Forgotten But Not Gone

This is Chapter Five from my recently published novel Forgotten But Not Gone.I

Chapter Five

She tripped and almost fell again. Panic lodged in her throat, and there was a roaring in her ears. She felt as if she had been running all her life. Running through this forest, down the mountain, stumbling and falling, crying, getting up, and running on! She had taken short naps when she had become just too exhausted to continue, but she had awakened each time in fright and knew she had to keep running.

However, that’s all she knew. What frightened her most was that she couldn’t remember what it was she was running from – just that, whatever it was, she had to get away! Something terrible had happened, but she couldn’t remember what it was! She couldn’t think when she last had eaten anything, and she was getting very weak. She had to stop more and more often to rest.

Then, a miracle! Straight ahead of her she saw a large clearing, and in it was a small, somewhat run-down looking farm. The barn was dilapidated, and so were a couple of wooden out-buildings. She could see chickens scrabbling in the dirt yard and a pen with goats in it. There were some patchy crop fields off to the side of the house. The house itself, once white, was scabby with peeling paint, and there was an open porch with a sagging couch on it and a couple of cane seat chairs with the bottoms mostly out. Whoever lived there didn’t take very good care of the place, she thought.

She stopped abruptly, breathing hard, not sure what to do, and stood still, shivering and thinking. Could she possibly find some hay in the barn loft where she could get some sleep? She was so very tired. A bit of reason returned. “Maybe there’s a cow, and I can get a little milk. I’ll have to wait ’til dark, though,” she thought, so she sat in the cover of the woods, hugging herself to keep warm, waiting until the daylight was completely gone. She was shaking all over. All she had on were heavy cotton underclothes and a shapeless dress of some kind of woven woolen material and no shoes. The days were warm, but the nights had been cold. Sewed to the inside of her underclothes she had something tied in a piece of old blue blanket, but she hadn’t even looked to see what it was.

Some lights went on in the house, and she could see someone moving around in front of a window. She tiptoed stealthily toward the barn, holding her breath. “I hope they don’t have dogs,” she whispered to herself. She stopped every few steps, hoping she wouldn’t hear barking. When she didn’t, she crept cautiously to the barn and slid the door open just enough to get through, but it creaked loudly. She stopped breathing for a moment, but apparently no one heard. She shut it carefully, trying not to let it creak again.

Inside the barn it was a little warmer, and she could just see in the dimness a cow and a calf in wooden stalls. There wasn’t a loft, but there was a lot of hay piled at one end, and she was so worn out that she stumbled to it, curled up, pulled as much of the hay as she could over herself, and somehow, in some way, she felt safe. She fell into the soundest sleep she’d had yet.

It was just getting light when she heard the barn door creak open. Frightened, she realized immediately that she had slept too long to get away unnoticed. She squirreled herself down deeper into the hay and tried not to breathe. An old man in faded overalls, a gray cardigan and a cap, entered with a tin pail and started talking to the cow. She could see he was bent over a little as if his back bothered him.

“Well, now, Molly, what have you got for me today? A big pail of nice creamy milk, I hope. Your little calf is getting fed just fine. She doesn’t need your milk anymore. You’re a good cow, Molly. Don’t know what we’d do without you.” He stood by her side for a minute and stroked her side as he would an old friend.

He got a milking stool from the corner and sat down with a bit of difficulty to milk Molly, who stood still, patiently chewing her cud, while he expertly squirted the milk into his pail. The farmer kept up talking to Molly the whole time, as if she were listening and would reply. He mostly was talking about a war and how the boys would all be coming back now and how things should get better for everybody now that Roosevelt had passed all those laws to help the farmers. And everyone said the depression was coming to an end.

She wondered who Roosevelt was. And what was a depression?

The girl was faint from hunger. Her stomach hurt, and the smell of the fresh milk was almost too much for her. Without realizing it, she let out a small moan.

The man stopped what he was doing and looked around the barn. “What was that, Molly? Did you hear something?” he asked curiously. “I could have sworn I heard some kind of cry.” His eyes traveled around the barn, which had gotten brighter by now, and he saw what looked like a small animal mostly covered by the hay piled at the far end of the barn.

Rising from the stool with some difficulty because of his arthritis, he picked up a nearby pitchfork and moved cautiously along the side of the barn. When he got to the end, he pulled away some of the hay and was shocked at what he saw. “What have we here?” He leaned the pitchfork against the wall. He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. It’s a young girl. Now where on earth did you come from?” He reached toward the girl, who shrank back in panic.

“Don’t hurt me. I’m going right away. I just wanted to sleep a little bit. I didn’t take anything, really, not even milk!” she protested. She sat up and tried to scoot herself toward the door, but the farmer took hold of her arm and stood her in front of him. She was young, probably fourteen or fifteen at the most, and painfully thin. Her dress was ragged, and she was pitifully dressed for the weather. She was trembling with fear, and her eyes kept darting around looking for an escape. He noticed she had welts on her arms and legs, as if she had been whipped.

This wasn’t the first time the farmer had fed a stranger who had come to his door. It had happened more than once during the hard depression years. Weary people selling pins and needles, Bibles, potholders, or just asking to work for a little food. Even young kids whose families simply didn’t have the means to feed another mouth. Just children, on their own, begging for a little food. But this seemed to be different.

“Don’t you try to say anything right now,” he said kindly “You’re cold and hungry, aren’t you? You just come in the house with me, and Mother will fix you some breakfast. We can talk later. Come on now. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.” He held her arm gently but firmly and led her toward the house, chatting all the time about the chickens and the weather, as if finding a strange girl sleeping in his barn were an everyday occurrence.

The girl had no choice but to go along with him, even though she was so frightened she couldn’t stop shaking.

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