01-23-2022, 09:33 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-23-2022, 09:35 AM by Alice Appleton.)
Alice was in the barn, sitting on a straw bale with a brown hen in her arms. A bucket of fresh milk stood beside her, quite forgotten. She was giving the chicken gentle scratches and whispering all the secrets, concerns and dreams of her hidden live to her.
She was glad to have found a friend. She had tried to befriend the cows and the horses. But Tobias had told her to stay away from the horses. Just as he had told her to stay away from the piano. And from the slurry pit. And to stay on the grounds. And stay away from the fields. And from the machinery shed. And from the books.
For some few merciful weeks after she had stumbled upon the shelves of books in a spare room, they had filled the quiet house and long days with imaginary friends who woke her languid mind to passionate daydreams, whom she had wept and rejoiced with, who voiced hope, passion, bitterness in ways that made her feel understood. Until Tobias had found her reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ and had judged it unsuitable for an excitable mind like hers, and her free range of the book shelves had ended. He would select some 'suitable' books for her now and she would refuse to read them.
He had told her to stay out of all the cupboards and drawers that weren't hers as well, after he had found Sallie's old brush among her possessions. She had at first been intrigued by the delicate flowery pattern on the back and the mystery of its owner. She would sit in bed, curled up against the wall, and let her finger follow the pattern, while conjuring up stories about its former owner. Then when she had decided it had belonged to the spirited lady whose photograph still graced the piano top, she had used it as charm, talking to poor Sallie's ghost while her finger traced the pattern. She had comforted Sallie, so the poor woman wouldn't feel so alone and trapped. And as she had spoken to Sallie her room had seemed less dim, the house less quiet, her days less vacuous. But Tobias had been furious when he had found it in her room, and when she had tried to take it from his drawer again, he had taken away both Sallie's brush and the shell Anne had given her.
She wondered how long before the chicken friends would be taken from her as well and she'd be confined entirely to her room. She'd face the same fate she daydreamed Sallie had faced. Sallie had been too high spirited to bear her prison well, like a plant deprived of sunlight. She had died of a broken spirit and a broken will. Now she lay suffocated completely beneath the earth.
It was poor Sallie's tale that she was busy recounting to her new friend in hushed tones when she was disturbed by the noise of a cart outside the gate, then the creaking of the gate and footsteps. Through the open door, she could see the sunlight hit the back of a man's head. Who was it? Tobias and Jimmy were out in the field. Jenny was in the village. They didn't expect any visitors. She certainly didn't desire another villager 'calling on her' to judge her and bring gossip back to the village. She stood up and backed away to hide herself in the dark barn. But her foot hit the bucket and knocked it over. The hen, startled by the sudden movement and noise, flew out of her arms, landed on the ground and walked away.
She was glad to have found a friend. She had tried to befriend the cows and the horses. But Tobias had told her to stay away from the horses. Just as he had told her to stay away from the piano. And from the slurry pit. And to stay on the grounds. And stay away from the fields. And from the machinery shed. And from the books.
For some few merciful weeks after she had stumbled upon the shelves of books in a spare room, they had filled the quiet house and long days with imaginary friends who woke her languid mind to passionate daydreams, whom she had wept and rejoiced with, who voiced hope, passion, bitterness in ways that made her feel understood. Until Tobias had found her reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ and had judged it unsuitable for an excitable mind like hers, and her free range of the book shelves had ended. He would select some 'suitable' books for her now and she would refuse to read them.
He had told her to stay out of all the cupboards and drawers that weren't hers as well, after he had found Sallie's old brush among her possessions. She had at first been intrigued by the delicate flowery pattern on the back and the mystery of its owner. She would sit in bed, curled up against the wall, and let her finger follow the pattern, while conjuring up stories about its former owner. Then when she had decided it had belonged to the spirited lady whose photograph still graced the piano top, she had used it as charm, talking to poor Sallie's ghost while her finger traced the pattern. She had comforted Sallie, so the poor woman wouldn't feel so alone and trapped. And as she had spoken to Sallie her room had seemed less dim, the house less quiet, her days less vacuous. But Tobias had been furious when he had found it in her room, and when she had tried to take it from his drawer again, he had taken away both Sallie's brush and the shell Anne had given her.
She wondered how long before the chicken friends would be taken from her as well and she'd be confined entirely to her room. She'd face the same fate she daydreamed Sallie had faced. Sallie had been too high spirited to bear her prison well, like a plant deprived of sunlight. She had died of a broken spirit and a broken will. Now she lay suffocated completely beneath the earth.
It was poor Sallie's tale that she was busy recounting to her new friend in hushed tones when she was disturbed by the noise of a cart outside the gate, then the creaking of the gate and footsteps. Through the open door, she could see the sunlight hit the back of a man's head. Who was it? Tobias and Jimmy were out in the field. Jenny was in the village. They didn't expect any visitors. She certainly didn't desire another villager 'calling on her' to judge her and bring gossip back to the village. She stood up and backed away to hide herself in the dark barn. But her foot hit the bucket and knocked it over. The hen, startled by the sudden movement and noise, flew out of her arms, landed on the ground and walked away.
