Weaver Birds Aren't My Area of Expertise

Just a bit of writing I did for fun. I feel like I hit my best stride when writing fiction for children, even though I've never pursued that avenue farther than "just for fun." I've been pecking away at this the past few days as the mood strikes me and I figured I would share it with you to help you, in turn, pass the time. Happy Monday, darlings!

An Untitled Story (With Birds)

by Rachel Heffington

“The world, my dear, is very full of things you shouldn't touch.” Miss Crust's voice curled back on itself, purring. She pulled her crotchety old fingers through Maribelle's hair.

“Ow!” Maribelle yowled. She didn't think Miss Crust pulled her hair on purpose, but she certainly didn't not pull it on purpose. That was the point on which Maribelle took issue with her nurse.

“Is it my fault if you got half a jar of molasses stuck in it? Your hair's more tangled than a weaver-bird's nest.”

Maribelle wouldn't know. Weaver birds weren't her area of expertise, though they were her father's and Miss Crust's. Her father and Miss Crust were very well-known ornithologists – bird people. They were the sort of important people other important people came to if they had questions about puffin migration (“Do puffins migrate?”) or parrot-speech (“Just how many words can the average parrot learn in its lifetime?”) or the habits of displaced bluebirds. How Miss Crust went from studying birds to untangling Maribelle's hair, Maribelle didn't know. She wasn't quite sure where her father had picked up Miss Crust. Miss Crust just had always been. Maribelle couldn't remember a time when Miss Crust hadn't been part of life at 34 Bleaking Street. In her earliest memories there was sunlight, plenty of dust-motes swirling glitter-like through the beams, and Miss Crust. Funny enough, there was never a memory of a mother. Just Miss Crust, Assisting. She was very good at Assistance – Assisting Father with bird-work and Maribelle with tangled hair and grammar-work and stains on the fronts of her dresses. Sometimes Maribelle thought she might like to do with a bit less Assistance. Maybe only on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays generally weren't the best day of the week. Miss Crust could be on-call the rest of the time and only Assist when Maribelle really wanted her.

“What happened to my mother?” Maribelle asked suddenly. Miss Crust's finger twitched through Maribelle's hair, not in a surprised way but in a “Dear heavens, this again?” way.

“Died,” Miss Crust answered.

“From what?” Of course she knew – galloping consumption – but it was needful to hear it again, just to remind her that there had been a mother once upon a time. It bothered Maribelle sometimes, how often she nearly forgot most kids had two parents.

Here it came -

“Galloping consumption,” Miss Crust said.

There it was.

“Now you,” she pulled Maribelle upright off the stool and smacked her bottom, “get downstairs. Your father wants to speak with you before he leaves.”

Glad to be free of the dreadful hairbrush, Maribelle skibbled out the nursery door and wandered down their great big staircase, pausing on her favorite steps as she went. Her favorite steps were as follows:

twentieth,

sixteenth,

eighth.

The reasons why were these:

The twentieth was the step at the landing with a peculiar, round window looking out onto a bit of scrappy yard and a trashcan that always had a cat of some color turned upside down, fishing for something inside it.

The sixteenth step was exactly halfway which, as anyone can tell you, is a special place.

And the eighth step was the step whereupon Maribelle's front teeth had been knocked out when she tripped on it two years ago. There had been no other six year old girls missing both their front teeth that year so though it had given her a bit of lisp, Maribelle thought the distinction quite worth the trouble of pronouncing “stork,” “sausage,” and other like words.

Maribelle tromped into Father's study without knocking. She never knocked, on principle. People seemed to stop doing interesting things when you knocked first. It was much more gratifying to throw open a door and see someone look like they'd seen a ghost. Maybe you'd see where they hid those scrumptious chocolates, or maybe you'd hear things they wouldn't otherwise have told a little girl. And Maribelle did very much like to know. Knowing was probably the thing she liked most in the world, besides maybe chocolate ice cream and splashing in puddles barefoot when she ought to have worn boots.

