NOTE: This has recieve a 16+ rating because the first part of the chapter does not reflect what the feel of the story is yet to become: a gruesome, heart-wrentching and desperate piece.
So close, she thinks. So close.
She stares at the money bag inside her chocolate box.
A few more dollars, and I’ll have raised enough money to earn a Helper’s badge at school!
The thought sets the little girl into giggles, and she continues to skip merrily along the footpath.
The amount of coins she has managed to raise is not the only cause of this girl's exuberance. Cherrie has never been permitted to go from door to door unattended before. She takes this as a clear sign her parents believe she is 'a big girl now'.
A breeze plays with her long, black hair. Her mother had pinned a magnolia clip to tuck her fridge away, but the wind has caused it to come loose. Cherrie is far too excited to concern herself over it. She begins to hum a tune, one that was taught to her in music class.
The next house she encounters looks exactly the same as the previous one she visited, and the one before that, and the one before that. Sad, grey, and fake. A metal doorbell awaits her finger, placed on a rendered grey wall. She presses it.
An elegantly dressed woman greets the door, face stern.
"What is you business here?"
Cherrie pushes forward her chocolate box. "Would you like to buy some—"
The girl’s words were cut short by the woman’s glare.
"I do not buy chocolates from a black girl."
And the woman slams the door.
Cherrie stands still for awhile, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. The woman called me black. Why does everyone hate me because I'm black? Cherrie glances down at her arms, forehead burrowed. Her skin is a pretty dark caramel. Why is black even bad? She was very, very rude. I’m never coming back here. There will be no chocolates for her, not ever!In a huff, she storms off, coins jangling furiously inside the box.
The next house she arrives at startles the girl. She has never seen a house like it before.
Little bushes, mushrooms and real ferns sit blooming in the front gardens. The house is made out of wooden boards, and the white paint upon it is forlornly peeled. A rusted, iron table and chairs rest amongst the garden. Cherrie is reminded of her grandma’s old fairytale books- the best books in the world, as far as she was concerned.
Where is the fake grass, the stones, the rendered walls, the block-like design? Never has Cherrie seen a house that does not fit the government-issued standard. It looks nothing like what houses are supposed to look like. However, it does look a lot friendlier then most.
Curious, she approaches the front door, and is confused. There is no sign of a doorbell.
She scans around. Nope: there is definitely no button. All houses are supposed to have doorbells, except for the ones which have technology that scans you, creates a holographic projected picture, and sends it zooming through the air to whoever is home at the time. Maybe this is one of those houses, Cherrie thinks suddenly. The thought makes her flash her best, show award-winning grin. Smile for the camera projector!
After a few moments, nobody comes to the door. Cherrie stops grinning, and sulks. She yells out, and hopes the windows aren’t sound-proof, as most are.
"Hello? Hello?"
A wheeze comes from inside.
"I'll be out in a minute."
Yay! Someone was home!
The door is opened by a old, hunched stranger. He glances down at the girl with the box.
"Hello man. My name is Cherrie Déqua. Would-you-like-to-buy-some-chocolate-its-for-our-school-only-four-dollars-here," she says in a hurry and thrusts the box in front of her.
"Woah, slow down!" says the old man, laughing; his laugh sounds more like a hearty cough. "What have you got there got for me?"
She opens the lid, and an assortment of small chocolates wrapped in pretty fluorescent foil lay prominently to one side. On the other side lays a plastic bag with plenty of change filling its insides.
"Oh, goodness! That is a lot of chocolate! I might have one, but that will be all. You see, my body can’t take too much of that sweet food anymore."
Cherrie grins and nods her head, while the man gropes around in his trouser pocket for loose change.
"Yeah, you’re like my grandpa, he always complains about his stomach and his back so mum always takes him to the hospital, so I asked him if he was okay and he said the drugs worked, and I asked him what drugs were, and he said they were stuff that cures what he has," gushes Cherrie, so fast that the only words the man manages to catch are 'hospital' and 'drugs'.
"Oh, that’s upsetting," says the man.
"It is."
"No, not about your story. I don’t have any change on me."
"Oh," says Cherrie, baffled.
"Don’t worry," he says politely. "I'll go out the back and fetch some for you."
With that, the man humbles back into his home.
Cherrie rocks back and forth on her feet, listening to the loud sounds of transport and technology defeating the whispers of the warm spring air. She thinks about the man, and how nice he had been. Unlike that nasty woman before. Or that mean man before that. Or those twins she encountered earlier on in the day that had attempted to steal her chocolate box. In fact, it was a miracle she had raised this much money. But Cherrie is persistent; her confidence and pride is untarnished by even the harshest of comments. She is able to deflect them like sun on a looking glass. She will get that Helper’s badge. She will.
She thinks about the man's presentation. He is wearing odd attire: high-waisted, sand-coloured trousers held up by a belt, and a striped collared polo shirt. Perched on his wrinkly nose are fragile-looking glasses. His hair is reduced to a few wispy strips that stretched defiantly across his shiny head.
Strange indeed. She is accustomed to seeing the standard government-issued, environmentally-friendly clothes most citizens wear, including herself, not the clothes that the man was wearing today.
The man hobbles back with a few coins in his outstretched hand. Cherrie takes them, drops them one by one in the money bag, and holds up the assortment.
