The Moon E-Book

Rachel Bross

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When 7-year-old Peter loses his family, he reluctantly comes to live with the girl next door, Sarah. Years later, on her 18th birthday, Sarah finds a glowing rose in the woods.

She and Peter try to hide it on the farm; a shared secret. When Sarah's mother finds it, she immediately sends the two of them on the run, with nothing more than instructions to run past the new moon.

While Sarah must come to grips with the loss of her parents, Peter is fighting another fight within himself: a slow change despite his efforts to ignore it.

What lies ahead for Sarah and Peter on their journey of discovery and fright, and can they come to terms and navigate the world they now live in?

Leseprobe

THE MOON

THE STRANGE GLOW COLLECTIVE BOOK 1

RACHEL BROSS

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Rachel Bross

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PROLOGUE

Age Seven

Shrill screams and crashing come from the cottage across the fields and tall grasses.

Sarah's father adjusts his bow and puts a hand on her shoulder, darting his eyes between her and her mother, voice tense. "Stay inside. Lock the doors and close the windows." He looks at Sarah. "Don’t make a sound, sweet girl. I will be back soon. I promise.” With that, he leaves through the back door in the kitchen.

Sarah runs to the door, grabbing the handle. She tries peeking through the crack, but the door creaks. Her mother pushes it shut, just missing her nose, and locks it quick.

Her mother whispers, pulling at Sarah’s hand. “Come to the family room with me. Play with your dolls.” She rubs Sarah’s hand with her thumb.

Sarah shakes her head, pulling her hand away. Her mother sighs, staying right behind her. With the door locked, she tries looking through its window. Not tall enough, she pulls up on the window sill, standing on her tiptoes, and throws the light-yellow curtain over her head. Her heart races. The house, so far away, could be small enough for a mouse. Its windows, filled with candlelight, give it a lantern-like appearance. Shadows fleet past the windows. More shrill screams. Sarah jumps, heart seeming to skip a beat. Her father runs across the fields. He leaps over the spiked wire fence into the tall grasses. The grasses sway in the wind. Another crash fills the night’s silence. She loses his movements. Her racing heart speeds faster than ever. More shadows cut through the candlelight. Her father emerges from the grasses. Sarah’s heart pounds in her ears as three big figures run from the back of the cottage as her father bursts through the cottage’s front door. The wind tries to whistle through the door next to her. As she watches on, she tries to match it, only to fog up the window. When she wipes off the glass, she watches her father emerge from the back of the cottage, pulling three quick times on his bow. Her heart seems to skip a beat as the three figures fall one by one to the ground. They don’t move as her father reenters the cottage for just a moment before coming out the front door, holding a small lump in his arms.

As her father gets closer to their cottage, Sarah lets the curtain drop, stepping backward into her mother. Her mother sets her hands on Sarah’s shoulders before stepping up to the door and unlocking it. Sarah’s father walks through the kitchen door, bloody and holding a small boy. The boy, silent, clings to her father’s tunic. Sarah’s mother steps up to them with a rag and tries to clean the blood and dirt from the boy’s hands. The boy flinches at first but reaches for her after a moment. Sarah’s mother carries him back to the washroom. Sarah and her father stay in the kitchen in silence while she gives the boy a bath. Sarah’s father washes his hands as best he can at the counter.

Many moments later, they all sit down for a late and cold supper. The boy, still silent, stuffs his face with a chunk of bread.

Sarah’s father brings a fork full of roast to his mouth, stopping when he sees the boy overeating on bread, speaking clear and hearty. “Now, now, don’t choke yourself there, son.” His face drops as he realizes his word choice, and he lowers his fork, sitting a bit straighter.

The boy stops chewing and stares at Sarah’s father. Sarah’s father clears his throat and looks between the table and the boy. A heavy awkwardness hangs over the table. No one makes a sound for a few seconds.

Sarah’s mother shoots her head up at Sarah’s father, speaking in a thick Natsikapi accent with her words flowing into one another like graceful drops of syrup through bread. “Luke, I don’t think it’s best to call him son.” She sets her hand on Luke’s arm, patting it, and smiles.

Luke clears his throat, lowering and softening his tone. “Yes, well, don’t eat so much at once. We don’t want you choking.” He continues to eat his roast, not looking at the boy or saying another word.

Sarah sits there, silent, stealing glances at the boy. Short, wavy caramel hair surrounds a face riddled with freckles. His eyes dart toward her. Dark blue encircling bright crystal. They linger on her for a second before staring back at his plate. They all eat in the looming silence, save the clanking and scraping of forks on plates and the familiar squishing and soft smacking of chewing.

An hour later, they finish eating, and Sarah’s mother leads the boy to Sarah’s room. He follows in silence, clinging to her mother’s hand the whole way. Sarah watches until her closed bedroom door blocks her view. Not five minutes later, her mother emerges from the room and motions for Sarah to meet her at the beginning of the hallway.

Putting her honey-tanned hands on Sarah’s shoulders, she whispers to her. “Tabib’ah, he is going to share your room tonight. Make sure he’s comfortable.” Her thick black hair falls over her shoulders, hanging in front of her green eyes as they dart back and forth between Sarah’s.

Sarah nods, matching curls escaping her braid as they shake all over. “Yes, Umula, I’ll make him a spot on the floor.”

Sarah turns towards her room, but her mother grabs her by her right wrist, sliding down to her fingers. Sarah stops, looking over her shoulder. Her thick braid slings to her chest. She arches an eyebrow at her mother.

Sarah’s mother shakes her head, loose curls swinging about. “No, Sarah, he will share your bed until we can get him his own.” She raises her eyebrows, looking down at Sarah, and tilts her head to the right.

Sarah’s bright green eyes widen, tugging her hand away. “Umula, no!” She lowers her voice to forceful whispers. “I don’t even know his name. I don’t want to share a bed with him.” She looks back at her bedroom door, then back at her mother. “He could have head bugs, or worse, he could be a bed wetter!” She stomps her foot, huffing, and eyes the floor, shaking her head. “No! I won’t!”

