Alina stood with her mother in the front of the shop as Magda came down the stairs. She began to idly straighten behind the counter. Alina turned to her sister. Alina's face was bright, with a smile that didn't reach her swollen, shining eyes.
"Are you coming? To say goodbye?"
Magda shifted and looked down. "No."
"No?"
"No. No! NO!" Magda was yelling now--almost screaming. And the shock on Alina's face, and on her mother's, did nothing to calm her. "He can GO! And I hope he never comes back!" Her face contorted, and she choked on a sob. She turned and ran--a brown-and-white blur flying up the stairs, slamming doors as she went.
Alina passed her hand over her face.
"I thought... I thought she would..."
Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder.
"It is possible that his leaving is as difficult for Magda as for you."
Alina sighed weakly. "She is losing a brother..."
Her mother raised an eyebrow and smiled impishly, forgetting, for a moment, her own pain. "Ah, yes. A brother." She stroked Alina's hair then. "I think we should not bring her down. I believe that this is her choice, to regret, or not. When you are ready then, daughter."
1.16.2015
Magda heals
Another tidbit that should be posted. I think this is becoming Magda's story.
****
Alina and Magda neared the cottage/cave where the family of the wool dealer lived. It was one of his twins who was ill--pretty young girls of 3 or 4 years. Though it was not certain that she was the daughter of the family. She cast a skeptical eye on the shepherd and his wife, each of whom looked above 50 at the youngest. The oldest daughter sat in a corner, rocking back and forth as she [did something with wool]. She looked anxiously at the twin from time to time. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and overall she looked pale and sick. She was twenty, or close. Still, she might have been worried for her sister.
Alina looked out and saw the black smoke growing ever thicker. It was two days' journey back to the village--no doubt it would be too late by the time she got there, if indeed there was anything amiss, or anything at all that she could do to help. She looked to Magda, bending anxiously over the twin as she had been doing for over 12 hours now. Magda shrugged and shook her head sadly. That was that, then. Magda cound not leave. She lifted a bowl of meadowsweet willow tea to the girl's mouth. Though some ran down the side of her chin, Alina saw her swallow, painfully.
****
Alina and Magda neared the cottage/cave where the family of the wool dealer lived. It was one of his twins who was ill--pretty young girls of 3 or 4 years. Though it was not certain that she was the daughter of the family. She cast a skeptical eye on the shepherd and his wife, each of whom looked above 50 at the youngest. The oldest daughter sat in a corner, rocking back and forth as she [did something with wool]. She looked anxiously at the twin from time to time. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and overall she looked pale and sick. She was twenty, or close. Still, she might have been worried for her sister.
Alina looked out and saw the black smoke growing ever thicker. It was two days' journey back to the village--no doubt it would be too late by the time she got there, if indeed there was anything amiss, or anything at all that she could do to help. She looked to Magda, bending anxiously over the twin as she had been doing for over 12 hours now. Magda shrugged and shook her head sadly. That was that, then. Magda cound not leave. She lifted a bowl of meadowsweet willow tea to the girl's mouth. Though some ran down the side of her chin, Alina saw her swallow, painfully.
Magda's Introduction
I found this draft unpublished, and it is interesting. Just one more piece of the puzzle.
***
You are reading this now in a book. It might be bound in leather, or simply clad in hard, stiff board. The papers might be fresh and new, or slightly yellowed. You are probably not thinking about the book itself as you read, but the smell and the touch of the papers are nevertheless as much a part of your reading as my voice, coming down to you from across the years. Never take that for granted.
I am an old, old woman now, and I have seen many things done and undone. So many changes. So many heartaches. But once, I was the youngest sister. And when I was younger, we did not have books. Bren might have made the first of our books, bound with wood covers ornately carved. Writing had come to us within a few generations, and so the youngest among us were the most proficient writers, and were taught and tasked with the recording of our story--and our stories. We were taught to carefully maintain our distance, and to declaim like our storytellers. We were taught to have the same voice. I am Magda, and I am telling this tale, but others will take it up when it is time, for there are things that I cannot know.
In the last years before the coming of the plague, we were isolated and peaceful. We had homes on the outskirts of the forest, and foraged most of our food and medicines as we tended the wood. Our homes were made of wood, but we did not build freely--each family had a family home, and we only branched off with care, and with permission. Our professions were hereditary, though every child was trained in the basics of several trades as part of our education. We enjoyed having the ability to change our jobs frequently--it was part of the adventure of youth for us. But it was understood that when you settled down, you would remain in your family's trade--whether baking or sewing or gathering or healing. Storytelling was different: there was only ever one storyteller and two or three attendants. Except in cases of great need, there would be no exceptions--what your family did would be your work. If a girl married into a family that had a different trade, she might be trained to practice. And the very young or the very proficient were gatherers, often full-time.
I was a very proficient gatherer.
***
You are reading this now in a book. It might be bound in leather, or simply clad in hard, stiff board. The papers might be fresh and new, or slightly yellowed. You are probably not thinking about the book itself as you read, but the smell and the touch of the papers are nevertheless as much a part of your reading as my voice, coming down to you from across the years. Never take that for granted.
I am an old, old woman now, and I have seen many things done and undone. So many changes. So many heartaches. But once, I was the youngest sister. And when I was younger, we did not have books. Bren might have made the first of our books, bound with wood covers ornately carved. Writing had come to us within a few generations, and so the youngest among us were the most proficient writers, and were taught and tasked with the recording of our story--and our stories. We were taught to carefully maintain our distance, and to declaim like our storytellers. We were taught to have the same voice. I am Magda, and I am telling this tale, but others will take it up when it is time, for there are things that I cannot know.
In the last years before the coming of the plague, we were isolated and peaceful. We had homes on the outskirts of the forest, and foraged most of our food and medicines as we tended the wood. Our homes were made of wood, but we did not build freely--each family had a family home, and we only branched off with care, and with permission. Our professions were hereditary, though every child was trained in the basics of several trades as part of our education. We enjoyed having the ability to change our jobs frequently--it was part of the adventure of youth for us. But it was understood that when you settled down, you would remain in your family's trade--whether baking or sewing or gathering or healing. Storytelling was different: there was only ever one storyteller and two or three attendants. Except in cases of great need, there would be no exceptions--what your family did would be your work. If a girl married into a family that had a different trade, she might be trained to practice. And the very young or the very proficient were gatherers, often full-time.
I was a very proficient gatherer.
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