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.”
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