The little procession picked their way along the slippery path. Simon, the baby of the group at nineteen years old, kicked at the golden autumn leaves as he lead the way.
It wasn’t a good day for it, there was a cold chill in the air. No sun could pierce the clouds that were threatening to rain on the parade.
As they reached the end of the path, a squirrel darted out from where it had been collecting acorns. The dog, startled, gave chase. Bushy tail flowing, it scurried up a tree. The old Collie dog barked after it, her feet planted firmly at the foot of the offending tree as she looked up, up, trying to see where it had gone.
The young men stepped into the clearing, they walked slowly, in single file towards the edge of the pond. A breeze made waves across its surface; echoes of childrens’ voices travelled through the reeds.
Solemnly the five young faces watched, as the wreath that Simon had placed onto the waves, drifted out towards the centre of the pond. It came to rest against a wooden sign, flaking red painted letters could still be seen; “Danger, deep water, cold currents” That was Toby’s legacy; a warning to all, to keep their feet upon the ground, do not swim in this tempting pool.
It had been a very hot summer, the drought made the leaves fall early. All summer, the boys played in the woods, dipping nets into the pond, paddling in the stream. They made dens and promised to be friends forever, blood brothers, they scratched their skin and mixed the blood. Finally a dare, they would all jump into the pond and swim to the other side.
With a gleeful cry, they jumped in and started to swim. No one could have known that the water would be so cold. Toby’s body reacted immediately. A sharp intake of breath triggered an Asthma attack. He waved his arms, gasping, desperately trying to call out to his friends as they swam, racing away from him.
By the time the five boys climbed out onto the far bank, Toby had disappeared, they thought that he hadn’t jumped in and was hiding in the den. They ran through the trees, calling his name, before returning to the waters edge, to that spot, exactly where they all stood now, remembering.
This was the tenth anniversary of Toby’s death. It would be the last time that they would all come together, to this place. The pact made by five small boys fulfilled. An annual pilgrimage. One visit for each year of his age, a lifetime in the eyes of a ten year old.
The dog ceased her barking and came to stand beside the men, she stared across the pond; the wreath loosened from its resting place, it bobbed along a little way, until suddenly it was caught in the current, and disappeared with a final swirl, under the dark water.