Father sat at his desk, balding head between his bird-claw hands. He looked up as she came in. Pale gray daylight flashed at her off the little round lenses of his glasses.

“Hi,” Maribelle offered.

“Oh. Hello, Maribelle.”

“Miss Crust said you wanted me?”

Father perked up a little and ran his fingers through his hair. Two grayish-black puffs of it stuck out on either side of his head and made him look like a ruffled owl. The top of his head was utterly bald. “Just so, my dearling.”

When he put out his hand, she walked to him and settled her little palm in his bigger one. Hot. Dry. Shaky. That was Father's hand. Not liking to keep hers there very long, Maribelle gave Father a quick smile and put her hand in her pocket where he wouldn't think to ask for it again.

“Been studyin' birds?” she inquired.

“Oh, hrm. Birds, birds. Is there anything like birds in the world?” Father's lenses flashed again and his smile was a little less hampered than usual. He did so like birds.

Maribelle wanted to help him in any way she could to not seem so picked-over and trembly. “Well, Miss Crust says there was a sort of dinosaur way back in the dinosaur-days that flew like a bird.” It mightn't help much but Father might find it interesting, and that would at least distract him from whatever it was he worried over.

“Oh, ha!” Father chortled. “Ha! Ha!”

Like a jay, Maribelle thought. Crisp and short and unaccustomed. She liked to think of Father as all sorts of birds. He laughed like a jay and looked like an owl. He walked like a heron and spoke like a wren in terse, tentative chirps. She liked to watch him and he liked to watch birds. It helped to pass the time in the few months of the year when they weren't bopping around the Congo or Peru or someplace.

Find a Kid and Keep Him Close

I don't know what sort of Facebook-user you are (if you use Facebook), but I am of the variety of users who rarely follow links to the numerous articles their friends share. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations following invariably the same object led me several times to the Matt Walsh Blog, I began to realize that I actually like much of what this guy has to say. Yesterday was one of those times when I followed a link and was ready to cheer by the end. The title of the post was: Here are 13 things for little kids to worry about instead of college and test preparation. In the post, Matt writes an open letter to one first-grader named Peter, whose love for arts, crafts, and creativity has been sapped by the public school system (specifically the early focus on college prep).

In my new role as nanny to Lila and Sophy, I have been testing the waters as to how far their imaginations go. Going into the position, Sharon told me that they were creative and imaginative children and that they loved to pretend. This was obviously a boon for me--I can't keep uncreative, unimaginative children busy. It just does not work. They don't like me and I don't particularly like them. The first couple of work weeks, I tried their limits and held back a little from the full onslaught of Rachelness they would soon come to know. Ever so slowly, I seeped it in and watched how they reacted to invitations to imagine, create, and pretend. Every challenge I gave, they gobbled up. I liked these girls. I stuck to reading books in different accents, to dancing like different sea-animals, to talking about "unzipping" the kiwis' furry jackets so we could eat them. I felt like we were all holding back a little, getting used to one another, pushing a couple boundaries, seeing just how far the other would go. I didn't want to, y'know, scare them with my whimsical nature.

This week, I branched out into the full me and they branched out into the full them. I lectured a pineapple in a French accent while slicing off its skin. I told Lila not to snip off her nose with her scissors and she responded with a factoid from our butterfly reading this morning:

"Yeah, cuz then I'd have to grow antennae to smell things!"

We have instituted certain traditions, the girls and I. Sophy hangs onto my shirt or pockets as I go down the hall to put her to bed, and I pretend (thrice) to be surprised that I have a tail. (It's Lila's turn on the way back down the hall.) I speak in a man's tone of voice while eating lunch, per Sophy's request. We all discuss which animal we'll be eating like during a particular meal or snack, and discuss the merits of Shark-Chompies vs. Mouse-Nibbles. I stand in front of their swings and introduce myself as Roberta (but they may call me Bobbie), and then mishear their names as "Lola" and "Trophy" and I'm ever so glad to meet them.  I have chopped up conversations on the swings, speaking only when their swings are up close and halting conversation as they drop back the other direction. I tell them "Luke & Liza" stories and refuse to tell more till they've told me a story of their own. We boast about eating cookies as large as their rather-large house and we walk like octopusses to find our snacks.