"Just the green one for me, thanks dear. It looks the safest." He gingerly picks up the chocolate and places it into his trouser pocket.
"Thank you, man." Cherrie folds the box back together.
"Anything for you," he smiles, but a quizzed look appears on his face. "Who are your parents?"
"They let me come on my own," says Cherrie defensively.
"That’s terrific, but all I wish to know is who they are."
Cherrie’s features relax. "Oh. My mum’s name is Hannah, and my dad’s is Aiden."
He scratches his head. "Do your mum and dad often jog down this area?"
"I think so."
"I think I might know them," he mumbles quietly. For a moment, he seems to be in deep thought. Then he looks down at the little dark-skinned girl.
"You seem very responsible. Are you?" he asks.
Cherrie does a little jump. "I am very rez-ponsibili-ly!"
"Well, then, how’s about I hand you an old book of mine. I have no use for it now."
"A book?" Cherrie groans, drooping her shoulders. "I hate reading!"
“Real-ly?” he says, exaggerating disappointment. "Because I’m sure a magnificent fairytale book with plenty of colourful illustrations would have been something to surely miss."
Her face lights up merrily. "A fairytale book? Oh, can I have it? Please, please, please?" The last three words are punctuated with a little jump as each is spoken.
The old man laughs. "Of course you can. Wait here while I go fetch it." Yet again he retreats back into his house.
While Cherrie waits, she counts the circle-shaped stones across the ground that lead out to the old table and chairs nestled in the garden. There is six, she thinks, and then six! My favourite number!
Soon enough, the old man emerges with a richly embroidered book, smothered in dust. He wipes it off with a sweep of his hand and brushes the mess onto his trousers.
"There you go, dear."
Cherrie slides her box to the ground and accepts the book graciously. There is a moment of silence as she pours over the book. Every page that turns seems to stretch her smile further, however, after a few pages into it, her happy smile stops to be replaced with one of confusion.
"Excuse me," she says politely, "but do you know what the word mar-udder means?" She shows him the page and points to the word she is struggling to understand.
"I sure do," he says. "It's said marauder, and it is an old term for somebody who plunders items— steals them. I'm assuming it is part of a pirate tale?" He inspects the page closer, pushing his glasses up from the brim of his nose, and nods. "Of course. It's the tale of Sinbad."
Cherrie's eyes widen. "You know that tale?"
"Absolutely. Do you?"
"No," she states truthfully. "I don’t know what Sinbad is. Is it a treasure?"
"Not really," he says with a little smile, "it's a wonderful story about a sailor's seven adventures."
The little girl is fascinated. "Seven adventures? I must read it!" In a blink of an eye, Cherrie has sprinted to the table in the garden and plonked the book down upon it.
The man is tempted to lumber over, but instead he stands and waits. He listens out for some certain words that he bets his house on that Cherrie will say. Sure enough…
"Mister, I'm having trouble reading it!"
The man smiles, and paces himself slowly to the table and chairs.
"Would you like me to read it to you?"
He witnesses the sparkle in Cherrie's eyes. "Oh yes, please!"
The man takes the other chair, moves it across to be beside Cherrie, and makes himself comfortable upon it. It is then he peers down at the book.
"This is one of my favourite tales," he admits wistfully, flipping over the previous page to where the story commences. He coughs to clear his throat, scratches his forehead, and recites the beginning.
"Once upon a time, years and years ago in Baghdad, there lived a porter called Sinbad."
Oh, how the young girl becomes hypnotized by the old man's words. If you could capture and examine the magic between these two souls, it would be difficult to believe that this pair were strangers only minutes ago.
It was as if Cherrie knew this man her entire life, the way she appears to be at ease in his presence. She hangs onto anything he speaks, and the trance she is in seems to melt any questions that formed in her mouth. Cherrie isn't the brightest pick of the bunch, but she can easily imagine Sinbad's sailboat crashing against the stormy waves of the seas, his courageous and fearless battles with the deadliest creatures known to mankind, and his troublesome escapades with the Devil's doing. The vivid imagery forms in her mind, and leaves her breathless and restless for the next instalment of the hero's adventures.
The man is aware of this connection, too. It is the most liberating experience, revealing to an enthusiastic pupil some of the most brilliant fairy tales in existence.
The clouds in the sky have become darkish-ly transparent by the time the pair finish reading- a sure sign that night is approaching. This is how night and day is defined now- not by the sun, which can never be seen behind the thick layer of pollution in the sky, but by the quality of clouds.
Cherrie cranes her head, studying the clouds.
"It's late," she observes.
The man nods in agreement.
"You had better hurry home. I would be very surprised if your parents weren't worried sick right about now."
As Cherrie stands up, she gathers the books to her chest, and looks at it protectively.
"I'm going to make sure this never gets wrecked. Goodbye, man."
The man smiles. "Call me Mr. Scott next time we happen to make acquaintance."
Cherrie makes for an exit, when the man stops her with "Wait! Little lady, you've forgotten your chocolate box."
Cherrie spins around and rolls her eyes in relief. "Opps" is all she says.
Mr. Scott attempts to hand it to her, but the girl refuses with a shake of the head.
"I can't carry both!"
-x-x-x-
Gender:
Points: 5950
Reviews: 75