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ONE
TESSA
I don’t shy away from hard work. I believe, though, it was born in me rather than raised. Both my parents were also born with an affinity toward hard work, a generational curse, depending on who you ask.
So the reality of my life was that the hard-working, practical way of thinking always summoned me to my feet at daybreak. It was comforting to know that I had an endless amount of work to do the next day. It kept my hands busy and my mind focused like a pointed knife at the throat of existence, especially since my parents were foraging in the desert for the herbs and plants we use in medicines and cooking.
The moat that was drawn to sequester me in the place of the living was and is my parents and the homestead, along with something far more magical, empowering, and infinite in its ability to encourage hope … storytelling.
It’s a secret weapon I usually keep to myself, beyond the time I spend with the children in the village, who were searching for their own inspiration, a dream to hold onto while this wretched place grows greyer by the second. I adore the look in their eyes, transfixed and marveling at the world I can construct with my words, gestures, voice, and mind.
The orcs aren’t fans of this, though. In this area of Protheka, they run things, which often means shutting down storytime when they catch word of me or an elder performing. They aren’t the smartest of beings, but they are clever enough to understand the power of such an art. Storytelling gives fresh, vulnerable minds permission to explore, to dream, and sometimes, to betray.
There have been a few occasions when a storytelling session has been ruined by the orcs. Since then, I have tried to keep it subtle, going by word of mouth to the neighbors and their kin about small gatherings by lantern light.
It's something that I don’t brag about, but if anyone were to inquire or search a bit deeper than the visage of my stoic exterior, I would say that storytelling has been the remedy that saved me from the abyss of my sorrow in a town now run by the orcs.
But I go on, helping take care of the farm the way my parents raised me to do. It’s an average day. The sky is the color of an old bruise. Neighbors and orcs alike are rustling by, eyes lingering out of boredom and curiosity.
I was busy pulling up weeds in my work clothes, standing above the more embedded ones with the green between my feet, yanking upwards with the pads of my work roughened hands. Every time I see the callouses, I think of the time a man at the tavern in the village, one gloomy night, said that my hands weren’t that of a lady’s.
I told him that my fist wouldn’t be either if he kept talking.
I grinned to myself as I pulled upward, the stubborn weed slowly loosening from the cold, semi-frozen soil, and I felt it come loose all at once. I fell backward onto my rear, which isn't an uncommon occurrence, and I placed the weed in the nearby bucket. I will do this for a few more hours before I go and tend to the animals. The tauras, thistles, and capra all need their own special attention.
I rose up to my feet and wiped my skirt off when I heard someone in the distance calling out my name.
“TESSA!”
I recognized the voice immediately, but not the concern in it. I squinted and saw Demi, who’s been a friend of mine since we were small, running toward me like she was competing in a racing event.
If the blazing look in her eyes didn’t seem so dire, I would think she looked a tiny bit comical. I kept my lips from trembling with amusement as she nearly crashed into me, taking hold of my biceps as she breathlessly repeated my name.
“Demi,” I said with a scoff. “What in the Holy Maws is going on?”
Demi and I are of a similar age but utterly different dispositions. She, too, works on a farm with her family. But she would rather give it all up to lay in the arms and bed of a wealthier man, even an orc or elf if she had to. The lady could easily gain whatever affection she sought with those long locks of remarkable red hair, fragranced with seas of lavender and lilac she lounges upon.
Demi tried to catch her breath, bent forward with her flaming hair radiant in the glum foreground. I rubbed at her back, still amused by her dramatic antics.
“It’s Abby,” she finally said. “It’s Abigail, Tessa. She’s gone to the other side.”
My sly smirk melted away like snow in the heat, and my heart beat with panic. It’s the same feeling I would feel when my parents passed to the other side, a raging, peril sensation of loss since Abby was like a second mother to me.
“What happened?” I whispered, taking Demi by the chin and raising her face to mine.
She had finally caught her breath, and that look of strict urgency made her blue eyes sparkle.
“It was the heart I heard,” she said firmly. “But the reason I ran here is because of her wishes. You are set to take her dwelling and collected stories. But the orcs, the orcs …”
My hand dropped away from Demi’s chin, and I slipped my hand into hers. I knew what she was going to say without hearing it, and I dropped into emergency mode, pulling her with me as we ran toward Abigail’s home.
Abigail is, or was I suppose, a storyteller in her own right. She was an elder of the village, and she captivated the attention of children and adults alike. I listened to her tales myself as a child. She was mystical. She told stories that filled my mind up with what my parents’ thought were nothing but silly daydreams.
But regardless, she became a mentor of sorts to me. She told me to never stop dreaming up stories. They were the gateway into the otherworldly, a place where faith and love were forged.
She had been one of the oldest women in the village, though, so I shouldn’t be surprised that her heart eventually gave out on her. Despite this, I pulled at Demi’s hand with desperation. She squeezed me tight as we arrived at the scene that both of us had already expected.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