We jive. It's great.

But today was the real test. I had told three stories already today, and Lila's sapphire-blue eyes (crazy gorgeous) were burning as they do when her brain is going like a motorboat in the background. Sophy's belly laugh and Lila's burning eyes are the way to gauge how well you've caught their attention. I was out of stories temporarily and decided to Shanghai their imaginations:

"My story is broken," I told them, and pointed to the inside of my elbow.
Lila's eyes burned blue. "What?"
"Right here. I don't know what happened but I need you to fix it."
She looked at me a moment and Sophy came up and offered "sugars" (a kiss) to make it feel better.
"What do you need for it to feel better?" Lila asked. She is always one for getting straight to a point.
"Rabbit ears," I said. "I see some under that tree."
Lila dipped behind a magnolia and popped out again. "I see leaves."
"Perfect!" I stuck the two brown magnolia leaves in my ponytail and looked pleased with myself. "Rabbit ears. And now I'm in need of a bird-feather."
Lila stared me down. "Where do I get that?"
"Look around."
She gave me an intense gaze and I saw that little mind scrabbling for ideas. A moment among the bushes, and she came galloping up with a tulip leaf shaped like a feather. "Let me strip it down," she said, and made it look more like a feather than ever.
I put this in the crack of my arm. Sophy gave me a buttercup which I applied likewise. "And now I need a bowl of imagination," I said.
This, I expected to stump her. It didn't. She grabbed a clay plate and filled it with fistfuls of clover which she then deposited on my lap. I pretended to eat it.
"And now some fairy-dust, and I should be all settled."
By now, Lila was quite in the spirit of the game. She dumped the clover and filled the plate with mulch which I proceeded to sprinkle over the ground while she looked on curiously.
"Why, it's all better!" I marveled, and removed the leaf. "And green!"
She snapped blue fire at me and laughed and laughed. Needless to say, she got her fourth story.

I suppose there isn't much point to this post except to commend the imaginations of children. They're beautiful things, they're precious things, and they work so well. Spend some time with a kid tomorrow. It's absolutely wonderful.

Captivate Me

While looking through a stack of old family pictures yesterday, I found evidence that I've always been what you might call a book-devourer...

Yep. 

That's me! Haven't changed a bit in that respect. 

So! What do you say we have a caption contest? Yep. Just for random kicks and giggles and wanting-to-see-how-your-improv.-skills-work. Just leave your caption or two in a comment below and I'll pick three of my favorites and put them up on a poll. Ready?

the eternal appetite of infancy

Once in a while you will happen across a quote from a person that knocks the wind out of you, it's so fantastic. Chesterton often does that to me. I've never read anything of his whole, but just the brief glimpses of glory I see in his quotations are astounding. This one no less than the others. 

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, 'Do it again'; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again," to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again," to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we." -G.K. Chesterton

May God grant all of us His eternal appetite for infancy. This quote set me to thinking really hard about how I view "monotonous" tasks in my life. I hope and pray I may never lose sight of this perspective.

A little bit of pixie-dust. :)

My first experience with world-building happened sometime around the age of 8. My brother and sister and I went through a stage of being wild over cartography, spies, and anything that remotely resembled a map. Especially a secret one. Somehow we decided each to make a map of his own "country" and not show anyone else. The "not-show-anyone-else" lasted all of about one afternoon before the politics began....Before I had thought of my map as a very sophisticated, elaborate, and elegant country of monumental importance....in some way unknown to me. Daniel showed Sarah and I his elaborate country which we were humble enough to admit was far better than ours. His looked real. But mine had some good points, I thought. And Sarah was attached to her world too. The solution? Daniel was generous enough to offer a truce: Tape them together, add a fourth sector to make it even, and rename the country. So easily done with one is 8.

