The Story of the Not-So-Special Little Girl

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose legs were too short and whose hands were too clumsy. She was not smart, so she couldn't handle her numbers, but then the animals frightened her, so she couldn't be used in the fields. Her voice was not fine, and her face was not beautiful. She was non-descript and useless in most every way.

' I do not know what to do with her,' sighed her mother to the other village mothers. 'She will never be married with a face like that. She has no charm, no grace. It doesn't matter how many ribbons I buy her, or how much lace, it only seems to make her worse.' The village women shook their heads sadly, as the girl shuffled past them, staring at her feet.

'She is not smart enough to make her own way,' complained her father to the other farmers, 'And she is of no use to me. I suppose I shall have to keep her until my death, but who knows what will happen then?' The other men grunted in agreement, as the girl tripped over spade lying on the ground in front of them.

'Her bread is lumpy, her cakes sour, her stews salty,' cried her grandmother to the other old ladies over tea. 'She cannot even make a proper cross-stitch! What is the point of such a grandchild?' She cried, as the other ladies shrugged in bewilderment and the girl took a burnt pie out of the oven.

The girl knew the disappointment she brought to her family, but try as she might, she couldn't change her habits. It didn't matter how many times she brushed her hair, it still looked dull, and it didn't matter how many flans she baked, they always sunk in the middle. It didn't matter how many pails she carried, or how many miles she walked, her limbs still stayed weak, and it didn't matter how many times she looked at her numbers, they still looked like foreign objects to her.

The girl would lie awake at night for hours, coming up with new plans to improve herself when she could no longer think of any more plans to put into action, she would cry herself to sleep. Then, one winter, a terrible sickness swept through the girl's village. The sickness struck down young & old, healthy & sick, covering their skin with a yellow sheen and spreading purple bruises over their cheeks, their arms and their legs. It struck down most everyone, except the girl herself.

Every morning she would wake to find herself still a healthy pink colour, her limbs still moving and her head clear. She would leave the house, not wanting to be a burden to her family and walk through the village, which was now so quiet it seemed to be abandoned, uncertain of what to do with herself. She caught glimpses of bed-ridden people through the curtains, and moved away quickly, before anyone saw her.

One morning, tired of walking the streets, tired of avoiding her home, she went into the kitchen and started to cook a big pot of stew. She filled it with every good thing she could find in the cupboard, and stood stirring it for hours over a slow flame. Ever so hesitant, she picked up the pot and took it next door to her sick neighbours. She poured out bowls and fed it to them slowly. When she ran out of stew, she returned home and made more, and when she ran out ingredients, she headed out to the market in the next town and dragged back huge bags of vegetables, beans and meat. The sick commented that the stew didn't seem nearly as salty as the grandmother had complained, in fact, it seemed quite tasty and healthy, and they eagerly ate it up, always happy for seconds if it was on offer.

She started visiting the village children, and made up stories of Kings & Queens, of heroic adventures & far-off countries. She racked her brains to think of more and more exciting tales, to come up with more and more imaginative descriptions. She would create individual stories for each child, and sit with them until they fell peacefully asleep. The children were surprised to realise that they had never really heard her speak before, and even more surprised to find that her voice was full of love & comfort, a warmth that reminded them of their mothers & a wit that reminded them of their fathers. They agreed that hers were the best stories they had ever heard & they wouldn't let her go through the village without stopping and telling them another story.

She sat with the young men of the town, and wiped their brows, held their hands, offered them words of love & comfort, such that they felt they were the most unique, most loved and most important young man in the girl's world. they were surprised to find that in her plain clothes, without ribbons or lace, without her hair done in pin-curls, the girl's face was the most pleasant and longed-for face they had ever encountered. Hers was the face they hoped to see when there was a knock at the door, and the one they dreamed of when they slipped into unconsciousness at the end of the day.

For weeks, the girl nursed her village along with her family. She made their food, washed thier sheets, gave them their medicine, made them feel loved & cared for, made them feel stronger than they had ever felt, even before their sickness. She gave them everything she had to give - her time, her effort, her comfort and her love. She barely slept, she ate only what was left over after the others had eaten, she hardly washed, she barely stopped moving for a full month.

Then, just as the winter was starting to mellow, and the spring sun was peeking through the clouds, the villagers started getting out of their beds, began to start making their own bread & soups and noticed that their bruises were subsiding. It was then that the girl collapsed in the middle of the town squre, spilling her life-giving stew all over the cobblestones, the potatoes and carrots rolling out of the pot and into the gutter.

She was taken by the villagers back to her family's home, where they laid her in her little bed, at the top of the stairs, in the attic. They brought her food, and books, and sat by her side, holding her hand, whilst her own family sat in the kitchen, grumbling about the traffice of the village on their stairs, arguing with their neighbours about whether their daughter deserved such attention and if there was any value in trying to save such a worthless little girl.

Try as the villagers might, the girl, grew weaker & weaker & paler & paler. The sickness was not the same as theirs, and the medicines they gave her didn't seem to make a difference. She never turned yellow, and the purple flowers never bloomed across her face.

The villagers kept coming, however, because despite her illnes, the girl's room was still the nicest place in the village to visit. The girl's hands were still the most comforting the villagers' knew, her eyes the most full of love & joy they could hope to look on, and her voice still the calmest, most soothing and full of the mmost sensible advice in any of the surrounding areas. They came to her with all their problems, all their insecurities and unhappiness and left feeling better.

