The Wasteland.

The dreams had been the same for many years now. For a time, she went without sleep, only to eventually drift away. Even in those light snatches, they were the same: children playing in the sand of a dreamy beach. Their bright hair and smiles, she watching from far, though where she was she couldn't tell. She'd approach them to play, with a beach ball in her hand, and they regarded her with kind smiles. "Let's play" they chanted, and began to run toward the water. Nathalie would look around, running behind them slowly, looking for signs of the water, and finding none. The children looked scared, and grasped their toys-black bones-for comfort. And when she plucked them from the ground, aware suddenly of the danger in the sands, they began to cry for food. They were hungry. She slid her breasts from her blouse and into their many mouths, aware only of their hungry eyes watching her perform motherhood. They suckled roughly, achingly, foreignly, their many eyes now angry and their fists beating at her chest. It was her, Nathalie. The mother eternal. Dressed in robes of Our Mother. The First Mother. She looked at herself, frightened, in the mirror that came before her. The babies had gone, but their eyes and mouths had not. She tore away the tops of her blue and white robes, her chest naked save the head shawl that hung from her head, scratching at her shoulders. From her breast, the sand from the endless beach poured forming pyramids at her feet. Her robes were stained and dirtied with the sand. The eyes circled her, and the mouths merged forming one large toothless mouth, damned and intent on ripping away what womanhood she had left.

They left their mark deep in her heart. All three. And like the cross she bore the weight of her emptiness. Her hope and fear used her mind as its battleground.

They all knew; how could they not? After five years and three miscarriages, no one doubted. That's what they said at least. A disability. Her disability. And her poor, poor husband, who had to take care of her. And after little Anamara met her tragic end, they thought, certainly, that Hugo Brakendos would leave her or lock her away. It was only right for him to do so. Nathalie Brakendos was useless. What was a woman without her parts? Without children to raise, a family to begin? What good was a woman without children? The doctor seconded these notions, and though no studies of female anatomy had been conducted to date, he firmly believed-like most of the time-that women were the sum of their parts. And without that part, they were bitterly incomplete.

Would she be incomplete?

The question plagued her from time to time, giving way to doubt, to mistrust. She had her husband, who didn't want to lock her away, who loved her and valued her. Didn't she? The life she had she made and envisioned, was that enough? Still, it was there, haunting her dreams and even more her nightmares. The night terrors and depression became second to the Talk, this time, quieter, and more malicious than ever. But when hadn't she been subject to it? She struggled to remember a time since moving to Town that Talk hadn't haunted her. Maybe in the beginning, when she was fresh and new and impressionable. But times changed quickly for Nathalie.

Nathalie's dramas fueled much of Town talk for quite some time. It was Talk that drove her from her quiet room with Mrs. Porter, and into the barn stable of the Brakendos farm. It was Talk that kept her from her teaching school. Despite the Talk, however, Hugo married her. He came from a respectable family, and he was the head of Town council. It was after they got married that the Talk ceased. They said many things, cruel things, but Hugo always seemed to ignore them. How he did it, Nathalie did not know. He commanded an air about him, an air that shook the Talk still. And when Hugo put his foot down, the rare times he did, it stuck. It was as if she were new, an outsider embraced by the Town for her wit and beauty again. But she was smart, and perhaps that's why there was so much talk of her in the first place. Nathalie demanded equality, she was strong willed, and schooled. That she wanted to teach that, to children no less, was far less than acceptable. No, Nathalie's mere existence was not enough for Julia Callahan. And she sought out ways to destroy it.

These were days when Nathalie had set in motion the events of her life. When she had firm control over her destiny. Or so she thought. Did she dream of children then? Looking back on her youth, she couldn't remember. Maybe she figured they'd naturally appear, but she knew better. That's one thing she took from her life with her parents. And perhaps that's why she fought so against it.

