All characters, et cetera are trademarked, blah... You get the jist.

Anyway, I wrote this several years ago after meeting Jane Fitzgibbon-Scott, a girl who lacked sight. I've kept in touch with her through letters and emails, and recently, she moved to Scotland for a long visit with her relatives. In her letters, she described how she fell in love with a smalltown boy in Pennsylvania. They married years ago, and now, she awaits him in Scotland. Enjoy.

Gale

Childhood

I lived in Hollister for as long as I could remember. However, when I was called by my name-Anne-I did not turn around to find the caller, as most would. My name always felt foreign to me. As others ran to their mothers who called "Ruth!" or perhaps "Elizabeth!" I would be called by the orphanage Miss.

"Anne! Oh, Dahlia, do bring Anne inside!" Dahlia would leave the wooden swings that Mr. Forrestier, the old blacksmith, had built for us, and come to my aid. No matter the pining and pouting of her friends, Dahlia would run to me and guide me back home.

Two years later, by the time I was eight, I was able to make my way around town quite easily. I was guided by the sounds and scents, and most of all, a shepherdess's cane that an Elder, Mr. Butler, had made for me with his bare hands. I was so touched that every Sunday, after church, I would visit him. He would read histories to me from his books. His warm, rumbling voice would soothe me so that I would doze for moments afterward. Soon, I would make my way into the kitchen to lend a hand to Mrs. Butler best as I could. Oftentimes she would make pies for me. The Butler boys would scramble inside for a slice after playing in the fields.

The fields. Oh, how I longed to play in the fields as the other children did. Miss May refused to allow me into the fields on my own. Sometimes she gave her assent to having me sit in the fields with the children. I was content with hearing the other children laugh and play as I warmed beneath the sun.

At ten, I would venture with Miss May through Rutshire Woods and over a bridge that connected Hollister to the remainder of the world. By then, most of the children had been adopted. It was obvious why I was left: Who would need a blind girl to burden them? Dahlia had left the previous year. The Butlers had adopted her, for Mrs. Butler had bore no daughters. I alllowed this matter stray from my mind. Why dwell on such a sorrowful issue when there was so much work to be done?

Miss May began depending on me more and more. I did not mind. I realized that I needed distractions. My Sundays were spent visiting the Butlers. I could often sense Dahlia at the doorway when Mr. Butler read to me. He always invited her to join us, and she did. I would smile and blindly reach for her hand as a gesture of friendship. She would accept it, and the three of us would sit together and listen to Mr. Butler's magnificent tales.

Because I could not see, he and Dahlia described everything for me. They spoke of the leaves of scarlet and gold that littered the roads, and those who came and went. They described themselves: Mr. Butler with a gray beard and charcoal-hued hair frosted over with specks of white, and Dahlia with her long, brown hair and rosy skin. They told me of Mrs. Butler, and the Butler boys: Gabriel, Christian, Thomas, Joseph, and Alex, all of which had locks of dark brown and eyes of smoke. Mistress May, with her silvery hair and kind eyes; Gordon, the mysterious wayfarer residing at the inn; Heather and Brandon Smith, twins who were constantly getting into mischief; and, of course, they told of the fields. The golden fields where barley swayed and sweet grass thrived.

The summer of my twelfth year, Mr. Quentin Butler passed away. He was an elderly man, and despite my lack of sight, I understood that. The funeral took place in the woods. Miss May dressed me in black, which is only worn during mourning.

Three years later, I witnessed the passing of Miss May. I sat on the rug facing the fireplace while she sat in her old rocking chair. I listened to the crackle of the fire and the creak of the chair as my fingers weaved in and out with knitting needles.

"Dear Anne," Creak, creak.

My needles continued to click. "Yes, Miss May?"

Creak, creak. "Do you wonder why you were never taken away, as the other children were?"

"It would be a sin to say no." Click, click.

"Thirteen years ago, on a cold fall day such as this one, I was crossing to the neighboring town for supplies. I'd gone halfway across the bridge when I heard the sniffling of a young child. I looked about and saw naught but trees and the quaver of the stream. I knelt down on the little wooden bridge. The weeping became more audible. I bent my head over the edge of the bridge and saw a tiny girl bunched up against the base, crying her pretty olive-colored eyes out," she paused.

My clicking had ceased, yet her rocking continued.

"I cajoled her into coming out. She wore dainty black shoes, caked with mud and soaked through. Her dress was of the finest black satin, her pale cheeks stained wet with tears. Her hair sprung out in curls; springy curls the same color as her dress. I knelt and picked her up. I sang to her until her sniffles died away. She said nothing.

"I continued my way to town with her hand in mine. I picked up my supplies and questioned about a missing child. None claimed her. I traveled to the next town, and the same thing happened. Exhausted, I ventured home with the girl and set her in my little orphanage. Two years later," her voice fell to a whisper. "Two years later, the girl began to lose her vision. The doctor said that within a month, she would lose her vision completely. Those who had questioned about adopting her withdrew their proposals. I was left with a blind girl who would be of no use to anyone. Soon enough, I grew to love this girl as my own."

