Quirky Bedtime Stories - Maki

Good evening,

Oh sleepless ones,

And welcome to another edition of the quirky bedtime stories designed to bring you to a state of sleep.

And if you wake up during the night,

You can listen to one of these stories and help you go back to the land of slumbers.

Since our last edition,

I have added what is called a pop filter to my microphone setup.

It looks rather professional,

I must say,

And apparently it helps in reducing the noises that emit from my lips as I read,

Namely the popping and slipping things that seem so distracting to people.

Let's see if that works.

Also,

What I'm doing is adding some binaural beats to the subsections of this track,

And if you know anything about the binaural beats research,

It seems to suggest that the brain can be entrained to gradually lower its brainwave responses through listening to these binaural beats.

So the idea is that the brainwaves are entrained at a higher frequency and then gradually step down to theta.

You may notice that you become more readily open to the idea of sleep and naturally progress into the state of deep sleep as the story goes along.

I know from my own experience that these entrainment tracks really do work,

And they're worth exploring for the future if you still have an idea of what you want to do there.

This evening's story is a rather special one.

When I look at the date that I wrote this,

It was about 10 years ago when the character of Mucky first appeared in my writing.

This story is a little character sketch about her,

And the idea has always been to incorporate Mucky in a bigger fiction overall.

However,

I haven't quite got there yet,

So this is like a little vignette of Mucky as a character.

She's very dear to me,

And maybe you'll understand why.

She's a young mother,

Totally intent on raising her child the best as she can.

I hope you enjoy the reading.

Mucky stood casually in the doorway of her home,

Watching the distant crows peck and fight noisily,

At the garbage mound in the far field.

In mid-flight,

They seemed like black,

Swirling gnats on the expansive azure sky.

She enjoyed the otherwise quiet time before everyone else awoke,

Guarding it jealously and wrapping herself in a comforting cloak of stillness that would cling to her throughout the remainder of the day.

She knew Grandmother was awake,

Eyes staring up into the still darkened roof space above her.

From the doorway where she stood,

Mucky could almost make out the shape of the old woman's sparse form,

Lying in the cot on the raised sleeping platform.

She knew,

Too,

That her bony hands would be clutching and grasping ceaselessly at the worn threadbare blanket that provided her a comforting link to her past.

These days,

The old woman preferred lying down.

It seemed it was less effort,

Sometimes though she would crank her old frame out of the cot and creak about wearily,

Cussing and swearing,

Harmlessly bumping into the world about her.

Turning her attention away from the inside of the house,

She heard the swordsmith at his fire,

Creaking foot bellows pumped by his adoring acolytes,

And eventually she saw thin wisps of smoke break out of the smokestack,

Uncurling like newborn dragons released into the morning sky.

Soon the tap-tap clang of metal against metal on anvil would fill the air,

Providing a background to the day at the base amongst other sounds.

The master was a predictable man,

And a slave to a steady routine that,

Ironically,

Had made him the creative and productive powerhouse of the village,

All accomplished with an unassuming and silent modesty.

Watching him at work was like watching minimalist theatre,

Each step controlled and calculated,

Deriving maximum results from minimum effort.

A philosophy in motion,

Letting the metal work and shape itself,

He became the tool,

The metal working him,

Forming the spirit within as much as the metal without.

Looking to the middle distance beyond the smithy,

And it seemed in front of the bevy of clamorous crows,

She saw another form bending over,

Harvesting grain.

It was still early,

And yet she knew that he had probably been up since before sunrise.

It had been a good year,

Sun and rain aplenty.

Seeing him reminded her of their brief tryst three years back.

He had been strong and serious,

Yet gentle inside.

Somehow,

Though,

It hadn't worked out between them.

Maybe there was just too much in common.

Time had passed,

And these days he chose to keep himself apart.

In a way,

It was better,

Because his distance,

Self-imposed though it was,

Had had a simplifying effect.

She had agreed at the separation at the time,

And hadn't insisted,

Even for the child's sake.

But still.

On the horizon,

She noticed a plume of black,

Acrid-looking smoke curling into the still morning air.

Possibly someone's house.

She could imagine the panic and the commotion,

But she had no friends or relation of that way,

So there was nothing really to worry about.

There was no sense in complicating life.

Turning her back and stepping into motion,

She took the brush broom from its hook on the outside of the house,

And started sweeping the packed earthen floor.

Regular right to left,

Step back,

Right to left,

Step back,

Right to left,

Step back.

Turning left to right,

Sweep,

Stoop and gather.

The previous day's straw had a slight dampness to it,

But it still burnt well in the fire,

Crackling,

Popping and spitting occasionally.

She took fresh straw from the bale in the corner,

And scattered it generously on the floor.

It was dry and smelled of the summer sun.

Steam rose from the cast iron pot on the hearth in the centre of the room.

The rice porridge was nearly ready,

And just needed seasoning with some dried seaweed,

Fish flakes,

Salt and a dash of fresh curd.

She removed the pot from the fire,

And placed it on a wooden bench to cool,

And reminded herself to move it back slightly,

As either the old woman or the child might bump it off the edge,

And over themselves.

The child was now two and a half years old,

And would soon receive her name.

Muggy was looking forward to the rituals and the celebrations afterwards,

Not because it had any spiritual significance or meaning to her.

Nobody really cared about that anymore,

But simply because it would be a welcome break from the routine humdrum of daily life.

And it was also a way to more closely knit family and friends together.

Even though most children survived these days easily into their teens,

It was a reminder of when it was common to lose one in three children to a disease of one sort or another.

The first naming was an important milestone,

And the child was by that stage strong enough to meet the challenges that life offered.

She thought about possible names.

Certainly the child was headstrong,

Stubborn and willful,

But there were also softer qualities there that provided a balance.

