Chapter Two: A Story
The children sat in a circle, bundled in wool cloaks, their breath misting in the crisp morning air. The fire before them crackled, its warmth fighting the lingering cold. The young Teller pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and looked at their expectant faces.
“You must listen well,” the young Teller said, her voice steady, though her fingers curled against her skirt. “This is an old tale, one told to remind you what it means to care for our village. To care for one another.”
She took a breath, staring beyond them, as if she could still see the hills of long ago.
“There was once a boy and a girl who spent their days among the earth and the animals…”
The words came easily, as they always did. She wove the story the way she had been taught, speaking of the boy, Ewan, and the girl, Moira. How they had worked in the garden, gathered eggs, and tended to the goats. How they had watched the stars at night and wished for the world to never change.
The children listened, wide-eyed, leaning closer to the fire. They did not know that this was more than a story. That it was her story.
“Ewan’s father was a shepherd, and Moira’s mother kept the village’s finest vegetable patch. Their families were close, and their work often intertwined. When Ewan finished tending to his father’s flock, he would find Moira kneeling in the dirt, her hands stained brown from planting new seeds.
“I’ve a fine row of carrots coming up,” she told him one afternoon, brushing loose strands of auburn hair from her face. “But the crows have been eyeing them.”
Ewan frowned and crouched beside her. “I’ll build a scarecrow, then. The old one’s no good anymore.”
Together, they gathered sticks and old cloth, stuffing it with straw and tying it tight. When they placed it in the middle of the garden, Moira clapped her hands. “There, now. Let them try and take my carrots!”
The days were full of work, but they never minded. On misty mornings, they gathered eggs from the hens, their breath white in the chill. By midday, they walked to the stream where Moira’s goats drank, laughing as the stubborn creatures nibbled at Ewan’s tunic. And in the evenings, when the sun dipped behind the hills, they sat by the stone wall, watching the sky darken with stars.
“I wish we could do this forever,” Moira murmured one evening, hugging her knees to her chest.
Ewan leaned back on his elbows, gazing up at the sky. “Maybe we will,” he said. “Maybe we’ll always be here, right where we belong.”
But the world was always changing. The village elder spoke of troubles far away—lords at war, taxes growing heavier. There were whispers that Ewan’s father might be called to fight, that young men might have to leave their homes.
One morning, Moira found Ewan sitting by the fence, staring out at the hills with a look she had never seen before.
“You’re quiet today,” she said, nudging his arm.
He sighed. “Father says we might have to move the sheep north, away from trouble.” He looked at her then, a shadow in his blue eyes. “If we go, I don’t know when we’ll come back.”
Moira’s throat tightened. The garden, the animals, the laughter they had always shared—would it all become just a memory?
She reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Then we’ll plant something before you go,” she said. “Something that’ll still be here when you return.”
And so, together, they dug into the earth and placed tiny seeds in the soil. Moira watered them, and Ewan packed the dirt firm with his hands.
“When you come back,” she whispered, “it will be waiting for you.”
The children nodded solemnly, understanding. They knew the lesson—when change came, one must plant, build, and prepare for the future. It was the way of the village.
But the children did not know what came next. There were always two stories; the one that you told, and the one you would always hold.
She hesitated, as she always did, feeling the weight of what had truly happened that day; that was another story, one she would never tell. She did not tell them that Ewan had kissed her, there in the garden, the scent of damp earth and frost in the air. It had been soft, uncertain, full of something neither of them yet understood.
She had thought often of that kiss. Of the way her heart had pounded in her chest, the way the world had seemed to still.
She had thought of it even more in the days and years after he never returned.
No one ever spoke of him now. He had vanished into the north, into the endless unknown. Whether he had died or simply never found his way home, no one could say.
Other young men had tried to kiss her since then. But she knew it was only curiosity. They did not look at her the way Ewan had. She was different—set apart. A Teller. And no one wanted a Teller as a mate.
She swallowed, pushing the thought away, and finished the tale the way it had always been told.
“When the boy left, the girl tended the garden alone. The tree they had planted grew, and each spring, she cared for it, waiting. And though he never returned, the garden remained, feeding those who came after. Because that is what we do. We plant, we build, we tend. That is what it means to belong to the village.”
The children nodded, some thoughtful, some fidgeting, eager to run and play.
But Rainy sat still, staring into the fire, her heart aching with the quiet truth she could never say aloud.
She had never truly belonged.
And she was still waiting, waiting for someone who would never come home.
Rainy pulled away from the thought, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes. She wiped a single tear away discreetly, before any of the children could see. The past was the past, and she had no right lingering in it.
She straightened, drawing her shawl close, and cleared her throat. “Enough sitting now,” she said, her voice steady once more. “There’s work to be done, and if you finish it before the sun is too high, there will be time later to play.”
The children groaned but scrambled to their feet, brushing the dirt from their cloaks. Some ran ahead, already calling out to one another, while the younger ones lingered, hesitating before leaving the warmth of the fire.
She watched them go, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The village would always need hands to tend the fields, to mend the walls, to care for the animals. It was the way of things.
And yet, as she sat there alone in the chill of the morning, she could not help but wonder—who had planted the seed in her own heart? And had it been left to grow untended?
Rainy, the young Teller exhaled slowly, then rose, brushing the dust from her skirts. There was no time for such thoughts. There was always work to be done.