Sarah’s mother’s grip tightens enough that Sarah returns eye contact. “Sarah, you will do as I say. Now go get ready for bed.” She points to Sarah’s room, the bangles on her wrist clanging, and taps her foot while staring at the bedroom door.

Sarah bows her head, muddling her words. “Yes, Umula.” With slumped shoulders, she walks to her room to wash up.

The boy is already in her bed. He lies there in one of Sarah’s nightgowns, and on her side no less. She huffs, walking over to the corner of the room to the water basin, and washes her face. She picks up her hog bristle toothbrush putting on some white paste from the small bowl next to the water pitcher, and proceeds to brush her teeth. Wiping off, she overhears her parents talking in the family room. She walks to her door, looking down the hallway as best she can through the crack, and listens.

Gloria stands near the fireplace, wringing her hands. Luke sits in the worn armchair across from her, running his fingers through his short blonde curls, and looks at the floor. “It was awful, Gloria. I haven’t seen such unnecessary bloodshed since I served. The house was a mess, and — and their bodies were just—” He chokes a bit, putting his hand to his mouth, and takes in a deep breath. “They were just left there on the floor, covered in blood.” Sighing, he closes his eyes and rests his shaking head in his hand. “I wasn’t there in time to save them. I ran as fast as I could.” He points towards Sarah’s room, not looking up. “I found him under the floor crying. He had to have heard and seen everything.” He sighs hard, leaning back in his chair, and looks up at Gloria. “When I brought him out, I tried to shield him, but he forced himself from me and looked at them.” He shakes his head, staring off at the void between him and the floor, and curls his fingernails into the rough upholstery, making it creak. “I told him to close his eyes, but he refused.” He sighs again as he leans forward and puts his head in his hands.

Gloria walks behind him, sliding her arms around his shoulders. “Zi’zaelah, it will be alright. You did what you were supposed to. You saved the boy. Not only that, but you stopped those men from coming over here.” She kisses the back of his head, talking into his hair. “That is all that matters now.” She lays her head on his shoulder, squeezing. “I just hope the i’bis will soon be yah’tawa’a with us.” She rubs his arms, squeezing them, and slides her hands up to his chest.

Luke peers over his shoulder at her. “I’m sure he will.” He pauses. “One day I know he will be content.” He puts a hand on Gloria’s, rubbing it, and gets up.

Sarah moves away from her door, hoping they didn’t see her. Her stomach knots up. A lump forms in her throat. It’s not fair that she’s whining over losing a bed and nightgown when he just lost his parents. What if she lost her parents? What would she do? Would there be people like her mother and father to take her in? Looking at the boy, she puts her towel down and slips into bed.

Rolling over towards him, she whispers. “My name is Sarah. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I hope we can be friends one day.” She rolls her back to his, closing her eyes, and drifts to sleep.

The next morning, Sarah sweeps the floor. She watches her father through the open kitchen door as he goes over to the boy’s house with a wheelbarrow. After about an hour’s worth of digging, he buries the boy’s parents in their backyard, putting an inner circle and outer circle at the tops of each grave.

Sarah stands next to the door, out of sight, and continues to watch. A tear rolls down her cheek. She sniffles, wiping it, and swallows back a small lump. Her father piles the men onto the wheelbarrow, pushing them towards the corner of their plot of land. Leaning the barrow forwards, the men slide into what can only be a deep hole. Sarah watches her father strike flint close to the edge of the hole. What is he doing? She squints, focusing on every strike. A light line of smoke rises from the dead grasses. Wet grass shouldn’t burn. She watches even closer. He digs in his pants pockets, pulling out a handful of dry, dead grass, and lays it over the smoke. The line thickens, and a flame flares. Oh, that makes more sense.

A noise catches Sarah’s attention, and she spies around the corner of the counter, but nothing’s there. Sighing, she turns around just as her father walks away from the flames, leaving the men to burn. It’s odd. No one else knows they’re there. Why would he need to burn them? She shrugs, watching her father make his way into the boy’s cottage with the wheelbarrow, and scans it over.

The cottage is small. Only one floor made of logs with a thatched roof. Just before the deep hole is a barn just big enough for one horse, a few pigs, some chickens, and three cows. It makes Sarah’s home seem lavish. Standing in the back of her family farm is a medium barn, allowing for four horses and ten pigs, six goats, twenty chickens, and fifteen cows. They have a floor and a half-cottage, with the upstairs being all storage and a basement for food pot storage. Her parents take pride in their small lot of vegetables between the cottage and barn. No one takes more pride in the appearance of their whole plot of land more than her father. Her father emerges from the cottage with a barrow full of items. She watches him go into the barn with it. Her mother walks into the kitchen, and Sarah starts sweeping again. Glancing over her shoulder, she watches her father lead some of the animals over to their barn with the barrow attached to the horse. Once he is finished moving everything, he begins his chores.

Sarah returns to her sweeping, giving it her full attention until Gloria leaves the kitchen. The boy sits in the corner, quiet. He looks at Sarah’s dolls. Sarah watches him, now acting as if she is still sweeping even though she finished minutes ago. He sets the dolls on the floor, face down in the corner. Sarah keeps watching. He just stares at them. He stays like this for several minutes.

Sarah walks over to him and picks them up. “You don’t put them on the floor, silly, look.” She holds up the girl doll and fixes her dress, then picks up the boy doll and makes them hold hands and dance. “See, that’s how you play with dolls.” She holds them back out to the boy.

The boy just stares at her. Before she can react, he snatches the dolls from her hands and throws them across the room. Crossing his arms, he shrinks himself into the corner. Sarah looks at him, eyebrows furrowed and then stomps over to pick them up. She hugs the dolls to her chest, looking back at him, and grits her teeth. He begins to whimper. Gloria walks up to the kitchen door, stopping, and watches them. Sarah loosens her jaw, biting her lips, and holds a doll in each hand. Sighing, she walks over to him.

