Lady Summerfield, A Fable

(Previously published in the City Limits 2020 anthology, “Another Place, Another Time”, and won 1st place in the fairy tale category for their story contest)

Once upon a time, there lived a woman without a name. At least she had no name from the start that I am aware of. It is almost certain that the woman in question indeed possessed one at some given point bursting forth into this world around Midwinter, growing with her years throughout youthful Spring and blossoming at the height of blissful Summer. Yes, she must surely have been given a name to wear. But that was so long ago that she had forgotten it herself, nor she did carry it with her to us on the day she arrived in town.

This woman without a name could not have been mistaken for anyone else. Her golden hair cascaded down to her ample waist while her dress was a bright palette of rainbow colour hues with pastels dripping to her ankles. She was constantly one flow of movement, coming out in all seasons with Summertime holding a special place for her in the good round year. When she stepped out to greet the world on well-trodden feet, darkened like the fresh dirt and narrow roads she traversed over, all would stop and gaze at her overwhelming radiance.

Children passing the abandoned field that lay outside of town would spy her picking daisies and weaving them into royal crowns of glory. We were not afraid of her and approached the woman without a name as if she were one of our very best of friends, winning over her heart in no time as she won over ours in turn. She was such an exuberant figure that most people accepted her without passing too much judgement: she was a delightful yet enigmatic being, one who possessed no home nor wealth to call her own, yet was safe, harmless and as calm as the seas. Beyond the simple acceptance that she was in our town, no one could remember anything else about her: no one knew where she came from, whom her parents were or even where she was going next. As an act of love and compassion, for the young seem to look at the world with fresh eyes, the children bestowed a name onto the nameless woman. In time, the name spread and everyone who grew to love her soon knew her by her given name of Mrs. Summerfield, a name befitting her kind and generous nature.

On quiet days when the sun did not scorch the heavens, Mrs. Summerfield went a-knocking on our neighbours’ doors, ringing bells to make her presence known. When the people of the town saw Mrs. Summerfield approaching their houses, they greeted her courteously as one who deserves respect with parents rushing their little ones off to scrub dirt-smeared faces and hands yet to be cleansed. If the children were especially good, Mrs. Summerfield would know instantly and bestow daisy crowns, leafy garlands and wands of willow branches upon the grateful family. These gifts were not elaborate, but we enjoyed them just as if they had cost a fortune. Somehow, in her infinite travels, she always seemed to know more about us than we ourselves cared to know about each other, a fact which constantly amazed everyone. Sometimes she would even catch wind of those who suffered greatly from illness or injury and would make a personal house call at their humble abode. To cheer them up, she would bring a fresh posy of peonies or a bouquet of carnations that she arranged herself, settle down next to the invalid and tell them a story until they fell asleep as a steaming pot of soup wafted from their kitchen stove. No house was too great or too small for her blessings.

By the Fourth of July, every household in town had been visited by Mrs. Summerfield. Every windowsill was adorned with tulips, every trellis overgrown with sweet-smelling jasmine and every living room was perfumed with the intoxicating scent of roses. The winds dispersed this fragrant aroma around town and made everyone and everything in it happy to be alive. Even the town pets were more at ease with their masters and mistresses. The parks were full of glorious birdsong and the nights were occupied by the gentle glow of fireflies flitting about in their silent dance. No one could explain this burgeoning sense of change that was taking place around town, but we all knew instinctively that Mrs. Summerfield’s influence had something to do with it. In fact, she brought so much joy to our town that Mrs. Summerfield metamorphosized in the collective mind’s eye into the benevolent Lady Summerfield—the people’s goddess and proctress of our fair town.  

As the years flew by, many sought the advice of Lady Summerfield under a shady grove of trees in the centre of town or out in her beloved field covered in a quilt of dandelions and daisies. She always listened first and answered last. Her words of wisdom were shared and proliferated amongst the townspeople who soon spoke this newfound language of love that Lady Summerfield communicated to all. We the town’s children loved her dearly, and our parents grew to respect her soft and tender ways. She was a miracle when miracles were so keenly longed for in this world.

Over time she started to fade. Her flaxen hair loss the sheen of the Summer sun, her rosy cheeks their bright dawn glow. But despite her waning transformation, she still remained the same smiling woman we had all grown to love and adore.

Then one day she was gone. No one saw her in the town square gathering flowers. No one heard her telling stories in the park. No one watched her midnight dance out in the field of fireflies. She just vanished. And that was when the other smell invaded our town.

