Chapter Three: Shapes
Rainy's Journal - Day 3
"For the Sister, Still Unnamed"
I was young when I lost my sister, though I didn't fully understand the loss until much later. Orea Gea—she was beautiful, but not in any simple way. Not in a way the world could measure or name. She was beauty in its purest form: unearned, unquestioned, given. She felt like the beginning of something new, something sacred. Everyone felt it. She was hope in a cradle—our golden thread to the heavens.
But even something as precious as her could lead to sorrow.
Our family changed after Orea. My parents were different people before her birth and the silence that followed it. I remember my mother’s laughter—bright, sudden, full of warmth. It used to dance through the house like sunlight spilling through the eaves. And my father—his voice was strength, low and calm. He could steady anything with just a word.
But after Orea, they dimmed. My mother’s laughter disappeared first. Her eyes became quiet—watchful, like someone listening for a sound that would never return. And my father… He didn’t fall apart the way she did. He held himself together with routine and duty, the way men like him often do. But the sorrow was in his hands. I can still see it now, years later, in the way his fingers gripped the tools as he carved, as though they alone held him to the world.
Orea was born without a face—that’s how they spoke of it, when they spoke at all. A child with no chance. Her name was never mentioned again in the village. It was as if silence could keep the sadness from spreading. But that silence didn’t erase her. Not from me.
I remember her. I remember the way her small body curled into our mother’s arms, the sound of her cries so frail they felt like they might dissolve in the air. I remember the way my father looked at her, as if searching for some glimmer of meaning in a world that suddenly made no sense. I remember standing in the corner of the room that night, watching the undoing of our family in real time.
My father made a choice—I know now he believed it was the only one he had. I didn't understand it then. I still don’t entirely. But I know what it cost him.
After that, my mother slipped quietly into a world of shadows. I found her once, alone at Orea’s grave, her face turned away, her shoulders trembling like reeds in the wind. She thought she was alone, but I saw her. And I saw what grief can do when it has no voice.
My father stayed, tried to keep the pieces of our lives together, but I think a part of him never came back. He moved through life as a ghost of the man I once knew—still carving, still creating, but each artifact felt like a kind of penance. Something sacred in the shaping of it. I wonder now if each carving was a prayer. Or an apology.
I used to imagine Orea laughing. I gave her the laughter our mother had lost. I pictured her with a face—a lovely one. One that belonged. I knew it wasn’t real, but I needed to give her that. Not just to comfort myself, but to keep her from vanishing completely.
In the village, no one wanted stories like hers. No one wanted reminders of what couldn’t be fixed. They preferred tales that kept the world intact—tidy, explainable, light. But I couldn’t pretend with them anymore. I had seen too much.
They feared my stories. Not because they were untrue, but because they were true in ways people didn't want to feel. I told them anyway. Not to hurt, but to heal. To remember.
If I ever seemed strange to them—if they turned away from me—I forgave them. Because I knew the weight I carried wasn’t only mine. It belonged to all of us, and someone had to bear it.
Even now, I carry Orea with me. Not as a ghost, but as a light. She was more than her sorrow. She was more than her ending. She was love, in its first and purest form. And that love—that radiant, broken, precious thing—shaped everything I became.
So I keep telling the stories. Not because anyone asked me to. But because someone has to remember.
Someone has to feel it all.
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The morning began as most did—quiet and ordinary in appearance, though never without the soft strangeness that hung over their home like morning mist. Teran Gea had just finished fastening the last of his heavy outer garments, the thick wool smelling faintly of smoke and pine. He eased himself into one of the old wooden chairs at the kitchen table and bent to tie the laces on his leather shin guards. With a grunt—half exertion, half greeting—he spoke without looking up.
“Ohrey, today is Spring Sacrifice. Devil’ll be spiritin’ through the woods before long. Can’t be lingerin’ this mornin’.”
She glanced up from the hearth where she was preparing breakfast and nodded, saying nothing. She didn’t believe in devil spirits, not really—not the way he did—but it wasn’t foolishness on his part. It was simply how he had been made. Just as nature had shaped the sea to crash and retreat, it had shaped men to fear what they could not see.
