Day after day Bensiabel wistfully watches the schoolchildren pass by
his yard through a hole in the fence. If Mother knows that he does this,
she does not care. The children always pass his house in groups; some have
heard that it is haunted. Others have heard that a witch lives there, and
these are much closer to the truth.
Bensiabel does not go to school. Mother forbids it. He has no friends, no company but her. He is quite lonely. He does chores for her: cleaning the house, cooking meals, tending the garden, carrying, mending. At night, in his room, which is little more than a closet, he sleeps on a small cot. His dreams are filled with strangers who are somehow familiar to him. Yet this is impossible; the only person he has known, for as long as he can remember, is Mother. Every once in a while he is allowed time to himself. He spends most of his free time outside in the vast backyard.
As he stands by the fence, looking out the little hole, he spies a pretty little ten-year-old girl. Even from a distance, he can see the strange violet color of her eyes, and the way they dance and sparkle. He sees the way the corner of her rosy mouth curves into a smirk, the way her long raven-black braid bounces on her back, the way her china-pale skin glistens. His heart beats faster as she boldy approaches the fence. He watches as she reaches up towards the boughs of a tree that hangs over the fence and out of the property. From these branches she plucks a lovely ripe plum, the same shade as her eyes, and puts it in a brown paper sack. As soon as she has arrived, she is on her way again. His eyes remain fixed on her, on her braid moving to and fro like a pendulum, on her feet skipping merrily under her long skirt.
"What do ya think of her?" He gasps as he feels Mother's talon-like fingernails dig into his shoulder. He can feel his cheeks burn, and suddenly his tongue feels as though it weighs twice as much.
"She...she's very pretty." he stutters, his eyes on the ground. Mother laughs at that, laughs and laughs her dry old cackle that he knows very well.
"She is, ain't she?" she rasps. She digs her bony elbow into his ribs, and cackles again. "She sure loves them plums. Everyday she comes and grabs one, little thief."
"I...I'm sure she means no harm." Bensiabel does not know why he defends the unknown girl.
"She does, boy, mark my words. There be a spark o' evil within her, I sense it." She rubs her gnarled hands together. "She'll make a fine apprentice, that she will."
Bensiabel looks up at her, excitement clearly showing on his young face. "She will come to live with us?"
Mother regards him suspiciously. "No need to get yer hopes up, boy. I'm gonna enchant her eyes and mind, so that ya don't even exist to her." Bensiabel's mouth turns into a frown; his eyes grow moist. Mother notes the expression on his face, and cackles again, taking delight in his misery. The breeze carries the sound out to the sidewalk, and a pair of children passing shudder.
Bensiabel does not go to school. Mother forbids it. He has no friends, no company but her. He is quite lonely. He does chores for her: cleaning the house, cooking meals, tending the garden, carrying, mending. At night, in his room, which is little more than a closet, he sleeps on a small cot. His dreams are filled with strangers who are somehow familiar to him. Yet this is impossible; the only person he has known, for as long as he can remember, is Mother. Every once in a while he is allowed time to himself. He spends most of his free time outside in the vast backyard.
As he stands by the fence, looking out the little hole, he spies a pretty little ten-year-old girl. Even from a distance, he can see the strange violet color of her eyes, and the way they dance and sparkle. He sees the way the corner of her rosy mouth curves into a smirk, the way her long raven-black braid bounces on her back, the way her china-pale skin glistens. His heart beats faster as she boldy approaches the fence. He watches as she reaches up towards the boughs of a tree that hangs over the fence and out of the property. From these branches she plucks a lovely ripe plum, the same shade as her eyes, and puts it in a brown paper sack. As soon as she has arrived, she is on her way again. His eyes remain fixed on her, on her braid moving to and fro like a pendulum, on her feet skipping merrily under her long skirt.
"What do ya think of her?" He gasps as he feels Mother's talon-like fingernails dig into his shoulder. He can feel his cheeks burn, and suddenly his tongue feels as though it weighs twice as much.
"She...she's very pretty." he stutters, his eyes on the ground. Mother laughs at that, laughs and laughs her dry old cackle that he knows very well.
"She is, ain't she?" she rasps. She digs her bony elbow into his ribs, and cackles again. "She sure loves them plums. Everyday she comes and grabs one, little thief."
"I...I'm sure she means no harm." Bensiabel does not know why he defends the unknown girl.
"She does, boy, mark my words. There be a spark o' evil within her, I sense it." She rubs her gnarled hands together. "She'll make a fine apprentice, that she will."
Bensiabel looks up at her, excitement clearly showing on his young face. "She will come to live with us?"
Mother regards him suspiciously. "No need to get yer hopes up, boy. I'm gonna enchant her eyes and mind, so that ya don't even exist to her." Bensiabel's mouth turns into a frown; his eyes grow moist. Mother notes the expression on his face, and cackles again, taking delight in his misery. The breeze carries the sound out to the sidewalk, and a pair of children passing shudder.