Teller Orphaned
It was night and the wind wailed. The caravan of travellers slowly wound its way down the mountain towards the small village at the heart of the snow-swept valley. The tall silhouette at the front of the caravan tilted its head to smell what lay before the weary group, but any smell that was there eluded it, carried away by the winds and snow of the blizzard. The silhouette barred its teeth in frustration and took off, pulling away from the caravan in a matter of strides.
The child saw the strange lights bobbing down the mountain side from where she lay pinned to the ground, and she was afraid. Had the screaming blue painted people and their horses come back to further destroy her home? Or was this a new threat? Involuntary, she began to shiver, whether it was from the cold or the fear she knew not. Soon her shivering turned to agonizing sobs as she realised fully what had happened to her home and the people she knew. All was gone. All were gone. Nobody was going to come and lift the taverns heavy door from her. She was going to die tonight. That she was certain of. Already she could feel the cold eating away at her skin and hear the wolves and who knew what else gathering in the hills for the feast the village offered. The child could see the strange lights bobbing up the path to the burning ruins that were once her home. Slowly she became aware that smoke edging her vision wasn’t from the smouldering ruins but from inside her, she closed her eyes and accepted her fate gratefully. The cold had got her before the wolves had.
The silhouette stopped at the foot of the mountain and tilted its head to better smell the confusion coming from the village. Wood smoke floated faintly in the air above the blizzard, and also the smell of meat roasting. The silhouette caught a more troubling scent, the scent of battle the smell of the blue people. Without hesitation the silhouette took off running towards the village, arriving no sooner than after breaking into a run. All was the aftermath of chaos. Doors hanging off their hinges, smoke curling out from the broken shutters. At the end of the villages’ main square a pile of bodies lay, arrows and spears sticking out of them like some warped pin cushion. More bodies lay in the streets, some villages, and some blue painted people. This village hadn’t gone down without a fight. But it had still been ravaged. No survivors. Just then the wind changed, and from the direction of the village tavern a soft whimpering could be hear.
The silhouette followed its nose, it could smell something alive. Something that had been afraid recently, but had given way to the numbing cold. The silhouette slowly walked towards the taverns’ fallen door. As it approached it saw a small girl, hardly eight winters old, trapped. How long she had laid there, the silhouette did not know exactly, but she was practically blue beneath the fur garment’s this village typically wore, the silhouette was willing to bet that she had been there upwards of two hours. The girl twitched in her hypothermic slumber, opened her mouth and let out a chilling wail. The earth trembled with her soul. Slowly the silhouette lifted the door off the girl, and tenderly scooped her up in its arms. The silhouette straightened up, settled the girl against its torso, wrapped its travelling coat around itself tightly, stretched out and started running towards where the caravan was coming to the edge of the village.
Before it reached the caravan a smell similar to the girls reached its nose, the silhouette changed course and followed it to where the body of a young woman lay in the street accompanied by someone who appeared to be her son. Clutched in the boys hand was a doll. The silhouette bent down to pick up the doll, and as he did so it realised the similarities of the pair to the girl curled against its torso. Family. The thought hit the silhouette with a force that made tears well up in its inhuman eyes. The silhouette tucked the doll in its coat pocket. It bent down again, to search the woman this time, found a few keep sakes for the girl tucked them in its pocket. It searched the boy again, found some sketches and charcoal pencils, and tucked them in its pocket as well. Straightened up again and took off running back to warn its people of the sad sight waiting to receive them.
Mourning Memories - set 5 or so years later.
I wake to a green light, filtering through the curtains. Shadows throwing themselves at the opposite wall, dancing, chasing each other in frenzy across the faded posters, grey-green fire eating at the outlined faces and bolded words. A thought hits me, hard.
Where am I? Who am I? My mind scrabbles for a memory, a face, for anything.
A voice, is singing, somewhere outside the caravan. I know I know this voice, but still I panic. I can’t put a name or face to its baritone.
Where am I? Who am I? My mind lunges for a memory, for a face, for anything. Each eludes me, dancing out of reach like the shadows on my wall. I know it’s my wall. That’s something at least.
“Teller!” the voice stops singing outside my window, instead it calls, “Teller! You up yet?”
My mind tackles a memory, a face.
Everything.
***
“Teller!” a small dark haired, serious-eyed boy, yells at the top of his small, melodious voice, “Teller! You up?” The fair-haired, quiet-eyed girl I once was, sticks her head out the window of her green curtained caravan, and nods. I was up, but already wishing to be back under the soft covers of my warm bed.