She wiped her hands on her apron and brought him a bowl, setting it down gently before him. It was part of their rhythm—quiet, enduring, full of things unsaid.
Men were superstitious, and most women understood this as a natural truth. If nature had meant for men to understand the Way, they would have worked in the gardens alongside the women. But that was not how it had been shaped. Men were built for different things—for labor, for ritual, for providing.
They constructed the gathering halls, brought in the harvest’s heavier fruits, offered prayers during village ceremonies. And so, in balance, nature had made them softer in spirit—superstitious, yes, but humble. Had they been both strong and knowing, perhaps they would have torn the world apart with their disagreement and need for dominance. Women, who rarely argued, bore the burden of understanding. It was as it must be.
“Ohrey—your daughter?” he asked, a touch of hesitation in his voice.
“She’s already about her chores,” she replied.
But they both knew what he meant. He hadn’t asked after her tasks—he was wondering, without saying so, if she was in the gardens. If Ohrey had finally brought her into the women’s circle. She offered no further words, letting the question fall where it had landed. They both knew the truth.
Rainy was not where she should be. Not anymore.
Still, what could they do? To shame her, to show disappointment—that was not the Oceede way. Ohrey often asked herself why it had to be their daughter who wandered from tradition. It wasn’t the worst thing a girl could do, but it was unnatural. Unladylike. Too mystical. Too much like a man.
As she set a thick heel of bread beside his bowl and sank into the chair next to him, Teran looked at her face—lined gently with age, eyes still bright, lips pressed in thoughtful silence. She was still beautiful. He had been luckier than most, having chosen a wife from beyond his own tribe. He’d known the jealousy of other men—how they talked behind backs and laughed bitterly at village gatherings. Let them gossip, he’d thought. He would rather be a recluse with her than accepted among those shallow men who mocked beauty they could never touch, who resented their wives for the lives they lived.
But Ohrey wasn’t only beautiful. She was quiet. That, more than anything, had sustained their marriage. She thought him simple—because he was a man—but she had never let that become disrespect. She was a gift. And her beauty, passed on to their daughter, would be passed again to the next generation… if there was one. If Rainy ever returned to the Way.
“What will become of her, Ohrey?” he asked, voice low, almost ashamed.
She didn’t meet his eyes. She looked down, as though the answer might be written in the wood grain of the table. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I suppose she’ll follow the Teller’s path.”
It was the truth—finally spoken aloud. Rainy was well past nineteen cycles. She had walked with the women once or twice, worked the soil with skill and grace, and shown every sign of being capable. But she hadn’t returned. Instead, she lingered more and more by Jin’s side, the village Teller, asking questions, listening to stories, drawing closer to a path meant only for the chosen few—and never for women.
Ohrey rose and poured him another cup of tea. As she set it in front of him, her voice trembled with uncertainty.
“Maybe I should talk to her. Maybe she just doesn’t understand. Maybe… maybe I haven’t explained it well enough.”
“No,” he said, gently but firmly. “It’s not your fault. You’re a good mother. If you feel you should speak with her, then do. But don’t blame yourself.”
He stared at her, weariness in his eyes. There was nothing left to say. He finished his meal in silence, and the house fell quiet again. It was a cloud they lived beneath now, casting long shadows over the hearth.
She was far past the age of belonging. The village women noticed. They whispered. They always whispered. But who could blame them for their curiosity?
He was a good man—better than most. Her mother had been wise to send her with him to the forest tribes. He had never belittled her for believing differently, never forced her into submission like so many husbands did. When spiritual talk came up, he shifted the conversation gracefully, as if to protect both of them from its sharp edges.
He understood, she thought—perhaps more than he let on—that this was simply the way of things. And maybe Rainy, in seeing his gentleness, had turned toward the world of the Tellers, where stories, not soil, guided the hands. There was no blame to place. Every truth bore a shadow. That was nature’s way.
At last, Teran stood and walked to the door. “Well… goodbye, Ohrey,” he said softly. “I’ll see you this evening. Devil’s in the wood. I’ve got to go.”
She walked him to the door, wrapped her arms briefly around him. Then he was gone.
