Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

1 Girl Child

PART 1: THE NORTH

"... and cursed is the stargazer for his idle demeanour invites poverty,and cursed is the fair maid for her beauty invites debauchery, and cursed is the soldier for blood calls to blood and his dreams are tainted, and cursed is the liar whose tongue invites folly, and cursed is the taleteller for his tongue invites strife..."

~ A Record of Vydër's Wisdom (Written in Prophet Ӓbshur's Years, The Season of the Prophets)

Erdil, Present Day

The sunset washed like an ocean of blood over the farmlands and hills in the distance. Emeline's breath caught. With shaking hands, she plucked the last of the radishes from the dirt and ran for the farmstead, driven more by fear of the memories the sunset stirred than the snowstorm brewing in the eastern sky. The kitchen door stood open and Emeline shoved it closed with her hip as she passed, the basket of radishes in her arms. 'The snow's here,' she said.

Ödota smiled at her and stirred the broth. 'Are the potato fields ready?'

'Yes, Mother.'

With a nod, Ödota wiped her hands on a dishcloth and waddled to the pantry. 'And the chickens?'

There was dirt under Emeline's nails. She opened the- faucet and fussed to wash all of it out. 'You mean the coop?'

From inside their pantry she heard Mother chuckle. 'They aren't all that bad you know. They're just birds.'

Emeline grumbled as she started rinsing the radishes in the basin. Mother knew how Emeline hated those vile creatures. She imagined the water that poured from the faucet twisting and coiling into a serpent that snapped at her fingers and she jerked her hands out of the basin, but she smiled too, and her heart yearned for something more than her mundane life.

Mother kissed her once on each cheek then grabbed two radishes and chopped them fine on the solid wood chopping board quicker than quick. They would taste good in the broth. Emeline's stomach growled in agreement.

The evening wore on, an eve just like any other. Mother stirred the broth that bubbled on their coal stove, and Emeline sat scratching at the marks and dents in the table. Mother sang songs of the Fae and the Immortals, and Emeline imagined them coming to life. Wouldn't it be grand if they were real? But they weren't, they were only childish fantasies.

'When is Pappa coming home?' she asked.

'Soon as the Blood Moon has passed,' Mother said, 'on the first Fathersday,'

But then Emeline had known that. Pappa always came home on the first Fathersday after the Blood Moon, but she asked anyway. It was the way of things. It was routine, comfortable and safe.

Dusk turned to full night, and Mother sent her to wash her face and nethers before dinner. Emeline complained and grumbled as she lugged the steaming bucket of water into the bathroom to wash. It wasn't that she disliked washing. She rather enjoyed it, it made her feel almost herself. It was just how things had always been, and always Mother would say, 'Now Snowbell, even the Immortals must wash the folly from their hands.'