Cold mornings weren’t exactly uncommon in Visaya - the village was a short walk from the treeline and the mountains to its north and east were laden with snow caps even in summer. This one however bit Aya particularly hard, the air wrapping around her limbs like angry snakes. Not that she knew what snakes felt like, having never seen on. But she could imagine the long twisting creatures from her mother’s stories. The fact her gloves were badly in need of mending didn’t help matters much. The wool had fallen victim to the rough handle of the broom she used to brush the porch planks.

Despite the cold, however, she would’ve loved to roll up her sleeves as she sweated through her chores. But daylight might expose the thin lines that criss-crossed her fingers and up her arms. Scars were not a particularly uncommon sight in Visaya, especially among the mill-workers but their scars didn’t whisper to them. When she had first told her parents about it her parents had dismissed it as the idle imagining of a child. As she grew older, the scars grew in number and length, eventually snaking their way up her elbows, and people started to stare openly.

At first her parents took her to the doctor, an old man who prescribed potions and poultices, to soak her arms in wine and salt water and wrap them in bandages. Nothing stopped or slowed their growth, nor did they address the whispers Aya heard. The stares had ceased when she started wearing long sleeves, but her father had insisted to take her to the priest. The prescription of fasting, prayer, and the application of the Four Constituents was not aided by the equally similar age of the priest to the doctor.

She had learnt that it was probably best to simply shut up about it. Eventually, her smiles and nods seemed enough to push away any concern. She didn’t understand what they had to be suspicious about -they were just scars and the whispers proved to be annoying at worst, non-noticeable at best. The dreams on the other hand…

The dreams were roughly as coherent as the whispers that occupied her waking hours but far more disruptive. At least once a month she would wake up clutching her blankets, her bedclothes clinging to her sweat-drenched body. After images of red and black flashed across her eyes while screams echoed in her ears. She would go outside as quietly as she could and sit in the chill of the night, trembling as her arms ached. The scars had felt more like living things then, painful, shifting, and hungry somehow.

Shyana had suggested that she might’ve been blessed by the Lost Ones, but this felt more like a curse. She wondered just where her friend had gotten to as she sent another puff of dirt shooting off the porch. Probably messing about with the Gyles she liked so much. She ceased brushing as she considered the anger that had flared at the consideration. Shyana was her only friend, but was a reaction like that really warranted? She should be happy for her friend, not be… jealous? Was she jealous?

Her introspection was interrupted by her mother calling her into the house. A set of vegetables,a dressed and skinned rabbit, and a set of knives lay spread out on a table.

“There you are Aya,” she said, her accent diluted by years of living north, still lopped off the edge of her words. She raised a pot over their fire pit, grunting with the effort as she hoisted the black iron.

Aya approached the table in silence, glancing over the rough wood and various ingredients. Her mother came up behind her as she laid a hand on one of the many knives, all spotless.

“Now remember what I taught you about the blade?”

“It should serve as an extension of the hand,” she responded as she carefully picked one up. While it might seem relatively simple in its construction, the quality of the steel was well beyond what the village blacksmith could produce. It was actually over twenty years old, brought from a city far to the south.

Aya took one up as her mother slide to her side, hesitating as she looked over the ingredients. No matter how many times she did it, she always felt unsure of where to start.

“The carrots,” her mother said as if reading her mind, as she pulled an onion toward her and began dissembling it.

Aya did as instructed, slitting the vegetable apart and chopping them into chunks in preparation for stewing. To an observing villager, her knifework would’ve been quick and precise, clearly someone practised, with a grace that hinted at a quality of performance. Looking past her, however, would’ve explained the hint quite well - her mother’s hands seemed to unfold the ingredients before her like paper. Aya’s skills were commendable, impressive even, but her mother’s handiwork was a thing of beauty.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

They worked in mostly silence as was their way, save for the barest hum of her mother as she moved her shoulders almost without realizing it. By the time Aya had finished with the carrots, the rabbit had already been taken and was in the process of being processed on the table top. As she began to skin the potatoes, the desire to ask her mother to tell a story began to swell. Before she could turn and ask, her mother spoke as she separated the legs from the hips.

“Did I ever tell you about the time your grandmother caught and skinned a red-back marsh serpent on her sixteenth birthday?”

