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Magical Roman Barn in The Marigold Field

'Where to?'

By Mescaline BrissetPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 11 min read
5
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

For several days I’ve been wandering wearily through the fields and still don’t know where I come from, where I am, and where I am going… I’m going straight ahead; my closest friends are wheat, rye, barley, oats… Marmots, mice, moles, grasshoppers… Poppies, cornflowers, bluebells, Lychnis viscaria… Herbarium and menagerie have always been my strengths. The images in front of my wide-open eyelids grind like grain in a combine. I wouldn’t dare to count them all. They’re constantly changing, I would never keep up with their directions that tempt with colours, smells, textures, viscosities… Sparrows storm the air with the frequency of the wind over the river. I passed one scarecrow which made me laugh as the crows couldn’t hide their audacity and perched on it like hens in a coop. Sparrowhawks and goshawks put in their two pennyworths to this masquerade, circling my head as if they were going to grab my hat to enrich their field collection. My footsteps are as regular as the ticking of a second hand of a clock trailing the traces of time. My knapsack is filled with random goods provided by a saleswoman from a local village bakery in the morning: brioche, yoghurt, milk, honey… Since I don’t possess any money, she gave it to me for free. She offered sweets as well, there were so many on the store shelves, yet I don’t know that stuff. She said that was probably why I never needed a dentist. I don’t even know who that person is. Some doctor, I guess.

Photo by Alexander Jawfox on Unsplash

I also have a chocolate cake in a brown paper box. I had to try it right away as I was so hungry. The female baker gave it to me, though it looked suspicious at first, enveloped in a box like a gift. I didn’t know what was inside until I opened the package… I couldn’t believe my eyes! I’ve never tried chocolate before, so it was a revelation. The chocolate melted in my mouth and on my palate like ice on a lake in spring. The old lady even precisely cut the dough into small slices sufficient for consumption. How awesome! I have no idea how long I didn’t eat as I never use a watch, relying only on the natural signs of the times: sunlight passing in a varied process during the day and the moon marching at night telling me how much time I have to sleep if I happen to wake up unexpectedly. When the fire started, I had to run. I must have hit my head hard as I don’t remember anything else, just flames dancing around me like a hypnotised flamenco dancer in a flared, vibrant dress, some voices screaming in a scurry, and this terrible smell as if someone was burning alive… Perhaps it was my body as I have severe burns to my arms, thighs, and feet, as far as I can see. I can’t inspect my whole body as I don’t have a mirror, I never had.

A Roman relief from the Cathedral of Maria Saal showing Romulus and Remus with the she-wolf. Source: Wikimedia Commons

There was this old half-timbered barn where I was looking for shelter, yet when the fire broke out, I couldn’t stay there anymore, so I started wandering where my legs could take me, no matter how long. You see, I don’t know my papa, my mama, I never have a relative as I was raised by a she-wolf… “Like Romulus and Remus in the Roman mythology” – that’s what an aged woman told me when I was in one of those forgotten villages. Never in my life have I had to meet many people outside of school in the countryside at my younger age. These were my only life lessons. At least I can speak, write, and read, although I don't know how old I am. Ever since this coercive crossing commenced, everything seemed fine as most of the persons I met were peasants, usually concerned, compassionate, caring elderly men and women feeding me with crumbs from their tables. I don’t mind. As long as I don’t starve to death it’s satisfactory. Must be. I visited Butterfly Barns Day Nursery once in some town – it could be my imaginary room from my childhood. Imaginary, as I’ve never had anything like this. The wolf fed me copiously, yet never provided me with toys, friends to play with, or fancy gadgets of the modern world. All I had were the fields, nature’s flavours, and my wolf, nothing else. Isn’t that enough? For me it was. Therefore, I can easily recognise earthly food… Thistle, hawthorn, elderberry, wild strawberries… I lived off the land like a feral child in the wilderness. I received milk from infancy, and in adulthood, the she-wolf hunted for me, providing meat that I could fry on a fire in the forest.

Poster for a bull fight in Barcelona. Source: Wikimedia Commons

I’m swaying unsteadily on my feet as I notice the antlers hanging on the front door of an old wooden barn in the distance! How is it possible? Am I walking in circles? It looks exactly like my old barn that's already burned down… It’s surrounded by a stretch of orange Tagetes patula field. I can’t help but pick a flower for my knapsack for luck, although I know that marigolds are regarded as the flowers of the dead in some cultures, such as Mexico. To hell with it! There’s nothing else in here! Only… a bull tied to a pear tree! What? I look around and the bull snorts as if looking for nourishment. He has two lances and two banderillas stuck into his neck and shoulder muscles as if the corrida was suspended before climax, saving the bull’s life from deadly destiny. He’s bleeding through pores, yet luckily alive.

“Poor creature. What are you doing here, my friend?” – I’m asking him and at the same time releasing the rope.

He licks my face earnestly like a friendly little dog, then slowly walks off into the wilderness with his heavy stride. I turn towards the barn and decide to go inside. The impenetrable smell of animals invades my nostrils. Horses, pigs, cows, donkeys, dogs. There must be a lot of them in the not-so-distant past. I lie my aching body on the hay, letting my eyelids shut like a cumbersome theatre curtain.

