Harmindon's Finest

Chapter 17 - Past Tragedies

Within the next week or so, Miarka started to recover, albeit slowly. Once the fever was completely gone, she was left very weak physically, but her mind was all there. Having to stay in bed nearly all day was torture to the poor girl, and tormented me all day to put down my sewing and invent some kind of bedside game to keep her amused.

It was hard on our resident ball of energy to have to conserve her enthusiasm.

It wasn't only Miarka's constant whining - Jedda-ah, I'm so bo-ored.... I want to play.... Grandmother, get Jeddah to play.... - that was doing my head in at the moment. In my heart of hearts I was glad my sister had a chance at a proper childhood - at her age I had already been Mother's primary carer, and after her death I'd nearly worked myself to my own grave, trying to keep us alive. But at times like this it was difficult to keep myself from snapping back at her high-pitched wails, because I kept having this recurring thought that I could not ignore.

Years ago Túrien had wanted me to move to Gondor, and start a new life there. 

She'd even tried to teach me some phrases in that insufferably difficult language of hers, but I had come up with all kinds of excuses - my sister is too young, my grandmother is getting old and is in need of care, I am finally beginning to do well as a seamstress here - but now, these excuses had begun to seem a little feeble even to me.

Miarka was growing up. She was still a tiny mouse of a girl but she had the same endless optimism that I'd always admired in Thekla, and that I could vaguely remember Mother showing before her illness. When she put her mind to it - which admittedly wasn't often - she could work almost as hard as me, and her cookery skills were improving daily. Grandmother had taught Miarka the art of running a household because I'd never really had the time, or the incentive.

And though Grandmother often felt sore at the knees on cold nights, she was still fairly spry even for a woman of her age - and she would have been mortally offended had she heard what I told Túrien about her.  She might pretend to be a wise old lady but she was still as energetic as Miarka at heart - though in a different way.

But they were my family - I could not simply leave for my own benefit! 

Or could I? 

I knew many people who had left their families to seek hope and prosperity in the newly established city of Kazabhâd - even, if they were daring enough, the White City of Minas Tirith. Thekla, for one. Túrien told me the marketplace in the White City was so busy and lively, with traders from all over Gondor and even Harad, now - that I'd feel almost at home.

I was doing well as a seamstress, that was true. But I'd seen with my own eyes the tight, strange garments Túrien wore upon her initial arrival. I'd have to learn new skills to keep at the work I loved, if I ever....

But I couldn't - Miarka and Grandmother would have no money, nothing to trade - they would starve without me!

These were the kind of conflicted thoughts that entered my mind, and I would sew a crooked seam, or prick my finger, and could not concentrate at all when I tried to make any kind of decisions related to the future. Miarka howled in the other room, and for a time I would oblige her - come up with riddles, or games with wooden pegs, or teach her to weave patterns between her fingers with a reel of thread - anything to keep my mind from further torment.

•●•●•●•

"Grandmother, I must ask you something before I go mad."

It was evening, Miarka was already asleep. I was sitting before the fire with Grandmother, a pile of fabric in my lap - a silken affair with many trimmings for one of my wealthier customers. I'd tried for ages to make a start on it, but I was so preoccupied I couldn't sit still. Grandmother raised an eyebrow in response, so I decided to be matter of fact. Nothing frilly about it.