'Nitsa (miss_midday) wrote in forgotten_past, @ 2008-07-15 00:26:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | cassandra, pscipolnitsa |
Impromptu nursery rhymes are a bad idea.
Who: Pscipolnitsa and Cassandra
When: 1870. Flux of Russian immigration to Pennsylvania.
Where: Outside of Pittsburgh, farmland.
Rating: PG-13+ Children + child possession + child abduction/violence.
"Lady Mid-Day, Lady Mid-Day, where are you," some little girls, blond and blue eyed with braids, big smiles and bad teeth, joined hands in their impromptu nursery rhyme recitation. It was not in any of their fairy tale books, but they were well aware of Lady Midday, because their mother warned them of straying too far in the wheat outside of their small home, and also scolded their father for similar reasons when he would slave away at the soil through the hottest time of the day - and the most feared - noon. The noon goddess, Pscipolnitsa, still lurked in their minds. The family would tell people how they lost their Nana to the goddess, claiming feverishly the demon-spirit Lady of the Rye pulled their grandmother's hair and broke her neck for not greeting the goddess "politely". "Lady Mid-Day, Lady Mid--" the girls stopped abruptly. Dust clouds were starting to kick up in a noon breeze, a threat of a dust storm, perhaps, or a dust devil.
"Children! What are you doing?! Do not utter her name, and not even such! She will take you from us. She will take you!" Their mother's eyes were aflame with fury and fear all at once, as she frantically looked across the vast plane of their farm for the goddess dressed in white, and stared then at her daughters. The gathering dust in the air and miniature whirling clouds of dirt starting to surround her daughters' movements worried her. "Hush now. It's almost noon and time for you to come inside."
"But," one girl paused, twelve years old and shining with a smile. "She's only a story, Mama. She's only a story."
Excuse me? A story? A story? How dare they! Zhara, did you hear that? Their parents have nightmares of me stealing away their babes, and here those babes are, denying my existence? And they're only second generation! Whatever will I come to?! The little swirling dust devils seemed to grow in size, causing one of the little girls to cough and inhale raggedly afterward, and cough again.
"Sister," the girl coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her white sleeve. "Follow me." She broke away from her sister, her voice distant and detached, eyes sparking with curiosity, determination and something otherworldly. And the other sister followed, unquestioning, a giggle and smile on her lips, a glow in her otherwise dark eyes. Their mother's hands were elbow-deep in bread dough made from their own wheat and rye, and she was fervently praying to the Lady of the Rye not to take her children or to take her crops, promising she would lay a sheath of wheat on their doorstep before sundown to appease the goddess. In other words, Mama wasn't paying attention as her daughters were lured away.
"Let's sing," the distant-voiced sister whispered, and they resumed from where they were. "Lady Mid-Day, Lady Mid-Day, where are you? Come sing along, come dance along, join us and protect us, Lady Mid-Day..." The girls danced, and spun, fingers interlocked. Dust clung to their sweaty brows and matted their tousled hair, bits and pieces of wheat flowers began to cling to their simple dresses, and danced, and spun, until, breathless, the dark eyed girl collapsed. Her sister cried out, as if snapping from a daze, "Sister! Wake up, please!" Kneeling, the girl shriek resounded against the empty fields of wheat. Her sister was dead. Curls had been pulled asunder in the goddess's rage, and her little neck had long, garish bruises. And the little girl blacked out, in shock and in horror.
Blue eyes looked around her, at the stalks of grain, and Pscipolnitsa realized, suddenly, that she was corporeal. She'd been within the gathering dust clouds and lingering at the center of the field as her true self - the attractive lady in white - but when the little girl coughed, she inhaled some dust and grain, and thus, here she was, in that twelve year old form she rarely took. Smirking, she frolicked through the grasses, up the front steps, and cried out, "Mother! Agatha is dead! Lady Midday came, and she took her, she's gone!"