Raven: Girl Aflame

By Jonathan Standing

Description:

An orphan for all of her sixteen years, Raven is forced to leave behind both her home and the only people that she knows when a terrible secret is tragically exposed:

SHE IS NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS.

A fire rages inside her to find out who her mysterious parents were; and not only who, but what she really is. Interrupted by a series of wild adventures, her journey takes her far from home and far from everything that she has ever known.

Little does she know just how far this journey will take her.

Far more astonishing, is what she learns about herself along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Standing
• Release date: Jan 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310624032

Jonathan Standing

"Read as though nothing else mattered, and write as though no one were reading you." -random thoughts

Book preview

RAVEN: GIRL AFLAME

Jonathan Standing

Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Standing

Smashwords Edition

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RAVEN: GIRL AFLAME

Description:

An orphan for all her sixteen years, Raven is forced to leave behind both her home and the only people she knows when a terrible secret is tragically exposed:

She is not like other girls.

A fire rages inside her to find out who her mysterious parents were; and not only who, but what she really is. Interrupted by a series of wild adventures, her journey takes her far from home and far from everything that she has ever known.

Little does she know just how far this journey will take her.

Far more astonishing, is what she learns about herself along the way.

PART ONE

.

* * *

There you are, Angel Face!

I make a sour face at the childish nickname my aunt refuses to let me grow out of. Like a good ‘daughter,’ (because that’s how my aunt likes to think of me), I swallow my pride and smile sweetly. It’s such a fake smile that I’m afraid she’ll see my true feelings.

Yes, I’m back.

Aunt Malia pins me with an accusatory glare that she manages to free from her crowded workbench.

I call her work space messy. She calls it loosely organized. Potted plants and herbs have found a way to cover every last bit of real estate on her workbench. Loosely bundled clusters of drying plant material hang suspended from hooks on the walls and ceiling around her. The entire house smells like a verdant botanical garden, but here in the workshop the scents of herbs, spices, and flowered plant are particularly overwhelming. Fortunately I like the eclectic mix of aromatic fragrances. It keeps me connected with outdoor places even when I’m confined to the inside.

I've been looking all over for you, she mildly scolds.

I roll my eyes behind her back.

Don’t you remember, Aunt Malia? You sent me to Anna's to deliver that order of poppy extract she was so anxious to have. She says thank you, by the way. But now Anna needs to order more of your famous aged hops. She just now realized that she's running low in her supply.

Aunt Malia blinks her eyes rapidly in an imitation of butterfly wings to sort out a moment of confusion. I did? Right! I knew that.

I sigh with resignation. Aunt Malia is getting more forgetful every day. As the village’s medicine woman, you would think that she would be taking her own medicine. I’m tempted to slip some Rosemary or Gingko into her tea when she’s not looking.

Well, I'm here now. What do you need?

I’m getting low on passion flower tonic.

So you need me to find you some ripe fruit, I finish for her with a sigh. I have an important appointment to keep and Aunt Malia has a habit of finding chores for me to do at the worst possible times.

Oh, would you, Angel Face? You are so much better at finding the things that I need.

Of course I am. I’ve only been searching the forest and valley to replenish my aunt's herbal stock for the better part of my sixteen years. I think by now I must know every tree, rock, nook and cranny in a half day's walk of the village. At least the plant in question grows not far from here. I can make the chore fit in with my plans.

Yes, Aunt Malia. I'll get you your fruit. Just let me get something from my room first.

I duck quickly into my tiny room half expecting my aunt to question what I could possibly need from my nearly barren bedroom for a quick foray into the forest. It’s not like I need the fine bone-handled dagger I keep hidden under my mattress. The forest near our village is kept quite safe, after all.

But Aunt Malia says nothing about my suspicious detour. I slip the dagger into my belt and then savor the cool feel of my leather bracers as I slide them over my forearms. I discreetly pull down my loose-fitting linen sleeves to hide them. Aunt Malia would not approve of me donning such masculine warrior’s garb.

I take a quick look in the mirror that my friend Bodaway gifted me with last year. He picked it up for me when he traveled with the adult Suni men on his first trip to the annual bazaar. It's a very simple mirror, with no frame or design. Aside from my dagger and bracers–also gifts from Bodaway–it's my best present ever.

