Stone soup, p.1
Stone Soup, page 1
Stone Soup
E.B. MANN
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”
— E.E. Cummings
-Prologue-
“Rwaaaaaaaaah!”
The anguished cry ripped through the small, dark space. Green Eyes jerked forward on her knees and sucked in a gasp. She glanced around, heartbeat banging in her ears, waiting to see what would happen next. For a moment, suspended between dream and wakefulness, she struggled to understand where she was.
Beneath her ragged linen gown, torn and smudged with soot, sweat had nearly frozen her shins to the cold stone floor. She shifted to one side and let her head come to rest against the heavy wooden door in front of her. Every muscle in her body ached. She closed her eyes and willed her racing heart to slow.
When an ember in the fireplace a few feet away collapsed and sent up a crackle of sparks, she moved to stand, stopping when something on the door caught her eye. In the fractured light of dawn, she gazed at the jagged claw marks cutting deep into the wood. She reached up to touch one and noticed the woody pulp beneath her broken fingernails. Glancing down, she saw the dust and wooden splinters lined up along the floor.
She got up and tiptoed out to the cottage’s main room, where a bristle broom with a crooked stick for a handle stood upright on its own. She snatched it up and dashed back to the cramped hallway, the frigid floor like daggers in her feet. She knelt down, broom handle under her arm, and began to sweep the shavings into her hand. When the bristles made a scraping sound against the floor, she held still and listened intently. Hearing only silence from behind the scarred door, she rushed the shavings around to the front, stashed the broom in the corner, and quietly lifted the latch.
She flicked the shavings into a flowerpot bursting with thyme, then stood to take in the fog sitting low over the field. In the gray light of morning, her wavy silver locks and rust-colored skin, her lime-green eyes and silver eyelashes seemed almost to glow.
At the field’s edge, misty waves rolled through the squat, spindly trees of the Black Forest, their inky trunks only a few feet taller than her own slight frame. Though she knew there was no one for miles around, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark and menacing watched her from beyond the shrouded trees. She shivered and ducked back inside.
The latch had barely clicked into place when she heard a groan from the next room. She hurried back to the hallway and gazed mournfully at the scratches. In silent horror, she tried to press back into place the few splinters still hanging from the door.
“Green Eyes!” The voice was sharp, gravelly, and barely recognizable as female. “Get in here, girl!” Gripped by the urge to escape into the woods, never to return, she got to her feet, dropped her head, and opened the door.
“Aye, Mistress?”
-1-
The solitary window cast a crooked block of light across the sparsely furnished cottage. A large stone fireplace dominated the back wall, while adjacent to it, a wooden table sat beneath a cupboard. A high-backed chair made from spiraling animal horns and a round table barely large enough to hold an oil lamp stood opposite. Beside the front door, a rack fashioned from the trunk of a petrified tree held a pair of heavy woolen cloaks.
A picture her mother had painted years earlier provided the only decoration. Depending on the viewer’s perspective, it resembled either a withered leaf curled up on its side or the face of a demon with its tongue sticking out. For Green Eyes, though, the most frightening thing on the thick stone walls had always been the silver hatchet, its blade glinting dully in the firelight. Though fifteen and nearly grown, she was forced to make her bed before the hearth, the hatchet forever looming over her.
She stood at the table in a drab tunic and frayed apron. Slipping on a pair of worn leather work gloves reaching almost to her elbows, she grabbed a heavy wooden backpack and flung it up onto the table with one hand. It consisted of an oiled leather satchel mounted to a frame of bare tree branches lashed together with braided horsehair rope. The exterior flap, secured by a toggle closure, had several loops for smaller items, while on the back, leather straps were designed to fit the wearer’s shoulders.
