Fickle

There once lived a woman high in the green mountains surrounded by clouds so close she could touch them. She had long, soft hair uncharacteristic of a mountain folk. Her steps were light and quick, giving away her bright spirits when she was in nature, surrounded by the mountains. Otherwise, when she was in town, her steps were slow, deliberate, and she moved regally. I always wondered what kind of person she was. There was always another side to her; more to discover and wonder at. Yet, it seamlessly fit into her character and the contrast did not make her seem dishonest or repulsive, rather it was an admirable quality to me.                                                                                                              Once I saw her in the town square with her little heeled shoes, dancing and laughing with the crowd. She wore a long orange dress with large flower prints that had a ruffle pattern skirt, which she grabbed and shook around. She threw her head and her hair rocked wildly with the drums. The energetic woman spun around her dress, her arms shot up high. Her heels tapped quick and hard on the pavement, her eyes closed and her teeth braced towards the world. As I watched her I felt something stir within me, unconscious and unknown workings of fate.    

Nevertheless, don’t be fooled, this young lady is not an upbeat or optimistic one as some eyes may come to conclude upon seeing her at moments. There was a time when I saw her walking across town slowly and hard, with a stern look in her eyes and the corners of her lips drooped. It looked as if she carried a storm cloud,  instead of hair on her head. She looked unapproachable as she walked through the market. (Don’t be mistaken, I had business that day at the market to replenish the stocks and happened to spot her). I was several steps behind her and looked over at the bread—when I heard a man yelp. Naturally, I looked towards the direction of the distress and saw her in center of the event.

“You scoundrel, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

I didn’t get to hear her voice often—and especially with such thunder in them. A crowd had begun to form and murmur about what was happening. Apparently, some men were harassing a young girl and our heroine went to her defense. The whole thing escalated and one of the men raised his hand at our heroine—which she ended up twisting that hand.       

By the time I had pushed through the crowd and saw her standing there, the agitators had left—some embarrassed, some cursing at her. The poor girl, who was harassed, teared up looking as if she had barely managed to hold it together during the whole turmoil. And when our heroine looked at the clammed up girl—instead of pity, there was an indiscernible and almost stoic look on her face.                        

She bought something from a nearby stall. I inched closer to take a look at what. Then the woman kneeled down. She looked the young girl straight in the eye and wiped her tears, “That was a bit scary wasn’t it?” She tried to comfort the girl and her expression had softened a bit. My affection for this woman grew when I saw that she handed the girl small blocks of wrapped caramel into her palms.

Then when she looked up at the young girl again, her eyes became serious and she spoke, “Don’t let losers like them get to you, okay? You’re a strong girl. You can fight whoever you want,” she took a quick pause, “You must remain brave in spite of any and all storms if you want victory.” Just when I thought she couldn’t get anymore amusing. It was almost as if she was preparing that girl for war! Which was a bit absurd, and I ended up chuckling to myself. The crying girl had calmed down a bit, but still hiccuped between her breaths. Even then, she nodded and thanked her savior.                                               

After that scene I hadn’t got to see her for many months. I panicked at the thought that maybe she had left town and was never to return. It was difficult not to turn my head at every click of a heel that passed by as I churred butter outside my place. Or  when I looked out my window every time I thought I saw her beautiful, long hair as I meshed potatoes. I didn’t have any kids. As for my husband, he was seldom home, always out attending business elsewhere in the region. So, often I thought of that strange woman. The distinctive look in her eyes, the contrast of her movements, the pull of her voice. The discreet and enigmatic traits of hers. Everything about her flustered me, instead of churring butter, I would end up churning my own feelings and meshing my thoughts.                  

I felt foolish and agitated that a woman remained so much on my mind. Was I jealous? Did I idolize her? Has she bewitched me? None of those options were appealing. Especially since it would ruin my life. Yet, I couldn’t help it! No one has ever made me feel this way. And I knew, no one else like that exists. So, I had made up my mind. The next time I spot her I will confront that bizarre woman with her sleek long hair and her luring charm. I just hoped I would catch a glimpse of her strangeness again.

End of chapter 1.