Sarah sits on her knees in front of him and holds the dolls. “They remind you of your parents, don’t they? It’s ok, you can talk to me.” She walks on her knees towards him, hands outstretched.

The boy looks at her. Eyes filling with tears, he nods. Before Sarah can move, he throws himself at her. He hugs her, moving his head to her lap, and sobs. She strokes his head like her mother always does when she’s sad. The boy grabs at her skirts. Clinging to the fabric, he cries into the crease of her lap. Sarah’s fingers glide through his curls over and over. She sings a lullaby her father sings to her when she’s sad or ill.

Taking in a deep breath, she looks down at him. “The songbird sings to the sky as the sea sings to the shore.” Her singing turns to humming as she brushes his hair away from his face and looks down at him. “What is your name?”

The boy looks up at her. They lock eyes. He is quiet for a long moment, staring up at her, and then looks at the floor. He sniffles, wiping his nose with his hand, but she doesn’t know if the fabric he had over it was his sleeve or her dress.

The boy sighs, sniffling again. “Peter.”

Sarah smiles at him, lifting his head, and holds him by his shoulders. “How old are you, Peter?” She wipes his tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, still smiling at him.

Peter looks her in the eyes, wiping his nose on his hand and sniffs. “Seven.” He wipes his nose one more time with the back of his hand and sits back. “How old are you?” He pulls at his dirty sleeves.

Sarah puts her left hand to her chest, sitting with her legs to her right. “I am seven too!” She giggles, and their faces light up. “Oh!” She puts a finger in the air, letting a smile creep its way across her face. “Peter, do you know how to read?”

Peter shakes his head. “I never learned. We didn’t have books.”

Sarah’s smile falters for a second but returns. “Wait here.” Sarah gets up.

Gloria moves out of the way just in time. Sarah runs through the doorway, holding the doorframe, and slingshots herself into the family room. Minutes later, she returns, hugging a small red rectangle. Gloria moves back to the doorframe, watching in silence.

Sarah kneels next to Peter, smile remaining. “Now you can learn.” She holds out the small leather-bound book to him.

Peter takes it, opening to the title page, and then looks up at her. “What is it?”

Sarah giggles. “It’s my favorite T’lucco tale. It’s about a red-headed princess who is held captive by an evil king but is saved by a dragon who turns into a prince at the end.” They smile at each other. “Peter, will you be my friend?” She pauses, looking at the book. “I’ll teach you to read, too, if you’d like.”

Peter sniffs, grinning, and nods. “I’d like that.” He picks up the dolls, handing them to her, and holds the book to his chest.

Gloria enters the kitchen, walking to the washbasin. She wipes a tear from her cheek before acting as if she is cleaning the counters.

Eight Years Later

Luke leads Peter to his and Gloria’s bedroom. Sarah abandons her chores in the family room to follow them. She stops in the doorway, putting her hands on either side of the frame. Peering from side to side, she tries to see what her father is after. The sun shines in through the windows. Dust dances in the rays. Peter and her father stop just in front of the old trunk at the foot of her parent’s bed.

Luke sighs, grinning, and looks over his shoulder at Peter. “Alright, Peter, today is a big day. You’re fifteen.” Crossing his arms, he faces Peter, standing tall. “It is time you learn to fight for real.” He swipes his hands through the air to either side, shaking his head. “No more of that wooden sword mess you and Sarah do.” He kneels in front of a large mahogany trunk.

Bubbly gold plating surrounds all four corners of the lid, the top of the trunk, and the bottom. Luke takes a key from his pocket. It glints as he puts it in the golden lock holding the matching flap latch over the metal loop. The lock thuds against the floor.

Peter watches, looking across the room at Sarah. Her eyes haven’t left her father since she stopped in the doorway. Peter grins. He expected no less.

Luke lifts the creaking lid, and the latch clanks. “These were my father’s and his father’s and so on.” He looks back and up at Peter. “They’re the most valuable and the only heirlooms I own besides Sarah’s books.” He watches Peter peer into the trunk.

Sarah inches her way into the room. She stands next to Peter, peering past her father’s shoulder, and looks from one side of the trunk to the other. Not much calls her attention other than the small collection of books she’s not allowed to read and some objects wrapped in leather.

Luke pulls out the objects wrapped in thin leather. He puts them on the edge of the bed, one by one. Taking the longest of the objects, he unwraps the light leather sheet to a dark, stiff leather sheath. The leather straps loosen at the top, and he opens the flap of the sheath, pulling out a long steel blade. Gold swirls slink their way in and around the silver handle from the flat, circular pummel to the gold handguard. Etched into the blade is a phrase. ‘A man’s sword is only as strong as his heart.’ More swirls surround it halfway down where they come to a joined point.

Sarah draws in her breath. She watches her father hand the blade to Peter. She watches him hold it in both hands. He swings it, cutting through the air in slow motion. Sarah bites her tongue. Why does he get such a special gift? Where is her sword? She studies the other leather covered objects on the bed. Only one is close to the length of the sword Peter holds. Is it hers? She watches Peter hand the sword back to her father. He turns to her, grinning from ear to ear. She tries to return the sentiment but is a bit more preoccupied with her father unwrapping the other swords. Anticipation pushes its way up, rising with every small movement of her father’s hands on the leather. Once the last fold of the leather flap falls on the mattress, Sarah lets out the breath she didn’t realize she has been holding, and her shoulders drop. The other sword is only a sparring sword, the blade tinged and dinted with dulled edges. Her heart drops to her stomach. She glances at Peter looking at the two swords. His grin hasn’t moved. Alright, so the two swords are Peter’s. Maybe the other smaller object is for her.

Peter points to the smaller, mounded object. “What’s that?” He looks Luke in the eyes.

Luke smirks, unwrapping it. Sarah’s hopes rise as her father takes the leather sheet from a stack of sheathed daggers. He spreads them out on the bed. Each individual sheath has a loop and thin belts for strapping to different parts of the body.

