GISELLE’S HARVEST (for Pol & Tracey B)

The town was mid siesta; all the shutters on the houses were closed to keep the inhabitants cool whilst the sun was strongest, bearing down on rock and roof alike, blistering paint and bleaching bone. Giselle, her radio mumbling in the background, sat on her bed in front of the mirror scrutinizing her hair. As required by her veneration it had grown untouched for two years and was now so long and thick it covered her head and shoulders like a black mane, reaching beyond the base of her spine and hiding her pretty almond features. On a hot day such as this her scalp itched and needled constantly whilst perspiration gathered on her back making her clothes damp and uncomfortable. Worst of all she felt her youth slipping away beneath it and this made her ache inside.

If only the Citrus Blight had never come.

Three years ago it attacked the lemon and orange trees surrounding the town. The fruits shrivelled and blackened, and the groves would drone infernally day after day as swarms of frenzied wasps and flies gorged on the nectar dripping from the ragged pulp. The crop was ruined, and with it the local economy and the small town’s sublime spirit. However, the following spring, as everyone gloomily awaited the return of the Blight, Giselle won the Venus Beauty Pageant in Sabina, the judges awed by her flawless hair. As her townspeople celebrated they told her not to touch a single tress:

‘Let it grow, Giselle,’ they said, almost singing to her, ‘let it grow.’

Soon after, the first fruits appeared in the groves with no return of the Blight and the town enjoyed the best harvest on record. Some said it was a miracle and talked of Giselle’s increasingly abundant locks as their own divine symbol of fertility, even making the sign of the cross before her in the street. As time passed this faith deepened until the town believed the Blight would return if anything were ever to spoil Giselle’s particular beauty – they had to protect it, no matter what. So, to make certain, the townspeople called upon Father Villiers to anoint Giselle ‘Patron Saint of the Groves’ which he did with earnest ceremony, and Giselle had dutifully accepted, not realising the sacrifices she would have to make.

Now, however, nothing would change her mind: it was coming off, all of it.

She closed the shutters in her room and positioned her mirror to catch the sunrays slipping through the slats. Her hands shook with anticipation as she loosened her hair and it unravelled like a rolling shroud. She picked up the steel scissors, heavier than she remembered, and made the first tentative snip; nothing more than the merest strand, but it sat there like a gash in the palm of her hand.

Was that a noise in the hall? She caught her breath and froze, listening intently, terrified that she might be discovered. But nothing moved, only the airless sound of the mid-afternoon heat warping the door jamb. She grasped a tress above her left temple, took a deep breath, and cut it sharply. Her hand came away clutching the severance, like a horse’s tail protruding from her fist. The dramatic change in length shocked her but determination urged her on and she set about the rest, leaving just a little length all over. When she was finished there were cuttings everywhere: on the bed, in her lap, spilling across the floor. Her head felt so light she thought it might slip the bond with her neck and float away. It was a wonderful feeling. She tipped it and turned it this way and that, barely recognising herself in the mirror.

Next she gathered the cuttings into bunches and tied each at one end with cotton; she took her colander, turned it upside down and pushed the bound ends through the holes until she’d made a perfect hairy crown that remained, as she’d hoped, oddly alive.

Evening had turned to dusk and she could hear the cicadas singing.

She put on the straw-coloured frock she rarely wore, took her emergency money from beneath the bed and put it with the crown into her canvas satchel. Then, having switched off her radio and said goodbye to her room, stepped nervously out into the street and headed straight for the groves. She made her way through the scented avenues until she came to the very centre. There, in the shadow of a voluptuous lemon tree, stood an unusual scarecrow. It was the image of her in every way yet bald as an egg. Giselle was scared, but as she approached it the scarecrow appeared to wink at her knowingly, urging her to finish what she’d begun. She took the crown from the bag; the mass of locks trailing to the earth appeared to sit up in response as she put it delicately on the smooth pate of her avatar, and as she did Giselle felt her heart change shape and mass; no longer a leaden thing full of responsibility and duty, but a lithe organ beating now at its own youthful pace.

On her way out of town she passed the café where Fausto the fruit-picker always sat after a day’s work, ready to bless his Patron Saint openly whenever he caught sight of her. He was smoking his Royale cigarettes and sipping rum. Fausto looked up as Giselle approached and her restored heart beat so loudly she thought it would give her away; but he simply doffed his cap as he would to any stranger and politely said:

‘Evenin’, miss.’

‘Evening, sir,’ she replied.

‘Are you a little lost, miss?’ Fausto asked, gesturing at the quiet street.

‘Oh, no,’ Giselle smiled cheekily, ‘bless you, but I know exactly where I’m going.’