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Authors: Betsy Tobin
Tags: Fiction
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guilt? I count it slowly, carefully, partly to be sure of its value, but partly just to have the feel of it in my hands. Then I return it to the purse, which I stow beneath my bedclothes. Tomorrow I will take it to the boy. But tonight I will sleep upon it, and dream the dreams of misers.
Chapter Seven
W hen I was a child, I went often to the great-bellied woman’s house, to sit upon the hearth and listen to her stories. She was an accomplished teller of tales who could spin whole worlds with only a few long strands of words. The stories she told were strange and exotic, unlike any I have heard before or since: tales of people and places far across the sea, and of animals unknown within our shores. These stories lingered with me, and many are buried still within my mind. They come to me now in fragments, often when I least expect them, like uninvited guests. But they are not unwelcome, as they bring with them part of her: a sense of mystery and of possibility, coupled with that peculiar blend of strength and calmness that was her hallmark. For she was all these things to me, and I suppose to many others as well.
I remember a tale of a great plumed bird who lived high upon a mountain above the treetops, whose feet never once came to rest upon the soil. The bird was proud and kept to itself, only occasionally allowing the people who lived in the village far below to catch a glimpse of its rare and beautiful plumage. One day a great hunter came to the mountain, and hearing of the marvelous bird, determined to capture it for its beautiful feathers. He told the unwitting people of the village that he would like to see the bird, but when he asked them to describe it, each gave a different account of its beauty. Some said its feathers were green andluminescent, like those of a peacock, while others said it was bright red with streaks of yellow and orange, like the setting sun. Still others said its body was black as coal, with snow-white tail feathers that flashed among the leaves when it flew. The hunter was confused and, deciding that the people were deliberately misleading him, resolved to find the bird himself. He climbed the mountain and for three days and nights remained hidden in the underbrush. On the fourth day he gave up hope and began his descent, when suddenly he caught a glimpse of a winged creature of such extraordinary beauty it made him gasp. He nearly forgot his purpose as he watched the bird soar and dive among the trees, but finally came to his senses and took aim with his bow and arrow. He heard a cry and saw the bird plummet toward the ground, but when he reached the spot where it should have landed, he found only a crow, pierced through the heart by his arrow, dead as a stone.
He picked up the crow and descended the mountain with great sadness, knowing as he did that the bird of his dreams was lost to him forever. When he reached the bottom, he hid the dead crow in his pack, and gathered the people of the village around him. He told them they were indeed blessed to have such a thing of beauty in their midst, and instructed them to revere it always. The people nodded and were relieved, secure in the knowledge that the bird would remain with them forever. The hunter left that land and never returned, and the people of the village kept their pride in the wondrous creature that lived among them.
Dora spun her stories with such intensity that she often left me breathless. Her pale eyes flashed with the excitement of the telling, and her long fingers rose and fell before her in an animated fashion. At these times she seemed to carry the hear beat of armies within her ample breast—she seemed more alive to me than anyone or anything I had ever encountered in my own barren corner of the world. But what struck me most was how she differed from my mother, who though capable was unfailinglytaciturn and circumspect, and did not trust the world beyond her threshold. My mother had no vision of life outside our little
Chapter Seven
W hen I was a child, I went often to the great-bellied woman’s house, to sit upon the hearth and listen to her stories. She was an accomplished teller of tales who could spin whole worlds with only a few long strands of words. The stories she told were strange and exotic, unlike any I have heard before or since: tales of people and places far across the sea, and of animals unknown within our shores. These stories lingered with me, and many are buried still within my mind. They come to me now in fragments, often when I least expect them, like uninvited guests. But they are not unwelcome, as they bring with them part of her: a sense of mystery and of possibility, coupled with that peculiar blend of strength and calmness that was her hallmark. For she was all these things to me, and I suppose to many others as well.
I remember a tale of a great plumed bird who lived high upon a mountain above the treetops, whose feet never once came to rest upon the soil. The bird was proud and kept to itself, only occasionally allowing the people who lived in the village far below to catch a glimpse of its rare and beautiful plumage. One day a great hunter came to the mountain, and hearing of the marvelous bird, determined to capture it for its beautiful feathers. He told the unwitting people of the village that he would like to see the bird, but when he asked them to describe it, each gave a different account of its beauty. Some said its feathers were green andluminescent, like those of a peacock, while others said it was bright red with streaks of yellow and orange, like the setting sun. Still others said its body was black as coal, with snow-white tail feathers that flashed among the leaves when it flew. The hunter was confused and, deciding that the people were deliberately misleading him, resolved to find the bird himself. He climbed the mountain and for three days and nights remained hidden in the underbrush. On the fourth day he gave up hope and began his descent, when suddenly he caught a glimpse of a winged creature of such extraordinary beauty it made him gasp. He nearly forgot his purpose as he watched the bird soar and dive among the trees, but finally came to his senses and took aim with his bow and arrow. He heard a cry and saw the bird plummet toward the ground, but when he reached the spot where it should have landed, he found only a crow, pierced through the heart by his arrow, dead as a stone.
He picked up the crow and descended the mountain with great sadness, knowing as he did that the bird of his dreams was lost to him forever. When he reached the bottom, he hid the dead crow in his pack, and gathered the people of the village around him. He told them they were indeed blessed to have such a thing of beauty in their midst, and instructed them to revere it always. The people nodded and were relieved, secure in the knowledge that the bird would remain with them forever. The hunter left that land and never returned, and the people of the village kept their pride in the wondrous creature that lived among them.
Dora spun her stories with such intensity that she often left me breathless. Her pale eyes flashed with the excitement of the telling, and her long fingers rose and fell before her in an animated fashion. At these times she seemed to carry the hear beat of armies within her ample breast—she seemed more alive to me than anyone or anything I had ever encountered in my own barren corner of the world. But what struck me most was how she differed from my mother, who though capable was unfailinglytaciturn and circumspect, and did not trust the world beyond her threshold. My mother had no vision of life outside our little
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