Kunoichi -the Girl with No Name

6. Chicken Run

'I'll be see'n ya, little lady,' a voice cackles through the darkness, 'creep'n around like a pole cat in'na chicken farm.'

In a second I'm on one knee, arrow set in the bow, bowstring taught against my cheek, peering into the darkness. I have returned to the old playhouse to pick up some extra fishing hooks I recall seeing here.

'Come'n up here, now. I'll not hurt you. You've been take'n things you should'na been take'n, kill'n the things you should'na been kill'n. Ain't yours to kill, see?'

I slow my breathing and focus. There is no doubt the voice is coming from the derelict tin shack. Keeping close to the foliage I edge my way up the hill toward the run down building and peer into the gloom.

'I's bet you'll be call'in it ''borrow'n'', taking my sons stuff. I'll bet you'll say you were just ''borrow'n it'' won't ya. Borrow'n it but forgetting to return it. That's what folks around here a be call'n steal'n. What'll you'll be call'in it, eh?'

In the shadow of the porch I can see something moving. Keeping my aim I follow it with the arrow tip, to and fro, while I try to work out what it is that is that large and that moves with the rhythm of a pendulum.

'Don't worry, I know who's you are, an'a I ain't been call'lin no pooolice.' The voice cracks like splintered wood and then disintegrates into a fit of coughing.

She knows who I am!! Warily I drop my bow and stand up. In the blackness, a face lights up, illuminated coal red by a drawn cigarette it looks like shrivelled leather ball topped with a shroud of dead white hair. A claw like hand beckons me forward. 'Don't be shy now, little thing, come up here 'n take in some hospitality. I don't get many visitors now. I can'na be too choosey.'

A little hurricane lamp has been lit and hung on the beam above the porch to chase away the ebbing darkness she has been sitting in while she watched me. It flickers and send whispers of shadows chasing themselves up and down the decrepit old porch. She sits in a rocking chair, pushing her toes into the floorboards like a little girl hanging off a pier testing the temperature of the water.

She must be ninety, but then I'm sixteen and a bit and can't remember anything about myself, so what do I know. Her name is Dorothy Witherwood and when she told me it made me smile. Slowly pushing herself to and fro in her rocking chair she reminds me of a seriously aged Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Her creased skin, so saggy round her neck is like a dead croc's, her long ivory hair is drawn together by a red ribbon half way down her back. Over her fragile frame she wears a faded flower patterned dress, covered by a white apron of the sort I've seen women wear in those thirties movies. From her withered fingers hangs a cigarette, below it a little mountain of grey ash is building up on the wooden deck. Toto, Dorothy's dog would not have approved.

'I've been watching you,' her eyes remain, not on me but fixed on the woods, as if she is talking to herself, 'sulking to and fro. Going in and out'a the shed.'

'I was going to put them back, once I'd done with them. The bow and fishing rod.'

'Sure you were, child.'

I can't tell if she believes me or not. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and lets her arm flop down by her side. 'They was my son's, he left them when he went. Don't suppose he'll be wanting them now.'

'Is he ...dead?'

She laughs, high and loud, like a sorceress in a Disney cartoon, 'No child, he left and moved to Atlanta, got married. Don't see him often now. Just me and the Akeki here now '

'Akeki?'

'Don't tell me you ain't seen em, the little people, out there in the woods. I seen em, they's knows I's sees 'em dancing around at night make'in them spells.'