Hugo was the final word then. So they embraced her apologetically-well, some did at least. But the betrayed aren't easy to trust, and Nathalie was many things but naïve. She remained cordial. And when they began their assault again, this time not on her but her body, she knew it had been their final blow. Handicapped. That's what they called it. So, the talk began, refreshed and renewed. Talk reached a head when someone, Mrs. Callahan no less, suggested to Hugo that she be institutionalized immediately. The town seemed to echo her sentiments. Or, perhaps they were afraid to say otherwise. Julia and John Callahan did their fair share of instigating and had their fair share of influence, broken but intact.

But the Talk was dying, slowing perhaps because it seemed as if Nathalie was staying put. Nothing new to feed on, no renewed attempts at childbirth, the Talk had nothing to go on.

That is, until the curious brown parcel.

The first thing they did that night, other than cry and worry frantically, was call the doctor. Dr. Finch did not like to be disturbed late at night, and he made sure to let them know thoroughly when arrived at their step.

"What is the meaning of this?! Both of you seem to be intact. If you have called me away from my bed and brandy for a papercut, I'll have you arres-"

A soft cry could be heard, cutting through his words like a hot knife. The pouches of fat on his face drooped, and his sullen brown eyes sparkled a little.

"Wa-Uh, was that..." he looked to Hugo, then to Nathalie. "Was that the sound of-of—What's going on here?"

Nathalie stepped forward grasping Dr. Finch's hands firmly. The candlelight danced on his incredulous face, forming pools of darkness under his eyes. There, in a crib left from their first attempt, sat the brown baby, confused and hungry. That night, with his help, they fed her, clothed her, and kept the secret of her origins far from the ears of the Talk. At least they tried.

The news of a child spread quickly enough. How could it not, they needed fresh milk and clothes and food. A flashflood of joy swept the Town followed by a tidal wave of disaster. Naturally, they blamed Nathalie, and soon, the child. The small brown parcel, who's curiously colored eyes were not blue or brown, who's chestnut curls were not blonde or black. Her silky brown skin was not pale. And no rounds in her ears, but flat points. She was all the Talk needed. And burning and raging, it forced Hugo from his post, and cleared the way for John Callahan and his family to regain control of the council. Talk brewed a fire that still wasn't through burning, for the brown parcel needed to grow so that the flames of Talk could feast its fire on her malformed life.

And it fed.

Harrigan was 11 and tall. Skinny and long, hardly a woman with a sleek angular body, Harrigan towered over the tallest boy of her age, Nathan Weatherford. He and his gang always seemed to go out of their way to find her and torture her. And by 11, she'd gotten used it. In some respect, it was lucky she was home schooled at the time. Her mother refused to put her in the school with the rest of the kids, and she accepted it eagerly, because she had little patience for their taunts, and teases, and rather liked being alone. School meant that she had to make friends, and she was under the impression then that if she made friends with them, who'd be friends with the cows or sheep her father raised?

Still, when she was sent into Town on errands, she knew the threat of Nathan was near, almost inevitable. This summer, he'd been particularly bad. Maybe because she'd grown so quickly while he remained so small. He'd goaded his gang into throwing stones, and tripping her in, they even threw mud at her dress one Sunday before church. She entered dirty, but prideful, as if there wasn't a drop of dirt on her. Today, however, would different.

Harrigan rounded the corner to the grocer just down from the Pub and church only to run into Nathan and his gang, lounging lazily on the street, with marbles in their hands. The sun glinted on the marbles, catching Harrigan's eye. Her back tensed and arms stiffened, like a cat preparing for attack.

"Oi, fellas! If it isn't Harrigan Brakendos, the amazon."

His friends laughed heartily at this. Harrigan could feel the list crumpling in her hands angrily, and hear their whispered curses. Theodore Rowlings slapped his thigh, spitting something dark onto the pavement. Chewing tobacco? The howled at her, and clicked their teeth, hissing words of dislike.

"Leave me alone, Nathan. If you don't mind, I've got things to attend to."

But they'd crossed the street toward her, advancing on her position. She walked forward, unwilling to let herself to succumb to the anger she felt. To the things she wanted to say. Feelings of lesser beings, her mother's voice reminded her. But maybe she wasn't any better? Maybe she liked being lesser, and giving in to lesser emotions. Anger for instance.