She approached the narrow wooden bookcase in the hallway and lifted a dark cloth to reveal a collection of curious wooden figurines. Carved with astonishing detail and polished to gleaming, they represented all manner of humanity. There was the tall, stern husband with his pregnant bride, the bespectacled youth with a book under his arm, and the stout farmer’s wife with a basket of wheat on her back. A baker with a billowy hat held a loaf of bread, while a wizened old man examined something through a magnifying glass. The strange menagerie was strikingly true to life, a moment in time forever captured in a grainy piece of wood.
Scooping up an armful, she carried them over to the table, then returned for the rest. She quickly wrapped them up in the cloth and stuffed them into her pack.
“Hurry up, Green Eyes! You’ll be late!” The voice bellowing from the next room dissolved into a raspy cough.
“Just leaving, Mistress,” she called out. Grabbing a parcel containing her lunch, a hard-boiled egg and a crust of bread, she added it to the pack, heaved it off the table, and hauled it over to the coat tree. She hung up her apron and took down a cloak of tattered crimson, the collar of which held a silver brooch in the shape of a hummingbird.
Despite having tarnished with age, it was by far the most valuable thing she owned. Its real value, though, lay in what it represented. No matter how cruelly her mother might treat her, this brooch was tangible proof of her love. She unclasped it and held it between her teeth, then swung the cloak around her shoulders and deftly pinned the two sides together with a single motion.
Gathering up her long, glistening hair, she twisted it into a knot, then took down a faded white bonnet and tucked the messy bun underneath. She fumbled with the strings, slipped on a pair of worn leather boots, and eyed the cumbersome pack. With a sigh, she heaved it onto her shoulders, her back swaying from the weight, and stepped outside.
-2-
Green Eyes emerged onto the front step to see the sun burning its way through the fog. She peered up at the hazy ball of light, hoping its reappearance might mean a pause in the recent heavy rains. A dry path would be so much easier to navigate than a soggy one. She hitched up the pack and headed off across the field.
Despite the warmer weather, the Black Forest would be damp and chilly at this hour. Shuddering in anticipation, she ducked between the trees, where the twitter of tiny birds echoed through the low canopy. When a ground-dwelling creature suddenly scrambled away through the underbrush, she felt her heart thud against her ribs. Along with mice and squirrels, there were larger animals out here—animals she did not wish to encounter.
She’d heard tales of villagers—fully grown men—vanishing into the forest, never to be heard from again. And once, a young girl out hunting for truffles had been gored to death by a wild boar. A cowherd had followed her cries to discover her innards strewn across the forest floor. After an extensive search, the beast had been killed, but Green Eyes never forgot the sight of the dead boar and the shred of yellow dress still stuck in its tusks.
Banishing the image from her mind, she hurried along the path until the trees parted to reveal three long, low hills interrupted by ditches stretching out before her like a bunched-up carpet. Though each hill and ditch claimed only a handful of steps along the journey, all that up and down was exhausting and left her wondering what, exactly, Mother Nature had been thinking when she’d created this odd bit of landscape.
Staggering up the last little hill and putting this short-but-strange leg of the trip behind her, she rejoined the leveled-off path. She’d barely caught her breath, when the sound of rushing water told her the river would be higher than usual. She continued forward, a fist of dread tightening within her, as the path dipped to reveal a torrent of whitewater rushing past beneath a rickety rope bridge.
She stopped to gaze out at the rotten boards. Would they prove a match for her weight? Perhaps they’d been so weakened by the previous night’s downpour, they’d simply give way. She clambered down the bank toward the swollen river and noticed a gap in the boards that hadn’t been there before. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell whether or not it was surmountable and briefly considered turning back. As perilous as the bridge might be, though, she was infinitely more frightened of her mother were she to return home now.
She took a deep breath and placed her foot on the first board. When it creaked threateningly, she withdrew it. A cold feeling shot through her. She glanced back the way she’d come, then closed her eyes, dropped her head, and prayed the boards would hold just one more time.
