Sunflowers
(Ian Miles; 2003-2020)
It took a few moments for his eyes to adapt to the shade cast by the veranda. The lane up to the house was surrounded by fields of sunflowers. At this time of day the reflected light was dazzling. Even with sunglasses you felt as if your eyes were being seared. There was a fog across your vision when you looked away.
While letting the fog fade, William fixed his eyes on area where the light was most shaded, though nowhere was anything like dark. The wooden plaque above the door seemed to be almost glowing against its stained timber backdrop. When he had first arrived here, he had thought this plaque portrayed the disc of the sun. But he had soon realized that it was a sunflower head. It was obvious, really – those were petals, not rays, and the smiling face was made of seeds. But now, as his eyesight recovered, he felt that the broad smile looked less and less welcoming.
He was oppressed by the heat, he decided. Projecting his discomfort onto the innocent work of ancient craft.
He turned the key in the latch, pondering. That was an old carving, but how long had they been growing sunflowers here? Not for more than a few centuries, the plant had been imported from the New World.
Tournesol, that would be the French, though it sounded like it was the sun that was being turned. What would the Occitan be? Spanish was, let’s see, something like the French. Giresol sounded right, dredged up from some earlier holiday. Or a romance, in the days where almost every trip meant romance. He began to recall a perfumed apartment in a seaside town. Not in a villa like this, with the Pyrennees in sight on a good day, a distant glow from the lights of Toulouse on a clear night. Good to have a friend at the University there who was happy to have his villa occupied over the summer.
He opened the door and walked into the lounge. As always, the cat bestirred herself as he came in, and rose gracefully from a chair. But she checked her usual walk towards him. After initial hesitancy, she now always greeted him with a rubbing of her head on his legs, and a plaintive mew to indicate the eons that had passed since the last meal. Instead, she stopped, arched her back and hissed. William watched, in surprise, at the cat flap clattered shut. Who can understand cats?
He laid the flowers he was carrying on the table, poured and drank a glass of water. While his laptop was getting itself going, he went back into the kitchen. He half-filled a vase with water, and turned on the coffee maker. He brought the vase to the table. The bunch had come to rest so that the remarkable blue flower appeared to be looking up at him imploringly, as if it was as thirsty as he had been. It was certainly outstanding among the little collection of flowers, some from the side of the road, some from the woodland walk. He arranged the bunch in the vase so that the blue flower was facing the window, catching the light. He could admire it as he worked.
The diary was displayed on his laptop. Previous days’ entries had contained notes about the countryside, speculations about the Cathar heresy and what it had meant for the evolution of Christianity and occult traditions, a description of the other diners in a local restaurant. He scrolled down to the bottom of the document, and keyed in the day’s date on the laptop: 20 August, St Em. After a moment’s reflection, he began to work the keyboard rapidly. He had a reputation as a proficient writer. But the incident was still troubling him, and he kept hesitating, re-examining his account. Not, as was the usual case, trying to capture the most mellifluous or abrasive verbal tone. Wondering just what it was that had actually transpired, what was the source of his discomfort.
I was driving back from St Lys when a flask of colour in the hedgerow caught my eye. It was too rich to be a discarded plastic bag or piece of twine, so I pulled over and walked back to it. The fields of sunflowers shone golden around me, all trace of last night’s thunderstorm gone.
He thought, then added:
the storm had promoted new growth. I’ll look for mushrooms later.
There were red berries hanging from dead-looking creepers wrapped around the trees. Elderberries on one tree, already too shriveled for wine or juice. The shrubbery was a profusion of different greens, savagely contrasting with the yellow fields and grey road. Yellowing teasels, a host of small pale flowers, blood red poppies, clumps of the tiny blue flowers – these are so common. Then this specimen, unique among the rest, like a lily or even an orchid. A trumpet of blues, tapering to a tall stalk. A flower that must have called irresistibly to insects; though strangely there were none evident.
He paused. Was that the right note to hit? It was probable that he’d been too preoccupied to spare much attention to insects. Though it had seemed silent, he could deduce. At least, it was quiet enough that he jumped when the old woman had addressed him. Would it make a better account if he made it an old man? Old woman, sudden surprise: that reeked of horror film shock and schlock. But it was an old lady, he could still visualize her. He could describe her faithfully – without resorting to words like crone and witch. Her tone of voice, her look of disapproval would be telling enough. Hmm, he could add in a stick for her to be waving around. And she could have interrupted him before he’d picked the flower, not after… Was it disapproval or disdain she was expressing?
I stooped to admire the flower, pulling the stem closer to see if I could catch a fragrance. Only the faintest hint, I might have been imagining I could distinguish it from among the smells of a scorching summer. With a shock I realised I was not alone. A woman, bent and weathered like the peasant she probably was, had shuffled unheard up to me.
When our eyes met she began talking in a thick country accent. I’m not sure she was even speaking standard French There were thick layers of the Occitan patois French rule had never been able to stamp out. I could only make out a few words, I’m unsure even of these. Something about the king of flowers, the return of pastel. She was mumbling and gesturing, urgently, but I wasn’t sure whether she was warning me, admonishing me, asking me something, telling me to do or not to do something.
