MEGAN PRICE: Stone giant

How far could it be, the windmill in the distance? I saw it turn from the window in the attic. It was further than mother allowed me to venture, that I knew.

But I wanted to see it. It looked so small from here, but I knew it wasn’t small. It was as tall as our house, as tall as the willow by the river. Taller, even. I wondered what its name might be.

Our house had a name, painted in wispy black letters on the sign outside the gate. But a windmill wasn’t a house. Was it?

It was early afternoon now and mother would be sleeping. I wouldn’t be long, I would run so the distance would be even shorter. Our windmill pumped water, its little wooden frame was cracked and only the birds liked it.

But the windmill in the distance had a stone base, it looked like a great big thimble. I wanted to live in a windmill. I snuck down the attic stairs, careful of the creaky floorboards at the bottom, then ran as lightly as I could down the passage. I would be home in time for lunch and no one would be the wiser.

Outside greeted me pleasantly and I could only see the tip of the windmills blades as they spun around. My eyes were fixed, like an eagle that spotted a mouse.

The wind was soft and warm as it blew against me. I turned around to look back at the house, it looked small now, even with the few steps I had taken. Then, I turned to the windmill and ran. The wind whistled past my ears and the long grassy field brushed my legs.

ALSO READ: MEGAN PRICE – Dusty Cat

The windmill grew bigger. I passed our cows and climbed the gate of their pasture. Now I was further than I had ever been on my own. I kept my eyes on the windmill, not looking back. I knew if I looked back, I would hear my mother’s voice calling me. I wanted to see the windmill. I ran faster, my lungs beginning to burn.

The windmill grew bigger than I could have imagined. Its stones were old and mossy, its blades creaking as they worked. My eyes were wide, standing before the structure that could swallow our house in one bite.

Then I heard a voice. My stomach tightened and I wondered if I should run home. But I wanted to see what was inside. Was it a spiral staircase leading to the top?

Was it like a barn or was it like a house? The voice sounded like it was outside, so I would be safer inside. I bent low, using the barrels and bales as cover. Circling the big stone windmill, I came to its grand double doors. The blades came close to me, but not close enough to take my head off.

The creaking was louder and I stood and listened. It was alive, like an old giant. The door was left open just a crack big enough for me to slip through. It was cold inside and smelled of flour and barley. Cogs and wheels and trays and bags. The giant was a servant. “Where did you come from?” said a boy not much older than me as he stood by the door.

The words stuck in my chest. “Go on, then,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I live over the hill. I only wanted to see the windmill.” “You’re the house with the friendly cows.” I smiled, “yes. The only reason you would know that is if you climbed the gate.”

He thought about what I said, his eyes on the ground. “You can visit the windmill and I won’t tell. Only if I can visit the cows and you won’t tell.”

“Deal.”

“Do you want to see the top?”

“Yes, yes!”

I followed the boy up the stairs to the very top of the windmill. The wind was cold and the fields looked like rolling green carpets. I saw my little house in the distance, it was so small from up here. Like one of the toys in my toy box.

The boy and I stood at the windows and watched the blades turn steadily. We watched for ages then I knew I had to get home. The boy and I promised to meet again, at the windmill, in the fields.

The cows would like the company and the giant would enjoy our visits. The mill turned and the sun went low. Mother knew I was gone. She always knew. But I had made a friend and he kept me safe.

I sat in the attic and watched the little giant work and promised to visit tomorrow.

* Megan Price is a self-published writer who lives in Trafalgar on the KZN South Coast. She has written numerous flash fiction stories, one of which won The Creative Writing Ink Short Story Competition in 2022. She has also written and self-published a number of longer short stories and has sold copies all over the world.

HAVE YOUR SAY

Like the South Coast Herald’s Facebook page, follow us on Twitter and Instagram