We park the wagon right outside the door so we can unload it. Rain pitter-patters over the leaf covering, and I drip all over the entrance as Kivuli hammers a wooden stake into the ground with her fist. With a rope, she secures the wagon.
Her silver hair bounces as wind ruffles through everything, and when she’s satisfied the wagon won’t roll away, she remains outside in the storm and stares at me.
I can’t hold her intense gaze, so I glance down at the scorch marks on the floor, wondering how I can get rid of them.
“Did you receive any quests?” she asks gruffly.
“No,” I whisper. “All it said was I’m mayor now.”
"Did your epithet change?" She steps inside the cottage and runs her shadowy hands through her hair, and the silver curls relax, completely dry.
Again, I shake my head. It still says N/A. What even is an epithet? But when I think about it, another list of words appears in my head:
> [Job: Mayor of Blossom Water] [Level 1]
>
> [Town Name: Blossom Water]
> --
>
> [Condition: Decrepit]
>
>
> [Funds: 0]
>
>
> --
>
> [Structures: Market, Wood Shop, Inn, Tavern, Harbor]
>
> [Residents: 4]
>
> [Guests: 19]
Looks like I get more information on the town, and I’m not sure how to feel about that, but before I can try to explain it to Kivuli, the shadow lizard appears again. What did she call it? Pinto? It’s small and sitting on her shoulder like it’s whispering in her ear.
What are you telling her, you creepy little thing?
She listens without looking away. Then she rubs her face as the lizard crawls up the back of her head and vanishes within her hair. “It’s not your fault,” she says finally, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the lizard, but it looks like she wants to say more. Instead, she bites her thumbnail and turns away, leaving the door open so that the storm billows into the cottage while she hurries upstairs.
At least she's not yelling at me. I rub my arms and try to steady my breathing. Kivuli looked more hurt than angry. Maybe even frightened. Maybe she'd just wanted me gone, and all I've managed to do was make things worse for her. She's probably wishing she'd never found me in the snowy woods. Mayor.
I'm not sure what to do now. Do I leave the chair and groceries here and take the wagon back to Bluebell? But Kivuli told me to get dry... fuck. I hate this. I hate this so much. I don't know what to do. I can’t figure her out, and I don’t know if I should hold my breath and wait, drop to my knees and plead, or run away. Anxiety tangles like a ball of yarn, growing bigger and bigger in my chest, and all I want to do is force my arm down my throat, grab a loose thread, and pull until the whole thing comes apart.
But that won’t help. What I need to do is ask Kivuli questions. She has to explain all this shit to me, but I don't want to keep bothering her. I just... Why'd I even come back? Why didn't I hop on that carriage and leave?
You've no idea the consequences of what you've done. That's what Kivuli had said. But how could I know? How could I have possibly known? And it's not my fault anyway. It’s not like I did this on purpose!
I bite my forearm hard, muffling my cry of frustration. That helps a little. I take the straw hat and the shoes near Squishy to dry, making sure to place them at a safe distance so they don’t ignite like my panties did last night. Squishy is fast asleep, eyes flattened, but the orange glow is warm and comforting. I so badly want to squish its cheeks, but waking it up would be a mortal sin, so I leave it be.
Taking great care with the rope, I release the chair from the wagon and position it by the desk. Then I carry the remains of the old chair back to the wagon, securing them into place for the journey back into town. My town.
Does it count as ‘my town’ if I'm just the mayor? Or is the possession the other way around? Does the town own me now?
Kivuli returns while I’m inspecting the sack of groceries and wondering if it’ll hurt my back trying to lift it off the wagon. She hands me clean clothes. Nicer ones this time. It’s not just an oversized gown; there’s a pastel-green shirt and a pair of gray trousers, and I gawk at them for a while before Kivuli shakes them in front of me and orders me to take them.
Why are you giving me this? I want to ask. Aren’t you mad at me? I murmur a thank you, but she turns away to unpack the groceries. She lifts the sack easily, and I can’t help but feel a little jealous.