“Well, come on then! We’re waiting for you!” the small boy tugs his arm from behind his back, spinning a mini mirror image of himself out towards my caravan door. I walk slowly, painfully, across the cold wooden floor, on bandaged feet. As I try to pull my oversized boots on I topple over, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. I wince as the unyielding leather forces the bandages to rub up against my raw and blistered skin. My feet not used to the hard work required of a member of the troop, too soft not to blister on the long walk to and from the sheep’s grazing field. As my younger self walks out of the caravan I grab my ornately carved walking stick, a wave of loneliness hits me as I remember my family and our beautiful, rich estate, all lost in a tragic (and terribly suspicious) house fire. Tracing the patterns of vines across the silver knob on the top of the walking stick, tears well up in my young eyes, not just for my family, but for the life of comfort I had lost forever.
The boys are waiting, sitting on the step playing knuckle-bones together. A fierce look of concentration is etched on the older boys face. He flicks the jack into the air. It arcs high, gleaming white in the early morning sun as it flips through the air. The serious brother snaps his hand deftly, sweeping the knuckles off the ground and into his palm in one quick motion. I admire the skill and grace demonstrated by him as he attempts to catch the jack, now plummeting rapidly earthward. The younger boy crows in triumph at his brother’s fumbled failure.
“Ha-ha Otto! My turn!”
“Nope. Later. Teller’s here. Let’s go get the sheep before Boss wakes up.”
“Aw.... c’mon!!!”
We walk to the fold, dodging between the low roofed alcoves of the many blue roofed caravans that make up the Ta-bi travelling troop, frost crunching beneath us sharply. The sheep greet us with unchecked enthusiasm. ‘Baaa....’ they holler. ‘Feed us!’ Woolly clouds press eagerly against the flexible wall of the portable enclosure, puffs of steam curl upwards towards the clear ice sky, off the many well fed bodies within the pen.
“Marco, go let out Jess and Toby.”
The younger of the two brothers dashes off towards the kennels and flings open the gates. His bare feet hard, calloused and grubby, peeking out from his too short pair of dirt-brown woollen leggings. Two black flashes spill out of the kennel and hurl themselves toward me, barking. Teeth barred. Tongues lolling. I scream as my knees buckle beneath me; I plummet to the ground, my head knocking hard against the frost-solid earth.
“Jess, Toby! That’ll do!!!”
The pups whimper, or is it me? Small strong hands grasp mine and haul me to my feet. My head is still ringing. Stars dance momentarily before my eyes.
“You okay, Teller?” Small strong gentle hands probe my skull. I wince as the light fingers encounter a tender spot behind my ear.
“You’ll be right,” says Otto, his voice warm and comforting, “You’re new, so the pups just wanted to check you out, to say hello and welcome, you know.”
I nod, I can see that now.
Marco is laughing. “AHH...” he imitates my latest performance. His brother is trying to keep a straight face. I grin at them both, dashing the tears from my face. I walk on booted, bandaged feet towards the pups. They are sleek, chubby, tan and black. I hold out my still shaking hand. They greet me with slobbery kisses and wet inquisitive noses. Why on earth was I afraid of these happy wee animals? Papa’s hounds are, were, bigger than these tiny working dogs. I laugh out loud to stop myself from crying again.
“Come on guys, we’d better hurry up, or we’ll still be here when Boss wakes up.”
Marco opens the gate to the fold and the sheep spill out enthusiastically, already heading for the worn trail that leads up the mountain path. Otto whistles and the pups start to weave alongside the eager sheep. Slowly I start to follow, my walking stick thudding against the solid earth beneath my over-sized boots. Another day of long walks and sore feet had begun.
***
Thud, thud, thud.
“Oi! Teller! Hurry up eh!?!”
“Okay! Okay already!” I yell. I throw back the patched green curtains; I am greeted by the many blue roofs of my extended family’s mobile homes, and the winning smile of a tall, dark haired, serious-eyed boy. I stand and walk across my caravan on hard calloused feet, struggling to stay balanced as I pull on my snug fitting boots, the soft leather moulding comfortably to my feet. I hear the dogs barking happily, Marco yelling at them to calm down and the sheep hollering rudely for their breakfast. It’s a wonder Boss is still asleep. Reaching for my shepherd’s staff, I inspect the ornately carved walking stick leaning against the wall beside it. It calls out to me, it begs me to take it off the wall and walk it up the hill like I used to. To turn it in my hands and trace the many intricate patterns that decorates its precious metal. I ignore it. My life now requires no such thing of beauty and frailty, fancy stuff like my staff doesn’t get any work done or bring any food to the table. I step down from my caravan and slam the door shut behind me. I wince as I hear a rattle and a crash as something falls down off my shelf and smashes against the floor.
