Sudden Death Write Off

[murielle]

 Therealljidol Week 9 Sudden Death Write Off

 

(AN: Years ago I started a series called Darn Girl. This is a prequell to the first time I introduced you to her. She has never really let go of me. I doubt she ever will.)

 

 

Darn Girl: The Beginning

 

 

Was it precognition or instinct that caused the mother to place the girl deep in the ditch and cover her with debris? Perhaps she’d dreamed of danger and acted to protect the only thing left to her in the world, her daughter. Three maybe four years old, too cold to shiver, too hungry to cry, too weak to stir. Small enough to be hidden from the eyes of marauders now they’d long-since eaten their dogs and turning to helpless things for sustenance.

 

How long did she lie there after her mother without making a sound, was dragged away, silence her last gift to her child?

 

How long until she was discovered by the crone and her boy?

 

“Breathing.”

 

The boy shrugged and raised his club.

 

“No! Mine!”

 

Snarling, the boy pushed her away.

 

“Mine!” She insisted.

 

She had memories of sporadic warmth, water spilled into her mouth and pre-chewed food pushed through her lips. Being roughly tied to the crone’s back by the boy who grumbled constantly in grunts and groans, occasionally attempting unrecognizable words.

 

“Now, now, Sonny. Be gentle. Do you not remember being a tiny wee thing like that? Gentle, mind.”

 

Over time, she grew stronger, able to walk, always clinging to the crone, her skirt, her warp, her hand. Terror siezing her if they were separated even for seconds. The old woman was life, her life.

 

Random words issued forth, lilting melodically. The boy would hum and gurgle along and the girl listened, remembered, learned, sang too.

 

Following behind, picking up dry sticks for fire. Then venturing off a little ways alone to gather and carry, wood and water, dry leaves for kindling. After a time, she gathered, lit and maintained the fires alone.

 

The boy brought meat.

 

She learned to skin and prepare the food and the pelts. Her tiny hands deft and steady. She grew stronger. She walked taller and straighter wandering a little farther afield and returning with herbs and roots to stir into the stews. She followed and watched the boy, too. Learning his skill at trapping and hunting, though she didn’t challenge him. Something inside made her hungry for knowledge. Any and all.

 

“Bring me my bag. Now, sit with me and watch.” The girl sat close and smiled in anticipation. The bag was filled with bright colors and tiny tools and the old woman was skilled with all of them.

 

“See this? This is wool. It was knitted into something. Maybe a scarf, a blanket, or a coat. Now it’s just a scrap, but we can use it. Watch.”

 

Slowly the woman tugged at the ends of the scrap until she found a lose strand, then she pulled it until it began to unravel and as it unraveled she wound the strand into a little ball.

 

“Now you.” She passed it over to the girl. “Learn.”

 

And under the steady gaze of the old woman the girl gently tugged at the yarn and wound it around and around the little ball until it was a fair size in her palm and when the scarp of knitted wool was completely unraveled, she placed the ball in the old woman’s hand and looked up at her.

 

“Good?”

 

“Yes. Good. Now you do one alone.” She was handed another scrap of wool but it was different, there were holes and curly bits in it. It wasn’t flat like the first piece.

 

“You noticed! Clever girl. It’s not knitted like the first piece, this is called crochet and it’s fancier, but the same. Find the strand and gently pull like before.”

 

Finished she handed this ball to the crone. “Different.”

 

“Yes. One is thicker than the other. One is dark, and one is light. This color is blue and this color is yellow. Remember.”

 

“Yellow. Blue. Thick. Not thick.”

 

“Thin.”

 

“Thin?”

 

“Yes. Tomorrow you’ll learn sewing. Sleep now.”

 

So, day after day she was taught and she learned: knitting, sewing, crocheting, darning, mending, weaving on a bent branch. Nothing wasted. Everything saved. Scraps of all sizes and textures, washed and tucked away for use when needed.

 

Then the boy fell.

 

They heard him screaming and the girl scrambled down the embankment to find him crumpled at the bottom.

 

“Help me! Help me down, girl.”

 

It was hard getting the old woman down to him, and it took a long time and by the time they got down to him he was gone. His eyes, wide, staring, empty. His body shattered.

 

“Nothing we could have done. Poor boy.” The old woman sighed.

 

They stripped his body.

 

“Get water.”

 

And while the old woman tended to the boy’s body the girl gathered rocks.

 

Together they piled them on his body.

 

The woman mumbled words, “Dust and ashes. Ashes and dust.”

 

Now the girl hunted and fished and cooked and sewed. The old woman stopped singing and telling stories, but when the girl sang or repeated one of the stories the crone would smile and nod and clap with delight.

 

After a time, when the snow came, the girl pulled out the boy’s heavy coat. It was three sizes too big, but it was warm. The old woman smiled.

 

Time passed. The girl grew. The woman shrank.

 

One afternoon, a small group walked up to them and asked about water. The old woman pointed to the west. “River soon.”

 

There was an old woman with them too and they soon talked together. After a few days, they were one group.

 

Lots to mend, and sew, and do. Lots of food. They had four men to hunt and fish. And they had carts to push and pull and carry.

 

The girl enjoyed the children and told them stories and taught them songs as she sewed.

 

After a time the crone fell asleep.

 

The girl stayed with the new people for a spell, but when one of the men began to watch her and follow her, she slipped away in the night.

 

And by then she was called Darn Girl.

 

 

(Colossians 3:23)