The May Queen

The bonfire was burning less brightly than before and someone in the crowd on the other side threw a huge log into its midst. There was a scattering of sparks and a cracking of wood. Heat surged toward Amelia and she smiled. Although summer was approaching, nights were still chilly and the heat was a welcomed addition to the celebration.

The flames were beautiful and fascinating. They spoke to some primitive part of her—dangerous and deadly, yet life-giving as well.

But were those three betrothed couples, who could be seen scandalously stealing kisses in the fire’s glow, still planning on jumping now that the flames had grown so much higher? Amelia secretly hoped that they would, yet her stepfather’s influence through the years also brought a thought for caution. As exciting as this Midsummer celebration was, she did not really fancy seeing anyone catch fire and burn to death.

But would they jump? Would they?

The stones loomed nearby. To Amelia they seemed to be watching. To be listening. To be approving.

“Come on! Come on!” someone taunted.

“Jump! Jump!” the crowd yelled. “Jump!”

One of the couples smiled conspiratorially at each other, gripped hands, and ran. Amelia held her breath, willing them to jump high and far. Cheers went up all around as they landed together on the far grass, tumbling with a laugh into each others arms. The other two couples soon followed, each succeeding without incident and each bearing a look of satisfaction and confidence. If the old wives’ tales were true, they would all have fruitful marriages.

Amelia glanced toward her uncle and aunt, whose family she was visiting in Avebury, and smiled broadly. She knew it would be rude to take her notebook and pencil out of her pocket, but her poet’s heart was yearning to commit wisps of her thoughts to paper. She knew how fleeting poetry could be. It had to be captured and then reflected on at leisure.

At twenty-one, she, too, should be among the women planning to marry—perhaps jumping the Midsummer fire with her intended—but she had not been blessed with either great beauty or an influential family. Even with the added advantage of being in the company of her older brothers’ friends from time to time, there had been no offers forthcoming, and the circles she moved in, though varied, were small. Still, she was relatively content. She would not be the first daughter to be her parents’ companion in their later years. She loved them both very much and enjoyed their company as, she believed, they enjoyed hers. She had long devoted herself to being an obedient child of God. She did not lack any physical necessity or any intellectual stimulation. A good and satisfying life.

As long as she could keep writing her poems. That was as necessary to her as breathing. She felt a hunger to write. She did not even care if anyone ever read her poems or heard them or liked them, though that would be wonderful, of course.

But she must write. She must.

The nearby stones reflected the high, Midsummer moon, and she smiled. They know, she mused, what transient creatures we are. A hundred years from now they will still be here, but I will not. We sons of man must make our mark while we can.