While going through a rigorous, terribly exhausting, and rather frightening emergency-cleaning of my room, I found a stack of old letters and scribblings from my childhood. The maps were there, along with a key that had me laughing aloud....I've grown up so much since then. Oh so much. Ah...those good old days...

My original country was named "Dremla"

Later we changed it to "Shatinia". I thought that was an epic and awesome name for a made-up country....for an eight-year-old.

Daniel's half of the map was written in a scrawling, stratchity hand which made it all that much more mysterious and therefore legit.

Here are the funniest of descriptions, complete with the childish spelling...

Leprocahn Lake: there are some pretty twisted characters there so beware. hint: always wear green.

elfboats: Very friendly, good place to rent boats if you are planning an ocean attack.

goblins cave: kind of dark, but the glitter of treasure lights it up. hint: if you're in need of money go here. (they stole most of it so chances are some of it was yours.)

Countess Vameerals Mansion: She loves red and black. She's pretty friendly. hints: if you don't like bats don't visit. Be careful what you drink.

witches woods: The witches some times get an attack of spells so check the magic forecast before you visit. Goblins have tunnels here.

The fickle art of Pouncery

“But we must stop and think,” Bertram said, collecting the scraps like a grave-robber, “If Pouncing is the same as making loud sorts of noises.”

“Great snakes—what do you mean by that?” Adelaide squirted a spray of orange-peel oil onto her hand and painted a face on the polished table-top with it.  “Father said most specifically not to make loud noises. Is Pouncing a noise? No, of course it isn’t. So we aren’t disobeying. Anyway, ten o’clock is too late for any nanny to sleep, no matter how new she is.”

-The Scarlet Gypsy Song

In sitting down in earnest to begin editing The Scarlet Gypsy Song I am discovering things about this book and these characters that I'd forgotten about since I finished the book back in the spring. For one thing, I gave myself a pain in the neck with POV problems...attempting the all-seeing-eye and then abandoning it in favor of something less confusing. Argh. 
But the Macefields are a group with talent, class, and some good old Victorian swag. In one of the earlier chapters I happened upon a dissertation on the fickle art of Pouncery by none other than the imps of the family: Adelaide and Darby.

Darby slammed the window shut and wandered to the mantle-piece, hands balled up inside his trousers pockets. He eyed the clock—ten-fifteen. That was it. “Are you lot coming or not?”

Adelaide bounced to her feet and grabbed Charlotte’s arm so she couldn’t protest. “We’re coming!”

Bertram grinned and raked the last of the toast-scraps into his pocket, then picked the littlest twins up like two sacks of potatoes and carted them out of the nursery with the others. They tip-toed down the hall and gathered at Miss Woodruff’s door.

“Shall we give her the Bully Scamper, or the Gollywhumper?” Adelaide asked. Pure delight sparkled on her face at captaining a rumpus again.

Darby felt the way she looked: they had been too good since running Miss Perdue off, and he felt like an old saint. “The Gollywhumper.” He wriggled with anticipation. “Creeping in and then jumping scares ‘em a whole lot more than busting through the door.”

“Right. Well then, here’s how it’ll be. We’ll creep in, and—Fergus and ‘Genie? You two remember to keep quiet. We’re not hurting Miss Woodruff, only Pouncing her, so don’t go and wail over it, huh?”

There it was that we got a lesson in How to Pounce. Let's review the steps and rules of this mysterious childhood art--you might just want to try this at home sometime.

1. Don't hurt your victim

2. If you want to perform the Gollywhumper you must creep then Pounce.

3. If you want to perform the Bully Scamper eliminate the creeping and go straight from nothing to Pounce--the quicker the better with this one.

