We think it normal to gaze upon the stars.
But when we stood upon that tower,
He only looked down.
~~The First Poet
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Callam stood in silence. He’d spent a lifetime’s worth of talking when he shouldn’t, yet the words chose this moment not to come.
He looked at the scroll in his hands, then up at Nahnie, feeling as if someone had knocked all the air out of him.
“... how?” he managed, in a very small voice.
He had few memories of his parents. They were only concepts to him, in the same way that heroes were: ideals of bravery and kindness, devoid of the flaws that made parents human. Sometimes, if he concentrated really hard, he could conjure hazy images of warm faces smiling down at him. For a long time, he pretended to remember more—he’d pestered Siela to tell him all about Mom and Dad: how they looked, what they did, even their favorite foods. Then he’d acted as if those retellings were his own. He’d even fashioned his blanket into a cape and had worn it throughout the day, simply because he’d been told his father wore a cloak.
Siela was sweet enough to let me believe Dad was a rogue. Callam’s hands were trembling, so he did his best to steady them, not wanting to betray weakness. The Sisters were quick to correct me.
His father was a troubadour, they’d explained—a mummer sharing plays he’d learned by heart for coin and a night’s stay. By every account, he was a talented and kind Ruddite who’d worked off his indenturement as a theater hand. Years later, he’d met Callam’s mother and fallen in love. Together, they’d passed away from the Blight, a decade after that.
But the Blight didn’t infect the literate. So why was he holding a scroll titled, “Dearest Siela & Callam”?
Unraveling it, he read.
‘Little ones,
I’m so sorry I cannot hold you tonight. Remember those bedtime stories I told you of the Far-away? Of she who flies to where the stars reside? Father has been taken by her plight, and I fear that I am next—my coughs worsen by the day.
I know you are not prepared. No child can be.
There is no lesson we can teach you that explains the hurt that will come. Forgive us for that, when you are old enough to understand.
Siela, I’ve no dowry to leave you. We tried to save, but with your father’s medication… instead, I have something for you my mother said when I wed:
‘Memory may be the ink of time, but it is the heart that decides what we do with what we remember.’
I know it has been hard having a little brother, watching him get toys that once belonged to you. Nonetheless, you must learn to care for him—you’re his older sister and the only family he’s left.
So, if you are reading this, I hope you two are getting along. I hope you love him as we love you. I haven’t said it enough, but know that I’m incredibly proud to be your mother.
Callam, my sweet little prince. You may not remember me, but I hope you do. I hope you hear my voice in the wind. I hope you remember the lullabies and the stanzas we sung to you. I hope you grow up rebellious and smart like your sister. Kind and strong like your dad.
You have his nose, you know. He says you have my eyes.
I wish we could protect you from this world; it is not kind to those with big hearts. Promise me it won’t break you. Promise me.
With all my love and life,
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Mira.’
Callam stared at the page for a long while. Around him, the world felt eerily quiet, although he was not alone. The buildings, once cozy and inviting, now appeared crooked and in disrepair. Whatever novelty there’d been in reading a scroll was drowned out by his restless need to both sit down and pace. He fidgeted between the two actions, overwhelmed by an incredible longing for family. There was love in that yearning. Grief too, for what his childhood could have been. And a deep numbness—numbness built over summers spent watching families together, seeing parents and children hand-in-hand. Instinctively, he crumpled the note, before realizing what he’d done and desperately smoothing it out.
Ink smeared his hands. Tears spotted the paper, some fresh, others old and dried from where his mother had cried.
None of this made any sense to him. I’ve always gotten along with Siela, he thought, walking back and forth. That at least he could explain. Children fought. More importantly, his parents had been Ruddites, so how had they left him a note? Paying a scribe would be out of budget for most.
Callam took a breath and tried to center himself. Tried to remember how happy he had felt that morning. Focused on all the smells and sounds around him.
Why didn’t they tell me?
Whirling on Nahnie, he blurted out. “Why am I only learn—!?” then cut himself off when he realized how he sounded. Closing his eyes against a wave of vertigo, he said, “Sorry—I…”
“I understand your confusion, Callam. But remember, ink tells the story,” she responded, her eyes full of compassion. “Not us.”
Ink tells the story? The Sisters were ever cryptic, and at that moment Callam wanted none of it. “What does that mea—”
“When we found Siela knocking on our door fourteen years ago, she was inconsolable. For days, all she would do was rock back and forth, saying that your parents died of the plight, and clasp that note to her chest. At first, we assumed she didn’t know how to say blight. It's common enough with the little ones, as you know.”
Callam did. He’d seen plenty of children like that, their parents taken from them before they were old enough to pronounce big words.
“Eventually, she warmed up to us. She and I used to sit for hours, mending clothes and whispering like old wives until she became comfortable enough to share with me some of the stories your parents used to sing. One in particular stood out—the one in that letter.”
Nahnie paused to look up, her eyes shifting to the terracotta tiles of the surrounding buildings. Then she began down the cobbled path to the city markets, expression troubled. Callam followed quietly behind her, unwilling to be the first to speak.
Inside of his right pocket, though, he rubbed at the Seedling’s scar on his finger, impatient. Angry, even.
“What did your Sister tell you of the Far-away?” Nahnie asked before long. They were standing at the crossing between Mercer and Cobbler’s lane, and she’d just finished nodding her ‘hellos’ to a group of work-bound Ruddites, all of whom she’d seemed to recognize.
Callam frowned. “Only what every child knows. It is where the Winged One takes sinners and heretics. The lucky go after they pass, the less fortunate… well, you’ve heard the missives. They get picked up from our walls, dragged out in daylight.”
“That is one telling, yes.”
“You’re saying there is another?”
“I…” Nahnie replied, weariness seeping into her tone. She came to a stop above the first of several narrow staircases overlooking a bustling market, and he held his breath. The Sisters rarely spoke of the past, especially not to their wards.
Seconds later, she started down the steps, so he rushed to offer her an arm. These steps were notoriously slippery, and while Nahnie wasn’t elderly, caring for the young had a way of wearing a body out.
“What I tell you today, it's best you don’t repeat. We Sisters are honor bound, but nothing ties your lips.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Heaven’s darkness is said to be Far-away. To be the place the Winged One and her beasts take their victims. But before all that, before the Lighthouse was lit, the Far-away was home to the Poet. The leader of our order.“
Callam stopped walking, the movement so abrupt it jolted both of them. This was heresy. More heretical than Ruddites trying to write, or Rebelrousers fighting for Ruddite freedom. Were these Sisters witches, in consort with—
“At peace, Callam,” Nahnie said, then laughed. “Would I tell you some grand secret in public? You should know all this already.”
What? “But you preach that—”
“Poet’s hand, Callam, I know what we preach. And now I know how little you’ve paid attention during every sermon. Yes, the Far-away is the realm of the Winged One. But before that, it was home to the Poet, and it is her absence that let darkness fall. That part is no secret, and not what you must keep quiet,” she said, burying a hand into her robe and pulling at a grimoire. “This, however, is.”
A moment later, she whispered, “Sapsilen,” and he knew her next words were for his ears only.
“The First Poet grew up far away from the immunities earned by the Fated Few—immunity to the Blight. When she bound, she brought knowledge to this side of the world. Yet, she also shared her susceptibility with her creed. She could fall sick, and so too can anyone sharing in her gift. We call it the 'Archive's plight.'”