intrigued by a ring of metal suspended horizontally over the cauldron. It hung by chains from the rafters and had tails of string evenly spaced around it, the ends dangling just above the molten wax. The white string appeared to glow in the dull light.
The atmosphere was reminiscent of that of a church, and Marina held her breath in awe. She had turned to leave when she heard a small soft voice.
‘ You can help a little if you like?’ Out of the dark shadows a woman appeared, shorter even than Marina. Her grey hair was pinned up at the back of her head in a rather chic French roll, but wisps of hair escaped around her face, which appeared leathery and taut in the candlelight.
Marina mumbled some excuses, but the old lady shuffled forwards and whispered the word ‘Stay’, in a conspiratorial tone. Marina hesitated and turned to look once more at the candles and the pot of shimmering wax, to find the old woman had produced a wooden stool from somewhere, which she patted in invitation. She then turned, before Marina had made her decision, and took, from a wooden peg on the wall, an apron stiff with wax. Pieces flaked off as she moved it, the wax shards disappearing into the well-trodden straw that covered the floor.
The young Marina edged to the stool and sat cautiously and curiously on its time-worn wooden seat. The old woman continued without looking at her. She bent from the hips and took up a jug that had been all but buried in the straw, its edges strangely softened and its contours oddly smooth. Marina had been transfixed as the woman dipped the jug into the cauldron of wax and the jug seemed to melt, its contours becoming crisp as the dried wax turned liquid. She used the jug to swirl the lava before lifting it, full of hot wax, to the height of the hanging metal circle. Then she steadily and slowly poured the wax down one of the hanging strings. She turned the metal circle a fraction and poured wax down the next wick before bending to refill the jug and turning the ring another fraction.
The wicks became infinitesimally thicker as the woman continued to turn the ring and fill and pour the jug. The only sound was the slow chinking of the chains the ring was supported on as they become twisted with the turning, and the dripping of the wax as it ran down the end of each wick and rejoined the melting pot.
When she had completed the circle she allowed the chains to unwind. Some of the tails of the forming candles caught on each other and she separated them with her fingers before taking a fresh jug of wax and beginning the cycle again.
Marina looked more closely around the room. Behind the cauldron was a wooden table on which stood an unlit oil lamp, a cloth, a flat tin and a cake of something. Behind this, against the wall, were stacked candles a metre or more tall, tapering to a fluff of wick at their tops. Down the side of the walls were rows and rows of open-topped boxes of church candles.
The woman finished another cycle and allowed the ring to spin back again, and when it came to rest she put down the jug, and deliberately and slowly took off her apron. She turned to Marina, looped the apron over her head, picked up the jug and handed it to her, smiling. Marina remembers the excitement and just a touch of fear. What if she did it wrong, what if the old woman laughed at her attempts? The woman had smiled broadly at her hesitation, her paper-thin skin creasing at the corners of her mouth, and her cheeks pulled smooth.
Marina paused before dipping the jug and then took courage and began. The old woman took a big flat stick from behind the door and stirred the wax whilst Marina was pouring. Once happy with the consistency, the woman hung the paddle on a hook protruding from the bare stone wall and dragged a wooden box from under the table, from which she took out a wax honeycomb, dark brown, almost black, in the dim light.
Marina positioned herself slightly at an angle to watch what the woman was doing, whilst
The atmosphere was reminiscent of that of a church, and Marina held her breath in awe. She had turned to leave when she heard a small soft voice.
‘ You can help a little if you like?’ Out of the dark shadows a woman appeared, shorter even than Marina. Her grey hair was pinned up at the back of her head in a rather chic French roll, but wisps of hair escaped around her face, which appeared leathery and taut in the candlelight.
Marina mumbled some excuses, but the old lady shuffled forwards and whispered the word ‘Stay’, in a conspiratorial tone. Marina hesitated and turned to look once more at the candles and the pot of shimmering wax, to find the old woman had produced a wooden stool from somewhere, which she patted in invitation. She then turned, before Marina had made her decision, and took, from a wooden peg on the wall, an apron stiff with wax. Pieces flaked off as she moved it, the wax shards disappearing into the well-trodden straw that covered the floor.
The young Marina edged to the stool and sat cautiously and curiously on its time-worn wooden seat. The old woman continued without looking at her. She bent from the hips and took up a jug that had been all but buried in the straw, its edges strangely softened and its contours oddly smooth. Marina had been transfixed as the woman dipped the jug into the cauldron of wax and the jug seemed to melt, its contours becoming crisp as the dried wax turned liquid. She used the jug to swirl the lava before lifting it, full of hot wax, to the height of the hanging metal circle. Then she steadily and slowly poured the wax down one of the hanging strings. She turned the metal circle a fraction and poured wax down the next wick before bending to refill the jug and turning the ring another fraction.
The wicks became infinitesimally thicker as the woman continued to turn the ring and fill and pour the jug. The only sound was the slow chinking of the chains the ring was supported on as they become twisted with the turning, and the dripping of the wax as it ran down the end of each wick and rejoined the melting pot.
When she had completed the circle she allowed the chains to unwind. Some of the tails of the forming candles caught on each other and she separated them with her fingers before taking a fresh jug of wax and beginning the cycle again.
Marina looked more closely around the room. Behind the cauldron was a wooden table on which stood an unlit oil lamp, a cloth, a flat tin and a cake of something. Behind this, against the wall, were stacked candles a metre or more tall, tapering to a fluff of wick at their tops. Down the side of the walls were rows and rows of open-topped boxes of church candles.
The woman finished another cycle and allowed the ring to spin back again, and when it came to rest she put down the jug, and deliberately and slowly took off her apron. She turned to Marina, looped the apron over her head, picked up the jug and handed it to her, smiling. Marina remembers the excitement and just a touch of fear. What if she did it wrong, what if the old woman laughed at her attempts? The woman had smiled broadly at her hesitation, her paper-thin skin creasing at the corners of her mouth, and her cheeks pulled smooth.
Marina paused before dipping the jug and then took courage and began. The old woman took a big flat stick from behind the door and stirred the wax whilst Marina was pouring. Once happy with the consistency, the woman hung the paddle on a hook protruding from the bare stone wall and dragged a wooden box from under the table, from which she took out a wax honeycomb, dark brown, almost black, in the dim light.
Marina positioned herself slightly at an angle to watch what the woman was doing, whilst
Similar Books