Peter shrugs his lips, grin returning. He picks one up, turning it over, and pops it from the sheath. The small double-edged bladed twirls over his finger. He puts too much pressure. The point pricks through his skin. He yelps for a second, putting his fingertip in his mouth and then pulls it out with a smack.

Sarah can’t help but smirk at his misfortune, but her smirk fades. She shouldn’t feel that way. He didn’t ask to have something so precious just handed to him. Maybe if she proves herself, her father will get her something similar.

Sarah moves closer to Peter and looks at her father. “Father, why haven’t you told me about these?” She takes the dagger from Peter, looking it over, and puts her finger on the sharp tip.

Peter sniggers. “Careful, it’s sharp.” He cuts his eyes at her, grinning.

Sarah offers a side glare with matching smirk. “I’m not dumb enough to poke myself with it.”

Peter nudges her with his elbow. Sarah sticks out her tongue, giving him back the dagger.

Luke clears his throat.

The two of them look forward in unison.

Luke stands tall, bowing his chest with a long sigh as he looks down at Sarah. “Because, dear, you’re a young lady.” He sets his hands on her shoulders. “When you married, I was going to give them to your son, seeing as you don’t have a brother.” He puts his left hand on Peter’s shoulder, patting and rubbing it. “But with Peter here, I thought it best he has them.” Luke takes the dagger from Peter, putting it back in its sheathe.

Sarah looks her father in the eyes, hopefulness sending her heartbeat into a frenzy. “Well then, am I at least to learn, too? With Peter?” She puts her hands in front of her and stares at her father, eyebrows rising, and a small grin spreading across her face.

Luke sighs, putting his hand on the nape of his neck, eyes falling to the floor.“No, daughter.” He turns his eyes up at her, eyebrows raised. “You are to keep learning how to knit, sew, cook, and keep house. It’s enough I let you wear men’s clothes, taught you to hunt, and shown you how to use a bow, but fighting...” He shakes his head. “Fighting is different.” He walks over to her, brushing her cheek with the back of his calloused fingers. “I don’t want my little girl getting hurt.” He leans down, kissing her forehead, then puts a stray hair behind her ear. “Besides, you need to act more like a lady and less like a boy. How else will we find you a proper husband by the time you’re eighteen? It won’t be too much longer until you both will be participating in The Mounding.” He glances at Peter and then at Sarah. “I hope you both find a suitable love when that day comes.” He puts his rough hands on her cheeks and smiles.

Sarah mumbles at the floor, “If I participate.” She sucks her teeth.

Luke sighs once more.

Sarah looks up, and he rubs her cheeks with his thumbs, leaning down, and kisses her forehead again. She just gives him a fleeting tight-lipped grin before letting her frown find its way back as she looks at the floor. She’s not a cow for sale. The Mounding is an archaic ceremony for a village’s couples to flaunt their so-called love in front of everyone while fathers try to wed off their single daughters and single men suss out a potential house slave. Only on occasion does one actually find love. Or so she’s gathered from the few women who pass by their cottage on the way to another village. The northern outskirts of Careem are quite quiet.

Peter nudges her again. Her mind comes back to the room, and she glances up at him. He offers up a small grin, nudging her one last time. Sarah doesn’t take the bait. Her frown sinks farther into her face. They both watch Luke take the swords, leaving the daggers, and walk to the door. He stops, looking over his shoulder at Peter behind him.

Peter jumps, taking a couple exaggerated steps before walking normal the rest of the way to the door.

Sarah takes a few steps with her hand out to her father. “But, Father, I think I—” She stops, putting her fingers to her mouth, biting her lower lip.

Luke stands tall and looks down at her. “It is decided. Go into the kitchen to learn.” He grunts, nodding, and turns away.

Peter follows Luke down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Sarah walks to her parent’s door, leaning on the door frame. She looks from the swords in her father’s hands to Peter. Peter turns to her, eyebrows scrunched, and gives her a shrugging frown. She gives him one back with a shrug of her left shoulder. After a second more of sulking, she walks behind them into the kitchen.

Gloria waits for her in a chair next to the spinning wheel.

Sarah sits in the chair beside her mother as she hands Sarah a thimble. Sarah takes it, grinning to herself. She will be needing one of these. An hour passes as she and her mother patch holes in socks. When done, Gloria sits her down at the spinning wheel for her first lesson. The spinning wheel stands right in middle of the family room today. Sarah glances up, and the kitchen window grabs her attention.

Peter and her father stand outside.

Sarah watches her father set up a straw dummy on a post in the yard.

Gloria puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder.

Sarah looks back at the wheel. Her mother tries to show her how to press the pedal and control the speed. While Gloria is showing her how to control the thread, Sarah stares out the window at Peter, watching him spin with the blade and slice the straw dummy. In her head, whooshing passes with a fwack at the end. She sighs. Peter’s breath puffs in front of him with every huff. The sound of his breath resounds in her mind. She could be making that sound. She should be hacking into that dummy. She watches his every movement and how his boots leave a myriad of prints in the snow. Her father shows Peter what he has done wrong. Peter nods and tries again.

Gloria puts a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Sarah, you’re pedaling too fast.” Giving her shoulder a gentle grip, she releases.

Her mother’s voice pulls her back to the wheel, and she turns her foot pressing the pedal over and over, making the wheel spin to a blur. “Sorry, Umula.” She offers her mother a weak smile, letting off the pedal until the wheel slows down.

Gloria nods, glancing to the window. “It’s fine this time, but don’t let it happen again.” Eyeing them for a moment, she shakes her head and turns back to Sarah and the wheel.

Sarah nods, taking one last glance out the window. She sighs. She should be out there with them, not in here doing what her father says is only women’s work. One day, she will use that sword.

The sun sinks below the horizon. Their bedroom fills with a glow of purple-pink.

Peter sits on his bed. Sighing, he crosses his arms over his knees.