But maybe not right now. I glare into the mirror, totally disgusted with the errant locks that spill out from my hastily arranged ponytail. Why are you doing this to me now of all times?–I ask my hair. I blow impatiently at the rebellious strands as if this might make them behave. It doesn't. Running my fingers through my tangled hair I attempt a quick fix. I allow a moment's glance past the grooming issues and consider the face that frowns back at me. Why do I seem to always earn stares from the village men when I go out to make deliveries for Aunt Malia? Am I really that odd looking? I know that my untamed mane of black hair and my sun-browned complexion make me stand out in stark contrast to the fair-skinned people of my village. I know my lips are not as thin and petite as other girls and my dark brooding eyes are too large for my face. I am also too tall. Sixteen and growing. Only a few men in the village stand taller.

When my limbs started to grow long and become unusually well-toned with almost no effort, I had expressed my concern to Aunt Malia that I wasn’t going to be very feminine-looking by the time I was done growing.

I have a feeling that’s not going to be a problem, my dear Angel Face, she had said. What I do worry about is quite the opposite. And then she had laughed.

That laughter still mocks me.

I make a face and break contact with the girl in the mirror. Aunt Malia insists that I've become ‘absolutely ravishing’–in her words. What does she know anyway? She never even married. I don't think any man ever showed her any real interest. No one will ever claim that my Aunt Malia is attractive. At least not on the outside. Probably her viewpoint on beauty is skewed. No one other than Aunt Malia has ever called me beautiful. They just stare rudely at me. And the girls all seem to hate me.

I swoop past my aunt on my way out, grab the burlap gathering bag from beside the worktable, and brush quickly past Aunt Malia’s upturned cheek with my lips. She smells of chamomile and hawthorn.

I’ll be back soon!

I should hope so! The passion flower should be going to seed right about now. The fruit will be easy to spot.

Yes, Aunt Malia!

I see a total of three villagers as I make my way towards the forest's edge. Two of these are hunters returning to the village, each with a couple of freshly taken rabbits slung over one shoulder and a closed sack probably containing some form of feathered fare over the other. They stare at me rudely and say nothing. Typical.

The other person is Dezba, a pretty blonde about my age. Seeing me headed for the forest prompts her to glare at me in challenge as we pass. Dezba is convinced that she is the village princess. She also wants to know what's going on every minute of the day. It always seems to bother her that I’m allowed so much independence by my aunt.

"Where are you going so late in the day?"

Somewhere you don’t dare.

"I’m not afraid of the forest. I just have no reason to grovel on my knees in the dirt, get eaten alive by mosquitoes, and bring ticks back to the village. I am a lady."

We’re only sixteen, Dezba. It’s okay to play in the dirt.

She rolls her eyes in disgust. For you maybe. Some of us actually care about what kind of reputation we’re making with the boys. Nobody wants a nature girl who always has dirt stuck beneath her fingernails.

Maybe I don’t care what the boys think.

Good thing for you!

I’m not so simple as that. Unlike you, Dezba, I actually exercise some control over my own life.

I have control over my life.

Of course you do. That’s why you sing and dance and bat your eyes for every boy that looks at you.

She bites back a smart reply and just glares at me.

I return the glare. She looks away with her petite set of lips twisted into a pout and stomps away. Sometimes I’m glad that I’m not like other girls.

I continue on uninterrupted to the forest. As soon as I step beneath the hidden boughs of the great forest giants a feeling of tranquility settles over me. This is where I belong. This is where my heart lies. Maybe I am a nature girl after all.

I walk briskly straight past a vine of ripe passion flower fruit, ignoring it, and keep going.

My destination lies in a quiet section of the forest that villagers do not normally pass through. I look at the sun’s height in the sky and wonder if he is there yet.

A dull thunk in a tree trunk tells me that he is.

Warrior boy!

Bodaway turns and flashes me a smile. He holds his handsome black and tan long bow casually in his left hand as he observes my approach. His blue eyes sparkle. A crown of sandy blonde hair sticks out at odd angles. Nothing unusual going on there. This is his usual look.

"I do have a name, you know. I’m not just boy."