Some child, I will not tell who, smelled it first when coming home from a friend’s house one late afternoon. Then his mother wrinkled her nose, and with her the entire block, and soon the entire town was scrambling out of doors to locate its source. With each passing day, the scent of decay permeated the gleaming Summer nights pressing against our evening-lit houses.

No one smiled after a time. All the town’s roses started to wilt, and the daisy chains drooped off of window ledges. Deep, dark Wintry gloom set in over the land. Someone suggested we should go and seek out Lady Summerfield Herself. She would know how to bring the Summer back again.

The townsfolk came from all over on the night we had the meeting. In small groups, we split up and spread out, hoping beyond hope to find our long-lost friend. Some people frequented her favourite haunts while others stomped across green spaces now mouldering in the dying earth. We peered into every garden and backyard that she had once inhabited, now festering with flies and maggots. The search proved fruitless after a time, for there was no sign or trace of Lady Summerfield at all. It was as if she had never existed.

Then us children set off into the woods that bordered the town. Since the grown-ups had failed to do so, we thought we would give it a go ourselves. We discovered in the midst of one small glen a house standing all by itself, bright against the stunted dark green plants of the forest. The downcast trees seemed to crowd around this peculiar abode encircled by a delicate ring of ominous-looking toadstools. Our intrepid group stepped over the threshold to this cottage and disappeared into a faded, painted world stripped bare as bark. The walls were all scratched, chips flaking off, trailing on the wind that blew in through the open doorway. Dead flowers bloomed from every corner of the entrance hall, each trapped in its own sun-drenched moment of time. Shreds of leaves whispered across the floorboards making the house smell of melancholy and Autumn.

Our shoes creaked under each heavy, wooden floorboard as we made our way through the house and up a narrow flight of steps, into an abandoned room that lay opposite the stairwell. Within the shadowy domain, our nostrils sensed the faintest odour of hibiscus and rose hip tea that had been sipped in silence before retiring for long afternoon naps. We progressed through the landing until one door caved in under our light touch. Inside, we discovered a room enveloped in calm yellow lamplight overgrown with ivy tendrils and juniper berries and tasting of tart blackberries upon our untrained tongues. Strewn across the sepulchral bed in the centre of the room was a sea of petals. Vases standing steadfast at every corner had let loose their own precious cargo, never to grow again. A fountain of these had sprung loose and fallen to the floor, trickling a pathway around the bed in one long sweep of pink, yellow, purple, red, and white.

The wind came in to brush some of these petals aside on a bedside table, revealing a crinkled letter. A rose lay upon this papyrus parchment, its words dried up with old ink blood. In such delicate and ancient handwriting, we huddled around to read the following message:

To the people of this town,

I give my love, my life and my happiness. You have given so much to each other as you have for me, please keep love in your hearts throughout your days until the end. Take my petals into the sacred field so that I may rest in peace with the Mother of all creation. And remember, I am always with you.

Lady Summerfield

We ran back with the crumpling note in our hands. Our parents called upon the town elders who gathered everyone in the centre of town that very evening. We spent the rest of the night in hurried preparations. At noon the following day, a funeral procession led from the house of Lady Summerfield, down Main Street and out into the field beyond town. Our arms hung with bouquets as our hands held the skies aloft. Our limbs drifted soundlessly as our feet tread bare on soft pale grasses. And last of all, my friends and I brought forth the little petals left behind in our friend’s absence. Every one of us assembled there held the quiet memory of our beloved saint kindling in our heart fires.

And then as the song grew from within, the earth heard our prayer. The sky answered its call. The wind breathed out one longing sigh. The petals started to spin, spiralling out of our open hands. They were lifted up, blown asunder and soon rained down over the silent and vacated town beyond. Everyone together ran from the field, jumping and springing up, trying to catch a handful of this paradise that surrounded us. Playing, laughing, skipping all the way, we were sole witnesses to this beautiful miracle of Nature in all Her glory. Summer had returned at last. 

If you happen to be passing through our town, you may notice how the sun seems to linger over everything. How no one seems to utter a grievance, no one sheds a tear, no angry word escapes the lips of us humble townsfolk. The children are like angels and the adults are like innocents. Life is sipped from clear glasses of rosé. And I, in my weathered state, keep rocking the years away while time ploughs on.

If you really look, you will find how the place I call home is truly blessed, like a never-ending spell that has been cast over all. Then you will spot the field that lies outside of town. 

In the middle of the field of flowers sits a bench, and on that bench lies a wreath, and by that wreath is a golden plaque. And engraved on that golden plaque is a memory, and that memory bears a name. A name given to one who once possessed none. The name of our eternal companion: Lady Summerfield.