insect as it reached out to smell me. A multitude of eyes within bulbous black eyes watched me, were alert to my interest, as it twitched nervously. It had its own set of fangs, but in many ways its mouth reminded me of the pincers of a lobster. It had six spindly, yet powerful, legs and a large bee-like back end. With a jolt, I realised that usually these features were invisible to the naked eye. I had never really analysed anything in nature before. As I turned my gaze away I felt the ant, heard it even, scurry after its sisters in their search for food. I fell once more into a trance-like stupor as I examined the grass and mud, and the multitude of living things that squirmed and crawled there. The insect world was a fascinating place.
A chopping sound nearby roused me. A woodcutter was working the woods; the smell of food was clearly his. I stood up and slid away deeper into the forest. It was essential that I remained unseen. I weaved in and around oaks until the trees thinned once more.
Smoke poured from the chimney of a small cottage. I heard the noises of farm animals in a pen around the back; the snort of a pig, the clucking and screeching of hens and the crow of the cockerel as he proclaimed the dawn.
The morning opened up fully and the sun’s intensity made my exposed arms itch as if a thousand insects were climbing all over my skin. I swatted my flesh, believing the feeling to be the ants I’d seen. There was nothing there. I felt sick and dizzy. I slithered back into shade. Both the nausea and the itching stopped. I experimented by raising one arm and stretching it out of the shade into the light. The sensation returned so I yanked my arm back to gain immediate relief. The sun was a source of discomfort for me when openly exposed to it.
A young girl came out of the cottage dressed in a coarse blue dress. I squatted down among the foliage. A grubby apron was tied around her waist and she carried a bucket of grain on her hip.
‘Druda!’ yelled a voice from within the cottage.
‘ Si, Madre ?’
‘Don’t forget to collect the hens’ eggs too.’
Druda tutted. Her brown hair was unkempt and unwashed but she had a pretty face. ‘ Si, Madre .’
‘And then take the washing down to the river...’
Druda stopped, turned and looked back at the cottage.
‘I’m a slave in this house.’ The girl sighed, and then singing softly with good nature, she went around the back of the cottage.
I heard the soft patter of grain falling at the feet of hungry birds and I moved around the back of the house. Druda sloshed swill into the pigs’ trough. There were three pigs. They dived over each other, shoving one another aside as they guzzled the foul smelling waste into their greedy mouths. Within minutes the trough was empty and the pigs squealed in protest. Their gobbling mouths opened and closed as they pushed against the wood. Druda watched them for a moment before moving to the hen house where she began gathering eggs, placing them gently into the bucket she had used to fill the trough.
I remained hidden, watching the girl work and listening to her mother shout orders from inside the cottage. After washing clothing in the river Druda returned to the yard and proceeded to peg up undergarments and another coarse woollen dress onto a line that was strung between a couple of trees. She went inside the cottage where I heard her spoon out some broth for her ailing mother. The women barely talked. I could hear the rustle of bread being torn and the soft slap of spoons dipping quickly in and out of their bowls as they gulped the food down.
It was an odd experience. Sitting on the outskirts of such humble life, knowing I was now no longer part of the living world. Could I ever be in it again? I became aware of my dress and the disadvantage of only having my robe. For the first time I considered going home to collect some things, but knew this was impossible. A militia would be waiting for me, of that I was certain.
A chopping sound nearby roused me. A woodcutter was working the woods; the smell of food was clearly his. I stood up and slid away deeper into the forest. It was essential that I remained unseen. I weaved in and around oaks until the trees thinned once more.
Smoke poured from the chimney of a small cottage. I heard the noises of farm animals in a pen around the back; the snort of a pig, the clucking and screeching of hens and the crow of the cockerel as he proclaimed the dawn.
The morning opened up fully and the sun’s intensity made my exposed arms itch as if a thousand insects were climbing all over my skin. I swatted my flesh, believing the feeling to be the ants I’d seen. There was nothing there. I felt sick and dizzy. I slithered back into shade. Both the nausea and the itching stopped. I experimented by raising one arm and stretching it out of the shade into the light. The sensation returned so I yanked my arm back to gain immediate relief. The sun was a source of discomfort for me when openly exposed to it.
A young girl came out of the cottage dressed in a coarse blue dress. I squatted down among the foliage. A grubby apron was tied around her waist and she carried a bucket of grain on her hip.
‘Druda!’ yelled a voice from within the cottage.
‘ Si, Madre ?’
‘Don’t forget to collect the hens’ eggs too.’
Druda tutted. Her brown hair was unkempt and unwashed but she had a pretty face. ‘ Si, Madre .’
‘And then take the washing down to the river...’
Druda stopped, turned and looked back at the cottage.
‘I’m a slave in this house.’ The girl sighed, and then singing softly with good nature, she went around the back of the cottage.
I heard the soft patter of grain falling at the feet of hungry birds and I moved around the back of the house. Druda sloshed swill into the pigs’ trough. There were three pigs. They dived over each other, shoving one another aside as they guzzled the foul smelling waste into their greedy mouths. Within minutes the trough was empty and the pigs squealed in protest. Their gobbling mouths opened and closed as they pushed against the wood. Druda watched them for a moment before moving to the hen house where she began gathering eggs, placing them gently into the bucket she had used to fill the trough.
I remained hidden, watching the girl work and listening to her mother shout orders from inside the cottage. After washing clothing in the river Druda returned to the yard and proceeded to peg up undergarments and another coarse woollen dress onto a line that was strung between a couple of trees. She went inside the cottage where I heard her spoon out some broth for her ailing mother. The women barely talked. I could hear the rustle of bread being torn and the soft slap of spoons dipping quickly in and out of their bowls as they gulped the food down.
It was an odd experience. Sitting on the outskirts of such humble life, knowing I was now no longer part of the living world. Could I ever be in it again? I became aware of my dress and the disadvantage of only having my robe. For the first time I considered going home to collect some things, but knew this was impossible. A militia would be waiting for me, of that I was certain.
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