Hester - A Melancholy Sort Of Bookworm
Hester was a studious child who was prone to bouts of melancholy, quite
at odds really, with the soft, bright apricot hair that shone like a
halo around her elfin face. What Hester adored above all things was
books, the smell of them, the crinkly-crispness of the pages and even
the sharp, stinging cuts they could give if a leaf was turned too
eagerly. Of course what she really loved was words...
She ate words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But nowhere did words
satiate her so completely than in the Parnassus of the great, romantic
poets. Clutching a worn leather tome to her breast with one hand, she
would claw at her hair with the other as tears rolled down her pale
cheeks. Yes, it is true, this little one thrived on the raw edges of
desolation.
There would be a poem for each moment of torment, be
that the delicate crunch of a snail underfoot, or the ache of a cruel
rose thorn, embedded in her thumb.
For Hester a walk in the garden
became a litany of struggle, decay, death and brutality. Words began to
feast on her like maggots in the belly of a vole and it was not long
before she withered away with the fading racemes of Forget-Me-Nots.
The Governessa nearly tripped over Hester, laid face down on the barely
warmed earth of early summer, a sorrowful sight to behold, make no
mistake. She swaddled her in black and pressed a posy of Violets into
her small, cold hands. A gentle half-smile played upon the thin lips of
the Governessa that day, a poet would be most welcome under the roots of
the Old Willow she thought...
*
The Tale of a Beflowered Bog-Hopper
Viola
was a sweet little thing, so sweet in fact that she couldn't escape
being dressed in pink flowers and flounces. She couldn't understand why
quite frankly because sooner than you could blink her fine frock would
be covered in mud.
You see, Viola rather liked prancing around bogs
and dipping her hem into the muddy waters as she good morning-ed the
peat hags. Singing and bare of foot is how she
wandered having lost many a shoe to the ever hungry mud when
bog-hopping. The singing? Well, how shall I put this delicately?
Perhaps, nails down a chalkboard? A cacophony of midnight cats? At any
rate, far better to screech to your hearts content while the wind
whistles a merry tune and a darting Meadow Pipit joins you for a chorus,
than with shushes and stern stares!
It was a fine morning after a
rather stormy night, the warming yellow sun would ensure plenty of
pretty rainbows in the remains of the mist that clung to the sedge,
thought Viola. Dressed in a frock that would make even the most romantic
gardener blush, she set off bogwards, dew laden grass tickling her tiny
toes.
A bog-hoppers life is a tiring one, even for one that sings
with the pipits and has feasted on a whole pocketful of dried
bilberries. So, Viola took a rest in the place she liked best, dangling
her feet over the edge of an undercut and swinging them to and fro. Soon
the sun rose high in the sky and Viola's thoughts turned to steaming
stew, mashed potatoes and the sweet smell of peat smoke on the air. As
Viola swung her legs back over the edge her pretty flowery frock caught
on a twisted finger of bog oak that snagged her and tossed her into the
dark waters below. It is perilous indeed to enter such waters on an
ordinary day let alone after a storm when they are fast and impatient!
And so, the waters rushed up and carried off dear Viola and she was
never seen again, that is, until our bone skirted Governessa dried her
off and took her to join her brood and it is said that an eerie
caterwauling can be heard at the beginning of winter, when the old
willow shudders and shrugs off it's leaves.
*
Of Remembrances and Clouds of Hair
Philomena was a forgetful soul but
resourceful enough to store reminders in her voluminous and fluffy, if
somewhat wiry hair. Sea shells, birch bark with scribbles and words on
it, sprigs of lichen and clumps of moss, not to mention the odd twig and boiled sweet. No one quite knew the significance of such things, no one except Philomena that is.
One day whilst laid in the meadow, Philomena, in the midst of such
sweet remembering wove daisies through the tuft and locks at the front
of her hair. The sun beat down and soon she began to snooze, as the
afternoon wore on the raspberry flavoured boiled sweet she'd stashed
away at the back of her head began to melt.
Something moved or
rather slithered through the meadow not far from our dreaming one, it
seems the sticky-sweet aroma of sugared raspberry had attracted a
visitor...
Now, snakes like nowhere better than a cosy nest in which
to lay their eggs and dear Philomena's cloud like barnet was perfect!
So, in she slipped and curled up to have a rest in her new home.
Of
course, Philomena wasn't expecting that one forked of tongue would take
up residence in her remember-all and so when she reached in to retrieve a
particularly interesting piece of lichen, she was rather surprised by
the sharp teeth that sunk so deeply into her delicate palm.
When the
Governessa finally stumbled upon our dear Philomena she found her blue
of lip and covered in eggshells. The Governessa gently bundled her up
taking great care not to dislodge all of Philomena's memories and remembrances and took
her off to join the rest of her brood under the old willow tree.