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As Rainy returned from feeding the animals, she spotted her father emerging from the work shed. She lingered for a moment just below the crest of the forested hill, cloaked in the shadows of the trees. He was humming the familiar tune of an old village song. A small smile tugged at her lips as the melody drifted toward her, warm and rich with the humor she had always admired in him.
“I deel de in a whim I oh,” she murmured under her breath, echoing the playful rhythm, “sing me a longing song.”
In his hand, her father carried a wood carving—a triangle adorned with vivid, swirling patterns. From her perch, the designs looked like a blur of color and texture, but Rainy knew better. She had snuck into the work shed enough times to recognize the meaning behind the intricate carvings: a story woven of animals, plants, and people, all interlaced in an ancient dance. It was beautiful, and undeniably a craft made out of generations of devotion.
Her father’s craft always seemed like a contradiction to the world around them. The Oceede people had no use for written symbols or records. Their traditions thrived in the oral stories of the Tellers—story keepers who carried their people’s truths on their tongues. Written words were unwanted, seen as useless, and even misleading. Only the Tellers were permitted to study the old manuscripts, and even then, those secrets remained unspoken.
Rainy had often wrestled with the weight of these customs. Without books or written signs, the Oceede had trained their memories to extraordinary precision, capable of capturing entire tales in a single telling. But, they didn't. They did not remember anything but the traditions now. This gift, the ancestral oral tradition, was a sacred skill meant to preserve the purity of their history. But it was instead a burden, a silent enforcer of tradition; an excuse.
The Oceede would only tolerate stories that had little meaning, retreating from deeper thought into entertaining rhetoric. The Teller’s responsibility was to try and weave a bit of truth in with the fantasy. True, a false Teller, one who altered truth or history, could bring ruin to the village. But, the people had become afraid to hear anything at all now, because they had lost the ability to discern the truth from deception. Now, they feared anything they did not easily understand.
From a young age, Rainy had learned the cost of straying from the truth. Even small, innocent lies were punished harshly by the Elders. And Rainy had grown used to silence, keeping her thoughts and questions tucked away. Her afternoons spent in the Temple had been her escape from the routines that all the other children enjoyed. But now that she was older, she enjoyed expressing her insights in the stories that she told.
Today, as she watched her father head toward the village, her chest felt tight. He was going to the council meeting, where the men would finalize plans for the spring rite. Every year, the ceremonies were meant to increase the harvest, and bring fertility to the world. Rainy couldn’t decide if she found them ridiculous or just tragic—rituals steeped in the very superstitions she had spent years studying, stories she was now tasked with telling. And now, she was developing doubts. There were things that didn’t line up, and didn’t make sense. But to question, was forbidden. So she dared not share her concerns with anyone.
Still, she loved her father deeply. She loved all the Oceede, even if their beliefs were misguided, their hearts were always kind.
Her mother's decision to join Rainy to the Temple had been her way of sparing her increasingly eccentric daughter the expectations placed on the Ohrey, the women particularly. It had been the best thing in Rainy's young life. Immersing herself in the stories had brought her a sense of purpose, but it hadn’t answered the questions she carried. Instead it had created new ones.
Was it possible to be a good person while perpetuating myths? Were the traditions flawed, or was she? It was terrifying to think that she could be wrong. But, the only way to see the truth is to know you do not possess it; you must doubt. Still, she didn't even seem to fit in as a Teller. There were more important things, but no one else wanted to know them.
She turned away from the hill and picked up a soggy feed bucket, trudging back to the grain shed. The morning drizzle clung to her hair, cold and persistent, as she walked.
Rainy was lovely, though she never thought of herself that way. She had the kind of beauty that belonged to the wind-swept moors and the quiet hush of mist over the loch—natural, unpretentious, and unnoticed by its owner. In her small, remote village nestled against the relentless tides of time, everyone saw her as an oddity. The village boys, eager to impress her, would often seek her attention, hoping for glances and whispered promises in the shadows of the thatched cottages. But Rainy had no interest in such things.
She would smile at them, friendly but distant, as if she belonged to another world entirely. And perhaps she did. Love, as they understood it, was a mere tether, a distraction from what truly mattered. Rainy’s heart was not moved by fleeting affections; it was stirred by questions—the vast, aching mysteries of existence that no one else in the village seemed to ask. She did not simply long for answers; she longed to find the right questions, the ones that could unlock the hidden truths of the world.
