Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 30. Girlie: Another One

[This is a story in five parts. This is the second part.]
So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, til the day, though, as was bound to happen and which did happen just so, she awoke to a house and heart empty of six brothers. Six, and not a thought of how she might find them, might seek them, might retrieve them. Off she went at once to seek, to hunt. Low she wandered and high she wandered with never a plan, with never a clue, and find them she did not til at darkfall she found herself in the crook and shade of the great tree which overhangs the road so, as by you come and on you go if you take the King's way. Long and high and sad she sat and thought it this way and thought it that but never a straight thought had she, when who should she see coming a-down and a-down but the crone and on her shoulder, her raven sitting hard and serious.

Why then, my then, how comes you so high then, my pork chop, my cherry pie, cries the crone as she comes nigh. Came not to you a brother in that shirt all a-shine and a-shimmer? Ah, me, sighed the girlie in the tree, ah, me, Mistress Crone and also your Good Raven, I am a-sad and a-sorrowing, for brothers seven had I, had I, but when today I looked about me for them, for their love to me and for their help and their care and their warm keeping of my heart and hands, my life and my lands, not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could I see, could I see, but only one, who yet turns his hands to nothing, leaves them at his sides both loose and flapping while all the while he turns his eyes ever and ever after a jingle in men's pockets. Words he makes, aye me, plans he sows, wanting and wishing and that is all of him. He walks about him, he looks about him, he wears the golden shirt and carries his hands in his empty pockets and now all forgotten he has of my seeking, my saving, my pulling and my knitting, forgotten he has to be a-petting and a-loving, remembered only the gold a fish is never sharing.

Well and well, the crone said, one eye crafty on the girlie in the tree, yes and it is. This is the brother as he was, this is the brother as he is. Gold and deep dark longing had he, but you fished him out, and what now has he? Arms and legs, arms and legs. No weight of dark water, no buggies, no gold beyond counting. It's all as I told you, all as I told you. Sad and sorry are you and you will be, so you are and will be forever and forever if you do not now find those brothers which have wandered, which have traveled, which have lost themselves sadly and badly and madly from you, my treetop birdie, my jam tart. And here's a thing for your learning, the crone craned back to give it to her, one eye closed to better see the matter, while the raven leaned forward so as not to lose a word. A bird might indeed be sister to a fish, but how shall those two love at home together? Six brothers yet have you, but them you have not.

But how shall I go and how shall I fare and what shall be my seeking and my want and my ware? the girl asked and pled. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when they left me, turned from me, looked beyond and from me fled.

Here, my sweetling, my chocolate flake, the crone soothed her, and the raven leaned forward to catch every word. Here and here is what you now must do. Do you pull and do you pull on all your hair til once more a shirt you cobble and couple, crimp and acquire. When it's whole, then take it up and look you, run you run to the top of that hill which lies hard by the King's way as you come down and a-down through the glade and through the glen. Lift it high there to the wind and let it loose and let it fly.

And the girlie did it, she did all the crone's telling. She pulled her hair and out it came, short and white, curled and curling. Soft and curvy and cosy it came, and she cut it off her, cut it off short and tight. Then she cobbled and coupled and crimped until a shirt of dearest plush and cuddle she held in her hands, dimpled and curving, all of pearl and cloud shimmer. Up she held it, high she lifted, and cold the wind caught it as it twisted and spun in her hands, sweeter and softer than midnight snow under a fullsome moon. Then and then did all the people come, with a yelling and a run. Such a shirt! One would have it for his babe and one for his dying love. One would have it for his sleeping and one for his comfort keeping. All reached, all longed, all begged. Take my farm, take my land, take my gold, take my lambs. But she would none. To her the shirt she clasped and ran she up that hill and there, at last, she held out the shirt, coiling warm about her hands, pearls and spindrift and up it went and down it fell. Away til it was lost. Pillowing and billowing, puffing and plumping it rode the wind over grove and over green and was not.

All the people stopped, stony, stared her down as she had been an enemy, and from her they melted and faded as they had never been. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then came from far and from far a sheep, eyes blank and glassy, teeth green and grassy, rambling and ambling and on its back a shirt it wore. All of pearl and spun clouds that shirt, and the sheep walked under it and out of it two legs grew. Legs not legs of lamb but legs of a man. Curling pale hair, arms with elbows to them, fingers and toes, eyes round and blue, not slit and staring. A brother come back to her was he, and she fell on his neck and kissed it. He held her and told her all his telling and all his tale.

Sat I on the edge of the field, on the top of the wall all stacked there of stones, he told, long and longing, thinking and pondering on nothing and nothing at all but the ease and pleasing life of a sheep. All a-fire my life seemed to me, a-fire and for no reason but that all and everyone wanted things of me. Working I was, for just it seemed to me the working of it, weeding and hoeing, sowing and growing, making and mowing. All of thought and all of strife, nothing of easy, pleasing, empty life. And on a day came down that way a crone, gnarled and bent and on her shoulder a raven like a spill of ink, hard and serious. Up and asked me what I longed after, called me her apple seed, her bitty carrot cake, and I told her, I told her. Of my heart's desire to be rid and rid of all the foolishly sought for gain and gold. Rest is it you're after and a-longing for? asked she and her raven leaned in close, so as not to lose a word, pleasing empty ease of mind? I'll give it and you'll get it if one wee kiss you'll give to me. And I gave it, sister, and I got that rest, a sleep so deep that I forgot my own self, forgot my way and my name, ambled about in the green and grassy, ate of clover and buttercup standings, chewed while I stood and while I stood I slept, til of a sudden a shirt blew down and around upon me, and just as sudden I could not crop no more, nor bleat, nor bear to eat of clover. So up I came, and there was you, hair all shorn and arms held out. And he fell to petting her, to hugging and to holding her and a-telling her all his love. So she was happy with her brother, happy for a time and after a fashion, but as she walked him home she rubbed her head and rubbed her head and felt her hair all short and bristly and wondered mightily how she'd ever want to be pulling five more brothers all home by her hair.