Also, I'm reading that Piper story I started to write a long time ago. Other than a few things (for example, this sentence: "He dug into his steak with extreme vigor, perhaps imagining that it was rat-flesh he was tearing."--what, is he going to eat rats?), it's rather nice. And it's like reading something that someone else wrote... I don't remember this at all. Ahaha. I never really wrote much of it... Dang, how was I going to end it? I wish I could remember.
Anyway, I have jibun no um (titled it back when I didn't know the word monogatari, ha) open because I had forgotten about the story I'd written based on Andersen's Little Match Girl. Like, completely forgot that I'd written it at all. So let's see if it's any good at all.
After I finish submitting the Kino fic, that is.
(I'm quite proud of the Kino fic. I mean, it's morbid, but it... I like it. I think it fits well with the series.)
(Gah, why did I kill Koshakk? That was so mean of me!)
(That was the point, you silly girl.)
Ahh, that's better. I even ranted about the move of Land of Adults. That's always fun, ranting about translation/editing things I don't agree with. I can always end my rant with, "And that's why I need to hurry up!"
*mutters something about February*
Oh, squee, I did like this story. I suppose it's a bit saccharine, but... I always loved the Match Girl. Squee.
Anou... mitai no darou ka. >> <<
--
The Organ-Player
A scrawny waif wandered the streets on that cold New Year’s Eve. She was dressed in thin rags, and she had no home. She was trying desperately to find a place to sleep that night. But her search was almost hopeless; everything had been touched with snow, which was quickly turning into slush as a cold, steady rain fell.
She knew that she had to find somewhere warm to sleep, or at least to stay briefly. Even a few minutes would do her well and keep her hands and face from freezing completely. At that moment, the desire for warmth was even stronger than her constant hunger, for earlier that day she had found a table scrap that some wealthy family had thrown out. It had been the leanest part of a roast goose, unseasoned, already filthy in the streets, but even so it had tasted heavenly to the poor girl. Though it hadn’t satiated the girl, it had served to lessen and divert her attention from her hunger.
The cold, however, could not be countered so easily. The girl’s thin gown had been completely soaked through and her long brown hair was plastered to her doleful face. Every exposed inch of her skin was either chaffed red or quickly turning blue. She shivered constantly, and every now and then she would give an intense shudder as a gust of wind blew and dashed cold raindrops against her face.
Through the streets she kept walking, one foot in front of the other with a trance-like motion. Something told her that if she kept moving, she would stay warm. But oh, how she longed to find an iron stove somewhere and lie down and curl up in front of it and let the waves of heat roll over her! She tried to imagine such a stove, as if imagination alone could bring the precious heat to her.
In the distance, there was the faint song of an organ. Some holy song was being played, and it struck the girl as familiar. It was not so long since she had attended the church daily; but now that her parents were gone, she was ashamed to be seen in her one ragged dress while all the other ladies dressed so finely and beautifully.
However, today the girl was so desperately cold that she found herself moving towards the organ song anyway, haltingly. She passed several houses on the way, glancing enviously into the warm yellow windows. Just a few more steps, she told herself, and she too would be in a warm place.
Finally she reached the great, heavy door of the church. It took all her strength to pull it open, and the metal handle bit her hands with cold. She stepped in and smiled at the satisfying warmth, letting the door swing shut behind her. The only other person there was the organ-player, who had her back to the girl.
The drenched girl began to move forward, towards the sanctuary. The warmth of the church was tangible; she could feel it rubbing against her skin comfortingly, like a cat. But she still shivered. Muddy water dripped from her hair and clothes. She was silent as she went; for a moment she entertained the notion of speaking to the organ-player, but something held her back. Instead, she knelt down in one of the aisles—not in the pews, for then she would get them wet and filthy, which would be disrespectful to God and his worshippers.
The organ’s song was beautiful. It reminded the girl of the days when she had come often to church, with her parents. And after the service, they’d leave the church all bundled up in thick, warm clothes and rush home to a hot, filling meal. Ah, to be that warm and full and happy again! How bitterly she wished that those days had never ended.
Back then, she would not have knelt on the ground near the back of the sanctuary; she would have sat in one of the front pews, kept warm between her two parents. And there would have been many more people. Now there were only the shivering girl and the organ-player and God.