A name that reflected the child's nature would be ideal.

Nothing too unusual though.

She'd have to give it more thought.

In the meantime,

There was the more pressing problem of paying for the naming ceremony.

Muggy didn't like the priests,

And thought they were charlatans and leeches,

Living off traditions and the fears of the community.

Was there a choice though?

Could she just name the child herself and be done with it?

Grandmother would never approve,

And nor would the members of the village council.

Still,

None of them had offered to help her pay for the ceremony.

Maybe it was time to get the father involved after all.

It could also lead to a drawing closer,

But she didn't hold her hopes up that high.

There must be another way.

She looked around her small living room and scanned for things that she could sell,

Maybe.

She used everything though.

The few ornaments she had were too valuable for her to use.

They probably weren't of any significance to anyone else.

They just helped her to remember times and people.

That,

After all,

Was the treasure of life.

She looked at her gathering kit and decided that she'd try the forests for mushrooms,

Maybe.

They'd be very scarce this time of year,

But she may be in luck if she went early enough on a damp morning.

Had it been the right season,

She could have cut and gathered bamboo shoots to steam.

She'd marinate them a little,

Steam them and sell them at the market.

But that was just an idle thought.

She would think of something.

All in all,

She had about five months before she would have to pay for the ceremony.

The priests were at least patient about payment,

As long as it came before the actual day.

Whatever happened,

She'd look into inviting a few of the other women along and make a pleasant time of it.

It was hard work in the forests,

But friends always lightened the load.

She was looking forward to it already and decided to ask Kimiko at the market later on that day.

There,

The child was awake.

Her daughter tumbled out of her cot and came running to her,

So full of energy and life,

Driven by a curiosity that often got her into trouble with her elders,

But also endeared her to them.

Maki remembered the time just recently when the child had found a sudden interest in making little pottery items from cow dung.

She had been quietly absorbed in the artistic rendering of her dung pots behind the stables that housed the neighbors' animals,

Totally unaware that her absence was causing some commotion and worry among the adults.

She could have wandered off again and fallen into a well or into the river,

As children are prone to do.

Grandmother had eventually found her behind the stables,

Adding water to her dung mix.

The child had succeeded in almost covering herself with excrement and needed a thorough wash before she was admitted to the company of adults.

She was very proud of her creation,

Though,

And gave it to her mum in a very serious manner that mimicked the adult gift-giving ceremony.

That had been priceless.

Maki looked at the child's gift to her,

A miniature dung pot,

And held it in her hands before placing it carefully back on the table.

It was absolutely nothing to anyone else,

And yet it managed to contain all those precious memories in itself.

How were we to remember those golden moments in our lives without these prompts,

She thought.

Life was just too long to rely on the workings of memory alone.

There had to be keys to unlock those experiences and bring them back to mind.

Maki was keenly aware of the fact and often made a conscious effort in these quiet mornings to review the stories of the objects contained in her growing collection.

Not now,

Though.

She caught the child in her arms and breathed in her warmth and light.

What joy this child brings.

She never thought that it could be possible to feel such a connection,

Such a bond.

At times she became anxious at a possible loss.

But she soon drove those thoughts out of her mind.

There was absolutely no use in becoming overprotective of children.

They were here to learn,

To live,

After all.

Keeping them from experience,

Whether that was good or bad,

Was not a role that Maki thought was hers.

She involved as many people as possible in a child's life and ensured that she lived as fully as possible.

Mama,

I'm hungry.

So what's new?

Do you want to eat a horsey for breakfast?

A horsey?

Yes,

A big,

Fat,

Juicy horsey.

The child giggled and squirmed.

Was it possible to hold still?

She always seemed to be in motion.

The energy was constant.

Only when the child slept was there a possibility of peace for her body.

Even then,

Though,

As she slept,

She would dream.

Maki had watched her.

The child's eyes would move behind her clotheslits as if they were following phantoms.

There was another world inside of the child to which she had no access.

She could only imagine what her child dreamt of.

Maki and child walked,

Giggling,

To the kitchen area.

She put her down and rummaged around for a bowl,

A spoon,

And a ladle,

Then dipped the ladle into the cooling porridge and scooped two spoonfuls into the bowl.

She loved the raw feeling of the earthenware in her hands.

It had been made especially for her,

And she sat watching its form appear on the command from the potter's fingertips as the wet clay turned on the wheel.

She had seen the pot swirl into life before her disbelieving eyes.

How could something so beautiful and practical rise out from within a ball of wet clay?

She had marveled at her friend's skill and rejoiced when,

After the firing,

The bowl came forth in its glory.

There you are,

My child.

Take the bowl in hands and go and sit next to Grandma.

I don't want to.

I thought you said you were hungry.

I don't want to sit by Grandma.

Oh,

Really?

Well then,

Sit where you want.

She took the bowl in both hands,

Waited as Mucky placed the spoon in the porridge,

And then walked over and sat next to the smiling old lady.

Grandma had been watching intently all the while,

And gave the child a playful tickle under her chin as she came and sat next to her on her sleeping mat.

The old lady was frail in frame,

But her mind was usually sharp.

There were times,

Though,

When she drifted off into what seemed another world.

Her mother existed more and more in another space and time.

Sadly,

It made her think that the old lady's death was drawing closer by the day.

Perhaps the only thing that kept her going these days was the life of the young child in her care.

Mucky wished that her grandmother would live to see the child through the first naming ceremony in a few months' time.

She knew as a certainty that the old woman would not survive to see the seventh year of the child,

And that filled her heart with sadness.

What were we to do,

Though,

Thought Mucky?

Do we stop life because of the pain?

Do we cease to love because we know that we lose those whom we love?

She knew the answers already.