Watching Girl

 

Watching Girl was born with a twisted leg. She could not do some of the things that other children could do; it bothered her parents, but it didn't bother her. She seemed to get around the tiny village and surrounding woods well enough with her walking stick.

Watching Girl's mind was keen, and she could sense things that others missed. It might be the flick of a squirrel’s tail or a distant ripple of a pond turtle's snout, but she was the first to notice it.

She could see the frog struggling to emerge from a piece of wood, needing only a little sculpting with her carving knife to free it. As she grew older, she came to see other invisible things. She could see the sadness in the grandmother who stared into the fire at night. She could see the brooding anger in the skinny boy who always lost the wrestling matches.

On the same night that her long-anticipated womanly flow arrived for the first time, there was a bright star that flashed across the sky, heading north, into the sacred land where visions are born. Everyone in the tribe discussed it, and the speculation was rampant. Some thought it was a good sign, some thought it bad. The wise said they would know soon enough.

That night, Watching Girl had a vivid dream. In her dream, she saw a bright star land right outside her lodge. It left a wide ring of blue flame, and a bear was sitting in the center. Star Bear motioned her to come closer, and some of the blue flames died down, leaving a gap in the circle that she could walk through.

In her dream, she walked easily, not dragging her twisted leg and leaning on her stick carved with many animals and shapes, yet her leg was still twisted when she looked down at it. How strange.

She walked right up to Star Bear, somehow knowing that he was a friend, and now she noticed that the tips of each of his hairs was sparkling like thousands of tiny fires. Star Bear sniffed her twisted leg and, nodding with approval, rose on his hind legs until he seemed as tall as a tree.

His sparkling fur grew brighter, and he placed one enormous claw on Watching Girl's forehead. Without pain, she felt the claw slide into her head. His fur sizzled and popped like a campfire, and she felt a warm tingle run from her head to her toes. It was wonderful.

***

From then on, Watching Girl was not quite the same. Her mother noticed first, but she was not worried. Watching Girl was not the first to be changed by burgeoning womanhood. So what if her daughter was more introspective and moody?

Her father noticed a week later, but he remained silent. Females were a mystery, and the females within his lodge were no exception. Better to let the women worry about their own.

***

“Did you see Watching Girl yesterday? She was staring at the Sun Cliff all day,” an old man asked his old wife.

“That’s nothing. Did you see her today? She tried to find a way up. And her with her poor little leg.”

“Maybe her leg is not all that’s wrong with her,” the old man said, lowering his voice in conspiracy. “I’ve always said she was different from the other children, didn’t I.”

“And what would you know about children,” the old wife snapped. And they were off on the same fight they had been savoring for the last thirty years.

***

Coming back from a week of hunting, her father saw her halfway up the Sun Cliff; he smiled in amazement. She never let that bad leg keep her down, he thought with pride.

Like all fathers, he was capable of simultaneous pride and horror, pride often taking the lead when horror was the better choice. That, perhaps, was the only meaningful distinction between mothers and fathers.

“Look at that girl of yours,” his companion said. “How did she get all the way up there?”

“Hey, Butterfly,” her father called, “What are you doing?”

She looked down and waved. “I’m looking for something.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Her father furrowed his brow and remained silent. But his companion did not. Eventually, rumors about her antics circulated long enough that everyone just took it for granted that she was addled. In a larger community where strangers came and went, her peculiarities might have led to trouble. But here in her small tribe, everyone knew her and her parents and their parents. And, while they may have whispered and chuckled, they treated her kindly enough.

***

One year later, Watching Girl was finally close to despair. For an entire year, almost every day, she had tried to find a way up the Sun Cliff, dragging her leg and leaning on her ornate stick that had gotten shorter somehow. But now she was blocked.

“Why are you climbing up there,” her younger brother had asked once.

“Because I am supposed to.”

“Why are you supposed to,” he had asked.

“It’s fun.” It was a lie. It was hard. And she had almost fallen a couple of times. She had come home with skinned hands and knees a couple of times too.

But now she was ready to cry. She had been trying to find a way around an oblong boulder for weeks. It was like a potato with fat ends and smooth sides. Over, around, under: nothing worked.

She had tried other ways up through the boulders, in hot and cold, in wind and rain; this was her last untried route. And she was stuck.

She felt like a fool. She was as keen-witted as ever, and she knew that the others had been snickering and gossiping about her.

“Why are you climbing up there,” everyone asked. She was running out of answers.

She leaned on the edge of the potato boulder and laid her head on her arm. It had been so much easier when she was younger. Once, she thought she could see everything. What had changed? What was this compulsion that had kept tugging her up the cliffs? It felt exactly like the first time she had freed that frog from the carving. She was the only one who had seen it sitting in the wood. Trapped.

She exhaled loudly, angrily smacking the rock. And, very distinctly, she felt the boulder shudder.

She lurched back from surprise and almost went off the edge. Here, her twisted leg saved her life; it collapsed, and she fell flat on her backside. Her heart was pounding. Had she imagined it?

Still seated, she reached out and caressed the boulder, suddenly compelled to “see” the rock like she had “seen” the frog. She did not understand why, but it seemed to be the right thing to do.

For a moment, she felt something unlike hard mineral. It was still firm. Like muscle, not like rock. It was warm. It was, what else? She ran her hand in the opposite direction, and she gasped.

It felt like hair. Like a horse’s hair. She smiled and felt a warm, familiar tingle. Like a fading mist slowly reveals what is hidden, she now could see the golden horse, a white-maned palomino, that was trapped in the boulder. She would name him Snow.

Maybe, when she was finished, Snow would stay with her. Not like that ungrateful frog that had hopped away.

Art and words (c)2022 Mickey Kulp.  All rights reserved.