Myra nodded slowly. “And what do you think of the poems?”
My brows knit together. “Poems?”
“There’s a collection of rhymes and poems at the back.”
I’d read the book twice, I would’ve noticed if there were any poems.
Suddenly she began to sing a soft melody, her voice like silk in the wind.
Twelve girls dancing across a hill,
Their hairs like fire as the wind joins.
Twelve girls dancing on top of a hill,
Picking poppies as they sing.
Twelve girls sitting low on the grass,
Their tears are dancing, instead of their legs.
Twelve girls burning high on the stakes,
Their eyes are dancing, across the hill.
The words sent a shiver rippling across my skin. I took the book gently from her grasp, scanning the page she’d been reading. The rhyme was eerily reminiscent of the Tale of the Twelve Women—and the cadence of the song… it was familiar.
My mum used to sing in that same lilting tune. I flipped through the unfamiliar silver-edged pages tucked into the back of the book, until one title caught my eye.
Who on the hill lived behind the thorns,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling?
The Great Monster, Oh,
Behind rot and moss,
One pair of amber orbs would watch,
Watch, watch, watch.
There was a little girl, living in the vale,
Who would ask, and ask,
“Papa, mama, please, why are we afraid?”
But the answer was always, hush.
Hush, hush, hush,
Be careful little girl,
The Monster’s always up,
Hiding, grinding, and never smiling,
The night is on her way,
