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