4. A Pounce is not a noun, it's a verb. Therefore "pouncing" cannot be classified as a noise, and we are safe from Mr. Macefield taking us by our shirt collars and locking us in the Conservatory for the afternoon to Think About What We've Done.

Well, there you have it. Many thanks to Darby and Adelaide for coming up with the League of Pouncers. May we all live to a ripe old age and never have trouble with our knees.

Writing Children: The To-Do's, and Not To-Do's. :)

“I don’t want to write for adults. I want to write for readers who can perform miracles. Only children perform miracles when they read.”

—Astrid Lindgren

I do not feel equipped to speak with authority on many angles of writing--I am not a published author, I make a hash of comma usage, I tend to use unpopular POV's (such as narrative), and my plot lines are not exactly Dickensian in intricacy. However of all the criticisms I got in the critique group that I was a part of (and that shaped me immensely) there was one consistent compliment. 

Apparently, I can write children well. Nearly all the members of the group commented on how realistic the children were in their personalities, their relationships, etc. I'm not saying that to boast, only to let you know why I'm hashing this topic out. 

I suppose the thing is, I am immersed in Children-Culture. With seven younger siblings (and eight cousins across the field) I have a 15-person study-group below my nose at all times. Okay. Let's face it. In my lap at all times. It was not three days ago that my five-month old Levi punched a random series of keys while I was writing and botched up the formatting of my entire manuscript. :D (thankfully I was able to fix it)

Being that I am so constantly involved in child-culture, it's a good thing some of that has translated into my writing. I'd be worried otherwise, for isn't it a maxim of all writing that your life flavors the way you write? If it isn't, it ought to be. That being said, I thought I'd give you a few tips on how to write fully-rounded, fully-fleshed children characters:

Point One: Children are not that simple:

 “You have to write whichever book it is that wants to be written. And then, if it’s going to be too difficult for grownups, you write it for children.”

—Madeleine L’Engle

Children have far more to them than meets the eye. They are people, after all, with hopes, dreams, aspirations...and they have more soul than we often realize. My little sister Gracie sat, dejected, at our dining room table this afternoon, having discovered a chicken that had succumbed to a cruelly enforced pecking-order, and died.

"He suffered, Rachie!" she cried, and the tears welled up in her eyes. "Can we pray for him?" (In fact, on a side-note, she keeps a running list of deceased pets that she prays for routinely. :P)

You cannot write a child-character as a named clown that walks around providing comic relief with his lisp and hope to captivate your audience. Especially if you write for children. They know their own kind, and they are quick to detect flaws in your characterization of one of them. So how do you write a child? Provide plenty of soul and depth. Children have a thought-process, deep emotions, and everything that makes an adult-character tick, only it is precious and unspoilt. Watch children and see how they interact with one another. I promise, you'll learn much from them.

“Grown-up people find it difficult to believe really wonderful things, unless they have what they call proof. But children will believe almost anything, and grown-ups know this. That is why they tell you that the earth is round like an orange, when you can see perfectly well that it is flat and lumpy; and why they say that the earth goes round the sun, when you can see for yourself any day that the sun gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night like a good sun as it is, and the earth knows its place, and lies as still as a mouse. Yet I daresay you believe all that about the earth and the sun, and if so you will find it quite easy to believe that before Anthea and Cyril and the others had been a week in the country they had found a fairy.”  ~Edith Nesbit

Point Two: Get out of the cliche-box:

Not every child has a lisp. Not every child drops "r"s. Not that you can't use those characteristics, but your child must have more to him than a clumsy tongue. Children are so much fun, that it is a pity to limit them to a speech impediment. Think outside the box. Does she like to dress up? Is she flamboyant? Would she march up to a stranger and demand a kiss, or is she quiet and reserved, having to be coaxed to speak?

