Cursed Child

Fleya heard a soft voice coming from inside the hut. She had been cast out while her mother's sister was here. Worried without understanding in her childish way, she was halfheartedly playing with the mud by the well, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation inside. Yesterday and the day before, she had heard mommy's voice rasp faintly in response to questions. Today she hadn't said anything. The pot of cornmeal outside the hut was hardly touched too. She knew because she had been sneaking some while her aunt was distracted. She had to pretend she wasn't eating it because when mommy's sister saw her eating she would shoo Fleya away and shout at her. Mommy's sister was always shouting and scowling at her. Fleya didn't know why. 

Her aunt was crying now. Fleya dug her tiny fingers as deep as she could into the cold mud until her nails pressed against hard ground. Why was the angry lady crying? With unexplained worry tightening in her chest, she sneaked around to the back to the gap in the wall of the hut (the one that let gusts of cold air in at night). Peeking in, she saw her aunt sitting next to mommy's bed. Her aunt's angry look was gone, and her shoulders slumped and unkempt hair hung over her face. Mommy was beautiful. She lay still, with eyes closed, but she was silver inside. Fleya watched, awed, as her silver, see through mommy sat up, leaving her other body behind. Aunt didn't even seem to notice-- she kept stroking the still, sleeping mommy's face. Then mommy began to sink like rocks do in water. She sank right through the ground. Sudden fear striking her heart, Fleya cried out-- No, mommy, come back! But pretty silver mommy didn't hear. She kept sinking and getting smaller. She got up and ran to the patch of mud by the well, and began to dig as fast as she could, but no matter how hard she dug, mommy was too fast. Tears running down her cheeks, she kept screaming after mommy until her long fingernails tore and bled. Mommy's sister picked her up by the arm and shouted at her to be quiet. Scared, she bit the mean lady so she could get away, but the lady only held tighter so it hurt. She hit Fleya so her head spun, and she was so surprised she went quiet. No one would have hit her like that if mommy was still here. She stopped struggling when she remembered how her mommy was leaving and she couldn't follow. Silent tears streaked down her face. 

Aunt dug a hole in the garden and put mommy's body in it. This didn't upset Fleya any more than if they were simply burying her clothes, as she knew that mommy wasn't still inside. Mommy's sister didn't say anything to Fleya anymore. She didn't even yell. But when she left at nightfall, leaving Fleya outside the hut, Fleya began to feel very frightened. Nobody came to the house the next day either, and Fleya had eaten all of the cornmeal. Before mommy got sick, she had always been warm (except when the wind blew through the gap in the wall) because mommy kept the fire going. But Fleya had never learned to light it because she was too young, so she wrapped herself in her blanket, and, shivering, began to walk to the nearby village on the third day since mommy left. She wandered around the market, not sure who to go to for help. The adults whispered to each other sometimes when she was near them trying to gather the courage to ask for food. But when she approached, they turned and walked away. By the next dawn she was so hungry that she knocked on the baker's door to ask for a piece of bread. When he opened it, he shouted at her, calling her a cursed child, and shooed her away. 

Her insides hurt more and more as the days passed. She used to have lots of energy to play and run in the garden outside her house, but now she was tired all the time. She slept in corners where houses met and under porches so the wind wouldn't be so cold. Her hair started falling out. She became so desperate that she asked anyone she saw for food, but they didn't look at her or respond in any way; when she spoke to them their bodies tensed and they walked faster. Finally, after so many days she couldn't count, she was so weak that she couldn't get up in the morning. She had slept on the edge of town where the statue of the dark god towered over the graves of the dead, so she continued to lie there, the cold stabbing her, her tiny arms somehow too heavy to lift. She wondered if she would turn silver and pretty like mommy. 

A commotion caught her attention. They people of the town moved toward her in an angry mob. Fleya wondered if they would come to hurt her since they hated her so much, but they didn't seem to see her at all. They were dragging a wild-looking man with big muscles and a beard and bands of tattoos on his arms. The crowd were shouting insults at him. They tied him to the base of the statue of the dark god, and he struggled there for a moment before realizing it was hopeless. His eyes were big so Fleya could see the whites of them. Then the magistrate got up in front of the crowd and started reading in a solemn voice. The people in the crowd sometimes cheered and jeered like they were having fun, but not in a nice way: Fleya had once seen a group of men look the same way when watching roosters fight, before mommy had made her come away. A slight figure weaved between the graves and approached the statue. It was cloaked in grey so Fleya couldn't see it's face. They crowd went quiet and backed away from the person. The way they shifted and whispered "witch" made Fleya remember how they treated her, and she had just enough energy to feel hatred towards them. They grey cloak put its head next to the magistrate's and exchanged a few words. Then the magistrate joined the crowd, leaving the grey cloak looking down at the bound man. The man seemed so strong, but he was pale and Fleya could see that he shook as his eyes met it's. The figure removed it's cloak. It was a girl with wispy blond hair. She was a teenager, but Fleya thought her face look just as old as the adults' did. The girl dropped to one knee in front of the dark god, placed her hand over her breast, and spoke some words. Fleya couldn't distinguish the meaning, but the sound struck her mind, making her feel more alert than she had since the last time she had eaten. She found the energy to sit up, and listened, attention riveted. The blonde girl stood and drew a sword that looked old and abused, but she held it easily, as if it were familiar. With a single motion she cut the man's ropes. In a clear voice she cried, "Rise and beg that the gods are merciful to your soul." When he didn't move she waved her hand, and he fell prostrate on his face. 

"Oh Galan, spare my life, and I will serve you forever!" he wept. But he wasn't facing the dark god towering over him. His head pointed toward the statue on the opposite side of town, the light statue that was littered with offerings and flowers. The blonde girl said, "Wrong god," and cut off his head. There was a cheer in the crowd and blood spilled over the dark pedestal and soaked into the dirt below. A silver shape tumbled out of the man's body and stared about him, silently placing its hands over its face in a terrified expression before sinking into the ground, down and down. When Fleya glanced up at the girl, she realized with shock that the teenager's hard blue eyes were following the spirit's path. Surely it wasn't her imagination-- that girl could see it too? But the girl was turning away now, and the magistrate was giving her some gold coins. As the crowd dispersed, a woman with greying hair and a baby in her arms passed close by. "Please--" Freya started, but the woman snapped, "Away with you, witchling!" Freya watched her go, empty in heart and body. 

Dirt crunched nearby. The grey cloaked teenager crouched in front of Freya, studying her. "What did she call you?"

"Witchling," Freya said indifferently. "They call me other things too. Cursed, like that."

"Do you know why?"

"No. Did you see it?" Freya looked earnestly at the older girl. She had to know about the silver shapes. 

"See what?"

"That man got all silver and swam through the ground. I saw you looking. Did you see it?"

The girl said nothing for a moment. Then she pointed to the dark statue. "Do you know who that is?"

"No." Freya wondered what this had to do with the silver shapes. 

"That's Nunka, god of death, winter, and war. He's our father."

"Our?"

"Our."