Aya smiled as she turned back to attack the potato pile with renewed vigour.

“The youngest dancer in her clade - but talented yes, talented beyond talented. She could’ve had her pick of schools with her skills, but that would not do for mother. She climbed into her ipfthen, her stage and her kitchen. Now red-backs, oh you can’t get anything worse out of the lagoon marshes.”

The knife slid across the meat, parting fat and muscle as easily as it cut meat from bone.

“Big, strong, with a set of scales that a spear will bounce right off of,” she continued, “but their bite’s the worst. If it gets its fangs in you, your whole body puffs up, crimson as a berry. Normally, they live in the depth of the trees at the center of the marsh. Mother got one from your grand-uncle, and sliced it from jaw to tail as it hissed at her.”

Chop, chop, chop. Her mother’s hand waved over the meat, making it almost vanish into the pot. The smell of melting fat began to fill the kitchen as the sounds of sizzling began to echo from the pot.

“The Sechen Ipthal, the judges for the schools, they nearly shrieked from fright as she carved the serpent in front of them. Mother just laughed and went straight to cooking, quick as that. I still remember the smell of spices against the sea breeze. Other customers started to clamour at the gate - they could smell it too.”

“You were there mama? I thought you said granmama was young?”

“Old enough to have a child, but young enough to get in trouble for it,” her mother laughed, “though our family shut their mouths after all three judges gave her a glowing review, both for her performance and her food.”

“And the moral of story is?” asked Aya as she circled her mother to scoop the meat from the kettle.

“Ach, you’re too smart, liscpen,” said her mother as she began to devastate the remaining potatoes, “you make telling stories no fun.”

“Sorry mama,” Aya said as she removed the last few browned bits of rabbit.

There was a moment of silences as Aya placed the bowl of rabbit onto the counter and started added the onions to the pot.

“I mean it, Aya. You’re too smart. Too smart for this place.”

“This again?” Aya laughed as she began to section bread.

“Oh please, Aya. I know my own daughter,” her mother said as she finished the potatoes and leaned against the counter, “You should go to Karkos. You’re clever, willing to listen, and learn quick - you’d be appreciated there.”

“Not here?”

“Appreciated more there.”

Aya touched her arms, the discomfort of this particular conversation a familiar sensation. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to go - Karkos sounded a fascinating place from her mother’s tales, and she did want to meet her grandmother. But at the same time, there was a reluctance. Karkos, though a port city of all peoples, was a complete unknown for her. She had friends here, she knew the hills and forests, but hadn’t so much as seen a beach before.

“I half-considered asking your father to take a trip out there in the fall but…” she shook her head at the thought “father might not have an issue, but mother…”

“The onions, mama,” Aya prompted gently.

“Oh, of course,” her mother said as she slid the rest of them into the pot. After she had finished stirring them about, she turned and pulled her daughter into a hug, planting a kiss on her forehead.

“Whatever you do, you’ll do fine, Aya.”

For a moment, the whispers faded, and Aya felt wonderfully safe. She wanted to stay like this for a long time, but the onions were beginning to brown, and burnt onions would spoil the whole stew. She disentangled her mother’s arms and spun around her to push the onions around. Her mother began to hum again as she cleaned and sharpened the knives before placing them back on the walls.

“You should go and see your grandmother though,” she said as she finished putting the flensing blade away, “otherwise I’m afraid her letters will become even more agitated.”

Aya gave a little smile as she imagined the woman that her own mother spoke so much of. In her mind’s eye, she was a black haired warrior, as competent with a sword as a knife. Judging from how Karkos was described, those were often the same thing on its streets. She could almost see those too, all old cobbles and sandy beaches, lanterns swaying over canals in the sea breeze.

“I’d think I’d like that,” she said as she placed the carrots into the glistening onions.

“I think you would. It’s a noisy city, but there more than enough quiet corners for those who look for them,” her mother said as she leaned over the pot, sniffing the contents.

Another little smile crept across Aya’s lips - her mother did know her, sometimes more than Aya would like to admit. She leaned back on the counter as she yawned, tapping her hand with knife. Her mother made a little sound as she swatted her hand gently.

“Watch your hands little lady. A knife-point in your direction’s a challenge in Karkos.”