Perhaps the most fun is writing The Little Boy. Frogs and snails and puppy-dog tails! ;) I have a weakness for naughty little boys....Dill, Darby, Tucker...oh yes. What is it that makes them so adorable? It could be something as small as freckles, a pug-nose, dirt around his fingernails. Just watch a little boy for five minutes and you'll have a host of actions to use in describing that character of yours. :)

Point Three: Pay Attention:

The Mistress of this third point, in my humble opinion, was Edith Nesbit. Even the narration of her books reflects the elaborate, illogical, perfect charm of a child's thinking. This is a task that takes some doing, for the older we grow, the easier it is to forget how sensible a childish thought once seemed to us, and how we came across that thought in the first place. You must cast aside all adult-ish thinking when you write for children. You must approach them on their own footing, thinking how they think, dealing with crisis the way they do. Sometimes it requires a kyniption fit. Sometimes it requires a fist-fight. But bet upon it. Something unexpected and not quite well-behaved is always the right way for a child. :) After all, social-grace and politics are not a large part of the average child's diet. Scapegraces are darlings, in my opinion. :) 

Point Four: Have Fun:

This is the last, and perhaps most important point. Children are fun. They have not yet learned that life expects more of you than smiles and giggles, delicious frights, more smiles, and a little dirt thrown in. Let your pen play for awhile instead of work. You characters can, on occasion, even serve as your alter-egos. I dare you to try to forget you are nearly grown-up, or even grown-up, or even Very Ancient. Try writing in a childish way. You'll find it refreshing, unusual, and so addicting you'll want to come back for more. :) 

“It is all very wonderful and mysterious, as all life is apt to be if you go a little below the crust, and are not content just to read newspapers and go by the Tube Railway, and buy your clothes ready-made, and think nothing can be true unless it is uninteresting.” 

~Edith Nesbit

The Lost Art of Reading Aloud

"Children are made readers on the laps of their parents."

— Emilie Buchwald 

"You may have tangible wealth untold.

 Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. 

Richer than I you can never be – 

I had a mother who read to me."

— Strickland Gillilan

I owe much of my love of reading and writing to my mother. For as long as I can remember she has read aloud to us. I can distinctly remember my first encounter with Anne of Green Gables. I complained that there was too much description, and I couldn't understand it. Yet Mama persisted in reading the book aloud to us and before long I was lost to the world in the fairy-fancies concocted by Anne Shirley in that tantalizing land of Avonlea.
Mama never stooped to reading easy books to us, and I don't think she ever skipped the hard words. She wisely surmised that we would soon learn, somehow, what the big words meant, and in the meantime they didn't matter. It was of little consequence that if we didn't understand every little detail--the beauty of the words would rub off on us anyway. That is not to say that Mama didn't have secret misgivings--she has often admitted that when she read Hans Brinker to us, she really thought it was far over our heads. Funny thing is, that is the one book I remember thrilling me to my fingertips. We turned it into a unit-study (Ah! The beauty of homeschooling!) and learned all about the queer Dutch houses on their stilts and the bustling canals instead of crowded streets. Some of my fondest, coziest memories come from snuggling up on the couch, and oh! To get that coveted spot right next to Mama where we could lean against her soft side and follow along in the book as we learned to read.
I fear reading aloud is a lost art, and yet what a pleasant pastime! It is one of those forgotten pleasures, like letter-writing, that we would do well to revive. It brings a group of people together, their thoughts, dreams, and emotions wrapped round the same story. Is there anything sweeter than experiencing a story again with a dear friend? I well know the glorious sensation of discussing a book with one of my sweet sisters in Christ, reliving the intricacies of the plot, the characters, what we thought was going to happen and what in actuality did....*happy, happy, nostalgic sigh*

I have fond dreams of someday, in my house o' dreams, reading aloud to my husband some chilly fall night when we haven't any troubles to pressure us and nothing to do but please ourselves. ;) I do hope he'll enjoy being read aloud to.