She would walk alone in the heathered hills, feeling the presence of something greater in the whispering wind and the shifting clouds. While others toiled in the fields or gathered around the fire to tell the same old tales, Rainy sought something deeper, something eternal. And in time, she would become a great Teller—not because she had all the answers, but because she had the courage to ask the questions that truly mattered.
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Teran gathered his carving knives and slipped them into his belt. He lifted his axe, scanning the corners of the room for his sharpening stones when a voice interrupted him.
“Good morning, Papa.”
He turned. A small figure stood in the doorway, framed by the soft blaze of morning light. He couldn’t see her face clearly—only the glow of her hair, the outline of her delicate shoulders. She was even more beautiful than her mother, and the sight struck him like a prayer. But beauty without purpose? What would become of her if she bore no children, if she turned her back on the Way? Would the gods forgive her for such defiance, or was she already lost to it?
“Good morning, Rainy,” he said, his voice warm despite the ache beneath it.
She stepped forward and embraced him, and he let himself hold her a little longer than usual.
“Have you started yet?” she asked, gesturing toward the carving tools.
“Not yet,” he replied. She meant the ceremonial carvings for the new marketplace pillars—his specialty. His work, known throughout the village, was meant to guard sacred spaces from dark spirits.
“Still working in the forest,” he added. “Another few weeks before the time is right.”
She nodded. Her curiosity about his work, and all the work of men—blacksmiths, toolmakers, forgers—was relentless. Odd, perhaps, but precious to him. That same questioning mind was what had drawn her away.
“Well… I’ll see you tonight, Papa.”
She lingered for a moment, eyes full of something unsaid. He caught the flicker of thought before she looked away.
“The devil spirit’s not in the woods today, Papa. The wind will be calm. You’ll see.”
She smiled, turned, and disappeared back into the morning.
The wind had been fierce all week, howling through the woods, making tree-felling perilous. And yet—if she said it would be calm, he believed her. Her weather predictions had always been uncanny, as if the world spoke secrets into her ear.
He slid the stones into his apron, hefted his axe, and walked toward the forest without another word. Of course he would not tell the other men what Rainy had said—they would only take it as proof of what they already feared: that she was, indeed, a Teller.
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Returning to the house after her chores, she found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, her face calm and distant as always.
“Morning, Mama,” Rainy said quietly, a hint of warmth in her tone.
Her mother glanced up, offering a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Among the Oceede, parenting was a quiet, hands-off affair. Children were left to find their own way, free of interference. Rainy’s mother showed her love in small, practical ways—like rising early to feed the animals so Rainy wouldn’t have to. Rainy noticed these gestures, even if they were never spoken of.
“I’ll be in the south Garden again today,” her mother said as she pulled on her boots. “Don’t wait for me. I won’t be back until after dark.” Rainy knew this; it was the only place her mother ever went now.
“I’ll make supper late so it’s ready when you and Papa get home,” Rainy replied.
Her mother nodded, placing a hand briefly on Rainy’s shoulder before stepping out the door. The touch was fleeting, but Rainy caught the sadness in her mother’s eyes. She watched as she walked down the path to the Gardens, feeling a quiet ache in her chest. She knew her mother felt hollow and empty inside. Pain had broken her spirit, though she would never admit the sorrow she bore.
Each morning, her mother set off to the gardens, her father headed to work as a Carpenter, and Rainy headed off for the Temple. The Temple had become her refuge, though its ancient halls held more questions than answers. Lately, she had been drawn to the oldest sections, where worn carvings and faded tapestries seemed to whisper secrets. Even her dreams had become tangled with those cryptic images, haunting and vivid.
But, this morning she was headed first to the village to Tell for the children. She had been doing this more lately; she enjoyed it as much as the children did. The children always came, and the villagers often did as well. They would pause in their choirs and errands, and listen as long as they could afford.
She knew they were all desperate to believe in great purpose, something more than the drudgery and routine, though they were always reminded that there was nothing more. Yes, each day first Tell in the village, then go to the Temple, and finally back home. The first whole shape and the strongest. It was like her father's carving. The unbreakable threefold bond; a triangle.