He thought for a moment, came to a snap decision and inserted before the last paragraph:
She was dressed in nondescript clothes that had seen better days. Perhaps fashionable wear at the turn of the century. This was no ghost of an ancient peasant come to haunt me in broad daylight. I realised my penknife was already open in my hand, and put it in my pocket so as to reassure her.
Did that ring true? Should he say that he’d already reached out to cut the flower? That his intention was clear? That he’d already cut it and it was part of a posy in his hand?
And how was he going to write about how he’d left the scene? How to present the events so that his anxiety was captured, without seeming weak and childish? How to describe driving off while the woman was still shouting and gesticulating?
But while one part of him was his normal writing self, rational and calculating, another part of him was replaying the sinister intensity of that encounter. A sense of dread had come over him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in waking life since being spaced out and paranoid on some heavy dope in Amsterdam in his youth. His heart was beating fast right now. Push it out of my mind, write it out.
She made as if to simulate drawing a knife across her throat, rolling her eyes and gurgling.
There were indeed gurgles coming from the kitchen. The coffee must be ready. He looked up.
The flowers must have been poorly balanced in the vase. They’d slipped round, so that the face of the blue flower was turned towards him. It was as if it was looking at him, less imploringly now. Could he describe it as wistful? The smaller flowers, too, were mostly facing him. Little, expressionless visages sans yeux.
He stood up, rearranged the flowers so that they caught the light, counterbalanced the clutter of paper on the table. He went behind the kitchen counter, heated some milk, poured himself a large, strong cup of café au lait. Amazing how much more delicious coffee was here.
He glanced over at the table, and felt a physical shock run through his body. The flower was facing him again, having turned almost 180O from the position he’d left it in. The sense that it was staring, beseeching, was almost palpable.
He slammed his coffee cup down on the counter, with a crash that jarred his nerves. He was thoroughly spooked, as he only was in occasional nightmares. Indeed, he had awoken that morning from a particularly smothering one, had meant to write about it, but instead had managed to forget it until now. That feeling of suffocation was coming back right now.
Suddenly, he just had to get out of the house, to breathe some fresh air.
As he came out through the front door, he glimpsed the cat leaping off the garden wall and making away hurriedly. The car door was hot to his touch, as was the seat when he lowered himself onto it. Without thinking, he started the car and drove out of the drive, down the lane. Past field after field, blazing gold sunflowers on both sides. Occasionally a patch of slightly more muted maize. Low rolling hills of gold ahead. He concentrated on the road, free of traffic, free of potholes; he was ignoring the roadside flowers.
When he was a couple of minutes into the nearest wood, he spotted a path leading off into the trees. He pulled the car over onto the grass verge. The air was warm, the shade refreshing. Shafts of light penetrated the foliage, making odd patches of bark, fern and moss livid. He realised he’d left his mushroom knife and guidebook back at the house. No bother, he could do some scouting around now, maybe find some unmistakable mushrooms that could be easily picked. A few nice ceps would be just what the doctor ordered. Making a tasty meal would be a perfect way to get his mind off its crazy track. That’s the trouble with living on your own. No one to tell you how erratic you’re being.
He now remembered a time when he’d been taking care of a small country garden for a friend, and some passing youths had jeered at him from a passing truck. For days he had brooded over their insults whenever he had been at ork in the garden – though the truck had never passed by again.
The path was pleasant, and wound its way up a gentle slope. The woods were very quiet, perhaps the animals and birds were torpid in the heat. Once he disturbed a bird, which clucked off in panic. There was not a mushroom to be seen. Just the occasional lurid but inedible red berry, hanging from vines twined around the trees.
It seems to get brighter ahead. William realises he is reaching the edge of the wood. Stepping from the trees, abruptly entering a field of gold. Sunflowers. Hundreds, thousands of tall plants, faces all turned in his direction. He’s filled with dread.
Ok, no need to get freaked, the flowers are facing the sun, and the sun is behind me. These are the original sun-worshippers, blindly following it everyday from East to West, as if their lives depended on it.
The path continues through the field, up a gentle slope. He can overcome these irrational fears. He recalls the old woman’s face, her voice. How did I let her get to me like that? He pushes on, in a hurry, panting. Up the hill. On the narrowing path, brushing sunflowers aside. Their rough heads brush insistently against him.
He must be well up the slope. He stops, breathless, turns to see how far he’s got.
He shields his eyes, though the sun is now low in the sky in front of him. The first shock is that the footpath he’d walked on is in the act of disappearing. All he can see is masses and masses of densely-packed flowers. It’s as if they have been immediately frozen, caught in the act of jostling to mob around him.
The second shock is the dawning realization that, they are all facing him.
He feels overwhelmed, dizzy. The golden light is like a furnace. Whichever way he turns, he is facing the faces of sunflowers. Faces directed at him; thousands of blind circles, crowding round. There is an overwhelming intensity in their appeal. Or their threat.
2004. Mones/Manchester.
Otherwise 