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Authors: Helen Sedgwick
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In the garden, she searches the sky for the comet. She couldn’t see it out of her window, or from the back porch. Her binoculars show her layer upon layer of stars; more layers appear the longer she looks, every dark space fills with stars but Halley’s comet is nowhere to be seen. At 4.30 a.m. the sky begins to lighten and the furthest layers of stars sink into the rising blue. Standing on the grass out by Great-Grandpa Paul-François’s old shed she gives up the search; lets the binoculars fall to the ground with a quiet thud. The comet is gone, and besides, her waters have broken.
1066
Halley’s Comet
They walk into the village like it’s carnival day, that’s how it feels; like it’s fun and wholesome and will never lead to arrows of fire and lungs pierced with splinters of wood. Ælfgifu stands with the others and cheers for the local boys who are going to fight, and she waves her flowers because that is what they do, at carnival time.
That evening she goes to collect water from the stream; their well is sending up mud and they say that the flying star means bad luck, that her family shouldn’t trust anything when the stars come shooting through the clouds. What nonsense, she told Grandpa once, but still, she avoids the well and there – by the stream, she sees the boys from the procession, not off fighting yet, but playing in the water. They are like children, she thinks.
The night is warm but fresh and their clothes are piled by the stream’s bank; one of them turns, raises a hand halfway then stops. Shaking her dark hair out over her shoulders she walks up to the stream, pretending not to watch him. He’s emerged from under the water now, the one with black hair and a wave half formed, glancing at her when he thinks she’s not looking. She kneels by the bank, and without meaning to she’s slipping her feet into the stream and he’s walking towards her. In the moonlight his skin shimmers. She slips off her dress. She invites him, and he accepts.
She can hear the sounds of the battle, her sisters and brothers hear it too; like a shared nightmare lingering after they’ve woken. No way to protect themselves so they sit outside on the grass and wait for whatever will follow. The screams – shapeless howls of pain that can’t be comprehended. They threw flowers, she thinks, just yesterday, daffodils of hope that were more like the petals thrown into a grave. Even the young ones understand what is happening; no words yet to speak it but she can see the fear in their eyes.
The worst is when it gets quieter; wails of pain replaced by silence of death. From over the hill they appear, with their unfamiliar uniforms and flags; these are not their soldiers come to protect them. They are the other side, here to destroy. At the edge of the village a house is set on fire and the smell tells her it is not only wattle and daub that is burning; the animals, she thinks, and the thought turns to hope that it is only animals. The men shout in a language she doesn’t know. Children scream. She gathers her brothers and sisters, tells them to stand behind her. Overhead the comet blazes.
She doesn’t know why they do it. The arrows pass her outstretched arms and find their target in her brother’s chest, in the face of her eldest sister who still has a flower in her hair. Theyset fire to their home. Her youngest sister runs to the next house, into the blade of a man who has blood streaming from his arm. He falls with her. Ælfgifu turns, looks them in the eye, holds her last sister behind her. They have killed everyone else. She’s pushed to the ground. When her sister falls beside her, blood leaks from the gash in her neck. She doesn’t know why they do it. They leave her alive.
At the sound of his voice Ælfgifu opens her eyes.
Please, he says, there is not much time.
She is holding her sister in her arms, blood dried now on her face and neck, her tunic dyed brown with it. She turns away from his eyes
In the garden, she searches the sky for the comet. She couldn’t see it out of her window, or from the back porch. Her binoculars show her layer upon layer of stars; more layers appear the longer she looks, every dark space fills with stars but Halley’s comet is nowhere to be seen. At 4.30 a.m. the sky begins to lighten and the furthest layers of stars sink into the rising blue. Standing on the grass out by Great-Grandpa Paul-François’s old shed she gives up the search; lets the binoculars fall to the ground with a quiet thud. The comet is gone, and besides, her waters have broken.
1066
Halley’s Comet
They walk into the village like it’s carnival day, that’s how it feels; like it’s fun and wholesome and will never lead to arrows of fire and lungs pierced with splinters of wood. Ælfgifu stands with the others and cheers for the local boys who are going to fight, and she waves her flowers because that is what they do, at carnival time.
That evening she goes to collect water from the stream; their well is sending up mud and they say that the flying star means bad luck, that her family shouldn’t trust anything when the stars come shooting through the clouds. What nonsense, she told Grandpa once, but still, she avoids the well and there – by the stream, she sees the boys from the procession, not off fighting yet, but playing in the water. They are like children, she thinks.
The night is warm but fresh and their clothes are piled by the stream’s bank; one of them turns, raises a hand halfway then stops. Shaking her dark hair out over her shoulders she walks up to the stream, pretending not to watch him. He’s emerged from under the water now, the one with black hair and a wave half formed, glancing at her when he thinks she’s not looking. She kneels by the bank, and without meaning to she’s slipping her feet into the stream and he’s walking towards her. In the moonlight his skin shimmers. She slips off her dress. She invites him, and he accepts.
She can hear the sounds of the battle, her sisters and brothers hear it too; like a shared nightmare lingering after they’ve woken. No way to protect themselves so they sit outside on the grass and wait for whatever will follow. The screams – shapeless howls of pain that can’t be comprehended. They threw flowers, she thinks, just yesterday, daffodils of hope that were more like the petals thrown into a grave. Even the young ones understand what is happening; no words yet to speak it but she can see the fear in their eyes.
The worst is when it gets quieter; wails of pain replaced by silence of death. From over the hill they appear, with their unfamiliar uniforms and flags; these are not their soldiers come to protect them. They are the other side, here to destroy. At the edge of the village a house is set on fire and the smell tells her it is not only wattle and daub that is burning; the animals, she thinks, and the thought turns to hope that it is only animals. The men shout in a language she doesn’t know. Children scream. She gathers her brothers and sisters, tells them to stand behind her. Overhead the comet blazes.
She doesn’t know why they do it. The arrows pass her outstretched arms and find their target in her brother’s chest, in the face of her eldest sister who still has a flower in her hair. Theyset fire to their home. Her youngest sister runs to the next house, into the blade of a man who has blood streaming from his arm. He falls with her. Ælfgifu turns, looks them in the eye, holds her last sister behind her. They have killed everyone else. She’s pushed to the ground. When her sister falls beside her, blood leaks from the gash in her neck. She doesn’t know why they do it. They leave her alive.
At the sound of his voice Ælfgifu opens her eyes.
Please, he says, there is not much time.
She is holding her sister in her arms, blood dried now on her face and neck, her tunic dyed brown with it. She turns away from his eyes
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