The Last Day of Summer
The first beams of the sun gently caressed the red roofs of the cottages. The fading moon embraced the stars in a motherly manner and prepared itself to sleep until the beginning of the night. The lack of clouds promised to the villagers that this might have been the last day of summer. Despite that, a cool morning dew irrigated the yellow grass which was almost completely dry after yesterday’s dreadful heat. An orchestra of crickets has already begun singing which foreshadowed hard work and sunstrokes on the field. The villagers already knew that the day might be horribly exhausting and this explained why the square was already filled with people. The sun spread its dazzling smile at the view of the human hive.
Women gossiped to each other while pouring water from the stone fountain and their whispers mingled with the laugh of children running around carelessly. The maidens braided their long hair and carefully adjusted the edges of their dresses. Each garb was unique to the person wearing it and the design showed a masterful craftsmanship. However, it seemed that children did not care about their clothes as much - they laughed carelessly, fought each other in the mud and some were throwing wild plums at each other. Women gossiped while pouring water from the stone fountain and their whispers mingled with the crowing of roosters. Men’s morning routine began with drinking a cup of strong rakija while discussing important matters about the village’s fate, the travelers’ whereabouts and the Sultan’s new orders. Once this was done, they puffed out their cheeks while chewing hemp and played a game with lamb bones. It seemed as if today no one wanted to work hard. The village had sunk into the blissful enchantment of a summer morning. Perhaps this is why nobody noticed that the cicadas weren’t singing anymore. Some heard the howling of the dogs echoing from the outskirts of the village, but thought that the reason might be a fox. Others glimpsed a family of rats running across the square in panic, but assumed it was the fault of a naughty kid. The only observer who could see the source of this sudden turmoil was the mute sun.
She was slowly approaching the main road of the village while limping. A long time ago God threw her out from Heaven and her neck snapped with the fall. Now she couldn’t move her head and her bony fingers with purulent wounds were spread on each side of her body, forcing the air to tremble. Her hunchback was covered with a thorn black cloak, her face was hidden by a headscarf and only a grotesque nose, covered with bubonic boils, was protruding from it. The long dark cloak revealed only her bare feet with nails sharp as knives. The ground was cracking after each of her steps and thick dust burst out of every crack up to the clear sky. Her aura drained the colors of life and every plant touching her immediately wilted and died. A confused fly struck her hand and its carcass froze on the dry palm. The figure brought the fly in front of her face, sighed and hid it in the depths of her cloak. She was deaf and spread silence everywhere around her. The figure was already near the village’s square. The only thing she craved was looking at a living creature. She wanted to see the reflection of life in others’ eyes, because the two dark pits in her skull could see only death. Then she could keep the memory of these reflections underneath her cloak forever.
The Plague was coming.