"For the Sister, Still Unnamed"
I was young when I lost my sister, though I didn't fully understand the loss until much later. Orea Gea—she was beautiful, but not in any simple way. Not in a way the world could measure or name. She was beauty in its purest form: unearned, unquestioned, given. She felt like the beginning of something new, something sacred. Everyone felt it. She was hope in a cradle—our golden thread to the heavens.
But even something as precious as her could lead to sorrow.
Our family changed after Orea. My parents were different people before her birth and the silence that followed it. I remember my mother’s laughter—bright, sudden, full of warmth. It used to dance through the house like sunlight spilling through the eaves. And my father—his voice was strength, low and calm. He could steady anything with just a word.
But after Orea, they dimmed. My mother’s laughter disappeared first. Her eyes became quiet—watchful, like someone listening for a sound that would never return. And my father… He didn’t fall apart the way she did. He held himself together with routine and duty, the way men like him often do. But the sorrow was in his hands. I can still see it now, years later, in the way his fingers gripped the tools as he carved, as though they alone held him to the world.
Orea was born without a face—that’s how they spoke of it, when they spoke at all. A child with no chance. Her name was never mentioned again in the village. It was as if silence could keep the sadness from spreading. But that silence didn’t erase her. Not from me.
I remember her. I remember the way her small body curled into our mother’s arms, the sound of her cries so frail they felt like they might dissolve in the air. I remember the way my father looked at her, as if searching for some glimmer of meaning in a world that suddenly made no sense. I remember standing in the corner of the room that night, watching the undoing of our family in real time.
My father made a choice—I know now he believed it was the only one he had. I didn't understand it then. I still don’t entirely. But I know what it cost him.
After that, my mother slipped quietly into a world of shadows. I found her once, alone at Orea’s grave, her face turned away, her shoulders trembling like reeds in the wind. She thought she was alone, but I saw her. And I saw what grief can do when it has no voice.
My father stayed, tried to keep the pieces of our lives together, but I think a part of him never came back. He moved through life as a ghost of the man I once knew—still carving, still creating, but each artifact felt like a kind of penance. Something sacred in the shaping of it. I wonder now if each carving was a prayer. Or an apology.
I used to imagine Orea laughing. I gave her the laughter our mother had lost. I pictured her with a face—a lovely one. One that belonged. I knew it wasn’t real, but I needed to give her that. Not just to comfort myself, but to keep her from vanishing completely.
In the village, no one wanted stories like hers. No one wanted reminders of what couldn’t be fixed. They preferred tales that kept the world intact—tidy, explainable, light. But I couldn’t pretend with them anymore. I had seen too much.
They feared my stories. Not because they were untrue, but because they were true in ways people didn't want to feel. I told them anyway. Not to hurt, but to heal. To remember.
If I ever seemed strange to them—if they turned away from me—I forgave them. Because I knew the weight I carried wasn’t only mine. It belonged to all of us, and someone had to bear it.
Even now, I carry Orea with me. Not as a ghost, but as a light. She was more than her sorrow. She was more than her ending. She was love, in its first and purest form. And that love—that radiant, broken, precious thing—shaped everything I became.
So I keep telling the stories. Not because anyone asked me to. But because someone has to remember.
Someone has to feel it all.
-----------------------------------
The morning began as most did—quiet and ordinary in appearance, though never without the soft strangeness that hung over their home like morning mist. Teran Gea had just finished fastening the last of his heavy outer garments, the thick wool smelling faintly of smoke and pine. He eased himself into one of the old wooden chairs at the kitchen table and bent to tie the laces on his leather shin guards. With a grunt—half exertion, half greeting—he spoke without looking up.
“Ohrey, today is Spring Sacrifice. Devil’ll be spiritin’ through the woods before long. Can’t be lingerin’ this mornin’.”
She glanced up from the hearth where she was preparing breakfast and nodded, saying nothing. She didn’t believe in devil spirits, not really—not the way he did—but it wasn’t foolishness on his part. It was simply how he had been made. Just as nature had shaped the sea to crash and retreat, it had shaped men to fear what they could not see.
She wiped her hands on her apron and brought him a bowl, setting it down gently before him. It was part of their rhythm—quiet, enduring, full of things unsaid.
