Another William short - Of Massacres and Mothers
On a summer afternoon, six year old William Pratt plays a game with his mother and shows off his knowledge of the American frontier. (Be forewarned, he's a young Victorian male, and his views are far from politically correct.) Once again, this story was inspired by penny-lane-42, who asked for something involving William as a boy on a summer day. Again, this was written without a beta. Be kind. ;)
Of Massacres and Mothers
“All right,” Anne Pratt said softly, as she knelt in the grass before her son. “I am to be a wild Indian. What shall you be?”
William was silent for a moment. He was concentrating so hard on the task at hand his tongue was poking out of the side of his mouth, which made it rather hard to answer. Yet after he had adjusted her feathers to the proper angle, and after he had dragged his finger through the damp earth and then across each of her cheekbones to make lines of war paint, he explained, “I’m an American settler on the Oregon Trail, and you are going to massacre me.”
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth.
William thought he had alarmed her, and he said in all seriousness, “Well, I’m trying to take your land away in order to plant wheat.”
His tutor, Raj, was the one who had told him about the Indians. Raj was an Indian himself, albeit of a different sort. This had puzzled William for some time, but he was almost certain he had it all sorted out now. Regular Indians spoke English and wore clothes and worked as servants for the British; American plains Indians rode around naked on horseback, shooting arrows into people who made them angry. Raj was a regular Indian, which William found somewhat disappointing. If he were an American Indian, William imagined he would be far more interesting a character-and far less particular about the state of his young charge’s clothing. Then again, Raj had enough of a temper without adding weapons and godlessness into the mix, and it would be rather uncomfortable to have arrows shot into him whenever he made his tutor angry.
“So, how exactly does one…massacre…her victims?” asked his mother. Her shoulders were trembling, although William could not quite imagine why. The summer sunshine was actually quite warm, he thought.
“Well, you really ought to have spears or bows,” he said thoughtfully. “But as there aren't any, I imagine you’ll just have to throw stones at me.”
“Throw stones at you! Won’t you get hurt?”
“I shouldn’t think so, if you take care to throw them very gently.”
William pushed himself up from the lawn and motioned for his mother to follow; he was ready to begin their game. She, however, was behaving most strangely, hiding her face behind her hand and making odd choking sounds into her handkerchief. He sighed and sat back down, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for her to pull herself together.
Really, Anne Pratt was the best mother in England-quite possibly in all the rest of the world, too-but when all was said and done, she was still a girl, and girls were just different.
The End
Of Massacres and Mothers
“All right,” Anne Pratt said softly, as she knelt in the grass before her son. “I am to be a wild Indian. What shall you be?”
William was silent for a moment. He was concentrating so hard on the task at hand his tongue was poking out of the side of his mouth, which made it rather hard to answer. Yet after he had adjusted her feathers to the proper angle, and after he had dragged his finger through the damp earth and then across each of her cheekbones to make lines of war paint, he explained, “I’m an American settler on the Oregon Trail, and you are going to massacre me.”
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, covering her mouth.
William thought he had alarmed her, and he said in all seriousness, “Well, I’m trying to take your land away in order to plant wheat.”
His tutor, Raj, was the one who had told him about the Indians. Raj was an Indian himself, albeit of a different sort. This had puzzled William for some time, but he was almost certain he had it all sorted out now. Regular Indians spoke English and wore clothes and worked as servants for the British; American plains Indians rode around naked on horseback, shooting arrows into people who made them angry. Raj was a regular Indian, which William found somewhat disappointing. If he were an American Indian, William imagined he would be far more interesting a character-and far less particular about the state of his young charge’s clothing. Then again, Raj had enough of a temper without adding weapons and godlessness into the mix, and it would be rather uncomfortable to have arrows shot into him whenever he made his tutor angry.
“So, how exactly does one…massacre…her victims?” asked his mother. Her shoulders were trembling, although William could not quite imagine why. The summer sunshine was actually quite warm, he thought.
“Well, you really ought to have spears or bows,” he said thoughtfully. “But as there aren't any, I imagine you’ll just have to throw stones at me.”
“Throw stones at you! Won’t you get hurt?”
“I shouldn’t think so, if you take care to throw them very gently.”
William pushed himself up from the lawn and motioned for his mother to follow; he was ready to begin their game. She, however, was behaving most strangely, hiding her face behind her hand and making odd choking sounds into her handkerchief. He sighed and sat back down, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for her to pull herself together.
Really, Anne Pratt was the best mother in England-quite possibly in all the rest of the world, too-but when all was said and done, she was still a girl, and girls were just different.
The End