Webpages by Charley Brindley

Raji by Ariion Kathleen Brindley

Raji, Indian girl, 13 years old


Ariion Kathleen Brindley

Chapter One

When Fuse pushed the barn door open, he was surprised to see a girl sleeping in the hay. She lay on her side, framed in a square of morning sunlight. He blinked, not believing his eyes.

                  After a moment, he walked over and nudged her foot with the toe of his boot. "Hey, wake up."

                  The girl curled into a ball, shivering from the cold.

                  Patched, baggy overalls and a gray canvas jacket covered her small frame. Her shoes were the shiny patent leather kind, but worn out, with no laces, like something from the trash dump. She had no socks.

                  "Ransom," Fuse said to the miniature horse. "Why are you sleeping with her?"

                  The little horse rolled away from the girl and scrambled to his feet. He went to Fuse and nickered as he bumped his head against the boy's hip, sniffing his hand.

                  "No." Fuse shifted the metal bucket to his right hand and scratched the horse between the ears. "I don't have a candy cane for you this morning." He turned back to the girl and noticed a small battered suitcase with a leather belt cinched around the middle to keep it closed.

                  "Where did she come from, Ransom?" He tilted his bucket so the horse could get at the oats inside.

                  Ransom was four years old and fully-grown, but his height came only to Fuse's waist, which is normal for the miniature breed.

                  "You have to leave," Fuse said, raising his voice to wake the girl. I wonder if she's a Gypsy. With that dark tan complexion and tangled black hair, she could be. "This is a barn, not a hotel."

                  The girl jerked awake, sitting up in the hay. She glanced around, apparently trying to remember where she was. Her eyes fell on the suitcase. She grabbed it, clutching it to her chest.

                  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

                  She shook her head, glaring up at him. Her eyes were a dark brown, and seemed to smolder with defiance.

                  Her breath made quick little clouds of mist as she exhaled in the freezing December air, the way Ransom did after galloping away from a pack of dogs.

                  Fuse waited, but she didn't answer his question. "Well, you have to go. We don't need beggars sleeping in our barn." His words made bigger clouds than hers. He pointed toward the door.

                  She glanced at the door and then stood, holding her suitcase by the strap.

                  Fuse watched the girl comb bits of hay from her hair with her fingers. Then she raised her chin, holding his gaze.

                  Her dark hair was long and straight, reaching below her waist. He admired her determination and wished she would talk to him. She was shorter than he and maybe a year younger-thirteen or so, but she wasn't backing down, not a bit.

                  "All right, don't talk," Fuse said. "But I don't have time for a staring contest. Come on, Handsome Ransom." He turned away from the girl. "Let's see how Stormy's doing."

                  Ransom ran ahead of Fuse, toward the back of the huge barn. Pigeons cooed in the rafters and fluttered around, then settled on their lofty perches, cocking their heads to watch the little horse below.

                  Fuse paused beside the Model T Ford and checked to see if any of the tires were flat. The car was only four years old and in excellent condition, but it hadn't been on the road since his father's accident. Fuse drove it around the farm twice a week to keep the engine from seizing up, but never on the highway.

                  Fuse noticed one flat tire, but it would have to wait until the afternoon, when he returned from school.

                  The little horse galloped back to Fuse, prancing around him, kicking up the dirt.

                  "Go on, I'm right behind you." One of the cows mooed when he passed their pen. The strong smell of the animals' manure reminded him he had to muck out their stalls before he left for school.

                  Ransom ran to a closed half-door leading into one of the stalls and jiggered the latch with his nose. The bolt slid out of the catch and the stall door swung open.

                  "Hey, when did you learn to do that?"

                  Another miniature horse, a palomino female, stood beside a pile of hay, breathing hard.

                  "How you doing, Stormy?" Fuse knelt and stroked her huge belly. "I bet you'll have your baby today, you know that?" He glanced over his shoulder, toward the stall door behind him. "If that girl had any brains," he whispered, "she would have slept in here, where it's warm." He stood, went to the small kerosene stove mounted on the wall and unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. "Half full. Enough to keep you warm all day." The mare nuzzled his hand and he brushed the thick blonde forelock from her eyes.