It takes me longer than I'm proud of to shimmy out of the soaked gown, struggling to peel it off my damp skin. My arms burn with exertion by the time I take it off. I hate how pathetically out of shape I am.
Kivuli doesn't say anything. She keeps her back to me, and I let the gown slip to the floor and quickly pull the new clothes on. The sleeves and legs are too long, and I have to roll everything up, but I think it's a rather cute combination. They're loose enough to hide my sickly form, and there's a scent that makes me curious.
Back home, all my clothes smelled like detergent or the rotting wood in the back of my closet or the musk of old sweat. These clothes smell like summertime. Like when spring starts to really heat up and all the trees have turned green, and school lets out. There's an extra layer of buoyant heat to the wind. It's a tiny bit metallic, a tiny bit sweet. But you can feel it in your bones that summer is here.
I love this smell. It's nostalgia intertwined with promise.
I button the shirt and tuck the flower petal into the breast pocket. The trousers feel almost odd to slip into. Back home they wouldn't be weird, but I don't think I saw any woman wearing pants in town. Only dresses or skirts or... I guess Mia was the only one wearing overalls. Maybe these trousers belonged to Rhinestone. Would I get strange looks for wearing pants? I can’t tell with Kivuli. She sent me into town without shoes and now this.
At least it’s comfy, and even though I don't have underwear, I like it a lot. There are straps I can pull to tighten the waistline and once I tuck the green shirt into the pants, everything fits just fine.
But this is too nice. I never owned a single thing as nice as these clothes.
"Thank you," I tell her again, fighting the urge to ask her why. Does this mean she's not mad at me? You don't give clothes to people you hate, right? Or is she just being nice because I'm the mayor...
Kivuli only glances at the shoes her mom gave me. Her eyebrow twitches. "I'll make us some lunch. And then we have much to discuss." Her tone reveals nothing. Neither does her face. She takes the sack upstairs, and I sit at the table, my hands folded, my mind frantic with worry and anxiety.
Okay, but she's making me food now? She gave me clothes and she's making me food. Nobody does that for someone they hate. If she wanted to kick me out, she would've done so already.
She wouldn't have invited me back inside.
But try convincing my brain of that.
I groan as I rest my forehead on my hands. Mayor. Mayor. Mayor.
What the hell does that even mean? Back home, nobody even knew who the mayor was. Who cared? Maybe those super pretty kids who were always going on about politics and what senator was fighting for what, but to me, it all seemed like they sucked anyway. Politicians only cared about popularity and stuffing their pockets, and it was all a toxic mess, and I had enough bullshit to deal with.
But now I'm one of those shitty politicians.
Taking a deep breath, I try to relax. After all, I'm sitting on the fancy chair. What did Bluebell call it? The 'Evening Delight'? I'll have to ask him again. The cushion hugs my bottom; the ache from climbing uphill fades away. I touch my breast pocket, and I'm surprised when my lips curl into a small smile when I feel the flower petal through the cloth.
You don't want me, she'd said, holding my hands, her nose touching mine. Her eyes had been so soft and sweet, and I swear I could've fit all the stars in the night sky in them if I'd wanted to. Her lips... I'd glanced at her lips, hadn't I? I'd wanted to kiss her.
I can picture her rushing away, vanishing between the trees as the rain thickened, and I imagine she looked back. I hope she looked back. I clench my teeth.
Who am I kidding? Why would she want to hang out with someone like me? Rotten and hideous and useless. She probably just helped me out because I'm the mayor. That's it. Don't read too deep into it. She just wants something from me. A favor.
But why? I turn my head and stare at Squishy. Its mouth squiggles as it snores, and the Ember Slime's mind surfaces between my racing thoughts. A gentle calm expands through my self-pity. The world is warm and dry and cozy.
No! I bolt right up with shock, blinking frantically. My heart's racing. I'd almost said yes. I'd almost transformed again while sitting on the chair and resting my head on the table. I could've burned it all down!
