Cloth

Writing prompt: “At dusk, they gathered at the old field, each carrying something that could not be seen.”

Clouds hung still overhead as the sun began to set and the town-folk rose to the old field. All but the babies made their way to the elder-spot. Cloth draped over hands held together, clasped tightly around something precious. 

The air was still this evening, no wind nor breath pulsing in the late summer cool. Only the shuffling of feet on near-dried grass, and the distant, uneven cry of a baby left in the houses, tended by nannies or children barely more than babies themselves. The silence was as still as the clouds. If one closed their eyes, they might imagine that the cosmos itself had stopped its turning so that the whole of the town could gather before the night fell.

The women led their children forward, stern eyes shuffling from one to the next minding their behavior. Men, all of them shoeless, walked forward to the elder-spot as well, focused and concerned only with what was ahead. One boy, notably alone, fussed with the cloth precariously hung over his clasped fist, pushing up against his chest to prevent it slipping to the ground. 

Faces gray, hair disheveled. The townsfolk each last bathed a week ago as was custom before the festival. A week of no bath, to present themselves as the gods might expect them, as ungods, less than, animals no better than dogs except for knowledge of their masters.

In minutes, all were gathered in the chosen spot. The silence sat heavy, long enough for all to settle in their place.

As if on cue, an owl cooed somewhere in the distance, its sound stiffening the bodies gathered in the field. Tension, then attention, as a distinguished man of not older than forty stepped forward and lowered himself to the ground. Placing his fist on the earth, still covered by its cloth, he let loose its content, and removed his hands such that the draping would remain over the gift he had laid on the ground. Slowly standing up, he lowered his gaze, and took two steps back. Another man followed suit, and then another. One by one the men laid down their gifts and backed away with their eyes cast down, a circle of cloths forming in the middle of the elder-spot. The men formed a circle likewise in place, and soon the women and children did the same. 

The same boy who fumbled with his cloth earlier, fumbled to lay down his gift, but once it was on the ground, his shoulders dropped in relief. He had done what he needed to do.

Oblations laid out, the assembly waited for a signal. Hesitation lingered in the air, but then the man of no more than forty knelt to the ground and pressed his head forward on the bare earth. All followed suit, mothers again hastening their children to do the same.

An owl coos.

The women begin to hum. A simple, understated melody consumes the silence and lingers like a fog. Faces still pressed to the ground, no one sees a thing. The melody repeats, tightening around its rhythm, and soon all are humming the tune. 

A wind emerges from the still of the night and a woman hushes her sniveling daughter. The smell of soil and grass rush over bowed bodies, a cool touch against the heat of unwashed skin.

A minute goes by and the wind dies down. Breaths held tightly and bodies held still, silence reclaims its space. 

The townsfolk wait in place, heads still bowed to the dirt beneath them. They waited. 

Again an owl coos, but it is nearer, close even. The people in the field begin to lift their heads one at a time and then all at once, they get to their feet. Quickly, they shuffle to find their cloths still laid in a circle in the elder-spot. One by one, they lifted the cloths, half-expecting to find something underneath. A sigh of relief, one after the next, as mothers and children and men young and old retrieved their cloths, finding nothing underneath.

The lone boy found his cloth too, picking it up to find beneath it a small coin.

In silence he stood there unsure whether to reach for the coin. His eyes were confused but sullen.

A woman meeting his gaze upon the coin sighs. “I’m sorry, son,” she says.

The village makes their way back to their homes, some finding words to share now.

The boy collects his coin.

Fumbling to put it in his pocket, he heads back to the village too.