No one noticed the small, hunched figure enter the village of Abbotscroft. There had been a break in the heavy rain that had been incessant since the previous month. The early Spring sun had fought it’s way through the brooding, grey rain clouds and smiled upon the miserable populace. Not that they had noticed. The inhabitants of Abbotscroft never noticed anything other than the disagreeable day-to-day occurrences that gave them something to moan about. 

There was an old, abandoned single room cottage on the outskirts of the village. It was an old cow shed that had been the residence of a few travelling, penniless families that had passed through. It was near enough to the inn to be classed as a part of the village, but far enough away from the nosy, tittle-tattling neighbours. This is why the tired body that was called Sarah chose it as her home-to-be.

Sarah was not welcomed. She wore torn, long skirts and a cape that was covered in a foul-smelling crust of some sort. Her hair, once black as a raven’s wing was now peppered with white. Her face could not easily be seen from under the straggling mane. If you looked at her for long enough, you may have caught a glimpse of an eye. But she never stood still long enough to see what colour they were. The villagers did not want to pass the time of day with her. They watched from afar and whispered to each other if ever she passed by. And if she did, they would make sure that they were far enough away from her to not catch anything from her hobbling, lice-infected form. She would always, however, nod her head in recognition of their presence. She never said anything to them. She didn’t need to. Gossip flew around the neighbours like the plague through a monastery. Rumours preceded her. Her name was Sarah, that they knew.  They knew of nothing else. So they called her Sarah Rag due to her torn garments that she had on. And that was how the days ran. For a while. Sarah watched discretely, while neighbours avoided obviously.

Sarah kept herself to herself. She carefully tended the herbs that grew around her cottage. She fixed the windows and door as best she can.  If she needed any items, or food for herself from the neighbours, she silently traded knicknacs that she kept hidden in a black sack. But all the time she watched. There was a reason that she was sent to this village. But the inhabitants would only realise what a treasure they had in Sarah after she had been taken from them.

One day, Sarah was passing by one of the cottages on her way to fetch water from the well. An old woman sat on the step talking to another, who was leaning against the door frame. She was moaning about her fingers, describing how the pain ripped through her gnarled hands so badly that she was unable to tend to her garden anymore. Oh, how she wished that she had nimble fingers again. Upon hearing this, Sarah lowered her empty pail to the ground and hobbled over to the gathered women. Immediately, they ceased talking and watched her slowly approach. The two surprised women held their breath. Should anyone else have been present, they would have felt a change in the air and an eerie quietness descending. So still, it was, and the atmosphere thick with charged expectancy. 

Sarah stood close to the woman who had been explaining about her hands. She reached out and took the old woman’s hands in hers. There was a sharp intake of breath as Sarah closed her hidden eyes. Her lips moved, although no words were audible. The old woman felt a tingling in her hands and a voice in her head. It was a voice she had never heard before. It was lilting, soothing and comforting.

“Use them well, Goodwife Allen. Use them well and kindly.”

Then Sarah slowly turned from the women, picked up her bucket and continued her journey for water. The two women looked at each other and down at the old woman’s hands. They watched in awe as the bent, cracked shapes that had once been fingers slowly unfurled and the skin softly healed. They could say nothing, but they both looked into each other’s eyes in amazement. 

“My garden,” said the woman, “I can once again tend to my garden. Blessed is this day.”

Such was their excitement, that they did not notice Sarah walk by again, struggling to hold the pail now heavy with water. They did not see the pained expression on her face as her gnarled and twisted hands fought to cope with the motion of the water against the sides of the bucket.

A few days passed. The two women kept their lips buckled tight. They were both amazed and slightly frightened by what had happened. But in their old wisdom, they realised that a great gift had been given. A gift that if some of the villagers were made aware of, would be possibly classed as witchery. The gift that had been given had to be returned with a gift of equal import. A gift of silence.

Sarah could no longer easily occupy herself with the manual chores, as her hands were near to useless. Instead, she lost herself in simple tunes. She hummed quietly to herself wherever she went. Her voice was simple but tuneful and to the passer-by, it jarred a little with the image of the ragged-clothed woman with the twisted hands and tangled hair.

One morning, Sarah was sat on the step of the door to her cottage, hidden from view by a fragrant hedge of Rosemary. Her head was tilted towards the rays of the sun, her eyes closed and a tune humming through her thin, cracked lips. A woman walked by with her two unruly children.  When the children heard the song, they stopped and turned to their tired mother and begged her to sing to them when they try to get to sleep at night. The mother took her two children in her arms and said how she wished that she could, but she had never possessed the voice to sing, or the ability to soothe through a tune. 

At this, Sarah hobbled her way down the short path to the dirt track and over to the little family. The children quickly hid behind their mother’s skirts. Sarah held out a disfigured hand and placed it gently upon the mother’s lips. Both women closed their eyes. The mother heard a voice in her head saying,

“Sing to your little ones. Sing to bring peace and love.”

