me.
Well, the first few days in a new place are always uncomfortable and confused. All the settling-in and the worry about whether Marnie would go floating off like a balloon or send something floating through the air as she had the bread combined to wear me to a frazzle. Fortunately Marnie was very shy of anyone but us, so painfully so that as soon as the gown was washed and clean again and we borrowed a cot, I put Marnie into both of them, and she lay in a sort of doze all day long, gone to some far place I couldn’t even guess at.
Of course we had to explain her. There had been no mention of her when we arranged to come, and she had no clothes and I didn’t have enough to cover both of us decently. So I listened to myself spin the most outrageous stories to Mrs. Wardlow. Her husband was the schoolmaster-lay-preacher and every other function of a learned man in a frontier settlement. She was the unofficial news spreader and guardian of public morals.
“Marnie is our niece,” I said. “She’s my younger sister’s girl. She is just recovering from typhoid and-and brain fever.”
“Oh, my!” said Mrs. Wardlow. “Both at once?”
“No,” I said, warming to my task. “She was weakened by the typhoid and went into a brain fever. She lost her hair from all the fever. We thought we were going to lose her, too.” It didn’t take play acting to shiver, as, unbidden into my mind, came the vision of the smoke pluming slowly up-“My sister sent her with us, hoping that the climate out here will keep Marnie from developing a consumption. She hopes, too, that I can help the child learn to talk again.”
“I’ve heard of people having to learn to walk again after typhoid, but not to talk-“
“The technical name for the affliction is aphasia,” I said glibly. “Remember the brain fever. She had just begun to make some progress in talking, but the trip has set her back.”
“She-she isn’t-unbalanced, is she?” whispered Mrs. Wardlow piercingly.
“Of course not!” I said indignantly. “And, please! She can hear perfectly.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Wardlow, reddening, “of course. I didn’t mean to offend. When she is recovered enough, Mr. Wardlow would be pleased to set her lessons for her until she can come to school.”
“Thank you,” I said, “that would be very kind of him.” Then I changed the subject by introducing tea.
After she left, I sat down by Marnie, whose eyes brightened for my solitary presence.
“Marnie,” I said, “I don’t know how much you understand of what I say, but you are my niece. You must call me Aunt Gail and Nils, Uncle Nils. You have been sick. You are having to learn to speak all over again.” Her eyes had been watching me attentively, but not one flick of understanding answered me. I sighed heavily and turned away. Marnie’s hand caught my arm. She held me, as she lay, eyes closed. Finally I made a movement as if to free myself, and she opened her eyes and smiled.
“Aunt Gail, I have been sick. My hair is gone. I want bread!” she recited carefully.
“Oh, Marnie!” I cried, hugging her to me in delight. “Bless you! You are learning to talk!’” I hugged my face into the top of her curls, then I let her go. “As to bread, I mixed a batch this morning. It’ll be in the oven as soon as it rises again. There’s nothing like the smell of baking bread to make a place seem like home.”
As soon as Marnie was strong enough, I began teaching her the necessary household skills and found it most disconcerting to see her holding a broom gingerly, not knowing, literally, which end to use, or what to do with it. Anybody knows what a needle and thread are for! But Marnie looked upon them as if they were baffling wonders from another world. She watched the needle swing back and forth sliding down the thread until it fell to the floor because she didn’t know enough to put a knot in the end.
She learned to talk, but very slowly at first. She had to struggle and wait for words. I asked her about it one day. Her slow answer came. “I don’t know your language,” she said. “I have to change the words to my language to see what they say, then change them again to be in your language.” She sighed. “It’s so slow! But soon I will be able to take words from your mind and not have to change them.”
I blinked, not quite sure I wanted anything taken from my mind by anyone!
The people of Margin had sort of adopted Marnie and were very pleased with her progress. Even the young ones learned to wait for her slow responses. She found it more comfortable to play with the younger children because they didn’t require such a high performance in the matter of words, and because their play was with fundamental things of the house and the community, translated into the simplest forms and acted out in endless repetition.
I found out, to my discomfort, a little of how Marnie was able to get along so well with the small ones-the day Merwin Wardlow came roaring to me in seven-year-old indignation.
“Marnie and that old sister of mine won’t let me play!” he tattled wrathfully.
“Oh, I’m sure they will, if you play nicely,” I said, shifting my crochet hook as I hurried with the edging of Marnie’s new petticoat.
“They won’t neither!” And he prepared to bellow again. His bellow rivaled the six o’clock closing whistle at the mine, so I sighed, and laying my work down, took him out to the children’s play place under the aspens.
Marnie was playing with five-year-old Tessie Wardlow. They were engrossed in building a playhouse. They had already outlined the various rooms with rocks and were now furnishing them with sticks and stones, shingles, old cans and bottles, and remnants of broken dishes. Marnie was arranging flowers in a broken vase she had propped between two rocks. Tessie was busily bringing her flowers and sprays of leaves. And not one single word was being exchanged! Tessie watched Marnie, then trotted off to get another flower. Before she could pick the one she intended, she stopped, her hand actually on the flower, glanced at Marnie’s busy back, left that flower and, picking another, trotted happily back with it.
“Marnie,” I called, and blinked to feel a wisp of something say Yes? inside my mind. Marnie!” I called again. Marnie jumped and turned her face to me. “Yes, Aunt Gail,” she said carefully.
“Merwin says you won’t let him play.”
“Oh, he’s telling stories!” cried Tessie indignantly. “He won’t do anything Marnie says and she’s the boss today.”
“She don’t tell me nothing to do!” yelled Merwin, betraying in his indignation, his father’s careful grammar.
