Dust to dust.

DUST TO DUST.

Earth was withdrawing her support. Fuchsia Willow knew it would happen one day and now the time had come. Ever since the birth of Man, Earth had given her resources freely, but Man had become greedy and the World was doomed. Doomed. Not long now, and firestorms would punish the greedy and return Mother Earth to her primeval self. The signs had been clear to all who could see.

It started with the well, no, the grass actually. It went yellow then brown and now it was white and see-through as the flakes of skin Fuchsia peeled off her sunburnt face. But the grass often went brown in summer, though not this early, and it had not disturbed her too much. No, it was the well that made her realise things were not right. The well had never dried up. For hundreds of years it had given life to the cottage, kept people and plants and now it had stopped supplying its crystal clear, sweet tasting water. Fuchsia had to use water from the tap, and it tasted of bleach. The garden did not like it either, but they had to make the best of it and Fuchsia carefully boiled huge amounts to soften it, before she gave it to her most delicate flowers. They still wilted and this distressed Fuchsia more than anything else that had happened in the last few months. And a lot had happened: her cat disappeared, the apple blossom had been destroyed by an exceptionally severe frost; her prize lilies had been stolen. Stolen! Who would steal plants you could easily grow yourself? And now the huge beech was shutting down, its leaves curling up and dry as tinder. But it was grandmother’s fuchsia’s that worried her most of all. For generations they had been propagated and loved and grown profusely and now they were dying. Was this a sign she would die too? She was eighty-nine, so expected at least another dozen years, but could she stay on when the storms came? Would she be allowed to live in her cottage and look after her garden?

She had talked to old professor Jones, who had retired to the village thirty years ago. He hadn’t been worried; blamed it all on the heat wave that was scorching the country, but she knew better. Every morning she woke up to yet another sign, another dead plant; the disappearance of the moles from the garden; dust clouds gathering on the horizon.

By mid August, she felt the change. This must be it, she thought. The weather was even more oppressive and she decided not to dress; her nightshift was most comfortable and did not stick to her skin. Wandering in the garden, she noticed the devastation. She had given up deadheading; it was no use. Everything was brown and brittle and snapped at the gentlest touch. She took her chair from the kitchen and sat in the garden, watching and waiting. Waiting and watching. The sky was changing. The pale, bleached blue was trembling, shivering, growing darker: pewter first, than black. The Earth was breathlessly waiting for the end, for the new beginning. She suddenly knew she would not be part of the new world.

She dragged her chair under the beech, tipping it up against the trunk, closed her eyes and waited.

The cracking, blinding-blue flash split the beech and as the tree fell, the earth opened wide to receive Fuchsia and all the goodness she had to offer. She would be part of the revived garden after all.

THE END.