On Sundays, She Picked Flowers by Yah Yah Schofield

Author:Yah Yah Schofield [Yah Yah Scholfield]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mariyah Scholfield

“What for?” asked Nemoira, but Jude couldn’t answer. She could only cry as Nemoira watched her, could only sniffle as Nemoira used the end of her shirt to dry Jude’s face. Nemoira held Jude in her arms, not speaking, not even making any soothing noises. She just let Jude weep, and when she was calm, Nemoira helped her to her feet and led her on another slow walk through the glade.

W

The sky darkened, late afternoon bleeding into night. Armed with an oil lamp each, the women started home. Nemoira led the way again, always ten paces ahead, her light bobbing in the dark green tunnel. Jude drifted along, trance-like. Her eyelids dropped, the warmth of the tunnel so much like the warmth of her bed.

They walked, walked further. Nemoira was far ahead of her now, her lamp light barely visible. Jude tried to catch up to her, but each step forward was several steps for Nemoira. She called for her to slow down, but it was futile. After a while, she couldn’t see Nemoira’s light at all, and Jude was all alone in an unfamiliar patch of the woods with only a weakening lamp to guide her. She opened her mouth to call for Nemoira, thought better of it. She walked ahead, alert to all the tiny noises around her, the minute changes of temperature and scent.

A twig snapped ahead of her. She paused, raised her lamp higher.

Something was close. Jude held her lamp out to illuminate the path before her, and saw the massive paw prints, the oil lamp snuffed and thrown carelessly aside. Fear clamped Jude’s heart like a vise. She forced herself to take deep breaths. She’d be no good to Nemoira panicked. Jude took a step forward, and her foot in the paw print of the beast was like a single grain of sand in the desert—fleeting, insignificant.

“Nemoira?” Jude whispered. “Nemoira!”

Nothing. No response from the trees. Jude felt nauseous, lightheaded with fear. Her stomach bubbled and vomit rose in her throat. Her nose itched with a familiar smell: it was the scent of the cottage, of the woods, rotted flesh and blood, overripe fruit and flowers at their peak before death, fragrant and potent, headier than summer wine. It coated her throat, phlegm dripping down her nasal passage. Her saliva was foul; she wanted to spit, but she swallowed instead, her belly boiling with anxiety.

Then, Jude saw it, the beast. In the dark, illuminated only by a single oily orange flame, Jude could just about make out its shape, the long humped back, and slow, lumbering walk. It was huge, ghastly, all meat and muscle, yet graceful somehow. Its black shoulders were smooth, and its large paws made little noise against the forest floor. Jude couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She kept her place, dumbstruck as the creature walked on. Her mind raced. Did this thing kill her? Eat her?

The beast stopped walking. It growled lowly then looked over its shoulder at Jude. She gasped. It was a bear’s face, grotesque and strange, as if it had been attacked many, many times.

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