Approach With Caution

The Circle

Mushrooms for supper again. She cleaved them on bended knees, cautious of teeth marks, punctures and animal faeces. The Madam was ill and she would eat nothing else, not for five days straight. It was unusual for Madam to restrict herself to one food for a length of time. No news had travelled of an illness spreading across the village, so this seemed odd. The instructions were clear; the mushrooms must be close together, they must be pale, and they must face the village. The toadstools are to be left alone for the faeries. So the Maiden was there to collect the vital ingredients for the spartan meal. Mushrooms. How long will it take, she thought to herself, till I can leave this hovel? She sliced at the funghi and tossed them into her woven basket, then covering it with a cloth she made her way back towards the house.

Back at the village there was furore. Shouting and disarray erupted from the folk like an unseen affliction. There were pointed fingers directing the way. A mass of people trialled their way towards the river bank in the centre. A crowd were already there, even standing along the bridge. A hushed murmur developed amidst the blatant intrigue. The Maiden sought a spot that gave her a proper view on top raised ground. On the river was a boat with three men. Two of them looked while the third was trying to fasten something. Again and again the thing he tried to tie evaded him, it dipped so often under the water. Then the fisherman, with deft of hand, finally got his catch. He yanked the rope pulling it towards the vessel. The thing rolled and from her raised view the Maiden spotted what looked like a pale starfish – a hand. The fisherman barked at the two others for their help and the three began work. It rolled again and this time the Maiden saw a bundle of twigs, soil and vines, detritus carried by the river. The three men got hold of the object and with pained expression and utmost delicacy they lifted her onto the boat. The blacksmith's daughter.

A cry came from the crowd, perhaps the father. It was over now. Unaware that she shared her spot with another spectator, the Maiden was startled by a voice:

"Missin' eight days she'd been." A woman carrying a wash basket under her arm stood just behind her. "I feel bad for her folks."

The Maiden looked at the sky ahead and judged that she should have been back home long ago.

"Is your Madam any better?"

"No," replied the girl, "Not yet."

The sky bled a burnt orange by the time she entered the house and all the while she could feel that pulsing energy; it was quiet and disturbing. She sat in her wheeled chair facing the door which the Maiden had stepped through. Her hands were clasped together like in meditation, stiff and unrelenting; the younger woman had seen this pose before. A venerable figure in the village, the Madam was laced with mystery. A wise woman who knew of herbs, of ointments, plants and poisons. She never was seen out of her wheelchair due to some ailment no one knew of. Her skin was a puzzle; not pale like the others but tanned – golden like the crust on top of bread. People gossiped, saying she was the child of a slave woman and a Captain's mate left on a dock to whoever found her. The Maiden lifted her basket to reassure her mistress that she had done what was asked of her.

"You're sick."

The Maiden slowly lowered he basket.

"I said you're sick, child." Madam cocked her head while emphasising her words.

"What do you mean Madam?"

The old woman's top lip curled.

"You're pregnant."

The younger woman sucked in air.

"You think I didn't notice. You sneaking off at night to cavort with ... that boy." The old woman looked at her directly.