Post by Regan Kelly on May 2, 2005 17:16:49 GMT -8
San Juan, Puerto Rico.
1946. Evening.
The room was small and cramped, the scent of it's recent time as a sick room slowly being eroded by the smell of fresh rain through an open window. The booted, jacketed woman tucked the girl in with gentle, cold hands; black braids brushing both their faces as she kissed her brow. Their whispers were soft and Spanish, trying to be quiet despite being the only people in the apartment.
The girl begged her for a story, but her caretaker resisted. She was no good at telling stories. She could ask her mother for one when she came home. The girl grabbed at her hands, one small fist wrapped with a cheap plastic bead necklace, off which dangled an even cheaper saint's medallion. She had been sick, she reasoned, and her mother had asked her to watch her.
Couldn't she tell her a story?
Just this once?
Maybe even about cowgirls?
She sighed, kissing the small, chubby hand free of necklace and medallion, and gave her a pleading look. Blue eyes met hazel, and she held the look, but she knew she was done for.
The pale woman gave in, and she moved with a sigh to the footboard to tell the girl the story. Her Spanish had a soft, strange accent, full of a cadence and drawl unlike any the girl had ever heard.
"Once upon a time, there was a cowgirl most folks wouldn't have given a second look. "
"Was she a nice cowgirl?"
"Sometimes. "
"Why only sometimes?"
'''cause not everyone can be nice all the time. Do you want to hear this or not?"
"I do! I do!"
"Then hush up and listen."
She adjusted, shifting on her perch of the footboard.
"So, this cowgirl had a father. And they traveled together when she was young. But when she got older, she got ideas. She wanted to go off on her own. He thought she might be grown up enough, so he let her go. She left for a big city she'd heard of, that was far away, where no one knew her father. And when she got there, she met a very handsome man."
"Was he nice?"
"She thought he was. She fell as in love as any woman can with a man. She thought he was the most wonderful man she had ever known, next to her father. He was handsome, well spoken, and very well thought of. But she didn't know that he was a very bad man. By the time she found out, it was too late."
"Why was it too late?"
She tugged on the end of one of her black braids, staring out the window behind the girl's bed.
"Because he trapped her. He knew evil things, like how to trap a woman with her own love. So he trapped her, and made her do evil things."
"And then?"
"Then one day, her father came to this city. And he heard rumors. Rumors that his daughter had become...strange. Maybe even damned." The last was a whisper, the scandalized look on the girl's face causing her storyteller to nod in answer; no, this would not be a happy story. This would be a story they would not mention to her mother.
"So he went looking for his daughter, and found her very soul was at stake."
Hazel eyes looked into wide blue eyes; round with curiosity and fear, and full of questions.
"Her father stole her, in the night, and took her from the bad man. She wept, and wailed, and she slept for many years."
"..what then?" It was a whisper, small hands gripping the bed sheets tightly, making rustling noises.
"When she awoke, her soul was no longer in danger. But her heart was very cold, and she was angry at the man. So her father went back with her, to seek revenge. He was very... angry, that a man could hurt his daughter so. So they returned to the city, and sought out the man. There was a terrible fight."
"How terrible?"
"Very. People died, Abril. There was a gun fight. But neither the woman, or her father, or the bad man died. The woman fled far away with her father, who wanted to make sure she wouldn't be captured and made prisoner by the bad man. Or worse."
"What happened after that?"
"Well, the bad man searched for the woman, and her father. But he couldn't find them. "
"So that's how it ends?"
She looked down at the girl for a moment, the rhythmic tapping of her boot against the footboard stilling, and her lips pursed.
"No. Not quite. The father had little to worry about-he may have been old, but he was very wise. He could hide in places the bad man could never think to look, and it wasn't him the bad man wanted to hurt. It was the wise man's daughter he wanted. So somewhere, sometimes, the cowgirl still runs from the bad man, and he chases her. He considers her his prey. She runs from him in terror, fearing the day he can use her true name and take her away again."
"Her true name?"
"Mm hm. Some people have names, names they hide so no one will know how to hurt them. The bad man knew the daughter's name, and with a single utterance, he could hurt her very badly. "
She stood, stretching her legs out and rubbing the back of her thigh.
"I'll tell you more some other time, Abril. For now, you need to sleep. Get your strength back"
Abril rose up from the pillows, giggling, the soft sound interrupted by her coughing. When she finished, she spoke again.
"But Ro-"
"No." She held up a finger, wagging it. "You've been up later then you should, and I told you a story. No 'But Rose.' Sleep."