You do? I act surprised. When did you grow up?

Look, Flower Child. Don’t forget that I’m three years older than you.

I step up close to him and look down my chin at him.

You are?

It’s not my fault that you’re related to a tree! I’m actually tall for my age!

I elbow him in the stomach.

"Don’t be so sensitive, boy, and just give me that bow."

"You’re so pushy, Raven. I should just make you go sit in the grass over there and watch a man practice his craft as a real lady should." He hands me the extra-powerful bow anyway, along with a readied arrow.

I drop the burlap sack on the ground nearby. That can wait.

I roll my sleeves up, revealing the bracers on my forearms. The oil I’ve worked into the leather makes them glisten in the filtered sunlight. Such accruements are barely a start to filling out a full warrior’s costume, but they go a long ways towards making me feel the part. The touch of hand-warmed yew wood against my work calloused palm fills a yearning, a need that can’t be sated by the passive pursuits deemed appropriate for a young lady like me. Even the very sight of such a fine weapon ignites a fire, one that has no choice but to find release in a demonstration of its artistry. It is only in these stolen moments with Bodaway that my passion for mastering the skills of physical prowness is met.

What’s the target for today?

There. He points to a distant tree already struck with three arrows each spaced a handbreadth apart and gathered around a small boil in the trunk. See if you can hit that knot.

I look at him coolly. What do I get if I hit it on the first shot?

A kiss on the cheek.

I frown at his silly grin. "Do you actually believe that is going to motivate me?"

Of course not. I’m trying to get you to miss. I want to win.

Fat chance, I say, forcing the bow into a deep curve and letting the arrow fly with a deadly twang. It sinks deeply into the center of the knot right in between Bodaway’s three arrows.

You’re so lucky, Bodaway gripes.

It was skill.

No. I meant you’re so lucky because you just won a kiss on the cheek!

He tries to lean towards me with his lips puckered. I push him away with a disgusted look on my face.

Stop that!

Poor winner!

Hey, I thought the expression was ‘poor loser.’

See, even you are acknowledging that your reaction is unnatural!

"You’re unnatural," I declare flippantly. I toss my rebellious ponytail over my shoulder and start heading for the tree with the arrows in the trunk with my chin pointed high in the air. What nerve! He was trying to kiss me! Yuck!

Wait! You’re not done. He holds out two more arrows. It’s only fair. We each shoot three.

I snatch the arrows out of his hand and send them into the same target a split second apart. The three arrows I shoot end up bunched in a tight cluster with each quivering shaft touching.

I frown. I usually don’t show off like this. Something must’ve gotten into me.

You’ve been practicing, Bodaway accuses me through narrowed eyes.

I roll my eyes. How do you expect me to practice without a bow of my own?

I don’t know. Maybe there other fellows that you have secretly befriended and who you have also cajoled into letting you practice with their weapons. It could be that going off to collect herbs for your aunt is just an elaborate ruse to sneak away.

I snort in an unladylike manner. I can only wish!

Leave that for now. His call catches me in mid-stride heading towards the distant target. I have something new to teach you with the sword. I just learned it yesterday.

My eyes light up as Bodaway drags the gleaming steel from the worn sheath on his side. Swordplay is my favorite. I see no practice sticks nearby. Maybe he will let me handle the real thing.

It’s a defensive maneuver. I forget the name of it. But I know how to do it.

I look pointedly at the lone sword in his hand.

It’s pretty easy to defend yourself when no one else around you has a weapon, I snicker.

That’s easily remedied, Bodaway says, pulling out a long, narrow leather-bound satchel. The leather looks ancient but tended to with care.

I gasp with realization. You have another sword!

It’s only borrowed. Be careful with it.

He unwraps it carefully, as though it were some precious heirloom.

Where did you get it?

It was my father’s.

It is some precious heirloom. Bodaway’s father died when he was young. He was said to have been a great warrior. Any weapon that he owned would’ve been the best.

I...I can’t use that sword. I might damage it.

"Nonsense! I want you to use it! And don’t worry about breaking this blade. I was just kidding about being careful. This is good steel. You could use it to chop down trees and you still wouldn’t damage it."

