The Heart Of The Pumpkin Patch

Photo by Joseph Gonzalez on Unsplash

Her bare feet left imprints in the soft sand as the old woman carried the large pumpkin towards the tiny house at the edge of town.

Vonya’s house was as unusual as her name — a centuries-old wooden house, much in need of some paint, but somehow not deteriorating anymore than it already had.

Vonya kept to herself, barely mingling with anyone, and the townspeople had stopped paying her any attention years ago.

Except when October came.

She grew vegetables in the large garden behind her house. All vegetables were only for her own use, except for the pumpkins. It started out small, but now dominated her property, with pumpkins in all shapes and sizes, as far as the eye could see.

On the eve of October, Vonya started carrying pumpkin after pumpkin towards her house, depositing them in the sand below the veranda. She worked through the night, and by the time morning came, she sat in a camping chair, carving pumpkins.

People flooded to her place from all over, some buying her carved creations, others pumpkins to change into their own designs for Halloween.

Day after day, Vonya sat in her chair.

Day after day, people bought her pumpkins.

She never talked to them — some people even referred to her as ‘the mute pumpkin lady’.

Every night, when darkness fell, Vonya left her chair and returned to the pumpkin patch. When dawn broke, she sat in her chair again, and more pumpkins lay ready for whoever wanted them.

On the morning of All Hallows Eve, Vonya and all the pumpkins were gone.

To Vonya, this was a day of rest.

A day of preparation.

By the time dusk set in, Vonya heard the squeals of laughter from children embarking on their trick-a-treat adventures, all dressed up in Halloween costumes.

No one knocked on her door, despite her house being transformed into one of the most beautiful in town, with candles burning in dozens of pumpkins on the veranda, and more in the garden. Gone was the dilapidated look of the building, and in the mirror inside her bedroom, Vonya saw the same transformation in the reflection looking back at her.

The smile playing around her lips lighted up the smooth, unwrinkled face of the image in the mirror. She ran her tender young hands over the black dress, which hugged her slim waist. Her curly blond hair framed her face, while her bright blue eyes, mostly tired and dull, were now filled with life and love.

A warm feeling filled her as she heard the joy of the children in the street.

It was time.

Vonya slipped out the back door and, on her bare feet, walked into the darkness of her back garden, straight to the pumpkin patch.

She walked, and walked, and finally reached the heart of the pumpkin patch, where she dropped to her knees, raised her arms to the heavens and chanted in an unearthly language.

One by one, her friends appeared, joining her singing, raising more friends from their slumber.

They stayed inside the circles surrounding the pentagram in the midst of the patch. Hallows Eve was their night, the only night friends from yesteryear reunited, and enjoyed the protection of spirit, provided by the pentagram carefully crafted by Vonya, using the tendrils of the pumpkin patch.

Their dance and song filled the air, drowning out the sound of mere mortals, and replenished Vonya’s strength — the strength she needed to open this portal once a year.

Only the observant person would see them dance, but most are blinded — literally and figuratively — by the beauty of the light surrounding Vonya’s house, thinking it came from the candles, but not realizing the light came from more than only that; from a world beyond their understanding.

By the time morning broke, Vonya was back in her bedroom, once more looking at her mirrored image.

An old woman stared back at her, and only those who cared to look closely would see the unnatural glint of youth in her eyes.

But, on this day, as they do every year after Halloween, the townspeople went about their business as if Vonya didn’t exist. Her secret was safe once more — the secret at the heart of the pumpkin patch.

Note: I tried to convey in this story that there’s always more to people than we see on the outside.

© Rebel’s Notes


9 thoughts on “The Heart Of The Pumpkin Patch

  1. This held all the mystic beauty of wiccan magic, so much respect for people who have passed over and those who move to a different beat than the world at large. You did indeed convey that there is often more to be seen than what we first glimpse, and that assumptions can make us foolish.

  2. A few good lessons here. But the one I like best, is that the old often see the reflection of their youth when looking in the mirror. Be kind 🙂

  3. Beautiful story. Not all is as it seems. And there are hidden depths beneath the surface that can take you to realms never imagined.
    Thanks for sharing.

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