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Date Posted: 08:36:56 04/21/08 Mon
Author: celtgirl
Subject: Snippet inside>>>
In reply to: celtgirl 's message, "Well my wee ones, it's been awhile since I shared anything with you, so I thought I'd post a snippet of something I just finished last week. I'll put it inside the first reply." on 08:34:54 04/21/08 Mon

Ch. (?) ‘The Bog Woman’ copyright 2008 Cindy Brandner


Casey whistled to himself as he trod across the thick carpet of white flowers and gorse, that carpeted the north-end of the bog that straddled the line between his own property and that of Lewis Guderson.

It was a fine Saturday in early May and the air had the untroubled blue and clear tint to it that often meant the day would go down bathed in sun, as well as having emerged in it. His current building was going up on time, and more importantly, on budget and he hadn’t had another visit from (?), though he wasn’t fool enough to think the man wouldn’t be back at some point.

For today though, he would leave the concerns of work behind. He had left Pamela happily playing pat-a-cake with an oatmeal covered Conor, and the two of them seemed quite blissful, despite the mess on the floor and the pureed apples in his wife’s hair. Before leaving he’d bent to kiss her and could still taste the cinnamon and strawberry flavour of her mouth, and the apple and oatmeal too. He smiled softly to himself, having a family suited him well, it felt like a warmth that surrounded him from morning to night and through the dark hours of bed and sleep. At the same time, such happiness was frightening, the worry that something might happen to any of his loved ones haunted his three o’clock in the mornings, on the rare occasion he could not sleep. Today though, today he would leave even those worries behind. Working with earth always freed him, his boot against the lug of the spade, its haft anchored firmly inside his knee, his spirit one with the thick, sodden, life-giving earth. It was good and simple work, paid readily with glowing winter fires that took the chill from a man’s bones.

He reached the area he planned to work, and placed his bag of biscuits and hot tea upon the ground to the side. The scent of (?) rose as the bag crushed the green juices from it. He would have to remember to pick some and carry it home to Pamela, she made an ointment from it that worked a wonder on burns and cuts.

He eyed the area with a turfcutter’s squint, where to start the bank exactly to inflict the least damage and yet maximize the amount of peat that might be pulled from it. The one thing he knew for certain was he would have to dig well away from the ancient hawthorne that crowned a slight rise in the land. The tree stood alone, more than forty feet high, though he knew the species rarely soared above thirty. It was in full bloom now, with great snowy corymbs of flower reaching right down to the ground. Such lone trees were said to mark the entry to the fairy realm, and were best avoided unless one wanted to find oneself lost in the world of the Good Folk. Besides even if he didn’t have reservations himself, surely the neighbours would be after his head were he to meddle with such a thing. When he was just a wee lad himself, a man a few streets over had hacked down a small, stunted specimen that he claimed was a blight on his wee plot. The neighbours had been horrified, and had only shaken their heads sadly when first the man’s dog died and then shortly after he broke his back, falling from a ladder. The Good Folk were not to be made light of and it was a fool man who did in the face of such knowledge.

He set to work with the morning sun upon his back, working well toward noon before stopping for a rest and a cup of tea. A soft breeze blew across his body, drying the sweat from his t-shirt and carrying with it the scents of hawthorne blooms- an odd scent, and not one he’d ever cared for, as the Irish had always considered the hawthorne to hold the scent of death. Branches of it had been hung on doorways during the Famine to indicate that someone inside the home was dying or dead. And to be certain, it did have an oddly decayed scent to it.

He leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree he sat beside, feeling a mite drowsy. But just as he was about to close his eyes, a flutter in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He sat up quickly, casting about for a weapon, then felt immediately foolish, for it was only a wee bit of cloth the wind had caught. It was tied to the hawthorne tree, caught fast in its branches, above a cluster of blossom. Odd that, for there wasn’t a spring nearby, nor a well to his knowledge. These rags had once been common at holy sites, wee bits of material dipped in the sacred water of the well, and then tied to the tree as an offering to the Goddess or nature spirit that was thought to guard the well. He stood and walked slowly toward the tree, the hairs on the nape of his neck crinkling a bit, as though a set of eyes were set fast upon him.

The wee bit of cloth looked very old- a faded blue cotton without pattern of any sort. He reached out to touch it and shivered when he realized it was damp. He pulled his hand back sharply, looking around as a chill went arrow-sharp up his spine. It hadn’t rained in days, and the breeze had been fair and warm that whole time- there simply wasn’t any reason for the cloth to be damp. He backed away from the tree and picked up his spade. He would get back to work, a good sweat ought to banish this strange shivery feeling touching the cloth had given him.

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