Free The Knowledge Stone by Jack McGinnigle

had absolutely no interest in this boy and usually could not remember his name. All these thoughts constantly swirled around in Maretta’s addled brain.
    Then one evening, one of her unfocussed reveries was rudely interrupted as the farmhouse door crashed open, heralding her husband’s usual drunken arrival. Normally he was taciturn and did not speak.
    However this evening was a rare event. As he entered, he asked her a question: ‘Do you want this?’ He grated these words as he pushed a small ragged child across the room.
    ‘What is it?’ Maretta, half asleep and absorbed in drinking beer in her favourite chair by the fire, could not be bothered to raise her eyes.
    ‘It’s a child that came with a market deal I did this afternoon,’ the man replied, ‘you’ve been nagging me for a servant.’
    Maretta could not remember any conversation on this matter. Nevertheless, her interest was slightly aroused and she stirred herself, squinting across the room blearily: ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she enquired.
    ‘It’s a skinny little girl,’ he answered disinterestedly. ‘Do you want it or not?
    Maretta heaved herself out of the chair and seized the child rather roughly by the arm, pulling her closer to the light of the fire where she peered closely at her face, then lifted her clothes to inspect the small pathetic body below: ‘Goodness, it’s really skinny – and it’s absolutely filthy, too! Couldn’t you get a cleaner one than this?’
    These comments infuriated Old Malik.
    ‘Look,’ he snarled in reply, ‘I told you it was skinny. Have it or not as you want. What’s all this about dirty? If it’s dirty – wash it. What’s wrong with you?’ So saying, he left the farmhouse in his usual bad humour, slamming the door loudly.
    There was complete silence for some minutes. The child did not move and waited with frightened eyes fixed on Maretta. Sighing wearily, the woman rose unsteadily to her feet and fetched a small wooden tub from a cupboard in the corner of the room. After some water had been poured into the tub, the cowed, feather-light girl was lifted into the water; in the same movement, the dirty, ragged dress that was her only garment was stripped from her and thrown aside.
    Maretta set to work. Firstly, dirt and grease was washed out of the girl’s matted hair, her face was washed several times, then all other parts of her emaciated body were scrubbed until they were clean. All this time, the girl made no sound. Maretta stood back to admire her handiwork.
    ‘She does look a bit better when she’s clean,’ she thought.
    ‘Sit over there,’ her very first words to the child were sharp and unfriendly, ‘while this disgusting thing – she held up the small ragged dress – is washed.’ The garment was plunged into the tub where it was scrubbed energetically and hung up to dry near the fire.
    ‘Haven’t you got any other clothes?’ was Maretta’s next question to the small huddled figure of the girl. The child shook her head. ‘Well you’ll just have to stay like that until the dress is dry.’ Maretta sat down heavily on her chair and picked up the pot of beer, drinking deeply from it and totally ignoring the child.
    Once again, there was complete silence in the room. After ten minutes or so, the woman looked up and spoke: ‘Have you got a name?’ When the little girl did not respond immediately, the question was repeated, more sharply: ‘Wake up! What are you called?’
    ‘Giana,’ the girl whispered.
    ‘Giana, is it?’ Maretta repeated, almost to herself. ‘Funny name, no-one is called anything like that around here.’ The child was silent. ‘What work can you do?’ the woman asked, sharply again.
    ‘Anything you want me to do, Mistress.’ The girl’s voice was barely a whisper.
    ‘Anything?’ Maretta’s voice was derisive and raucous in comparison. ‘Let’s hope so!’ she quipped grimly, momentarily enjoying her unkind joke.
    This was the manner of Giana’s