Sarah sits on her bed across the room.

Neither of them speaks. The glow in the room fades farther and farther into black.

Sarah hugs her knees, resting her chin on them, and looks at Peter. “How were your fighting lessons? Fun?” She lets her legs dangle over the side of the bed and plays with a small hole in her skirts.

Peter shakes his head, standing up, and puts out his left hand with the other in his pants pocket. “It was nothing special. Actually, it’s a lot of work, fighting.” He scratches the back of his head, moving his fingers through his short curls with the last stroke. “You have to know where to be, what to do when you’re there.” He shrugs, letting his hand fall to his leg. “You have to think where the attack will fall and what to do to counter act it. It’s exhausting, really.” He cuts his eyes at her, betraying himself with a smile.

They lock eyes.

Sarah grins, grabbing her pillow, and throws it at him.

Peter puts his arm over his face but lets the pillow hit him. He chuckles, grabbing it off the floor, and hands it back to her.

Sarah takes the pillow, putting back at the head of her bed, and giggles to herself. “It looked fun to me.” She straightens the pillow, not looking at him.

The short-lived laughter fades along with her grin. Envy seeps into her tone as she imagines him out there with that sword. She crosses her arms, shrugging, and looks at her brown cotton blanket. The ever-darkening room turns it black. She grabs a sulfur stick from a box on her nightstand. Striking it along the wood of her nightstand, it ignites, and she puts it to her oil lamp. In seconds, the room lightens up a bit, but it doesn’t help her mood.

Sarah opens her window, throwing out the stick, and turns to Peter while pulling the window closed. “I almost feel bad you got hurt.” She picks at the blanket for a moment, then grins at him.

Peter stands tall, crossing his arms. “Almost?” A smile tugs at his lips, and he laughs. “Yea, it’s just a scratch.” He shrugs, sniffing, and wipes his mouth with a smirk.

Sarah watches Peter pull down on the collar of his tunic. He exposes half of his chest and arm. He looks at his left bicep. Turning his arm, a long red line from the edge of his shoulder to his tunic.

Sarah raises her eyebrows, grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Just a scratch?” A laugh bursts from her mouth. “Peter, you had blood running from your shoulder down your arm.” She points from his shoulder and down, letting her hand hit her leg. “I thought Father had completely disabled your arm.” She picks at the hole in her skirts again.

Peter puts his fingers in his pockets, shrugging, and tilts his head to the right. “Yea, a pinky-long scratch, nothing over done.” He rocks on his heels, biting on his lower lip, and gives her his crooked grin.

Sarah rolls her eyes, shaking her head, and looks at the floor. “If you say so.” She leans back, propping herself up on her hands.

Putting her feet on the edge of the bed frame, she stares into his blue eyes and picks at the blanket behind her. The glow of the oil washes the room in a new glow of orange and gold. But his eyes remain just as blue as when they met. She licks her lips, looking at the floor.

Peter sits beside her. “So how was sewing or whatever your lessons are these days?” He leans his shoulder into hers, nudging with his elbow.

Sarah looks at him, eyebrow arched. “Looming, and it was just as much fun as your lessons were to you. If they were as exhausting as you say.” She teeters her shoulder into his, looking at the floor again. “Before that, though, we mended socks. I pricked so many fingers so many times, Mother had to give me all her thimbles. I looked like I had metal fingertips.” She looks down at her fingers. “And they still hurt.” They laugh, and she holds out her swollen and purple fingers.

Peter takes them in his hands, and all Sarah can think to do is watch. He looks them over. Each fingertip has about three or so dots each. He wraps his hands around her palms. One by one, he kisses each one of them.

Sarah’s face reddens. She just stares.

Peter lets go. Clearing his throat, he offers a quick grin before looking at the floor.

Neither of them really knows what words to say. So, they let silence fill the room as they look into each other’s eyes. Seconds later, Gloria calls them to supper, and they both jump, looking at the door, and let out soft laughs at being startled so easily.

A couple hours after supper, when they know Gloria and Luke are asleep, they climb over Sarah’s bed and out her window, making their way onto the roof.

Peter clears the snow away from the thatching. He takes the blanket from his shoulder and wraps it around Sarah. They sit next to each other, staring at the stars.

Sarah keeps her eyes on the night sky. “Peter, do you think you’ll actually participate in The Mounding?” She rests her chin on her left shoulder, looking at his face.

Peter shrugs, looking over at her. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a tradition.” He adjusts himself, turning his body towards her. “Do you?” He picks at the top layer of thatching, waiting for her answer.

Sarah looks down. “Father expects me to.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I want to. Everything I’ve heard about it makes it seem so, so—”

Peter sniggers. “Frightening?” He stops picking at the thatching, looking her in the eyes.

Sarah nods. “This is all I’ve ever known. And what if no man wants me?” She pauses, eyes wide. “Or worse? What if a horrible man is the only one who wants me, and he wants me to do horrible things with him?” She starts to say something else.

Peter puts his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Calm down.” He looks from one green eye to the other. “Don’t worry about no one wanting you. If they don’t, then they’re passing over a wonderful opportunity to get to know a wonderful woman.” He gives her a soft smile. “And as far as some horrible man trying to steal you away, I won’t let him. I’ll make sure you’re safe.” He rubs her shoulder with his thumb, leaning his face closer to her.

Sarah’s cheeks grow warm. She knows they’re red. Every time she thinks he can’t be a more typical boy, he goes and says something as sweet and wise as this. Just as Peter’s lips are close enough to kiss her cheek, she jerks her head to the sky, and he leans back. She cranes at the moon. It has risen quite a bit above the tree line since they climbed up.

Sarah shifts herself on the thatching. “The moon has risen another few inches. I think we should go back inside.” She gets a tighter hold on the blanket.

Peter eyes the moon. “Well, so it has.” He turns to her. “I’ll help you down.”