She grabbed hold of the rope handle and stepped onto the bridge. The roar of the rapids was deafening. She wobbled across six or seven boards, the bridge bobbing precariously beneath her, and stopped before the gap. Peering down at the thundering flood, heartbeat banging in her ears, she imagined returning home and the wrath that would follow her tale of the bridge, the high water, and the gap waiting to swallow her up. It was unthinkable. She had to keep going.
Though ordinarily clear, the river had churned up so much debris, it was impossible to see the bottom. How long would it take, she wondered, for those rocks to shred her to bits? Ten minutes? Five? Or would she drown first? As she stared down at the ferocious rapids, the spray dampening her face and clothes, she fought the feeling she was being pulled down toward them. Even the strongest swimmer would be no match for such a deluge—and she w as no swimmer at all.
She took a step back and fixed her gaze on the far side of the gap. It seemed an impossible leap, especially weighed down as she was by the heavy pack. Eyes hard with determination, she shifted the pack a little higher and took another breath. Then, despite every ounce of her flesh screaming its resistance, she heaved herself forward, the boards bouncing beneath her feet.
Unable to get up much speed before the gap, she launched herself into the air. As she sailed across, she had plenty of time to realize she wasn’t going to make it. She came down hard, grappling for a hold, and managed to thrust her hand between the first two boards on the far side of the gap. When they came together to pinch her wrist, she made a fist to keep her hand from slipping out.
Frantically pedaling her feet, she waved her free arm in the air. She felt her fist quickly sliding from her glove and swung her boot up until it caught on a vertical piece of rope. She heaved herself up, threw her free arm onto the bridge, and dragged herself forward. She was scrambling away from the gap, when she heard a crack.
She turned to see that one of the boards that had been holding her had split, and half of it was now missing. She staggered the rest of the way across and dropped to her knees, a relieved sob escaping her lips. After a moment, she got to her feet and rejoined the path.
Pausing at the top to gaze back at the bridge, she tried not to think about the journey home, when the gap would have another chance to claim her. And by then, it would be dark.
-3-
Sweaty and disheveled, Green Eyes arrived at the tiny village of Dederow. Though home to only about eighty inhabitants, it connected two larger villages in the area and was therefore busy for its size. As she headed to the crossroads at the center of town, she spotted the blacksmith chatting with the baker in the doorway of his workshop. She was about to greet them when they ducked inside.
The chapel bell began to chime, so she hurried past the shop, following the road around a terraced hill supporting a stone statue. As she turned to cross toward it, she stepped directly into the path of an oncoming cart. The horse veered to avoid her, jostling the driver, who turned to shout at her.
“Watch where you’re going, lass!” The cart’s wheels rattled past, and she stumbled backward, the pack knocking her bonnet askew to reveal a portion of her shiny silver hair. She turned to cower up at the driver, but when their eyes met, his face registered not anger but surprise. He was still staring back at her, a stunned look on his face, when the cart disappeared around the bend.
Green Eyes knew well that look, had seen it countless times on the faces of strangers in the village. And though she’d grown accustomed to curious glances whenever she encountered someone new, she was nevertheless stung by the reminder that she was different. She told herself she couldn’t help the way she looked and therefore had no reason to feel ashamed. But in truth, she was not like others and never would be.
She set down the pack to straighten her bonnet, tucking in a stray curl with her thumb. When she went to pick it up again, she noticed that the toggle had come loose and a few of the figurines were poking out. She’d shoved them back inside and was standing, when she spotted a lady and her daughter, a girl of about six, approaching along the road. The woman, exquisitely dressed in an embroidered gown of dark green velvet with a matching feathered headpiece, and her daughter, in pale pink, were staring at her. She shrugged on the pack and hurried across to the monument.