“Dammit.” I mutter, “That is not a good start to the day...”
“Good-morning Teller,” Otto greets me with a grin, and pulls me into a tight hug planting a quick kiss on my forehead, “Ready for another day of hard work are we?” he asks, ruffling my short sun-bleached hair in an annoying fashion.
“Yup, sure am!”I say catching his hand and twisting his arm behind his back before giving him a friendly boot up the backside. I know my reaction disappoints him, partly because he’s not quick enough to stop me from aquatinting him with the ground so early in the morning and partly because he wants me to complain about the workload so he can rub my heritage in my face. I laugh. I know who I am. I know where I am. I am Teller, adopted daughter of the Ta-bi travelling troop, and most importantly to myself, and to the boys, a shepherd.
Hannah Dearlove
Saturday, May 15
Friday, May 14
And my creative writing from 2009...
Useless Alice
He had it all. The fans, the fame, the fortune, and the good looks. Worse still he had the talent, the dedication and an on stage presence that left me with the all too familiar taste of bitter burning jealousy in my mouth. The prat, the show off, the pompous ass. I don’t particularly like him, but the rest of the world sure does.
My brother is still the same now as he was then, back when we were kids competing for our parent’s affection. It was a fight he always won.
“Why can’t you be good at sport like your brother?” “Why can’t you be an academic like your brother?” “Have you done your flute practice? Why not? We pay good money for those lessons, why can’t you respect that like your brother does, eh girl?” Hurtful words said long ago echo through my mind as my brother walks away from our smiling parents, towards the corner where I am now, sulking, and waiting for the press conference to be over so we can go home for lunch.
“How’s it going useless Alice?” he asks. I glare at him. He rubs his jaw in an absent minded manner, remembering.
I had been about 14; he around 17, a smart mouth, a braggart and the apple of Ma and Pa’s eye. We had been at a press conference all morning for his band, I’d escaped the media crush and was sulking out the back waiting for it to finish. My brother and one of his mates had spotted me during a break and decided to come over.
“Hello useless Alice, how’s it going eh girl?” my brother’s eyes were glittering in the artificial light as he emphasized Pa’s favourite words, “Done your flute practice? Getting good marks? Why can’t you be like your brilliant brother, eh girl?”
I winced away from him as he reached to ruffle my hair. He was rubbing salt into fresh wounds and his dumb friend knew it, laughing like the paid puppet he was. I snapped then. Maybe if the dumb friend hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have done it. But the event happened, and courtesy of the media gaggle it was documented in colour photographs and bold titles the very next day. It was one page of the family photo album we avoided pointing out to visitors.
“What did you just say?” I’d asked, quite menace layering my voice.
“Just reminding you of how much of a disappointment you… argh!” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Fourteen years of living in my brother’s infernal shadow boiled to the surface of my conscious mind in a haze of red, lending me the strength to smash his nose and bust his jaw. My overstated attempt to wipe the self-assured grin off his face. His idiot friend was on the receiving end also; I kicked him as he tried to restrain me, before returning to attack my brother, all the while screaming insults at them both. It was like a dam had burst; I was in that moment removed from myself, a mere observer of my own actions through a ragged mist, as I unleashed the backlog of insults, retorts and frustration I had thought, felt and been holding back for so long. By the time security had dragged me off the boys, their faces were a bloody mess, and I was slowly coming to the realization that I was in for the biggest lecture of my life.
The words that flew heatedly around that confined space were the hardest I’d had to listen to, ever. I sat in silence, bearing it all, listening to how I was a disappointment to them, how I had failed to live up to their expectations. It had hit me then, it didn’t matter what my parents and other obscure relatives thought and expected of me. It mattered what I thought of myself. Before I could expect them to respect me, I had to respect myself. Before I could live up to their expectations, I had to live up to my own. I cried myself to sleep that night, not at the thought of being punished for possibly ending my brother’s music career, but because I was finally free to walk out in my sun, not in his shadow. The prospect of being grounded for the summer and being sent to boarding school might have added to those tears, but ultimately I was weeping with relief at finding freedom.
