Young Writers Society

Alone once again, I lay like a fawn amidst the pools of grass. Once Lay and I had reached the riverbank, the child had pleaded for one short reading, and I had relented, after which I sent the girl skipping and tripping back up the slope to the village. Pleased with myself for having satisfied the girl, I lay quietly, my hair mingling with the grass around my head, and a hint of pleasure on my lips. Freely I inhale the crisp, grass-scented air.

My head turns, so I am peering straight into a wall of grass. Here it rises up to my knees, if I were to be standing. How often I have run my fingertip along the sleek, cool blades…Their light, grayish appearance reflecting the light of the sun like water’s surface.

I stare up at the sun now. It’s a semblance of fire. Both things share that mystifying, radiant look that intrigues me—intrigues me to the point where it plagues me. Those slithering, whispering tongues haunt my thoughts, my dreams—my work.

Dreariness begins to pull gently at my eyelids, and with a yawn, I sit up in my bed of grass. The call of the trickling stream and the beckoning of the riverbank almost overcome me. But reluctantly I turn my gaze to the village, imagining the scolding I would receive if I left chores undone—I stand, and begin to trudge back up the slope.

Thorns snag at my clothes as I make my way through the tangle of grass and weeds. Yanking away, I look down at the plant that has dared try to rip the delicate cloth. It is a tiny little plant—engulfed in the plant life around it, and barely visible. But as I look closer, I can identify it—with its sharp minuscule thorns and dark serrated leaves—and I lean down to search for a rose in the bush. At last I spot one solitary flower hidden beneath the tangle of grey. Plucking it skillfully, maneuvering my hands around the threatening thorns, I withdraw the rose. For Ivy. It is miniature, and its soft, ebony petals feel so delicate within my palm. I turn, leaving the hidden rosebush, and continue the shortening walk to the village.

“Two cups for ya’, eh, girl?”

“One’s for my sister.”

The old woman’s lower lip hangs down, revealing a near toothless frown. Slowly shaking her head, and her eyes squinting in suspicion, she plops a ladleful of stew into both bowls held in my outstretched hands. “Well, tell this sister ‘f yours—“ she pauses for a moment, her mouth hanging wide open, and her piercing eyes burrowing into me. Her talk is slurred, for she never seems able to close her mouth more than half way; and her tongue appears to move as little as possible, and just rests there, limp, in her mouth. “That I say ta come fer suppin’ time like all them other folks. I’s sick ‘f feeding her through someone else.” Hesitantly turning back to the cauldron of cooling stew, the old woman casts another retort over her shoulder. “ ’Prolly why she so darn skinny and sickly al’ a time. Some rat’s hiding her away and stealin’ al’ ‘er rations.”

I clamp my mouth shut, attempting to pay no heed to the woman’s accusations. Ol’ Marg says something along the same line every day, when I am served at supping time. For rarely does Ivy show up for rations.

I did not notice the growing crowd as I was waiting in line. The village square has filled up with people—people hovering mostly along the plaza’s border, but also some forming small clusters here and there in its midst. Then there are those who have not yet been served, and that form a long train before the mighty cauldron where Ol’ Marg is posted. I notice some that have empty bowls, clasped and hanging in their carrier’s hands. Mostly these are the men, for they have been served first—it is the custom. Sweat and moisture plaster their filthy garments to their skin—the sign of a hard day’s work. From the crack of dawn to the sealing of night, the men are up, and laboring away at the fields. The women and children are often up at that time too, tending to the livestock and to everything else that needed tending. A few hours into the morning the women would make breakfast, and if someone is tardy or doesn’t show up at all, that someone would not break the fast, and would be condemned to wait until the evening supping time for sustenance.

I reach the edge of the plaza, the two bowls of soup balanced carefully in my hands. I pause, for a barrier of people bars my path. But then a passageway opens before me—I raise my eyes to send a thanks.

But I don’t find a return among any of their faces. They merely look down at me, grimly; there’s a listless air about them. They aren’t always like this. But today…They know, I know—what will take place tonight. A shiver rushes down my spine, but I ignore it; I pretend that all is normal. And so I pass by those grim faces.

I walk on warily, keeping my eye steady on the hard-packed pathway snaking through the grass. The ground quickly converts from cobblestone to hardened dirt outside of the village square. Our hut, at the edge of the eastern side of the village, is drawing closer, and I quicken my steps.

And now I’m here. Oh, our little ol’ cottage…Thin sheets of wood, darkened by age, are supported by logs, branches, sticks—even clumps of mud. It gives the walls a textured look—one I cannot say I dislike. But it stands. That’s all that matters. It has always stood. And never changes.

I approach the doorway. I can’t remember when the transition happened, exactly—but sometime in the past couple years I’ve suddenly had to stoop, just slightly, in order to get in. “Ivy—“ I start, pushing aside the curtain of dried branches with my elbow—but seeing the room deserted, I stop. My brow furrows, and I look down at the once-steaming bowls of stew. Only a few stray wisps of steam, rolling casually upward, remain. A small sigh escapes me, but I turn; knowing where to look next.

Our hut stands right before a small gully, which somewhat marks the southern border of the village. After rains, the gully will fill and flow south, into the river. But the weather has been dry; only a thin strip of mud remains from the last shower, and for this I am thankful, as I nimbly leap over the sludge.

