June 2009 – Of Warmth, Of Dragons

Marian didn’t speak of the pain. She admitted neither the ache in her leg with every step, nor the burn in her chest with every breath, nor the other agony that was nowhere. Keeping her grip on Penelope’s arm through the rough sleeve, limping and occasionally wincing, she didn’t complain, not once. If she complained, Penelope would decide to turn back; even now she’d say that the trip was too long and hard for Marian. She’d mean it kindly, but Marian wasn’t turning back.

She stumbled, feeling her daughter’s strong forearm tighten and bulge, holding her until she caught herself.

“Mind the holes,” Penelope said.

“Yes, of course; thank you,” said Marian, too quickly.

Twisty, bumpy and long, the dirt path through the woods was the last of the gauntlets to be run on the way to the Fair. First they’d imposed on the doddering electric car, unsuited for so many miles of unrepaired highway; then a horse cart had jarred them from the crumbling asphalt plaza to the edge of the woods. Days, the trip had taken altogether. They’d stopped by roadsides, pitched a torn tent in air that was starting to get chilly by night, eaten the bread, fruit and cheese they’d brought, traded metal coins for other food along the way. Now they were almost at Marian’s goal, if she didn’t lose her chance by admitting to being tired or sore or sad.

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