                  "I see you ate all your oats." He emptied his bucket into the wooden trough and stepped away so she could get at it. "I'll clean out your stall, and then I have to go help Papa before I go to school. Ransom, I don't know how you learned to open that latch, but you had better leave Stormy alone today. I think you're going to be a daddy pretty soon, but she won't need you in here bothering her."

                  Ransom busied himself eating from the trough beside Stormy.

                  Fuse took the water bucket to dump it behind the barn. He filled it with fresh water and then raked out her stall. After he spread a fresh layer of straw on the dirt floor, everything smelled much better.

                  "Come on, Ransom." Fuse stroked Stormy's back and patted her hindquarters. He latched the door and Ransom galloped ahead, toward the wide front door of the barn. The horse stopped at the pile of hay and sniffed around.

                  Fuse glanced at the body-shaped depression in the hay. "Well, she couldn't stay here, right? We have twenty-five hungry creatures to feed as it is."

                  He took a stack of burlap bags from a shelf as he listened to the sounds of the barn: the hens clucking to each other while pecking in the dirt, the pigs oinking and tussling over the corn, and the bull chewing and snorting. He heard a rustle in the hay and then a muffled squeak when one of the barn cats killed a mouse.

                  Ransom lifted his big brown eyes to Fuse, tilting his head.

                  "Besides that," Fuse said, "she probably eats like a horse."

                  Ransom snorted and turned for the door, perking his ears toward the outside.

                  Fuse laid the burlap bags on the pile of hay, and then followed the horse outside. "But she was kind of skinny, wasn't she?"

                  The first rays of bright morning sunshine sparkled off the frosted grass. The girl's tracks in the frost led from the barn and toward the house. But halfway to the back porch, the tracks made a left turn.

                  "Now why'd she do that?" Fuse followed the tracks to the point where she turned left. He knelt down to study the imprints in the frost. They led to the board fence of Ransom's paddock, where she apparently climbed the fence, and then walked across the field toward a line of trees, a half-mile to the west. "I figured she'd go down to the road and try to hitch a ride. Why did she go to the woods instead of heading for town?" He reached down to touch one of the tracks. "She's got a hole in the sole of her left shoe too." He shook his head and stood to follow Ransom to the gate leading into the paddock.

                  The horse nuzzled the latch, but couldn't open it.

                  Fuse worked the frozen latch free, opened the gate for Ransom, and then followed him in. "You stay in here and don't cause any trouble. I'm going to fix Papa's breakfast, and then I'm leaving for school."

                  Ransom galloped to the water trough and sniffed at the ice.

                  "I'll be home by 4:30." Fuse walked over to the trough. "Maybe by then we'll have a new little foal. I wonder if he'll be a palomino like Stormy, or buckskin like you."

                  The layer of ice cracked and broke apart under the edge of Fuse's fist. He tossed the ice chunks out of Ransom's way and then glanced toward the woods on the far side of the field.

                  The tops of the trees bent in unison like a line of weary soldiers with the north wind at their backs.

                  Fuse watched the dark forest for a moment, and then turned for the house. "See you later, Handsome Ransom."


Across the field, just inside the trees, Rajiani turned her collar up and huddled against the trunk of a tall pine tree, trying to escape the icy wind. Her slim body shivered as she watched the boy toss some things into a wire basket attached to the handlebars of his bike. She wished she had a heavy coat and warm gloves like his.

                  He pushed the bike off and ran alongside until he gained speed, and then jumped on, swinging his leg over the seat. He stood on the pedals to pump down the long driveway.

                  At the end of the drive, he skidded sideways on the loose gravel. She caught her breath, but he put his foot out and leaned into the turn, smoothly swinging around to the left. He stood again and pumped with strong, measured strides, flying down the center of the country road. After he rode over the hill and out of sight, she picked up her suitcase, and ran back toward the farmhouse.


Fuse usually rode his bicycle the four miles to high school in twenty minutes, unless rain muddied the road, or snow; that was the worst for riding a bike.

                  He pumped to the top of Caroline Bell Crest where the gravel gave way to a smooth blacktop pavement, and then he coasted downhill toward the town of Wovenbridge, Virginia.

                  He slowed and then skidded his bike to a stop when he came to the Harvey Winchester country club. The tennis courts were empty, but sometimes he saw people out playing when he rode by, even in the cold weather. There were six courts, all neat and well maintained, the nets tight and straight. What a contrast they were to the old court at his school-cracked in several places, with faded white stripes on the cement, and a tree limb propping up the net in the center.