I felt the tears on my cheeks. My hand flew up to swipe them away. "Why do you tell me this now?"

She sighed. Creak, creak. "Oh, Anne. I am growing old. Soon, there will be a new Miss. You have a right to your past, and that is all the knowledge I have of it. Promise me, Anne, that you will be obedient to the new Miss."

The fire had dried my wet cheeks. "Miss May, don't speak of-"

"Promise me!" Her voice was a harsh whisper now, somewhat choked.

I swallowed. "I promise." I picked up my needles again and listened for the creak of her chair.

I heard nothing. "Miss May?" Nothing. I dropped the needles and the blanket, plucked up my cane and rushed to her side. My hands found her cheek cool and clammy. I reached for her hands which were still warm from the fire.

With a cry of desolation I fell to my knees and buried my face into the cloth of her skirt. The tears came then. Huge, muffled sobs mingling with the crackle of the fire.

It felt as though hours had passed until I heard the door open.

"Joe, call Mr. Gibbons immediately."

"But-"

"Do as I say." Footsteps fading away. "Christian, get Anne away from here."

I felt arms resting on my shoulders and pulling me away. I screamed.

"Anne, it's Christian! Christian Butler!"

"Can you bring her back, Christian Butler?" I shouted. "Answer me!" I swung out and my fist connected with his head. He immediately dropped my arm. I reached blindly for Miss May's rocking chair. My sobs resounded in my own ears, my forehead wet with perspiration and my cheeks wet with tears.

I heard swearing and felt hands clasp my own. "Gabriel," I said with partial realization and defiance. "I want Miss May. Bring her back."

The eldest Butler son sighed. It sounded so like his father's that I almost wished for one of those big, warm hugs and the deep, rumbling voice.

"Gabriel!" I cried. "Bring her back!" My fingernails bit into my palms when I said these words. I was oblivious to reality, and yet the death of the only mother I had ever known was apparent. Above all things, I yearned to have her back. "Gabriel," I repeated his name like a prayer. Again and again I requested that Gabriel, the angel of mercy, ask God to send her back. Whether Gabriel Butler realized this, I knew naught.

Finally, he spoke. "You realize that she is gone forever, yet you demand that I bring her back? Why do you ask the impossible? Most know you well enough, Anne, that you rarely speak nonsense."

These were the last words we exchanged for the next five years.

The new Miss was not unkind, but quite jolly and irrevocable when it came to decisions. Miss Linda did not require much work from me, therefore I was often free to roam. I learned to care for her, and soon enough, learned to love her.

My Saturdays and Sundays were now spent sitting in the fields with Ruth Newman and Wendy Beaumont. We often brought biscuits and fruit to share with the children. Ruth and Wendy made certain that they did not venture too far as we conversed.

One frigid winter morning, I headed to the porch to inspect whether it had snowed. My cane tapped against the ground and to the grassy plot that stood in front of the orphanage. It slid into the powdery snow with ease. I smiled and knelt down to run my hand through it. Suddenly, I heard a slight crack. I reached for my cane and felt along it until I reached the point where it had splintered. From the cold, I surmised, and left it propped up against the wall.

A crunch of snow underfoot made me swivel around. "Why, Joseph Butler, is that you?" My mouth quirked.

"How did you realize, Anne? I hardly made a sound!"

"I have my ways," I replied, still smiling. "Oft it is that I hear Wendy speaking of handsome Joe Butler and the breathtaking goatee he is now growing." His ears were likely a dozen shades of pink, the poor boy.

"Well, I… Do you suppose she-"

"Fancies you? My dear Joe, for fear of losing a pair of my finest comrades, I shan't utter a word. However, I do hear that Wendy Beaumont is quite fond of almonds and buttercups."

Laughing, Joe rushed up the steps and threw his arms around me. His brotherly embrace caught me off guard, and I stood stiff for a moment before chuckling and returning the hug. He lead me back inside and soon enough, we had tea and breakfast to sip and nibble at as we chatted.

That afternoon, I was making my way to the fields. A bundle of cinnamon rolls was tucked under my left arm, and my right arm stretched forward in place of my cane.

Suddenly, a voice demanded, "Where is your cane?"

"It is broken."

"Why have you notified none?"

"I did not think it important to burden others when they have enough burdens to tend," I paused. "Gabriel,"

"I will request that a new one be made. Come,"

I followed his voice, which led me to the woodworkers' shop. I sat on the steps, listening to the pleasant hum of voices inside. I could decipher Gabriel's and Jack Sawyer's. Before long, I heard footsteps on the porch. "It will be ready within two days."

I nodded and gripped a post as I stood. "Will you take me to the fields? Ruth and Wendy are waiting for me." Again, he guided me with his voice. I was disappointed. He walked ahead of me as he spoke of little Alex who was growing up, and the meetings at the Town Hall. Upon arriving at the fields, he took my leave. I knelt down and listened to Ruth and Wendy as I passed out the rolls.