When the mother opened her eyes, Sarah was gone. Upon her lips was a tingling that transferred down to her throat, but then, also, was gone. That night, when the two urchins were tucked up in their cots, they begged their mother to try a song. And that is what she did, for it did not hurt to try. The song that danced out of her mouth spun around her children’s heads and quickly sent them to the land of slumber. The mother, her heart also singing, gave thanks for the gift, for she knew that she had been blessed. 

Sarah, once home, pulled at her scorched throat with her curled fingers. Never again would she sing, nor utter a word. But nobody ever knew as the gift was kept as a secret. The mother would sing of it in a song, but the giver of the gift remained nameless. And no one ever spoke to the shifting figure that was Sarah Rag.

The seasons changed. The foul weather continued. Crops were in decline and food scarce. Most of the villagers continued to moan about their lot. They did not hear the birds singing in their nests, hold their children and give thanks for the blessing of parenthood, nor understand that their existence was a remarkable one. Two women, however, spent their days delighting in their surroundings and felt love and kindness spreading through their hearts. They endeavoured to persuade the others who they found in their paths to also feel the blessings of life. One such villager was a friend to the mother of the children. Her life had been hard as she had found herself burying not one, but all of her children. The midwife had told her that because of the last difficult birth, no child would ever swell her belly again. The mother suggested that she accompanied her to the little cattle-shed cottage on the outskirts of Abbotscroft. Not understanding how, or why, a trip to Sarah Rag would help remove her sorrow, she nevertheless agreed and the two women made their way to Sarah’s door. 

The door was open already when they arrived. Sarah stood in the doorway and opened her arms to the unsure visitor who was pushed toward her. When she saw into Sarah’s enquiring eyes, she explained that she wished above everything to be able to give birth to a child who lived and breathed, who she would watch grow and never have to dig their grave. Sarah placed her hands on the woman’s belly. At the moment of touch, both Sarah and the woman arched their backs and groaned loudly. For Sarah, it was more pain. For the woman, a shock and an opening of a mind. In her head she heard a voice,

“Love her and treat her with understanding. Life be with you both.”

Sarah stumbled into her home and the door was shut heavily behind her.

Both women returned to their cottages. The following Spring, a birth of a little girl was celebrated in the village. A girl who grew in spirit and joy each day of her life. Her mother gave thanks and welcomed joy in her heart. She knew that she had truly been blessed.

After this day, Sarah’s health waned. A man in the village miraculously regained his sight and another, his hearing. Sarah’s hobbling form was very rarely seen from one day to the next. The constant moaning and grumbling that usually filled the air began to diminish, and in it’s place began to grow an uplifting sense of peace and acceptance of life that wondrously spread from neighbour to neighbour. Sadly, this happiness was shortlived, for one day, just before the dawn, all the villagers were woken by a shriek so pained and horrible.

In front of the inn, Goodwife Bishop had flung herself to the dirt track and was clawing at the earth. Her nails were split and bleeding. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she cried in torment that her husband was dead and her heart was broken. How she wished her heart could be mended again for, otherwise, her life would be meaningless.

This day would be unlike all others. The villagers would speak of it for years to come. For down the path came Sarah Rag. Almost shuffling now, she slowly made her way to the crumpled woman on the track. Summoning all her remaining strength, she lifted up the woman and clutched her to her chest. Rocking gently, the two women embraced. No one heard a sound, except for Goodwife Bishop. Spinning around her head came the calming words,

“Your heart will heal and dance once more. Share this blessing.”

Upon these words, she felt a surge of love and warmth beginning in her chest and spreading around the rest of her body. The villagers lifted her up and helped her back to her cottage. Her husband’s funeral became a celebration of his life.

Sarah was barely able to make the journey home. She arrived just as the sun was rising in the sky. It was to be a beautiful day. As her heart began to break into pieces, she lifted her sightless eyes towards the light. Her arms spread wide, she welcomed the rays on her body. They encased her in their radiant light, dancing over every part of her now broken form. She gave thanks that her work now had been done. That from now, on the villagers of Abbotscroft would begin to welcome the life that they had been blessed with. And she knew that it would be done in so many different ways. Some would celebrate it through the embrace of a child, some through the gift of song. Some would have to open their eyes to take in all that they had been given, or some would stop sometimes as they busied themselves in the fields to simply listen to the sound of the birds. Sarah knew that some would give thanks by tending the flowers in their garden, or by holding the hands of their loved ones.

Sarah’s body was never found. The rags that were her clothes were discovered in her garden. From that day, everyone knew, and spoke of the villager that had been Sarah. Not Sarah Rag, as she had been called, but as Sarah Ray. One who had brought light and hope to a place that had been buried in so much darkness.

THE END

Kate Millner

February 2013

2,200 words