Bantam’s Mornings

Bantam’s Mornings

Up the hill played Henry and Theodosia. On days like these, they tossed handfuls of grass and leaves, which often led to a chase around the trunk of a sugar maple tree that stooped in autumn and into spring, and perhaps dropped branches that Theodosia would use to defend herself against Henry’s unending barrage.

Theodosia figured she’d get a talking with once she made it back home, as her mother warned her once, and once many times over, that the grass would stain through her morning-wear. Not to mention the leaves. In Theodosia’s hair stuck wads of torn off leaves and dirt, enough so, and often so, that it would ruin her mother’s afternoons.

Henry’s father complained about the grass stains himself too. He wondered how often Henry slid in the grass. Certainly enough to crease in folds of dirt and stuck grass. And once, and once more over, did he state the quality of his irritation.

Henry’d nod, and agree that it was a foolish part of being a boy. Theodosia, who’d gather a similar thought, would complain she’d not consider the consequences of her actions. But when the morning chilled them to wake, they’d rush before their parents could stop them, and each run out of their houses to meet at the top of the hill. At least until Bantam’s morning bell rung up the cobbled streets and off stone siding to remind Henry and Theodosia once more of their parents’ soon displeasure.

Henry groaned, losing interest mid-toss with leaves bunched in his arms. “God silence it,” he said.

Theodosia, poised with her stick defending her chest, said,”You ought to drop your way of saying. Or my mother said I’d lose my tongue once I pass.”

“A fool’s rule then if I say it.” 

“No Henry, if I say it, but if you say His name as in vain, you’d lose your tongue,” said Theodosia.

“Say what?” 

“That’s not funny.” Theodosia reeled her stick.

“My dad said a girl oughtn’t hold a stick like she means to use it.”

She swung it regardless, hitting Henry’s leaves into a cloud of orange. “Must be a worry for him.” 

“Is with your mom.” Henry scooped another round of leaves. “They bicker after mass. Bout how God—” 

Theodosia brought the stick to her other hand.

“It’s fine if I’m saying it like that,” said Henry, “it’s not vain if it’s like things and happenings.”

“Is it?” 

“It is. Anyways, I was saying that my dad thinks she’s been telling you bout God all wrong. That you’re too fearing, like you ought’nt be.”

“Doesn’t seem wrong to me,” said Theodosia.

“That’s what my dad’s been bickering after mass like. Not that I sooner understand it.”

Theodosia shrugged. “Another rule. Another folly.” She placed her stick against the maple tree and sat on the ground, sighing, as she had forgotten about the dirt and leaves. Now on the sides of her morning-wear clung dirt-smudges and leaves. “Really, what’s it for?” 

“Maybe their mom and dad griped the same rules.” said Henry.

“But didn’t they hate it? I can’t fathom saying it to someone.”

“You did me, Theodosia.”

“Did I? Well—I suppose you did so too with the stick.”

“I did? O’ God, I suppose I did.” 

A trifling frown scrunched Theodosia’s face. A tension she had to relax as she thought more of why it burdened her, and once she let out a breath, she said, “God knows it.”