The Barn Kids

The straw mattress on my pallet was hot and smelled of mildew. The shadows on the walls of my stall were strange and somewhat alarming. The burn scars on my face itched and the ones on my arms hurt. My hair, where I had hair, was sticking to my neck.

Today the prospective adopters had toured the orphanages main house. They did this every Saturday. The always had to come see us barn kids. When they did they clucked sadly and tsked with pity at us. "The poor dears" They all said. But none of them took one of us home. This barn was our home now. The stalls were converted into bedrooms, meaning they had been cleaned and sheets hung for privacy. A mattress stuffed with old straw, a flat old musty pillow and a threadbare blanket.

There were 7 of us in the barn. Jenny was 15 and had been abandoned by her mother on the orphanage steps when she was born without one of her arms. She was sweet and like a mother figure to us. She always tucked the little ones in and let them all sleep in her stall during storms.

Sara was 13 and had the mind of a 3 year old. She would never be adopted. We all knew that. Hell maybe even she knew on some level. She seemed content to follow Jenny around and play with her straw dolls Sammy made her. Sammy was also 13, he had come after his father was killed by a runaway carriage. His mother had died when he was born and his father when he was 5. He had a grandmother but she didn't want him. His mother had been a black woman. I didn't see why that made a difference but I guess to some people it did. He was a nice boy whatever skin color he had. His chances for adoption were better then Sara's but still slim.

Liam was 9 and his parents and baby sister had died when their ship went down in a storm on their way to the mainland. He was blinded when he was struck in the back of the head by the mast of the ship. He had clung to it as his vision faded for 3 days until he washed ashore. He had been brought to the orphanage and had lived in the main house for a week while getting his strength back; but once the doctors said his vision would never return, he came out to the barn. He might have a chance if someone takes pity on him.

Violet was 4 and was the most lively little girl you ever did see. She loved to talk and sing and was quick to laugh. Her parents had dropped her off the day after she was born. Her legs were twisted and she would never walk. Never walk, or dance, or be able to bear children. She was useless if she couldn't make a good marriage. I always covered her legs with a blanket when the prospective parents came. I hoped someone would fall in love with her and then wouldn't care about the legs.

Then there was Georgie. Georgie was all mine. He was 2 and had been born with a hairlip. A doctor had tried to correct it and had botched it instead. He had to be fed gruel and would likely never talk well. His mother had died in childbed and no one knew who his father was. He toddled after me most of the time making his baby sounds and just being happy. He was starting to lose too much weight though and that worried me.

Finally there was me. I was 16 and had been here since I was 9. My family's house had burned down in the great fire and I had suffered burns on my face and arms. My mother and brother had both died in the fire and my father had died long before. My Aunt had cared for me after the fire for a few months before she too had died from heart troubles. My disfigurement meant I would never get adopted. I no longer even tried to get the attention of the adults on Saturdays. They always gasped with pity or revulsion.

The people looking to adopt a child weren't interested in our pain. Or our pasts. All they wanted was a child to fill some hole in their lives. In order to fill that hole they needed the perfect child. We were far from perfect, we were broken. I knew that in 2 years I would turn 18 and no longer be considered for adoption. I knew my options were highly limited. I hoped to stay on at the orphanage as a servant or something. I didn't want to go to the workhouse or worse live on the streets. The men on the streets wouldn't care about my scars, only that I was a woman.

The wind creaked lightly around the barn. It was a hot and humid night but I knew I should be grateful for it. Soon enough it would be freezing cold. The same wind would find its way through all the barns cracks and crevices to chill us to our bones and make us ill. Last winter we had lost Tanya and almost lost Liam. I prayed we wouldn't lose anyone else this winter. For now we were too warm and that was better then too cold.

I knew I should get some sleep. Soon enough the roosters would crow and it would be time to get up and do chores. Jenny and I would feed the other children with what few eggs Madam Warty let us have. Maybe Cook would over knead a loaf of bread or burn something that we would then be allowed to have. No use wasting good food on us. We were all just burdens anyways. The only time we ate well was when the constable came to inspect around Easter. Then we would be given new clothes. Well, not new, but clean and less tattered then we had. If the world knew about our conditions, would they really care? I knew we only got better treatment at inspection time because otherwise Madam Wretched would be fined 100 dollars for each of us. That would take money out of her finely made silk pockets. She had to appear to make an effort.

Madam Wells was her real name. She owned, ran, and lived in the orphanage. She made quite a good living at it too. The house kids were always clean, well-groomed, and well fed. They were taught proper manners. So as to impress the parents. Their hand me downs all came out to the barn for us. Madam W always acted like she was giving us the most precious gifts. She would bring out broken toys, books that had been colored in, torn and stained clothes as if she was bringing us gold and silver.

I used to spend my time wishing for a miracle. Praying that I would wake up and my scars would be gone and I would be beautiful once more. Or that a king and queen would come to the barn looking for a broken child they could heal and wisk me away. Even a modest family who could wisk me away. Wisk any of us away. But with Madam's prices a modest family would never be able to wisk anyone anywhere. Only the wealthiest of the wealthy came to see children here. By law Madam had to show them us barn kids but I had my suspicions that her prices for us were even higher then the house kids just so no one would pick us. She wouldn't want us to tarnish her reputation after all.

I could hear Georgie tossing and turning. I knew he was going to start crying soon. Poor baby hadn't gotten enough to eat before bed and his tummy was probably hurting him. I got up and went to his stall next to mine. I sat down next to him and stroked his hair from his face. I would never marry, never have children, so I thought of Georgie as MY baby. I had taken care of him everyday since he had come to us. Madam W. hadn't even sent the nurse out after the second day. Her time was wasted out here. All the children under 3 were supposed to have a nurse to care for them. Even the barn kids. We always got sent old Liz. She was as old as the dirt floor of the barn and didn't seem to even like children. She wasn't mean to us exactly, just... indifferent to our suffering. After two days out here with Georgie she didn't bother to come back out.

I laid my hand on his sweaty little forehead. His beautiful blonde ringlets were stuck to his face and neck. I spent every Saturday both hopeful and terrified that someone would see this sweet baby for who he was. I hoped his lovely hair would help. I also feared it. I knew it was selfish but I didn't want him taken away from me.

Damn was it hot tonight. Maybe tomorrow we can go out to the pond to cool off. If we can get our chores done fast enough. We could pull up some cattails and roast them in the fire for dinner and maybe have full bellies at bedtime. The apple trees were starting to ripen too. We were allowed to eat the apples that fell on the ground. I had learned last summer that if you cook apples in some water and mash them up then Georgie could eat them too.

I laid down next to Georgie, hoping my presence would keep him calm and let him sleep the rest of the night. He turned and snuggled into me and sighed. I pressed my lips to his forehead and startled. He was hot. Too hot. He has a fever. I look closer at him and realize his breathing is labored. I know there is nothing I can do for him but hold him and pray the fever breaks. In the morning when its daylight I can find the right plants to make him feel better but there is little I can do while it is dark outside.

I hold him close to me and feel him relax. He is calm for now. The love I feel for this tiny child overwhelms me as I drift off to sleep. As the eastern sky begins to lighten slightly, I dream of a tiny mound of dirt with a poorly made wooden cross. Even asleep I pray that it is only a fever and that my poor sweet Georgie will be happy and smiling at me in the morning.