0.30

“Oh, Calla! For a moment, I almost believed we were talking about real evils.”

Creda chuckled nervously, her hands clasping her knees. “Of course, they’re just concepts. Vices! What else could they be?” She let out a shaky breath, laughing at her own unease. “But the way you tell it, Calla, it makes them feel so… alive.”

Calla’s face darkened. The first hint of ignorance in Creda’s words made her want to correct the girl immediately. She opened her mouth but thought better of it. Insistence often bred resistance, especially in someone as young as Creda. Calla settled back into silence. The truth, she reasoned, would reach Creda eventually.

Meanwhile, Creda wrestled with the unease gnawing at her. Why did hearing about vices as evils make her so tense? Surely it was just Calla’s storytelling, vivid and enthralling. She dismissed the feeling as she always did and let the silence between them stretch. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the chill lingered in the air.

Calla pulled her beaver-fur blanket tighter around her shoulders, her gaze lost in the shadows on the walls. She seemed to be searching for something within them. Creda, by contrast, found warmth in Calla’s presence.

As a child, she had always adored the old woman’s stories. Back then, she hadn’t understood much of what Calla said, but that hadn’t mattered. Children didn’t need meaning, only a gentle elder who had the time and patience to listen. Someone who could indulge their endless questions and rambling thoughts. Someone who guided without judging. Calla had always been that for Creda—and for every child in Tuscanvalle. It wasn’t just affection the children felt for her; it was reverence.

“Calla?” Creda hesitated, fiddling with the fraying hem of her tunic. “People say you’ve… struck a bargain with Death.” She chuckled at the absurdity of her own words. “Is that true? Why do they say that?”

Calla’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “When I was a child, I drowned in Lavalthon,” she said. “They thought I was dead. In fact, I was.” Her voice dropped with a matter-of-fact finality. “But just before midnight, I woke up. Like nothing had happened. I’m still here to this day. Perhaps that’s why they say it.”

Creda’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. She shifted to sit cross-legged, leaning forward. “But how? I don’t understand.”

Calla opened her mouth to answer.

“That’s the most important thing in your world right now, Creda?” A sharp voice interrupted.

Creda jumped, turning toward the doorway. There stood her mother, Bouma, her expression a thundercloud of anger. In one hand, she gripped the long stick she used to herd cattle. She stepped into the room, the small space suddenly suffocating under her bristling presence.

“Why did I send you here?” Bouma demanded.

Before Creda could answer, Bouma struck her with the stick. Creda gasped, flinching as the blow landed. Her hands came up in a frantic gesture of defense, though she didn’t truly try to stop her mother.

“Stop!” Calla’s voice wavered, panic threading through it. “Bouma, she’s just a child—please—”

Neither mother nor daughter heeded Calla’s words. Bouma’s anger filled the room, overwhelming any attempt at reason. After a few blows, her fury seemed to ebb.

Creda racked her mind, searching for an answer, then remembered. “To herd the kids back home,” she said, her voice hesitant, shaking her head in confusion. “I did that a long time ago.”

“Then why aren’t you back home yourself?” Bouma gritted her teeth, gripping the stick, its menacing tip pointing toward Creda.

“But, Mother, I was just talking with Calla.” Creda’s voice wavered as she cowered against the far wall. Though she had faced down strong men like Malok and Hiyan earlier that night, her mother’s blend of concern, anger, and authority left her feeling cornered. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me!” Bouma snapped. The stick in her hand swayed. Calla struggled to rise from her seat, leaning on her walking stick, desperate to intervene. But her frail body betrayed her urgency.

“Of course, it’s a crime,” Bouma continued, her voice rising. “You’re a woman—someone’s betrothed. It’s inappropriate for you to be out at this time of night.”

Creda’s face twisted in disbelief. “But Mother, this is Calla’s!”

“So what? Everyone comes to Calla’s at all hours! That’s all the more reason for you to act responsibly. Enough of this nonsense. From now on, you do exactly as I say. No questions. No arguments.” Bouma shook the stick for emphasis.

Tears welled up in Creda’s eyes. “That’s absurd. How can you—”

“Shut up!” Bouma lashed the stick toward her daughter again, her anger spilling over in a volatile mix of frustration and helplessness. “I said no more arguments! It’s time you learned the values of a perfect woman and wife!”

She raised the stick once more, but before the blow could land, Calla was on her feet. Though hunched with age, she stood firm, using her stick for support. She reached out, her frail hand grasping Bouma’s wrist. The touch was light yet commanding, enough to halt Bouma in her tracks.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Why are you hitting the child?” Calla’s voice was soft. Her presence seemed to calm Bouma, whose breathing slowed from frantic gasps to something steadier. “Is it a crime for an old woman to crave company, hmm? How long do you think I’ll be alive? Do you think I want to spend what’s left of my miserable life watching you hurt the poor child? God help me—was this why I was spared all those years ago?”

The stick slipped from Bouma’s hand, clattering to the floor. Her lips quivered, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. Her body swayed as though burdened by own emotions. Calla gently guided her to sit on the cot and then sat beside her, resting a comforting hand on her back.

“Calm down,” Calla murmured, her voice soft and soothing, like a lullaby. She stroked Bouma’s back in slow, deliberate motions. “Calm down, my dear. What’s the matter?”

Bouma sobbed into her hands, her cries low and guttural. Across the room, Creda leaned against the wall, sniffling and wiping her tears before they could spill over.

“Calm down,” Calla repeated, her voice as steady as her trembling hand. “What’s troubling you, my precious?”

Bouma was once a child too, enchanted by Calla's stories. She had adored her once, back when life was simpler and burdens were fewer. Now, under Calla’s soothing touch, that memory flickered to life, softening her resolve. “It’s not about you, Calla,” Bouma murmured, her voice trembling. “It’s just…” Her words trailed off as another wave of uncontrollable sobs overtook her.

