(5) Sasha and the Collar Girl Part 5

The fifth part of the story

Sasha and the Collar Girl

Part Five

It seemed as if an eternity passed while we lay there, staring transfixed at the deadly pool where Margaret had chosen to end her suffering, and then I heard Sasha expel her breath and slump forward, and that brought me out of my trance.  Her dress had flown up to her waist when I tackled her, so I dipped my fingers beneath the waistband of her pants, and I dragged her backwards, until the total of her body was resting on solid earth.

She lay still for a long moment, and then she rose and dusted her trousers.  She glanced once more at the pool, muttered, “Stupid girl,” and turned to me.

“Did you pull the brake on the wagon?”

“Yes,” I replied, still staring into the muck.

“Good.  We can make our travel distance if we hurry.”

Her words shook me from my shock, and I turned my attention to her.  Her words may have been firm, but her face was pale with unshed tears, and she was breathing from her mouth as if she didn’t trust her nostrils.  I shook my head from side to side.

“I’m going to make a marker.”

“We don’t have time for that.”

Her tone was sharp, and on a normal occasion I would have not hesitated to acquiesce.  This was not a normal occasion; I began to scan for materials to mark Margaret’s passing.  Sasha strode toward the wagon, turned and yelled at me.

“Come on!”

There were stumps and sticks available, but there were also stones aplenty; including slate.  I spotted a hefty round rock, retrieved it and placed it on the ground, close to where she had made her leap.  I found another and carried it to the same spot.

“Suit yourself.”

Her sharp tone had turned bitter.  She walked back to the wagon.

I built two piles of stone, side by side, and then I went looking for a large flat piece of slate.  I found a rock with a flat section partially detached.  Rain, wind, and sun had begun the separation process, and I finished the job by inserting a thin oak branch and pounding the branch’s end until the thick flat tablet broke free from the rest.

It was a heavy piece, and I was able to manage only a few steps before I was forced to set it down and wait until I had regained some strength.  Seemingly uncaring, Sasha watched impatiently while I moved the heavy stone.  Finally she approached as I was taking another break, so I waited for her to berate me.

“Take that end,” she said, and she stooped to grab a side.

Together we manage to carry the heavy stone the rest of the way.

“I want to stand it between the piles,” I explained, so we leant it on one pile and let it slide into the slot between the two.

 While she held the slate steady, I positioned the rocks around it, so when we stepped away, the slate remained upright like a headstone by a grave.  During our pre-teen years we had been taught in school how to make dyes from natural sources, and now we used that information to write on the headstone, “Margaret.”

“I’m going to say a prayer,” I told Sasha.

“Fine,” she replied, and she walked back to the wagon.

After Sasha’s mother died, Sasha’s brother, James, asked our only acknowledged atheist, Jean, if she knew a prayer.  She responded by teaching him one, and the prayer she taught him was adopted by many families in Petersburg.  According to Sasha’s mother, Iris, my parents had been Buddhists, like Auntie Yuie, but I did not have any memories of them engaging in spiritual activities, and I have never practiced Buddhist rites with Yuie.  So I modified Jean’s prayer in memory of Margaret.  Here is the prayer I spoke next to her gravestone.

Margaret lies here in death’s sleep.

I pray, please God, her soul, you keep.

I hope, someday, she will awake.

But if not, God, her soul, please take.

In this forest

your green trees grew.

Please Bless this ground

from your sky, so blue.

My classroom teacher, Mr. Peabridge used to tell us stories about the old world that existed before the coming of the Fog.  I remember him talking about doctors who helped people like Margaret.  He used words like “social worker” and “psychiatrist.”  It will be a long time before those people return.

I returned to the wagon.  Sasha and I drove away from that sad place, not speaking, enveloped in sorrow.