My parents got a phone call the next morning from a local dojo asking if I would like to go and train there. I wanted to, and they had reluctantly agreed to allow me to attend the twice weekly training sessions, aware that the physical and mental discipline would be good for me. For once I was free of the influence of my brother and free to enjoy the things I wanted to, not the things he had been good at.
Ten years later, not much has changed about my brother, he’s still full of himself, but I am more assured than I was. I have achieved much; I have written several books and represented my country in my chosen sport. My brother spends his life running from the media, doing gigs and trying to write to deadlines. I on the other hand now live a life of anonymous success under an assumed name. I like it how it is; I am no longer just useless Alice to my parents, but someone they have to acknowledge as an actual person, because I have acknowledged it myself. The bitter taste of jealously I felt briefly this morning, was more past feelings surfacing momentarily than actual jealously. I swing my arm around my brother’s shoulder; he winces as my hand arcs around near his face and up to ruffle his hair.
“You done yet?” I ask, possibly sounding a little impatient.
“Nearly, only the book signing to do now.” He says. I groan, it seems it will be a while until I get my lunch.
Hannah Dearlove
He had it all. The fans, the fame, the fortune, and the good looks. Worse still he had the talent, the dedication and an on stage presence that left me with the all too familiar taste of bitter burning jealousy in my mouth. The prat, the show off, the pompous ass. I don’t particularly like him, but the rest of the world sure does.
My brother is still the same now as he was then, back when we were kids competing for our parent’s affection. It was a fight he always won.
“Why can’t you be good at sport like your brother?” “Why can’t you be an academic like your brother?” “Have you done your flute practice? Why not? We pay good money for those lessons, why can’t you respect that like your brother does, eh girl?” Hurtful words said long ago echo through my mind as my brother walks away from our smiling parents, towards the corner where I am now, sulking, and waiting for the press conference to be over so we can go home for lunch.
“How’s it going useless Alice?” he asks. I glare at him. He rubs his jaw in an absent minded manner, remembering.
I had been about 14; he around 17, a smart mouth, a braggart and the apple of Ma and Pa’s eye. We had been at a press conference all morning for his band, I’d escaped the media crush and was sulking out the back waiting for it to finish. My brother and one of his mates had spotted me during a break and decided to come over.
“Hello useless Alice, how’s it going eh girl?” my brother’s eyes were glittering in the artificial light as he emphasized Pa’s favourite words, “Done your flute practice? Getting good marks? Why can’t you be like your brilliant brother, eh girl?”
I winced away from him as he reached to ruffle my hair. He was rubbing salt into fresh wounds and his dumb friend knew it, laughing like the paid puppet he was. I snapped then. Maybe if the dumb friend hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have done it. But the event happened, and courtesy of the media gaggle it was documented in colour photographs and bold titles the very next day. It was one page of the family photo album we avoided pointing out to visitors.
“What did you just say?” I’d asked, quite menace layering my voice.
“Just reminding you of how much of a disappointment you… argh!” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Fourteen years of living in my brother’s infernal shadow boiled to the surface of my conscious mind in a haze of red, lending me the strength to smash his nose and bust his jaw. My overstated attempt to wipe the self-assured grin off his face. His idiot friend was on the receiving end also; I kicked him as he tried to restrain me, before returning to attack my brother, all the while screaming insults at them both. It was like a dam had burst; I was in that moment removed from myself, a mere observer of my own actions through a ragged mist, as I unleashed the backlog of insults, retorts and frustration I had thought, felt and been holding back for so long. By the time security had dragged me off the boys, their faces were a bloody mess, and I was slowly coming to the realization that I was in for the biggest lecture of my life.
The words that flew heatedly around that confined space were the hardest I’d had to listen to, ever. I sat in silence, bearing it all, listening to how I was a disappointment to them, how I had failed to live up to their expectations. It had hit me then, it didn’t matter what my parents and other obscure relatives thought and expected of me. It mattered what I thought of myself. Before I could expect them to respect me, I had to respect myself. Before I could live up to their expectations, I had to live up to my own. I cried myself to sleep that night, not at the thought of being punished for possibly ending my brother’s music career, but because I was finally free to walk out in my sun, not in his shadow. The prospect of being grounded for the summer and being sent to boarding school might have added to those tears, but ultimately I was weeping with relief at finding freedom.
