The Boy with a Crooked Smile

It was summer, the sun casted a wide blanket of warmth over the compound of Saint Agatha’s convent. All the stained-glass windows were open, all curtains tied, allowing the summer breeze inside our home, and posing as a frame for this picturesque view of little girls playing around the field of fresh greens and yellows.

     Most of the time, Mother Renata stood upfront capturing this moment, but a little accident interrupted her artisanship.

     Earlier, instead of crowing of roosters, a loud scream that pierced through the walls of the convent woke everyone up. We all rushed to see what was that about, and saw Sister Beth, our dear literature teacher, on a cot and still on her sleeping wear, full of red lumps. Unfortunately, she was stung by a hive of wasps and would still live.

     Okay, fine, it was no accident. It was one of the genius plots sleeping on my sleeves. For days I was tinkering on how to get back at Sister Beth for shaming Hana in front of our sisters. And then, one time, I was roaming the garden, when I saw a bee sipping on a dandelion. Then the idea hit me, but why go small if I could go big?

     I went to the Adan forest, that was few yards from the convent, to catch myself a few trouble making wasps. A ten or a fifteen would do.

     I got them using my own invented wasp-contraption –a cylindrical bottle, with narrow opening, that was filled with sweetened water and vinegar, and with a net of little holes preventing the wasps from drowning.

     Afterwards, I patiently waited for everyone, especially my target, to be on bed. When the clock hit the curfew, I sneakily went to Sister Beth’s quarter. She was dead asleep even I made a lot of clumsy noises. I placed the paper box full of angry wasps on top of her bed-side table, and before I left, I carefully bathed her with honey. The next thing I knew, I woke up this morning savoring the success of my plan.

     And in consolation, classes under her were cancelled for a whole week. But unfortunately, we were still instructed to stay at the library during class hours. An older sister even assigned us a boring book to drown ourselves in, and being a goody brat, I did read a book, but a different one.

     It was a story about a young angel who never smiled.

     Long ago, the land of Hemsworth was infested by a famine. It was said that it was the last gift from a lonely witch they burnt at the stake. All the crops withered and all the livestock died, and because of this, the people started to get hungry, and so they stole food from the table of their neighbors. And when there was nothing left to steal, fathers started chasing down their sons.

     A young angel was sent to end their suffering for there is no hope left for the land of Hemsworth and its people. As the young angel flew around, he saw how horrid the curse of the witch was. Lands dry as dessert, children thin as a twig, and sons running away from their hungry fathers. There was so much suffering that it broke his heart.

     He thought to himself that it was truly the end of them, but as he glided to finish and fulfill his task, he heard a faint but sincere prayer from a far.

     The angel flew around to look for the only soul that sung a prayer during the famine. Finally, he came across a small withering cottage in the middle of the dying forest, where the prayer reverberated aloud.

     “If there is an angel flying around, I beg you, heal my beloved mother, for she is my life…” the little girl prayed as she knelt, crying, in front of her ailing mother.

     The young angel saw and felt the loved of the little frail girl for her mother, then he came upon a realization.  

     “If a single soul sung a prayer loud enough for me to hear then there is hope for this land and for this people.” The angel cried to himself.

     He then knelt beside the little girl, and sung his own prayers. The quiet sky heard the angel’s prayer, and it weep and weep, until it showered the whole dry land. The dying forest also heard his pleas and it decided to live, its wilted trees started to show colors and started to bear gifts. Crops grown and animals went back their lands, hence, the hungry ate and the dying healed. With the prayer of the giving angel, the land of Hemsworth and its people once again lived.

     The angel felt that he had finally fulfilled his mission. He was about to fly back home, happy and contented. But when from above, he saw that nothing had really change on the land he had saved.

     Even with enough food on their table, the people were still stealing from their neighbors, wanting more and more, for they feared that another cursed would befall their land. There was no famine, but the people of Hemsworth were ravenous.

     “Truly, there is no hope for these people.” The angel said as he flew back. And then He never smiled for the burden he was carrying was unbearable.   

     The story made me fathom that we are all greedy in nature, that our desire is an endless pit and no amount of anything can reach its rim, and so, to prove my point, I had stolen the book from the library.

     For days, I had been reading that story trying to imagine the poor giving angel, and after a few more days, my imaginations of him started to get clear. A young stud with blond curly hair, intense electric eyes, full red lips, and fair glass skin.

     I did not want the image to be forgotten so I asked Hana to portray him on papers. I kept bugging her to draw the angel (because no amount of drawings could fill my desire), but she insisted that I do it myself.

     Hence, I participated on the only art class in the convent even if it meant that I would be learning with girls half my age. As I progressed, I drew the angel’s face almost every day, but I rewarded him with something he had lost – an unending smile.

     And now, shockingly, I saw the muse of the thousand image I drew on the silhouette of that flimsy boy. I swiftly closed the curtains to conceal my awed face. I reminded myself that the angel who never smiled was just a heroin of someone’s fable and it was impossible for him to be that boy.

     I could still feel the electricity from his gaze so I ran out, and started heading to our own sleeping quarters when I bumped into Hana and Abigail.

     Hana was wiping Abigail’s face with the handkerchief I made her. That brat. I walked faster, and when I passed through them, I snitched the cloth on Hana’s hand.

     “I made this and now I take it back!” I shouted as I walked away from their surprised faces. I laughed.

     Hana shouted back, “Stop acting like a child, Tilly!” She then caressed Abigail’s rear, who again cried like a child.

     “Stop being a cry baby, Abigail!” I stuck my tongue out, and then she cackled even loudly.

     I found myself back in my own room. I could not get over the fact that there was an actual living person who looked exactly like the angel I imagined. I knelt across my bed-side table, and opened its drawer, a bundle of papers sewn together laid still. 

     I snatched the drawing book, and started flipping its pages. There was no doubt that they looked alike. But as I stared at the image I last drew, I noticed how they were two different individuals. Their grins. The boy on a robe had a crooked smile.