The Memoirs of Red Johnson: Pebbles on the door

The fire needs a log sir, and the night needs a story. Let’s give it one, shall we?

It was a very long time ago. I was just a boy. Yes, that’s how long ago it was. Everyone in the village knew this girl, about ten years older than myself. A stout maiden with a long face. She was the owner of the longest nose you have ever seen. Eyes like two gray cats on the wall. No, sir, she was not pretty. The most distressing of it all was that she grew a dark stubble on her chin. It was plain to everybody’s notice but her own. People sniggered around her about how she needed a shave, while she walked on unoffended and unconcerned. A sensible girl, dear sir, would have secretly gained possession of a blade and a clear mirror, doing away every sign of that which made her so different from the other girls of her age. But a sensible girl she was not.

We were but nine. We would walk by her house after school only so we could through pebbles at her door. She grew used it to. On Sunday mornings, one would see her proudly walk into church, right up to the front pew. The elderly ladies who usually sat there began to sit by the second pew now. At first, she would stay in church till noon by herself, with her eyes closed and her head bowed. We would huddle outside the door and hiss to see if she would open her eyes. But she never did, Sir, not once. Then she began to spend less time in church till she gradually stopped coming. The elderly ladies were restored to their favorite pew.

Would you mind sir, if I refilled your glass? I do not remember where or how or why, but she slowly faded out of our memories, sir. It was when I was entering my teens and my voice grew deep that I remember hearing of her again. There was talk of how she had moved to the outer end of the village. She lived alone sir. And there was talk of strange smells. They say she boiled broths all day. They expected she was up to something. Some young girls who had accidentally developed a bump around their fronts turned up at her cottage expecting her to bring out a bucket and tongs. She, however, chased them away, shouting and cursing. Some of the mothers, when their babies were ill, wanted to ask her for help. But she would not hear of it. So we gradually forgot about her again, sir, as one does that plant in the corner that refuses to flower or bear fruit. We have little use for it. We may not tend to it yet how it grows.

The last time I saw her was when I was about twelve. My mate and I were fishing by the river, one summer day. There we found her, sat among the rocks, like some grey mushroom. Her skirt was drawn above her knees, revealing her unsightly limbs. She held a bottle of potent alcohol between her hands. She was muttering to herself. “I won’t tell them, sire. I promise I won’t. Do let me be. Please do not pain me again, sire. I shall be good.”

We ran away, sir. For, surely, she was casting a spell. But now that I think back, sir, I wish I had thrown no pebbles at her door. I wish I hadn’t.