Men were superstitious, and most women understood this as a natural truth. If nature had meant for men to understand the Way, they would have worked in the gardens alongside the women. But that was not how it had been shaped. Men were built for different things—for labor, for ritual, for providing.
They constructed the gathering halls, brought in the harvest’s heavier fruits, offered prayers during village ceremonies. And so, in balance, nature had made them softer in spirit—superstitious, yes, but humble. Had they been both strong and knowing, perhaps they would have torn the world apart with their disagreement and need for dominance. Women, who rarely argued, bore the burden of understanding. It was as it must be.
“Ohrey—your daughter?” he asked, a touch of hesitation in his voice.
“She’s already about her chores,” she replied.
But they both knew what he meant. He hadn’t asked after her tasks—he was wondering, without saying so, if she was in the gardens. If Ohrey had finally brought her into the women’s circle. She offered no further words, letting the question fall where it had landed. They both knew the truth.
Rainy was not where she should be. Not anymore.
Still, what could they do? To shame her, to show disappointment—that was not the Oceede way. Ohrey often asked herself why it had to be their daughter who wandered from tradition. It wasn’t the worst thing a girl could do, but it was unnatural. Unladylike. Too mystical. Too much like a man.
As she set a thick heel of bread beside his bowl and sank into the chair next to him, Teran looked at her face—lined gently with age, eyes still bright, lips pressed in thoughtful silence. She was still beautiful. He had been luckier than most, having chosen a wife from beyond his own tribe. He’d known the jealousy of other men—how they talked behind backs and laughed bitterly at village gatherings. Let them gossip, he’d thought. He would rather be a recluse with her than accepted among those shallow men who mocked beauty they could never touch, who resented their wives for the lives they lived.
But Ohrey wasn’t only beautiful. She was quiet. That, more than anything, had sustained their marriage. She thought him simple—because he was a man—but she had never let that become disrespect. She was a gift. And her beauty, passed on to their daughter, would be passed again to the next generation… if there was one. If Rainy ever returned to the Way.
“What will become of her, Ohrey?” he asked, voice low, almost ashamed.
She didn’t meet his eyes. She looked down, as though the answer might be written in the wood grain of the table. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I suppose she’ll follow the Teller’s path.”
It was the truth—finally spoken aloud. Rainy was well past nineteen cycles. She had walked with the women once or twice, worked the soil with skill and grace, and shown every sign of being capable. But she hadn’t returned. Instead, she lingered more and more by Jin’s side, the village Teller, asking questions, listening to stories, drawing closer to a path meant only for the chosen few—and never for women.
Ohrey rose and poured him another cup of tea. As she set it in front of him, her voice trembled with uncertainty.
“Maybe I should talk to her. Maybe she just doesn’t understand. Maybe… maybe I haven’t explained it well enough.”
“No,” he said, gently but firmly. “It’s not your fault. You’re a good mother. If you feel you should speak with her, then do. But don’t blame yourself.”
He stared at her, weariness in his eyes. There was nothing left to say. He finished his meal in silence, and the house fell quiet again. It was a cloud they lived beneath now, casting long shadows over the hearth.
She was far past the age of belonging. The village women noticed. They whispered. They always whispered. But who could blame them for their curiosity?
He was a good man—better than most. Her mother had been wise to send her with him to the forest tribes. He had never belittled her for believing differently, never forced her into submission like so many husbands did. When spiritual talk came up, he shifted the conversation gracefully, as if to protect both of them from its sharp edges.
He understood, she thought—perhaps more than he let on—that this was simply the way of things. And maybe Rainy, in seeing his gentleness, had turned toward the world of the Tellers, where stories, not soil, guided the hands. There was no blame to place. Every truth bore a shadow. That was nature’s way.
At last, Teran stood and walked to the door. “Well… goodbye, Ohrey,” he said softly. “I’ll see you this evening. Devil’s in the wood. I’ve got to go.”
She walked him to the door, wrapped her arms briefly around him. Then he was gone.
