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A Walk to Destiny – A short story from 2013
I do hope you enjoy this story
which I originally wrote for inclusion in an anthology benefitting a Charity for Domestic Abuse.
Sadly the anthology never materialised.
It was later published by Morgen Bailey on her Writing Blog.
There isn’t a murder or a crime story – as such…
Here it is again.
I thought I’d add some photos (taken by me) to add some colour.
A Walk To Destiny
by Jane Risdon (c) 2012
The ancient wooden gate creaked loudly as she pushed against it. The leaf-dappled lane she found herself in smelled of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves which stuck to the bottoms of her walking shoes as she made her way slowly, taking in the sheer peace of the place. As sunlight filtered through the heavy tree canopy and danced upon the ground in front of her, she could hear rustling and fluttering, as birds and other small animals moved about their business inside the thick green hedges stretching as far as she could see on either side of the lane.
Overhead high in the blue cloudless sky an aeroplane droned as it climbed higher, and she thought how typical of a summer day that sound was. It never failed to remind her of her childhood. She was transported back to about age five, reading ‘Dick and Dora,’ and ‘Janet and John’, somewhere outside, bathed in sunshine, and with the smell of freshly mown grass.
Somehow it made her feel safe and happy.
After a few minutes she came to a stile, made of rusted iron, overgrown with vegetation, and she took great care climbing over it – even though she wore jeans she was wary of the stinging nettles.
She stood looking around at the slight change of landscape. To her left there was a vast expanse of farmland, some fields looked as if something was growing there, but she could not see what, other fields looked fallow.
Beyond the fields in the distance the land rose and was covered in a mass of green. Dark green, light green and almost grey-green leafed trees seemed to hover above the fields. They looked wonderful against the blue sky; almost Germanic.
Memories of the Ruhr valley came to mind with the endless swathes of forests she had loved when she had lived there, a lifetime ago. All along the River Ruhr where housing gave way to forest, the countryside was beautiful and so lush. She had spent many hours walking through them in her youth.
If only she had possessed a camera back then, she thought, as she gazed at the scenery.
Now she only had her memories to fall back on.
She turned to her right and in a huge clearing the ruins of an old farmhouse stood, with roofless outbuildings and a side-less barn, which still held various decaying farm implements, such as a hay wagon made of wood and rusted metal, some sort of cutting machine which looked as if it had been cut in two, and a big old-fashioned rolling machine, which had two huge rusting drums attached to a long handle, which she thought must have been for flattening something once.
An old tractor had been left with doors open and was now overgrown with weeds, and a young oak tree seemed to be sprouting from the driver’s seat, the leather rotted long ago. The tractor was similar to those used in the fields which rose high behind her grandparents’ home where she used to play as a child, long before combined harvesters, and real mechanisation had taken over farming.
When she was a child she used to run alongside Spangle, the local farm-hand, as he pulled various machinery for cutting hay, bundling it behind his rickety old tractor, and then she and her friends and siblings would help by stacking the square bales of hay. Sometimes they would make dens inside them, hidden from the world, where they would play for hours. No-one seemed to worry where they might be.
Other times she would collect eggs at the local farm, and take little lozenge-shaped pellets which had an oaty smell, to feed the cows as they were milked in the milking parlour, a million years away from the modern mechanised milking of cows she had seen on television programmes like ‘Country Ways,’ and ‘Country Tracks’, which even now she really enjoyed watching.
Often she would help the farmer and Spangle pick and collect the potatoes, when they were ready, and the smell of the earth in the lane reminded her of the smell as they harvested the potatoes. Later they would visit the farmer’s mother in the warm cosy farmhouse kitchen, and have a glass of homemade lemonade and hot newly baked biscuits or cakes.
The farmhouse has now been turned into a Harvester’s pub and restaurant, however, the original building seemed to be almost the way it was in her childhood, with obviously modern additions.
She had been once inside just to look around. It was a really strange feeling to stand in the bar, once the kitchen, and remember how it was back then. The huge fireplace had been retained, so had the low beams, and there were sepia photographs displayed of the original buildings and farm.
She had found it a very sad experience.
Sad for the house and the farm, and those she knew who had lived and worked there, and sad for herself; her lost childhood and her happy memories.
For the first time in years she wondered whatever had become of Spangle. He had slept in the big barn and had his meals in the farmhouse, but as far as she could recall, he had never had a proper home.
He must be dead long ago, she mused.
Somewhere in the distance she could hear sheep bleating and, following their cries, she could just about make out a flock high on a ridge to the left of the farm, where a field stretched into the distance. She wondered where the farm they belonged was located.
The farm next to her had long been abandoned, which had her wondering what had happened to cause it to be deserted, seemingly in a hurry, given what had been left behind. It must have been good working machinery back then, and the house would still have been habitable; a mystery which would remain unsolved unless she met someone she could ask.
She didn’t think she would, however.
The lane continued past the farm and became more and more overgrown until it was impossible to go further. She looked around deciding what to do; try and cross the field where the sheep were and take the faster route home, or go back the way she had come. Looking at her watch, she decided she had time to retrace her steps, enjoying the warm sunshine and the scenery.
She needed this walk to clear her mind and refresh her spirit. So far it seemed to be working.
The fresh air, warmth of the sun, and the beautiful scenery, filled her with a calm contentment and her fears, and anxieties, began to be absorbed into the peace and tranquility that surrounded her.
Now she could think clearly and she stopped for a moment, listening to the sounds of nature around her.
She belonged here; in this place, in this time, in this skin. She had every right to exist just as the animals, the birds and vegetation around her had a right to this space and time. Bending down she touched a fern and recalled how ferns had been on this planet since the very beginning, and no doubt would be here long after she had gone. Long after he had gone.
He. He crept back into her consciousness, ruining the moment.
He. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth. She tasted the earth and the vegetation on the back of her throat and her resolve stiffened.
Looking around her she was filled with an overwhelming sense of self, of her ability to cope with anything, at last; courage. Courage to face what was to come, to face Him. She thrust her chest out and straightened her back and began to walk purposefully back along the lane.
She reached the stile and hesitated for a second or two as she gazed along the lane on the other side. Somewhere deep down she knew, she felt, that once she crossed over the stile to the other side, there was no going back. She would have to carry on now that her mind was made up.
Whatever the outcome, there was no going back. The decision was made.
She mounted the stile and as she alighted on the other side,
she knew that ahead was her walk to destiny.
She felt strong.
Let me know what you think.
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