Florets #7: now silver, now green, now gold

by Kate Wyver

The woman lifts up the edge of the lake. The water is thick and heavy and cold. She holds it with both hands, adjusting her fingers as each one starts to go numb. 

The water is mixed with silk and shards of glass. As the woman lifts, a stray shard catches on weeds. She tugs and it comes unstuck, splashing her with murky, wet splinters. She tugs again and hauls the lake over her shoulder. 

A duck feather finds its way into the woman’s mouth and she splutters. It leaves a grey taste on her tongue. A tangle of twigs falls over her shoulder, knotting into her hair. Clumps of mud drag themselves across her arms and belly. They are wet and rough and sticky. Small bits of stone catch on her skin and leave little trails of blood.

She has a good grip on it now, one corner of the lake wrapped twice around her right hand. She turns around so that the lake can watch her back. She shifts its weight onto her other shoulder, stuffing dry leaves under the water, down from her right ear to the top of her arm, to protect herself from the worst of the cold.

The top of the mud will dry when the sun rises later, but the lake will keep the bottom layer moist and squishy, so that as she moves around, she’ll be constantly re-covered in streaks of green and brown. When she takes the lake off and puts it back in place the next morning, the cuts from the glass will be no more than little scratches. The marks from the stones will have just started to clot and harden. The weeds will slide down her skin, rubbing off the mud as they go.

The woman transfers the weight of the water one last time and starts walking, dragging it behind her. She is carrying the lake home.

The trees shed leaves and twigs as she passes beneath them. The crab apple tree drops some overripe fruit. The alder scrapes off some lichen covered twigs. The silver birch glitters overhead and the blackthorn drops some sloes. The cedar lets go of a large fluffy leaf and the chestnut offers a prickly husk. The wych elm drops its small, winged fruit and a pinecone falls from the sky.

The water gobbles up each gift, dragging them all along. The further the woman walks, the heavier the water gets. Every few steps, she has to stop and unsnag her new collection. 

By now, the woman’s right side is cold and wet and wrinkled. She is tired. The water trickles over her shoulder and holds her hand, gently pushing her on. 

Arms sore, shoulders aching, neck stiffer than tree bark, she arrives. She drops the lake with a splash and reaches up to stretch her back, her spine clicking as each vertebra falls into place.

She stretches each leg then crouches to sit by the water to pluck out the floating debris. The acorn and apple, the leaves and sticky twigs, the conker and pinecone and sloe. The shards of glass, the silk, the unwanted weeds and stones. 

She feels a hand on her back and raises her chin. The woman behind her leans over and kisses her lips. Her breath is warm and soft. She picks the sticks from the woman’s hair.

Together, they pluck out the last of the forest’s goods, fiddling over the final splinters of twigs. The lake is crisp and clear now, just water and weeds. For a while they sit looking at the glimmer of it, now silver, now green, now gold.

The woman stands and lifts the other. Together, they take a tentative step in. The shock of the chill works its way up their legs and their breath is quick and short. One runs her fingers over the surface of the lake. She scoops up a handful of water and runs it down the other’s arm, goosebumps following the water’s route. They come close together, one’s forehead resting on the other’s chin. The woman closes her eyes as the other kisses her cuts, tenderly touching where the stones and shards grazed her skin.

The ripples caused by their feet subside and all is cool and still and calm. The women walk to one side of the lake and pick it up. They pull the water up, wrapping it around themselves. All night, the women hold each other, and the water, warm now, holds them. 

They wake as the water starts to cool. The first streaks of sunlight are starting to show through the trees and the mud on top is beginning to crack. The woman must return the lake. 

She untangles herself from the soft limbs and trickling water. Before she makes the long journey back, she softly kisses the other woman’s neck and finds a wet leaf stuck to her skin. She thinks about keeping it but gently peels it off, dropping it with the lightest ripple back into the water.