Are you sure? My fingers tremble as I reach for the exposed hilt. The contoured handle fits snugly into my hand as if meant for me. I lift the blade reverentially. This is quite a large sword, almost large enough to require two hands for some people. Yet the blade is as light as air while still feeling substantial. This could do some real damage!

Of course I’m sure! Now stop drooling and come at me with that thing. I’ll show you the maneuver I was telling you about.

I swing the sword above my head a few times with one of my standard warm-up drills to get the feel of it. Then I point the tip towards Bodaway, squint to focus, and let my eyes travel down the length of the long blade to my opponent.

Bodaway glares at me impatiently.

Any time now. I’m getting old over here.

Cool yourself down. I’m just preparing myself.

You’re supposed to be just attacking me in basic form. I’m the one who will be doing all the fancy work.

This is a beautiful blade. It needs to be properly honored.

What..! Just attack me already!

I move then. Bodaway makes a frenzied effort to block my furious onslaught but his blade moves too sluggishly and his movements are too predictable. It takes only seconds for his blade to be indelicately stripped from his hands, his legs to be knocked out from under him, and for the flat of his father’s sword to be pressed victoriously against his chest.

Give! I demand.

He looks up at me from his supine position in surprise. It doesn’t usually happen this fast for him to be disarmed and pinned down at this end of my weapon. But then again, he doesn’t always set me off like this either. His surprise turns to anger. He swats aside my sword tip and sits up.

What was that all about? I’m supposed to be showing you a new trick!

I suddenly feel bad for humiliating him.

Sorry, I say sheepishly. I reach out a hand and help him up. I guess I got a little carried away.

I’ll say you did!

I try smiling at him brightly. So, about this new trick...

He glares at me darkly. I don’t know if I trust you now.

I give him my best innocent face. I promise to be good.

Is that even in your nature?

I can be nice.

His glare turns to a frown. Certainly an improvement in the attitude department, I decide.

Okay, let’s try that again. Come at me. Slower, this time.

I dumb down my attack and he parries my strokes skillfully. His foot placement shifts, and I follow his movements with the proper amount of attention. The strange shuffle seems unorthodox yet somehow his sword hand keeps pace with the fluid movement of his feet. If I wasn’t already one step ahead of Bodaway because I know him so well, I would probably have difficulty pressing my attack. Yes, I can see how such a defense could be effective in certain situations. I file it away along with the dozens of other maneuvers Bodaway has taught me over the years.

I’m sixteen now, I say abruptly, breaking my attention away from the serious stuff. So, we’re actually two years apart. Not three.

He frowns at the belated correction.

I thought that there were at least three years that separated us.

Guess again. Today is my birthday. I flip the blade into my other hand and he makes an adjustment to account for the new angle I’m showing him. Don’t you remember? For twenty-one days of the year it’s down to two years.

Congratulations then! You’re catching up to me.

My bottom lip curls down into a pout. Something’s been bothering me all day and now it’s finally time to get it off my chest. No one even noticed, I complain.

Birthday celebrations are not a big thing in our village, except for when you turn eighteen. You know that.

I don’t want a celebration. I just wanted someone to notice.

Your aunt is a very busy woman keeping the entire village healthy and dealing with the occasional injury, or worse. You can’t expect her to remember everything.

I remain silent.

Of course I don’t tell him that as my best and only friend it is his acknowledgement I was hoping for. But such an expectation is silly. Why would he remember such a thing? I push aside the unwanted feeling of disappointment. After all, here I am enjoying a moment of doing my favorite thing: practicing arms.

Yeah, you’re right, I finally say. After all, it’s not a big deal. Why was I making so much of it?

He raises his left hand to call for a pause in the action.

So, what do you think? He is breathing rapidly from the exercise. I am not laboring at all.

About what?

The new defensive maneuver, of course!

I cover my mouth to hide a smile at his agitation. It secretly amuses me to watch him get frustrated with me. I can tell when I’m getting under his skin because his mouth quirks in a most satisfying manner.

It has potential. Thanks for showing me.

His face beams with pleasure. Do you want to try it?

Certainly!

First, let me walk you through the steps...

I got it already, Warrior boy. You don’t have to show me.

He looks at me with mild disappointment. Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure! Just come at me with that little sword of yours and find out!