1946. Evening.
The room was small and cramped, the scent of it's recent time as a sick room slowly being eroded by the smell of fresh rain through an open window. The booted, jacketed woman tucked the girl in with gentle, cold hands; black braids brushing both their faces as she kissed her brow. Their whispers were soft and Spanish, trying to be quiet despite being the only people in the apartment.
The girl begged her for a story, but her caretaker resisted. She was no good at telling stories. She could ask her mother for one when she came home. The girl grabbed at her hands, one small fist wrapped with a cheap plastic bead necklace, off which dangled an even cheaper saint's medallion. She had been sick, she reasoned, and her mother had asked her to watch her.
Couldn't she tell her a story?
Just this once?
Maybe even about cowgirls?
She sighed, kissing the small, chubby hand free of necklace and medallion, and gave her a pleading look. Blue eyes met hazel, and she held the look, but she knew she was done for.
The pale woman gave in, and she moved with a sigh to the footboard to tell the girl the story. Her Spanish had a soft, strange accent, full of a cadence and drawl unlike any the girl had ever heard.
"Once upon a time, there was a cowgirl most folks wouldn't have given a second look. "
"Was she a nice cowgirl?"
"Sometimes. "
"Why only sometimes?"
'''cause not everyone can be nice all the time. Do you want to hear this or not?"
"I do! I do!"
"Then hush up and listen."
She adjusted, shifting on her perch of the footboard.
"So, this cowgirl had a father. And they traveled together when she was young. But when she got older, she got ideas. She wanted to go off on her own. He thought she might be grown up enough, so he let her go. She left for a big city she'd heard of, that was far away, where no one knew her father. And when she got there, she met a very handsome man."
"Was he nice?"
"She thought he was. She fell as in love as any woman can with a man. She thought he was the most wonderful man she had ever known, next to her father. He was handsome, well spoken, and very well thought of. But she didn't know that he was a very bad man. By the time she found out, it was too late."
"Why was it too late?"
She tugged on the end of one of her black braids, staring out the window behind the girl's bed.
"Because he trapped her. He knew evil things, like how to trap a woman with her own love. So he trapped her, and made her do evil things."
"And then?"
"Then one day, her father came to this city. And he heard rumors. Rumors that his daughter had become...strange. Maybe even damned." The last was a whisper, the scandalized look on the girl's face causing her storyteller to nod in answer; no, this would not be a happy story. This would be a story they would not mention to her mother.
"So he went looking for his daughter, and found her very soul was at stake."
Hazel eyes looked into wide blue eyes; round with curiosity and fear, and full of questions.
"Her father stole her, in the night, and took her from the bad man. She wept, and wailed, and she slept for many years."
"..what then?" It was a whisper, small hands gripping the bed sheets tightly, making rustling noises.
"When she awoke, her soul was no longer in danger. But her heart was very cold, and she was angry at the man. So her father went back with her, to seek revenge. He was very... angry, that a man could hurt his daughter so. So they returned to the city, and sought out the man. There was a terrible fight."
"How terrible?"
"Very. People died, Abril. There was a gun fight. But neither the woman, or her father, or the bad man died. The woman fled far away with her father, who wanted to make sure she wouldn't be captured and made prisoner by the bad man. Or worse."
"What happened after that?"
"Well, the bad man searched for the woman, and her father. But he couldn't find them. "
"So that's how it ends?"
She looked down at the girl for a moment, the rhythmic tapping of her boot against the footboard stilling, and her lips pursed.
"No. Not quite. The father had little to worry about-he may have been old, but he was very wise. He could hide in places the bad man could never think to look, and it wasn't him the bad man wanted to hurt. It was the wise man's daughter he wanted. So somewhere, sometimes, the cowgirl still runs from the bad man, and he chases her. He considers her his prey. She runs from him in terror, fearing the day he can use her true name and take her away again."
"Her true name?"
"Mm hm. Some people have names, names they hide so no one will know how to hurt them. The bad man knew the daughter's name, and with a single utterance, he could hurt her very badly. "
She stood, stretching her legs out and rubbing the back of her thigh.
"I'll tell you more some other time, Abril. For now, you need to sleep. Get your strength back"
Abril rose up from the pillows, giggling, the soft sound interrupted by her coughing. When she finished, she spoke again.
"But Ro-"
"No." She held up a finger, wagging it. "You've been up later then you should, and I told you a story. No 'But Rose.' Sleep."
