Wishing Fell

Chapter One: The Shearing

Mary was named such a plain thing because as her mother lay dying her father  couldn't quite hear the full utterance of “Rosemary” over Mary’s newborn cries. Just like her name, Mary was half unknown and on the plain side of pretty. Skin as dark as the bog peat she dug her toes into,the sun beat down on her. Her legs were mighty and dark and they flexed like a horse as she steadied herself in the muck. 

“You are a woman now.” She said aloud to the empty air. Nothing answered but a gurgling from somewhere behind her shoulder. “Now is the truest time for change.”

With this, she savagely grabbed up her hair. It was long and hung heavy to her waist. The loose curls resembled flames in both movement and color, for her hair was a brilliant orange. 

“He’'ll forgive you eventually.” Mary brought a paring knife up to where she held her hair out away from her. She gripped it aggressively, as if she held it against an artery. 

     She took a deep breath and began hacking at her hair, the strands falling to her feet and shimmering like copper against the wet earth. She had to take several deep breaths as she made her way through portions of hair, blonde eyelashes fluttering against coal dark cheeks. Her face, drawn up in concentration as it was, was prone to looking  blank . Light eyebrows and eyes black and round like polished river stones gave her face an expressionlessness that could look otherworldly. 

The quiet schick of the blade through her hair was the only sound besides the quiet slurping of the wetland around her. As the final strands fell, Mary shook out her newly shorn hair, now hacked close to her chin, and raised her arms to the sun. A laugh escaped her. The breeze against her neck felt like freedom. 

A sudden slopping arose behind her. She turned quickly, the sun flashing off the knife in her hand. The relieving breeze turned chill, sending a crawl across her skin. The expanse of mire behind her was empty. The air shivered with its stillness. 

Dressed only in her shift and that being tied up close to her hips, Mary felt vulnerable and thin, as reedy and waiting as a babes cry. Her heartbeat rushed in her ears. She felt certain that there was something standing there, watching her…

     Clearly, she could see that there was nothing there. The longer she looked, the more she tried to talk herself calm but still her heart raced. 

It was not uncommon for people to be spooked by the bog. The very nature of it spoke of decay and hidden ,rotting, hissing things. The land was often spoke about as if it was haunted. The bog was watchful. Damp and hot like unwashed breath on the back of your neck, the bog knew things it couldn't speak. Not sinister nor benevolent,it was secretive and dense and ate away at misplaced footsteps with a slurp of satisfaction.

     Mary gave her fallen hair a few good stomps into the mud and began to ready herself to leave. Already she feared she had been gone too long and had missed supper. 

Not far back but away from the watery, more puddled ground lay her clothes. Mary grabbed up her navy dress and gave it a good shake, hoping to dislodge any bugs. Made of thick but sturdy material, it covered to just above her ankles. Pulling it until it sat comfortably over her shift, Mary wiped her feet at the scrubby grass, getting as much earth off her feet as possible before rolling her stockings on. Haggard black boots came next, then a white cotton apron that had seen better days was tied with a tug around her waist. Lastly she donned a white cap, poking her short firey locks inside until only a few curls hung out by her ears. Tucking her knife into the band of her stocking, Mary set off for home. 

Still feeling rather skittish from her spook earlier, Mary walked briskly, eager to leave her shiver behind. But soon she began to tarry, as both the rare warm sun and the thought of her father's shocked face at the sight of her ruined hair-and what it meant- set her feet to lagging.