-------------------------
As Rainy returned from feeding the animals, she spotted her father emerging from the work shed. She lingered for a moment just below the crest of the forested hill, cloaked in the shadows of the trees. He was humming the familiar tune of an old village song. A small smile tugged at her lips as the melody drifted toward her, warm and rich with the humor she had always admired in him.
“I deel de in a whim I oh,” she murmured under her breath, echoing the playful rhythm, “sing me a longing song.”
In his hand, her father carried a wood carving—a triangle adorned with vivid, swirling patterns. From her perch, the designs looked like a blur of color and texture, but Rainy knew better. She had snuck into the work shed enough times to recognize the meaning behind the intricate carvings: a story woven of animals, plants, and people, all interlaced in an ancient dance. It was beautiful, and undeniably a craft made out of generations of devotion.
Her father’s craft always seemed like a contradiction to the world around them. The Oceede people had no use for written symbols or records. Their traditions thrived in the oral stories of the Tellers—story keepers who carried their people’s truths on their tongues. Written words were unwanted, seen as useless, and even misleading. Only the Tellers were permitted to study the old manuscripts, and even then, those secrets remained unspoken.
Rainy had often wrestled with the weight of these customs. Without books or written signs, the Oceede had trained their memories to extraordinary precision, capable of capturing entire tales in a single telling. But, they didn't. They did not remember anything but the traditions now. This gift, the ancestral oral tradition, was a sacred skill meant to preserve the purity of their history. But it was instead a burden, a silent enforcer of tradition; an excuse.
The Oceede would only tolerate stories that had little meaning, retreating from deeper thought into entertaining rhetoric. The Teller’s responsibility was to try and weave a bit of truth in with the fantasy. True, a false Teller, one who altered truth or history, could bring ruin to the village. But, the people had become afraid to hear anything at all now, because they had lost the ability to discern the truth from deception. Now, they feared anything they did not easily understand.
From a young age, Rainy had learned the cost of straying from the truth. Even small, innocent lies were punished harshly by the Elders. And Rainy had grown used to silence, keeping her thoughts and questions tucked away. Her afternoons spent in the Temple had been her escape from the routines that all the other children enjoyed. But now that she was older, she enjoyed expressing her insights in the stories that she told.
Today, as she watched her father head toward the village, her chest felt tight. He was going to the council meeting, where the men would finalize plans for the spring rite. Every year, the ceremonies were meant to increase the harvest, and bring fertility to the world. Rainy couldn’t decide if she found them ridiculous or just tragic—rituals steeped in the very superstitions she had spent years studying, stories she was now tasked with telling. And now, she was developing doubts. There were things that didn’t line up, and didn’t make sense. But to question, was forbidden. So she dared not share her concerns with anyone.
Still, she loved her father deeply. She loved all the Oceede, even if their beliefs were misguided, their hearts were always kind.
Her mother's decision to join Rainy to the Temple had been her way of sparing her increasingly eccentric daughter the expectations placed on the Ohrey, the women particularly. It had been the best thing in Rainy's young life. Immersing herself in the stories had brought her a sense of purpose, but it hadn’t answered the questions she carried. Instead it had created new ones.
Was it possible to be a good person while perpetuating myths? Were the traditions flawed, or was she? It was terrifying to think that she could be wrong. But, the only way to see the truth is to know you do not possess it; you must doubt. Still, she didn't even seem to fit in as a Teller. There were more important things, but no one else wanted to know them.
She turned away from the hill and picked up a soggy feed bucket, trudging back to the grain shed. The morning drizzle clung to her hair, cold and persistent, as she walked.
Rainy was lovely, though she never thought of herself that way. She had the kind of beauty that belonged to the wind-swept moors and the quiet hush of mist over the loch—natural, unpretentious, and unnoticed by its owner. In her small, remote village nestled against the relentless tides of time, everyone saw her as an oddity. The village boys, eager to impress her, would often seek her attention, hoping for glances and whispered promises in the shadows of the thatched cottages. But Rainy had no interest in such things.
She would smile at them, friendly but distant, as if she belonged to another world entirely. And perhaps she did. Love, as they understood it, was a mere tether, a distraction from what truly mattered. Rainy’s heart was not moved by fleeting affections; it was stirred by questions—the vast, aching mysteries of existence that no one else in the village seemed to ask. She did not simply long for answers; she longed to find the right questions, the ones that could unlock the hidden truths of the world.