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Swallowing hard, I rub my eyes. Was I about to doze off while thinking about changing? Is that... could I accidentally transform in my sleep?
I don't know how any of this works! I press my hand to my chest, my heart pounding against the flower petal. It's pouring again, and the steady drumming of the rain against the roof is amniotic, and I try to relax in the fancy chair. I try to think.
It's strange how the Ember Slime's mind is just there in the back of my mind. A soft bubble of warmth. Floating around is the Arctic Squirrel. It wants to tap into my anxiety and fear. It wants to run loose and wild. Are they always going to be a part of me now?
Interestingly enough, there's no sign of the Snowstream Bear. I try to picture it. I imagine myself growing larger and larger, white fur puffing out of my skin as I grow claws and teeth, and I’m pretty sure Bluebell wouldn’t even fit in the cottage. The notification of
Did I just learn something about my strange power? That's good, right? I'm slowly figuring things out. I think about my stats, my leveling, and then I think about this whole Job thing, trying to focus on 'Mayor of Blossom Water' and the information it showed me before, but my concentration falls apart when a delicious fragrance wafts into the room. It's something warm and savory, and it almost smells like pizza. My mouth starts to water, and I hear Kivuli coming down the steps.
She appears, carrying a large metal pot by the handles. Four shadow arms stick out of her sides holding bowls and silverware, two metallic cups, and a plateful of steaming hot bread.
"Whoa..." I whisper, unable to help staring. She looks like a goddess.
Kivuli sets everything down on the table. "Would've been nice to have two chairs."
I blush and pull lightly on my hair. A few strands come away, but at least my hair is drying. Besides, even if I hadn't burnt the first chair, she still would've only had one, but you don't criticize someone else's criticism after you've burnt down their chair and you're staying in their home for free.
Her shadow arms move just like real arms. They're pitch black but kind of transparent, reminding me of Rhinestone's appearance. Since she’s wearing her shadow bodysuit anyway, the arms look completely natural on her. The only difference is the hands. Her real hands are brown.
All four arms melt into Kivuli's body before descending toward the floor. Within a second, she lowers herself into a shadowy chair.
I feel like I have to say something, but I don't know what, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm sorry."
“No,” she says firmly. “I should be apologizing to you. I reacted out of fear and assumed the worst. I should not have done that.” She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you for picking up the groceries and getting a replacement chair from Bluebell.”
“No problem,” I manage to say, not sure at all how to feel. Is this meal her way of apologizing for snapping at me?
She lifts the lid off the pot. Whatever's inside smells so good that my eyes start to water. It's a thick red stew, and I can see chunks of shiny red tomatoes. There are lentils and sliced mushrooms and floating peppers and onions... the large loaf of bread smells divine too. My stomach growls every time I inhale. How did Kivuli make all this in the few minutes she was upstairs?
Saliva gushes beneath my tongue. I'm hungry. Actually hungry. I don't think I've felt hunger like this since... well not since Jia got sick. And nobody's made me a home-cooked meal since... yeah.
"Why?" I whisper accidentally.
Kivuli stops stirring the stew. "What?"
Why aren't you yelling at me?
My nose runs. I bite my bottom lip, trying to keep it from wobbling as I stare into Kivuli's silvery eyes. Heat flashes across my face. I can feel my ears turning red, and I shake my head, wanting to yank out all the hair I have left. "I don't... I... Why are you feeding me? Didn't I mess things up for you? I thought you were mad at me. And you gave me... this." I tug on the shirt, pulling it slightly out of the pants. Anger shudders up my spine. It's too nice for me. I know it's too nice for me. I try to say more, but the lump in my throat is too big, and I can barely breathe and-
Kivuli picks up one of the empty bowls and scoops a generous helping of stew into it. She sets it down in front of me and hands me a spoon. Then she pours herself a bowl, rips the bread into large pieces, and places them on a plate between us. "Pray with me," she says when she finally speaks.
"I..."
