Amanda wondered about her new travel companion. She was so small but her spirit was strong. Though they had only been together a few days, there was something old and familiar about this little creature currently curled up in her lap. Fast asleep, the bus might as well have been a monster truck rumbling over a field of muddy ditches and hills, yet the child in her arms was completely undisturbed.
A serene calm bathed the little girl's presence.
Perhaps this girl reminded her of herself. Perhaps she reminded Amanda of a simpler time. Or maybe this girl embodied the longing for a connection that Amanda had been searching for. Regardless, for the moment, neither was alone.
As morning broke the bus came to a slow stop at a small parish just outside of Lafayette. The lazy sway from left to right as the heavy metal can, weighed down by its passengers and all their wears, finally rattled the small girl awake.
Looking down at the little flea in her arms, Amanda quietly whispered "it's time. We've reached our stop."
The little girl rubbed her eyes and yawned. She wrapped her little arms around Amanda's neck and prepared to be carried. She couldn't have been any heavier than a the backpack full of clothes on Amanda's back. By foot, it would be a while still until they reached the motel. The top priority today would be getting this child cleaned up and presentable. Farmers who employed migrant workers were inclined to hire men over women, but were more inclined to hire single mothers with children old enough to pick and pluck alongside them.
Unless it came from them, no one would know that this little girl was not hers. They had a natural chemistry. Although Amanda would fill the time recounting her mother's old stories here and there, mostly there was silence between the two. They shared their water, their meals, their cot but few words were ever exchanged. Only a glance or gesture now and again to communicate intention.
This was sufficient for the pair. From this habitual behaviour alone, the pair seemed to have been perfectly matched, as if they had never known any other...as if they existed alone and not a single other person in the world existed.
Bathtime was a time honored tradition by young children around the globe. This was a time to de-stress and let the cars of the way float away with the sudsy water. The girl's hair has deeply knotted and tangled so to distract the girl from the mild tugging at her scalp, Amanda decided to tell one of her mother's old stories.
Amanda recalled that some years ago, there had been an old bum who had personally conveyed the tale to her mother as the three sat around the long table of a soup kitchen in New Orleans. He was not so old as to look ancient but certainly well traveled. Silvia even thought that there was a kindness in his eyes that seemed to gently caress you in his line of sight, as if he could weave an entire canvas of safety around you with a gentle look.
Silvia and Amanda had recently become frequent visitors to the soup kitchen. Amanda had come down with a cold and with the cutting winter winds that blew even that far south that year, the fields were no place for a mother to keep an I'll child.
The man was indeed very gentle and always offered Amanda and her mother whatever he had left in his bowl. Silvia, of course, was deeply honored that someone with so little could offer so much to them. Although she always initially refused and insisted there was no need for the man to trouble himself over them, he would always respond the same way. He would simply say that there was no need to stand on such formality with him.
"I may not have much to offer," he would say, "and what I have may not be fancy, but if it can be sufficient to repay the kindness of those I care for to give a few ounces of life, I will gladly give it to you and that precious child. Now tell her to eat. Don't be fancy, be full."
Those few words were always enough to convince Silvia that it would not only be an insult, but also make her feel as though she would somehow be strangely imposing on their dear friend not to accept. With all the calm in the universe the old bum would slide his half full plate of food over to Amanda while giving her a confirming nudge on the arm, signaling her that it was alright to gobble it down.
Amanda, of course never refused and waited to snatch the meal up only long enough to let her mother feel contented that they had been polite about the whole exchange. But once she had the green light she would scarf the food down as if she were some ravenous beast starved in the wilderness. These displays would always make the old bum chuckle with delight at her passion for even the simplest cuisines.
To slow her down a bit and buy some time for proper digestion, the old bum would reguile Amanda with a story or two. Her favorites were the ones about the magic hermit who had discovered the secret to immortality.
The hermit lived alone in an old troll's nest, who he had long vanquished, under an old knotted bridge deep in the woods. It was said that the bridge itself was a feat of magic, for it had grown from love.
Once, a very long time ago, long before there was a safe way to cross the river, there were two lovers who were stranded on either side. Their love was so strong and so deep, and their desire to be together so great, that one day they stood across the river from one another and peering at one another fell into a trance. Much time passed as the stood there staring at one another. So much so, that they began to grow roots where they stood. Eventually, they sprouted into trees. The trees grew great reaching branches that reached clear across the river. And thus, finally embracing one another their branches and vines tangled and knotted together, that they would never be parted again.
Amanda relayed that she always found that story so romantic and wished she could one day see such a magical bridge. But alas, such places do not exist in the world.
At this point, her little flea was thoroughly invested in her bathtime accounting of yonder year. Amanda took up the tiny bottles of complimentary hotel lotion frome near the bathroom sink and began to work it through the knots in the little girl's tangled hair.
As the little flea turned head to shoot Amanda a pouting look of impatience and urgency, Amanda apologized for the apparently long and unnecessary pause, and then resumed her story.
The hermit lived peacefully with the creatures of the forest and needed for very little. He had once been a great warlock and had learned the light and dark arts equally. While he was a very powerful warlock and had amassed a great fortune and reputation, magic had consumed his life; so much so, that he had never taken a wife or fathered any children. While his magic could grant him his every desire it could not grant him his truest desire for the companionship of family.
When the old bum would touch on these parts of the tales he always wore a sort of sullen expression on his face. Amanda always knew that it was because her dear old bum was perhaps not so different from the hermit in his stories and had probably known the profound sadness of being alone much in the same way.
But whatever signs of sadness were brief upon his brow and he would quickly breathe deeply to ask, "ah, yes...now where was I? I must have gotten lost in a memory there." Almost as if rehearsed from a script, he would immediately follow with a light chuckle and go on, "ah, yes...on one unexpected day..."