"Harrigan, one more thing," Nathan laughed, pulling at her arm to stop her. She snatched it away, disgusted he would consider such a thing. A low growl formed in her throat.

"Don't touch me, cretin!"

"Who are you calling a cretin, bastard? Huh? You're nothing but a bastard. You and your bitch mother."

And Harrigan punched him in the nose.

The doctor later declared it broken. And after it was done, everyone knew that Nathan had gotten his nose broken by a girl. A tall, Amazonian girl with wild unkempt hair. She herself, was wild and unkempt. And angry. At least that's what they said. That her parents weren't able to control her, and that she deserved to be locked away for her brutal attack. But he deserved it, the scum. She knew, and she was only eleven at the time. But he'd given her something in the exchange, a taste of herself, perhaps, though at the time she didn't know it.

Now, Harrigan simply walked to the grocer, gathered the bags, and walked home. When her parents finally received the news, they didn't punish her, or yell like she thought. In fact, there was a short talk from her mother about proper lady behavior, punching someone in the nose notwithstanding. Her father on the other hand, who was outnumbered and in need of a son, took it upon himself to teach her a little bit more fighting, just in case. Only a few things, punches, grabs, things he learned while he was in school. She learned quickly enough how to protect herself. And soon, every Sunday night, they went into the barn to practice. Of course they kept this from her mother, who's wrath was something to avoid.

It didn't take long for the news to spread. Nathan Weatherford, beaten by a girl. But, it didn't take long for the rumors to circulate that she was some savage girl, if that at all. She shrugged off the rumors, as she had since inception, smiling at the prospect of being feared for a swift punch to the nose.

Harrigan had never been close to any one in Town. She couldn't remember a time when she had been. The teasing, the goading, the tricks the children played on her were cruel, and the names were far worse. She was in school with them for a short time before, until she was taken out for biting Allison Ferrer on the arm. The teachers had been very divided on the matter, since Allison had admitted to pulling Harrigan's hair and calling her names, and the teachers themselves were guilty of letting these things slide. But it's not as if she hated them. She simply ignored them. She preferred solitude much better than human companionship, and dreamed of a life lived alone, in the quiet. But still in Town. How anyone could leave was beyond her. It was rich with beauty, and nature. And after seeing the noise of the cities when she travelled to her uncle's house, the made up in her mind that Town is where she'd stay. And plus, cities meant more people that were not like her. And she'd be more alone there than ever.

Harrigan liked to play outside alone. Draw alone. Sit and sing alone. And perhaps that's what made her an easy target. Nathan hadn't quite exacted his revenge for his broken nose, and he bragged to his friends that he'd get her back for what she did. Though, mostly it was to save his reputation. So he hatched a plan.

Harrigan wandered that day, allowing herself to run along the edge of Town, feeling the thorny leaves of the bramble wall with the tips of her fingers. The leaves were warm, and the sun was bright, and she had the day off of lessons with her mother. On the northern side of Town, out past the estates, there was a stream buried deep within the trees, but still in the protection of Town. She knew that the other Town kids played there, but they stayed in one spot, never getting too close to the edge. Not like Harrigan, who was more and more defiant each day, and liked the peace that came with being close to the forest.

Nathan took his best mate, Theodore, along with him, following the lonely girl up from her house to the lake, into the trees on the northern side and to the edge of Town.

"Are you sure we should be doing this, Nate? I mean, sneaking up on her like this. Don't you know where we are?"

"I know, I know," Nathan hushed Theodore, whispering. "But, she's got to learn a lesson."

"You haven't even told me what we're doing yet. Are you sure it's worth it? She's a freak already, Nate, look." Theodore pointed to her. From their crouched position, they had a full few of her from the side. She was laying down on the grass, her eyes closed. The tiny clearing was full of sunlight that danced magically in the place like an enchanted veil. Around them though, the trees were dense, shrouding the two boys in darkness. Just beyond her feet, they could see the wall looming, it's brambles still and hot, protecting them from the dark of the thick and tangled wood.