She holds out her hand. Her shadows peel back from her wrist, as though she were folding up her sleeve. There's a jagged scar running down the length of her forearm. "I haven't prayed with someone else in a long time. It helps."
I get the feeling she’s showing me something. Like vulnerability or just... I don’t know. I wipe my hand on my thigh, just in case it's damp with sweat or tears, and I place my hand on her weathered palm. My slender fingers feel fragile in her strong grip, and I ignore the
"I don't really know how to pray," I whisper. I'd tried praying many times before. For myself. Wishing I could be stronger. Wishing I wasn't so afraid all the time. For mom. Asking God to make her be nice to me. To stop yelling at me so much. And for Jia to get better. None of them ever came true, so I gave up trying. "It's never really worked for me."
"It's not supposed to do anything," she says without opening her eyes. She speaks in a soft, low voice that sounds almost hypnotic like she’s leading a guided meditation class. "You don't have to do anything. Some folks pray to the goddess and thank her. Some pray to the new god across the sea and beg him for riches. Some pray to themselves. All that matters is taking a moment of quiet and being grateful."
I adjust my grip slightly and try to roll my shoulders back. I bow my head, focusing on the warmth of Kivuli's hand. My thoughts go to the pink woman and her hopeful smile and her kids, alone in town. I hope they're okay. I think about Isabelle and how everyone was so kind to me. Bluebell and Kivuli's mom. Kivuli herself gave me clothes and now food. Despite this whole mayor thing. Despite my appearance. Despite how sickly and grotesque I must seem. A sob rises to my throat but doesn’t make it past my lips. Maybe I’m not as horrible as I think.
Maybe things like that didn't even matter. Maybe I'm the only one who assumes the worst of me. All the ugliness and wretchedness, the hurt and aching, maybe I'm the only one so consumed and obsessed with my appearance and flaws that I just assume everyone else is thinking the same thing. Maybe the only one who can't stand me... is me.
Slowly, my trembling quiets. My thoughts clear as my breathing steadies and my lungs fill with the delicious aroma of food. I think about Kivuli whose hands feel so strong. Whose presence is... I want to say comforting even if she does look so grouchy. And to be honest, I didn't think she was the type to say grace before a meal. I think I like her a lot.
After another minute or so, Kivuli squeezes my hand. It's such a tender gesture, it catches me completely by surprise, but she lets go. When I open my eyes, she's frowning at her bowl. "Now we eat," she says.
Wishing I could still hold her hand for a while more, I watch her bring the spoon to her lips and slurp. Then I stare at my own meal, struggling to remember the last hot meal I had that wasn't microwaved.
I try a tiny bit of stew first. It tastes even more delicious than it smells, and I want to cry out in joy. I want to shout. I want to have this every day for the rest of my life. The tomato is rich and bursting with flavor, nothing at all like the bland supermarket stuff I'd get in cans. The lentils are tender and perfect and practically dissolve on my tongue. After a second spoonful, I can't stop myself, and I’m chewing on the mushrooms and the peppers, my face turning red as Kivuli grabs one of the cups and sets it beside me.
I down the water gratefully, my tongue feels like it’s on fire, but I don’t stop eating. I’m eating. The tears start again. I lift the bowl and slurp straight from it, and Kivuli doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t comment on my weight or tell me to slow down. She doesn’t make a biting remark. She doesn’t even tease me.
She doesn’t say anything until I set the bowl down, empty. Warmth spreads through my insides, and she asks, “Do you want more? There’s plenty.”
"Yes, please,” I say quietly, sniffling. I can’t tell if it’s from the crying or from how spicy it is, but I’m trying my damnest to ignore the voice in the back of my head telling me to stop eating. That I’m intruding. That I shouldn’t be taking someone else’s food.
She ladles me another helping and this time I eat the bread too. I tear it apart. The outside is crunchy and brown. The inside is white and fluffy and perfect. I try dipping it in the stew first.