“It’s about Samora!” Creda declared, her glare fixed on a distant point. Calla’s eyes darted between them, confusion clouding her face.

“She thinks everything went downhill because Samora didn’t stay to see her child die,” Creda added, her words tinged with bitterness.

Bouma’s head snapped up at Creda’s defiance. “What else could I think?” she shot back, her anger reigniting. Calla tightened her grip on Bouma’s hand, grounding her. Bouma turned to Calla, seeking validation. “Tell me, Calla. Why don’t these girls understand? A woman is supposed to do what she’s told! When will they learn the consequences of this defiance?” Her voice cracked with frustration before she turned back to Creda. “Do you know what kind of trouble your sister has caused us? She has eloped into that forbidden land! She has brought shame to us! Ruin to us! And now you’re following in her footsteps. I won’t let you. I won’t let you ruin yourself like she did.”

Calla pressed Bouma’s hand. “Elope? Forbidden? Who? What are you talking about?”

Creda rolled her eyes, her exasperation surfacing late but unmistakable. “Samora didn’t want her baby—my niece—or nephew—hunted like a monster by these stupid people, Calla,” she explained, her voice laced with anger. “So, she left Tuscanvalle.”

“Left Tuscanvalle?” Calla’s voice rose, incredulous. “But where would she go? Wasn’t she in labor? Poor soul!”

“She’s sailing across Lavalthon, to the other side,” Creda clarified. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her words grew bolder. “And Mother thinks she needs to control me to stop me from doing the something like that. But I say, if I were in Samora’s situation, I’d do exactly what she did. Why would I offer my child—the one I carried for months, enduring every hardship these people threw at me—as a scapegoat for the same people who abandoned me when I needed them most?”

Before Creda could finish, Bouma surged to her feet, rage boiling over. She didn’t bother reaching for the stick. Instead, she seized Creda by the hair and delivered a hard slap across her cheek. “You will, will you?” Bouma snarled, her voice trembling with fury. “Let me see how you will! I’ll kill you with these same hands that raised you!”

The slaps came fast and harsh, a dozen in quick succession. Creda didn’t cry out but braced herself, her face burning with pain and humiliation.

“Stop it, Bouma!” Calla’s voice rang out, shrill and commanding. She staggered to her feet, using every ounce of strength she had left to shove herself between them. Her frail frame trembled as she pushed Bouma away from Creda. “Have you gone mad?” Calla cried, her chest heaving from the effort, her body leaning into the stick to keep herself upright.

For someone who was usually bedridden, requiring help to even stand upright, the sight of Calla standing fierce and protective was arresting.

Bouma froze, her breathing ragged, her eyes darting between Calla and Creda.

“What are you doing, Bouma?” Calla’s voice softened. “You’re not angry at her—you’re angry at the world for failing you, for failing Samora. But this isn’t the way. You’re breaking your own child while trying to keep her from breaking herself.”

Bouma’s trembling hands fell to her sides, and she stepped back, her rage dissolving into anguish. Calla turned to Creda, her gaze tender but firm. “And you,” she said, her voice now quiet, “don’t let anger cloud your heart. There’s wisdom in pain, but only if you’re willing to listen.”

Bouma sobbed, her face twisted in a tumult of helplessness and anger. "You heard what she said! No one will marry her if she keeps saying these things. They'll hurt her if they find out—"

"And you're hurting your child right now. Stop it!" Calla said. She gestured for Bouma to calm down, her frail body trembling with the monumental effort of intervening. Creda moved closer, steadying Calla from behind. "What will this achieve, Bouma? You’re punishing Creda for Samora’s actions."

Bouma opened her mouth to argue, but Calla silenced her with a firm nod, her tired eyes imploring. "I’ll talk to her," she said, blinking slowly, a silent plea for compliance. "Go home. I’ll send her later."

Bouma exhaled shakily, her anger and resolve deflating under Calla’s steady gaze. She blinked away the tears threatening to fall and cast one last look at Calla and Creda. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.

As soon as Bouma left, Calla swayed, unable to remain upright. Creda quickly helped her to the cot and guided her to lie down. The elder looked utterly drained, her face pale, her breath shallow. Creda, meanwhile, bore the marks of her mother’s rage: red streaks on her cheeks and tears pooling in her swollen eyes. She sniffed quietly, blinking back her emotions, and schooled her expression into neutrality. Then, she sank down beside Calla’s cot, resuming the position she was in before Bouma’s intrusion.

The room wax silent. Creda stared blankly at the floor while Calla gazed at the ceiling, both lost in their own thoughts.

After a long pause, Creda broke the silence. “What are you thinking about, Calla?” she asked, her voice flat, drained of emotion.

Calla didn't respond for a moment longer, her thoughts distant.

“Are you thinking that Samora will bring more trouble by going to the forbidden part of the lake?” Creda pressed, a hint of challenge in her tone. “Do you believe in that nonsense?”

Calla’s gaze shifted, meeting Creda’s with a somber intensity. “Forbidden?” she repeated. “It’s just the other side of the lake. There’s nothing forbidden about it. The actual problem… it’s not her going there.”

There was so much packed into that one statement that Creda faltered, unsure where to begin. There’s nothing forbidden about it? Then why the ruckus? Why the fear, the drama? Why hadn’t anyone dared to go there before? And then there was the other part: The actual problem is…

“What’s the actual problem, Calla?” she asked, her voice hesitant, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

Calla stayed quiet for a while, her brows knitting together as if grappling with an unsettling thought. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper, laced with dread.

“I think he’s here.”

Creda felt a chill run down her spine. “Who?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Calla’s eyes darkened. “Ignorance.”

----------------------------------------