"When Mother reads aloud, the past
Seems real as every day;
I hear the tramp of armies vast,
I see the spears and lances cast,
I join the thrilling fray;
Brave knights and ladies fair and proud
I meet when Mother reads aloud."
~"When Mother Reads Aloud" Author Unknown 

I also cannot wait for the day I can gather my little chickens around me and open a book to transport them to new worlds; to vicariously experience the wondrous delight of those dear, beloved stories for the first time through my children.
But there is an art to it. The reader-aloud who halts and mispronounces words and reads in a monotone so fast it sounds like Chinese is not pleasant to listen to. If you would have interested listeners, you must be an interesting reader. Go ahead and liberate your fancy. Use accents. Choose a different voice for each character and maintain it. Read the descriptions with a soft, flowing voice and try to put the beauty of the words into your tones. Practice on your siblings! I recall reading The Hobbit aloud to my younger sisters--they loved it, after they got past their string of perpetual questions. The famous mother/sister answer I've found to be appropriate to all occasions is: "Well if you listen you might find the answer out!" :D
Here is a list of my favorite books to be read aloud as a child. Oh, thank you Mama for reading to us! :)

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
A Little Princess by " " " 
Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates by Mary Mapes Dodge
Heidi by Johanna Spyri
The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis
Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The Swiss Family Robinson by Johanne Wyss
The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden
Hinds Feet on the High Places by Hannah Hunard
Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott
The Moffats by Eleanor Estes

A Fool's Hope

I have not been in the mood lately to work on Puddleby Lane...it needs something in a big way, but I haven't felt clever enough to dig up the something and force it to name itself. So I have dabbled in the luxury of writing short pieces of Nothing. Here is one of those short pieces. I intend to finish this short story if you like it enough for me to go through that effort....I got rather attached to poor Rose Macintyre. Anyway, enjoy the read. :) 

 

“A Fool’s Hope”

By Rachel Heffington

“When I get bigger I’ll walk all the way to Clippership Pass and have a picnic.” The wan hand waved at a rivet in the side of the bracken-covered mountain, and the trustful blue eyes smiled into my own. There was no fear caught in their intricate depths; only a kind of hope that hurt me worse than taking stitches out of a baby’s lip.

 I had seen it time and again there—that glimmering trust, that fathomless serenity. How could I dash this fairy-like creature to the ground and tell her that she would probably not even live till that much anticipated sixth birthday?

I put my stethoscope in my ears. Maybe I’d been wrong. “Come now, little bird,” I coaxed.

The pretty creature turned in her bed from the contemplation of those delicious heights to the cool interior of the room scented with clinical smells that had no business there.

“Am I much better, Dr. Colley?” Her fluffy blond hair, looking more than ever like duckling down with being tousled, fell about her pale cheeks. It was not a question as much as a statement.

“Not much, much better yet, Rose, but I hope to have you right as rain by September.” I hoped, but it was a fool’s hope. I knew the rapid downward spiral such illnesses took.

“Oh, by my birthday you mean. Will you come and eat my pink cake with me?” It was a solemn oath she was asking me to swear. I knew that in her childish way she demanded a sympathetic assurance that there was to be a birthday. She never doubted, but she wanted confirmation.

I smiled and put my earpiece to her poor thin chest. A whooshing sound, distinctly painful to the ears of a trained doctor, told me again what I already knew. Little bird would not have her pink cake in September. My hand shook but I masked my finding from Rose in a jovial chuckle. It grated with harsh insensitivity on my ear, but Rose knew no difference.

“Well Rose-bud, if you want to be strong and healthy we must let you get your sleep.” I plumped my tiny patient’s pillows and smoothed the coverlet.

“And won’t you kiss me goodnight?” She presented her cheek—so pitiful and thin for a six year old child’s—and gave me an arch smile.

I gave the kiss with a right good will and a prayer on my lips, then tip-toed out of the room. My patient, worn out with even the effort of saying a few words, was fast asleep.