She would walk alone in the heathered hills, feeling the presence of something greater in the whispering wind and the shifting clouds. While others toiled in the fields or gathered around the fire to tell the same old tales, Rainy sought something deeper, something eternal. And in time, she would become a great Teller—not because she had all the answers, but because she had the courage to ask the questions that truly mattered.
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Teran gathered his carving knives and slipped them into his belt. He lifted his axe, scanning the corners of the room for his sharpening stones when a voice interrupted him.
“Good morning, Papa.”
He turned. A small figure stood in the doorway, framed by the soft blaze of morning light. He couldn’t see her face clearly—only the glow of her hair, the outline of her delicate shoulders. She was even more beautiful than her mother, and the sight struck him like a prayer. But beauty without purpose? What would become of her if she bore no children, if she turned her back on the Way? Would the gods forgive her for such defiance, or was she already lost to it?
“Good morning, Rainy,” he said, his voice warm despite the ache beneath it.
She stepped forward and embraced him, and he let himself hold her a little longer than usual.
“Have you started yet?” she asked, gesturing toward the carving tools.
“Not yet,” he replied. She meant the ceremonial carvings for the new marketplace pillars—his specialty. His work, known throughout the village, was meant to guard sacred spaces from dark spirits.
“Still working in the forest,” he added. “Another few weeks before the time is right.”
She nodded. Her curiosity about his work, and all the work of men—blacksmiths, toolmakers, forgers—was relentless. Odd, perhaps, but precious to him. That same questioning mind was what had drawn her away.
“Well… I’ll see you tonight, Papa.”
She lingered for a moment, eyes full of something unsaid. He caught the flicker of thought before she looked away.
“The devil spirit’s not in the woods today, Papa. The wind will be calm. You’ll see.”
She smiled, turned, and disappeared back into the morning.
The wind had been fierce all week, howling through the woods, making tree-felling perilous. And yet—if she said it would be calm, he believed her. Her weather predictions had always been uncanny, as if the world spoke secrets into her ear.
He slid the stones into his apron, hefted his axe, and walked toward the forest without another word. Of course he would not tell the other men what Rainy had said—they would only take it as proof of what they already feared: that she was, indeed, a Teller.
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Returning to the house after her chores, she found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, her face calm and distant as always.
“Morning, Mama,” Rainy said quietly, a hint of warmth in her tone.
Her mother glanced up, offering a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Among the Oceede, parenting was a quiet, hands-off affair. Children were left to find their own way, free of interference. Rainy’s mother showed her love in small, practical ways—like rising early to feed the animals so Rainy wouldn’t have to. Rainy noticed these gestures, even if they were never spoken of.
“I’ll be in the south Garden again today,” her mother said as she pulled on her boots. “Don’t wait for me. I won’t be back until after dark.” Rainy knew this; it was the only place her mother ever went now.
“I’ll make supper late so it’s ready when you and Papa get home,” Rainy replied.
Her mother nodded, placing a hand briefly on Rainy’s shoulder before stepping out the door. The touch was fleeting, but Rainy caught the sadness in her mother’s eyes. She watched as she walked down the path to the Gardens, feeling a quiet ache in her chest. She knew her mother felt hollow and empty inside. Pain had broken her spirit, though she would never admit the sorrow she bore.
Each morning, her mother set off to the gardens, her father headed to work as a Carpenter, and Rainy headed off for the Temple. The Temple had become her refuge, though its ancient halls held more questions than answers. Lately, she had been drawn to the oldest sections, where worn carvings and faded tapestries seemed to whisper secrets. Even her dreams had become tangled with those cryptic images, haunting and vivid.
But, this morning she was headed first to the village to Tell for the children. She had been doing this more lately; she enjoyed it as much as the children did. The children always came, and the villagers often did as well. They would pause in their choirs and errands, and listen as long as they could afford.
She knew they were all desperate to believe in great purpose, something more than the drudgery and routine, though they were always reminded that there was nothing more. Yes, each day first Tell in the village, then go to the Temple, and finally back home. The first whole shape and the strongest. It was like her father's carving. The unbreakable threefold bond; a triangle.