassured that an offering as big as this was the only choice. Some of the other adults opposed, but they were quickly shut down by Lord Summerilse, made to feel useless like the rotting vegetables that lay beneath their feet. 

The plan had brought out a side of my mother that I didn’t like too much to see, acting with the same venom as when she’d hit me for telling my sister stories in the nighttime. It didn’t make sense to me, why a goddess of apples and bees and berries would demand such evil in return. I asked my mother this, but she just told me that I was too young to understand. It was awfully boring in the caves and my only contact was someone from the village bringing me food twice a day, usually some stale bread and a lump of cheese, no apples this year. I left morsels of it in a small crack of the cave as my offering to the little people. At dawn and dusk I would perch by the  caves entrance and watch as seagulls swept into the pinking sky for their sun salutation, sitting with their wings stretched out like puppets from the heavens. Their ritual brought me peace of heart, the seagulls didn’t seem to have any intention other than to enjoy the delights of the setting sun as it merged into the sky like spilt ink fading into a canvas.

May Day  arrived and I could hear the music playing from the town and felt sad for being left out of the celebrations. The drums reminded me of parading on my mum’s shoulders as a toddler, noises blasting from all around, ribbons trailing in the winds like spiders webs and mad creatures prancing around my feet. It felt like days before a man from the village,  Mr Ewan, came down to see me. He was panting and had wide eyes like a freshly caught fish being made to breathe air. ‘Has it happened? Did we get him?’ I asked  the sweaty man. My whole being wanted him to say no, my legs felt heavy as stone and my heart pounded like the drums from the celebration, no longer in the distance, but thumping in my chest. “We think so” Mr Ewan responded, winking at me and offering a smirk that curled up from his mouth. 

More time passed and the music of the procession got louder, eventually stopping below the entrance of the cave. The hunt was waiting for the fox to emerge. ‘It’s time’ old Ewan said, putting his hand against my back, indicating that I should exit. Slowly I shuffled towards the light of the cave entrance, tears welling up and starting to roll down my face, just as the spring water makes its way to the ocean. As we reached the mouth of the cave  the music stopped and my eyes burned a bright white from the sun. I could hear commotion in the crowd below and suddenly I felt my hand being grasped by someone new. ‘Run Rowan!’ the voice at the top of the hands said and I turned around to do just that. Returning into the depths of the cave I realise it is the policeman shepherding us away. His hands are clammy, but his voice is paternal and I am swept over with a desire to save this man. ‘Follow me’ I say, taking the lead and taking us up the steps to the cliff top. ‘You’re in serious danger dear Rowan, we must get you off of this island’. I don’t know why I trust this stranger, but together we clamber higher, eventually reaching the light shining through the caves escape route. But as we reach the top, I see the familiar faces of the adults that stood in the field that day. Its at this point I know it’s over.

Dusk comes and with it the seagulls, the same time as yesterday, dressing the sky with gentle glides. The fire of the Wicker man still burns on the hillside, the sounds of song carrying a reminder of the day’s horror, a smoke as heavy as thunderclouds that enters my lungs and sits in my belly.