The two of them climb down from the roof. Peter holds Sarah’s hips as he helps her the last two feet from the edge of the thatching. Each of them climbs back through the window. Both being careful not to get anything on Sarah’s bed. Sarah watches Peter cross the room. He takes off his boots, never once turning around, and slides into bed.

Sarah puts her hand under her pillow, still looking at Peter. “Good night. Pleasant dreams.” She watches him, only a few feet away, and sighs.

Peter props up on his left elbow, looking at her. “Good night to you, and pleasant dreams as well.” He smiles, then rolls over, facing the wall.

Sarah rolls to face her window and counts the stars until she falls asleep.

The next morning, a crashing fills the cottage. Peter and Sarah both jump out of bed and run into the kitchen. Rounding the corner from the family room, they stop at the sight of Sarah’s mother standing on a chair holding her tan cotton skirts in one hand and the broom in the other.

Gloria squeals, beating the floor with the broom in a panic. “There is a rat in this room! Those useless cats, I swear!” Her words are earsplitting. “I don’t care if they’re everywhere all the time. I don’t care if they're supposed to be sacred to my people either. I hate them! And want the scoundrel out!” She beats the floor a few more times, breaking bits of straw from the broom, and mumbles in her native tongue. “Anealla raf. A’ana’mata muhana na’acimaj tumay fihkas!” She lets out a squeal as she continues to beat the floor, and more straw breaks away.

Sarah and Peter look at each other, bursting into laughter. They stop only for the short moment Gloria glares at them before catching a glimpse of the rat running under her chair and goes into another frenzy.

The door flies open as Luke finally comes running through.

Peter and Sarah continue to laugh.

Luke surveys the room, scythe at the ready. “What is all the crashing?” He looks from Gloria to Peter and Sarah.

Sarah can’t control her laughter, and her words come out in spurts. “Don’t worry, Father. Umula seems – to – have stumbled – onto – a rat’s nest that – the cats missed.” Sarah tries to catch her breath as she holds her stomach with her left hand and her cramping back with her right hand.

Luke sighs, relaxing. He rolls his eyes, chuckling, and holds out a hand to Gloria. She refuses. It takes all three of them to catch the rodent in a bucket. Luke takes it out into the woods behind the cottage, away from Gloria and her broom.

Peter and Sarah head to their room. The moon lights the walls. Sarah peeks out at it. Not too much longer until sunrise. They get dressed, greeting the day with a smile and dulled memories of the previous day’s discussions.

Peter walks outside to start his chores with Luke.

Sarah sits down in the kitchen with Gloria to begin lessons on a new knitting stitch.

Later that afternoon, after all her chores are done, Sarah sneaks off into the woods with her old wooden play sword. Using a tree as an opponent, she tries her best to imitate the fighting style her father showed Peter. She twirls and strikes the tree just as Peter had hit the dummy. The sword just bounces off the tree. Little bits of bark fall to the ground. It doesn’t feel the way she wanted. Shoulders slumped, she leans against the tree, sliding down the rough bumps. Her arms hang on her knees. She leans her head back, hair catching on the bark, and closes her eyes in defeat. A snap startles her. She jumps to her feet, holding the wooden sword at the ready, only to drop it and put a hand to her chest when Peter walks from behind a tree.

Peter puts his hands out in front of him. “Whoa, now, I don’t want you to hurt me with the big bad wooden sword!” He falls to his knees, hands clasped together in front of him. “No, please spare me!” He chuckles, getting up from the snow, and brushes it off his pants.

Sarah relaxes, letting out a long sigh, and her head drop towards the ground. Walking over to him, she punches him in the shoulder and keeps walking. He laughs. Before she gets too far away, he takes her into a headlock, holding her head close to his leg. She struggles enough to elbow him in the gut. He lets go. They laugh, pushing each other back and forth. Peter brushes the snow from a log, and they sit side by side.

Sarah breaths in the brisk fresh air. She loves that their natal days fall towards the end of Iclyn. It’s her favorite month of the year. When all the other months are so selfish, Iclyn is the only one where at the year’s end, everyone does something for someone else, no matter who they are. Her father calls it the month of compassion. It was in this month that they found Peter. He had told her his natal day was in the winter, so she had offered to share hers as her offering that year. She takes another big gulp of air, looking around. Oh, how beautiful the snow is today. Year after year, and it never fails to amaze her.

Sarah looks at Peter, resting her chin on her right shoulder. “You almost got hurt, you know.” Her mouth curves into a smile, and she leans her shoulder into his.

Peter looks over his shoulder, tossing a thumb behind him. “Yea, I was afraid for my life back there.” He puts a hand to his chest. “That wooden sword is menacing!” He waits a second, cutting his eyes to her, and then pushes her shoulder.

Sarah rolls her eyes. She pushes back, laughing, and sighs. Smile remaining, she looks at the ground. Pulling up her skirts, she moves her foot back and forth across the snow. Birds chirp in the trees, flying from one tree to the other. She watches them, then turns back to the blinding snow.

Peter puts his elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his hands, and looks at her. “You really want to learn, don’t you?” He watches her nod as she stares at the ground, drawing circles in the snow with the sword. “Tell you what.” Turning, he rests his right arm on his left leg. “One day.” He slaps the back of his fingertips on her leg, making her look at him. “One day, I’ll teach you for real.” He leans back, crossing his hands and throws them to the side. “No play swords, and on a day when your father can’t protest.” He watches her eyes widen, and he smiles.

Sarah looks into Peter’s blue eyes, grinning. “That would be wonderful.” She keeps grinning until Peter takes her in another headlock.

This time he rubs her hair with his fist. She struggles against him, trying to use her elbow, fist, anything at this point.

Peter stops when Luke calls for them.

Sarah falls to the ground. Getting on her feet, she punches Peter in the gut.

Peter doubles over in exaggerated pain.

Sarah kicks snow at him, and they race back to the cottage.

When they get there, Gloria has supper prepared, and they wash up before sitting at the table.

