Go , Granny, Go - Chapter 7: The Pigtail Monster

 

Go, Granny, Go - Chapter 7: The Pigtail Monster  

by Eva Marie Woywod and friends. Dedicated to Mom. 

Berta felt them before she heard them.

A shift in the air, like the lake itself exhaled and the world leaned a little closer - for a hug.

She was standing at the sink, scrubbing the big iron pot, when the first tug came: a quiet, steady pull behind her sternum, the way a mother feels her child’s fever through two closed doors and knows what to grab for the rescue. Only this tug was braided from many threads: Josephina’s low chuckle that could calm a riot, Emma Dale’s soft humming that once hushed entire hospital wards, Catherine Moreheart’s stubborn silence that had outlasted every storm.

They were coming.

All of them.

Different as winter and wildfire, these grandmothers.

Some wore church hats and Sunday shoes, others rode barefoot with knives in their braids. One still carried the scent of desert sage, another the salt of an ocean she’d crossed in steerage with nothing but a baby on her hip and a promise in her mouth, with a dream in her heart. Some spoke only in curses, some only in prayers, and a few had forgotten every language except the one spoken by small, trembling hands reaching up in the dark towards the glow of a mother's heart.

But every single heart kept one beat to the same drum: the children.

Berta set the pot down, wiped her hands on the apron that had once been her mother’s, and stepped out onto the back porch.

She could see them now, riding in from every direction the wind had ever blown:

• Josephina at the front, braid flying like a battle standard, eyes already wet because she’d heard the crying before anyone else.
• Emma Dale beside her, quilt folded over one arm like a banner of surrender turned to welcome.
• Catherine Moreheart bringing up the rear, riding slow so the stragglers wouldn’t feel left behind, owl-doll tucked under one arm the way other women carry purses.

Behind them, more. Dozens. Hundreds maybe. Grandmothers who had outlived their names, their countries, their grief, yet still answered when a child whispered help into the dark.

They were not gentle in the way the world mistakes for weakness.

They were gentle the way old trees are gentle: roots deep enough to hold the earth together when everything else is coming apart.

Berta lifted one flour-dusted hand in greeting.

The lead horses slowed. Josephina swung down first, boots hitting the frost-crisp grass without a sound. She walked straight into Berta’s arms like they’d planned this reunion for a hundred years.

“We felt the river rise,” Josephina murmured against Berta’s shoulder. “Felt every tear those little ones never let fall.”

Berta’s arms tightened. “We’ve got room,” she said, voice rough with love. “We always make room.”

Emma Dale was already unloading quilts from her saddlebags, passing them to faeries who darted like bright needles stitching night to dawn. Catherine Moreheart stood at the gate, eyes scanning the road behind them for the last lost lamb.

One thing only had ever bound them, across oceans, decades, graves, and governments that tried to tell them children were not their business.

The children.

Always the children.

Berta stepped back, opened the door wide, and let the scent of fresh bread and cedar smoke spill out into the night like an invitation no weary heart could refuse. The fae lit up the room dancing with excitement, fluttering through the air.

“Come on in, sisters,” she called, soft but certain. “The ovens are hot, the kettles are singing, and there are more little ones coming than any of us can carry alone.”

The grandmothers dismounted as one, horses dissolving into sparks of gentle fire that drifted upward and became new stars kissing the skies.

They crossed the threshold shoulder to shoulder, braid to braid, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The house creaked, stretched, grew three sizes larger on the inside the way only love ever does.

And somewhere out on the dark water, the first small boat of children lifted their heads, caught the smell of bread on the wind, and began to row toward the light that had been waiting for them all along.

The last grandmother crosses the threshold.

The door shuts soft as a lullaby, and every lock in the house turns itself with a quiet, satisfied click.

Outside, the wind whispers.

The lake hushes its sorrow. But that forest, that forest illuminated the night with a loving glow.

Even the stars lean closer, as though someone has pulled a blanket up to their chins.

Inside, the kitchen glows warm and golden. Bread rises in fragrant domes. Quilts settle over small shoulders like wings made of every safe place that ever existed. Asha’s breathing has evened; Kelly’s strays curl on rugs like cats who finally trust the hand that feeds them. The faeries dim their lanterns to embers and tuck themselves into rafters, content.

Berta walks the circle one last time, touching a forehead here, smoothing a braid there. Josephina hums low. Emma Dale’s prayer shawl settles over the last trembling child. Catherine Moreheart stands watch at the window, owl-doll on her shoulder, eyes shining with unshed, fierce tears.

They are all here now.

Every grandmother who ever refused to let a child fall.

An army of soft hands and iron hearts, gathered under one roof.

Berta lifts her voice, just above a whisper, and every weary soul in the room stills to listen.

Now, child, lay your head down to sleep.

Sacred Mother’s army has gathered and protects you through the night.

You have Mary’s Grace.

The words settle like snow, gentle and certain.

Small fists unclench.

Breath deepens.

Tears that were carried for miles finally spill, safe at last, onto pillows that smell of cedar and tomorrow.

Outside, the moon (Selene herself) stands guard above the lighthouse, wings wide, silver light pouring down like a blessing too large for any one heart to hold alone.

Inside, the grandmothers begin to sing.

Not loud.

Just enough.

And every child who ever believed the dark would win falls asleep knowing, for the first time, that it never stood a chance.

Sleep, little ones. You are held. You are home.

You have Mary’s Grace.

The night keeps watch.

And it is merciful.

Shhh...

_____

This is dedicated to every female in my tree- All the ones whose real story was silenced by the hand of man in the name of the Lord. Every single one.