The Mudjit Girl

There was once a mudjit girl named Marcel. She lived in Mudjitville with her mudjit mother and father and sister and brother.  Now Marcel-

            Wait, story-teller, the reader interrupts, what is a mudjit?

            What is a mudjit? Well, to begin, they are a people of short stature. Do not confuse with hobbits. Mudjits do not have hairy feet nor live in holes in the ground, although, like hobbits, mudjits do have a great appreciation for good food. Mudjits live in little square homes, some of stone, some of brick, some of wood, but none of straw. Nor are mudjits munchkins, because munchkins live in the land of Oz and they follow Glinda the Good Witch, but mudjits live in Mudjitville, and have never heard of Glinda the Good.

             What really stands mudjits apart from hobbits, fairies, humans and the like are their patterns. There are the polka-dot mudjits whose furry hair is polka dot patterned. Pink and blue or yellow and green. Violet and ivory or teal and tan. Any color combination one can imagine, but all polka-dot. The second kind of mudjit are the mudjits with striped-patterned hairs. Classic Frankenstein-like black and white, or maybe the blue-white of a sea shore. Pink and orange strips or indigo-rose strips. Whatever the color combination, all striped.    

            Now historically, the striped mudjits and the polka-dot mudjits did not like each other. They fought many wars against one another and were very mean to anyone of the other kind. For example, once, the striped mudjits made a rule that the polka-dot mudjits could not build their houses of stone. This was a very mean thing to do, because everyone knew that stone houses were the best to hold in a storm, and mudjitville had many storms. The polka-dot mudjits then made a rule that the polka-dot mudjits could not be friends with the striped mudjits. This was a little less mean rule, because most polka-dot mudjits did not want to be friends with the striped mudjits anyway.

            There are many more examples of the very many mean things the mudjits did to each other. But to tell them all would take an entire encyclopedia worth of words and would only serve to make us sad. As such, I will move to a happier time in the history of mudjits, which is that the mudjits realized that making rules against each other did not help Mudjitville flourish. And after many long nights, and many long drafts, and many long, laborious, argumentative debates, the mudjits came to the conclusion that no mudjit could make a rule against another mudjit because of their pattern.

… 

            Now, on to our protagonist: Marcel the mudjit girl, and her family, were polka-dot mudjits who lived in a nice square home of brick. Now, Marcel was born in mudjitville nearly 50 odd years after the No Rule Against Patterns Rule was made. As such, she was free, according to the mudjit rule book, to be friends with striped mudjits. One day, Marcel came home from school with her friend Flint, a striped-mudjit boy. There were very few striped mudjits in her class at school, but Flint and Marcel both liked math and insects, and they were happy in each other’s company.

            Marcel and Flint played in her yard, searching for earthworms and dragonflies, stick-bugs and roly-polies. The roly-polies were the most fun to find because when poked with a finger the little black bug rolled into a ball like a cat curled asleep on the couch.

            One day, Marcel’s neighbor, Dolly, a grouchy old polka-dot mudjit who enjoyed spying on her neighbors and gathering gossip, peered through her draped window to see Marcel and Flint searching for insects. This mad Dolly angry because Dolly believed that any mudjit with striped patterns were a bad, up-to-no-good, sort of mudjit. So, once Flint left, Dolly invited Marcel over for afternoon tea and pastries.

            While sipping tea out of china and eating crumbling scones, Dolly commented nonchalantly. “I noticed you were playing with a striped mudjit boy.”

            “His name’s Flint.” Marcel replied happily. “He’s my best friend. We like to collect insects together.”
            “Oh dear!” said Dolly.

           “Do you not like insects?” Marcel asked. “Some mudjits find the six-legs creepy.”

            Dolly shook her head. “Dear, dear, dear. Have your parents not warned you? You must be careful around striped mudjits. They can be mean to polka-dot mudjits like ourselves.”

            “Oh, no, Flint isn’t like that.” Marcel said, crestfallen and confused.

            “Maybe, maybe not.” Dolly said with a shrug. “Just be careful, Marcel, around the striped mudjit boy.”

            Marcel left Dolly’s house troubled. Then, when she walked into her bedroom, she found her insect collection missing! This greatly distressed Marcel. Was Dolly right? Could Flint not be trusted because he was a striped mudjit? No, Marcel, thought to herself, Flint is my friend. I trust Flint. Still, the little voice whispered worries all evening.

            For a week Marcel worried. She woke each morning downcast and sat at her school desk fretting, unable to focus on her school papers. Though she searched and searched, under her bed, in her closet, behind her bookshelf, in cabinets and drawers – she even looked in the bushes in the front yard – she could not find her insect collection. Could it be Dolly was right? Had Flint really taken it?

