Ballad, The Light Follower

By Joanie Strulowitz

LIFE ON THE ISLAND OF PAGE ONE IS NEARLY PERFECT . . . AS LONG AS NO ONE LOOKS DEEPER.

Seventeen-year-old Ballad is a Light Follower and visionary living on Page One--a nearly Utopian settlement in the middle of no-one-knows-where-or-when. But behind its near perfection lies a sinister hist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fairhaven Road Books
• Release date: May 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781735188126

Joanie Strulowitz

When Joanie Strulowitz was growing up, she felt like frosting without the cake--and not great frosting at that. As an observer who always thought something was wrong with her because she didn't fit in, she discovered that writing, books, and all of the arts helped her make sense of life. With a memory that is largely emotive, Joanie recalls almost every square inch of how she felt growing up. Now she seeks to be the voice she searched for, so the lessons she learned can help others find the gifts in their differences--and believe in themselves and their dreams. * One day, while living in New York City, Joanie happened to glance out her window--and saw a perfectly shaped, cornflower-blue keyhole, in the middle of a sky filled with silver-gray clouds. A giant one that seemed to be waiting expressly for her. As she stared into it, the keyhole expanded--pushed the clouds away--and let the sky float free. The experience felt like a palpable message, in a code that she couldn't decipher. So it lived in the back of her mind for eight years. Until one day--she opened her journal--and the voice of Ballad, a seventeen-year-old Light Follower and visionary, started pouring out of her pen. * Joanie moved from Iowa to Chicago to New York City to Los Angeles. Today you can find her (and her black turtleneck) writing a chapter on a grocery bag while walking home, or jotting down notes for her next fantasy novel while doing Pilates. She is a longtime member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. Her books include: My Love Affair with Manhattan (Vignettes of a Life in the City) and Ballad, the Light Follower (Book 1). You can visit her online at www.joaniestrulowitz.com.

Book preview

MY GRANDPARENTS told me that when the two hundred Pioneers landed on our settlement, it was an uninhabited island in the middle of no-one-knew-where-or-when. They said Mr. Watanabe—the first person who’d picked himself up off the ground—had chosen a shady spot by a golden oak, and immediately started collecting stones to build walls for what became the General Store.

He knew they’d need a gathering place while no other human-made structures existed. But to me, almost fifty years later, it was even more. Because it was one of the only pieces of history any of the Pioneers remembered. Or anyway, one of the only facts anyone on Page One ever mentioned—if they actually remembered anything.

Mr. Watanabe still bowed his head in greeting whenever the little bell on the door of his General Store jingled. And still wore a round button on his shirt, with a drawing of three smiling cats that seemed to wave to whoever walked in. So even though it was where we bartered for everything from produce to dry goods, going there was never just about business.

Even at seventeen, my best friend, Nic, and I loved everything about it; from the lettuce-green hitching posts and front door, to wandering around, seeing what new things the old Pioneer had displayed on his plank shelves. He joked that it didn’t matter how long we spent there since neither of the two watches on our settlement worked anyway. So everyone measured time in blinks, bushels, days, months, and years.

And we spent a bushel of time there, sucking on smoky-sweet molasses taffy from a jelly jar on the barrel of grain in the corner. Trying on cozy hats the sawyer’s wife had knitted. Watching goldfish, the color of wild honey, swimming in bowls the glassblower had made. And breathing in the mulberry-scented paper Mr. Watanabe set aside for me even when I was little, so I’d never run out of pages for my journals.

Every time we left, he said to please tell my aunt that people still waited in line every morning for her freshly baked Libbet’s Pies. But today I had the attention span of a fruit fly. So when Mr. Watanabe said only that he’d just finished blending his special healing tea for my mother, all I could think was, Whew.

When he handed me the small muslin bag, I bowed respectfully and laid the deep-purple eggplants from Mama’s garden on his counter.

No, no, Ballad. It’s bad luck to turn down a gift. Then we both laughed, because we knew he’d made that up so I wouldn’t risk trying to convince him. Take some candy for your sweet sister, on your way out. He bowed and disappeared into his back room before I could try bartering for that, too.

When I went outside, Nic was leaning against the hitching post, tying his boots and waiting for me. He took one look at the bag of vegetables on my shoulder, and the little muslin one in my hand, and shook his head.

Wow, I can’t believe it’s been over a year, and he still won’t accept anything for your mama’s tea.