My parents got a phone call the next morning from a local dojo asking if I would like to go and train there. I wanted to, and they had reluctantly agreed to allow me to attend the twice weekly training sessions, aware that the physical and mental discipline would be good for me. For once I was free of the influence of my brother and free to enjoy the things I wanted to, not the things he had been good at.
Ten years later, not much has changed about my brother, he’s still full of himself, but I am more assured than I was. I have achieved much; I have written several books and represented my country in my chosen sport. My brother spends his life running from the media, doing gigs and trying to write to deadlines. I on the other hand now live a life of anonymous success under an assumed name. I like it how it is; I am no longer just useless Alice to my parents, but someone they have to acknowledge as an actual person, because I have acknowledged it myself. The bitter taste of jealously I felt briefly this morning, was more past feelings surfacing momentarily than actual jealously. I swing my arm around my brother’s shoulder; he winces as my hand arcs around near his face and up to ruffle his hair.
“You done yet?” I ask, possibly sounding a little impatient.
“Nearly, only the book signing to do now.” He says. I groan, it seems it will be a while until I get my lunch.
Hannah Dearlove
Children of the Light - a story I wrote while I was in a crap mood a while back.
Child of the Light.
I am a child of the light. So it stands to reason that I am drawn to those wrapped in darkness. Whether this fatal attraction is due to my souls’ longing to join this darkness or my desire to vanquish it, I have no idea.
Their smoke is lit up in patterns as the strobe light flashes to the rhythm of the song. Their chatter and raucous laughter suggest they are happy, but their eyes tell a different story. I see my friends soar higher than the birds on shit that is not legal. I see them slip notes under the table in exchange for a habit that will ultimately destroy what they have worked so hard to become. I see my loved ones out of their bodies, removed from rationality, drink sloshing down their fronts and onto the floor in an amber pool of madness. The words that form from their lips are disjointed, sporadic, nonsense. People argue in half sentences and friendships are destroyed when someone locks lips with the wrong person. I lean against the wall and watch the demons posses the people I know, or rather, I thought I knew. It burns me up inside watching them ‘enjoying’ themselves. I wince as the youngest of us all is led towards a back room by her boyfriend. Too drunk to realise what she is giving up, or too aware of what he wants from her that she can’t refuse. A drink is passed my way. I shake my head at an offer of a cigarette. “You’re no fun!” they say. But I’m their ticket home.
I am a child of light. So it stands to reason I am drawn towards children of the shadow. A magnetic force binds us together. It forces us to shove each other violently away. My hopes and aspirations have been smothered by these children of darkness, just as often as I have burnt away their dreams and goals. I am a child of light. My mission is to take morals, self control and faith to the nations. So it stands to reason I am drawn to the darkest dregs of humanity. But whether it is to join this darkness or to vanquish it I do not know. I see children surround the weakest, dorkiest, smartest, fattest, ugliest ones among them. Hovering at the edges of play grounds like sharks to blood. I see people so wrapped up within themselves that they fail to notice the world around them and the carnage they leave behind in their wake. Children of darkness have but one goal, to stop me and others like me, from achieving ours. To encourage Pandora to open the box once more, letting hope escape for good.
I am a child of light. So it’s only natural that my very core is consumed by darkness. Fear chains me to the known, a pressing blindness preventing me from pushing back the shroud that covers the map of humanity. Music that is not music echo’s to the deepest reaches of my soul, feral howls, screams and bestial roars calm me, pushing the fractured thoughts into small corners of my unsettled mind as I cry. Rage consumes me as I am once again overlooked for my lack of superficial beauty, sporting prowess and artificial intelligence. Strength born of blood lust forces me onto victory, the bruises on my body beg me to find pleasure in other people’s pain.
I am a child of light. Consequently I have many enemies. They line the halls, waiting for me to slip up so they can point out and take advantage of my short comings. They offer me temptations, sex, money, drugs, alcohol and fake brotherhood, all cheep trinkets. All there just for me, and for a million other people, if, and only if I put aside my light. I am a child of light, so bitterly drawn to the darkness.
Hannah Dearlove
I am a child of the light. So it stands to reason that I am drawn to those wrapped in darkness. Whether this fatal attraction is due to my souls’ longing to join this darkness or my desire to vanquish it, I have no idea.
