“Mother. I’m scared.”
“It’ll be all right, love. It’s just a little storm.”
“You really shouldn’t promise that to her.”
“She’s too young! Don’t worry, dear. It’ll be over soon…”
“Gods. The rain is really coming down…”
“Mother…”
“Why don’t I tell you a story while we wait for the storm to stop?”
“O-Okay.”
“All right. There was once a brave girl who was in a storm just like this one…”
There was a rumble of thunder, a crack, and the story ended as soon as it finished. She considered that to be her first memory, but she didn’t know of what or with whom.
…
Honestly, Tara didn’t even know what she was. She had characteristics associated with omyn, but she did one thing no omyn could—dream, albeit rarely and always in the same place, with full recollection of what happened therein. One was always assumed to be human unless otherwise proven—the only real way to tell if someone else was an omyn was to trust their word or sleep next to them, after all, and the latter only worked for humans—or unless they had enough omynic blood to be incredibly unlucky if they weren’t omyn.
The problem there was that they didn’t know where Tara came from, just that—by appearance—she seemed to be some mix of Dakari and first island blood. Rene once suggested that one of her parents was from a first island immigrant community, while the other’s family had been in Dakari from the start. It made sense.
She never wanted to seem strange by some odd fear she might be loved less, even though she knew that Adelinde and Rene would never abandon her. She didn’t entirely know where the concern came from—if it was born before or after they told her the story of how she became their child, or if it was some innate fear all adopted children had. Tara never outright confessed to the feeling, but she knew her family understood it to some extent—Adelinde and Rene did, at least.
A strong part of this was feeling abnormal. Based on what she heard about omyn, Tara fully believed by the time she was ten that she must be human; she was still fairly typical at the time, save some mental capacities that could be explained as talent or luck, so she didn’t have a reason to question it..
That belief…did not last very long.
Tara sat at the kitchen table one evening—she forgot where Adelinde and Matteo were at the time, but Rene was cooking dinner. Tara herself did schoolwork, having finished everything required of her before her teens and Adelinde managing to convince whoever was in charge of it to let her do the work at home—with Adelinde or Rene’s instruction when needed, of course. Being able to maintain her distance and not talk with strangers was a large motivator for her.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Rene glanced back at her once she lit the stove and put a pot over the flame so its contents boiled.
“How’s your work doing?” she asked kindly.
“Almost done for today,” Tara replied. She stared at one line in particular, frowning a bit—she both knew it and she didn’t, which was her entire experience with school. “I’m just…stuck on this one question.”
“Actually having the book in front of you wouldn’t hurt,” Rene pointed out. “Why don’t you go ahead and grab it, then I can help if you’re still having trouble?”
Tara nodded, getting up to do as she was asked. One of the most vivid parts of the memory was her putting down her pencil, wanting it to stay right where she left it. A moment later, she went to get the history book from the little office, then sat it on the table as soon as she returned to the kitchen.
Rene stirred whatever she had in the pot again, then walked over as Tara skimmed through the book to find the right section.
“What’s the question?”
“The year Dakari’s ruling system changed from complete monarchy to the current council system. I…don’t see it anywhere?”
“It should be in there—if not, Adelinde will be able to tell you when she gets home. Let me see.”
Tara moved the book a bit more in Rene’s direction, and watched as her mother leafed through the pages herself.
“I think I found it,” she said after a minute. “Do you know if I can underline in these?”
“There are a few scribbles from when Adelinde used it, so if nothing else you wouldn’t be the first.”
“All right. Worst case scenario, I might just end up helping Matteo out with his homework later.”
Rene moved her hand to pick up the pencil, and at the time Tara didn’t understand why it stayed firmly on the table—she wondered if Rene happened to be pretending it didn’t lift up.
And then Rene frowned. That look was one of the things Tara feared—what made it worse was that Rene herself almost seemed scared as well.
Very carefully, Rene glanced at Tara.
“You’re not in trouble”—the assurance didn’t work, suffice to say—“but…humor me. Can you imagine the pencil moving?”
Tara was scared, mostly convinced this would be the day they decided she was strange, but still did what she was asked to. Rene was then able to pick up the pencil without issue; her frown just deepened, and she made an attempt at a reassuring smile that failed mostly because she had to take a breath before it.
“Can you do whatever you did with the pencil again, please?” Rene asked. “I want to confirm something.”
Tara obeyed, imagining the pencil sitting on the table again. The pencil freed itself from Rene’s grasp and went back to the table; Tara undid it as instructed earlier in time for Rene to lift it up again.
“I guess that solves that question,” Rene murmured. Louder and intended to be heard, she said, “Don’t worry about what you just did—you bound the pencil to the table for a bit, is all. Only very lucky omyn can do that, so…please don’t tell any strangers. It can get you in trouble.”
She nodded in response, and Rene gave her a light pat on the head before underlining the answer to Tara’s problem. Rene returned to the stove to continue making dinner.
That day just confirmed her anxieties were well-placed. She wasn’t an omyn because she could dream—but she wasn’t human because she could bind things.
So what was she, if she was neither omyn nor human? That bothered her more than any question before or since.