단편 #5 - 진실을 숨긴 소녀
The girl who hid the truth
원작 : The Virgin Mary's Child
표현을 현대화하고 단어 난이도를 조정했고, 원작의 잔인성 (애가 자꾸 사라져서 주인공을 화형 시킨다는 게 원작인데, 옛날이야기는 과한 감이 있는 듯)을 마일드하게 바꿔보았다.
이야기를 관통하는 주제는 '정직함'의 중요성으로, 현시대에 노이즈를 일으키고 있는 소위 '성공한' 사람들을 보면 정직함이 꼭 미덕은 아닌 것 같지만... 그래도 기본적으로 우리 아이들에게는 정직함이 올바른 가치임을 알았으면 하는 바람에서 주제는 그대로 살렸다.
The Girl Who Hid the Truth
Once, there was a poor woodcutter and his wife who lived near the edge of a deep forest. They had one daughter—a little girl with kind eyes and a quiet spirit. But life was hard, and they grew so poor they could no longer feed her.
One morning, while the woodcutter was in the forest, a tall, radiant woman appeared. She wore a crown of shining stars and said, “I am the Virgin Mary. I know you’re struggling. Bring your daughter to me—I’ll raise her in heaven.”
The man agreed. Mary brought the child to heaven, where she was cared for like one of her own. The girl grew up among angels, wore golden robes, and ate sweet cakes and milk. Her days were peaceful.
When she turned fourteen, Mary said, “I’m going away for a little while. Here are thirteen keys. You may open twelve doors—but promise me you won’t open the thirteenth.”
The girl nodded and promised. But curiosity is a powerful thing. One day, while the angels were away, she opened the thirteenth door. What she saw—the Holy Trinity, burning bright and full of light—left her stunned. She reached out without thinking.
In that moment, her finger turned gold.
When Mary returned and asked if she had opened the forbidden door, the girl said no.
Mary asked again. And again. The girl denied it three times.
With sadness in her eyes, Mary said, “You’ve broken your promise and hidden the truth. You can no longer stay here.”
The girl fell into a deep sleep. And when she woke, she was lying alone in the forest, voiceless, with only her golden finger as a reminder of her mistake.
She wandered, hungry and frightened. The woods were dark and cold. One evening, while gathering berries near a thorny bush, she heard a low growl behind her.
A wolf.
It stepped out of the shadows, eyes fixed on her.
She grabbed a thick branch, holding it like a spear, and stood her ground, though her hands trembled.
“Get away,” she whispered hoarsely, but her voice was barely a breath.
Just as the wolf tensed to pounce, a shout rang through the trees.
“HEY!”
A man charged in, swinging a hoe in one hand. “Back off, beast!”
The wolf snarled, hesitated, and then ran off into the woods.
The man turned to her. “You alright?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he asked, gentler now. “That’s okay. I’m not much for fancy words either. Name’s Emory.”
He glanced at her scratched arms and bare feet. “You’ve been out here a while, haven’t you?”
Again, she nodded.
“Well,” he said, offering a hand, “you saved yourself before I got here, but I’ve got warm stew, if you’re tired of berries and bark.”
She hesitated... then took his hand.
Life with Emory was simple, but full of quiet joy.
She helped in the fields—planting, watering, weeding. In time, she laughed again, even if her voice was still faint. Emory talked to her like they’d always known each other.
“Think this tomato’s gonna grow into a big, round grump,” he said one morning, holding up a bumpy fruit. “Looks just like my uncle Bernard.”
She grinned, shaking her head.
They built a little life together. And before long, he asked her—shyly, under the stars—“Would you stay with me, for good?”
She nodded, eyes soft.
He smiled, pulling her into a hug. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
But the next summer, the rain didn’t come.
The sun beat down day after day. Their crops withered. The soil cracked. Emory tried everything—extra watering, planting in shade—but nothing helped.
One hot evening, while the girl stood among the drooping vines, the Virgin Mary appeared once more.
Her voice was gentle. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve built a good life. But the earth needs truth before it can bloom.”
She looked into the girl’s eyes.
“Did you open the thirteenth door?”
The girl swallowed. Her golden finger curled into her palm.
She shook her head.
Mary sighed, not unkindly. “The truth is light. Without it, even the soil stays thirsty.”
And just like that, she vanished.
The skies stayed dry.
The drought stole their food. They stretched every crumb. Emory never complained, but his face grew thin.
One night, as they sat together by the fire, flames suddenly jumped from the chimney. The old wood caught fast. Their home lit up like a torch.
They escaped just in time, watching in silence as the fire ate everything they had.
“I’ll build it again,” Emory said, wrapping his arms around her. “Brick by brick, if I have to.”
The next morning, they found that only the barn had survived.
That night, Mary came once more, her face bathed in light.
“There is still time,” she said quietly. “Tell me the truth, and I will help.”
The girl turned her face away.
And Mary disappeared into the dark.
Winter came. They lived in the barn, sleeping beside the animals for warmth.
The girl grew round with child, and one night, under the soft hay and flickering lantern light, she gave birth to a baby boy.
But something was wrong.
The baby was pale. He barely moved, barely cried. His breathing was faint, like a whisper of wind.
Emory held her trembling hand. “He’s strong,” he said softly. “Like his mama. He’ll be okay.”
The girl cradled her son close, tears slipping down her cheeks.
And then, just as before, the Virgin Mary appeared.
Her face was solemn, but full of love.
“This is your last chance,” she said. “The truth is ready, if you are.”
The girl looked down at her son. At his tiny chest rising and falling.
And at last, she whispered, voice cracking with emotion:
“I opened the door.”
Mary’s face broke into a smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “Truth is the beginning of healing.”
She touched the baby’s forehead, and warmth rushed through the room. The boy stirred. His breathing deepened. A rosy flush bloomed in his cheeks.
The girl sobbed—this time with joy.
Mary reached out and gently touched the girl’s golden finger. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “You always were. But now... you’ve forgiven yourself, too.”
And with that, she disappeared one final time.
The next morning, outside the barn, they found a small bundle of food—just enough to last a little while. A loaf of bread. Some cheese. A pouch of seeds.
They ate, holding their son, feeling peace like a soft blanket over their shoulders.
Emory smiled. “You know,” he said, looking up at the sky, “I think the rains are coming.”
And he was right.
That spring, the clouds came back. The soil softened. The seeds took root, and the land flourished like never before.
Their home was rebuilt, stronger and brighter. Their fields turned gold with wheat and green with vines. The harvest was rich, and their hearts even richer.
And so they lived—not perfectly, but full of hope, honesty, and love.
Happily ever after.