She dashed up the steps to the larger-than-life rendering of Saint Germaine and glanced behind her. The lady and her daughter were continuing down the road. With a sigh, she dropped the pack and turned to gaze up at the statue. For centuries, it had been a point of pride for Dederow’s inhabitants. Her face, at once serene and sympathetic, was turned toward heaven, while her hand reached down in benign supplication. Legend held that it had been carved by a blind monk who’d had a vision of the saint during an ice storm. For Green Eyes, though, it had never been more than a source of shade. She peered up at the statue’s long, slender fingers and found herself wishing she could change places with her—if only for a moment—just to see what it was like to be perfect in the eyes of God.
She grabbed the half-unraveled bundle and spread out the cloth on the step. She arranged the figurines into two neat rows, then sat back to gaze at the crossroads, which had gone quiet except for a chicken scratching at the ground nearby. She glanced down at her gloved hand, then slowly raised it to her teeth, tugging on the grimy fingertips until the glove was off. Inspecting her dirty fingernails, she bit off a jagged hangnail, and grimaced at the taste of wood from her mother’s door. She spat it out and turned to her other hand. A pensive air came over her.
“You may wear those gloves at home, Green Eyes, but you must remove them when you are selling. Do you understand?” Her mother’s words, spoken all those years ago during their first trip to the village, returned to her. She stared down at her hand a moment longer, then slowly peeled off her glove to expose the source of her deepest shame: a prosthetic wooden hand with fingers held together by rusty iron joints. She turned it over, the fingers clattering uselessly, and noticed that the strap on the dingy leather cuff had come loose. She cinched it tight, a dull look in her eyes.
She glanced up to see the lady and her daughter approaching. Quickly laying aside her gloves, she straightened her cloak across her knees, placed her hands in her lap with the false one on top, and bowed her head.
“Ooooh! Mama, look at these!” said the little girl, rushing forward. Her excitement was infectious, and soon the lady joined in admiring the figurines. The little girl picked up a boy and girl dressed in neat, matching outfits. “They’re twins!” she squealed and dropped to her knees to begin playing with them. The lady smiled down at her, then gazed up at the statue, her smile fading a bit.
The little girl threw back her head, a figurine in each hand. “Mama, prithee, may I have them?” The lady thought for a moment, then reached inside her bodice for a small silk purse.
“How much for these?” she asked, finally turning her attention to Green Eyes. She’d barely finished speaking when she was taken aback by the unusual-looking girl before her. Green Eyes lowered her gaze to give the lady a chance to regain her composure. She blinked a few times, and her eyes traveled down to Green Eyes’s prosthetic, where shock turned to pity. Green Eyes cleared her throat.
“Halfpenny each, My Lady.” The lady fished a couple of coins from her purse and held them out, her eyes full of fear and wonder. “Many thanks, My Lady,” said Green Eyes, taking the coins. The lady slipped the purse back into her bodice and stole another glance.
“May I ask… What is your name?” she said.
“It’s Green Eyes, My Lady,” she answered, bowing her head again. When the lady was silent, she met her gaze.
“‘Green Eyes’? Why, that’s not a name,” said the lady with a chuckle. She glanced down at her daughter, who was humming and marching the figurines along the step.
“It’s what my mother calls me,” said Green Eyes with an apologetic shrug.
“Well, I suppose it is fitting. Your eyes are… exceedingly green.” The lady flashed her a quick grin and turned to address her daughter. “Gwendolyn, what do you say to Green Eyes?” The girl stood, figurines hugged to her chest.
“Many thanks,” she said sweetly. “Mama, when we get home, I’m going to put them in Bunny’s carriage. I just know they’re going to be the best of friends.” The lady chuckled again, then turned to Green Eyes.
“Bunny’s a woolen toy her father brought back from his travels.” Green Eyes nodded and smiled at the girl, who’d noticed her prosthetic and was staring at it.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked.
“Dearest, that’s not a polite thing to ask,” said the lady. A pained expression came over the girl, who looked as if she might burst into tears.
“It’s all well and good, My Lady,” said Green Eyes, turning to the girl. “I had an accident when I was a baby.”
