A Walk Through Moonlit Fields (short story)

A Walk through Cotton Fields
A Short Story by JNEP

“Often I stay awake at night looking out over the valley. I stare from my upstairs window at the luminous expanses of grass, as the chilled night air blows through from the coast. On cold nights, I sometimes see spirits running freely about; their empty bodies shine an eerie milky white from the light of the moon. I watch them laugh loudly and jump and pirouette gracefully in the air. Three remain of all the ones I have seen: A small girl, no older than ten. She is beautiful and sings as if she were full of life. Another girl, much older than the first but still young, wears a summer dress and dances barefoot throughout the fields. I have named her Sarah, as she reminds me of a dancer I once knew in my youth. I believe she may even have had a dress quite similar. The boy’s name is Peter, and he is ruddy, strong, and fast as the wind. He runs through the fields quick as a rabbit. I know his name because his father often calls to him.”
“Yes, I do remember the first time I saw them, these spirits that is. It was in the fall of 1945. I was nine or ten then; I can never quite remember my age. Out here, we don’t fuss about age like you city folks do. Take Mr. Hickbert for example. He lives beyond the hill over there, and is said to be nearly a century old. He still gets his water from my well every morning, as he has ever since his own went dry some thirty years ago. I see him every now and then when I take my morning walks. He’s usually seated atop the big boulder in the meadow below the hill and just waves. He’s a good man, and I’ve heard he was a loving family man in his earlier days.”
“1945, that’s where I was, in the fall after the wars and the local boys were coming home. We were lucky; we weren’t hit as bad as some of the towns around here. Oaktown, 15 miles south of here, lost five young men to that war. They were in the infantry… Well, it was bad enough back then…”
“I remember seeing the little girl first. I was sitting at my bedroom window, overlooking the field you now see in front of you, and listening to my parents talking and laughing together downstairs. That’s when I heard her beautiful voice. She was humming the most enchanting melody, and I remember that it struck me as odd since, at that time, no one else lived around these parts. Our closest neighbors were the Menkelsons; they owned the small cabin overlooking the ravine about a mile or so north of here. Oh, her voice, I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. I put my hands to the sill and peered out the window, searching for the body to that angelic voice. She was knelt down close to where the large oak tree is over there, and seemed to be picking cotton.”
“Every so often she would lean over and dump what she had picked in a rattan basket that lay at the foot of the huge tree. At first I felt scared; I didn’t know who she was and why she was outside at this hour. I didn’t know where she might have come from and so I continued to watch her. She continued singing softly, and her words just seemed to seep into my body, rendering me a little lightheaded. I must have fallen asleep at the window because all I recall is my father gently waking me the following morning. He lifted me up, put me on his shoulders and we went downstairs to join my mother for breakfast. He and my mom made jokes about putting blinds over my frames so that I might get some sleep and not stay awake all night looking at the moon. I smiled, of course, and kept the affair to myself.”
“And of course, I’ve never told them, or anyone else, about what I saw that night. I guess it was mostly because I wasn’t sure myself if what I had seen had been real. But when I heard her familiar voice again late the following night as I sat at my window, I knew I had not dreamt the whole thing. Again she toiled, gathering cotton from the shrubs, and dumping it in the basket when her hands were full. And again, I sat and watched her until the wee hours of the morning. This went on for many nights. Until finally one night she picked up her basket and disappeared through the thick of trees, into the blackness of the forest. Tears came to my eyes as I waited for her to return, and when she did not, I pulled the shutters closed and climbed in to bed. My eyes were stinging from the tears, and a strange discomfort had arisen in my chest.”
“A person gets used to these sorts of things up here. I’ve lived here all my life and have only traveled to town either when I was sick or while my daddy was still alive. He was a writer, actually more of a poet, and he occasionally drove into town to buy supplies. My mom was a painter, and quite a successful one at that. Her work has been shown in many of the best French and English museums, as well as being exposed in quite a few of New York’s more private galleries. She was an amazing woman, my mother was. Compelled by a creator’s passion, she was driven by that grueling, maddening feeling that an unfinished piece presents to an artist. My father once told me that they had fallen in love long before I came into the world, and that I had inherited both of their talents. Hmm, sometimes I think about how true that has become.”