"She's likes to play by the wall. She's crazy, Nate, just leave her alone."

"No, let's finish what we started."

Perhaps Theodore knew what was happening, though he hadn't had a handle on it. It was quiet, and still, and Harrigan appeared to be sleeping. She hadn't moved in some time, save for a few slight twitches.

Without warning, Nathan crawled out of the trees, pulling himself up and signaling Theodore to follow. He did. Reluctantly. When he reached Nathan, Theodore could see the devilish grin on his face. A boy possessed with a hardness, a maliciousness he'd never seen. Nathan circled the sleeping girl before gripping her arms roughly.

"Grab her legs, Theodore! Now!"

Theodore complied. The knots in his stomach grew tight, and his better mind screamed for him to stop, to let her go and run from this place, from this act. But he didn't. He held her fast.

Harrigan lulled out of her nap roughly to the sun full in her eyes. It temporarily blinded her with it's blaze, but when she moved to cover her eyes, she found a grip tightening around her, pulling her.

Nathan Weatherford had come to exact his revenge.

Theodore felt himself shake as Nathan laughed and spit at her, she felt it cold and foreign, trailing from her cheek.

"Think you're so clever, Harrigan? Think I wouldn't come back, did you?"

"Nathan, let me go!" she started panic. They had her, they caught her. Like an animal she was trapped. Her breathing became quick and her chest tight. It heaved against her, as beads of sweat formed on her brow.

"Scared are we?"

He hit her in the eye. The punch was well placed, strong. She felt it swell doubly quick.

"Not so pretty with a black eye, are we?" he said, cackling, throwing himself around angrily.

Theodore stood back, dropping her feet to the ground. She landed with a thud and a groan, her purple dress now a mess. Harrigan struggled to her feet, her right eye closing fast, obstructing her vision. Nathan hit her again, in the back this time, with a branch lying carelessly on the ground. She fell staggeringly to her knees, splitting open her stockings.

"Coward! Worthless coward!" she grunted, throwing herself at Nathan like a beast. She straddled him and with all her might tore into his face like an great angry cat, refusing to accept defeat, eager to hurt him, kill him maybe. Theodore regained his senses and ran to her, pulling her kicking from Nathan.

"Let's go, Nathan! Enough! Enough! She knows!"

"Oh I know do I? I don't think I do. What are you going to do, little boy? Coward? You're nothing but a weak, pathetic little fool!" her words were venomous flames that licked his fresh wounds.

Nathan stood, raising his branch high in the air mightily, strong. He brought it crashing into wild curls. Amethyst eyes went blank, and rolled slowly to a close.

Theodore screamed. He couldn't hear himself, but he knew he screamed. It was as if all the water from his mouth had drained through his palms. He stood there, holding the crumpled body, only slightly aware of himself, or the wood, the trees or the sounds of birds going silent.

"Grab her legs, and help me." Nathan's voice was ice, unflinching.

"Is-Is—" Theodore became aware that he was whimpering. "is she alive?"

"Does it matter? Grab her legs you idiot."

Theodore obeyed again. He pulled her legs, surprisingly light and long. Her stocking were ripped and bloodied. Her dress was too. It was a rich, shimmering purple, the kind that should be worn when the sun is high, to show off the gold inlay. The bruise around her eye was forming then, but still, she looked like an angel sleeping. Her curls limps and wet against her face. A pain stabbed in his stomach, a worse pain than he knew. But he held her delicate legs still, pushing her into the hole, not far off from their spot.

The hole in the bramble wall.

They climbed in with her. What good was leaving her there, if she was right on the hole Nathan argued. They settled on a clearing not far off. Inside, the trees were dark and hungry. A few spears of light penetrated to the cold floor below, and soon, night would come and there would be no light nor hope for one. Theodore, fumbled in his pockets and tucked out the wrought silver lighter he'd been given by his grandfather. He carried it with him everywhere he went, and he suddenly realized that someone else might need it more than he tonight. The pain in his stomach grew worse. They left the hole, and her within it.