The stew sloshes around as I trudge my way up the slope and out of the gully. Reaching the top, I look downward upon the bowls with a sigh of satisfaction. My back is to the village. I face rippling waves of grey; an endless terrain that slopes and rises and slope and rises in an uneven pattern—but always cloaked in the light, swishing grass. No wonder Ivy likes it out here. Plodding onward, I fix my eye on a protrusion farther on—the Ol’ Stump. Ivy named it that. From where I stand now it appears to be just a dark blur, bent and crooked, rising intrusively from the perfect sea of grey. Bent and crooked like an old man. That’s what it looks like. The dark silhouette of a bent old man, standing lifeless and solitary out in the distance.

Can’t count the times I’ve trudged my way over to it. There are times when I fail to see what is so mystifying about the place—what makes it so special, and intriguing, to my younger sister, so that she might spend so much time there. It’s simply a dead and rotting log standing upward in waist-high grass. But there are other times…when I understand.

I try my best not to get my foot stuck in a knothole beneath the veil of grass as I make my way.

At last I can make out the rough, battered bark, and am close enough to spot every tiny detail on its gnarled surface. The stump’s diameter is large—almost the length of my outstretched arms.

I pause a moment. I know she’s here. On the other side of the stump. But I pause. I lean up against the bark, and it presses forcefully into my skin. And a sigh escapes me.

But then I hear a soft rustling sound from behind the stump. It reminds me what I’m even doing here. So I push off of the bark and wade through the grass, around the circumference of the trunk.

I halt, upon reaching the other side.

Before me a small child is sitting in the grass, her back resting up against the stump, and her gaze, as if absent, focuses straight ahead into the fields and beyond. Her dark raven hair is bound in a loose bun atop her head, but many rebellious strands reach down to her shoulders. Her facial features are outlined by the grey of the distance—her forehead, and her petite nose, and her perfect lips, and her tiny, well-defined chin. But then her gaze shifts, and her eyes turn to me. To her sister. Greatly out of proportion with the rest of her face, the child’s giant eyes, always curious but silent, and observant; look straight into me every time we meet, as if they can see right through my soul.

“Ivy.” My brow relaxes, and my tone softens. It was impossible to be even the smallest bit harsh to this figure, especially when those loving eyes look into your own. “You missed supping time again. Ol’ Marg would really appreciate it if you’d go sometime.”

The child’s focus reverts back to the distance ahead of her. “I know.”

I hold out one of the bowls my fingers have been frozen to for so long. “Here.”

“Thank you, Chrys.” A frail hand, pale like bone, reaches outward, fingers unfurling to grasp the soup.

“It’s cold,” I say.

“Not very. And it’s my fault anyhow. But it’s fine. I like it that way.”

“Okay.” I slide down the side of the stump, so that I am now sitting beside her. Looking down at my own bowl of chilled stew, I take hold of the small wooden spoon and begin to eat in silence. The first bite makes me lurch. The bland mixture of mashed vegetables and strips of undercooked pork is unsettling enough when hot. I turn my head to Ivy, who appears to have no problem swallowing her supper. I eye her bony arms, and her shoulders, which are bare beneath the straps of her sleeveless tunic.

“Ivy, have mine.” I lean forward to pour my serving into my sister’s bowl, but Ivy pushes it away.

“No, you’ve better eat that, Chrys. Don’t go trying to get out of eating your supper. You’ve got to learn to eat what you have, even if it tastes like—...” She smiles teasingly.

I smile back, but I can see that behind the playfulness in my sister’s eyes, she understood the real reason I had offered the supper. So, unsatisfied, I lean back up against the stump, and we eat in silence.

But soon the silence is broken. “Chrys, will you come with us, when we go there?”

I follow my sister’s gaze—that same, far-off gaze, that is directed straight ahead, over the rolling fields of what seemed to be eternity. But if one looked hard, he could make out something beyond them; a dark blur, like a black field at the end of the grey. The River.

I smile, but do not answer. Suddenly I remember the rose. Reaching into the pocket of my slacks, I carefully withdraw the somewhat battered flower. “Ivy, it’s for you.” I hold it out, and my sister’s hand picks it gingerly from my own.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she says with a slight gasp.

I fail to see anything worthy of such praise in the petite little flower. Wilting, it’s dark leaves and black petals do not seem at all very remarkable. But I find joy in bringing Ivy such things—smooth, water-beaten rocks; oddly shaped pieces of bark; and a series of plant life—for she always seems to see beyond the dull appearance of the things; making them into something new.

“It looks like your hair,” she says, a half-smile on her tilted face as she holds the rose up to my head. I finger the end of my loose braid. Yes, my hair is black—pure black. But I don’t see how the rose could ‘look like’ my hair.

Ivy continues, but her voice is softer, and her brows furrowed in thought. “Like—like…light fire. A piece of the sun. But not at all dark. Lighter than mine.”

Now it was my brow furrowing. My hair is darker than my sister’s; yes, they are both black, but Ivy’s hair is almost as if half in-between the shade of mine and Thrush’s. But Ivy’s words do not trouble me; they only puzzle me.

I brush Ivy’s hand away from my head. “Ivy. You must show up for the Ceremony of Peace tonight. Do you understand?”

Ivy’s hand draws close to her chest, her fingers tightening around the stem of the rose. Her eyes drop slightly, and her other hand busies itself with gently stroking its soft petals. “Yes.”

“Do you want to walk back with me now?”

The girl shakes her head.

I purse my lips, my eyes on the figure sitting beside me in the grass. “Be sure to come. Absence twice in a row would not rest well with the Elders.”

Ivy slowly nods.

“You be there, right when the moon swells to its fullest? At the square?”

Her answer is a coarse whisper. “Okay.”