ETTA (by ansinico)

The boy is small, very small, his energy though is huge, nothing about him can stay still, quiet or calm.

His eyes dance and sparkle, his small, happy face beams, laughter falls from his mouth in cascading giggles. Even his hair, crazy, unruly curls, bob and up down. He claps his hands as he skips and runs around his mothers skirt and his fathers dark clothed legs.

“Be still,” his parents scold the child, but not harshly for they too are caught up in their boys playful exuberance.

The man’s hand gently but firmly clasps the small shoulder and for a brief moment father and son are as one caught in a fixed stare. The boy knows he can win. Those green laughing eyes swiftly take on a forlorn and crestfallen look. The man cannot bear it, he wants to see those laughing, sparkling green jewels. He relaxes his hold and the boy wriggles free to spin, twirl and run. His feet unable to stay still are more determined than ever to move as fast as they possible can. His joyful laughter echo’s back to the couple. They shake their heads and laugh with him.

Faster and faster the boy runs across the meadow. Through the wild flowers and high grass, his skinny arms flaying. Brushing aside the tall green stems. They pull at him and tickle his chin and cheeks. Breathless he stops and flops to his knees. He turns his head to catch sight of his parents. To him they are far, far away, far away in the distance. Only now have they reached the open meadow where he knows they will sit and spread the blanket that mama has folded and draped over her arm. Papa carries the picnic basket.

Out of the corner of his eye he spies a large red butterfly. Those green eyes widen with delight. There is lots of time to chase butterfly’s. Even though he is thirsty and hungry there is still time. Slowly, for it is in him to creep and move at something less than a run. Also he remembers the lessons that his big brother’s have taught him. But no, to be slow and patient is hard for the boy. He lunges forward. His small, tightly clasped hands return to his chest holding nothing but air. Yelling his annoyance to the blue unclouded sky he leaps to his feet and sets off after the disobedient insect. His father’s voice floats across the meadow. The boy knows the bug chase is over, he spins about and calls back to his Pa.

“You can’t catch me, you can’t catch me,”

His feet take him off in another direction. The small body once more moves swiftly through the undergrowth. His gallop takes him to where the meadow meets the old trail and the cliffs edge. Still he runs, laughing, ignoring his father’s now frantic call. The man too has started on a run. Mama lifts her skirts and she takes up the chase. Their voices combine in a mix of fear and panic.

“Joseph stop…JOSEPH…STOP!”

“You can’t catch me.”

The shrill high pitched voice of the young boy reaches the ears of his mama and papa. He turns to laugh at his mama and papa. It is already too late. The beaming, happy smile crumples into a wide eyed look of fear. One small foot finds no purchase with the earth. The laughing call is now a scream of terror.

“You can’t catch me…can’t catch me…Catch Me…CATCH MEeeeee!!!”

The boys shriek and his mamas scream are drowned by the screeching of the nesting and perching birds. As one, the wildly flapping wings soar into the blue.

The shrieking…the screaming of the birds…of the man…of the woman…of the child…of me.

The screams bring the pain…slicing at my head…cutting, pulling, tearing.

I cry out my misery…no one hears…no one hears…stop her…stop her…

The woman…the black horse…stop her…the cliffs edge…STOP HER!!!

“You can’t catch me”… “Can’t catch me”… “CATCH ME!!!”

I stretch to catch the boy…the falling boy…floating…floating…painlessly floating.

Agony floods my body, jagged, broken glass digs and tears it’s way through my flesh, slicing into my head…l should be floating…why am l not floating…the murmuring voices, soft, sibilant voices. The voices do nothing…l scream for help…the murmuring voices take no notice. They don’t hear me…l don’t hear me…the glass doesn’t hear me it pierces, cuts and shreds at my back, my body, my head…the hands, the hands are touching me…they don’t take the pain, they don’t stop the pain…l must wait…l can’t move…l must wait…the floating will come back…the floating lifts me, lifts me from the glass…the murmuring stops, the floating starts…l can drift, drift into the clouds…drift…drift into the stratocumulus…painless stratocumulus.

“You can’t catch me”…. “Can’t catch me”…. “Catch Meeee!!” l scream…no one is listening…no one hears my pain.

************************************

It was not unusual to hear the melodic sounds of the guitar at any time day or night. Sometimes accompanied by Adam’s rich baritone voice and sometimes not. Etta delighted in the sounds of the guitar and even more in Adam’s singing. Evenings passed in Joe’s room where the music and songs were enjoyed by all three. Hoss though carrying a strong voice was not as fine a singer as his brother. Never-the-less he could hold a tune. He opted more for the lively, comedy ditty’s. Etta’s voice captured both Adam and Hoss’s hearts. Not only for its purity of quality, she charmed them by singing French songs, Cajun and Creole songs. Etta even remembered some native Indian songs, though she herself couldn’t understand how.

The days passed in this fashion it was now well into the second month since the Cartwright brothers became guests at Etta Tone’s. Little Joe’s injuries were healing well. That is apart from the perpetual state of comatose that had him under it ‘s control. It now having taken an effect on his body mass. His daily fluid intake was keeping him alive but the young man’s flesh, what there was of it clung to his bones. From lack of exercise his once taunt muscles had softened to nothing. It seemed to his brothers that their little brother was fading away in front of their eyes.

It was at these moments that Etta raised their hopes. She too knew of Thomas Simms’s accident as she and Harriet Simms had discussed it on numerous occasions . In truth it was often the habit of the three of them. Dr Simms and his wife along with Etta to raise the subject of the doctor’s illness. On a personal level but also on a professional level. Many medical books were dragged from the shelves to substantiate or dispute a raised question, topic or idea. It was Harriet who had urged her husband to write a journal on what he could remember of his experience. Hoping that it may in some way be of benefit to both doctor and lay person or anyone having to deal with such a medical trauma. Thomas Simms was in the process of doing that very thing.

With the evening meal behind them Hoss, Adam and Etta went about their designated tasks. It was Hoss’s turn to settle the animals. Rounding up Chubb, Sport and Cochise from the corral where they had been spending most of their hours Hoss walked the animals into the shelter of the barn. Into which they went without any argument knowing that a feed and a grooming were waiting for them. Etta’s pony’s head was already down. It’s nose ferreting through the remains of feed left in the bucket. Leaving the three Cartwright horses to their meal. Hoss started grooming Molasses. Etta’s dark brown mare which answered to the shortened name of Molli. Tending to animals Hoss had never found to be a chore. It comforted him to give comfort to any creature, even more so now. The time spent with these horses helped him. Seemed to ease his mind. Settle his thoughts.

 

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Author: ansinico

1 thought on “ETTA (by ansinico)

  1. That was terrific. I like Etta – she is the perfect foil for Adam.
    Please let’s have more of this story.

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