He shakes his head and smiles wryly. Too bad they don’t allow girls to receive formal training with the men. You’re probably better at every weapon we are taught to handle than any man in the village. It’s almost as if you have...

He breaks off what he is saying with a sudden look of chagrin.

Don’t say it! I warn. My hand is suddenly clenched so tightly to my sword handle that my knuckles have turned white.

Sorry, he says. I forget that you are so sensitive about that subject. I was obviously just joking, though. Don’t take it so hard.

I feel my heart pounding and realize that my discomfort is probably readily apparent to any observer. What Bodaway doesn’t know is how close to home his near statement strikes. He was going to say that it’s almost as if I have demon blood. The truth of the matter is that I hide secrets about myself that often make me wonder the same thing. It worries me. More than that, it terrifies me.

For one thing, demons are hated and feared by the villagers. They are a fearsome type of human that dwells primarily in the far west beyond the great Blue Mountains and the Forbidden Wastes. I don’t know why they are called demons, but they are said to be quicker and stronger than normal humans. Maybe they received their name as a result of their disposition. They are said to be evil through and through. Stories abound that depict demons as the bane of all humankind, lusting after violence and bloodshed and oppressing the weak. My aunt used to tell me scary stories about them when I was being rebellious to try and frighten me into obedience. The demons will get you! –would always be the warning.

Fortunately no one in my village has ever seen a demon.

I hope that truly remains the case.

Are you okay, Raven? He looks at me with a worried expression. You look... um, rather pale.

No, I’m not okay! –I want to shout at him.

I’m fine, I lie. Just getting ready for your attack.

Oh, right. That. Let me start then.

Bodaway raises his sword and starts slashing away at me. The form he uses follows no specific set of rules so if I had to classify it I would call it his own form of freestyle. My feet follow the unorthodox dance I’d memorized in watching his movements and my blade blocks each of his thrusts. But I pay little attention. My mind is still on the uncomfortable subject Bodaway brought to mind. And the secrets I hide within.

One of these secrets is that Aunt Malia is not even my aunt. I found that out when I overheard her muttering to herself when she thought I was out gathering herbs but had slipped back into my room just to spite her. She had been cross at me and had sent me out to gather a basket-full of bitter root as punishment that day for having a fresh mouth, knowing that I disliked immensely how it smelled. I heard her grumbling to herself about having to raise a thankless child who was not even related to her. It was the first and only time that I received any inkling of that fact. I never even confronted Aunt Malia about the matter. As soon as I heard those words from her mouth it was as if I knew them for the truth.

It makes me wonder who my mother really was. All I really know about her is her name–Aurora, and that she was from a land beyond the Forbidden Wastes. Her village was called Toronto. Aunt Malia let that name slip out one time and I’ve held onto it ever since. Maybe someday I will learn more about this mysterious place called Toronto.

What I’ve been told is that my mother had been found wandering in from the forest, lost and pregnant. Aunt Malia had been so kind as to take her in. Evidently she had everyone in the village believing that my mother was her long-lost sister-in-law. My mother never survived the ensuing labor. I had to be literally cut from my dead mother’s womb. Being the compassionate woman that she is, Aunt Malia raised me as her own child.

All I know about my mother is that she was very beautiful, both of body and of soul. I don’t even need to depend upon Aunt Malia’s opinion to know that. Everyone who met her says the same thing.

I only wish that I had taken after her.

Bodaway suddenly pauses. You’re not paying any attention, are you?

I scowl. Of course I am! You didn’t get through my defense, did you?

Something is on your mind. Why don’t you tell me what it is?

Okay. You got me. I was thinking that I had better get back to Aunt Malia. She would be expecting me back by now. Thank you for the lesson.

I start to wrap the priceless blade back up in the leather satchel.

Wait! Don’t you want to do a little dagger practice before you leave? I see you brought your blade with you.

I don’t have time today. Maybe tomorrow I can slip out again. I’ll see what I can do. I do need the practice.

Yeah, right! You don’t...

Bodaway’s eyes suddenly grow wide and my own eyes probably mirror his.

What the...?