“Sarah, now she was hard to find. It was only in the spring of ’46 that I found her, or rather, that she found me. I had been playing all afternoon in the blushing meadows of the Pearson’s lands, a few miles to the east, and by nighttime I was spent. I decided to rest beneath a majestic weeping willow, and soon after fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of footsteps, and at first I had thought it must have been my father who had come looking for me. I’ve always had a habit of losing track of time. My father used to find me in all sorts of places. He was never mad though, never angry and never spoke to me harshly. Perhaps he understood the freedom which I sought. Anyways, I heard footsteps and awoke. And then, as I stood alongside the huge weeping willow, she appeared to me, twirling and spinning gracefully with her arms above her head, and wearing that yellow summer dress of hers. She has always worn that dress, at least as long as I’ve known her. Sure, I was frightened, and I can clearly remember falling backward over a tree root. I hit the ground hard and when I looked back to where she had been, she was gone. I looked everywhere for her, and even waited for her to return but she never did and so I walked back home, guided by the bright light of the moon.”
“All these spirits I have come to know over the years. I tried many years ago to research them at the town library. But when I got there I realized that I didn’t know what to look for! I had neither names, nor any other information that might aid me in searching. The librarian did her best to help me but I didn’t know what I was doing, so I left and have never returned. I prefer to know them as they are, and I think they like it better that way too. When you arrive at my age you realize that appearances don’t mean much to the people in these parts. Folks are too relaxed to care. They know themselves and their time, and I guess they just haven’t got any time to waste on you and your concocted stories. They’re good people, simple people. And they’re heaps of fun at the town picnics; if you stay with me until summer you’ll see just what I mean!”
“Peter likes to run, and as far back as I can remember running is about the only thing he ever does. He glides through the fields like a wild rabbit, following the movement of the wind along the spines of wheat and corn crops. I used to think he was running from something - you know how you hear those terrible stories about folks in the big cities and how they hurt their kids and things like that. Well, I used to wonder the same thing about Peter. Then I found that if you look closely at his face as he runs by, I mean stand as close to him as you can when he runs by, you’ll see that he’s got a big grin on his face. As if someone were holding a pound of chocolate fudge right there in front of him! I don’t wonder about Peter anymore, I just sit and watch him run, chuckling and laughing out loud as he darts by, this way and that. He makes me laugh and more than once I’ve tried to run alongside him. But he’s too fast for me, and I lose sight of him. It’s also occurred to me that he may be a little ‘slow’. The Clarke’s had a child like that once, a boy too, but he passed away many years ago, and he was much younger than Peter. It’s a shame though; the Clarke’s never attended church on Sundays while that boy was alive. And Mrs. Clarke always ran errands and shopped for provisions alone. It’s a terrible thing when a child is not loved. It is a terrible thing indeed.”
“Yes, I’m getting to that, you needn’t worry, I haven’t forgotten, you know. I may be slowing down in my ‘young’ age, but I’ve still got my wits about me! Time moves slowly in Singleton. Weeks seem like months, months seem like years. I remember a time when my generation used to gather in the meadows where I used to play as a child. We would all bring lanterns and candles and set them on stones and rocks. When everyone had arrived, we would begin reading bits and pieces of poetry aloud. The days seemed shorter then. Somehow time always wins, no matter how hard you fight.”
“Peter’s father is a tall and handsome man. He walks with an intense wisdom and whistles the most wonderful harmonies. I’ve always told myself that he must have been a poet. He reminds me of my father inasmuch as he is gentle and loving with Peter. He sits on that rock over there by the tool shed; it oversees the fields where Peter runs. When it’s time to go, he calls to Peter, and they walk together until they are out of my sight. The father doesn’t come around anymore. Sometimes I think that we live and die more times than they care to tell us on Sundays. And of course there are others that visit me on occasion. If you stay with me long enough and make a habit of facing the late dark sky before retiring each night, you might see them. When you do, you’ll be afraid at first, it does take a little getting used to in the beginning, but soon you’ll learn to make their joy your joy, and their laughter your laughter. After all, time moves slowly in a small town like Singleton."

The end.

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JNEP – 28/07/08
11.04.01 (original creation date)
05.09.01 (editing session)