The Story Catcher | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: The Story Catcher | Previous Challenge Entry
By Laura Pattillo
03/09/09
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At the edge of the village, an old woman sets outside her straw hut. She watches the children of her village run and play games around the few sprawling shade trees of the African desert. She watches the young women carry babies in their arms as they balance jugs of water on their heads. She watches as the men of the village either go hunting or repair the family huts. She remembers when she was that young. As she watches the young life of the village, she listens but hears nothing.

The old woman looks down at the ground. It is very dry. The desert dust swirls at her feet. The earth is looking old just like her. Her hands are gnarled like the bent twigs that lay scattered on the ground. Her hair is as silver as the moon on the nights that it is full. Her only way of feeling young was to watch the children play their games around the few trees and what little bit of river was left. She looks at the sky. It too was graying, but it was not aging.

She could feel the rain in the air. No member of the younger generation paid attention to it. The younger generations did not pay attention to the old ways. They did not pay attention to tradition. This was why the old woman refused to listen to them. She listened to the earth and her heart.

The sky had grayed before, but no rain had fallen. Villagers had taken cover before, but the old woman had stayed outside. She knew the rain was coming this time, and that it would come hard. She slowly hoists herself up, picks up an empty water jug, and balances it on her head. She carefully walks down to the drying up river. The people watch her, but they do not come to help her.

One young woman does make her way down to where the woman is at on the side of the river. “Why don’t you let me help you?” The old woman looks at her and says nothing. She continues to fill her jug. She has stopped responding to adults. Once a child had passed through the rites of becoming an adult, she stopped listening to them. They had lost the innocence that only a child can carry. In return, the adults did not speak to her.

“Please let me help you,” pleads the young woman as she reached for the jug. The old woman pushed her hand away. She picks up the jug, balanced it on her hand, and carried it back to her hut. As she walked, she watches as the rest of the village finally begin to prepare for the rains. She reaches her hut as the first drop falls.

The old woman sets her jug down. She looks out the window and watches it rain. She hobbles to a small table in the corner. She picks up a clay bowl that has finally hardened in the desert heat. She reaches for the paints that sit on the edge of the table. Using a small twig as a brush, she begins to paint the story of the village, from the children playing to the hunters returning with their game.

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