The chatter and noise of others was such an
irritant to me, that my home was a deliberate three mile walk over stony path
and flimsy stile.
Some would describe the walk to my cottage
as bleak. To me, it was perfect. The route took me tramping over footpaths broken
in the middle by an overgrown lane. One
wooden gate with an avenue of trees shielded whatever lay beyond, and though I wondered
what was hidden, I had never seen a soul I could ask.
On the May bank holiday, my usual peace was
ended by a party. There was music and
singing and laughter. It started at
midday, and much as it irked me, I could find no valid reason to complain. However, at 11pm, after I had spent a
fruitless hour in bed trying to sleep through the din, I set out in search of
its source.
The
fields I walked through were dark. If
there was a party here, it was being held in the pitch black. I stumbled and cursed over the uneven
ground. At the lane that marked the
halfway point the noise seemed louder, but there was no tell-tale light, so I
persisted on toward the village. The
noise receded as I strode away, the party could only be behind the wooden gate.
As I leapt over the gate, the scene
changed. There were fires on the other
side of the trees. Nobody was standing
directly in their light, but every time a flame bit and crackled, I caught a
glimpse of thigh, or back, or hip. All
in motion, all unmistakably naked.
‘Whose party is this?’ I shouted.
There was laughter.
Some called ‘Helena’, others ‘Flora’, yet
more called ‘Chloris’.
None of the accents were English.
I retreated. Arms tried to encircle me, I flung them off.
I awoke in flowers.
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