*          *          *          *

My steps sounded in the empty hall like the sharp report of a rifle. Every doctor grows somewhat attached to his patients, but Rose and I had a special link. We were kindred spirits—if a six year-old girl and a sixty year-old man could be called such. If—and I did not doubt the truth of this verdict—Rose Macintyre died, a part of me would die with her.

I slowed my pace as I neared the parlor where Rose’s parents waited. The poor child had been sick so long they no longer attended me to the room, but waited until they were wanted or needed in the pleasant suite of rooms at the other end of the wing.

Mirrors interspersed between the windows showed a more miserable man with each subsequent reflection. How could I tell Mr. and Mrs. Macintyre that their prize and treasure, their little Rose-bud would wilt before the first frosts?

I shoved my hands into my pocket and felt for my watch-fob. I had no need of the time, but it was a habit, a comforting custom that I gained a queer pleasure from performing in my intensity. I would break it to the parents carefully. They might ask how she was, and I might reply, as I had to Rose, not much better—only putting the inflection on the last word, adding none of the hopeful lilt my voice had sprinkled unbidden into my words to the little girl.

But I needn’t have troubled myself, for as soon as I stepped over the threshold onto the parquet floor, my face told the story. Mrs. Macintyre hid her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. Her bright hair, so like her daughters, was fastened back with a jet comb as if her fingers had known the sentence that morning before she herself had.

The father stood, stricken. “Good God!” he said, not cursing but praying.

I bowed my head and clasped and unclasped my hands. It was not the first time— Lord forgive me—that I had to tell a family there was no hope. No, I had been a doctor for forty years if I had one, and had seen more than my fair share, perhaps, of deathbeds. But this…this creature belonged to the realm of the living. I could no more imagine her held in the chill embrace of death than I could one of the morning glories peeping through the latticed windows, or the yellow canary singing ironically in the little silver cage by the piano.

Of course I knew sweet Rose would be happier in Heaven, yet to our mortal minds the passage from this world to the next seems only befitting for the old—those of us like myself who had lived a full life. If my own life would have done anything to save this poor child dying of tuberculosis upstairs, I would have sacrificed myself on the spot. Yet such is the nature of God that we cannot go until we are called.

Mrs. Macintyre raised her head, and a firm resolve was in her face. “Are you quite certain, Dr. Colley?”

“Yes ma’am. Would that my diagnosis was erroneous, but the point of vagueness is past. I am certain.”

She stood with a rustling of her plum-colored dress and walked silently across the room. Then she took my hands in both of her own and kissed them. “Dr. Colley,” she said, her voice full of pathos and emotions even my own distress could not rival, “You have become one of the family with your daily, some times even hourly visits. Our Rose looks upon you as her good fairy. Her friend and companion in her long illness. Won’t you stay at Wheatleigh till she…until she is Better?”

Brave woman! Convincing herself as well as me that life with her Savior would, to Rose, be preferable to her sweet life here. Death is said to strengthen faith where it is weak, and I suddenly felt that my trips to church of a Sunday were not the sort of Life the Macintyres enjoyed.

“I thank you, Mrs. Macyntire for your kind hospitality, but I must decline. I will be here tomorrow morning at seven to check on our patient.”

Mr. Macintyre advanced, holding my hat and coat in his hand. “Dr. Colley, no matter what the outcome, you will always be welcomed here. You know that.”

My eyes met his and I managed a grave smile. “I do. Call me if there is any change.”

Rose’s father nodded and bowed as I left the parlor. I defied all the general rules of decorum and practically ran out the front door and leapt into my carriage. I could not stay at that house where so many fond memories bedecked the very parlor-carpet with images of Rose when she had been a little better.

The grey London sleet resumed its sloppy habit of falling sideways and washed out the image of Wheatleigh with a tearful slush.

It would not be long now, I decided, till we would know.