How to Overcome Childhood (5)
Even though Sister Flora was still unwell, she rose from her bed.
Whenever she looked at Rhea and me, her mouth would droop into a sad curve. Then she would call us closer and hold us tight.
She asked us over and over.
Was it truly a donation?
Guilt coiled around us, but we did not want her going outside. We had meant to put the whole sum in at once; instead we broke it into pieces and slipped a little into the donation box each day. After another week had passed, she wept openly and offered prayers to God.
“Thank you… thank you so very much…”
By then she no longer seemed to believe we had lied. The amount might have been small to others, yet it was far too much for children to leave in the box every single day.
She might have pressed us again, but instead of interrogating us she chose to trust. Because she trusted us, she wrote a letter.
It was a letter to the “benefactor.”
A few of Sister Flora’s tears had soaked into the paper.
There was no benefactor. Now that we had done something wrong for her sake, we could never confess that we ourselves were the ones who had given the money. So Sister Flora poured endless gratitude onto the page for the fake sponsor we had invented.
Afraid the lie would be exposed, we told another. Sister Flora was still sick, we said, so we would take the letter to the postman ourselves.
Rhea and I could barely read. Born and raised in the slums, we had only learned scraps of writing from Sister Flora. When we took the letter and secretly tried to read it, we grew so sad that tears spilled out like fools. The one sentence the two of us could piece together with our heads pressed together was this:
…Please, help the children. Do not abandon us.
It was a plea not to cut off the support—perhaps a wretched sentence with no pride left in it at all.
I felt as though we had committed a crime. It was like seeing the private shame of Sister Flora, whom we had always thought so strong. We had robbed innocent people in the slums and used that dirty money to force her into this humiliation. We had soiled her gratitude and her desperate request.
We had deceived her with a wicked lie, then deceived her again until she believed it… and in the end we had made her beg a person who did not even exist to help us.
My chest hurt. It was so sad, so hard that my lips trembled. Rhea and I made a promise.
“No more.”
“…Yeah.”
We vowed we would never go back to the slums. It might be a vow that would break in a few days, but for now it stood.
It had taken a full fortnight for Sister Flora to wake and rise. In those two weeks we had robbed innocent people more than four times—hearts pounding with the fear of being caught—just so we could feed Ceria and Claudia something. We hoped that once Sister Flora recovered she would not have to go to the village for donations for at least a few weeks. We still had enough money left; if we worked diligently from now on, we thought, we could make it through the winter.
Crack— thump—
I cleared away the mound of earth. A small wooden box came into view.
“…Is it still there?”
“Yeah. It’s there.”
The money we meant to drop into the donation box each month we had deliberately buried in the yard outside the house, afraid Ceria or Claudia might play with it and lose it.
Twenty-five silver pieces. About fifty copper coins.
The single gold coin we had taken from that Orthodox Church bastard had been worth quite a lot; these were the leftovers after we had changed it for smaller change. Of course we knew they had not given us its full value, but we accepted it. We had needed to curry favor, after all.
I took out two silvers and four coppers.
Today’s donation. We might be sinning against Sister Flora, and it might hurt her terribly—but it was still better than watching her drag her injured body, limping all the way to the village.
“…How much is left?”
“…Nowhere near enough to get through winter.”
“…Do we have to go back to the slums?”
“We said we wouldn’t.”
“Then what do we do…? The villagers won’t help us. Even when we say we’re buying something they charge us several times more…”
Rhea asked me, then plopped down and buried her face in her knees. She did not seem to be doing it because she wanted to cry. After only a fortnight of glimpsing how Sister Flora had lived, she was simply exhausted.
“Every time I see the letter Sister Flora sent, it hurts so much.”
“…Me too.”
“…Ceria and Claudia are struggling because we’re gone every day. They keep asking if we’re going to end up like Sister Flora.”
“Don’t worry too much. Sister Flora said the world is warm.”
“…It’s cold.”
“That’s because it’s winter.”
