The Bradbury Chronicles

Ashes of the Maypole

Introduction ▼

This is a story that follows a character I created for - "The May Queen" . You do not have to read it to follow the story below. However, it does give a brief introduction of who she is.

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         “Will you be all right, Molly?”

         “Hmm?”

         “I think we overdid it with the dancing,” came the bashful remark. “I can ask Seth to take you home with his truck.”

         “Bah! Don’t you dare, young lady. I don’t live that far—and besides, the fresh air will do me good.”

         As if to prove her point, Molly stood tall—all five feet one inch of her—and drew in a deep breath. She exhaled dramatically, causing wisps of her matted white hair to flutter. Then, she did a little jig, lifting the hem of her skirt to reveal dusty leather sandals and dry, nimble feet, despite the wince she tried to hide.

         “Satisfied I won’t collapse in the middle of the street, Missy?”

         Annabel smiled and, to Molly’s surprise, reached out to embrace her in a brief, warm hug so full of affection it left Molly momentarily speechless.

         “Thank you for tonight,” the teenager whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You made it so much more fun than I’d ever imagined.”

         Molly, swallowing the lump in her throat, gave a low grunt of approval and patted the girl’s shoulder.

         “Same here,” she muttered, once composed. “Now run home before that crazy father of yours comes thundering down here demanding I release you from my evil claws.”

         She mimicked a lion’s roar—or tried to. It came out more like a smoker’s cough.

         Annabel’s laughter soothed Molly’s aches as she watched her disappear around the corner with a final wave.

         Once alone, Molly deflated. Her shoulders slumped beneath the oversized beige blouse, a reminder of how much weight she’d lost. She no longer bothered with bras, letting her once-envied breasts sag against her torso in quiet resignation.

         “Ha! It’s Mad Molly! Did you see her dancing at the maypole?”

         She looked up at the drunken snickers of three young men. One of them, she recognized as the village head’s annoying son.

         “Crazy old bat,” another sneered, flinging an object her way.

         She wasn’t quick enough to dodge it, but was grateful it was only an empty beer can that grazed her shoulder.

         Her lips pulled back to reveal slightly crooked teeth, incisors sharp enough to leave a mark.

         “Better run now, you little runts!” she yelled, raising her hands like a spellcaster. “I’ve got just the right words to turn you into lizards. Now scram!”

         Their drunken jeers turned to startled panic. They scuttled away like frightened children, muttering curses that only fed her satisfaction.

         Mad Molly, eh?

         She didn’t mind the nickname. After seventy years in this blasted village, she’d earned it. An enigma in their eyes, she’d fed their imaginations by giving them just enough to fear.

         Once, she’d been called a goddess.

         Hah. She spat in disgust.

         How ironic.

         Her tired feet carried her toward the bane of her existence: the towering statue devoted to their May Day god. Still adorned in wildflowers and ribbons from the day’s festivities, its base was crowded with food offerings.

         “Don’t mind if I do,” Molly muttered.

         She dumped a basket of dried nuts—never liked those—and helped herself to dried fish, tomatoes, eggs, onions, peppers, and a nicely wrapped slab of lamb.

         “You can’t do that, Molly!” came cries from nearby stragglers still murmuring prayers. “It’s for the gods!”

         “They can kiss my ass,” she huffed, satisfied with her haul.

         She flipped off the grotesque statue face—smiling or snarling, who could tell? Either way, it was coming down. Soon.

         I will burn it all to the ground, she vowed. I promise, Father.

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         “What do you mean—banish us? Why?”

         “Please, Marvin, keep your voice down. This isn’t easy, but it’s what the council has decided.”

         “You know me, Aaron. I’d never do something like that! I’ve been the most devout member—gods, we’ve been friends since childhood. Do you truly believe I’d do such a thing?”

         “It’s not up to me. The council made their decision. You have until morning to leave the village quietly. Take Sarah and the girls.”

         “No. I’m not leaving. I’ll speak to them myself. I earned that right.”

         She wasn’t supposed to be awake. Not peeking through the cracked door into the candlelit room where her father looked so defeated, and her mother sobbed in the corner.

         She knew the pompous man speaking with her father—and she saw how his words crushed the proud man’s spirit.

         When the man finally left, her father slammed a fist into the wall, denting the plaster and knocking framed photos to the floor.

         “This goddamn village,” he growled, his expression a blend of fury and heartbreak. There were tears in his eyes—her first time seeing him cry. It terrified her.

         “After all I’ve done, Sarah, this is how they repay me? Accusing me of... of getting those girls... pre-preg—”

         He couldn’t finish.

         It would be years before she understood what her father’s great “sin” had been. As a teacher, his rapport with his students—especially the girls—had been twisted into false accusations of impropriety and pregnancies.

         It had been a conspiracy to keep him from becoming village head.

         Still, the shame was unbearable.

         In defiance, her parents made a dreadful choice.

         She could still remember being awakened that early bitter winter morning, made her to wear her best coat and wool hat and trudging after her glum parents, while holding her little sister’s hand. It was too quiet. Too still, but perfect for what her father had planned.