I unbuckled the pocket on my grandfather’s walnut-colored journal pouch that hung from my belt, and slid the fragrant tea inside it. He’s amazing. He even made a bundle of matches so we can keep it extra warm for her.

I pulled my patch of white hair down so Nic wouldn’t see what I called my worry dent by my one white brow. But after a lifetime of our homesteads butting up against each other’s, and him practically growing up at my place, he understood me so well that he pretended not to notice. And changed the subject as we headed for home.

Speaking of amazing Pioneers, I ran into Sabina and Reiner on my way here. He said next time we stop by the Grove, he’ll show us plans for the new land sculpture he’s building.

As we walked through what everyone called town (the few shops between the General Store and my aunt and uncle’s homestead, the Lighthouse), I felt Nic watching me. Wondering why I barely glanced at the brightly painted shop doors I’d always loved. Especially Dji’s, the glassblower’s, that was as orange as the fire in his oven. And Thui’s, the candlemaker’s, that was hot pink like Mama’s roses.

I felt him wondering why my voice was so low he had to lean in to hear me. Especially as we walked past the hub of our settlement—the Grove—where everybody hung out to work on our art. Or, in my case, writing. Nic and I were such regulars there, the Pioneers always saved us a tree stump table near theirs, and joked about carving our names on top. Now though, I didn’t even breathe in the plum trees like always. And only waved to a couple of settlers, instead of stopping to talk as usual.

Finally, in front of my home—the Cabin—Nic stopped. Hey, Ballad. You okay?

I leaned against my front gate. Yeah, but . . . I looked over my shoulder to make sure my family wasn’t outside. You know how the first thing I do every morning is go in my parents’ room to see how Mama’s feeling?

Nic nodded, but dug his hands deep into his pockets as I talked.

This morning, when I went in, their bed was empty! Do you know where she was? Downstairs in our great room, spooning porridge into our bowls. She had on red lipstick and that beautiful flowered skirt she used to wear all the time. Mama looked so healthy—like when she used to dance with Flower and me—I was afraid I’d jinx it if I said anything. So I just gave her a gentle hug, and said the porridge smelled great.

Ballad! She’s feeling that good? You’re going to make me cry. And we both know that never happens!

She loves you too, man. Knock on wood she’s finally on the mend. Especially after she could barely smile last night. I looked back at my cabin again. Part of me is so excited, I could jump up and down like a little kid. But the rest of me is still jittery because seeing their empty bed . . .

Hey, you’ve been a rock for your family for over a year. You’re just finally letting yourself feel everything.

How did you get to be so smart?

Nic laughed. I have to be to keep up with you.

I punched his arm. Hey, maybe when Mama’s strong enough, we’ll finally be able to tell our parents about our Quest. Just think, no more feeling guilty about keeping it a secret all these years! Now that she’s getting healthy again, maybe we’ll actually be able to go next year, like we planned.

And celebrate our eighteenth birthdays on the Other Side. Wow. He grinned. One more thing we can plan while we roast marshmallows at the Pit. I still can’t believe we’re the only ones who ever go there.

He looked at the sun. I told Ma and Pa I’d spend the day helping them make batches of soap. We’re taking them to the General Store in the morning. Hug everybody for me, okay? And tell your mama to save some tea so we can have it together when I stop by.

Nic walked over to his fence, then turned back, and grinned. Tell your sister I’m going to beat her at cards.

I was still laughing when I went inside.

I OPENED my bedroom door, saw my solid-as-a-tree father sitting on my bed staring blankly into space—and I stopped breathing. When he looked at me, his eyes were glazed, sunken.

It’s over, Ballad. It’s over. Pa covered his face with his strong weathered hands. His body swayed like an empty rocker in the wind. I couldn’t absorb his words. But I understood his sobs. Mama, our angel, had passed away.

My mind reeled backward in time. Flashes! Me, at fifteen. My father, sitting on my bed—his husky voice choking out words about a premonition that felt as real as the illness it warned of. He’d never come to me for comfort before, so I didn’t know how to answer. But I must have said something right because he stopped clenching my quilt; and before he went back to bed, patted my head. We never talked about it again until . . .

Flashes! Me, last year at sixteen. Pa, sitting on my bed again. Telling me his premonition had come to life. Mama was racked with the same illness that had taken my grandparents just a few months earlier. One that spread like wildfire through their lungs. He said when the midwife told them Mama had it too, she just pressed her lips together as she wrote on her chalkboard, I’m lucky. It won’t be able to take my voice away, since I was born without one.

