Creative Writing 3POV

Nathaniel GrayBeal
Third Person POV Rough Draft
3/22-#-19

The Village
	A child has died in the village the other day, the poor dear fell from a tree and onto his head. He cracked like a gourd once he hit the earth below with a sickeningly wet noise to follow, and then a scream of a passerby who managed to see the accident. The Lord wept over his tiny, broken body before anyone could manage to force their feet to move. He is still weeping.
	The little priest looks out to the crowd of mourners, that boy was a brother, a son, a friend; he would have been a husband one day, he would have been a father one day. The priest’s large, grassy green eyes rolled slowly to the bride of the young boy, an equally young girl who wore a veil of mourning. Her little shoulders trembled and her small body racked with sobs, her hands under the veil to cup over her face as if it would muffle her sobs. She would never be a mother, she would never marry, love would never grace her. The little priest frowned and gently squeezed his hands together as they folded over the other in front of his lap, then sighed afterwards. A breath he didn’t know he was holding. His father would know how to give such a sermon, a parting goodbye to the body wrapped in linens in front of him, a beautifully constructed eulogy that lifted the hopes of everyone in the church. The little priest didn’t know how to do that.
	The priest was small, barely able to peek over the backs of most wicker chairs the elders sat in, even when standing on his toes. His robes nearly hung from his lithe frame, decorated in heavenly white with small specs of flowers dotting colour over the fabric. Intricate swirls and patterns of hair-line strung gold flowed over the cuffs of his robes and across the sleeves, traveling down the sides and to the pool of cloth surrounding his feet. Innocence was marked with white in the village; children wore white, the promised wore white, the priest wore white. He often wondered if that was why the Lord never wore white, He is a creation of something not so innocent. He always has been. The church was white, the floors dyed a permanent brownish red, and the legs of the pews to match. Flowers and candles covered the walls, hanging ivy plants draped lazily from the beams of the ceiling, climbing vines crept up the pews and burst with beautiful flowers. Little mushrooms and moss grew in the corners, occasionally one could spot a snail or two making it their home. An array of colour and life, as any church should have.
	The priest’s boots walked a careful path, avoiding the little flowers and moss growing between the boards of the wooden stage. The Lord gave them such pretty gifts, it is only fair to keep them safe. The priest couldn’t remember how many times he’s laid or sat in the grass of the aisles and counted the petals of whatever flower had caught his interest, smiling as he blessed each one with a promise of love. His thoughts were interrupted at a rather loud sob from the promised bride, eyes looking downwards to watch as climbing vines inched over her shoes and dress; consolation. She sniffled and lowered her hands as a beautifully bright flower bloomed in her lap, petting over the silky petals gingerly. She muttered a thank you and looked up to the priest, who didn’t realize he was staring. He hurriedly looked forward. Everyone was waiting on him. He swallowed a lump in his throat and began to speak,
	“Dearest, today we are gathered to give the poor spirit of Thomas Hughes away. We are gathered to give him our goodbyes, and our blessings of healthy, beautiful life in his turnings.” He had a faint frown, clasping his hands together to press his palms against the other. After entwining his fingers together, he resumed. “To his promised, we offer our unconditional love and care. A hand will be extended to you, from us, from Him. He cries along with us in this time, our tears intermix and wind back to the earth where we begin from. We may raise our heads, and thank Him for the love He shares, and the spirits He helps to better turnings.”
	The village raised their heads, hands trembling in their tightened grips with their neighbours, and through their pained cries and sobs they thanked Him. The promised bride kept her head up, the vines snaking through her beautiful brown hair and giving her small flowers blooming in the locks. She reached back and touched them carefully, a smile gracing her lips. They knew it was a gift, a promise of someone loving her despite her promised groom unable to give her such love anymore. Their day of birth will be a saddened one, but they will find joy for her.
	The farmers stood on either side of the wrapped body, their heads bowed in respect. When the small nod was given by the priest, the old women lifted up the cot he was laid upon, and slowly began to carry it outside. The church goers followed silently, the bride walking to his side. The priest watched after them and then looked down, pulling his own veil downwards, and followed after them. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, the Lord was behind them. He smiled and looked forward as his own small, pale hand was quickly held by the large, deeply purple one of the familiar cloaked figure.
	Death was a natural thing, the Lord gave them life, and the Lord takes them. It was only natural. He gives them a chance to provide care to the families and the village, giving them to the earth for the farmers to memorialize them. Traveling along the tall, rich, healthy stalks of corn that sprouted higher and greener than one could imagine. Between the rows of bushes giving fruits, and the sprouts of other vegetables jutting from the dirt; all named after the spirits they lived from. Thomas will grow peas, beside his grandmother, they will be swollen and green, tasting the best than ever could. The spirits always grew the best crops, their love and life providing the richest flavours and healthiest of greens. The crowd mumbled to the family and the promised bride about the feast Thomas would provide, offering to bring the best they can create for comfort. Through her childish tears, the bride asked Mrs. Winery to bring a fruit-filled pastry the girl enjoyed. Mrs. Winery smiled and was happy to agree to such a polite request.