The ground under our feet has begun to shake violently. Leaves rattle on the trees like an unwatched kettle. Around us a rapid series of explosions erupt as tree limbs and entire trunks snap in half.

Get down! Earthquake!

We both drop to the ground and shield our heads from falling branches and debris. Earthquakes are relatively common around here, but this one is more powerful than usual. The ground undulates beneath me like a living thing. For a moment I don’t know which end is up and which end is down. It takes a while for the shaking to finally subside.

I waste no time in bounding to my feet and grabbing the burlap gathering sack.

I have to get back.

Bodaway doesn’t argue. He’s probably just as worried about his mother.

We go our separate ways after a hurried good bye.

Passing the same passion flower vine from before I carelessly toss some of its ripe fruit into my sack and hurry home. That earthquake was unnaturally severe. A bad feeling follows me back to the village.

The shouts and commotion ahead confirm my fears.

Villagers rush about with urgency. Somewhere a child sobs inconsolably from heartbreak. The earthquake has done significant damage to the village. I can see that many of the homes have collapsed.

My heart is hammering wildly as I sprint home.

I pull up short with a horrified gasp. The roof of heavy timbers has collapsed inwardly into a messy heap upon our house.

Aunt Malia! I cry, rushing towards the ruin of what used to be my home.

His own dwelling apparently unscathed, our next door neighbor, Old Jethro, tugs futilely on a shattered rafter trying to help clear the wreckage from my home. A small fire licks at the periphery of the rubble, probably started by one of Aunt Malia’s spilled candles or the constantly burning day lantern she keeps in the workshop.

She didn’t make it out! he says helplessly.

Suddenly I find myself frozen in place. This can’t be happening. I will just blink my eyes and the nightmare will be over. Aunt Malia will tilt her flushed face up from her work and smile at me. I can’t bear the thought of it being any other way.

Don’t just stand there! Help me with this! She may still be alive in there!

Old Jethro’s words wrench me from my state of paralysis. I scramble over to him. I barely notice the villagers closing in behind me, who, having handled their own crisis, are now free to gawk at the disaster the earthquake has made of our home. No one else moves to help. Either they are too numb to act or they think the situation is hopeless.

Bitter tears fill my eyes as my hands tear at the debris.

Then I hear it. A pitiful moan.

Aunt Malia! I cry.

I work even more feverishly to clear the fallen timbers but the great center beam that once worked to support the structure that lies fallen in the way.

I need help with this! I scream.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

There’s no time! The fire, Raven!

The flames have grown quickly, fed by the dried plant material the cabin had been filled with and the susceptible wood of the structure itself.

I know what I have to do. It will spell disaster for me, but I don’t care right now. I have to try and save Aunt Malia even if it means exposing what I am.

Old Jethro tugs on me. Come on, Raven! It’s too late! Save yourself! he says as the smoke and the heat drives him backwards.

No!

I place two hands under the beam. Wood creaks in protest as I strain and the huge rafter is slowly lifted clear of the wreckage. I grit my teeth as a result of the tremendous weight that would break the back of any normal man. Gasps from my audience confirm that they are aware of this. With a final cry of effort, I thrust the beam aside with all my might. It lands with a dull thud a safe distance away. The ground shakes with the impact.

"She’s a demon," a stricken voice mutters behind me. Hostile murmurs follow. It is clear to any witnesses that the strength just shown is far from normal.

But I don’t care. All I care about is the crushed body pressed awkwardly into the debris strewn floor before me. Blood oozes from Aunt Malia’s slightly parted lips. It looks unnatural there. Bright red against pale flesh. A shiver runs down my spine as I watch a skinny red worm of moisture as it makes its way along her skin.

Even as the fire rages beside me I drop beside her and grasp her cold hand. It feels papery and wrong.

Aunt Malia! I sob. Please don’t leave me.

Her eyes suddenly flutter open. She coughs weakly and a mouthful of blood gushes out and spills down her chin.

I feel helpless. I don’t know what to do for her.

She tries to say something. Instead, she coughs up more blood.

Shh, I manage. Just be still.

Angel Face, she forces out between her teeth. Her eyes catch sight of the shocked faces of those around us. Recognition sparks in her eyes that I must have done something to make them aware. Don’t let them scare you. You’re not what they think. You’re more than...