Their smoke is lit up in patterns as the strobe light flashes to the rhythm of the song. Their chatter and raucous laughter suggest they are happy, but their eyes tell a different story. I see my friends soar higher than the birds on shit that is not legal. I see them slip notes under the table in exchange for a habit that will ultimately destroy what they have worked so hard to become. I see my loved ones out of their bodies, removed from rationality, drink sloshing down their fronts and onto the floor in an amber pool of madness. The words that form from their lips are disjointed, sporadic, nonsense. People argue in half sentences and friendships are destroyed when someone locks lips with the wrong person. I lean against the wall and watch the demons posses the people I know, or rather, I thought I knew. It burns me up inside watching them ‘enjoying’ themselves. I wince as the youngest of us all is led towards a back room by her boyfriend. Too drunk to realise what she is giving up, or too aware of what he wants from her that she can’t refuse. A drink is passed my way. I shake my head at an offer of a cigarette. “You’re no fun!” they say. But I’m their ticket home.
I am a child of light. So it stands to reason I am drawn towards children of the shadow. A magnetic force binds us together. It forces us to shove each other violently away. My hopes and aspirations have been smothered by these children of darkness, just as often as I have burnt away their dreams and goals. I am a child of light. My mission is to take morals, self control and faith to the nations. So it stands to reason I am drawn to the darkest dregs of humanity. But whether it is to join this darkness or to vanquish it I do not know. I see children surround the weakest, dorkiest, smartest, fattest, ugliest ones among them. Hovering at the edges of play grounds like sharks to blood. I see people so wrapped up within themselves that they fail to notice the world around them and the carnage they leave behind in their wake. Children of darkness have but one goal, to stop me and others like me, from achieving ours. To encourage Pandora to open the box once more, letting hope escape for good.
I am a child of light. So it’s only natural that my very core is consumed by darkness. Fear chains me to the known, a pressing blindness preventing me from pushing back the shroud that covers the map of humanity. Music that is not music echo’s to the deepest reaches of my soul, feral howls, screams and bestial roars calm me, pushing the fractured thoughts into small corners of my unsettled mind as I cry. Rage consumes me as I am once again overlooked for my lack of superficial beauty, sporting prowess and artificial intelligence. Strength born of blood lust forces me onto victory, the bruises on my body beg me to find pleasure in other people’s pain.
I am a child of light. Consequently I have many enemies. They line the halls, waiting for me to slip up so they can point out and take advantage of my short comings. They offer me temptations, sex, money, drugs, alcohol and fake brotherhood, all cheep trinkets. All there just for me, and for a million other people, if, and only if I put aside my light. I am a child of light, so bitterly drawn to the darkness.
Hannah Dearlove
Chocolate Child - a story I wrote in year 10.
Chocolate Child.
The light caught and reflected in the chocolate coloured eyes of the little boy as he grinned and reached out to take the sweet I was offering him.
“Gracias.” he said.
“De nada.” I replied, my Spanish hesitant.
“¿Muy bien, español es muy difícil verdad?” he laughs girlishly.
“Sí.”I agree whole heartedly. This wee boy, José, had attached himself to me the moment I had stepped out of the battered mini-van onto the soil of his small Honduran village. He somewhat reminded me of the stray kitten that used to hang around my place, with its dark dirty fur and ribs showing through its skin. My heart went to the both of them.
“Oye, May! Mira!” little José was hopping up in down on one foot, excited, pointing at the aeroplane flying overhead. “¿ Como se dice en ingles, por favor?” he asked, his mouth crammed full of lollies and his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Aeroplane.” I said. He smiled winningly, well as winningly as possible as anybody could with a mouth crammed full of sweets, and started to mutter the new word to himself.
I was amazed at how bright and happy a child in his situation could be. His family were well off by the standards of the village, his father being the local pastor, but by New Zealand standards, he and his family had practically nothing. He shared a small corrugated iron house with his mother, father, two brothers and one older sister as well as various other relatives. He hardly went to school, the nearest being kilometres away in the nearest city, but he was still very bright. His clothes always started the day clean, a luxury few here could afford, but wound up covered in dirt by the end of it due to his enthusiasm for life.
“Oye! May!” José shouted from across the other side of the dirt beaten track, the village’s main street, “Come, play fútbol.” His English already surpassing my Spanish. He and several other children were organising each other into teams on the village green.
