Friday Flash Fiction: Idolised
She shoved and watched it fall slowly into the sea far below. Even though she despised herself for doing it, she knew it would be worth it. Now she was free, they were all free.
She had to get back before the others woke. The idol had been heavier than she’d anticipated, and she’d ended up dragging it the last half mile. The stubborn wood had refused to roll down the hill and off the cliff as she had hoped, no matter how hard she’d tried. It was as if the Mother knew what she was doing and dug her hard edges into the dirt, clinging on to the last moment.
Listening to the distant roar of the waves, she imagined a thousand beasts in the foam descending upon the wood smashing it against the rocks, enraged at its unwelcome arrival in the sea.
She paused at the crest of the headland to look down at the village nestled below and the smoke ribboning out of the chimneys. She hurried down the path, thankful that her cottage was on its edge and that she wouldn’t have to pass any windows with twitching curtains.
“Mornin’.”
The gruff voice made her stumble in surprise. Old Man Bill was closing the gate to one of the fields, his bright eyed dog peering at her from underneath his furred brow, just like his owner.
“Morning Bill,” she smiled, rosy cheeked.
“Where you been to then?”
She shrugged. “Out walking.” When the silence lingered, she added; “I couldn’t sleep.”
He plucked a clay pipe out of his pocket, still peering at her in the half light of the pre-dawn. “You ‘ent settlin’ right, Miss Tamar. Still got your heart in that big city.”
She forced a smile. “It’s nice to be home though.”
After a moment more of scrutiny, he made a low grunt at the back of his throat and they parted ways, leaving her to hurry the last few yards to her cottage.
Tamar woke to the sound of hammering on the door and raised voices outside and realised she’d fallen asleep on top of the bedclothes where she had flopped a little while before.
“Open up Tamar!” It was the walking bellows, farmer Tom, with a mind as thick as his arms. Shivering, she descended the stairs and unbolted the door.
“What’s to do then?” she said, returning to her old phrases in an effort to remind them that she’d grown up here as much as them. “Why all this noise Tom Farmer?”
“There’s been a devil in the village!”
He moved on and she realised that it wasn’t a mob at her door, just the masses sucking all residents into the drama.
She hurried to the plinth that the Mother once looked down from and played her part as best she could, even pretending to weep into a handkerchief when her nerves drew out nervous giggles from the guilty well inside her.
She was so caught up in it she didn’t notice the change in the crowd. She looked up from her scrap of linen to see the villagers had formed a circle around her.
“We know you took the Mother,” Tom growled. “Where’d you take her to?”
“I didn’t take her!”
“Old Bill saw you out this mornin’,” one of the old wives shouted. “And we know what you be like young Tamar. We know you changed in that there city.”
“We seen you walk past the Mother without bow nor curtsey,” another shouted. “You done this!”
Everyone else joined in, yelling accusations. Then Tom shoved at her shoulder and a flash of rage burnt away her patience. “Shut up!” she yelled and a terrible hush descended over them. “Yes, I got rid of the Mother, and I’m glad I did it!” As they sucked in air through their open mouths, she rounded on the last that had spoken. “And yes, I never bowed nor curtseyed, I’d never do that to a statue of a pregnant woman bound to a stake. It’s disgusting, encouraging all of you to worship something that wants you to remain ignorant and guilt-ridden and… and… stupid!”
Tom grabbed her hair and forced her to her knees. “Where’s the Mother?” he shouted as he twisted her hair around his fist.
“I threw it in the sea!”
Tom backhanded her. Once he had laid the first blow, others hit her too until a voice at the edge of the crowd cut through the violence.
“Stop.”
The crowd parted as the old crone of the village made her way towards Tamar, her back as crooked as the stick she walked with.
“No need for this,” she croaked, putting a talon-like finger under Tamar’s chin. “It’s all part of the circle.”
“What should we do?” asked Tom reverently.
“She takes the Mother’s place, just like the last woman who spoke out against the faith.” She bent forwards until Tamar could smell the fish on the old woman’s breath. “Just like the one you threw into the sea. Knock her out Tom.”
Tamar woke a second time that day, this time with the taste of blood in her mouth. She tried to move her hands, then her legs, only to find herself tied to a post that had been erected on the Mother’s plinth. She saw the villagers congregated around her, and then felt something cold on her foot. She looked down to see the crone at her feet, brushing something clear and viscose onto her skin, making it numb. She tried to wriggle her toes, but nothing happened. She tried to speak, but her face felt cold and numb too.
“This will keep you fresh-faced for all time, young Tamar, just like the Mother,” the crone said. “But you’ll be the Maiden, the one to remind us all to guard our innocence and be grateful for the protection of men. You’ll remind us to keep the faith every day. All hail the Maiden!”
—
Many thanks to Gracie who inspired this Friday Flash with a prompt submitted to the Short Story Club – I hope you don’t mind me using it here!
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Ugh, poor woman. It’s a pity she didn’t throw the old crone into the sea; that village is held hostage to her.
**shiver**
You’re in fine form again this week, Miss E!