                  What I wouldn't give to play out there, just once. He glanced at his old wooden racquet in the basket of the bike, sighed, and then hurried on down the road.

                  Fuse's fourteenth birthday had been three weeks earlier, on December 1, 1925. He didn't receive any presents, but that didn't bother him. There wasn't anything he really needed, except maybe a new tennis ball, and one particular book, Physical Diagnosis and Clinical Procedures.

                  His father always embarrassed him in the past when he bragged to the other farmers about his son being the youngest kid in his senior class of forty-seven students. In fact, the youngest senior ever at Monroe High. The last time he earned less than an "A", his father had told the other men, was in Mrs Caldwell's third grade-she gave him a "B" in penmanship.

                  A flight of three noisy crows caught Fuse' attention. He watched them fly across the road ahead of him and land on a barbwire fence, cawing and fussing like a pack of petty thieves.

                  Sometimes he wanted to slip away and hide when his dad went on about him. But now, he would be happy just to hear a simple "Hello," or "How are you, son?"

                  Fuse raced down Winchester Avenue, and then glided onto the schoolyard, already halfway dismounted when he nosed his bike into the rack. He grabbed his books, lunch pail, and tennis racquet. He ran up the steps, dodging kids and teachers. Once inside, he turned right, down the main hallway, and into the library. After taking a seat at the table and quietly putting his gear on the floor, he whispered, "Go!"

                  Benjamin Clayton moved his white king pawn and slapped the button on the timer, stopping his clock and starting Fuse's clock. Fuse moved his black king pawn and hit the button.

                  Every morning, Clayton set up the chessboard and had the clocks ready. They usually had time for three or four games of speed chess before the nine o'clock bell.


Rajiani made it halfway across the pasture before Ransom galloped out to meet her. She stopped for a moment to pat his shoulder and scratch his neck, and then hurried on. He raced around the running girl, and then ran along beside her toward the farmhouse. When they reached the board fence, she shoved her suitcase under the bottom plank, and climbed over. She grabbed the suitcase, and started toward the house.

                  Ransom whinnied and she turned, hurrying back to him. "Shh." She put a finger to her lips and patted his soft nose. That seemed to satisfy him, so she ran for the house.

                  Rajiani eased the screen door open and stepped onto the enclosed porch, where she saw another screen door leading into the house. She pressed herself against the wall by the second door, listening.

                  Her breathing slowed and she strained to hear the sounds of any movement inside. Several moments passed. She heard nothing.

                  The spring on the second screen door screeched like a strangled chicken. She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut, listening for a voice or the sound of footsteps coming toward the door from inside. But there was not a sound. She held the screen door in place with her foot, and reached for the doorknob. It wouldn't turn. Her hand shook from fear and cold. She held her stiff fingers to her lips to blow a warm breath on them. She gripped the knob and tried again.

                  There was a loud metallic click when the knob turned in her hand. She slipped through, gently closing the door behind her. The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her like a soft blanket. It seemed as if she had been cold forever.

                  The first thing Rajiani saw was a plate of biscuits on the table. She tiptoed softly over the floorboards, toward the food. There was not a sound from anywhere in the house. Does the boy live here alone? She put her suitcase on the table, grabbed a biscuit, and wolfed it down. Oh, how good it is to have something to eat. There were five biscuits left. Across the kitchen, a metal pitcher sat on the counter beside a plate covered with a tea towel. She went to the pitcher and peeked inside; water. As she drank from the spout of the pitcher, she lifted the tea towel to check the plate, and almost choked on the water; there were six strips of meat on the plate. She grabbed one and ate it in two bites, not caring if it was beef or not, then washed it down with more water. Meat had seldom been a part of her diet, and certainly not beef, but hunger overpowered her beliefs.

                  She took the plate and water to the table, where the biscuits were. She ate all the meat, four more biscuits, and drank half the pitcher of water. Even back home, food never tasted so good. Her family rarely had pork to eat and never any beef, even though cattle were plentiful.

                  With the last biscuit in her hand, she slipped over to the doorway leading to the front part of the house. She peeked around the corner and instantly jerked back-someone was in there!

                  "Hai Rama! Main ab pakdee jaaoongi!" she whispered. Dear God! I am found out!

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Copyright Ariion Kathleen Brindley 2009

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