Open Features: Thomas Pyewackett (Deceased)
Jean Cowgill’s meditation on the death of Thomas Pyewackett is steeped in rural mystery and old ways.
‘There you lie as though asleep. You slipped away at midnight having enjoyed your last solstice…a predetermined time as you followed the natural rhythm of the seasons. Today you will be buried…green in deference to your wishes. We chose the corner of the garden where you used to sun yourself. The burial plot has been prepared by Hera, alas my back is playing up, she and Agnes will be here at dusk. In the meantime I have to prepare an eulogy.
How can I speak of my feelings? I loved you…sleek hair, athletic body,
olive eyes and sanguine nature. You were not my first but you will be my last. I have not enough energy to go through the psychic bonding with another. We gave each other eighteen years and I do not have that length of time to give to a successor.’
Later three friends meet under an oak tree.
‘Hera, Agnes, we are here to remember our dear friend.
Thomas Pyewackett is to be laid to rest, buried, mourned.
How proud he was of his illustrious lineage.
Thomas was my companion, partner and confidant.
I knew him as no other; his every nuance was familiar.
Our lives were intertwined in a series of rituals.
I remember in the evenings, if the sky was clear,
we sat by the window and waited for the moonrise.
At such time we reached the pinnacle of psychic atunement.
Our combined strength was all powerful:
Thomas found the locket belonging to Lucy Pendegrass;
the silly girl had lost it in the hay meadow.
He facilitated the pregnancy of Mrs Grieves at Briestfield farm.
She’d been visiting hospitals for years as you know.
He cured Timothy Issott of being cross-eyed
and stopped Uncle George from taking drink.
But Thomas would not touch evil; he was ‘familias bono’.
When I was angry with the vicar Thomas did not help me.
I had to do the deed alone with no success.
I knew that Thomas had many offers of dalliance,
handsome devil, yet constancy was our keyword.
He diagnosed his illness and foretold its course.
Leukemia was the instrument and no vets by request.
So goodbye, dear companion, we shall meet again.’
The three women form a circle and moving withershins sing softly:
‘The earth, the water, the fire, the air, return, return, return, return…’
