Victoria smiled, nearly snorting in disbelief. This girl really did live out here. And as Victoria cast her gaze around the little camp, lighting on the hammock slung between two ancient trees, the fire pit, encircled by stones for containment and logs for sitting, a rough spit above it for cooking, the firewood neatly stacked between a pair of saplings, she realized that she could never, ever tell her parents about this girl.
She knew how they would react.
“What a vivid imagination,” she could picture him saying to her. And later, he would speak with her mother in hushed tones. “Maybe you should take her to see a shrink or something.”
And her mother would smile fondly, and Victoria could imagine seeing yearning in her mother’s eyes, for Victoria’s mother was a writer and had once had an imagination like Victoria’s, but time and life and education had driven that imagination away, leaving only a memory of it in her mind, like a leaf fossil in the middle of the desert.
But in the end, her parents would get worried, and they’d sweep Victoria away to the therapist because eleven-year-old girls were too old for imaginary friends.
Some long while after sunrise, Mica returned from the forest, a single rabbit hanging around her narrow shoulders. She dropped it on a log and beckoned to Victoria.
"Make fire," Mica said, quickly building up a teepee of logs in the firepit and tossing some dried grass in the center. She showed Victoria how to get a spark from a flint and stone. Victoria clicked the stones together, mimicking Mica's movement, but no sparks flew. She brought them together harder. Her hands slipped and she drove the flintstone into her knuckles. As she bit back tears, she heard Mica chuckle.
"It's not funny," Victoria said.
Mica didn't say anything.
Victoria scraped the flint against the stone and sparks flew, but the kindling didn't catch. "I've almost got it!" She repeated the motion, making sparks a second time, and a third. The fourth time sparks flew, a few landed in the kindling, and Victoria crouched beside, squinting hopefully. But the grasses only shriveled, and the fire didn't catch. Mica stopped watching her, anxious to move on to other things. Victoria tried a fifth and sixth time, and still the fire wouldn't catch.
"One more time," she muttered to herself. "And then I'll give up." And so she tried once last time, her arms tired from striking the rocks together, feeling like a very unsuccessful cavewoman, and a shower of sparks fell onto the kindling. The fire caught and ate the small sticks greedily, latching onto the larger logs like a babe to a breast.
She beamed triumphantly, standing, the light of the midmorning sun shining upon her like the lights of heaven. Victoria looked at Mica, who was methodically butchering her catch, then up at the sun, which was close to its zenith.
Mica saw the fire crackling happily away in its pit and she opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes looked desperate as she searched for words she had not heard in a long time.
"I should really be getting back," Victoria said.
"Finish this before," she said, smiling.
Victoria nodded, watching carefully as Mica finished butchering the rabbit. She made many mental notes as the other girl spitted it and placed it above the fire, and began rotating it. She was acutely aware of how thin Mica was, and felt guilty for keeping the girl from her hunting for so long, guilty because she knew Mica would willingly share her meal.
"You said you once knew how to read?"
Mica nodded.
"How can you forget how to read?"
"Never readed."
Victoria winced. Her mother had instilled in her an impeccable sense of grammar. To hear Mica butcher it not nearly so neatly as she had the rabbit made Victoria feel almost physical pain.
"I could probably teach you. You can teach me how to be a wild girl like you and I teach you how to read and stuff. A trade."
Mica nodded as she turned the rabbit on the spit.
"How long have your parents been gone?"
"Dad leaved fall."
"You spent all winter out here alone?"
Mica nodded. "Lot of supplies."
"What about your mom?"
"Gone long time."
"How long. How many years?"
"Years?"
Victoria shook her head. "Um. How many winters has your mom been gone?"
Mica shrugged. "Not counted."
"You must be lonely."
Mica nodded.
"You don't have to be lonely anymore," Victoria said.
Mica smiled, pulling the spit off the fire. She ducked inside the hut and put the roasted rabbit away. "I take you home now."
She knew how they would react.
“What a vivid imagination,” she could picture him saying to her. And later, he would speak with her mother in hushed tones. “Maybe you should take her to see a shrink or something.”
And her mother would smile fondly, and Victoria could imagine seeing yearning in her mother’s eyes, for Victoria’s mother was a writer and had once had an imagination like Victoria’s, but time and life and education had driven that imagination away, leaving only a memory of it in her mind, like a leaf fossil in the middle of the desert.
But in the end, her parents would get worried, and they’d sweep Victoria away to the therapist because eleven-year-old girls were too old for imaginary friends.
Some long while after sunrise, Mica returned from the forest, a single rabbit hanging around her narrow shoulders. She dropped it on a log and beckoned to Victoria.
"Make fire," Mica said, quickly building up a teepee of logs in the firepit and tossing some dried grass in the center. She showed Victoria how to get a spark from a flint and stone. Victoria clicked the stones together, mimicking Mica's movement, but no sparks flew. She brought them together harder. Her hands slipped and she drove the flintstone into her knuckles. As she bit back tears, she heard Mica chuckle.
"It's not funny," Victoria said.
Mica didn't say anything.
Victoria scraped the flint against the stone and sparks flew, but the kindling didn't catch. "I've almost got it!" She repeated the motion, making sparks a second time, and a third. The fourth time sparks flew, a few landed in the kindling, and Victoria crouched beside, squinting hopefully. But the grasses only shriveled, and the fire didn't catch. Mica stopped watching her, anxious to move on to other things. Victoria tried a fifth and sixth time, and still the fire wouldn't catch.
"One more time," she muttered to herself. "And then I'll give up." And so she tried once last time, her arms tired from striking the rocks together, feeling like a very unsuccessful cavewoman, and a shower of sparks fell onto the kindling. The fire caught and ate the small sticks greedily, latching onto the larger logs like a babe to a breast.
She beamed triumphantly, standing, the light of the midmorning sun shining upon her like the lights of heaven. Victoria looked at Mica, who was methodically butchering her catch, then up at the sun, which was close to its zenith.
Mica saw the fire crackling happily away in its pit and she opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes looked desperate as she searched for words she had not heard in a long time.
"I should really be getting back," Victoria said.
"Finish this before," she said, smiling.
Victoria nodded, watching carefully as Mica finished butchering the rabbit. She made many mental notes as the other girl spitted it and placed it above the fire, and began rotating it. She was acutely aware of how thin Mica was, and felt guilty for keeping the girl from her hunting for so long, guilty because she knew Mica would willingly share her meal.
"You said you once knew how to read?"
Mica nodded.
"How can you forget how to read?"
"Never readed."
Victoria winced. Her mother had instilled in her an impeccable sense of grammar. To hear Mica butcher it not nearly so neatly as she had the rabbit made Victoria feel almost physical pain.
"I could probably teach you. You can teach me how to be a wild girl like you and I teach you how to read and stuff. A trade."
Mica nodded as she turned the rabbit on the spit.
"How long have your parents been gone?"
"Dad leaved fall."
"You spent all winter out here alone?"
Mica nodded. "Lot of supplies."
"What about your mom?"
"Gone long time."
"How long. How many years?"
"Years?"
Victoria shook her head. "Um. How many winters has your mom been gone?"
Mica shrugged. "Not counted."
"You must be lonely."
Mica nodded.
"You don't have to be lonely anymore," Victoria said.
Mica smiled, pulling the spit off the fire. She ducked inside the hut and put the roasted rabbit away. "I take you home now."
