The May Queen

Rejected by tradition, a girl finds self-worth and kinship on the edge of celebration.

         A crimson spot sullied the pristine yellow petal.

         Aghast, she tossed the flower aside and stuck her injured thumb into her mouth to suck away the pain. She glanced up to see if anyone had noticed the mishap and was relieved to find the other girls still too focused on weaving their wreaths of wildflowers.

         Looking at the growing pile in their midst, she figured there must be about a hundred crowns by now—all in readiness for the yearly celebration of summer’s arrival.

         It was a tradition she looked forward to, yet dreaded.

         “Think Celia will be May Queen this time?”
         “No, I think it’s going to be Sierra. She’s definitely been campaigning for it.”
         “You don’t say. All those pies she keeps baking for the Somners…”
         “I know. ‘Suck-Up’ should be her middle name.”
         “Personally, I think Annabel should be chosen.”
         “Annabel? Oh, dear gods, no. She’s so… boring.”

         She winced and hunched deeper into herself as their giggles swirled through the sticky afternoon air. She could feel their pitying glances and self-consciously brushed her thick brown hair forward to hide her face.

         She knew she was only mentioned because of her age. At seventeen, she was considered an old maid—most May Queens were picked around thirteen. Every year, she held her breath and prayed to the gods, hoping it would finally be her turn to wear the most beautiful of the flower crowns and be paraded through the village, making her family proud.

         But when her little sister, Evelyn, was chosen two years ago, it became clear: she would never be considered. The embarrassment of being passed over by the gods—or the village council—was enough to send her into a despair that took months to shake.

________________________________________


         With a sigh, she took off her flower crown and hobbled away on sore feet after hours of doing the maypole dance.

         Now at dusk, the festivities were truly beginning. Laughter and music filled the air, and the crackling of the towering bonfire lit the revellers in dancing silhouettes.

         She didn’t feel festive.

         Only when she reached the crest of Romany’s Lot did she finally kick off her flat sandals and sink her aching feet into the cool grass. Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her chin upon them and looked down at the party below.

         Sierra—of course—was draped in the arms of the village’s most eligible bachelor. Wasn’t it always the case? The May Queen and her chosen king often ended up married.

         Not for me, she thought with a bitter smile. I’ll die a spinster in this cursed place.

         And yet, she found herself quietly singing the ancient tune drifting up from the celebration below. The words clung to her tongue even as tears welled in her eyes:

         Everything within my dwelling or in my possession
         All kine and crops, all flocks and corn
         From Hallow Eve to Beltane Eve...

         “Still have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, Anna. Mind if I join you?”

         Blushing, Annabel nodded, allowing the older woman to sit beside her.

         “I didn’t see you at the parade earlier, Molly,” she asked. “Where were you?”

         “Where else? Getting drunk and trying to shoot down stray rats in my house. Hah!”

         Annabel couldn’t help laughing at the image of Mad Molly—well-known in the village—perched on her porch with a rifle, waging war on vermin.

         They sat in companionable silence, watching the festivities, until Molly’s raspy voice broke the calm.

         “You’re better than all of them, you know that, don’t you?”

         “Huh?”

         “Don’t gimme that look,” Molly huffed, patting Annabel’s cheek. “Think I haven’t noticed that long face of yours this time every year? You shouldn’t let this silly tradition define who you are. You’re better than that—better than any of them. Especially that one wearing the crown. Hmph!”

         Annabel flushed with delight at the unexpected praise. “Thank you,” she whispered into her knees.

         “Were you ever Queen?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

         Molly spat as if something sour touched her tongue. “Never. Not interested. Don’t see the fuss, anyhow. May Days come and go. Every year we pray to the gods for a good harvest and parade our so-called virgins as offerings.” She shook her head, the matted white knots of her hair swaying with the motion. “Haven’t seen much improvement in seventy years. Sometimes I’d like to kick the gods in the nuts for having such a rotten sense of humour.”

         Annabel smiled at the sentiment. But as she glanced at Molly, she noticed a shimmer of wistfulness in the old woman’s eyes as she watched the celebration below.

         Without a word, Annabel picked up her flower crown and gently placed it on Molly’s head.

         “Now why would you—”

         “We should join them,” Annabel interrupted, smiling. “Give the gods one good laugh at least, eh?”

         She held out her hand, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Annabel’s heart soared as she saw the tears glimmering in Molly’s eyes.

         “Hmph... might as well,” came the shy mumble. Molly puffed out her chest, readjusted the crown, and grinned at her new dance partner. “Let’s go show them what a good time really looks like, eh?”




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Word Count: 876
Prompt: May 1 is May Day, also known as Beltane. Write a story or poem about a May Day celebration that includes the following, bolded:
maypole dance, flower crowns, May Queen, wildflowers, bonfire
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"