Catastrophe Jones

When the sun was up and bread was hot enough to steam in the crisp air, Tiri took a loaf to the river, and sat on the bank while Hekka ran up and down it, barking at fallen leaves and fairy kerchiefs in the grass. She waited until the dew burned off the green, until the sun got hot on her back, until the bread was stone cold, and her bottom was damp from having sat in the dew to begin with.

The fish still hadn’t come, and Tiri was quite miserable, wondering if her hasty anger had turned him away for good. She broke open the bread and tossed a piece in, watching it tumble downstream, with Hekka chasing it alongside, until it disappeared in the rushing water. She felt very sorry for herself.

She left the bread on the shore and went home to help with chores and such, and spent time at her mother’s side, doing needlework and caring for the hens and ducks, and stayed quiet and thoughtful even when her brother was quite rude — so much so that after a few days of behavior exactly like it, her mother checked her for fever at bedtime.

“I’m all right, Mama. I’m just sad. I haven’t been able to apologize to my friend,” she sighed.

“Ah well it doesn’t look like Willem is terribly upset anymore?” her mother offered. “His mother mentioned he was hoping to come by Tuesday week, and–“

“Willem?” Tiri looked baffled for a moment. “I’m not — I–” She blinked her big round eyes at her mother and finally said, “That’s good. But will you still wake me to-morrow, early, so that I can make another extra loaf?”

“Child,” Tiri’s mother laughed. “That boy will grow fatter than papa’s prize pig if you keep feeding him a whole extra loaf a day. But I will wake you early, and we can make an extra loaf if you want.”

Tiri smiled, but mostly hid herself under her blankets, her heart burning to know that she’d quite deceived her mother, and resolved to tell her all about the fish come tomorrow, even if he did not come back.

***

The next day, when Tiri arrived at the river, yesterday’s loaf was gone to the last crumb, and there was no sign of the fish, as it had been for days. She tossed in a piece of the fresh bread, and Hekka chased the morsel downstream, along the bank, as she had been, and Tiri was watching all of it (feeling increasingly terrible) when suddenly she realized —

“He went upstream!”

She ran up the side of the river, clomping along the grass in her boots, fall coat flapping in the wind, hair streaming out behind her, a loaf of bread crushed to her chest as she ran, and Hekka gave chase.

It was later, when she was older, but not old enough, that Tiri woke with a start one morning, saying aloud, “He never told me!”

Hekka whuffed lowly, then yawned and stretched where she lay on the rug, then got up, turned a circle thrice, and laid back down, brush of a over her wet black nose.

Muttering irritably, Tiri stomped all the way through her day, grousing at her brother, who for once did not particularly deserve it, She stomped to the table at mealtimes and angrily ate, though she turned her nose up at buttered toast. For lunch she would not take any egg buns, only cheese and pickle.

And she visited the river, but instead of throwing crumbs, she threw angry words, and the silver fish swam off upstream until she could not see his glittering scales.

At dinner time, she ate only gravy and no biscuits, declaring somewhat snappishly that “I hate bread. All things bread. I never want it again.”

When it was near dusk, and she had had quite enough of her own attitude, she stomped off to bed, grumbling all the while, until her mother came to blow out her lamp. “No bread to-morrow,” her mother soothed. “Though I don’t suppose you wish to tell me what fouled your mood so?”

“A friend of mine kept secrets from me,” Tiri said, bunching her blankets in her fist. “On purpose. I’m cross with him.”

“Mm,” said Tiri’s mother, nodding. She’d been a child once, herself, and knew quite well the fits of passion that all growing children felt against the injustices visited upon them. “Sounds quite terrible.”

“It is!” Tiri griped. “He was quite unreasonable.”

“Certainly! One should never keep secrets from someone they trust,” Tiri’s mother said mildly, smoothing the coverlet.

“Never!” Tiri agreed. “I told him everything!”

“Oh!” Tiri’s mother exclaimed. “Everything?”

“Everything,” Tiri confirmed, her eyes wide and solemn.

“That’s quite impressive,” Tiri’s mother said, thoughtful. “You told him about breaking grandmother’s favorite glass dish and blaming it on Hekka?” Tiri’s cheeks grew red, and she opened her mouth to answer, but her mother kept talking. “And where you keep your sweets money hidden from thieves?” Tiri’s eyes grew wider, and a furrow formed between her brows. “I suppose, if you tell him everything, you even told him where I keep my mother’s brooch? The one I told you was very very special and we must keep it safe so you can have it when you are grown?”

Tiri cleared her throat and wrung her hands, sadly, saying, “I did not.”

“No? But you said you tell him everything,” Tiri’s mother said, looking not quite as surprised as her words might have indicated.

Tiri said nothing aloud, but her expression, of course, was quite telling.

“Well,” her mother murmured, reaching to pet Tiri’s hair back from her face, as soothing as only mothers can be. “Of course you had good reasons not to tell everything, I’m sure. And it’s only that your friend kept all his secrets for no good reason, hm?”

Tiri’s was silent for quite some time, and when she did finally speak, her voice was very small, but very genuine. “Mama. Will you please wake me early to-morrow? I want to help bake the bread. I need an extra loaf.”

“Of course, my heart,” Tiri’s mother said, her eyes twinkling as she leaned down to kiss her child’s forehead. “Of course. Now sleep well, and I will see you in the morning.”