Mary's Children

"I can't sleep."

Third time tonight I have heard that phrase whispered. Tiny hands grab at my bedsheets, tiny fingers wandering towards the little holes. Something to pick at I assume.

"I can't sleep."

Fourth time. A pair of bright green eyes and skin so fair that you can see the toddler's face in the dark of a winter's night. A little voice so pleading that I cannot say no. It would be so cold of me to turn this voice away.

"Jeg kan ikke sove."

Another wondering voice whispers. This voice is shy. Wondering. Timid and tentative. I don't speak the language, though it is about time I start to learn Danish. I don't know how I will learn it. But it might soothe this child with thin blonde hair and stormy blue eyes that are unreadable in the cold dark.

Five small children sit on my bed. I know the bed sinks under the weight, I just pray that more children don't come to me. It will be hard for them when I leave. I'm seventeen, you know. Eighteen in five months.

Five children cling to my nightclothes. To my hair. To my arms. To the deepest part of my soul. I feel like they will never let go of that part of me.

I feel tiny fingertips. Tiny cheeks on my lap. Tiny legs tangled with mine and five other pairs.

I don't dare light a candle. That will mean yelling. These children don't need yelling. They need a voice that lightly covers their fears. Covers their fears. Those fears will never be erased. How could they be? The fear of the bell and the fear of a loud woman screeching. The fear of the hand and all things throwable. The fear of themselves.

I don't fear. I go through the motions. I wake up. I work. I help. I eat. I pray secretly.

And then I sleep. And I don't have a purpose.

Until I wake up.

Until I wake up to tiny hands and tiny voices. My motions stop and I start to feel again.

And the nighttime routine is always the same, no matter how different the group of kids are from the previous night.

And tonight is no different.

"Woss amiss lickle 'uns?" I ask kindly, lack of sleep evident in my voice is only visible to the trained observer.

A chorus of different voices gives me five different responses.

"I can't sleep."

"Bad dream."

"Jeg fryser."

"Ba' clamor."

"All lonely."

"Nah then, not all at once." I say gently. I try to stay as broad as possible. I don't understand the Danish language of blonde-haired boy and the Scottish accent of the green-eyed girl. "Divn't tha want t'ensleep fer tomorra?" All the kids look up at me with wide eyes. Two of the children don't pay attention. They fidget with the Virgin Mary around my neck. "Dost tha want a tale to reet back t'bed?"

A blonde head nods.

A pair of green eyes nods.

A freckled face nods.

A birthmarked face nods.

A brown braided head nods.

"Reet then." I pull out my rugged bible. Some pages are torn out and the edges are frayed. Threads from the binding poke out like straw. I use the bible as a guide.

I know the stories, not matter how many pages are ripped out.

"There wor a wummin ca'd Mary." I start to say as the kids watch in awe. I keep my voice low, knowing what will happen if I get caught. "And shoo wor't mother to Jesus." I take of my necklace with the Virgin Mary and let the already sleepy kids hold it.

Feel it.

Connect it to the story that their tired brains already don't remember.

"Shoo gave bi'rth in t'staebl." I say, my eyes getting more excited as theirs continue to droop with the waves of sleep. "Wi' t' animals. Wi't coos. Tha hosses. Tha laamb. Tha gahts. Tha donkas." My eyes sparkle as I list off the animals.

"Was she married?" The green-eyed girl asks tiredly, trying to suppress a large yawn. The other children's eyes are halfway closed, still putting their fingers all over my necklace that is being passed from hand to hand.

The figurine leaves marks on the hands of the children.

In the shape of the Virgin Mary.

The green-eyed girl is attentive, though her body has tell-tale signs of tiredness that she is trying to hide.

"Her wedded Josaph." I say with a soft smile. "But t'father were God." I thumb through the soft pages of the bible that get even softer with time. I don't look at the words.

I can barely read them.

"How?" The little girl with the brown braid down her back asks, yawning and stretching out her arms.

"Ja, hvordan?" The blonde boy whispers. It sounds like he is scared to hear himself talk. I feel bad.

I don't know what he asked.

"It's proper magic, tha knows." I whisper back to the two children they start to reach out and touch the spine of my worn bible, "Frae t' Hevvin."

"I like!" The birthmarked boy says with an excited whisper.

"Tha does, does tha?" I chuckle. A child moves and the bed creaks.

And when one child moves, four other children move with them.

"Settle thysens noo." I whisper, giving them a motherly glare that these children lack in their everyday life. "Give o'er, let me complete t' yarn."

The children settle.

And the creaks cease.

"An' afta Jesus wer born, ther wor sheperds." I slowly grab the necklace back from the sleepy wee hands who almost let the Virgin Mary fall between the cracks in the floor.

I save her from disappearing even more than she already has.

There is no mother in this place.

"An' thi wor angels." I look around and see closed eyes.

Five sleeping children.

Closed green eyes.

Tangled blonde hair.

A birthmarked cheek squished on my lap.

A brown braid on another child's stomach.

A freckled face turned completely away from me, so all I can see is frizzy black hair.

"An' now," I whisper to myself as I pick up the first child, the blonde boy, "it's time fer kip."

I go back and forth from my creaky bed to theirs.

One child has a stuffed animal with no arms on their bed.

One child has no stuffed animal, but a wilted bundle of 'flowers.' The flowers are weeds, but I play along. Elderwort, pillwort, peppergrass, and bittersweet. There is no use in devastating an already devasted child.

One child's blanket is completely torn. I take their blanket and give them mine. They would rather have a blanket with five little holes rather than one with three large holes.

"There tha goes now, off tha goes." I whisper while exchanging the blanket.

One child has no pillow on their bed. They cleverly put their clothes in place of where their pillow should be. I walk back and place my pillow under their head and fold their clothes, placing them underneath their bed.

I kick multiple pairs of clothes that aren't put away back under the bed. I save them from getting wet.

There is a constant drop coming from multiple parts of the ceiling.

More appear every day.

The last child has a drip right over where his head should be. It's winter and it's cold. I let the freckled child have my bed and I go to sleep on the bed with the drip. I don't mind. I take the blanket with the holes and put the freckles child's blanket and pillow on my bed for their comfort.

I smile as I lay back. I clutch the Virgin Mary and hold the torn bible that I can't even read. I like to think that the Virgin Mary would be proud of me.

Ice cold water drips on my forehead. It slides down my face. Down my chin and down my neck.

Five seconds later, another drip.

"Tha knaws, Virgin Mary," I whisper, my hot tears contrasting with the ice-cold tears from the roof, "Tha knows Ah give it a good'un."