Women, witches and wildflowers

There were some wild women walking in a forest. One stopped to smell the roses. One stopped to hug a tree. One scratched the lichens. She wanted to make some ink. They hummed, spoke as their voices echoed through stone circles. Their footsteps reverberated through the forest like cicadas. The leaves crushed under their feet like mortar grating berries to make medicine. They walked and talked in symphonies. They spotted flowers and trees and called them their names. Golden Button. Purple praline. Ivory Oaks.

They ascended the hill following the chime of the clock. The clock struck three. It's hands looked like half a cross. Approaching the tower, they wondered if it was a church. Reading the name plate, they realised it was a museum. Peering at the gate, they saw a cast iron hand. One of them knocked the hand thrice. No one arrived.

The clock chimed again.

One.

What was that? Will it chime again?

They sat down to count its chimes.

One, two.

Lying on the grass, breathing in the sunlight, bugs crawling across the belly button, putting tiny blue flowers in their hair, eating some chips, chasing butterflies.

One, two, three.

Speaking of childhoods, blood, bleeding, pain, cycles, moons, rituals, witches, diseases, doctors, pathologies, science, beliefs, monsters, natures and stardust.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Who wants to see a lake? Which way is the lake?

On the other side of the train station that way. Follow the long path on the right, you'll find the lake. A man hugging a tree.

Another circle on the way, and a stone bench. The perfect spot for a sacrifice, one of them says. Another lies down on the bench, slips and hurts her head. Rub rub rub, even if there is no pain. The centre of the circle echoes their voice making it sound louder. What is the science behind it, they wonder? Sound reflects equidistantly from all points in the perimeter and resonates?

No one knows. One of them picks up a technology; a mic and a recorder. Humming and listening right at the centre seeing if the mic picks up the echo similarly. Dancing now, to the tune of the hum and the echo. Nodding her head, as if it doesn't work.

They move on.

Back at the clock tower, they are hungry. The sun is slightly harsher, but more enjoyable.

They go near a bar that is closing in the middle of the forest, with nothing to offer. A stone topographical map seems to give no direction but they feel the ridges and depressions on the palms with their fingers as if feeling the Earth itself. Felled logs make for fancy benches and the bar owners talk about how politicians are thieves while upturning tables. The women sit by the bench in front of the clock tower. The chimes are no longer counted. The sun's rays are absorbed onto the epidermis, it's warmth spreading through their bodies and reflecting as gentle smiles on their faces. One of them lay her face on the railing, her legs drooping down. Another one outstretches her legs, resting her entire weight on her hands in the back, face slightly turned away from the sun. The other sits cross legged, her back straight and face facing the sun. They sit for a while in silence. The wind plays with their hair.

It lulls them that it's time to find the lake.

They slowly descend the hill in silence.

They meet the train at the station. Announcements are recited unhurriedly as the train arrives. They miss the train, because they do not want to go home yet. They want to find the lake on the other side.

As the sun descends downwards on its day arc, its hue turns more golden. This side of the forest seems more ancient. The trees are taller, older. A closed path to a mine lies abandoned by creepers. The women are happy. "What if we performed a ritual inside?", one of them wonders. Soft seeds lay like a welcome carpet into the forest. The concrete steps to the lake are impressed with fallen leaf patterns while the seeds find their way into the edges of the leaves.

An empty reservoir bordered by a bridge above stands guard to the hidden lake. Like a wall guarding a treasure, the blank stone face looks uninviting yet mysterious. A few steps ahead, and the sun reveals itself over the wall. Here is another world.

A world where turtles swim amidst algae and the reeds on the shore dance to the tune of the ripples on the surface of the lake. Where silence envelops sound, and humbles you to look at every creature, each piece of life as if it were your own. A place to feel gratitude from the depths of your heart and rejoice in what a feeling it is, to be alive.

The women walk towards the bank of the lake where a small trail leads them to a patch of grass and sunlight. They spread a picnic blanket, bring out some cake and fruit. They each take a bite, one of the cake, one of the fruit. They relish in its sweetness.

The seeds of the fruit are thrown into the grass, and they spread like laughter.

The sun starts to set even deeper. They fold the blanket, walk back on the trail towards the train station in a neat file. The path is more eerie and the sky turns darker.

They might've looked like fireflies, if they had stayed after nightfall.