Osanna: The Child

The child,

Stood on the rocky bank of the river, hair, like cotton wood fluff, whipping about her head in the breeze which lifted the fragrent grasses of spring like a great, green sea. She was small for her age, thin and delicate as a sparrow, her pale blue cotton dress giving her the look of a hollyhock doll, her head almost too big for her body. Yes, she was different than the other children who frollocked in the shallows while their mothers beat clothes against the rocks. She was six years old and hadn't yet managed her first words. Honestly, it wasn't all that shocking. The girl's mother, stood on the eadge of the croud as well, dull brown eyes in a dull brown face with features so sharp they looked fit to cut and a long, uneven, braid who had collected more water than the clothes she half heartedly washed. Tanya, had never been quite right, remaining in a sort of child's world no matter how she aged. Some said it was the pox which struck her Mam and some said she was a changeling. Either way however, nobody expected much better from her offspring. The child, however, understood more of what went on in the village than anybody else. It helped to he preceived as daft. Nobody watched what they said around you. Nobody asked you to do anything at all. Nobody minded if you wanderd off for hours on end to sit in a field and dream. Dream, as he was dreaming then.

Bare feet beat the ground, landing with the sparks in the flattend grass. The world was on fire, the fields ablaze, the houses like funeral pyres. Ash fell like luke warm snow, dirty, fat, dry, flakes which seemed to blot out the sun and stuck in the noses and mouths of the people. Running like spooked cattle. People fell, to the jaws of steel which came on thundering horse back. The privy, slaughter house smell pushing up through the burning. Overcooked meat. Sweat. Fear, sharp and tangy like poisonous fruit. Her mouth wanted to scream, but it felt like it was full of cotton. Her hands clawed uselessly at slick, red, broken leather where white feathers had long since sprouted.

No, nobody thought twice with the child came out of her trance and let loose a most unholy shriek to run and cling to her mother's wet skirts, bawling as if she'd been beaten. Tanya, a quiet, bovine woman, held the bawling thing to her legs while a woren old shirt floated off down river, singing nonsence untill the child, forgot about whatever it was which irked her, and ran off after the shirt like a sprite. Tanya, went back to washing and the women, rolled their eyes.