Burying The Hatchet

Burying The Hatchet

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

We agreed to meet in the woods on midsummer night. I protested at first, feeling that my opinion had not been sought until the majority had voted in favour of this misguided adventure. Secretly however, I was looking forward to it as my hatchet was getting far too heavy to carry around comfortably anymore. It was confirmed therefore that we would all bury our hatchets together on this ceremonious evening.

I found it a strange evening to pick, however,in view of the fact that none of the others were Shakespeare fans or prone to following pagan type rituals. I began to wonder if they had conjured this idea up as they knew it would appeal to me especially; knowing how fond I was of my hatchet they may have wondered how to persuade me to get rid of it.

I treasured my hatchet in the weeks leading up to the burial. I paraded it around with me everywhere, stroking it and putting it to its ultimate usage. I chopped through bushes and thorns, the more twisted and convoluted the better. Nothing was too much of a challenge for my hatchet and I repayed it by sharpening it daily and allowing it to sleep under my pillow.

The fateful night in June arrived and I dressed in my best angelic white. I met cheerily with the others and we skipped, childlike and forgiving to the agreed spot. It was the woods we knew so well and we all had picked our plot in the weeks after the agreement. We waited patiently for the the floral clock in the nearby enclosed part of the woods to chime the hour;the cuckooing sound a soothing and fitting signal that it was finally time to move on...

The ground was hard. Stones and thick mulch made it difficult at first, however, it became easier once they were cast aside like unwanted treasures and fuzzy memories. We dug as deep as the time and the waning light allowed us. Some digged deeper than others in silence. Some bragged about their depth and obvious strength. I dug just enough, not wanting to enter another competition I couldn't possibly win.

We left the woods in near darkness, tired and relieved that we had all managed the task. Stilted conversations proved that the hatchets needed to be grieved before we could be fully relieved of their burden.

The following months were difficult initially but we found new ways of connecting. We even got the Monopoly board out once and managed a whole game without any cheating, shouting or quitting. The sound of audible deep breaths abounded whilst we counted to 10 or if we were really annoyed, prayed ten Hail Marys.

Christmas was only a few days away when I woke suddenly one night, heart beating fast and sweat wrapping me up like a cling filmed sandwich. I had to do it, I had to get my hatchet back. I left the house dressed still in my pyjamas, covered with my best black coat. I drove as near to the spot as I could, realising I had forgotten to bring a spade I had no option but to turn back, wheels skidding in frustration as I did.

I returned shortly, spade and torch in hand and set to work, checking first that all the other burial plots were undisturbed. My poor hatchet was recovered but oh, how pitiful it looked and felt as it had shrunk to half it's previous size. It's new withered look, however,gave it an almost wand like appearance. The floral clock chimed on my exit.

I nurtured my hatchet for the next three days...

Christmas day arrived at last and I didn't make an extraordinary entrance when I arrived at the family home. My hatchet was hidden in my handbag, waiting patiently. However, I decided as it was out of practice, I would give it a helping hand.

I reached for the port.

This sibling thing is just no fun without a bit of rivalry.