CHAPTERONE

THREE YEARS LATER

Another natal day. Peter agreed to trade places with Sarah, letting her go hog hunting, but didn’t tell her father. Maybe this will change his mind about her not being tough enough or man enough to learn to fight. Hogs are some of the most dangerous game to hunt. They will charge at any moment. Not only are they fast and heavy, but their tusks are sharp enough to cut to bone. A hunter must be skilled enough to kill one with the first arrow or their knife if they miss. The hunter’s life is at risk either way. Sarah buckles her boots, hooks her fox cloak, and grabs her bow. She adjusts her bow over her shoulder with her grouping of arrows in hand. The sky is dark. The stars continue to sparkle across the sky, with a subtle hint of lavender lining the horizon.

Sarah heads out into the woods. She makes sure to keep her footsteps as quiet as possible in the crunching snow. Her every breath puffs out, drifting away in the air. She walks slow, heel-toe, heel-toe, and scouts from side to side for tracks or a nest. Not too much longer, she finds a nest and sits in a place amongst dead trees with enough fallen limbs and bushes that she can hide and still see. She sits, waiting for one to come into her line of sight. Hours pass. Nothing shows itself. Must be an old nest. She moves from spot to spot, following tracks and looking for a fresh nest.

Finding a fresher looking nest, she stops in another well-camouflaged place and sits. The longer she sits, the closer she gets to drifting off to sleep until her eye lids finally give in. A snap breaks the silence. As soon as her eyes open, she composes herself so as not to scare whatever it is away. The sun sits high in the sky. Has she been asleep for close to three hours? It only felt like minutes. Some rustling perks her ears. Looking back through her hiding spot, she watches a large buck step out into the small clearing a few hundred yards away. She sighs, rolling her eyes. It’s too late in the day to go home empty-handed. The twelve-point will have to do. Nocking her arrow, she rests it over her left thumb. Drawing back, she snuggles her right thumb to her cheek bone. She aims, taking in a breath. Exhaling, she releases. The bow string gives off a light hum. The arrow cuts through the air, hitting right behind the shoulder. She drops her arms, keeping the bow above the ground. The deer jolts and runs. She waits a few minutes. No need to rush. It was a kill shot. Now all that is left to do is find him and go home.

Sarah gets to her feet, adjusting her bow and arrows as before, and walks to where the buck stood. Small droplets of bloodstain a trail in the snow and brush. Finding him won’t be hard. She follows the trail for a long time before seeing him. He lies still. She grins at her arrow, thankfully, in the air. Even luckier, it had not gone through him. Those broadheads are hard to make and expensive to buy. She kneels beside the beautiful creature, petting its snout. She pulls at the arrow. The quiet woods fill with smacks and crackles. Blood oozes over bronze fur as she takes the arrow from the muscle. Once it’s free, she cleans the broad head tip, using snow to wash away the blood. The trees’ shadows have stretched quite a bit since she shot him. She calculates that it took almost two hours to find him. Since it took longer than a normal hunt, she needs to hurry and get home. Will her father be pleased to see what she’s done today? Even though it wasn’t what she wanted? Sighing, she ties his legs together. Putting his antlers over the grip of her bow, she drags him home. He’s heavy, but no big trouble.

The sky has turned from a light blue to a deepening violet. A pink and yellow haze lines the horizon. Sarah is just over halfway home when she stops. That’s not right. The sky remains dark, but the woods are awash in a glow almost as bright as the sun itself. Turning to her right, she spots the origin. How she almost missed it, she will never know. Dropping the deer, she walks towards it. Blinking a few times, her eyes adjust, and she falls in awe, paying no never mind to her knees sinking in the snow.

Being right on it, she is stunned. Why, it’s nothing more than a rose. Bright yellow, orange, and red. Its rays compel her to touch it. Should she? Why not? There’s nothing menacing about a rose. She slides her fingers up its stem, over sharp thorns and delicate leaves, to the petals, so soft on her fingertips. The flower jolts. Its petals draw up, becoming brittle, and the stem folds in on itself as if the life was just sucked out from the roots. Before she can blink, the flower disintegrates, blowing away in the breeze. Sarah now sits in a lavender-pink haze of darkness as the sun sinks even lower past the horizon. She rises to her feet, walking over to the deer. Picking up the bow, she drags him the rest of the way home.

Sarah arrives at home in near darkness. She breaths in the wafting aroma of supper from the open kitchen window. Pie. Umula has made rhubarb pie tonight. Laying down the deer, she takes a hatchet and decapitates it. She sets aside the head and antlers for later. Blood flows from the neck as she hooks the deer to the skinning hanger upside down and hoists the carcass. Getting it to a working height, she wraps the rope on the nearby hook. With the light of two lanterns, she skins. Luke walks up to her holding a molding bale of hay over his shoulder. He stops for a second, looking the deer over.

Sarah cuts her eyes at him as he walks past her. “Hello, Father. Look what I got today.” She nods towards the carcass.

Her father stops, turning around, and grins. Sarah cuts all the way around the ankles, then slits from those cuts down towards the stomach, making a V shape. From there, she cuts a straight line through the stomach skin to the dripping neck. She cuts the same circles around the ankles hanging towards the ground.

Her father watches her cut and tear the skin from the deer, listening to the skin crackle and snap as she pulls. “Wonderful, my girl! He’s a nice big one. Has a good rack on him too.” He puts a hand on the head, sitting on a stump a few feet away. “He will last us for the week. And don’t forget to clean out the skull for mounting.” He pats the antlers, adjusting the collapsing bale on his shoulder. “You’ve become quite the little huntress I’d hoped you would. But better than that, you’ll make a great wife one day.” He smiles from ear to ear. “Not but two months until your first Mounding.” With that, Luke walks to the burn pit to dispose of the hay.