Is it any coincidence that this Whicker-Man ish story has its lead character named after Cornwall’s primary river?
Dark stuff indeed.
Bests
My only nit is the couple of clean-up items like missing punctuation here and there. This felt like it was going somewhere dark and it sure got there, if not in the way I expected. Good job.
@Marc – Interesting comment – I’ve never seen the Whicker Man, though I’m told it’s a classic. As for the name, I once knew someone called Tamar – which I found very odd at the time as I was born and grew up in Cornwall. The name just popped into my head whilst writing the first draft and I kinda liked it, so it stayed :o)
Very creepy, reminds me the of ‘The Lottery’.
Could just sense the evil welling up from the sea.
This story did bring the shudders, but the kind that come with reading a very good tale of horror.
Excellent, Em!
This is dark, as you promised, but I really like it– It’s haunting. I can see that her disrespect for their faith could result in this, as awful as it is. Poor woman. Great story.
And that is why, along grandpa’s hernia, we don’t throw statues in the sea. We talk to each other and tolerate each other’s beliefs like adults so we don’t wind up as lawn ornaments.
Yay! Creepy and cold-blooded. Some folks just never overcome their upbringing.
Loved it, Em. My little prompt couldn’t have found a better home. I’m tickled. 🙂
An enjoyably creepy story, like others it reminded me of the wicker man with its frightening local community and disregard for anything from the ‘outside’. Poor poor Tamar!
Creeeep-a-deep-a-deep-deep. Very chilling. It must be my new Lovecraft book but I keep hearing it in New England accents. *L* Good pacing and the payoff was brilliant. : )
Lovely little piece of horror. I enjoyed it a lot. The style made me feel like I was in the village (and desperately wanted out!).
~jon
Very creepy Em!
Aack!!
(I tried to post this word and I was told “Your comment is too short. Go back and try again.” LOL. So much for brevity.)
Aack! Now that’s funny. 🙂
~jon
So, you’re not going back home for a while yet Em? 😉
Great stuff! 😀
And if you’d like to know the story of the Wicker Man, I recommend this:
http://www.bleedingcool.com/2010/03/01/the-muppet-wicker-man-comic/
Very good Em, totally creepy.
For a people that “be grateful for the protection of men”, it’s interesting that their idols are female, and that they have a matriarch in the old crone
Very eerie, Em. No wonder she left that place to begin with. OK, the “old crone” needs to be dumped into the sea and all will be well. Maybe!
Congrats Gracie! Great story prompt.
Freaky! She should’a stayed in that there big city. Chilling and well-told, as always!
CD
Really thought provoking stuff here Em and beautifully written as always. Having just finished writing a story about the sacred masculine and feminine – and the four faces of the feminine, it was such a delight to turn up here this week (been too long between cups of tea with your fiction) and see the sacred feminine at play.
I’m going to take a slightly different tack than John about respecting others spiritual beliefs… I felt that Tamar knew somehow at the core of her existence there was something wrong with the statue – as she says “I’d never do that to a statue of a pregnant woman bound to a stake. It’s disgusting, encouraging all of you to worship something that wants you to remain ignorant and guilt-ridden and… and… stupid!”
Part of me thinks it is not the ignorance, or the guilt etc which drives her to do this – but the knowledge somewhere deep inside of her – that this is wrong and she doesn’t want to be complicit in what goes on in her village (this is riffing off the “Countrycide” episode of Torchwood I saw this week.) And it hasn’t been going away to the city which has made her “disrespectful” of “questioning” of what goes on in the village – but to give her the guts to do away or confront something she has always felt is wrong. The very image of a pregnant woman tied to a stake is in no way a celebration of the sacred feminine or her archetype as “mother”.
Perhaps the tears she weeps are real genuine tears for the sacriledge of what the villagers have done to something to something which is so beautiful and powerful.
I was a bit slow (and it took reading the comments) to realise Tamar was a first name and not her first name. The door scene, of her being taken out seemed a bit jolted and interrupted the flow of the story for me. I know what you were getting at but it didn’t seem to translate onto the page.
Loved the use of dialect with the farmer on the way back from the cliff face. And as always, your description of the sea is tantamount to genius. It shows your real affection and respect for the beauty and power of this landscape.
Thank you for such a unique story.
Excellent Em, truly excellent! Creeped me out no end.
One of your best Emma – I LOVE this! “…with a mind as thick as his arms” – so few words but such a vivid image.
I too was reminded of The Lottery, one of my all-time favorites. Super, creepy story!
Ooh, very cool! Don’t get between an angry mob and their beliefs. Great story!
Dark, and very, very cool. I really enjoyed this one.
Ohhhh, scary indeed. One of your very best, methinks! Talk about ‘Tales of the Unexpected’. Your stories are always so very visual, I can see this (and others) making great TV.
Now, any producers out there …?
Wow. I was kind of expecting the twist, but in a slightly different direction. Good flash piece!
Oh that is EERIE! Kind of like House of Wax, but a zillion times better. I like!
awesome! Ok, it did creep me out a bit, but I loved it!
~2
Delightfully creepy. Like how this came back full circle.