"She's always there. Just running. But why?" Becky wondered to herself as she leant on the fence on the outskirts of her field. Her eyes were fixated on the running woman.
She always ran around the hills, she was said to be a myth, one that parents would tell their children that would remain with them forever. It was a sort of story that made you think and those who had been told it flicked their eyes to the moors occasionally, just to see if the myth was true. But Becky could see the mythical figure. A hood joined to a black velvet cape hid the strange running woman’s face.
Becky glanced at the mysterious woman again, then turned round and headed back to the farm she called home. Chilled September air caressed her bare limbs as she busied herself with digging up her own small patch of potatoes. What confused her most about the Lady of the Hills was why only she could see her when no one else could. Many people saw Becky as crazy, or just lost in the wide world; including her parents.
Becky went into her room, locked the door and stared around her. All four of her walls were plastered in detailed sketches of the Lady of the Hills. Most were of the strange woman with her hood up, her face obscured or otherwise looking away; she never showed her face. But the largest one that was mounted above her desk was half her face. Tired lines spread out from her eyes which seemed to be greying with age as a few locks of unkempt hair fell loose from the hood and curled round her cheeks. In this one, you could tell that she was holding and protecting something; another mystery to add to this woman. It fascinated Becky, even though she was the artist.
She stared at the drawings, trying to get a feel for her, an insight to her emotions; it was her gift that she could tell those things from her drawings. She turned around in frustration only to face her mud-covered father who was holding a key in his hand; she had not heard him unlock the door.
"Ah Becky," He frowned, "When will this obsession end? Don't you want to be like the other girls?"
She said nothing. Of course she wanted to be like the other girls, she wanted nothing more than to fit in and to do what they did. But she couldn't just pretend that she didn't see the woman.
"Please, dad," She whispered, her tear filled eyes on the floor, "I'm not a little kid anymore."
"Then act your age."
Her father left the room and she started crying as she always did after such frequent encounters. The thousands of eyes cried with her, they were the only ones that felt the pain Becky felt. To know you are right but to have no one believe you drained her of what she had. Those sketches were from every stage of her life; when she was barely eight, when she reached secondary school and when she dropped out of sixth form.