It was the morning of the spring festival. The townsfolk were scurrying about, going house to house, sharing freshly baked goods, hand woven crafts, all in preparation of the day ahead. The spring festival was a huge event for the small town, at times bringing strangers from nearby lands. The women enjoyed this, selling their goods, bringing money into the family otherwise not available. They felt rich, able to relish the short time they actually felt like they were royals, too.
Timothy and his father were out back, tending to the horses, making sure the wagon was set to make the short trip into the center of town. A sudden jolt frightened the horses, and Timothy had to fight to keep them calm. His father had a strange look on his face, and as Timothy tried to recall when he had seen it before, he gravely remembered. The day Jocelyne died. She was there. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her presence, much like the horses did, which explained why they became agitated. His father tried to shield Timothy, knowing what would come next, but he couldn’t hold her, couldn’t stop Jocelyne’s wrath.
In an instant, she reached out and touched him, then he was gone. Timothy no longer stood there. Only a vacant space, dusted with ashes, remained. Mason Dupont screamed as men and women ran from everywhere, but not toward him. They were running away from where he stood. He looked frantically about, realizing he had been left standing there, alone. Even his wife would not come near him. They knew, they all knew. Mason’s mistake had come back to haunt him. As the man who ordered Jocelyne’s execution, he was the one responsible for not only her death, but the death of her unborn son.
With howling laughter, she made her final flight through the town that had discarded her so many years ago. And in the fog of night, when the mists eerily cover the grounds of the graveyard, in the quiet stillness, you can hear the gentle song of a mother’s lullaby.
©2016 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
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