Four months passed. She had been forced to leave the tiny cottage, whose
garden had grown over with weeds and whose trees had grown as high as the
bedroom window. The bow had been hidden by grass and the arrows lost in her
attempts to hunt for herself. Not only could she barely pull back the
string, but she also couldn't sneak through the bush in her condition and
scared anyway anything she could have had the smallest chance at bringing
home. More than often she would end up sitting on the moss and crying until
her eyes were swollen and she held no more tears at the memories that would
assault her. Then she would drag herself home and crawl into her bed where
the small pillow now seem to be large enough to drown in and sleep for
days.
The house was aching. That's what it felt like. Her hands would run along the dishes to feel the chips from when they were had been dropped when he would try to help her cook. Her gaze would fall to the sewing she had abandoned the stitches that would cause him to call her a witch, for they were pure magic to him. Her lips would taste the flavors of the spices he loved the most. Her body would call out for him, her lips struggling to feel his own against them. There was nothing she could do. The house was driving her mad. To add to it all, the rippling inside her would constantly remind her and she felt she wouldn't survive much longer if she remained alone. Something was needed to distract her. Many things were needed. So she packed a small bag with clothes and her personal objects and locked the door behind her for the last time.
As she followed the now near impossible to follow trail, she wept bitterly. Truly, she could have no heart left after so much anguish.
It was a group of washerwomen who had found her. They were standing between the trees that were tied with heavy twine, gossiping as best that they could with their thick wooden clothespins between their teeth. When one of them looked up from struggling with a large pair of still-damp trousers and spotted the figure walking toward them, she had called out. The others turned to focus their attention on the sight and rushed to the girl's aid. She was after all thin and malnourished, her hair a mess of tangles and her clothes tattered and un-cared for. Indeed her whole visage was un-cared for. She seemed exhausted and her red-rimmed eyes showed the pain she was in. If it was mental pain or physical pain or a fine dust of both, the washerwomen could not tell. Her bag dangled from her hand and they rushed to take it from her and help her to the nearest inn. After all, a girl in her condition should not lift even the slightest heavy object. It could be harmful to her health.
That was how she came to live in the village among other people. The tiny room in the inn became her new home while she waited the life inside of her to complete its growth. The Innkeeper was a tall man with hair the color of the midnight sky and he would allow her to earn her keep by washing piles of silverware. The dented forks and slightly tarnished knives gleamed from the soapy water and when she would reach for even the smallest of saucers to continue washing he would whisk them out of sight, proclaiming them to be far too heavy for her under the circumstances. The first time this happened she had snapped at him and spun around, her pruned hands on her hips and her belly protruding from her otherwise slender form. He had smiled at her and gently placed his hand on the lump to feel the movement beneath it. He had questioned how far she was along. She had guessed that it was six months by now, but what business of it was his. A crease appeared between her eyes and he laughed at the sight of it. He told her he could not wait to see if the little one would be lucky enough to bear her image and walked out of the kitchen, still chuckling. She turned back to her silverware and continued to wash to help her ignore the burning in her cheeks and the slight tremble in her soul.
Time passed and the seven and eight months came and went. Still she continued to spend her mornings and afternoons working the kitchens with the Innkeeper always coming in ever so often to check up on her progress and condition. Eventually he began to stay longer and watch her polish the handles of knives. He would tell her of all the customers that would stumble in through the doors of his Inn. There were the travelers and peddlers who would try to pay with objects that he had never seen before and could never turn down because of curiosity. The butcher who had been fighting with his wife and needed a place to stay for the night as she had locked the door on him after he had found himself out in the streets with a pot on his head. The drunks that paid more for booze than they did for their rooms and the occasional member of the higher families who had nowhere else to go and probably had their own sheets to put on the beds so they did not catch anything 'common'. She would sit on her high stool near the basin of water and scrub while he talked and occasionally she would answer him, supply a word he could not grasp or ask him a question for she thought (or prayed) she had misheard him. He never asked her about herself and didn't need to know what had happened to her before she had come to the village. She was glad of this for she did not want to share and would hate to turn down the request of such a kind man who had done so much for her.
After a while she began to realize that tremble had grown into a flutter and the flutter to something even greater. She sat on her small bed one cold winter night and waited, listening for footsteps. He always came up to deliver her meals and that night was no exception. As she waited for him she pressed her fingers to her stomach. It wouldn't be long until the bulge was gone and she would have someone around her again. She smiled. She wondered if it would be healthy, she wondered if she would be able to keep it healthy. Would she continue to live in her own little room in the Inn or would she return to the cottage far in the woods that never really faded from her memory? She didn't know. She felt she could not leave here. There were things holding her back.
A knock came on her door. She stood up as quickly as she could and strode across the room to open it. He walked inside holding a larger tray than usual. It held not only one set of her carefully cleaned spoons, but a second. He smiled sheepishly and explained he had not yet eaten either and would she mind if he joined her, just for this one evening? She smiled back and began to ladle the stew into the bowls before them watching the steam rise in the cool room. It was a very long time before the bowls were empty as he was always talking because he had more stories to tell and she suddenly found it hard to swallow. When they said goodnight the room was dark and they were both yawning a great deal as they made their way to the door. He stopped on his way and leaned forward, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. She felt his lips press against her forehead and she closed her eyes to listen to his murmured good night and the echo of his boots as he went back downstairs. Smoothing the sheets over herself and trying to calm her heart, she found it hard to fall asleep that night. It had been a long time since she had felt like this. She hoped her dear dead husband could forgive her but she knew he would not want her to be alone. Besides, she would always have a part of him with her she thought as she curled her fingers protectively around her stomach.
