Read Zel for Free Online Page A

stitching. The kitchen is only just reasonably sunlit by the time I finish. I fold the skirt carefully and set it aside. Now I cut the sleeves. I cut with precision, for the sleeves will be fitted from wrist to elbow, then loose to the shoulder. The click of needle on thimble goes faster and faster.
    I check on Zel; the girl sleeps.
    I add lace to the cuffs. Nothing gaudy, just enough to show the refinement of Zel’s spirit. I cut the bodice. It will have many darts. I stand at the table and plan. I willembroider the bodice in a pattern of wings, for Zel moves so gracefully, it is almost as though she flies.
    “Mother?”
    “Ah, you’re up. Get dressed. Then I’ll open the door.” I fold the three pieces of the bodice. I wrap all in burlap and store it on the shelf. I open the door.
    Zel falls into the room. She laughs in embarrassment at having been caught listening at the door. “Something for my birthday, my birthday, my birthday.” She dances. Her eyes settle instantly on the bundle on the shelf. “What is it?”
    I smile. “Would you like gruel?”
    Zel laughs. “Shall I guess?”
    I fill our bowls from the jar of dried grains and nuts and fruits. It is a breakfast full of energy. I keep this child strong.
    Zel sits on her chair and picks up her spoon. “Papers and inks,” she says gaily.
    I am happy she guesses only part. Secrets are delicious, like plum pudding in water. “If you promise not to guess anymore, I’ll give you your first gift now. But your second must wait till your real birthday.”
    “I promise.”
    I go to the cloth bag and put the stack of paper on the table. Then slowly, dramatically, I place the bottles of ink beside the paper: one, two, three.
    Zel gasps. She holds the bottles up to the sunlight.“They are glorious, Mother. Oh, thank you.” She takes a piece of paper off the stack and smooths it onto the table. “I’ll draw that little donkey. The one with the tall load.”
    I am completely happy. “Finish your breakfast first.”
    Zel eats quickly. Then she dips her quill into the black ink. I watch her deft movements, her eyes intent on the fine lines, lines so much finer than she can make with the charcoal she usually uses for drawing. I know the girl chose to draw the donkey in order to begin with the black ink. The indigo and crimson, the more precious colors, will be savored later. I understand the method.
    I relax now into my own kind of enjoyment. I close my eyes and see a sparrow hawk swoop for the sheer fun of flight, right over our rooftop. Then I allow my vision to wander across our alm, taking pleasure in the curve of each leaf, the hue of each petal.
    “No!” I drop my spoon in my bowl and jump to my feet.
    “What, Mother? What is it?”
    I race from the room, from the cottage, Zel behind me. I run straight toward the goose nest but halt before I reach it. “You stupid bird.” The words burst from my mouth in small explosions of air.
    Zel picks up the egg the goose has rolled from the nest. She holds it in front of her as though it’s an offering of sorts. She looks at the goose, who fixes the two of us with one eye. “Please, goose,” Zel whispers.“Please. This can be your child.” She licks her lips in concentration.
    “Do it, Zel.” Need almost snaps my voice. The bird must take back the egg. For Zel’s sake. “Make her accept it.”
    Zel takes a step toward the goose. The goose leans her neck toward Zel. Zel takes another step, still holding the egg in outstretched hands. The goose doesn’t move. A third step. The goose flexes her wings. Zel sinks to the ground. She walks on her knees toward the goose.
    I stare. My daughter moves like a supplicant before the host. Where did she learn such behavior? I have never taken Zel to any church. I cannot enter churches.
    The goose spreads her wings more, though she remains on folded legs. Zel bends over so her elbows touch the ground. She crawls.
    Now my daughter seems the penitent. I recall scenes from