I buried the wooden box again. Then I took Rhea’s hand and walked back into the orphanage. I did not forget to drop the silver and coins into the donation box. The moment Claudia saw us return, her tail began to wag. Ceria slipped out of the resting sister’s arms and hugged us hard. Today they seemed determined; Claudia and Ceria each seized one of our hands and pulled us along.
“Can’t you just stay inside?”
“…I-I’ll let you touch my t-tail, so don’t go out… I-I’m scared…”
Sister Flora had already risen and was watching us. Her sad expression and the tears sliding down her cheeks were painfully clear. Even though I knew we could not stay, I smiled and answered.
“Okay. We won’t go out. What should we play?”
Claudia and Ceria met each other’s eyes and answered at the same time.
“H-house… playing house.”
“Playing house!”
For children who knew no proper games beyond rock-paper-scissors, tag, or hide-and-seek, it was the longest game we could stretch until bedtime. A game meant to keep us from running outside no matter how often we were told not to. A game Rhea had whined about again and again so that I would not be allowed to leave.
“…You be the mom, Rhea. Claudia and I can do something else… Just play with us.”
Ceria said it. I could only nod.
“…Children, may I join you too?”
Sister Flora, who had been praying on the simple cot, limped over to us. They said that limp would last the rest of her life.
Time passed.
Winter was at its height; snow lay thick and the cold was bitter. Still, having a roof over our heads felt like a blessing.
Because of her limp, Sister Flora could not go to the village and spent her days with us instead. At first the money we had earned through wicked deeds filled me with guilt, but now it was different. Without that money she would have been forcing her way through blizzards to reach the village in weather like this.
True to our vow, we did not head for the slums. To keep the money from running out, I walked not toward the nearby side of the orphanage but the opposite direction—three full hours along the road that led to the city—and looked for work there.
The drainage ditches were frozen solid, so I used my small frame to smash the ice inside them. Rhea sometimes tried to follow, but I left her at the orphanage.
Back when we were very little, living day to day in the slums by crying and fleecing others, fighting the alley children—
“…When I grow up, I’m going to marry Riel.”
Rhea had said that in her childish heart so I would never leave her. I used it. Since she was going to be my wife, I told her, she should wait at home. Look after Sister Flora and the children, and welcome me when I returned.
I knew it was a bad thing—a truly bad thing to do. But someone had to look after Ceria and Claudia. Sister Flora too.
The limp was not the end of it. Those vicious bastards had beaten her so hard that one of her eyes no longer seemed to see well. Outwardly she looked fine, yet whenever she played tag with us she always failed to spot Claudia or Ceria standing on her left side.
“…If I earn a lot of money, do you think I could meet the Saintess?”
A child who had never possessed a single dream suddenly had one. I hated the Orthodox Church, yet people said not everyone in it was like that.
There was a person called the Saintess, they said, who could heal the wounded and make the lame walk again. Some claimed she asked for nothing in return; others said she did. Even a Saintess, I thought, would probably like money. So alongside the struggle to survive, I began to save.
Crunch— I stepped on the snow.
It was cold, but I kept walking. Afraid dirty clothes would give me away, I took off my outer coat before climbing down into the ditches. If the water had not been frozen I might have rinsed it in the river and dried it, but even over a fire the coat simply would not dry.
“Uncle Clint!”
Just as Sister Flora had said, the world was warm—at least on the far side where rumors of witches and the like had not spread so thickly. They did not persecute us quite so badly or speak of us as if we were vermin. They did not treat us especially kindly either, but at least they paid proper wages and gave us proper treatment. Only after coming here did I realize that the money I used to receive for cleaning filth from the ditches near the village had been half the real rate, beaten down.
“Right. Here’s today’s pay in advance. If people from the Orthodox Church show up, finish cleaning and head home.”
“…The Orthodox Church?”
“They’re building a church here to care for orphans, I hear.”
“…What?”
“There’s a rumor that a heretic is in this village. That’s probably why.”
Heretic. Orthodox Church. Just hearing those two words made my fists clench; my eyes stung as if tears might fall like an idiot. Why do they keep tormenting us like this? I wondered.