The house was aching. That's what it felt like. Her hands would run along the dishes to feel the chips from when they were had been dropped when he would try to help her cook. Her gaze would fall to the sewing she had abandoned the stitches that would cause him to call her a witch, for they were pure magic to him. Her lips would taste the flavors of the spices he loved the most. Her body would call out for him, her lips struggling to feel his own against them. There was nothing she could do. The house was driving her mad. To add to it all, the rippling inside her would constantly remind her and she felt she wouldn't survive much longer if she remained alone. Something was needed to distract her. Many things were needed. So she packed a small bag with clothes and her personal objects and locked the door behind her for the last time.
As she followed the now near impossible to follow trail, she wept bitterly. Truly, she could have no heart left after so much anguish.
It was a group of washerwomen who had found her. They were standing between the trees that were tied with heavy twine, gossiping as best that they could with their thick wooden clothespins between their teeth. When one of them looked up from struggling with a large pair of still-damp trousers and spotted the figure walking toward them, she had called out. The others turned to focus their attention on the sight and rushed to the girl's aid. She was after all thin and malnourished, her hair a mess of tangles and her clothes tattered and un-cared for. Indeed her whole visage was un-cared for. She seemed exhausted and her red-rimmed eyes showed the pain she was in. If it was mental pain or physical pain or a fine dust of both, the washerwomen could not tell. Her bag dangled from her hand and they rushed to take it from her and help her to the nearest inn. After all, a girl in her condition should not lift even the slightest heavy object. It could be harmful to her health.
That was how she came to live in the village among other people. The tiny room in the inn became her new home while she waited the life inside of her to complete its growth. The Innkeeper was a tall man with hair the color of the midnight sky and he would allow her to earn her keep by washing piles of silverware. The dented forks and slightly tarnished knives gleamed from the soapy water and when she would reach for even the smallest of saucers to continue washing he would whisk them out of sight, proclaiming them to be far too heavy for her under the circumstances. The first time this happened she had snapped at him and spun around, her pruned hands on her hips and her belly protruding from her otherwise slender form. He had smiled at her and gently placed his hand on the lump to feel the movement beneath it. He had questioned how far she was along. She had guessed that it was six months by now, but what business of it was his. A crease appeared between her eyes and he laughed at the sight of it. He told her he could not wait to see if the little one would be lucky enough to bear her image and walked out of the kitchen, still chuckling. She turned back to her silverware and continued to wash to help her ignore the burning in her cheeks and the slight tremble in her soul.
Time passed and the seven and eight months came and went. Still she continued to spend her mornings and afternoons working the kitchens with the Innkeeper always coming in ever so often to check up on her progress and condition. Eventually he began to stay longer and watch her polish the handles of knives. He would tell her of all the customers that would stumble in through the doors of his Inn. There were the travelers and peddlers who would try to pay with objects that he had never seen before and could never turn down because of curiosity. The butcher who had been fighting with his wife and needed a place to stay for the night as she had locked the door on him after he had found himself out in the streets with a pot on his head. The drunks that paid more for booze than they did for their rooms and the occasional member of the higher families who had nowhere else to go and probably had their own sheets to put on the beds so they did not catch anything 'common'. She would sit on her high stool near the basin of water and scrub while he talked and occasionally she would answer him, supply a word he could not grasp or ask him a question for she thought (or prayed) she had misheard him. He never asked her about herself and didn't need to know what had happened to her before she had come to the village. She was glad of this for she did not want to share and would hate to turn down the request of such a kind man who had done so much for her.
After a while she began to realize that tremble had grown into a flutter and the flutter to something even greater. She sat on her small bed one cold winter night and waited, listening for footsteps. He always came up to deliver her meals and that night was no exception. As she waited for him she pressed her fingers to her stomach. It wouldn't be long until the bulge was gone and she would have someone around her again. She smiled. She wondered if it would be healthy, she wondered if she would be able to keep it healthy. Would she continue to live in her own little room in the Inn or would she return to the cottage far in the woods that never really faded from her memory? She didn't know. She felt she could not leave here. There were things holding her back.
A knock came on her door. She stood up as quickly as she could and strode across the room to open it. He walked inside holding a larger tray than usual. It held not only one set of her carefully cleaned spoons, but a second. He smiled sheepishly and explained he had not yet eaten either and would she mind if he joined her, just for this one evening? She smiled back and began to ladle the stew into the bowls before them watching the steam rise in the cool room. It was a very long time before the bowls were empty as he was always talking because he had more stories to tell and she suddenly found it hard to swallow. When they said goodnight the room was dark and they were both yawning a great deal as they made their way to the door. He stopped on his way and leaned forward, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. She felt his lips press against her forehead and she closed her eyes to listen to his murmured good night and the echo of his boots as he went back downstairs. Smoothing the sheets over herself and trying to calm her heart, she found it hard to fall asleep that night. It had been a long time since she had felt like this. She hoped her dear dead husband could forgive her but she knew he would not want her to be alone. Besides, she would always have a part of him with her she thought as she curled her fingers protectively around her stomach.