The Woman in Yellow

The marigold was not meant for her. It was meant for my wife, Amelie. But she needed it more.

I perched on the riverbank as the countryside hummed and buzzed around me.

Pale, cotton clouds gracefully traversed the sky, performing their slow migration over the horizon and into the endless cornflower blue.

Sunlight glittered in the river, tossed and swirled by the small waves created by large rocks standing proud from the riverbed. Fish caught the light as they danced around my feet.

I was waiting for Amelie.

She walked this way every day on her way home from work. She was a kitchen maid at the manor house that overlooked our small village, nestled into the very heart of the wild untamed countryside. Every day I waited for her, just so that I could give her a marigold plucked from Mrs Simmons’ garden and walk the rest of the way with her, listening to the trials and tribulations of being a maid.

As I sat there, feet cooled by the crisp water, I became aware of a solitary rowboat drifting on the gentle current towards me.

It was not unusual for boats to pass me by, the river was quite the spot for avid boaters, but usually such boats were occupied. This boat, its prow worn and tarnished, had no oars and no occupant. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty.

As it drew closer, I stood up, waded a little into the water and rescued the boat. Perhaps if I dragged it up onto the bank, I’d be able to ask around the village and reunite it with its owner.

The boat was not empty. Far from it.

Reeds covered the bottom creating a bed on which lay a young woman. Her dark hair fell about her face in tight, twisting ringlets. Her eyes were closed, her face home to a peaceful expression. Wearing a plain dress of yellow cotton, her dark skin seemed to glow with gold in the springtime sun. She was beautiful.

I took hold of the boat, pulling it to an abrupt stop in hopes of waking this young woman, of informing her that she must have drifted away from her mooring point. But as I pulled the boat towards myself it became apparent that she was lost to an eternal slumber.

Her hands rested upon her stomach; a belt of finely engraved leather looped around her waist. Upon her hip was a short dagger, the scabbard long since lost. Whilst her beauty was still evident, it was clear from her attire that she was not a woman of great wealth.

The funeral boat was otherwise unadorned. Bare. No tributes had been left, no flowers or artifacts to aid her journey into the afterlife. She seemed lonely almost. Neglected.

I looked to the marigold I held then gently slipped it under her hands. The golden bloom shone out against the pale yellow of her dress. A sceptre for a sleeping queen.

The marigold was not meant for her. It was meant for my wife. But she needed it more. This nameless woman of whom I had no knowledge needed something. Though I did not know her, and she had never known me, I felt it my duty to offer this woman a tribute of remembrance. To show her that someone was thinking of her. That someone cared enough to ensure that she did not arrive in the afterlife empty handed.

After muttering a quiet prayer of guidance to the gods, I let the boat go.

It continued on down the river, following the winding dance of the current as it made its way to the sea.

This woman had a destination, and I would not be the one to hinder her. Perhaps, when she woke in the afterlife, she would look at my marigold in her hands and smile. Someone has thought of me, she might’ve thought. Someone has remembered me.

When Amelie saw me, sombre and flowerless, she spat sharp words at me.

“Do you not care anymore?” She asked, walking three paces ahead of me. “You used to bring me flowers every day. Am I not worthy of flowers anymore? Are you angry at me, is that it? Your flowers always make my day, and now it’s ruined.”

I let her vitriol roll over me like the sand allows the waves of the ocean to lap at it. She didn’t mean it, I was sure.

We ate dinner in silence.

That night I slept in bed alone. Amelie went to her sister’s house. Or so she told me.

It was not long after that I was informed, in hushed hurried whispers over ale in the tavern, that Amelie was having romantic relations with the groom at the manor house.

I did not regret giving the marigold to that beautiful woman carried by the current. I never shall regret giving her that golden, glowing bloom. It did her better than it ever would Amelie, and it did me better than if I had simply let her float on by, unseen and forgotten.

The marigold was not meant for Amelie. It was meant for the woman dressed in yellow. She had needed it more.