Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: RED (02/01/18)
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TITLE: I wear red ribbons. | Previous Challenge Entry
By Danielle King
02/08/18 -
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I stopped for a moment to pull on my woolly hat and neck scarf. The breeze had turned chilly. Access to the church was across a field with no made path, though there was a bridge of sorts to cross Low Beck, the little stream that is said to have run red with the blood of ten thousand men.
This was the scene of what is believed to be the bloodiest battle in English history, bringing the War of the Roses to an end in 1461.
I’d been walking all day, and this last lap to visit the church was where I planned to hang up my boots and find rest and a hearty meal at the local Inn.
It didn’t take long to reach the gate in front of the main door to the tiny rectangular building. Inside was very simple. Massive grave slabs, carved with heraldic symbols and inscriptions dating from the thirteenth century, were set into the floor; possibly deceased ancestors from the occupants of the manor house.
It felt cold, so very cold that I decided I’d seen all I wanted to see of St Mary’s, and to head off to find my room for the night seemed the more attractive option.
As I turned towards the door, to my surprise I found I was not alone. A sheep had wandered inside and appeared to be totally oblivious to my presence. I clapped my hands to shoo her away but it seemed she felt she had more right to be there than I had.
I was unsure of whether to close the door after me and trap her inside until some other curious walker dropped by, or to sit and wait until she decided to budge. I’m a self-confessed city dweller and unaccustomed to handling neurotic sheep, but decided I could spare ten more minutes of my time rather than leave the door wide open to the elements.
“Why are you here?” I’d swear the small voice came from my woolly companion. “Have you come to remember?”
In the doorway, partially hidden behind the ewe, two hollow blue eyes squinted at me in the fading light. The small child wore her hair in pig tails tied with red rag, and her pallid facial features blended well with the sheep’s coat.
“Have you come to remember?” She asked again. “Why are you here?”
“Erm… remember what, sweetie?” I asked tentatively.
“Why are you here?” She insisted.
“Well… I’ve come to visit the site of a battle that was fought many years before you or I was born. It’s called history and it’s what I enjoy studying. So, what about you then? Do you live locally?”
She stared for a moment. I thought perhaps she was a little slow. The sheep decided to take a look around and left the girl and me eyeing each other up. I noted the tattered sandals and dirty knees. The poor kid looked like a hot meal wouldn’t do her any harm either.
“I wear red ribbons in my hair,” she volunteered. “When I come to remember.”
“They’re very pretty,” I lie, glancing at the rags. “And who or what are you remembering sweetie?”
“My daddy, my grandpa, my uncles and cousins… Got to go now…” With that she turned tail and ran, filling me with a very disquieting sentiment.
I closed the church door behind me as I set out to cross the field full of bumps and furrows, the site of the medieval manor house. It was dusk as I reached the fields around Low Beck where men were killed in the bloodiest battle in English history.
I crossed the bridge and paused to look down into the water that once ran red with the blood of those ten thousand fathers, sons, brothers and uncles…
And I totally freaked!
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