Poor Girls

Greta

My first thought when I saw Greta's face unveiled was that her nose consumed her face. It stuck out about four inches while the rest of her head was particularly petite with minute features. Her small eyes were dark brown, like the color of mud in a rainy day. Her hair was nothing but white and scraggly, hanging limply down to her waist. Lines etched the wrinkled pale skin around her mouth, her eyes, her gigantic nose. Yet her face held nothing to be frightened of. Her features were harmless, a face that was both open and honest. A woman she might be, but that does not necessarily gurantee security for me, I reminded myself.

“There’ll be no more of that writhing, are we clear?” she asked solemnly, her gaze was firm with mine, not unkind.

“Where are you taking me?” I had demanded unabashed.

“Away from here.” Her nose crinkled up in quiet speculation of me. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Without my permission I nodded. That was what I wanted more than anything. It was as if Greta had already known the answer and had only waited for me to confirm it aloud. “We must move quickly then.” There was no hesitancy in her hurried movements as she repositioned her hood and led me towards the gloom of the forest, silent as the rustling of leaves.

 We traveled four miles that night, putting a good hefty distance between us and a town that had never been home. I just knew in my gut one day I would return.  Though I was aching and exhausted with every step I spoke not a word in protest. I would have made the same journey on my own had I succeeded in my little escapade but with half the motivation, travelling a quarter of the distance. Her leathery hand tugging on my own every few seconds woke me often enough to keep me striding forward with renewed purpose. Away, away. I told myself. Though I did not trust this old hag, she was at least putting distance between me and my cage. For that I was grateful. It was near dawn when we finally reached her abode. I hardly noticed, asleep on my feet and practically dragging each step forward. Her strides directed me right to the doorstep where she paused only to shove the door open. I didn't open my eyes until she lit a smoky candle and only then did I look around with mild interest.

Everything in my sight remained murky and unclear still. Shadows upon shadows. While I had stood drowsily in the doorway, feeling the chill of the morning breeze on the back of my legs, Greta shuffled about making preparations for me. First she dropped a thin pillow from the only bed onto the floor followed by two blankets. One for the ground, the other for my covers. I didn't mind. It was far better than I could have hoped for, let alone than my sleeping arrangements before. I all but crawled sleepily over to the spot and collapsed on the thin sheet, pulling the blanket over my body before she said a word.

Living with Greta was neither easy nor difficult as I soon found out in the weeks after I first arrived. Her home, as it turned out, was a one roomed, fifty year old cottage, dusty and unkempt with only one tiny window to feed us light from. I was quick to insist that she had built it herself at first, so determined to believe it, to which Greta only scoffed and told me she had only come after its first occupants were gone. It certainly wasn’t ideal quarters by anyone’s preferences but it was far more homey than anything I had known before. The walls were made of a layer of cheap stone that kept the wind and rain out on most nights. But on the otherhand, the thatched roof could be counted on to leak, often.

The floors were a faded wood, hardly ever in sight due to various objects constantly strewn on it. A simple but efficient fireplace occupied the far wall. This was where Greta carried out most of her cooking and boiling of water for the herbs she collected. A crooked, bare three-legged table was shoved in the corner, kept in case it would ever be needed or used. Three chairs stood sporadically around the quarters, almost always piled up with clothes, blankets, or other odds and ends. All three were broken, not to mention oddly shaped. A heavy woven rug lay before the fireplace faded with age while the other occupants included a huge rusted pot, an hourglass, a box full of candlesticks, and a five foot tall bookshelf full of tons of old books and a number of grimy jars. Every time I saw those I resisted the urge to gag.