Chapter 8.5:

438 years ago, Vedem

The girl didn’t know what happiness was.

The sun had almost set as she sat beside the small hearth of their house, her fingers trembling violently as she tried to stitch a torn piece of cloth. Her mother stood behind her, arms crossed, watching her with a scowl.

“Oh, dear Vitara help me, you can’t even do this right?” her mother snapped. “You’re twelve years old already! It’s a simple task, yet you make it look so difficult!”

“I’m sorry, mother.” She apologized, her voice shaking, her eyes downcast.

“Don’t apologize, just do it already.” Her mother said, her voice full of anger.

She attempted to stitch the cloth again, but her hands shook so fiercely that the sharp needle caught her, causing her to bleed from her index finger. The blood spread across the cloth, and she slowly raised her gaze toward her mother, knowing what was about to happen.

She felt a sharp pain in her cheek as her mother’s hand slapped her across the face. Then again, this time even harder, and she fell to the floor. “Look at what you did!” her mother snapped. “You dirtied the cloth with your blood.”

“I’m sorry, mother.” She apologized again, remaining on the floor, holding her cheek with her hand. It burned. It burned so much. She would have cried, but she knew it would only anger her mother even more, leading to harsher methods of punishment.

“What did she do this time?” Her father asked, his voice laced with anger, as he entered the house after the day’s work.

“She can’t even stitch a piece of cloth, Volker!” her mother shouted. “She can’t do anything right. I can’t take her anymore!”

“Calm down, Raina.” He said, his voice more of a command than a suggestion. “Go prepare my food.”

Her mother nodded and left for the kitchen, leaving her alone with her father.

He knelt beside her. “Look at me.” He commanded, and she obeyed. He then gently grabbed her chin before issuing another command. “Remove your hand from the cheek.” She did as he told, and he moved her head slightly, analyzing her stricken cheek. “It’s not that bad.” He concluded.

He stood up and took off his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt and trousers, throwing them next to her. “Wash these before nightfall; I’ll need them tomorrow.” He said, his tone cold. “And don’t come crying to me if you can’t get the stains out. It’s your job to help your mother around here.”

She bit her lip and nodded without making eye contact with him.

“Good.” He said, and left for the kitchen as well.

She picked up his dirty clothes from the floor. The fabric was caked with mud and the dark, slimy residue from the swamps he worked in daily. These swamps, born out of the demonic war that plagued the lands sixty years ago, still poisoned the earth, making the land difficult to farm or build on. Her father, along with most of the men from their village, spent their days cleaning out the swamps, trying to reclaim the land.

The clothes reeked of stagnant water and decay. If he wanted them to be washed before nightfall, she knew she’d better get to it right away.

She exited their house, her bleeding finger in her mouth, and rounded it to the back, where there was a large wooden washbasin she used for scrubbing clothes. She picked up the two empty wooden buckets near it and made her way to the village’s only well. Years ago, the men of the village spent countless days and nights digging through the rough, unforgiving earth until they struck water deep beneath. They did it all without using magic, as the villagers of Vedem were stern believers that magic belonged to the gods, and they were unworthy of using it. This well became a symbol that despite Vedem’s swamps, under the divine guidance of Vitara the benevolent, life could exist here.

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The air felt dirty, and each breath was unpleasant. She was already used to the scents, but it didn’t make it easier. The roads, little more than trodden ground, were dark, uneven, and empty. All of the villagers were already inside, enjoying supper, in their simple wooden houses.

She reached the well and set down one of the buckets. Carefully, she tied the other one to the end of the rope attached to the well’s lever and began operating the well, slowly turning the lever to lower the bucket into the water below. She listened for the splash that signaled the bucket had reached the water, then started to wind the lever back to bring it up. The water-filled bucket rose back up, and she untied the rope, bringing the bucket down to the ground beside her, her frail form struggling to lift it, her shaking hands struggling to keep it balanced. She repeated the process with the second bucket and then lifted both of them, one in each arm, as she made her way home.

The buckets were heavy, and she barely managed to carry both. She had to stop constantly to rest her arms. At one point, when she was already fairly close to her house, she stopped because she heard a noise coming from the high grass beside her. Fear gripped her at first, but it was just a cat. It was small and clearly malnourished, its white fur matted with the muds of the swamps, and it seemed to be limping. When she tried to reach out to it, the cat hissed and backed away slightly. But she was determined to help it, so she brought one of the buckets forward, placing it between her and the cat. Then she took a few steps back and crouched, thinking that it would make her seem less intimidating its eyes.

“Come.” She whispered to the animal. “You’re thirsty, right?”

After a few long minutes, the cat finally limped forward toward the bucket of water, but it was too weak to reach the rim. She was afraid that if she reached out to it again, she would scare it off. Instead, she slowly put her hands on the bucket and tilted it slightly so some of the water would spill onto the thirsty creature, which eagerly accepted it, drinking from the puddle on the ground.

She smiled, her heart warming at the sight. She reached her hand inside the bucket and brought out some water to try and clean it up. Some of the mud on its fur was so dry that she had to bring more and more water to get it off. Surprisingly, the cat didn’t resist her attempts to clean it as it continued drinking the water.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she cleaned it carefully. The cat didn’t respond, so she continued. “You have white fur, so I think I’ll call you…Cloud. Do you like it?”

The cat remained silent as it continued lapping up the water.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She said, grinning as she rubbed its head gently.

“What are you doing?” Her father’s rough voice brought her back to reality. The cat escaped back into the tall grass, and as she attempted to stand up, she slipped on the muddy puddle she herself had created when she poured the water for the cat, kicking the bucket in the process and spilling all the water on the ground.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, her heart gripped by fear.

Her father’s expression was furious as he approached her. He grabbed her arm forcefully and yanked her from the ground before smacking her across the face multiple times, on the same cheek her mother had struck earlier. Each blow sent a sharp, stinging pain through her face, the throbbing intensifying with each hit until it just became numb. She bit down hard on her lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over, determined not to cry and make things worse.

He then dropped her into the muddy ground. “Now, go back to the well and fetch another bucket, and wash my damn clothes already!” he snapped at her before leaving.

She lay on the ground, not caring that she was in the mud, holding her burning cheek as silent tears began to fall. She cried quietly, terrified that anyone, especially her father, might hear her.

Her parents made sure to remind her every day that she was an unwanted child, while the other villagers avoided her or openly mocked and bullied her - all because of her condition. They believed that she was shunned at birth by Vitara herself. But what did that have to do with her? She hadn’t ask to be born. It wasn’t her fault that her hands were plagued by this horrible shaking that prevented her from doing any lady-like activities like sewing or cooking. Why did Vitara make her like this? Why did her parents and everyone else hate her so much?

“Pip!” she heard her big sister’s voice. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Her sister, Elva, was coming from the well’s direction and rushed to her side. She was wearing a dress, with a man’s jacket draped over her shoulders, returning from a date with the mayor’s son, Rolf. They were bound to get married soon.

Elva crouched beside her sister, seemingly unconcerned about her dress touching the mud. “What happened, Pip?” she asked again, her voice carrying a hint of genuine worry.

“I spilled the bucket.” The girl said through her tears, sobbing. “It was an accident, but he hit me anyway!”

Elva reached out to her bruised cheek, the touch startling her crying sister. “It’ll be over soon, Pip.” She tried to comfort her. “Soon I’ll marry Rolf, and money won’t be a problem, so they won’t treat you as harshly anymore.”

The girl steadied herself into a sitting position and continued crying silently. “Why do they hate me so much?”

Her sister immediately hugged her lovingly. “Oh, Pip...”