Young Writers Society

The moonlight’s pale glow shone through the cracked bedroom window, bringing with it a cool gust of wind. Reagan shivered. The log cabin she lived in with her aunt, uncle and cousins wasn’t built for warmth. And the cracked window, too, kept the room cool, even during the warm summers in Caleney.

Soon, though, it would be morning, and she would have to get up and help with the farm chores. Milking the cow, fetching the eggs, and feeding each, along with the pigs and horses, had to be done before breakfast. But, she mused, nothing will be done unless I get some sleep.

She lay down, eyes closed. She stayed there for a few minutes, but sleep was purposly forgetting her.

Ignoring the coolness of her room, and the worn flannel of her sleeping dress, she stood up. She walked towards the draft gathering itself through the window, ignoring the bitter breeze. Her cousin, Charney, had always told her to count sheep when she was younger, and if she was going to, it would be less childish if she counted real sheep.

Her uncle, Keith, had once told her that the sheep pen was north of the house, and that the house was south of the pen. She was glad to remember these exact placements, and it always made her feel proud, as she had no real knowledge of anything - for she had lived to far from the village to go to school.

The sheep, though at a distance, were perfectly viewable in the crisp, clear night. The stars overhead twinkled with such beauty and might, you could imagine them singing and dancing to a waltz.

“That’s one – no, two – sheep near the gate,” Reagan whispered to herself. “And there are four facing the barn.”

Pausing for a moment to think, she soon spoke to the wind. “So that makes six, with another two lambs. I guess that would be eight? Yes, that sounds about right. There are another two laying down, and that’s ten…and, oh!” she cried, sadden. “I can’t count the next five! I know no more than my thirteen years.”

She sighed, and decided to go to try – again – to get some sleep. Hopefully, she thought, I won’t be yawning tomorrow.

***

"Reagan, honey, get up!"

With a jerk, she sat up straight in bed. Her cousin, Cathie, didn't appricate lazy hands, so she was sure to bounce right out of bed.

Shaking her head to clear it, she jumped out of bed. Quickly, she pulled her sleeping dress over her head, and with a thud from one of the buttons, it hit the floor. She raced to her dresser and pulled on her day dress, made of plain lavender cotton, and reaching to below her knees. The short sleeves with ruffles on the end were pulled up to her shoulders as she quickly brushed and braided her hair. She put her sleeping dress back in her drawer, and, opening the door of her room, stepped into the kitchen.

“Well, Reagan, you grab me some eggs from the henhouse, and, well, you know. Just make sure we have them for breakfast – you were days late last time!”

“'Kay,” she replied, already heading out the door.

To her surprise, she was called after. “Reagan! Tell Charney I want to see him!”

“Oh, yes! Where might I find him?”

“Good question,” she replied, looking up from the bacon she was cooking. “I’d look in the horse stables…he should be mucking them out with your uncle.”

“Right then.”

Reagan danced out the door and ran for the stables. The door of the barn was wide open, and she spun around, dancing, and falling right into a stack of hay.

Laughter was coming from the stables.

“You don’ want to get your pretty dress dirty before breakfast now, do yee?’ asked her Uncle Keith.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jumping up and brushing the hay from her hair and clothing. “How stupid!”

“Oh, for sure,” Charney added, laughing sarcastically.

Glaring at him, she spoke hastily. “Oh, really? Maybe you should take a look at your life! And by the way, Aunt Rayeen wants you in the kitchen.”

That certainly took the laughter out of his eyes. “Why?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t say. But, anyways, it can’t be that bad. Hurry up so morning dinner won’t be late!” she said, glaring at her cousin.

“Yes, mother,” he replied. Reagan’s tongue danced in front of his eyes from a few feet away.

“Get goin’ Charney. Your mam wants to talk to you. And Reagan! Your uncle is looking for eggs for breakfast.” Charney dropped his pitchfork and went to the house, while Reagan scurried off with the woven basket she had made during the summer to collect the eggs.

The hen house was about 30 steps, running distance, maybe 45 walking, so thus, Reagan reached it in under half of a minute.

As she pulled open the door to let the hens out for the day, the foul smell of chicken hit her nose. Even now, after eight years of collecting the eggs, she still couldn’t do it without pulling her apron over her face.

Dashing inside, she darted from nest to nest set inside the small wooden structure. Gathering the eggs and dropping them into her basket. Once she had all of them, she ran straight to the house.

Hearing loud voices, she stopped and peaked in the door. Both her aunt and cousin were bright-faced from yelling.

“We’re low on meat – you’ve got to go hunting!”

This is only a temporary title.