*
A Dear Ragbag Named Myrna
Dear Myrna loved to wrap up in old rags,
snuggle down and take a nap. She would sleep anywhere, sometimes in the
most awkward places such as underneath train seats and on top of bushes.
Myrna was a dreamer and this is why she particularly loved
rags and sleeping, she fancied that the old scraps of cloth would
whisper long gone tales into her tiny ear and reveal magical secrets as
she slept.
Her yearning for these dreams and whispers was so strong that sleep came upon her easily and deeply whenever she willed it.
And so it was, that young Myrna set herself down in the middle of a
field one November afternoon, the smell of woodsmoke on the air and the
early winter chill had set her to yearning. With her favourite rags
strewn around her she began her ritual of shuffling and rolling until
she was bundled up like dirty clothes in an old washing basket. In no
time at all her eyelids began to close and she drifted off into a dream
filled sleep of frosty woodsmoke and tattered silk.
As Myrna slept,
the frost lessened and the smell of woodsmoke grew stronger, in fact it
grew so warm in those rags that small beads of perspiration dropped like
tiny damp crystals from her reddening brow.
The onlookers marvelled
at the height and ferocity of the bonfire, it was the biggest they had
seen in a long time and how glad they were to find that some kind soul
had left a bundle of rags for them to build their fire around. Though
the fire was hot there were some who felt an unearthly chill at the
peculiarly eerie screaming sounds (instead of the usual whistle-hiss)
coming from the direction of the roasting chestnuts...
The long bony
fingers of the Governessa delicately swept Myrna's ashes up and wrapped
them in fine silken cloth with a sprinkle of mugwort, this tiny soul
was destined to join the others under the old willow tree.
*
A Tatty Headed Tail Tugger
Willow spent many an hour watching the horses gallop and prance in the
fields. She adored the frolicsome foals but she especially loved the
sight of the wind's nimble fingers tangling and pulling on glorious
manes and long tails.
Willow's hair was neither glorious nor
particularly long, in actual fact it hung rather limply from her tiny
skull not altogether unlike day old spinach! Oh, how this little one
desired those thick flowing locks and so she set about collecting
horsehair where ever she could find it. Sometimes she even sneakily
pulled the odd one or two out while she was feeding them carrots.
"Fair trade" thought Willow as she wrapped them round a burr and
cleverly tangled it in to her own hair. Creating a glorious mane hair by
hair was going to take a very, very long time and Willow's patience was
as thin as her hair!
One morning Willow headed down to the fields
with a handful of carrots and an even bigger handful of burrs. As the
sun grew rounder so did Willows eyes, for there, at the very top of the
field, was a beautiful dapple grey mare whose tail was all at once, as
bright as silver and as dark as slate. Quite forgetting the etiquette of
carrots, Willow grabbed a handful of this magical tail and tugged as
hard as she could manage.
It is never a wise thing to approach a horse from behind and even worse to pull it's tail without so much as a good morning.
The Governessa found Willow in a tangle of horse hair and burrs with a
rather large hoof print in the very centre of her forehead. Once she was
swaddled in a soft travelling cloak, the Governessa spirited our
tatty-headed, tail puller away under the roots of the old willow tree.
(By the way, Willow was rather pleased they shared the same name... )
*
Prudence Who Glittered and Shone...
Prudence loved anything shiny or colourful, in fact, she was a bit
of a magpie if you must know. Forever chasing after pieces of tin foil
blown around in the wind, or reaching up to try to catch the
rainbow prisms of sunlight that danced through windows. Her most
favourite treasure of all were colourful, transparent sweetie wrappers.
Not only did they smell wonderful but if she held two or three over her
eye and squinted at the sun it was almost like having a kaleidoscope and
sometimes, they were just sticky enough, that she didn't even have to
hold them there!
One blustery day something glittered overhead
and caught dear Pru's eye, it was the loveliest, shiniest golden ribbon
that she had ever seen, whisked clean out of someones hair by the wild
wind no doubt, thought Pru as she leapt after it.
Over hill and
field she chased it until at last it was caught, not by Prudence, but by
the raggedy branch of a very old tree. There was nothing else for it,
she simply must have that ribbon and so slowly and steadily she climbed
the gnarled bark and inched along the raggedy branch.
Now, you
or I may be tempted to look down at the world getting smaller beneath
out feet but not Pru, her eyes were fixed on that shiny ribbon. With her
tongue tip poking out more for concentration than balance, Prudence
leaned forward for the lustrous fabric now ever so close to her wriggling
fingertips. No sooner had Pru reached out to grab her quarry when a gust
of wind rudely pushed by and toppled this wingless magpie from her
branch. The Ghastly Governessa found Prudence quite easily for she was glittering in
the moonlight, at the base of the old oak, covered in bits of tin foil
and colourful cellophane and in her hand she grasped the most beautiful
golden ribbon that the Governessa had ever seen...
The End (or is it...)
