The Girl With the Ring

I wrote this based on a prompt from darkin.

Edited: 10/05/04

I appreciate your reading this.

Thank you.


The Girl With the Ring


         As a child, I never really liked Sundays. My family always woke up early to do our chores, ate breakfast, got cleaned up, dressed and then went to church. My father was Minister of the small town congregation and that meant that his children always had to bear the burden of being integral members of the “flock”. Looking back, I suppose that I had it easier than my brother did. He was two years older than I and was always called upon by the townsfolk as an example of righteousness within today’s youth. I was viewed differently, as I constantly rebelled against the notions that the townsfolk cherished. Because of my rebellion, I was seldom asked questions or used as an example. Even at the age of twelve, I had somewhat of a reputation.

         My brother and I would walk to church together down the gravel road that ran by the Miller’s old farm. Their cornfield rose high above our heads as the days passed on in summer. We loved to watch the sparrows flittering around, chittering away as they danced and played in the early morning sunshine. Sometimes an occasional crow would mock his straw-stuffed nemesis and sample the fruits of the Miller’s labor, landing on cornstalks out near the road. They kept our minds away from the events of the previous year; events that forever changed our lives.

         My brother and I were walking our normal route back from church on a similar hot July day when something caught my eye. Somehow, in the depth of the Miller’s vast cornfield, a glint of light winked out at me. I ignored it at first, but as we walked further down the road, I stopped to turn back.

         “What are you doing?” My brother asked.

         “I saw something out in the cornfield,” I replied. “I want to go see what it is.”

         “You know you can’t,” my brother answered in his usual, authoritative manner. He tried to guide me back to the road, but it was too late. My mind was made up.

         I ran across the road, down the ditch into the first rows of corn. My brother, who was never as quick or athletic as I, tried in vain to catch up. “You’re gonna get us in trouble!”

         I didn’t hear him. Well, I did, but wasn’t listening. The strong summer breeze pushed the cornstalks back and forth, casting dancing shadows against the brown dirt. I ran on, deeper into the rows of corn that towered above my head, whipping back and forth as if in a frenzy to protect themselves from the attack of the unknown trespassers. My brother fell further and further behind. I could see my prize a few steps ahead of me, glinting in the sunlight, urging me on. I ran, nearly out of breath, and came to a dead stop. I was shocked at what I saw and not sure how to react. The wind had quieted some and the cornstalks now stood still, as if they failed in their useful purpose. I couldn’t move. I heard my brother’s footfalls drawing nearer as I looked down at the ground in front of me.

         A gold ring hugged the finger of a woman lying motionless among the rows of corn. I froze. I didn't know what to do. The ring sparkled upon her hand with such beauty, such brilliance, that I had to see it more closely. Inching closer, I knelt down and reached out to touch the woman’s pallid skin.

         “You are in so much troub…“ my brother exclaimed. He stopped in his tracks when he saw what I saw. He was visibly winded.

         My heart was beating faster as my hand drew nearer.

         “Don’t touch her!”

         Again his instruction was too late. I poked her forearm slightly with my finger, which brought no response. Her body was cool to the touch and I recoiled immediately from the shock.

         “Well?” my brother inquired.

         “I think she’s dead.”

         Hands trembling, I reached out again to confirm my suspicions and poked her more forcefully. Again, she didn’t move. My brother turned away and vomited. He was shaking noticeably. The stench began to rise. “We’ve got to tell someone,” I said.

         My brother composed himself as best he could and looked away. He mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t understand. After a pause, he turned to me and said, “We’ve got to go get Dad.”

         “Go ahead,” I replied. “I‘ll stay here.”

         “Why?”

         “Someone should stay with her.”

         “She’s dead. What does it matter?” my brother argued.

         “I don’t think she should be alone.”

         After some debate, I convinced him to go alone to our house to collect our father. I didn’t know why I wanted to stay behind, I just felt I had to. My brother made the sign of the cross, turned and ran. I stood again and walked around to the other side of the body.

         Her face was frozen in a blank stare, her dry lips parted slightly. Her sandy-blond hair hung in strands over her blue eyes; the light of which I’m sure was brilliant before her life ended. I sat down beside her and started to cry. The tears came from deep inside, but I didn't know why. What had started as a single tear turned quickly into a steady stream that flowed down my face. My nose was running and I wiped it with the back of my hand. I sat and stared at the girl, forever it seemed, before I had the heart to speak.

         “I…I…I’m…s…sorry you had to die,” I said as I fought to control my sobbing. I wanted to touch her, to make her feel that she wasn’t alone, but couldn’t. Instead, I just sat looking at her face, wondering why she had to pass on. No answers came. As I cried, I thought of the last time I saw my mother years before, as she lie lifeless in her hospital bed, tubes running in and out of her, filling her with what little life science could provide. Cancer had taken its toll and would win out in the end over all the science in the universe. I never had the chance to say goodbye, to tell her that I loved her, to let her know she wasn’t alone. My family prayed for her soul and for our own, but the prayers never really eased the pain of our parting.

         The police came with my dad sometime later; my brother chose to stay in the car. They poked around, took pictures and taped off the scene. All the while, I watched until they loaded her on the gurney and carried her off. As they took her body past me, I made the sign of the cross as my brother did earlier and whispered, “Good bye.”

         We didn’t walk that way for some time after I found the girl with the ring. My brother was too afraid. The once benign cornfield now held the promise of anguish and death, but I managed to make my peace with it after some time. As time passed and we walked to and from church on those Sundays afterward, we’d stop and offer a small prayer to the girl with the ring.


May 6, 2004