An interesting fact: The only thing worse than sleeping on a blanket made with twine is sleeping on the ground. And that is the punishment for not finishing my work. And that’s about everyday. So it was quite normal when the widow started yelling about how worthless I was right around sunrise, while she was inside the hut and I was out. Even after living with her for all my life I cannot seem to find a way to please this woman.
I rolled over onto a very unhappy village dog, which angrily nipped at me for disturbing his sleep. I mumbled something to the dog and Scrambled to my feet. The leaves and dirt clung to me after sleeping on the damp ground. I tried to brush them off as I ran quickly up to the ramshackle little house the widow was screeching from.'
It was a circle house, like most in our village, with a fire in the center and everything one needed nailed to the walls. I burst under the hide door and ran over to her pallet. She glared up at me with her crinkled eyes that seemed so innocent until she opened her mouth. After a new burst of insults, I was informed that she was not feeling well and that I was in charge of feeding her today. I was glad that that was it; if she was feeling extremely horrid she would have me cater to her every whim. But I guessed she was feeling bad enough not to torture me.
I dashed over to the wall and quickly retrieved the bags full of dried meat and plants that one of the slave boys brought up from the village every week. I poured a bit of water from a skin into a clay bowl and mixed in the meat and plants, which let off an odor that made the back of my throat itch. I set it over the smoldering fire from the night before and poked the coals around. It was still early in the morning and the morning dew still clung to me. Desperately searching for warmth I pulled my legs up to my chest, my eyes stuck to the fire. The widow dozed off after a moment, her silvery hair splayed out from behind her. I knew it would be a while before she awoke, but instead of taking advantage of that, like I should have, I just sat there, lost in my own thoughts.
I knew that somewhere beneath her weathered skin the widow felt something or other for me, she never showed it, but I was almost sure it was there. It was like one of those premonitions people feel. She had grudgingly taken me in as a child when the villagers couldn’t find my parents. She raised me until I could work, and set me about doing odd jobs around the village. You would think that I would have gained some sort of muscle over the years, from all of the times I had cleared out the stables, but I didn't. I looked hopefully down at my arms. They were short, and skinny. I had a freckle or two, but they were hidden under the dirt. That was no surprise. I was pretty sure that if I ever took a bath that I would be as white as one of the fish that the villagers brought back on their boats. I had lived in their mists for almost fourteen summers now, hovering between the status of a slave and a normal boy. I still managed to get the most disgusting piece of fish. Or was all fish disgusting. Maybe I would never know...
The widow began to stir and I reflexively ran tot the thing that would make her happy, in this case the soup. I reached out to grab it, but after sitting on the coals for a while, it was almost as hot as them. I let out a scream that burnt my throat as the heat shot into my fingers. I instinctively pushed the pain away, in this case, the bowl. Which knocked it over. Half of it came out before I could catch it. I almost cried in agony.
( wahmbulance To be continued. I have to go now, BUT I'LL BE BACK wahmbulance )