or you can store it in a treasure chest.

The sky and earth speak sternly as the girl with the orange scarf ‘round her head hurries across a great field.

The sky gleams sapphire.
The earth sits brown.

*

Earlier in the day, the girl was startled by a crone dressed in flowing black garments. The sun was just beginning to peek out from behind the hills, painting the sky with lavender, rose, thin bursts of gold. The girl with the orange scarf 'round her head was sitting under the great tree in her front yard. She had been writing in a book of blank pages. A fanciful line of six words and six syllables had just taken form with the ink of her pen, when suddenly a hard wind from the west started and nearly tore the scarf from her head. It caused her to look up from her words, whereupon she spied the old woman approaching. The woman was quite close by the time the girl saw her. She said nothing, only stared as the figure in black drew closer and closer. The woman paid no mind to the girl at first; she moved straight for the tree. She huddled close to it for some time, one hand on the thick, gnarly trunk. The girl did not move, nor say a word. The cold gusts tickled her neck. A sudden shudder shook her. The old woman then looked at her. The woman’s left eye was strange. The girl remembered her grandmother back at home, in the house behind the tree, and realized the woman now bending above her suffered from blindness in that eye. As the woman crouched lower, the girl took a deep breath. Pulling her dark cloak around the two of them, the old woman whispered in the young girl’s ear.

*

The sky gleams sapphire.
The earth sits brown.

Her shoes are thick with mud, so she tears them off and leaves them behind. With her feet bare, she is able to run through the dirt, hop over rocks and rabbit-holes as she stares at a forest across the field.

The sky grumbles and the girl looks up. The cold wind is growing stronger. The orange scarf whips into the girl’s eyes and she falls face down into the mud. She lies there for a minute, face buried in the earth. The earth stays silent, but she thinks she can hear its hushed groans. Her heart thumps powerfully against it. The earth remains unhurried. With fingers and toes clenching the ground, she raises herself onto her hands and knees. Limbs trembling, she howls at the sky but receives no answer. The sky feels sorry for her but cannot help. Some things must be done.

Then she is on her feet again, darting toward the thick line of trees in the distance. While she moves, she wipes some of the dirt off her face with the palms of her hands. Behind her, dark gray clouds are moving forward. They swirl swiftly, and before long the bright blue sky is overtaken by thick curls of clouds churning in different directions. The girl notices the change. She thinks of the old woman’s eye. As she nears the edge of the forest, she pulls the scarf off her head. The wind shrieks all around her. She raises it into the air with her left hand and runs into the forest. She can see the cottage from here. The little red cottage with the moss growing over it. The crone’s voice echoes in her head.

Upon reaching the door of the house, she kneels and sets the scarf down next to her, to her left. It is a curious little home. The moss completely covers the two windows, and the front door has no knob. Scratched into the wood of the door is one short line, beside which is also scratched a small circle. The roof is thatched. It reminds the girl of a bird’s nest, and again the crone’s voice sounds between her ears. With a throbbing forehead, she ferociously tears into the ground with her hands. A small hole is soon between her and the door. She picks up her scarf, marveling at its color. Despite the stains of dirt from the tumble before, its fiery hue shines back at her. She smiles for a moment and falls back onto her heels, nuzzling her face into the scarf. It is warm as she clutches it so dearly. The trees around her give rumbling creaks. The girl looks up at them, through their crackling yellow leaves, sees the swirling sky. One deep breath, and she buries her scarf in the ground. Before rising, she lays the palm of her left hand over the little brown mound. She whispers something. The wind continues with its screams as she leaves the little red cottage behind.

*

With no shoes and no scarf, she walks back across the field toward her own house. The wind ceases its crying, and soon all is quite still, except for the girl heading home. She glimpses her grandmother slowly moving around to the back yard, with a bucket in her hand. The girl quickens her pace upon remembering it is time to draw water from the well. As she jogs past the great tree in her front yard, she spies something out of the corner of her eye. It is the book of blank pages she left behind when she fled to the forest. She stops to retrieve it, and notices something black inserted into its pages. She opens to a black strip of cloth. The page on which just this morning she had written the fanciful line of six words and six syllables is gone.

With a furrowed brow, the girl turns her head over her right shoulder, in the direction of the forest. She imagines her nails scratching into the moss that covers the windows of the little red cottage. She wants to see inside. Then she remembers the well. The cottage will have to wait. With book in hand, she rushes to her grandmother.



For how long will the scarf call to her from across the great field?
For how long will she continue to listen?