Still the girl grew paler & weaker, & the villagers worried day in and day out about how to make her better. The children made her daisy chains to hang around her room. The young men brought her books and spoke to her of the latest remedies on offer in the town, which they would insist on fetching for her. The young women sewed blankets, knitted socks, cooked stews and constantly cleaned the girl's room, airing out everything they could get their hands on, and finding new & improved ways of getting light & air into the girl's room.

Meanwhile, her family sat in their kitchen, getting grumpier and grumpier, refusing to go upstairs and visit their 'worthess' daughter. Finally, the oldest woman in the village, who also happened to be the wisest, was brought to see the girl and to offer her solution.

The old woman shuffled quietly into the room, and sat next to the girl as the villagers closed the door. She took the girl's pale face in her wrinkles hands and looked deep into the young girl's eyes for several minutes. Then, without saying anything, she smiled sadly and kissed the girl on her forehead. Then she shuffled out of the room to speak to the other villagers.

'She is giving too much of herself, and not getting enough in return,' the old woman told them. 'We must leave her to heal on her own. No more coming for short visits that last for hours. No more asking for advice. No more stories. We must let her be. She must sleep and heal. And, her family must come upstairs and sit with her. In a few weeks, she will be better.' The villagers nodded, though it broke their hearts. Howe would they survive for a month without the girl in their lives? How would they get by without her kind words & sweet nature? Still, they took their things and went home.

The girl lay in her room, and her family stayed in the kitchen. The family were sulking, always making up excuses as to why they couldn't go upstairs to see their daughter. 'The stairs are too steep,' complained the grandmother, 'I might fall.'

'I have too much work to do,' sighed the mother,' I can't possibly take time out to see her. She understands.'

'Its not place to visit her,' grunted the father, 'A sick room is a woman's place.'

Every night, the girl would go to sleep, hoping someone might come up to see her. Then, one evening, three weeks after the villagers had left the girl to heal, she was woken by the sounds of quiet crying. She opened her window to see a small child sitting outside her house and crying as hard as it was possible for such a small child to cry.

'Little Boy,' cried the girl, 'What on earth has upset you so?"

The little boy looked up, scared, shook his head, buried his chin into his chest and started to cry again. The girl coughed, and with all her effort, called out to him again. 'Little Boy! Please, it breaks my heart to see you so sad, tell me what has upset you, so that I might help you.'

The little boy looked up again, bottom lip quivering. 'The Old Woman said we weren't to bother you,' he sniffed, 'She says you are sick.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' said the girl, 'I am as well as you, in face, I am better, as I am not crying as if my heart had broken. Tell me what has happened.'

The little boy hesitated ever so slightly before launching into his sotry . He lived on the outskirts of the village, in a sad, poor little house with his mother & father and two littls sisters. Their little vegetable patch had only produced sick, tiny vegetables this year, and they had no money for milk & bread. He had been sent into town to steal something, anything, to eat, because his younger sisters were sick with fever and would die if they had nothing in their bellies. But the little boy did not know how to steal, and he did not want to, because he knew it was bad and it scared him. So he decided to ask people, very politely, if they could spare him a little food. He was ready to explain the story, if anyone asked, ,ready to take them back to the little house to show them his little sisters, lying in bed, tossing & turning from the pain of the fever. But there was no need. No one listened to him. He was pushed asied by everyone he approached. They sped up as they saw him come towards them, or crossed the street, or turned into each other, pretending they had simply missed him.

As he told the story, he started to cry again, his shoulders shaking with the intensity of his sobs, knowing that his sisters were dying at home.

The girl hesistated ever so slightly, before calling out, 'Don't worry little boy. I will help you. We have plenty of food. You will come inside and I will make your sisters something that is so hearty it will keep them healthy until their 21st birthdays.'

She struggled up from the window, and wrapped herself in warm clothers, then headed downstairs .There she found the little boy, dirty and tear stained, standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

'Well, first things first,' she said, when she saw him, 'Let's get you cleaned up.' She washed the dirt off his face with warm water, wrapped him in a blanket, then propper him up on the counter with a cup of warm milk mixed with a teaspoon of honey. She buttered two thick slices of fresh, fluffy white bread, and watched him devour them in quick succession. She cut him two more, and then started wrking on her soup. She peeled carrots, cut pumpkin, potatoes, washed beans and sliced meat. She added spices and flavouring, adding more and more of whatever good things she coud find until the large pot was close to overflowing with bubbling, thick and fragrant soup. All the while, she spoke to the boy, spinning him story after fantastic story, making him laugh and dream, until the harsh words of the villagers, the despair of his parents, and his own fear were long-distant memories.

As the sun started to rise, the girl lifted the pot carefully off the store and handed it to the little boy. But, it was so heavy that he could not carry it more than a few steps. The girl hesitated only slightly, before getting her coat & boots from the hall. Carrying the pot carefully, she followed the little boy back to his home, as he skipped & danced & sang with delight ahead of her. The soup was delivered, and the girls fed. The parents expressed their gratitude over & over, until the girl was quite overwhelmed. Waving away their promises of paying her back eventually, the girl insisted she must get home to bed. The little boy, despite the girl's protests, insisted on coming with her, in case she were to get lost. He jabbered alongside her, not noticing her foot falls getting slower & quieter as they went along. Just past the town square, he became aware that she was no longer beside him, and as he turned around, he heard voices of distress from behind.

The girl had collapsed, dead, in the middle of the twon square.