Rarely do big things happen to people who want their lives to change. The more we push to change our stories, the less happens. Maybe it’s because we see those changes as small actions that we worked for, and it doesn’t feel like a big thing because it was expected. But when we sit quietly and hope that life gives us peace for a while...that’s always when the changes come.
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On the farthest edge of the town of Comhbhá stood a building. Somewhere between a shack and a hut, it contained a little bed, a little stove, and a little stool with one lumpy pillow. No one was inside; after all it was a Monday morning, and anyone living in such a place wasn’t a member of a class that sleeps in on a weekday. The sole occupant was about 2 miles away, in the basement of a forge, stacking wood. At first glance, the blacksmith’s servant appeared to be an older boy with roughly chopped brown hair and dark skin. But looking closer, anyone who bothered to try would see a young woman, with red hair and tanned skin, covered in a layer of soot. No one bothered to try, and just complained to the blacksmith about his boy who was late in delivering their pots and pans.
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If it were Sunday, when the town went quiet and people took baths, they might have recognized her as Fágtha, owner of one skirt and one bonnet, and no family. Recognizing and acknowledging were not the same, and most people would turn away and hurry back to their homes. The only people who spoke to her were shopkeepers, and only for their own profit. It wasn’t that Fágtha was ugly, a witch, or even just plain mean. She just had the misfortune of being abandoned as her family passed through town, allegedly in a group of nomads. They had disrupted the peace and purchased many luxury items before drinking all night in the taverns but refusing paid lodging in the inns. When the dust settled in the morning, the town discovered one red-haired baby in the pile of discarded bottles, and they named her accordingly. “Leftover.”
But it was not a Sunday, it was Monday, and leftover Fágtha was 23, five and a half feet tall, and strong enough to lift an anvil.
“FÁGTHA!” roared the blacksmith from the top of the stairs. “COME MOVE THE ANVIL!”