flashquake Fiction
Third Place

flashquake
Travelling Girl
by Wenonah Lyon

Fair words or foul, I was ready to return as good as I got. Friendship or blows, it was their choice. My da was a travelling man, and the first day in the new place could be one or the other.

The teacher's eyes were hard when she sat me in my place: "While you're with us, Naomi," she had said, not expecting me to stay. I sat in the back of the room, and some things she asked I could do and others I could not. There were many schools and many teachers in a travelling life, and I was always quick at the numbers but the words were harder come by.

I told my da it was hard, and he was only puzzled: "You have the road," he said. "Why do you go to their schools?"

My da made no trouble over it. I could run wild though the woods at night, I could go to the village school. He would do neither but neither would he block me.

The teacher sent us out for the break, the recess they called it in this school. I was wary. They formed a circle round me, not a good thing, and one I shifted to avoid. But they only wanted to talk.

"You came in the old caravan," they said, "and your Da works on the road and fixes broken pots."

"Aye," I said, waiting for the next words. And he steals, and so do you, I expected. But I was surprised.

"And you've put the caravan in the field next to the old woman's house," they said.

"Aye."

"She's a witch, and you'll be sorry," they told me. They were pleased that I should be sorry. They were a silly lot, like those who had called my gran a witch. She had the second sight, some said, and sold lucky heather in the market.

My ma had laughed at this, and told me there were no witches.

Travelling people say that they own only one piece of land, and that is six foot by two, and only when they stop there shall they settle. My ma had settled, and my da and I missed her grievously.

So that day after the school let out I went to the tall gates around the old woman's house. There was a wall, taller than I, taller than my da, all of stone. I looked through the gates. Never had I seen a witch, but I'd heard much of them. Perhaps my ma was right, perhaps not, but I should see for myself.

At first, I was disappointed. There was a woman, yes, but she was only an old woman as far as I could tell.

She called to me, and I opened the big gate and came in, not close, but closer to her, where she could yell if she had a mind to without straining her old voice. She held something out to me in her hand, and I went closer, still cautious.

"Tansy, tansy for heart's ease, child," she said. "You need tansy."

I took the piece of plant, and we talked, the old woman and I.

We went into the big kitchen, and had jam and toast and tea and I left the big kitchen with a job. Every day after school, I would help in the garden.

My da was worried when I told him.

"This old woman has no good reputation," he said.

"Neither do we," I told him.

Each day I went to school, then to the garden. Animals I know. I can calm a barking dog, whisper to a horse, cats come to me. But never had I worked in a garden.

I watched the old woman. She talked to her plants. She saw me listening, and laughed.

"You think it strange?" she asked.

"No." And I did not. Plants live, why should they not like a bit of conversation now and then?

My da had a job, working on the road. He came in one day. The job was done, and we had been told to move on.

He looked at me, sad, "I'd thought to stay through the winter, since you like the school and the old woman next door."

"It's all right, da, like you say, we're travelling people."

But I was sorry to go. The words were coming to me, thick and fast, and the old woman next door was teaching me much. If I could have a garden, I think, maybe, I think I could stop travelling for awhile.

The next day was Saturday, and my Da was drinking his tea when I got up.

"The old woman has been kind to you," he said. "I will go with you today and show her respect. She must have something needs mending, some fence come down or roof slate gone."

So my da went to the big gate with me. I was afraid, a little, afraid the old woman would say something about stealing. She welcomed us, both of us.

She whispered to me, as my father went into the garden, "Trust...Naomi, trust. You still don't trust me, do you?"

I was shamed, and hung my head and she laughed and it was all right.

That day, my da cleaned the leaves from her gutters. He took down an old dead tree in the back of the garden. He fixed a broken step. I would see the old woman, sometimes, from the window: she would wave to us.

We had dinner with the old woman, my da and me.

My da stood up, and said, "We'll be leaving in the morning. The work here is done."

"Could I offer you some work to stay a bit longer?" the old woman asked.

"It's a kindness in you," my da said, "but I don't think it would be welcomed in the village."

The old woman gave me a plant, a small plant to grow bigger, rosemary in a pot, for remembrance.

© 2002 by Wenonah Lyon

HOME | Archives | Submission Guidelines | Contributors | Links | Contact Us