Abigail and Sarah had always been frenemies, things finally coming to a head since they’d both lusted after the same boy.
‘Do you like my frock?’ said Abigail, swishing her skirts from side to side, nose stuck high in the air.
‘I should have been leading,’ said Sarah, her pretty face contorted by anger and hurt.
Autumn had comfortably settled in, Mabon but days away, eagerly awaiting equal light and dark. Robert, the Green Man, was delighted with his costume of twigs and leaves. The girls had been practising their Morris dancing for the festival to celebrate a successful harvest.
‘Here, let me,’ said Abigail with glee, placing the ritual swords intently, tongue sticking out. All the dancers gathered for their dress rehearsal, Robert blissfully unaware of being the object of desire of the two girls.
Pipes and tabors heralded the well-known tune and the girls jingled around merrily.
‘Careful!’ said Sarah…
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Abigail.
The dance continued, Abigail keeping a watchful eye on the swords, Robert in the middle of the circle, grinning through his greenness.
‘Ouch!’ said Sarah, as Abigail trod on her foot. Just then, a twig fell from Robert’s head. Abigail tripped, losing her balance and cutting her bare foot on a sword.
‘Look what you made me do!’ she screamed at Sarah, frothing up her skirts and releasing tributaries of blood in the process.
‘It wasn’t me! Looks like you’ll have to sit this one out,’ said Sarah laughing.
© Vivienne Moles