Writing prompt courtesy of River Witch and here is the extract it comes from.
Her troubled dreams have pulled her here, to the place on the clifftop where the man hauled her from the nymphs’ arms. Below her, stunted trees jut from rocks to spread their wind-twisted branches above the summer-glazed river. Sabrina’s whispers rise and Hester strains to hear above the shouts of sailors, barge owners and fishermen all battling for space on the river’s wide reaches.
Be wise, be strong, do what you need to do.
She breathes in the goddess’s murmuring approval, uses it to shore up her precarious courage.
The tide is turning, and those going down pull into the bank to wait out the tug of the upstream flow. It’s a high bore this morning. Although Hester craves glimpses of river nymphs playing in the spindrift, she closes her ears to their call. Today, she is here to confront the man.
Her need is a stony weight in her gut. She paces, and paces some more. He doesn’t come, the farm’s endless tasks prod her conscience, and she’s uncertain she will find her nerve a second time. One more turn, and then …
He is there, his eyes wary.
‘What does Sabrina say, Mistress?’ He bows and doffs his beaver hat.
Hester’s courage wanes, would flee from her. With effort, she hauls it back and wastes no time in the trivia of greetings.
‘Sabrina wants me to learn the lore of herbs and wildflowers, of mushrooms and toadstools, of leaves and roots.’ Arms folded, she forces herself to meet his eyes. Heat rises up her neck.
‘Is that so?’ He searches her face. She is afraid to blink. ‘Why does Sabrina want this?’
Hester uncrosses her arms, crosses them again. ‘She doesn’t want children to die because I can’t help them.’
‘Ah.’ He finds the streaming water of interest, following the high wave and its white riders. ‘The girl in the village.’
‘You knew? And you didn’t go to her?’
He keeps his gaze on the water. ‘I heard this morning.’
He doesn’t say ‘too late’ or of course he would have gone if he’d heard earlier. Hester pushes down her disappointment, choosing to believe that if he had, he would have saved Annie.
Annie is beyond saving. This is about tomorrow’s Annies.
‘Will you teach me?’ She can’t help the desperate plea in her voice.
He raises an eyebrow, watching her face. ‘Your mother?’
Brushing away a curl sticking to her cheek, Hester phrases her answer carefully. ‘Father is happy for me to learn.’ With his love of old ways, he would, she is sure, if she asked him.
‘Hmm.’ The man looks to the fields. ‘If the doctor couldn’t save the girl, neither you nor I could have. It was Annie’s time.’
Hester ignores the kindness in his tone.
‘Her time? She was five years old! The poor girl had no time, no time at all.’ Tears wet her lashes. Her hands clench, rise up, wanting to beat the man’s yellow brocade chest.
He catches her fists in his warm, smooth hands. ‘No. I will not teach you. The path you want to tread is treacherous.’ He pauses, closes his eyes. When he opens them, their glint of gold is hard and bright. ‘Perils, disaster, crowd that path for such as you …’ He shakes her fists. ‘Do you remember how you told me once, when first we met, how you knew meadowsweet because your mother says you will carry the flower on your wedding day?’
‘Yes.’ Hester is conscious of his hands around hers and of his eyes, their tinge of sadness with its intimations of deep regret. ‘That is what you will do. You’ll carry meadowsweet when you wed a lusty farmer, and you’ll bear him dark-curled, blue-eyed girls and sturdy boys.’
He drops her hands as if they are fire-heated branding irons and strides away, matching his pace to the incoming tide below the cliffs.
Hester is left with tingling palms, stifling frustrated sobs.
Follow the writing prompt on Facebook.
Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.
Poor Hester. Will anything ever go her way?
The book lets one know 😀