Junior finalist: Wild with Grief

This summer, we launched our Words of the Wild nature writing competition, encouraging people to send us stories inspired by Scotland’s wildlife and wild places. We had a fantastic response, with over 500 entries submitted. Below, you can read the entry from one of our junior finalists, 15-year old Eileen Page. We will be announcing the winners of the competition at our 60th anniversary event at the Scottish Parliament on 13 November.

Wild with Grief

by Eileen Page, aged 15

There was a girl in the tree. And a man in the garden chair. They sat, in their respective perches, in a garden that looked onto the hills beyond. The garden was beautiful, though not, as some would say, “well-kept”. No, this beauty was one of untamed wilderness, overgrown and luscious. In fact, the feeble fence that separated the garden from the neighbouring woods was so covered in green vegetation that they blended together.

The girl looked around seven. Her tawny brown hair curled over her head, stopping short just below the ears, like someone had taken a pair of shears to it. Despite the length of the cropped hair, a collection of twigs and leaves of varying hues had found themselves rooted inside. This, compiled with dirt beneath her fingernails and a streak of mud across her arm, would have acted like camouflage, were it not for the bright yellow dress she donned. Somehow, perhaps it was the sizeable eyes that did it, she resembled a fawn, all dainty and fresh.

The man was older, with wrinkles and grey hair. He had the eyes of the child and though they had no other identifiable shared features, they seemed remarkably alike. He stood and called to her, his voice slow yet smooth; immediately she shimmied down the tree to his side.

Upon reaching him, she took his hand and they smiled simultaneously. They were large, genuine smiles, the kind almost extinct in the world today. He, with his other hand, pointed at the sky. To the untrained eye, this may have appeared a random action, but she understood. Together they stood, watching a golden eagle soar through the clouds, hand in hand on that warm summer’s night.

Olive Allaway had changed. This did not surprise them much. After all, people change after death.

Her face was blank and unreadable. She did not move, except to blink. Positioned on a hard, straight-backed chair, her scrubbed, unmuddied hands were folded on her lap. Her hair was as tame as it could be, considering its type, with multiple clips pinning it down. At the time most were outside, playing in the layers of snow that lay past the window.

The sound of cars, traffic and angry horns pierced the room. The sound of the city.

Her mother watched her, arms crossed. Though her brow was furrowed and a frown evident, she too was motionless. Having pleaded and whispered and shouted to no avail, she only stood there, on that winter’s morning, as her daughter sat with her back to the window.

Fallen leaves littered the floor in a fiery abundance of colour. In a pile of them, lay a girl, covered in the brittle foliage, the smell of earth filling her nose. Her eyes closed and a smile settled on her face.

The pale sun made an appearance, scattering shadow over her. The wind whistled, carrying with it the calls, “…Olive? Olive!”

Olive, hearing these cries at last, leaped up and bounded towards the approaching woman. Reaching her, she took her in a quick embrace. Although she looked at her mother with a smile, she must have seen something in that gaze as, slowly, the smile withered and died.

Her mother fixed a wobbly smile to her own face and crouched down, gripping tightly onto Olive’s hands. She knelt so her face was placed just below her daughters, although intended as a soothing action, the effect was not so. Kneeling meant something of importance, and the scanning eyes did not aid this course.

“Honey…” here her voice trailed off and she regained herself with a couple of choking coughs. “Grandpa passed away, this morning,” maybe in seeing no response, or maybe in acknowledgement to herself, she continued plainly, “Grandpa’s dead.”

Olive was frozen. She hadn’t been cold before, yet now she shivered. Her eyes wandered off into the distance, no longer was she looking at her mother. The word bounced around in her head. Dead, she thought. That can’t be right. Death didn’t happen to her, to Grandpa. What did it even mean, really? She felt as though she was hearing underwater. Only the occasional phrase infiltrated. He’d died peacefully, in his sleep. Like that mattered, she thought. Like that made any difference.

And so, a woman knelt, with a girl who had grown up in a matter of seconds, surrounded by the fallen leaves of an autumn afternoon.

The traffic gradually melded into winding highland lanes. The radio was off; only silence felt appropriate.

They’d been there a while. Olive, Mum, Dad, Grandma, his friends. They all seemed happy, laughing. Olive, well, she stood at the back. Her corner, as she had come to think of it, was serving as a sanctuary of sorts, from the people, from the photo of him.

She wondered why they were all holed up in the stuffy house anyway, when he belonged outdoors. She wanted to leave. She needed to. Stumbling, Olive ran out onto the patio.

Heart thumping, she tore through the undergrowth, hardly stopping when she reached the fence. She scrambled over, drawing blood, and fell. Though her cut stung, it was nothing compared to her pricking eyes.

She left a trail of blood behind her as she hurtled onwards.

Olive wouldn’t have stopped, were it not for it, standing on a rock, staring at her.

It was bigger than she thought, up close, and beak noticeably sharp. Its eyes were the colour of amber and for a while they were all she could see. Slowly she raised her chin and it froze. Considering her, it lowered its own into what seemed like a regal bow.

She watched it take off into the sky.

A hesitant shadow of a smile graced her lips. Bit by bit it grew until it was almost indistinguishable from its predecessor. Although her face was wet and eyes still sad, she held that smile, on that spring evening, following the golden eagle through the clouds.

“Goodbye Grandpa,” she whispered.

Read the entries from our other two junior finalists:

Into the Wild… by Olivia Phillips
Motherhood by Alexandra Yates