11.17.06 09:55AM
Draft A001: As told to me by Old Man Johnson of Peppershot Falls (001.09.72)… Note to self: Remember to send him that bottle or risk a draught in info.
I suppose beginning from the beginning is a practical place to start though it’s hard to know exactly where the story of Hope Childs and the Barley Hut begins and where it ends. Indeed if it has ended at all. Or has it even started yet?
These are the trials and tribulations of a historian I suppose. Where to begin the tale? The first word spoken? The first breath released? And does it really matter where we decide to place our feet? History is repeated by us fragile and weary souls. We draw circles in the dust and call them lines. The beginning is really an arbitrary choice. Where does a circle start?
In the case of Peppershot Falls and the story of Hope Childs and the Barley Hut no one seems to know. I visited the tiny hamlet, around the corner from twilight and well beyond familiar, only a month ago and found them perplexing. It is curious when people insistence on a stories value but remain divided on its veracity. What is agreed upon is no one knows who created The Barley Hut, North of Cedar Ranch, but the memory of it stretched back as far as Old Man Johnson’s elastic memory would allow.
For all practical purposes Old Man Johnson was Peppershot Falls resident historian. An honor due largely to his keen observational skills, his penchant for idle chat and the fact that he’d been around longer than anyone else. In spite of his fondness for loquacious oration, which some whispered was a sign of his creeping dementia, Old Man Johnson remained the final arbiter on all matters of historical significance. So when he said the Barley Hut had sprung out of the earth fully formed, dripping ivy and softly humming an ancient song of celestial daydreams, then that was that.
There’s power in having the ability to punctuate history. From what I could tell Old Man Johnson realized he had this power, enjoyed it, perhaps amused would be the more apt word, but was of an advanced enough age to understand his puncuations wouldn’t outlast him. Indeed, in a moment of confidence he told me, as we watched an old man amble by his home, “See him there.” I looked out his window and nodded. “The future voice of our past,” he said and that’s all he said despite my questions.
Apparently, no one knows who first discovered the Barley Hut either. Old Man Johnson couldn’t say himself. Common sense dictated it must have been Bailey Frumpkins, the original owner of Cedar Ranch, but oral history, which doesn’t always follow the dictates of common sense, bestowed the honor to Hope Childs, daughter of Chilton Childs, the town blacksmith and father of four, two legitimate sons and two daughters of dubious bloodlines.
The story of Hope Childs and the Barley Hut was told to each female offspring of Peppershot Falls. The age at which they were told the tale varied according to parental wisdom but by the age of fifteen every young women in town could recite the story of woe from memory.
As is often the case in folk wisdom, the story contained many flavors. The power of story resides in its ability to weave itself into the fabric of the listener. Since every person’s tastes diverge some from that of their neighbors, a consistent cause of frustration in a small hamlet like Peppershot Falls, a good tale will often be told in multiple ways. Thus the story is kept fresh. A living organism that evolves and as a result remains forever relevant. Lasting tales do not wear ruts in the ground. They walk barefoot across breathing memory leaving indelible put gentle reminders that they were once there.
And so the tale of the Barley Hut and Hope Childs came in many flavors, some sweet, some sour and one unfortunate variation with a decidedly bawdy bent told primarily between men and a few mugs of beer. Whatever the flavor told the tale always tasted the same. One could not escape the lessons such were their ferociousness and eagerness of spirit. Simply put, the tale of Hope Childs and the The Barley Hut reminded young women that their lot in life came pre-equipped with baggage and one must never try to unlock the secrets within.
It was enough to know that as a women you were born with certain responsibilities. These could not be shaken off like winter snow or if, like Hope Childs, one attempted to do so, then the consequences were either death, the preferable outcome, or a lifetime shackled with misery.
Hope Childs, the story went, lost her sense of self at the age of twenty and ventured into the woods in a fit of bold naivety. In the woods she discovered the Barley Hut though this point remains in contention and reveals a departure in the stories flavor. Some say she found the Hut of Ivy and Stars. Others insist the Hut sang to her, beckoning her to its door. The Barley Hut found her in other words. Whatever the rendition, everyone agreed that upon her return Hope Childs spoke a language filled with spaces. Her curious words rolled off her tongue like a gentle stream and their intoxicating rhythm invited one to explore their import.
The majority of reasonable people felt danger in the gaps of Hope’s words, felt themselves tremble at the quiet power contained in Hope’s unfamiliar space. How else was one to respond to a language created of mirrors and reflecting pools?
This is the question most whispered amongst themselves. She’s asking us to reconsider they said and as any thoughtful person understands asking someone to embrace a different view is sure to inspire confusion. Confusion will often give way to suspicion and suspicion properly tended will grow into a stout crop of fear.
Fear and clouds of grey moody skies followed Hope Childs around upon her return from the woods. Yet she shown like an alabaster angel in their midst which only confused and frightened the fine folk of Peppershot Falls all the more. Until one day, they gathered the courage and asked her to leave, which she did, but not before leaving them with a small box made of ivory and maple. About the size of a man’s fist, square and unnaturally heavy. Hope Childs asked them to open it after she left.
And of course they never did. She wasn’t a moment out of their sight before Danton Ballywag, the Mayor of Peppershot Falls and a man Old Man Johnson said had the wits of a donkey and the grace of a pig, grab the box and threw it to the bottom of the town well.
Danton Ballywag wasn’t a wise man but he was a politician and as every politician knows an unopened box is a tinder waiting for a spark. Once lit there’s no managing the blaze. So he threw the box to the bottom of the well before a proper discussion could be had. The people thanked him of course, for saving them the excruciating pain of a debate with no conclusion and they went about their lives.
Until Hope Childs returned three years later. Unnaturally aged and haggard and asking for a drink of water from the town well. The story continues as all stories do, with questions, a few answers, and an insight or two…
Note: Need notebook to continue. Need better organization for notebook… ending for now… Perhaps on another day, when the sky isn’t so inviting with sun and play I’ll continue the tale of the Barley Hut and Hope Childs but for now the book will close on Perppershot Falls and a young women who went into the woods and came out something entirely different.
Abraham Welch (003.100)
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