I don’t have time to think about her words. A coughing fit interrupts her words. Suddenly she shudders violently. Her eyes roll back into their sockets. I feel her papery hand go limp.

Aunt Malia is gone.

* * *

The pyre burns long into the night. Aunt Malia’s dead body is not the only one feeding the hungry flames. Anna was also crushed by a collapsing building. It seems impossible that just a few hours ago she was chattering away to me about the mundane affairs typical of a day in the Suni village. Now she too, is gone.

I try not to breathe in too deeply the warm, sweet smell of juniper, but it is everywhere. There is no wind blowing tonight so the smoke just wallows aimlessly along the ground searching for release. It is an evil presence, one that plucks at my resolve not to flee into the forest and hide myself.

I also make an effort not to spend the entire night sobbing with grief. For brief stretches I succeed. But then I would start to think about Aunt Malia and the tears would come back unabated.

Occasional aftershocks add insult to injury. Each time the earth shakes I am reminded of the tragedy that’s been visited upon my personal world.

Through it all I kneel in the dirt beside my ruined home, powerless in grief. Nobody tries to move me. Even when a few brave villagers come to remove Aunt Malia’s battered body I just remain where I am and watch helplessly behind my clenched knuckles. Though it’s not like I have much choice in the matter other than to stay here in this spot and keep up my hopeless vigil. No one offers to take me in for the night. Not that I would have accepted such an offer. I want no man’s disingenuous pity.

Yet beneath the grief a cold fury begins to slowly take root. This is all my unknown father’s fault. If he hadn’t abandoned my mother she would still be alive. She would have been the one to raise me and I wouldn’t be filled with all the feelings of worthlessness that come from being an orphan. Aunt Malia would have been able to enjoy a life free from the thankless task of raising a stubborn child not her own. She would probably be married to some hardworking man. Certainly she would not have been living here in this small humble home when it fell victim to an earthquake. If it wasn’t for my father, Aunt Malia wouldn’t have died.

I also blame my father for causing demon blood to run thick through my veins. This is what has led to the current state of trouble that I’ve no doubt put myself in. Obviously my mother was normal–the villagers would have rejected her otherwise. It was my father who cursed me. I don’t know how two so very different people could have come together long enough to conceive a child, and frankly I don’t care, but my father has some serious explaining to do if I ever run into him.

Unfortunately for me, I have absolutely no clue as to who my father is.

The trial takes place in the morning after a sleepless night.

All in the village have gathered. Most of the smoke from the nighttime burning has dissipated, but enough of it remains to flavor the air with death. This is not the backdrop one would want for their own trial. It is also a smell that will undoubtedly linger with me for the rest of my life.

I stand woodenly in the center of the village square. I wear no bonds but I feel like the beaver I once found caught in a hunter’s trap. My entire future lies in the hands of others. In the case of the beaver, I had looked around for a sign of someone watching and then had let it go. I doubt that I’ll be shown the same mercy.

All six elders stonily confront me. I see no compassion in their faces. All they see is a demon. A demon that, unbeknownst to any of them, lived right in among them for an entire sixteen years. They don’t see the girl that they watched grow up. They don’t see the scared girl I am inside. The girl who wouldn’t even let harm come to a beaver.

I no longer have a mirror to check my appearance, but I imagine that I look hideous. Between the soot, the tears, and the dirt covering my face and body, I probably look exactly like a demon.

Strangely, despite the tense silence of the gathered crowd, life outside the human sphere carries on as though nothing is wrong. The morning sun shines brightly upon the ground. Birds flit about playfully from rooftop to rooftop. The village dogs saunter from person to person. Their tails wag happily because they think their humans have come outside to play with them.

I, for one, don’t feel like playing with them today. I don’t think anyone does. Even the young ones huddle behind their parents and stare at me fearfully. I see Bodaway in the crowd, but his eyes fall away when I catch his glance.

I guess I don’t blame him. He has too much to lose by casting in his lot with me. Still, his silent rejection leaves a bitter taste in the pit of my stomach.

He probably hates me. Maybe it all makes sense to him now. Why the skills he taught me came so easily...why I could pull the weight of their most powerful bow with no effort...why a mere girl