The Story Hoard

by Sandra Unerman

‘Take me to your story hoard.’

Oldlily felt a scratch at the back of her neck and turned round. ‘Young Meg! What are you doing with that knife?’

The thin, bright spike quivered in Meg’s right hand, and she brought up her left to steady her grasp. ‘Do as I say and I won’t hurt you.’

‘Nonsense.’ The knife hovered, without touching Oldlily’s skin, too close to knock safely out of the way. ‘Is this some stupid game?’

‘I don’t play games.’ Meg’s voice was matter of fact. Come to think of it, Oldlily had never seen her join in with the other children, as they ran about the streets. Even when they gathered to hear a story, Meg would be off to the side, by herself. ‘I can use this knife. I’ve killed rats with it.’

‘Rabbits would be more useful.’ How old was the child? Eight, maybe ten, Oldlily thought, stocky and square-jawed. Her smock was drab but not ragged, and her mud-brown hair was twisted into tidy plaits, so someone must look after her. Oldlily was not sure who it was: she did not keep track of her neighbours and their families. ‘What are you doing in my garden?’

‘I told you.’ Meg’s voice was grim, as she settled into her stance, her aim steady and her legs braced. ‘Show me your story hoard.’

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘You must have.’ The knife tilted up. ‘You never run out of stories to tell. They say you’ve got a hoard of stories squirrelled away.’

Oldlily’s stories had caused trouble before, when someone believed they were the target of a joke or complained that she had spoiled a favourite tale. But this kind of trouble was new. ‘What do you want with my stories?’

‘To steal them,’ Meg said, so fiercely she almost set light to her breath. ‘Just a few. You’d have plenty left.’

Oldlily wished she had stayed in bed. She could feel the chill of the morning, which she had not noticed while she weeded. ‘What could you do with stolen stories?’

‘Make people listen to me.’ Meg pulled back, just a little. ‘Nobody pays attention to me. Nobody talks to me. I want them to sit round me, like they do with you, children and grown-ups.’

The garden was open to all the different families who shared the broken-down house, although in practice, the others left most of the work to Oldlily. As usual, not many people were about so early but sooner or later, someone would miss the knife, which the child must have stolen. They would look out of a grubby window and come down to grab her from behind. And beat her, most like, or worse, make fun of her. Oldlily stretched her wits — and nearly impaled herself on the knife — as her head jerked with the effort. ‘You’ve been told wrong,’ she said. ‘I don’t hoard stories. I cook ’em.’

‘That doesn’t make sense.’

‘It does if you know what you’re doing.’ Oldlily licked her dry lips. ‘Hard work, though. I could do with another pair of hands sometimes. How about you help me, and I show you how to cook up a story?’

‘What kind of help?’ Meg narrowed her eyes.

Oldlily made her words slow and careful. ‘We’ll start with a stone. Will you find me one in the ground behind you, a smooth one, no bigger than your thumb?’

Meg tightened her grip on the knife. ‘But—’

‘You might as well put that down. If you stab me, you’ll never discover any of my stories.’

Meg took too long to consider that for Oldlily’s comfort. But, at last, she sighed and pushed the knife into a pocket. ‘I can still grab it faster than you can move.’

‘Find me a stone,’ Oldlily repeated. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’

She rejected the first two finds: one too broken, the other too big. She made Meg scrub the third clean and draw fresh water from the well to fill the cast-iron pot set over the fire. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we need an onion and a few carrots. Can you dig them up for me?’

‘I don’t know what they look like.’

‘I’ll show you.’

The child could never have used a trowel before, but she was full of vigour and deft enough, once Oldlily had demonstrated what to do. Oldlily did the cleaning and chopping with a knife of her own.

‘Do you know Hairy Bill down the lane?’

Meg nodded, with a grimace.

‘He should be awake by now. Go and ask him if he had a good night last night.’

‘He’ll throw his boots at me.’

‘Tell him I sent you. Say I see a long way when the moon is full.’

* * *

‘He tried to swat me but I dodged.’ Meg was back before Oldlily had time for a proper rest. ‘And he gave me this.’

Half a skinned rabbit, fresh and plump. Bill had been laying his snares again, in places where he had no business to be. Oldlily cut up the meat and added it to the pot, along with herbs and mushrooms from her larder.

‘We’d better get back to the weeds,’ she said. ‘Or they’ll choke the peas and beans.’

Meg’s glance was suspicious, but she did not argue. The garden kept them busy until the stew was cooked. Oldlily dished out a bowlful for them each. Meg ate not fast but steadily. After a few mouthfuls, she asked, ‘Everyone knows about Bill and the rabbits. What else was he up to, when the moon was full?’

Sneaking into houses, which Meg would be better off not knowing. ‘That’s his secret.’

Meg did not argue. She scraped the bowl clean and stared at it. Then she glared at Oldlily. ‘Where’s the story?’

Oldlily sniffed. ‘You’ve made it. When you want listeners to gather around you, tell them how you learned to make stone soup.’