Silently, the girl clasped her hands and bowed her head, as she had been taught, and silently she prayed to God. She prayed first for her parents—she always prayed first for them, for their souls and their happiness. Usually that prayer was followed by one for her own safety, for food and warmth, but today, in the presence of God and in his grand house, such a prayer seemed selfish. So instead, piously, she prayed for the souls of the others on the street as she shivered.
She did not notice when the organ’s song ended, nor did she hear the soft, padding footsteps of the organ-player as she approached. The shivering girl only looked up when she had finished her prayer; and then she stared at the organ-player without speaking.
The organ-player was no older than her, and had golden hair that framed her pale, pretty face in curls. Her clothes, like the girl’s, were thin, and she wore no shoes. She looked at the girl solemnly for a moment; then she quietly said, “Welcome to the house of God.” Her voice was sweet and warm, like cream. She knelt next to the girl and continued, “You’re very cold and hungry, aren’t you?”
The girl nodded slightly, hands still clasped in her lap. It seemed almost blasphemous to address the organ-player, the one who had provided such holy music, but the girl couldn’t keep from adding, “I’m mostly cold. It’s so cold outside.”
The organ-player gave a small smile that lit up her face. “I may be able to help that,” she told the girl. She reached into her apron and brought out a handful of matches.
The girl brought the corners of her mouth up in an appreciative smile, but shook her head inwardly. It would take many, many small matches to warm her shaking body. A handful would never suffice.
But, her smile now a little more mysterious, the organ-player struck a match against the polished wooden floor of the church. For a moment, it sputtered; then it burned clear and bright—and so warm!
Somehow the warmth from the small match surrounded the girl’s whole body, settling around her shoulders and head like a heavy blanket. Amazed, the girl reached out for the match. The organ-player gave it to her readily, and the poor girl held it up, studying it. How could one small match warm her so completely? It seemed a gift from God!
The match went out. The blanket of warmth disappeared immediately, but the girl found that she was not as cold as before. She opened her mouth to ask the organ-player about the matches. Before she could do so, though, the organ-player struck another match.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” she asked, holding the new match out before the girl. “This one will help.”
The girl again looked to study the match, but—behold! As she looked into the flame, she fancied that she saw inside it a long, fine table with a great banquet spread out upon it! The girl’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she took in everything on the table, and her stomach growled conspicuously as she took a deep breath and smelt the food. There were five loaves of bread, two whole roast geese, and more fruits and candies than she could count. Steam still rose from the bread and the geese.
The girl stared at the glorious vision in disbelief, salivating. It all looked so delicious, the perfect New Year’s feast, just as she used to eat with her family. But it was no more than a vision, the starving girl told herself unwillingly; it would not satisfy her.
The organ-player lit another match with the flame of the current one, which was close to dying. The vision inside the flame stayed. “Eat,” the organ-player encouraged softly. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“But it’s just a vision,” protested the sad little girl, nevertheless still entranced by the grand banquet.
“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,” the organ-player answered mysteriously. “But if you eat, at least you will be happy in that vision, will you not?”
Such simple logic was all that the girl needed to convince her; she ran forward to the table and immediately began reaching for food. She briefly noted the odd fact that the food had substance under her fingers, but quickly became more interested with the substance it had in her mouth. How wonderful it was to take such large bites and feel those bites slide down her throat, filling her stomach! The girl couldn’t even remember the last time a meal had satisfied her so well. And the taste—the taste! The goose was perfectly roasted, the bread just slightly sweet. It was like a meal from heaven.
As the girl ate, the organ-player kept lighting matches, perpetuating the vision. She waited patiently for the girl to finish. Finally, the child wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and smiled. The organ-player let the last match die, and as the flame sputtered the feast faded from view.
It was cold and dark in the church, but now the girl did not notice. She stared at the organ-player for a long time as rain lashed against the stained glass windows. Finally, the girl whispered, “What was that?” The vision was gone, but her stomach was still full. She could still taste the sauce from the goose.
The organ-player smiled. “It was a gift for you.” She stood, brushing ashes off her apron. “I have to go home now. Grandmother might worry.”
She left the church. The girl stayed. She curled up on the floor of the church to sleep and dreamt about the organ-player girl and her matches.