If word of Sister Flora had already reached this far, what were we supposed to do to live? Was the sick sister, the abandoned Ceria and Claudia, and Rhea all supposed to just die? I was trembling a little, so Uncle Clint added three extra silvers to today’s wages. Being closer to the city, people here were kinder.
“Here—this is a gift. The winter festival’s coming soon.”
I was angry and it felt unfair, but I could not simply take the money and run. I no longer wanted to sin against Sister Flora, so I climbed down and smashed ice. Then, just as Uncle Clint had said, I went straight home.
Even though I had been careful, filth still clung to me. I picked up a big stone and broke the river ice. It was something that had to be done no matter how cold it was.
I lit a fire right beside the river and washed my clothes in the water first. They began to freeze at once, so I hung them on a branch near the fire. Then, even as my whole body stiffened and my fingertips felt ready to split, I plunged myself into the river. The freezing water actually felt a little warmer than standing naked outside.
Splash— splash—
I scrubbed and scrubbed again. Afterward I sat by the fire and turned myself like a roasting pig until I was dry.
The thought that I never wanted to return to the slums suddenly rose, yet before long I understood that I would have to go back there after all. If they were coming because of a heretic, it was because of Sister Flora. I already knew I would no longer be able to get work from Uncle Clint.
“…Better that I go.”
There are not many ways for girls to earn money in the slums. Either they fleece the naïve the way Rhea and I once did, or they start using the fact that they are girls from that age. There are strong ones, of course, but most are fragile—weaker than boys. In a place where fists are closer than justice or law.
“Maybe it’s for the best. If I keep saving like this, when will I ever be able to heal Sister Flora?”
I let out a short laugh and muttered to myself. Because the clothes were still damp I moved a little closer to the fire and put on the coat I had taken off. Much better. Night seemed about to fall. They were not fully dry, but I dressed anyway and put out the fire.
Toward the orphanage—no, toward the church, because Sister Flora was there. When I arrived, Sister Flora was crouched in front of the main gate.
“Sister Flora, why are you outside?”
I ran to her. She looked up at me with a face full of anger.
“…Did you go to the other side of Bilua Village today? You said you were going to build a snowman and come back.”
“…What?”
“…Roll up your pant legs.”
“W-why are you doing this?”
“…I heard people from the Orthodox Church were coming, so I went myself. Do I need to say more?”
At those words my heart dropped with a heavy thud. In the hand that held the switch she also held the letter she had written to the benefactor. Listening carefully, I could hear Rhea crying inside. The donations, the trips to the slums, the money I sometimes went out and earned—everything had been discovered.
“Hurry and roll them up!”
At Sister Flora’s scolding I rolled up my pant legs. I saw her bite her lip hard enough to draw blood. Even while she was in pain, even while she was sad, she raised the switch.
Crack!
The switch struck my calf. It hurt. Yet my heart hurt more than my calf. The fact that everything had been found out was simply too hard, far too hard.
Crack— crack— crack—!
The switch lashed as if it would tear the skin from my calves, yet it was Sister Flora who cried. She could not even speak properly. Her snow-white hair, the same color as her eyes, fell loosely around her face.
“Is this what I wanted? That you would do such wicked things? Did you think I would be happy once my body got better!?”
My calves burned. The switch snapped. From inside the orphanage, Rhea—who had been crying—came running and threw her arms around Sister Flora.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, u-waaah—”
When Rhea cried, the switch fell to the ground. Even Sister Flora, who had not been making a sound, began to sob.
“…I’m sorry. Because I was worthless. Because I overreached and took you in… I’m sorry, truly… I’m so sorry…”
Sister Flora told us she was sorry too. She pulled me into her arms. Rhea as well. Because we were crying outside, Ceria and Claudia came and wrapped their arms around us too.
In truth we had never done anything to each other that required apology. We had only ever looked out for one another; there had never been anything to say sorry for. And yet all we could say to one another was that we were sorry.
Snow fell. It piled up thick and soft.
The next day, across the snow that still lay deep, Sister Flora’s footprints stretched out in a long line.