Her father’s stinging words, coupled with the fact that she didn’t kill what she meant to, pours a wash of sadness over her. To tackle and kill a hog, with only your hands and a knife, is one of the ways Luke would consider Peter a man. For her to do it, her father would have no choice but to look at her as more than a ‘good wife’. She wishes she had. He did say she is a good huntress, for what little it’s worth. Although, he did put ‘little’ in the phrase. That’s almost worse than good wife. She continues to skin the deer. Every movement becomes more aggressive. In the small amount of time it takes her to get all the skin off, she calms herself down. She cuts the meat, letting her mind wander back to that rose. Such an odd flower. What could have made it glow like it did? Such a strange glow it was, too.

Midday. It’s time to tell Peter about her discovery. It has been a struggle keeping it to herself the short time since last night, trying to convince herself she didn’t imagine it. Stopping at the pasture fence, she watches him brush the mares. Did he hit a huge growth spurt in the past three years, or has he always been this tall? Seeing him next to Hadley and Chess’ large frames, he stands a good foot taller than them both. Closing the gate behind her, she runs through the snow and tall weeds, holding her pale blue cotton dress in both hands. Her fox cloak billows behind her, slowing her pace.

Yelling across the pasture, she tries to stay on her feet, not used to holding up her skirts to run. “Peter! I have the strangest thing to tell you!” She breathes heavy, stumbling a bit.

Peter stops brushing, holding the small wooden rectangle in the air. “What is it, Sarah?” He puts a hand on Chess’ back, laughing at her huffing and pulling at her skirts.

Sarah stumbles a few more times. “It’s not funny!” She looks at him, a laugh bursting from behind her lips.

Getting to him, she stops, looking him over. The horses aren’t the only ones he’s much taller than.

Peter looks at her over Chess’ back, eyes the lowest visible part of her, and his grin spreads into a smile. “What’s this strange thing you need to tell me?” He goes back to brushing Chess.

Sarah cranes her neck to see over Chess’ back. “I prefer pants when I can help it, but mother won’t let me anymore.” She flops a hand in the air. “But that’s a strange thing for another time.” She laughs through deep breaths and watches Peter grin back at her. “But seriously, I found something in the woods last night.” She huffs out her words, looking around.

Neither Father nor Umula is within spying distance. Good. She takes Peter’s hand. Pulling him along, she tries to run to the barn.

They climb the ladder in the middle of the barn and sit in the loft. Sarah stacks hay, hiding the two of them.

Peter peeks around the stacks, looking for Luke or Gloria. With no sign of them, he moves back behind the stacks, sitting down against the wall with his legs outstretched.

Turning to face Sarah, he scoots until his left shoulder rests against the barn wall, leaning onto his elbow with a shrug. “Well, what is so important?” He scoots some more, bending his right leg, and tucks his left foot under it to get more comfortable.

Sarah sits cross-legged next to the hay, smiling at him, and stares into his blue eyes. “It was a rose.” She puts her hands on his left knee.

Peter stares at her hands until she pulls them back to her lap and clears his throat. “Only a rose? Well, that’s nothing special.” He shrugs his lips, picking at his cuticles.

Sarah bites her lower lip, putting out her hands. “You don’t understand yet.” She smiles, shaking her head. “This one glowed! It actually glowed!” She plays with a piece of straw and studies his face as he stares at the barn floor.

Peter tilts his head towards her and arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean it glowed?”

Sarah squeals. Yes! She has his full attention. She moves closer to him, sitting on her knees. “I mean, it was as bright as the sun.” She moves her hands through the air, squinting, and crinkles her nose. “I had to squint a bit just to focus on it.” Without warning, she pops up.

Leaning in close, she gets right in his face. On instinct, Peter leans back. He doesn’t make eye contact. Clearing his throat, he glances at her. Clearing his throat again, he shifts himself into a more comfortable position, leaning more onto the hay behind him.

Sarah leans back, remaining upright on her knees. “The only problem is, I touched it, and it died.” She sits back on her legs with her hands in her lap, furrowing her eyebrows, and looks at the floor. “All I did was—”

Peter lets his feet slide forward. He leans toward her with his hands on his knees. “Wait.” He holds up a hand. “You just touched it? And it died?” Dropping his hand, he lets it slap his leg.

Sarah nods, looking at Peter’s freckles, then makes eye contact. “Yea, and it wilted instantly.” She throws a piece of straw off the loft. “Turned to ash, actually.” She watches the straw float down onto the hay-covered dirt floor.

Peter looks at the loft floor, studying the grain. “I don’t believe you.” He shakes his head. “You’re eighteen now. Don’t you think it’s time you stop believing in T’lucco tales and focus on other things. Perhaps, maybe, something like The Mounding? It’s only a couple months away. Less than that now.” Peter shrugs, looking at Sarah in spurts.

Taking a piece of hay from the stack behind him, he scoots to loft’s edge. He drops his muddy boots over, swinging them, and leans back on his bare hands. The Mounding is a big deal. He’ll have his chance to ask a very important question. This here, though, this has him wondering how together Sarah is. Is this a game to try and get out of the ceremony? Is she trying to seem mental?

Sarah moves away, crossing her legs, and looks at Peter sitting silent. What could he be thinking? She doesn’t speak either, letting a silence settle between them. He’s probably thinking she’s mental. She doesn’t care. She knows what she saw, and as for The Mounding, to Heremm with that. She shivers, looking over at Peter’s bare forearms. As cold as it is outside, Sarah can’t help but stare at his rolled-up sleeves. He isn’t wearing a cloak either. How can he be out here like that? She pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Peter clears his throat, cutting into the silence.

Sarah looks at her thumbs, picking at her cuticles. “I know it sounds like one of my T’lucco tales, but you have to believe me.” She looks up at him.

Peter turns, meeting her big green kitten eyes. No matter how much he tries to fight it, he can never resist them. He watches her thick, black curly hair surround her small tanned face. She tilts her head, and her braid falls, flooding her shoulder. The light breeze brings with it the scent of lilac. He breathes her in as best he can.

Sarah moves a bit closer to him, eyes never wavering. “Peter, please?” She tucks her feet under her butt, wrapping her arms around herself.