THE MIDNIGHT RAINBOW

The innocence of young love can be shattered by the evil of old men.

We weren’t playing, not us as we lingered in the old shard of woodland where squirrels, they say, dance under the moon when the nights are drawing in and old man fox goes off in search of whatever the farmer in the valley has been foolish enough to leave unsupervised or unguarded.

No, it wasn’t a game. Not play. Nothing to do with fun. Michelle was with me, of course she was, we were always together and when we weren’t kissing and stuff we were up to our tricks. Because it was written in the old book we found at the antique fair and bought for almost nothing that there was a chance in a million for a lad such as myself and a lass with pretty eyes like Michelle to grow rich in the shard of woodland that we loved so much. There was even a drawing. It was spooky, really.

We kissed, of course. That was a given, the kissing and cuddling so that every nerve in my body tingled, and she always said that she felt the same, and I knew she was telling the truth because I could feel the tremors running through her as we drew ever closer. But there was more serious business on our minds as the sun finally slipped its almost purple blanket on and dipped out of sight.

There goes the wily old fox! Slipping past us, keeping a wary eye on us even though he learned long since that we meant him no harm. Why, we’d talked to him some days, breathed our words with misty syllables through the night air, and he had paused to listen,

where are you off to, Mr fox, this fine moonlit night? Is it the farmer’s chickens you’re after because you need to feed those babies of yours with their bright eyes watching you and learning how to be foxes by night…?

We’re waiting for the raindrops, Michelle and I. Did I tell you about her? Did I paint a picture in words of how lovely she is? Those breasts of hers, under the cotton top in summer or the fleecy coat in winter, her skirt, always a skirt, pretty and brief like skirts used to be when lasses invented short skirts… Her hair, long and curling past her shoulders, clean like the morning air is clean, and fragrant, delicately redolent of floral whispers in the wind. And her smile.

There never was another smile like hers.

I love that smile, and could kiss it for ever.

But we had the ancient book to guide us. When the raindrops fall, it said, and where the rainbow arcs.

At first I couldn’t properly understand. A rainbow at night? How can that be? I know the science, the reason why lights splits into prettiness when the sun shines through a rainbow. Of course I do! I’ve been to school and done my lessons, haven’t I? I know all sorts of stuff.

Kiss me again, Pieter, she asked, shivering slightly, not from the cold, not on a warm night like this, but from anticipation.

So I did. Of course I did. I really had no choice.

Then a raindrop, sploshed onto my face, and she felt its splash too, tickling her chin where her tongue tickled mine.

“It’s raindrops,” I spluttered, pulling slightly free from her warmth. But only slightly.

And then we saw it. We both did. In amazement.

The impossibly beautiful, magic in the purest of lights, the rainbow.

And both of us turned from it and stared into each other’s eyes. The brilliance pointing to the pot of gold like the old book said. We saw the finger of light. Red and orange and green and blue, and it pointed to a bubbling golden cauldron. There on the edge of the shard of woodland.

“We’ve made it, Michelle!” I shouted.

But she was more sensible than me.

She knew a bad thing when she saw one, and this was a bad thing.

And I knew it, too, as hand in hand and breast on chest we slowly slipped like dust to the ground, and that ground shook.

The war was under way, and we were dead even though our kisses were still moist.

© Peter Rogerson 28.08.17

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Oh.. oh my. I didn't expect that ending. So much of what you've written is absolutely delightful... touches of sweet, sweet love and a hint here and there of mysticism.. real yet.. evasive..

Such a touching tale, wonderfully gentle, natural language.. but.. ..

Should be read by more than me, reaching for a tissue.

[Peter Rogerson]

Thanks for your kind words, emmajoy. My writing usually reflects my mood at the time rather than being planned for ages.

[emmajoy]

Thought and emotions too often, go hand in hand. Take care of yourself, please.

[barleygirl]

Your descriptions are so fanciful & fresh! I love the way your words are delicately flirting with the romantic & sensual aspects of your story. I love the way the ending could be interpreted in so many different ways. People often want my stories to end on a definitive note, but I like it when a story doesn't make a specific point. For me, the death could be in the way a person can be "in love" but also knowing this situation can never be . . . *sigh!* (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Pete]

this is top notch. innocent, touching love with hints of magic. surprise ending that shocks. love the way this tale is spun.

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful and worthwhile story shared. I liked the places and the situations. You left the reader in good place and with happy thoughts. Thank you Peter for sharing the amazing story.
Coyote