Venatio, Gladiator and Lion in the Colosseum. Source: Wikimedia Commons

I can see a clear sign on the road. Black letters on a yellow background indicate Urbis Romanae. I pass lanista (gladiator manager) on the widest road I’ve ever seen. A muscular man in golden armour announces perilous battles are taking place in the nearby Colosseum and I should stay away from the arena, like the people of Rome en masse. I don’t stop there, although I think that as a rural citizen descending from plebs (which I’ve always considered myself to be) I should be allowed to watch their games. I assume it’s somewhere between the 1st century BC and the 3rd century AD as gladiators’ games were the most popular at that time.

I pass hordes of wild animals behind barbed wire instead, a few steps from the amphitheatre. Lions, tigers, cheetahs, leopards, lynxes, hyenas, camels, elephants, white bears, giraffes, owls, monkeys, porcupines… Another gentleman in armour, this time silver, informs me that it’s a precious menagerie, a protégé of The Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II.

“Now I’m sure it’s the 3rd century AD… How awesome! This Roman Empire appears so cruel! Murderous fights, killing animals and keeping them in a zoo! I don’t expect to stay here any longer… But I’m hungry!”

I’m urgently looking for traces of a tavern, hacienda, or inn as I strongly suspect they should have something in this style to greet their guests similar to me. I’m finding myself on the narrowest street my eyes have ever seen. There’s no sign, name, or number on the building, yet I enter it with the devil on my shoulder.

Probable portrait of Vivaldi, c. 1723. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Mos maiorum – the way of the ancestors, my dear. This is how our hierarchical patriarchal Roman family system is organised.’

The eldest is explicitly explaining domus (the Roman family) down to the last detail. Vivaldi’s variations on the theme of “La Follia” orchestrate in the air with ponderous, high-pitched punches of castanets, somewhat Baroque inadequate for ancient times. There are also numerous paintings and drawings on the walls depicting landscapes, agricultural details, and leisure time (otium), as pater familias patiently points out. Bucchero ware, Etruscan earthenware pottery, encloses the stovetop.

‘What is that picture?’ – I ask without giving a second thought about it.

‘That, my dear, is the expansion of the Roman Empire…The red represents our vassals…’

‘It looks like a picture of a bull… I passed one on the way here... I set him free…’

‘You what?! Mad! Pax Romana military divisions wouldn’t like this… Where did you see it?’

‘Just outside the building… I’ll show you… It’s just right there!’

Despite the strenuous effort to move, I can’t wiggle any part of my body as if they were glued to the chair and the checkered tiles on the floor of this family kitchen. It strikes me that I freed him before spending some time here, so he must be far away by now. Never mind. At least I recognise this kind of map that emerged in one of the villages during my journey. I memorised it very well. In fact, it's the only knowledge I can constantly count on, as the villagers treat ancient Greek and Roman culture as sacrosanct. It never surprised me as these were the foundations of the full spectrum of European culture and no one will ever change that.

La Polenta by Pietro Longhi, 1740. Source: Wikimedia Commons

‘You see…’

‘Sarah…’

‘Sarah… Unfortunately, bread and circuses have replaced politics…’

‘Papa, don’t start again… People can choose, yet they’re used to sticking to the easiest paths. Our papa is a senator, so he surely knows his business.’

‘One million sestertii are enough to qualify for the ordo senatorius… Our family is wealthy, son. Now, where was I? Ah, yes! Games! Circus Maximus is the most significant in here… Horse and chariot races, the equestrian Troy Game, staged beast hunts (venationes), athletic contests, gladiator combat, and historical re-enactments. All this has a green light there... Unfortunately, often forgetting about public safety… Since the dawn of time, a couple of religious festivals had promoted games (ludi), mostly horse and chariot races (ludi circenses). The entertainment value tends to abundantly eclipse their ritual significance, yet the races are still a large part of religious observances, being relevant to agriculture, initiation, and the birth and death cycle. Suit yourself, yet a little too excessive, if you ask me.’

I hastily consume the staple of ancient Roman cuisine called polenta with lentils and cotechino in marinara sauce served in the traditional manner on a round wooden cutting board. I humbly express my gratitude for the meal and I’m on my way out.

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

I’ve left the old barn, now approaching the great frozen lake in the Ancient Harbour of Old Heath. How could the seasons change so quickly? Is winter already… I must have spent a while in the Roman Empire, although I don’t feel the passage of time at all. The milieu around me seems dilapidated, marshy, and strangely wild. I’m a wild child too, yet I feel a ferocious fever coming from above. I can see the barn behind my back being lifted into the air by the barbarian beasts, the crowd cheering, the umpires on the chairs trying to calm the audience. It flies away to the highest level of the sky as I stare idly in the middle of the primeval forest, bewildered. Forlorn flamingos raise their lengthy necks to see this as well. Deer, wild goats, crocodiles, hippopotamuses, and rabbits freeze in a similar simultaneous movement. Marigold flowers flutter in the wind, twisting the frozen florets in a farewell gesture.

Was it a dream or a reality? I reach to the main road. After a while the first bus pulls up.

‘Where to?’ – the driver's asking.

‘Straight ahead!’ – I'm answering without thinking about the ticket. He didn’t even ask.

Photo by Gian Paul Guinto on Unsplash

– THE END –

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

***

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Short Story
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About the Creator

Mescaline Brisset

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski

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