“You goalie May. I am Striker.” He propelled me over to the makeshift goal with force you wouldn’t expect from such a small skinny child. He along with most of the other children in this ramshackle village, was very lean. In most of the children you could see signs of many missed meals, sunken cheek bones and ribs sticking out under thread bare shirts and dresses.
“Comenzar!” shouted the elected referee, a boy on crutches’ who’s foot I had treated earlier that morning. The children launched into the game with surprising skill and speed. A kaleidoscope of colourful flashes played out in front of my eyes. José was darting and slinking around the other children, his catlike grace evident in his stride. A boy in red made an impressive attempt at a sliding tackle as the José flicked the ball off to a girl in a tattered blue dress. José bent down and offered his grubby, sweet covered hand to the fallen boy who flashed him a rueful grin and muttered something to José along the lines of “Maybe next time I’ll get it off you, instead of landing in the dirt.”
“GOAL!” The shout went up just on full time from the other end of the makeshift field. The celebration that followed would have rivalled those of the players in the FIFA world cup. There was chaos as many children ran around to slap the back of the successful goal scorer. Girls cart-wheeled past, flashing their multicoloured skirts and boys started to show off flipping themselves in the air and landing on their feet. I stood and looked on in awe as these children with so little, celebrated like they had the whole world in their pockets. I wonder if the reason they are happy is because they have so little. And for that very reason they had so much, as life for them isn’t controlled by greed or desire to have everything associated with success.
-Hannah Dearlove
The light caught and reflected in the chocolate coloured eyes of the little boy as he grinned and reached out to take the sweet I was offering him.
“Gracias.” he said.
“De nada.” I replied, my Spanish hesitant.
“¿Muy bien, español es muy difícil verdad?” he laughs girlishly.
“Sí.”I agree whole heartedly. This wee boy, José, had attached himself to me the moment I had stepped out of the battered mini-van onto the soil of his small Honduran village. He somewhat reminded me of the stray kitten that used to hang around my place, with its dark dirty fur and ribs showing through its skin. My heart went to the both of them.
“Oye, May! Mira!” little José was hopping up in down on one foot, excited, pointing at the aeroplane flying overhead. “¿ Como se dice en ingles, por favor?” he asked, his mouth crammed full of lollies and his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Aeroplane.” I said. He smiled winningly, well as winningly as possible as anybody could with a mouth crammed full of sweets, and started to mutter the new word to himself.
I was amazed at how bright and happy a child in his situation could be. His family were well off by the standards of the village, his father being the local pastor, but by New Zealand standards, he and his family had practically nothing. He shared a small corrugated iron house with his mother, father, two brothers and one older sister as well as various other relatives. He hardly went to school, the nearest being kilometres away in the nearest city, but he was still very bright. His clothes always started the day clean, a luxury few here could afford, but wound up covered in dirt by the end of it due to his enthusiasm for life.
“Oye! May!” José shouted from across the other side of the dirt beaten track, the village’s main street, “Come, play fútbol.” His English already surpassing my Spanish. He and several other children were organising each other into teams on the village green.
“You goalie May. I am Striker.” He propelled me over to the makeshift goal with force you wouldn’t expect from such a small skinny child. He along with most of the other children in this ramshackle village, was very lean. In most of the children you could see signs of many missed meals, sunken cheek bones and ribs sticking out under thread bare shirts and dresses.
“Comenzar!” shouted the elected referee, a boy on crutches’ who’s foot I had treated earlier that morning. The children launched into the game with surprising skill and speed. A kaleidoscope of colourful flashes played out in front of my eyes. José was darting and slinking around the other children, his catlike grace evident in his stride. A boy in red made an impressive attempt at a sliding tackle as the José flicked the ball off to a girl in a tattered blue dress. José bent down and offered his grubby, sweet covered hand to the fallen boy who flashed him a rueful grin and muttered something to José along the lines of “Maybe next time I’ll get it off you, instead of landing in the dirt.”
“GOAL!” The shout went up just on full time from the other end of the makeshift field. The celebration that followed would have rivalled those of the players in the FIFA world cup. There was chaos as many children ran around to slap the back of the successful goal scorer. Girls cart-wheeled past, flashing their multicoloured skirts and boys started to show off flipping themselves in the air and landing on their feet. I stood and looked on in awe as these children with so little, celebrated like they had the whole world in their pockets. I wonder if the reason they are happy is because they have so little. And for that very reason they had so much, as life for them isn’t controlled by greed or desire to have everything associated with success.
-Hannah Dearlove
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