The hermit awoke to the sounds of loud thudding outside his inconspicuous little house, beneath the old bridge. Naturally, the hermit was not a fan of unexpected visitors and would not abide a neighbor, so he quietly snuck out of his nest to see where all this ruckus was coming from.
Atop the bridge stood two men, one with a sword on his hip, the other with a dagger in his boot and a stubby club in his hand, and about three potato sacks. Make that four...no, five. One by one, a third man tossed them from the back of a covered cart. Every time one would hit the ground there was heard a loud thud and a sort of gasping.
What a strange noise for a sack of potatoes to make.
The third man hopped down from the cart and pulled one last sack towards himself. As he turned to the man with the dagger in his boot and flung out an upturned hand, signaling for the club. He then gave the sack a hard heavy wack, pulled it off the cart and tossed it over the side of the bridge, into the rushing river below.
The hermit thought that this alone was strange enough. And then...
As the thug huffed deeply he pushed himself away from the railing, turned and walked over to the line of sacks, all laid out in a row. As he leaned down over the sack closest to the cart he raised the cub in the air as high as he could and swung down with all his might.
Crack!
The entire sack shook hard at the impact and then sat still again. The thug picked up the sack, waddled over to the railing and heaved the sack over the side. Again he walked over to the row of sacks and repeated his previous routine. The third time the hermit noticed a little wet spot smudged across the wooden planks were the sack had been dragged away from.
The hermits eyes widened. It was a red smudge, streaked in the direction of the railing.
There were no potatoes in those sacks...but what could be small enough to fit in a sackcloth that size? Rodents perhaps? Or young swine, not fit for market? Perhaps...
As the old mage pondered on the subject at hand the thug stepped up to the sacks again. This time he stepped too close and actually stepped on the end of the sack itself. Instantly, the sack began to writhe.
Rats maybe...the sacks were full of rats...as quickly as the thought had entered the old hermit's mind it was shattered to a million pieces with what followed.
The sack that had begun to writhe then began to squeak until...violently...a tiny voice swelled out, "no, please Mister, no!"
The thug kicked the sack and a sudden gush of breath coughed it's way up from the sack. The first man took up the club from the thug's hand and started swinging away at the center of the sack. The tiny body inside curled up and screamed. The last sack to the left also began to cry and whale. The thug yanked the club back away from the first man and smashed it down on the top of the little sack.
He tossed away the club and picked up his tiny victim, flinging it over the side of the bridge.
The warlock awakened!
The last sack began to roll away screaming, "no, no...not me. I don't want to die. Leave me alone." Not sparing a moment to bother with the club this last time, the thug picked up the sack and tossed it, crying child and all, over the side of the bridge into the rushing river below.
Just then the warlock ran out onto the bridge and screamed at the men. He waved his hands and lightning filled his eyes. The first man's legs buckled beneath him and he was suddenly swallowed all the way up to his waist by the very fibers of the bridge. The second man shrieked and after gasping knelt down to pull the blade from the sheath in his boot. As he did that the warlock gestured again with a murmur of charms and the ground of the bridge came to life again, reaching up and swallowing the man's foot and hand. Vines reached up his legs and back, all the way to his head, wrapping tightly...knotting around him...locking him in place.
Finally, he was down to the last man, the thug.
The warlock stretched his arms out and turned his electric gaze upward. A thunderous clap of lightning soared down striking the third man. But it did not dissipate after a second or a moment...it roared on for a solid minute, untill smoke bellowed off his sleeves and a crisp crackling filled the empty silent afternoon.
After that the sky cleared and the clouds disbursed. Only the hermit remained as the old man collapsed to his knees, panting out of breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Remembering the sack last tossed into the waters below, his brow furrowed. He summoned every last ounce of strength from in his bones and pulled himself by the railing up to his feet. Looking over the side he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Without a second thought he threw himself over the railing into the river.
Gasping for air he flailed his arms and tried with all his might to consciously scan the horizon of water for the last little sack that might still be bobbing nearby. There, clinging to a branch dipping in the water was a little arm. The rest of the body still trapped inside the sack, only the face and ears protruding from below. The old hermit directed his paddle and caught hold of the branch.
After he pulled them both out he carried the nearly dead child three miles back to his little nest. He lit the fire and tried to warm the innocent little thing in his arms. Realizing there would be no hope by natural means...he mustered the arts of old.
He went out atop the bridge and pulled out a vial from his cloak. His brows narrowed as he comforted the man trapped waist deep in the bridge. He was petrifying there, becoming just another rock on a dirt path. And the hermit comforted him.
"Don't worry. It won't hurt anymore soon. I promise. I only need one last thing from you now and then I will let you go."
The hermit closed his eyes...unplugged the vial and holding it to the man's lips recited some muddled incantation. When he opened his eyes they were filled with lightening again. The man let out a terrible shriek as a glowing gas floated from his lips into the bottle.
At this point, Amanda paused. The little flea had become thoroughly pruned and now that she was clean and detangled, it was time to dry off and dress for dinner at the soup kitchen.
"But you haven't finished the bum's story. What happened to the men on the bridge? What did the old hermit do? What about the little girl in the sack?"
"Whoever said it wasn't a little boy in the sack?"
"Because I'm a little girl, you were a little girl, the old bum obviously was telling a story about a little girl."
"Was he then? Yes, he was. Smart girl. So then , if you're so smart, do you know how the story ends," Amanda asked the coy girl sweetly.
"You know I don't. How can I? I've never heard this story before," said the little flea very matter of factly.
"Very well, once we've gotten our food and sat down to a table, I'll tell you the rest then. Hurry up now. We don't want to be late...or all the good bread will be gone."
At that the pair collected themselves and rushed off.
.....