She was so strong, Pa wouldn’t let himself cry in front of her. So he came to me instead. I wanted to be there for him, but I didn’t know what to say. Or how to reach out my arms to hug him.

This time, his voice was low, muffled. Flower . . . picking berries on the mountain. Have to go tell her . . . He ran his hands over his face. Libbet and Charlie are watching over . . . He couldn’t say, Mama.

I saw his grief. Heard his words like an echo in the back of my mind. But I was rooted to the floor. Noises crashed around me. My bed frame creaking as he stood up. His footsteps sounding hollow, lost, as he shuffled across the floorboards. And the Cabin door groaning closed behind him.

I wanted to call out, I’ll follow you after I see Mama. But the words stuck inside me, and my feet were already walking toward my parents’ room.

We’d always called Libbet and Charlie our aunt and uncle, even though they weren’t. But now they felt like shadows moving across the wall. Libbet, tucking the quilt around my mother’s shoulders like it could make her best friend more comfortable. Her teardrops on it, as she cried quietly, then quickly wiped her eyes when she saw me. As they left the room to give us—me—privacy, Charlie reached out his strong arms to hug me. But when I walked past him and knelt beside Mama’s bedside, he tugged at his earlobe instead, then softly pulled the door shut behind them.

My mother’s cheeks were still as soft and warm as if she were asleep. But this time when I kissed them, she couldn’t kiss mine back. I took the bag of tea from my pocket—the special healing one that kind Mr. Watanabe had made. And placed it on the night table beside her still-steaming teapot.

Just the day before, my mother had handed me her key to give to Flower someday without saying why I should wait. Then she’d taken off her grandfather’s watch with its long gold chain—warmed the treasured pieces against her cheek—then folded my fingers over them.

I’d whispered, What if they break?

She gave me the gentlest smile as she leaned toward her night table then brushed her favorite teacup onto the wooden floor. As we watched the pottery shatter, her message was as clear as if she’d told me, Sweetheart, if they break, so what?

If only I could have asked her, What if I break? The thought made me bite my lip so hard, I tasted drops of blood.

How could this have happened to someone so alive that her happiness had filled the stage at our Vibe Road Fairs when she danced? To Mama, who’d written on her chalkboard that ballet was the only voice she’d ever needed?

Mama, at breakfast today, you were so beautiful. I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid I’d jinx how healthy you looked. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to introduce you and my girl with the floppy hat. We’ve only been together for two weeks. I thought we still had time.

Even as I said it, I pictured them never being able to hug hello or having Mama see that I was as happy as she’d hoped I’d be someday.

Indigo—Indie—has almond-shaped eyes like yours; only hers are silver-green like our olive trees. There are so many other things I wish I could’ve told you.

Wish. My skin prickled with guilt and shame that I’d only told my grandparents about Nic’s and my Quest. If only I could’ve told her now that we were trying to protect her, Pa, and Nic’s parents from worrying for years before we were old enough to go; and had known that, as Pioneers, her parents, Fia and Marsh, would understand. But I couldn’t get the words out.

More thoughts burned in the back of my throat. If I talk to you later, will you hear me, like Spirit does? And still be able to let me know what you’re thinking? I’m afraid to stop touching your cheeks, Mama. What if I forget how soft they feel?

I couldn’t cry in front of her, in case . . . I swallowed hard. Pa went to tell Flower . . . about you. I need to be there. I smoothed the quilt below Mama’s chin. Libbet and Charlie are still here. They’ll . . . keep you company . . . tell you stories.

I unwrapped the little packet of tea, and put it into her teapot so the syrupy aroma of slippery elm bark could fill the breeze the way she’d always liked. Then I kissed my fingers, and touched them to her silky chocolate hair.

I love you, Mama. I always will. Sweet dreams.

I SAW PA’S BOOT PRINTS on the dusty road in front of our cabin, but didn’t know why I was looking at them, or even where I was. I only knew I was trapped inside a cloud where I saw everything, but had no words to tell me what the objects were. I didn’t know how long I stood there, or what brought me back. A chirping bird? A fly buzzing by my ear? Whatever it was, it jolted me awake so fast, it lurched me into motion.

I talked to my father in my mind. I’m coming, Pa. I’m right behind you. I stepped faster, harder, on each boot print, hoping he could feel my weight.

I’m sorry I didn’t hug you. Or say I’d go with you to tell Flower. I froze. But I’m hugging you now. Trying to catch up. So you won’t have to tell Flower about . . . Mama . . . by yourself.

