I once knew a little girl and she knew me. She knew me better because she created me, dressed me up and brought me out when the abuse or the beatings were too horrible to bear on her own. When that happened we would stand together even if we were lying down on the floor with nails spiked through our shared hands and feet. Together, we would endure, assuring each other that this or that pain must come to an end.
I know I was just a small part of her. More like a walking talking dog or doll than a truly-human, human. She crated me when the girls and boys of the Baluugah people shunned her. Their mothers and fathers, but mainly their grandmothers told them not to talk with the Bad Magic child anymore.
The same boys and girls had taught her to swim in the ocean, to swim in the atoll's shrinking waters, to know the names of the fish, the lizards and the birds. Their mothers had nursed her when her own mother was busy doing atomic testing work. The children had listened as she grew and learned that each bird and fish was unique, different from all other birds and fish. She said all things are in families much alike, but not exactly alike. No thing was exactly like another thing, as each person is not its sister or its brother.
She told them this and she told them the plans being made by her mother and the men wearing the navy and army uniforms. She told them the atoll would become a new sun burning, but only burning for a moment, as the sand turned to glass, the air to fire and the sea to a boiling, waving froth.
Nothing will live here, she said. The children told their mothers and fathers. The old people listened to them. When her mother came and asked them to remain on the atoll, converting it into an island in the next year, they politely refused The grandmothers repeated the little girl's stories.
Soon, the girl's mother and the sailors working with her sent word of this refusal to the offices on Oahu and in San Francisco. They sent these messages in code, but the reply came in clear, "Isolate the child. No one may speak with him."
The girl's mother told the grandmothers that the Bad Magic stories were not true. The child was filled with bad magic. A plane would be coming to take the child away. They should tell their grandchildren not to speak with the girl.
No one listened to her, so the little girl made me and spoke to me in her mind. She split a small sliver of herself, dressed me and hugged me like a real child. It wasn't all together horrible, not with a friend.
On October 22, 1951, a Gooney Bird set down on newly laid metal panels. The little girl, Dawn, her mother and father and two armed MP's boarded and were flown to Hawaii. I was along, but unseen. I don't remember the journey. I don't remember much of our life together. When the decision was made to kill us, I suffered severe brain damage. I lost almost all of our memories.
Most of the story I will be telling you, came to me from a Central Intelligence operative, who worked with us in her cover role as a military nurse.
I know I was just a small part of her. More like a walking talking dog or doll than a truly-human, human. She crated me when the girls and boys of the Baluugah people shunned her. Their mothers and fathers, but mainly their grandmothers told them not to talk with the Bad Magic child anymore.
The same boys and girls had taught her to swim in the ocean, to swim in the atoll's shrinking waters, to know the names of the fish, the lizards and the birds. Their mothers had nursed her when her own mother was busy doing atomic testing work. The children had listened as she grew and learned that each bird and fish was unique, different from all other birds and fish. She said all things are in families much alike, but not exactly alike. No thing was exactly like another thing, as each person is not its sister or its brother.
She told them this and she told them the plans being made by her mother and the men wearing the navy and army uniforms. She told them the atoll would become a new sun burning, but only burning for a moment, as the sand turned to glass, the air to fire and the sea to a boiling, waving froth.
Nothing will live here, she said. The children told their mothers and fathers. The old people listened to them. When her mother came and asked them to remain on the atoll, converting it into an island in the next year, they politely refused The grandmothers repeated the little girl's stories.
Soon, the girl's mother and the sailors working with her sent word of this refusal to the offices on Oahu and in San Francisco. They sent these messages in code, but the reply came in clear, "Isolate the child. No one may speak with him."
The girl's mother told the grandmothers that the Bad Magic stories were not true. The child was filled with bad magic. A plane would be coming to take the child away. They should tell their grandchildren not to speak with the girl.
No one listened to her, so the little girl made me and spoke to me in her mind. She split a small sliver of herself, dressed me and hugged me like a real child. It wasn't all together horrible, not with a friend.
On October 22, 1951, a Gooney Bird set down on newly laid metal panels. The little girl, Dawn, her mother and father and two armed MP's boarded and were flown to Hawaii. I was along, but unseen. I don't remember the journey. I don't remember much of our life together. When the decision was made to kill us, I suffered severe brain damage. I lost almost all of our memories.
Most of the story I will be telling you, came to me from a Central Intelligence operative, who worked with us in her cover role as a military nurse.
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