Once upon a time there lived an old woman, and she was so old that she forgot how old she was. No one reminded her of the years she had lived, not even death. The old woman’s children left, the old woman’s grandchildren left, and her great-grandchildren also left home.
The old woman was left alone with a flock of sheep. And she loved them like her own children. She called each sheep by name, knew what grass the lambs liked, and what was the best treat for the rams. Can you even remember how many thorns she took out of sheep’s wool, how many broken hooves she healed... And the old woman herself drove her flock to pasture. There was a large herd. But the old woman did not trust him to anyone.
Here she is walking through the village, leaning on
a gnarled stick, and does not take his eyes off the ground. And how can she look at the sky when the years lie on her back like a heavy bundle of brushwood?
The wind whistles, the wind whips, it threatens to carry the old woman away, but she continues on, wiping away the tears in her eyes that came out from the wind. And why did the old woman have so much stubbornness and perseverance? Everyone around was just surprised. Not everyone, of course, has such endurance!
This happened in spring, summer and autumn. Only in winter the old woman did not leave the house, she warmed herself by the fireplace. She also did not let her herd out of the pen in such weather, she was afraid that the wind would carry it away. The old woman puts rusty framed glasses on her nose, takes her knitting needles and starts knitting. An endless sheet of wool falls into her lap, covers her legs in folds, and spreads around the hearth.
All winter the old woman knitted and kept her hands busy. And her worries and thoughts are only about the herd. How are her sheep doing? Aren't they freezing? Are they sick? Aren't they bored?
The wind blows in December, moans and whistles in January, beats on the windows in February. The doors are creaking on their hinges, the roof is threatening to collapse. Winter has dragged on and he doesn’t want to leave. The sheep are huddled together, bleating, calling for the old woman, they cannot survive such a long and severe cold.
“When will spring finally come?” - the old woman whispers.
“When will my sheep see green pastures and green meadows?” - asks.
“When will they stop freezing?” - is indignant.
Slowly, like gray-bearded old men, December and January left the Pyrenees. A February
and Mart have settled in so firmly, have settled in so well, that they don’t think of leaving. The wind groans, the sheep bleat, the old woman counts the winter days. And just as there is no end to her knitting, there is no end to the cold days. They stretch like an endless thread in her ball. One ball will end and another will begin.
But then a swallow struck its wing against the wall of the hut, and the old woman smiled. The first sign of spring! Lucky sign! Now the trees have straightened up and are filled with juices. April is walking, hurrying towards the Pyrenees, and not a day will pass - he will be at the threshold of her house.
Then the old woman stood up, threw away her knitting needles and let Mart scold him for making her wait so long, for not sparing the sheep, for starving her, for freezing her with cold:
March, March, snow and hail, I saved all the lambs, All the rams, all the sheep, Go away at last! March, March, evil month, get out of sight!
He heard the old woman’s words for the month of March, was offended and decided to stay in the Catalan Pyrenees and take revenge on the old woman.
But what to do, brother April is already knocking on the door. And then Mart said to his brother: “April! Lend me three of your days. I have some unfinished business here. I beg you very much.”
April agreed. March took his days and went so wild that people wondered if January had returned.
The wind blew away half of the old woman's sheep. And the second half was covered with snow. The old woman had only one sheep left. She hides it at home, warms it by the fire, and covers it with a skirt and knitting. But can you argue with Mart? The old woman’s last sheep also died.
Here these days, borrowed by March from April, ended. You can’t go back, you can’t gather the herd again.
The old woman could not stand such grief, fell asleep and never woke up.
And these days are still called in the Catalan Pyrenees the Old Woman or Borrowed Days. Let everyone remember what happens if you rush and do something without thinking.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru