The Winter Years by Dionne Haynes

Author:Dionne Haynes [Haynes, Dionne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dionne Haynes

Desire rested against a tree trunk and used her apron to mop her brow. The forest provided a welcome canopy of shade, but the air was not as cool as she had hoped. The foraging had not gone well. It was as if the forest had been stripped bare of anything that might be useful. Two handfuls of morels lay at the bottom of Desire’s basket with a few sprigs of flowers plucked from a linden tree. There was no wild mint, but a tisane made with linden flowers would help restore Priscilla’s energy. Desire squinted up at the sky. The position of the sun suggested it was a couple of hours after midday. The second sermon would be starting. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the forest. Sparrows rustled leaves as they flitted between branches, singing to one another with their distinctive tunes. Squirrels played in the lower branches of an oak tree, and a rabbit disappeared into a hole at the base of its trunk. If she listened carefully, she could make out the sigh of the sea as waves crept across the beach and whispered into the sand.

A snap of a twig. Desire sat upright and opened her eyes. A young indigenous woman stood a few feet away, her face serene and familiar. In her arms she held a bundle of long stems adorned with rich green leaves and pale yellow flowers.

‘Oiguina!’ Desire stood and looked deeper into the forest. ‘Is Weetamoo with you?’

Oiguina shook her head and peered into Desire’s basket.

‘My friend is unwell,’ said Desire. She lifted the basket and pointed to a cluster of linden flowers. ‘To drink.’ She mimicked someone slumping with fatigue and drinking from a mug.

Oiguina remained impassive, as if waiting for further explanation.

‘She’s with child.’ Desire patted her tummy. ‘Baby.’

‘Ah.’ Oiguina removed two stems from her bundle and lay them across Desire’s basket.

‘Thank you,’ said Desire, detecting a faint aroma similar to lemon.

Oiguina pointed to the flowers and leaves, then repeated Desire’s mime for drinking. She turned and walked away. Pausing by a birch tree, she stripped off a few narrow sheets of loose bark, then turned to face Desire.

‘Come.’ Oiguina beckoned with one hand. ‘Weetamoo this way.’

They followed a well-trodden path between the trees and emerged onto a large field of corn and squash. Pots rattled in the distance and knives scraped against leather and wood. Voices hummed. A tall wooden tower presided over the field, and a few houses were clustered on the far side. Two small boys stood on top of the tower and launched small rocks and stones at any bird daring to land on the crop. An older boy prowled along a section of corn beyond the reach of the conscientious sentries. As quick as a lightning flash, he dipped out of view, and by the time he stood up again, he was holding a rabbit in his hands. He called towards the village and a little girl ran to him, the fringed edge of her leather dress rippling with her strides.

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