         She watched him curse at the statue before taking out his small axe to take a huge swipe at its thick base.

         Once. Twice. Three times.

         It barely made a dent. But it seemed to satisfy him.

         He turned to his family with a sad, tender smile.

         “I love you all so very much. So very much.”

         Then came pain—sharp, searing—and screams, maybe hers, maybe someone else’s. A blur.

         She awoke beneath an unfamiliar ceiling—polished wood, not like their home.

         “Oh, thank the gods. She’s awake,” someone said.

         “The poor dear,” another voice added.

         It was the pompous man again. Her blood ran cold.

         “The gods saved her from the untimely fate that claimed the rest of her family,” people would say as she wandered the streets like a ghost. “She might be a goddess herself.”

         She smirked at that. A small axe, hidden in the folds of her dresses, always close.

         One, two, three times she would strike in the stillness of night; each swing summoning her father’s face and his final words of love.

         She played the role of one ‘blessed’ by the gods perfectly; never conforming to what the village decreed and living life on the periphery as if daring anyone to confront her. She was forced to live with the pompous man until his wandering eyes grew heavy with lust when her breasts began to blossom and womanhood beckoned.

         When he, eventually, came crawling into her bed - reeking of mead and onions - she hacked off three of his fingers.

         Claiming that she had seduced him with her ‘witch-like’ wiles, he demanded her banishment. But the council, cowards that they were, feared the gods too much.

         “She can stay,” they said. “Let her live just close enough not to cause trouble.”

         She didn’t mind.

         Her little home on the outskirts suited her, and though the trip to the village square was a bit further, she did not stray from her mission.

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         “I think it’s time, don’t you, Alexander the Great?”

         “Woof!”

         She chuckled and scratched behind the ears of her most loyal companion as he wagged his tail ever so slowly in gratitude. Ah, the poor dear. He too was living on borrowed time. If she was any braver, she would have put him out of his misery years ago, but what was that saying again? Misery loved company?

         “Let’s go, buddy,” she whispered. “Let’s end this summer with a bang, eh?”

         She dressed warmly, humming beneath her breath as trembling fingers worked on the buttons of the coat. Carefully, she removed the wreath of wildflowers that lovely girl, Annabel, had given her. Tears filled her eyes at the memory of their conversation and dance. It was the first time, in so long, that she had really enjoyed herself.

         Molly could count, on one hand, the number of people who had actually seen her as human, and not an oddity or a speculation of myth, over the years. At least she could grateful for that little blessing if nothing else.

         She tucked the axe into the leather strap around her waist and looked around the place she had called home for the past fifty years. There were no photos, on the wall, of a family she’d made for herself. No one had dared come close enough to warrant that affection. There were also no rats, as she had regaled Annabel, but her trusty ol’ rifle was perched above the fireplace in readiness all the same.

         It had belonged to her father.

         Still humming beneath her breath, Molly stepped outside and took a lungful of the early morning air.

         Might not be winter, but it was cool enough to remind her of that day.

         Alex trotted ahead, familiar with the ritual.

         When they finally arrived at their destination, she wasted no time getting to work. The square was quiet and most of the offerings were gone, which made things a bit easier. With a grunt; she fell to her knees and began to push aside the only thing managing to keep the statue still standing or at least giving the illusion of still being in place.

         Years of hacking away at its base was now evident as the heavy boulder was slowly pushed aside. Cold sweat broke out on her brow as Alex whined at her overexertion. She was no longer a spring chicken, but by the gods, she was going to get this done.

         Just a little more, Mad Molly, she urged herself as she felt joints and muscles protest every motion. Her knees finally buckled; the pain excruciating. Still, she shoved, biting hard on her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She glared at the snarling features of the statue that seemed to mock her efforts until a loud querulous creak was soon heard.

         Almost…there, she thought with a louder grunt and one final thrust.

         The boulder rolled – not by much – but just enough to reveal years of pain and bitterness in the wounded base of the statue. It was now beginning to sway dangerously; causing Alex’s whine to become louder.

         Molly tried to rise to her feet, but her knees declined to cooperate.

         “Fair enough,” she whispered with a small smile of understanding. “You bastards don’t intend to make this easy for me, huh?”

         Shivering, she dug into her pocket to whip out the lighter. From the bag, she had draped across her shoulders, she removed the bottle of lighter fluid and emptied it at the base of the swaying statue. She barely flinched as some splashed on her.

         She flicked the lighter.

         Huh? A voice? Someone calling her name?

         She turned to see three figures running toward her, panic in their eyes. Her lips quirked in silent victory.

         Too late.

         The flame danced in her palm—orange and red, beautiful.

         She tossed it.

         The flared eruption was immaculate.

         And as the statue descended, swaying toward her, she imagined her family – especially her proud father - reaching for her in gratitude.

Let the gods—and all who worshipped them—be damned.

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Word Count: 1936 (excluding Intro)
Prompt: Write a story where a character who finally achieves the lifelong goal they've
been working toward. What did they just achieve, and what do they do next?
Written For: "What a Character! : Official WDC Contest"