            A few days later, Marcel’s father made loafed bread and lasagna for dinner, Marcel’s favorite. But Marcel was not hungry, and she sat slumped shouldered at the dinner table while her parents and siblings chatted merrily.

            Her older sister Mindy, observing Marcel’s downcast spirit, asked “What is wrong, Marcel?”

            Marcel burst into tears. “Dolly said I shouldn’t be friends with Flint.” She cried. “She said that striped mudjits can’t be trusted. Then my insect collection went missing last week. And I’ve looked everywhere but I can’t find it.”

            “Have you talked to Flint about your missing collection? I find telling my friends about my problems helps better than hiding it.” Mindy said sagely.

            “No,” Marcel sobbed. “Because I’m afraid Dolly’s right, and Flint did take it, and then I can’t be friends with Flint.”

            “Nonsense, Marcel.” Her mother said. “You know Flint and he’s your friend, right?”
            Marcel nodded through tears.

            “Then if Flint is your friend, he didn’t take your insect collection. And even if he did, that has nothing to do with being a striped or polka-dot mudjits. Mudjits, polka-dot or striped patterned, mess up sometimes, and we forgive each other when we do.”

            “Your mother’s right,” her father added, “besides, I know a little trouble making mudjit who lives much closer to home.” He looked towards Marcel’s younger brother, Timmy.

            Timmy fidgeted in his chair, then exclaimed. “Alright alright! I did it. I took Marcel’s bugs. I’m sorry, Dad! But I only did it because Marcel wouldn’t let me play with her and Flint. Please don’t ground me!”

            Marcel was so relieved that she could still be friends with Flint and that her missing insect collection was found, and little Timmy looked so frightened over the prospect of getting in trouble, that she burst out laughing.

            “There, there, Marcel.” Her mother said. “See, everything turned out okay.”

            “Hmf.” their father grumbled. “That Dolly is a piece of work, upsetting our Marcel so.”

            Mindy spoke, munching on a slice of loafed bread. “She doesn’t seem to like mudjits with striped patterns very much. It’s not very nice of her.”

            “It isn’t nice,” their mother said. “But I feel bad for Dolly.”

            “Feel bad for her!” Timmy cried. “Why would you feel bad for batty old Dolly? She made Marcel cry!”

            Marcel’s father explained, “Dolly had some bad things happen to her early in life, and she blames the striped mudjits for it. It’s not right of her. But she’s missed out on some very nice mudjits because she never gave them the chance.”

            “Are you talking about the storm that destroyed her house, some sixty years ago?” Mindy asked? “Some friend at school were talking about it. Apparently it was a straw house because polka-dot mudjits couldn’t have stone houses back then.”

            “Yes,” her mother said, “that, and more.”

            Timmy and Mindy clamored to know what more, but Marcel suddenly leaped from her chair. “I have to go to Flint’s!” She exclaimed, and she dashed out of the house without another word of explanation.

            Flint lived two streets down, and as it was late summer, the sun still shone though it was supper time.

            Flint had already finished dinner. Marcel quickly told him everything that had happened.

When she finished, Flint’s brows creased, and he remained preoccupied with his thoughts for some time. Marcel searched for insects while he thought. Then, Flint walked over to his stone house, and wedged loose a gray stone, and brought it to Marcel.

            “What is this for?” Marcel said, perplexed.

            “Give this to Dolly.” Flint replied.

            “Why?” Marcel asked.

            “For the house she lost long ago.” He shuffled his feet. “It won’t fix things, but maybe it’s a beginning.”

…

            The following day, Marcel, with her sister Mindy’s help because the stone was heavy, brought the stone to Dolly. Dolly was dismayed, when opening the door, to find that despite her efforts Marcel was still friends with the striped patterned boy, and nothing Dolly said would change Marcel’s mind.

            “What is this stone?” Dolly finally asked.

            “It’s for you.” Marcel said. “Flint gave it to you. He’s sorry about the house you lost.”

            Dolly sat, stunned for a moment, and then become angry. She said many mean things, like that Marcel was a bad polka-dot mudjit for being friends with the striped mudjits, and that she did not want the stone. But Marcel placed the stone on her doorstep before deporting.

            Marcel left saddened. She had hoped that the gift would fix things, and that Dolly would be friends with the striped mudjits. But it seemed that was not to be.
            The next day at school, Marcel frowned and sighed often. Flint asked what was wrong, and she told him about Dolly’s reception of his gift.

            Flint replied, “There will be striped mudjits who don’t like polka dot mudjits. And there will be polka-dot mudjits who don’t like striped mudjits, even today.”

            “That makes me sad.” Marcel sighed, shoulders slumping.

            “Cheer up, Marcel,” Flint smiled. “We’re friends, aren’t we? It’ll all be alright in the end.”