I told myself, Don’t cry! Can’t cry! Can’t let the other settlers see my grief. Pull up my collar. Be strong for Pa. For Flower. It’ll take both of us to help her heal. To raise her. My sweet sister, who thinks with her heart.

I smoothed my fingers over my journal pouch on my hip like I always did when I needed to feel that Marsh, my grandpa, was with me. But all I felt was the leather. So I counted my footsteps, to keep my mind on numb. All the way to the Grove. Past settlers who were sharing tree stump tables and laughs like they did every day—because they didn’t know the sky had just caved in.

Sabina and her husband, Reiner, who’d been my grandparents’ best friends, called to me from the entrance. They would’ve realized about Mama just from seeing my eyes. And helped me find my father and sister, without asking questions. But I kept my head down—fumbled in my pouch—zipped my jacket up, down, up again—anything to act like I didn’t see or hear them. Anything to keep my hysteria hidden inside me.

I turned up my voice in my head, to block theirs. I can do this. I can do this. And dug my fingertips into the palms of my hands so I wouldn’t cry. All while watching out of the corner of my eye for my family.

When I passed Libbet and Charlie’s homestead, my father and sister were still nowhere in sight. Two hundred more steps to the left. Another hundred. Until just as I reached the mountain where Pa went to search for Flower, I saw fresh, heavy crush marks on the tall grass. Pa’s boot prints. I called out. But the only answer was the wind that came at me in a hot, glaring blast.

Fear slammed my gut so hard, I pressed my hands against it to keep from passing out. It must not have helped, because it wasn’t until a tumbleweed brushed against my hand that I opened my eyes. Glanced down. And then I saw my father.

Pa, who could’ve danced on the peak of the mountain without falling—was lying face down at the bottom!

I buried my screams in my knees until there was nothing left inside me. But they wouldn’t let go of my mind even as I stumbled, slid, caught my feet on tangled roots while I worked my way to the rocky ground below. Finally, I reached his side.

Please, Pa, let me hear you breathing! I begged him. Pressed my ear to his back. But all I found was what I already knew. There was no breath left to hear.

I love you, Pa.

I hugged him tighter than I ever had before; breathed in the woodsy scent of him, from the forest where he knew every last tree. For that instant, he was still the same Pa—even though he wasn’t. Our father, who’d looked like a giant to us when we were little. Pa, who’d pulled himself up so high, we had to crane our necks as he pretended to be taller than the sky, wider than the moon, so a then six-year-old me, and three-year-old Flower, could run into his outstretched arms. My sister, with her calico pinafores, who even at fourteen, still believed he outshone the moon.

Flower! Where was she? What if she’d finished picking berries and started looking for us? She couldn’t see him that way. My mind was clay. I rubbed my fingers protectively against Pa’s shoulder. He was taller and broader than I was, and the mountain reached into the sky. There was no way to carry him up the side alone. Not without falling. No way in hell would I put him through that pain again, even though he wouldn’t—couldn’t— feel it.

Instead, I choked out words to my father like I had to Mama, in case maybe some part of him could still hear me.

Pa, Charlie will worry that we’ve all been gone for so long. He’ll find us before Flower does. He will. I’m not leaving you.

I forced myself to sound calm—to be calm. Over and over, I reminded myself that Charlie had been his best friend for his entire life; that he wouldn’t stop until he found us.

I didn’t know if my talking was for Pa or me. I only knew I couldn’t stop.

Remember how people always said you two had more energy than ten people together? How you both laughed, and said it was from your special smoky coffee? Pa, you were everybody’s hero.

I touched his thick, chocolate-colored hair. I wanted to tell him he was my hero, too. That I’d always been glad my hair was exactly like his except for my white patch. How I’d always wanted to be like him when I grew up. I still did. But I couldn’t get the words past the lump in my throat.

My mind flashed back to all the times I’d tried to copy him. Even his walk had a special roll to it. Like he’d just gotten off a horse. Mama said it was from a log falling on his hip during a barn raising. But I thought he looked so rugged, I rammed my leg against our woodpile when I was little, so I could walk like that, too. All I got was a bruise.

I took off my jacket and tucked it around him. Then hugged him to keep him warm while we waited. Do you remember when you gave this to me? You said it was because I’d outgrown mine. Was that really why? Or did you remember my curling up under it when I was little—so I could smell the old leather, and pretend the winged ship patch inside it would help me be like you?

I rubbed my hand over his shoulder. I can’t believe I never asked why such a beautiful patch was inside your jacket instead of where everyone could see it. Was it so the wings could be close to your heart?