"Oh my god," I whisper after I swallow. The bread makes it all just whole in my mouth. Kivuli remains stoic as she eats.
Wiping tears away, I can't help myself. I stuff a chunk of bread in my mouth before following it up with a spoonful of stew. A slice of mushroom slips out between my lips, and this at least earns me a side-eye from Kivuli. She shakes her head and continues eating like a civilized person.
"Sorry," I say, tears running down my cheeks. But this time it's out of gratitude and being overwhelmed by how good the food is. I’m not crying cause I’m sad or upset or angry. I’m crying because I’m... I’m happy that I’m here, eating this food. And a question that's been on my mind for a while bubbles up to the surface, and if I don't ask her now, something tells me I never will. "Can I still be your apprentice?"
She sets her spoon down. "How? You've already been assigned a job."
“Does that matter?” I ask, almost wiping my lips with my sleeve before realizing I'm not eating alone in my bedroom while binging some tv show. Also, this shirt is too nice for that. I lick my lips instead. "Do I really have to do this mayor thing? It's not like I want it."
"Samiya," she says slowly, turning in her shadow chair to face me with a look of concern. “It’s not that simple. This job has been assigned to you.”
I set my bread down, blinking at her. “I had a job back in my world. I worked at a boba tea shop and...”
She makes a face like what the hell is boba tea?
“I served drinks,” I tell her quickly. “But if I wanted to quit, I could just walk away. The only problem would be paying for bills and stuff until I got something else.”
Kivuli takes a deep breath. “When it's assigned by a spirit, you can’t just leave. You have to either complete the job, or circumstances make the job nonviable, or you die.”
Die? You had to die to quit your job? I’m horrified for a few moments until I realize it’s basically how things were back home for most people. “How does that make any sense at all?”
“Normally, you would choose your job,” she says. “You could decide you want to be a schoolteacher or a grocer or an apprentice Shaman. And in such cases, your quests would line up, and you could progress at your own pace.”
I stare at her. “So, are you a Shaman?”
She nods solemnly. “Some will call me a witch, even though they know I’m not. But remember what I said about jealousy? What we do is ward off Evil Spirits and such. As my apprentice, you would’ve assisted me, and I would’ve trained you to be a Shaman in your own right.”
She protects people. I swallow hard, my thoughts running wild. She’d come home bleeding last night. Being a Shaman didn’t seem easy at all, but I want to help her. I want to be a Shaman too. I think about the voice I heard in the apartment, that drew me into Jia’s room. Had that been an Evil Spirit?
Kivuli places the lid back on the pot. “Quests are living things,” she says. “They respond to our thoughts and to the needs and wants of all beings around us. The Goddess guides our way. Since you are Mayor, as assigned by a spirit, you wouldn’t receive the same quests as a Shaman.”
“So you’re saying I can’t help you?”
She doesn’t respond. I can’t tell if she’s happy about that or not. Her face remains unchanged, her jaw set. But then I realize something.
“Isn’t being mayor kind of like being everyone’s apprentice?” That sounded way better in my head. ‘Assistant’ might be the better word, but before I can try to clarify, Kivuli’s eyebrows go up. The ghost of a smile turns the corners of her lips. She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she stands. Her shadow chair folds back into her body, and she picks up the half-emptied pot of stew. “You are a very strange girl who fell out of the sky, Samiya. Help me clean up. I’ll show you the kitchen and your room.”
Another notification appears in my head:
[Quest Available: The Shaman’s Apprentice]
[Accept?]
Kivuli pauses. “Did you just receive a message too?”
I nod slowly.
“If you’d like to.” She takes a deep breath. Like she’s waiting for me to decide.
Of course, I'd like to. My heart skips a beat as I think [Accept]. And it's like something inside me settles. My thoughts clear, and then Kivuli shakes her head like she couldn't believe I'd choose to be here.
[Quest Instated: The Shaman’s Apprentice]
“Let’s go,” she says, but there’s a small smile on her face.
As I stack the bowls, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m finally home.