A tale within a tale
It all began with a piece of red candy that a Mistress gave me for helping her with some small task. A young Master decided that it looked good enough to eat, literally. I asked his mother if he could have it. It was fine with her but as I offered it to him, I told him that when I was very young that was how we knew we had been good. We would be offered a thin stick of candy with stripes along the sides and we knew ... we knew without a doubt that we had been good. As he turned with the little reasure in one hand and his other slid into the waiting fingers of his mother's, I heard him say to her. 'Momma, she tells good stories.'
That was how I was asked to tell another to a somewhat larger gathering of shining cherub faces. I could think of no better tale to tell than that of the little boy who never grew up, a little winged spirit girl and a darling family. As I wove through the verses of the story, there were bright wide eyes and little bow mouths lain open in awe.
I had gotten to the part where the boy had lost his shadow when I noticed him. He had ventured in a bit closer along the sidelines but still not quite part of the crowd. I knew that poochy little lower lip and that poochy little belly from before. This time he did not carry a lance longer than he was tall. The hesitance to be a part of the rest touched me. Even from a distance I could see the swipes of blue that marked previous attempts to belong.
I continued to let the story unfold hoping that something within the tale would spark something within him. Instead it was another with more bravado and swagger that chirped in to mimic my words. 'I do not believe in winged spirit people.'
There was an unbelievable saddness that washed over me. My gaze shot to the smallest of the bunch instantly. Did he? Could he .. believe in something he could not see? Could he find hope and faith in things that were not so obvious as flesh and blood and the sulleness of being kept distant? I read nothing on the tiny features and found that hurt most of all.
It was almost time for evening meal and the call of Tuchuk mothers broke up the pint sized throng. I had my own chores to see to as well but I stayed for another few moments watching.
For a moment the small one returned the stare. He stood rooted to his spot as I did mine while the others ventured off for a hearty meal of bosk. Then as if something had lit a fire beneath him, I watched him pitter pat off in a different direction than the others. Somehow I could still see the unbalanced lance as his guard lump bumping over stones and pebbles along the dusty paths even though he was empty handed.
I closed my eyes for a moment and then it seemed the moment was gone.
It all began with a piece of red candy that a Mistress gave me for helping her with some small task. A young Master decided that it looked good enough to eat, literally. I asked his mother if he could have it. It was fine with her but as I offered it to him, I told him that when I was very young that was how we knew we had been good. We would be offered a thin stick of candy with stripes along the sides and we knew ... we knew without a doubt that we had been good. As he turned with the little reasure in one hand and his other slid into the waiting fingers of his mother's, I heard him say to her. 'Momma, she tells good stories.'
That was how I was asked to tell another to a somewhat larger gathering of shining cherub faces. I could think of no better tale to tell than that of the little boy who never grew up, a little winged spirit girl and a darling family. As I wove through the verses of the story, there were bright wide eyes and little bow mouths lain open in awe.
I had gotten to the part where the boy had lost his shadow when I noticed him. He had ventured in a bit closer along the sidelines but still not quite part of the crowd. I knew that poochy little lower lip and that poochy little belly from before. This time he did not carry a lance longer than he was tall. The hesitance to be a part of the rest touched me. Even from a distance I could see the swipes of blue that marked previous attempts to belong.
I continued to let the story unfold hoping that something within the tale would spark something within him. Instead it was another with more bravado and swagger that chirped in to mimic my words. 'I do not believe in winged spirit people.'
There was an unbelievable saddness that washed over me. My gaze shot to the smallest of the bunch instantly. Did he? Could he .. believe in something he could not see? Could he find hope and faith in things that were not so obvious as flesh and blood and the sulleness of being kept distant? I read nothing on the tiny features and found that hurt most of all.
It was almost time for evening meal and the call of Tuchuk mothers broke up the pint sized throng. I had my own chores to see to as well but I stayed for another few moments watching.
For a moment the small one returned the stare. He stood rooted to his spot as I did mine while the others ventured off for a hearty meal of bosk. Then as if something had lit a fire beneath him, I watched him pitter pat off in a different direction than the others. Somehow I could still see the unbalanced lance as his guard lump bumping over stones and pebbles along the dusty paths even though he was empty handed.
I closed my eyes for a moment and then it seemed the moment was gone.
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