The Widow of the Fens

A lone widow lives deep in the fenlands. She is young and gold-haired with a small girl that reflects the same dreamy strength of her mother. The widow mourns her husband lost this past year, taken by a fever that wracked his body and burned him from the inside out. She lives in a house they built together, raised above the ground that was sometimes earth, sometimes water. 

The fenlands are open wide, yet dense, cloaked in jewelled and reflective grey, the hidden pools and channels like mirrors between the long reeds. It is a place abundant in food all year round, the young woman knows that her and her daughter will not starve, but her heart aches with all the loss and loneliness that a woman can bear, and she goes out alone to weep her grief, her tears falling into the watery film that covers the land. 

The worlds are permeable here, like a thin and delicate linen that would tear if you pulled at it. Spirits whisper and dance below the surface of the water, on the wind that could sing or howl, in the branches of the damp and lichen-hung trees. The woman could put her hand into the dark water and know that she was slipping between worlds. Was her beloved on the other side? 

She longed to follow him down into the shadows, out into the summer lands, but her daughter anchored her to this world, the world of grey and silver. So instead she let her tears fall like pearls into the dark water, each carrying a message of love and sorrow. 

She laid gifts in the water, feather, bone, wood, stone, copper and amber, gifts of gratitude and beseeching. She taught her daughter to do the same as she grew, with the same hair of gold that shimmered against the grey. When her daughter was old enough, she taught her to offer her first blood too, flowing freely into the dark water, honouring life, death and rebirth, honouring the cycles and the power of women. 

As her daughter shone brighter, the woman dimmed, losing her blood and her gold. Their watery world was generous but harsh and the old woman felt her husband near, calling to her from the other side of the mirror-water. Her hair was now a silvery-grey, she was at one with the world around her, and a peace settled in her heart that had been hollowed out by grief. 

In the soft and dim dusklight she saw her husband, glowing and youthful, standing in the dark waters. She gradually shed her clothes, one by one with trembling hands, and with a sigh, melted into the grey and silver, ready to be gold again.

© Elena Tornberg-Lennox 2022