Chills went up the back of my head as I remembered all the times I’d traced the ship with my fingers. I thought the wings were so magical. How did I never think to ask if it had a special meaning, or was just cool? How many other things did I not think to ask?

I remembered Marsh telling Pa, I’m proud of you, Liam. Giving Ballad the only piece you had of your father’s. He’d called the patch that important symbol. But when they saw me, my grandpa had changed the subject.

I pushed words out until my voice was hoarse. Then I pushed out more. Even as I watched for my uncle. He should be here soon, Pa. He’s probably still with Mama. And didn’t realize it’s getting late.

I looked at the sky. Tried picturing Charlie standing at the top of the mountain, looking down at Pa and me—and believed to help bring him to us. When he still didn’t appear, I closed my eyes and believed harder. I knew my father couldn’t hear me, but made myself sound positive, just in case.

It wasn’t until the breeze picked up that I heard Charlie desperately calling our names from above. I thought I’d used up all my tears. But when I stood, I saw his always-upbeat face sagging with grief that looked like mine felt. And my knees buckled under me again. I felt every root he stumbled over on his way down. And the holes he dug into the dirt, as his boots gripped the ground. But it was when he gently rolled my father over that all either of us saw, felt, was Pa’s pain—anguish— blood. I lay my head against his chest as his best friend cradled him in his arms. And we cried together until the sky turned pink above us.

Panic gripped me. Flower! Have you seen her?

Charlie looked away. Libbet is taking care of her and . . . He rubbed his wedding band nervously. She’s safe. He pulled his shirt off over his head.

Safe. Would anything ever feel safe again? Don’t think. Keep moving.

So I followed Charlie’s lead, and took my shirt off, too. Then we swaddled Pa’s face and chest, and tied our belts around him. To keep him covered. And give us something to grip on the steep climb up.

Maybe it was the heavy sticks that helped us dig into the raw ground. Or something up above that was bigger than we were. Or maybe it was because up was the only way out.

Whatever it was, we held Pa close. And kept on climbing, together.

The mountain was so close to our cabin, it took as long to settle Pa beside me in Charlie’s covered wagon as for him to drive us home. As I touched the rough wood planks, I could almost see how excited Pa and Charlie had been when they’d built it extra-small, so just two horses could pull both our families. Never remotely guessing it would be used for this someday. Which was something else that didn’t make sense.

I was so used up, all I could do was watch life, death—whatever it was—from a distance. Like it was happening to somebody else. I saw myself hugging my fearless hero—swaddled from the top of his head down over his chest—as we lay together on the hard wagon bed, listening to the clip-clop of Charlie’s horses.

I’d gone up and down the road through Page One countless times since first learning to walk. So even though the wagon cover hid it, I knew exactly where we were, and what we were approaching, just from the sounds under the wheels. I held Pa closer over the crunchy, slippery gravel that meant we were passing Libbet and Charlie’s cabin, the Lighthouse—our home away from home. And again when my uncle guided his wagon past the sharp rocks by the Grove, where I’d cut my heel running barefoot when I was little. I hadn’t let myself cry then. I couldn’t do it now.

Because the closer we got to the Cabin, the deeper I felt my sister’s panic throbbing, throbbing, throbbing in the air. I swallowed so hard, I almost choked; then hugged my father tighter, and talked to him almost nonstop.

Pa, remember how Charlie used to drive us around when Flower was little, and couldn’t fall asleep? As soon as she curled up under your arm, you both nodded off. I always stayed awake though, so I could stretch out my legs next to yours to see how I measured up. I’m almost as tall as you now. But I’m just me, Ballad. Maybe someday I’ll be your height, but I’m afraid I’ll never measure up to you.

I rested my chin against his shoulder, but the layers of clothes that protected him felt thick and dusty from the climb.

I’m sorry to hang on to you when I know you need to go. I’m trying to be brave for Flower, so you and Mama can rest together in peace. But Pa, what do I tell her? She’s smart, and strong, but she’s still a rosebud in so many ways. How can I promise to take care of her, when I’m not even sure I can do everything for myself ? How can she feel safe knowing all she has left is me?

I paused at the sound of the sawyer’s husky voice on the road. Hey, Charlie, Schlichting called out. You’re moving mighty slow. Everything okay with your wagon?

I peered through the space between the canvas cover and the frame that was hiding my father and me from the other settlers.

Charlie just pulled his broad-brimmed hat a little lower, like he was tipping it to say thank