[b]Efferea.[/b]

Sunday's, the days where she had to wear her nicest skirts and her prettiest bonnet and tame her dark locks into a fine tight braid so she might bid welcomes and goodbyes to the townsfolk before seeing to the chores her caretaker put her to. They shared the work evenly she dusted and swept while he tidied away books and cleaned the effigy's and cups. The heat was stifling but as she'd wished a god blessed day to the last of their village she'd kicked off her cotton shoes by the door and the chill of the stones rose up form the floor and cooled her feet, the length of her grey cotton skirt and petiecoats beneath it hiding -for the most part- her shoeless feet as she half danced about the empty church sweeping up leaves and blades of grass and even the odd flower head into a neat pile by the doors. 

It was a beautiful church in her opinion, one of the finest in gods country, of course, she hadn't' seen others. Rough hewn stones of a dark slate grey had been plastered together and formed a squat but pleasant little rectangle on top of the only slight hill in the entire town. Wooden struts and supporting beams ran through out the structure giving it much needed balance, as god gave to the community the preacher had said, wooden slats and beams rose up holding a rather fine brass bell thats immense weight made her wonder how it got up there in the first place. They priest and her pulled the two ropes before service or in times of emergency, witch trials, deaths, illnesses and attacks and it always got peoples attention. The floor was smoother stones though the mason had given her a complete guide on how and why they were there she hadn't really paid much mind to him at the time and had wondered instead on how his hair had become so dark and if she spotted a fine silver strand among his locks. 

The pews were nothing more than slats of wood crudely fit together and most people still stood, only the very old sat, the carpenters though were planning better for them but her favourite piece in the whole church was the wooden carving of Jesus Christ, the first Carpenter had made it, or so her Father had told her, back when this place was nothing but grass and buffalo and the arrows of the natives littered the ground. For a whole cycle of the moon he'd worked as a man possessed and by the time he was done there it was, time had barely aged it, though every priest took good care of it, polishing it with beeswax and keeping it free of moisture, it had still cracked though but it didn't detract from the fineness of the statue. It was a head taller than the tallest man in the village and surprisingly smooth and warm under her fingers, no that she was supposed to touch it of course. 

Once she had finished sweeping the dirt from the church into the dusty streets she placed down her broom and stretched her arms out wide, closing her eyes to feel the sun upon her cheeks, its warmth like the embrace of a mother she'd long forgotten. Days like this always reminded her of them, her mother and father, oh they had disliked such days with such a passion but it was days like this that she'd steal off down to the rivers edge where the native children sometimes played and splashes in the cool muddy waters. She would get beating for sure when she returned, not least for ruining her skirts but for playing with the children there and going without their permission. 

The crash of a bottle breaking caused her to jerk from such refreshing, fond memories and flinch back a step into the embrace of the church, she drew one hand across her chest and the other hovered close to her lips as widened dark eyes hurriedly danced about to find the cause of the commotion. "Put your shoes on girl." Came the voice of the pastor beside her and with a small nod and slight dip of a curtsy she scurried across the hall to slip her shoes back on before quietly coming up beside him again. 
"What is it?" She uttered as the sound of shouting and bottles breaking could be heard across town.
"Sounds like Young Tom Young again." The Pastor uttered with a goodly patient sigh, Efferea's nose wrinkled faintly in distaste before she shook such a dour -though her Indian friend had called it cute- look from her face. 
"I think we should go see if we can help, don't you?" He uttered, Efferea was already half turned away, she wanted to change into her regular frock and go off to the river, maybe Red Bear would be there and they could trade gossip and trinkets, they hadn't met at all this week and it felt odd. 
"Efferea." He said in that tone she couldn't deny, with a nod and another slight dip she ran off to go and get his bag, it was a simple cloth satchel and in it many a thing he used to 'scare the demons' out of the townsfolk. Handing it over to him the pair made their way towards the commotion. 

Efferea gasped when she saw the mess and the drunken boy swaying about and slurring drunken words while shouting such awful accusations, her nose wrinkled again in a fashion that did indeed look rather cute. It was reasons like this she liked Red Bear, he didn't get drunk, or angry, he didn't point or shout and he certainly didn't throw around such awful accusations or bottles themselves in fact! Most boys here seemed to be rather immature compared to Red Bear and the other Native boys, no they were men for sure. Brave but gentle, compassionate yet fierce. Shaking her head lightly of the notion she glanced to the Pastor and awaited his instruction, as usual he stood before her partially covering her like a shield. 
"Now Young Tom, what appears to be the problem here? Have you been supping the Cider at your fathers Tavern in this heat?"