Born Torn: Kiara Noir Mother Nature Series, #1

By Suz Eglington

Welcome to Suz Eglington's Born Torn- Kiara Noir Mother Nature Series.

Reader Views 2023-2024 Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Teen/Young Adult Book of the Year and Grand Prize Overall Fiction Bronze Award.

BookLife Prize Quarter Finalist and Editors Pick

 

Sixteen-year-old, Kiara Noir, is fed up living in her mother choices.

She is at her half year age and the dreams of becoming a famous photographer, exploring the world through her camera lens, are consuming her desires.

Gilmore Girls type Mother-Daughter duo clash at the one big problem why Willow Noir ran away from her homeland. Independence.

 

Willow, understanding Kiara's motives, struck a deal that would allow Kiara more freedom only to open their mundane quiet life into a terrifying and thrilling turn.

Now, forced to leave their roots in Colorado and return to the secret land of Willow's childhood.

 

It is in this odd and mysterious community that Kiara must adapt to the foreign cultures and customs Willow fled.

 

And in this realm, Kiara's identity unveils along with lifelong questions finally answered, making her the target to a new problem. A drawback in need of elimination to bring order in securing the future of the entire Kingdom and Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suz Eglington
• Release date: Jun 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224425754

Book preview

1. Pick Your Battles

Y ou don’t get it! Seriously , Mom, you don’t understand!

Okay, that came out a bit harsher than I intended, but it still didn’t render enough of Mom’s attention to stop the bloodletting of herself in the garden.

The list inside my head of places I wanted to visit kept growing longer. It wasn’t just national parks or even the seven wonders of the world. I searched small towns that were rich in history and looked like Hallmark movie settings. I needed to focus. Pick which destination was most important and stick to the arguments I’d been practicing for this moment in the mirror of the bathroom for days. Keep it together. I got this!

I debated in my head which to ask her for. Which one did I want most? Because if I didn’t win right there and then, I knew it was all going to fall like a house of cards.

I so badly wanted to travel beyond the limits of this sacred ground. See the world. Tell my story in pictures. Become a great photographer. Sell coffee-table books. Travel.

Okay. She might go for that.

Kiara, get to the point. Tell me what is going on in your head. Use your words. I don’t have time for guessing games.

Mother’s face tightened. She turned the soil with her droplets of blood around the tomato plant, then pushed the support cage back in the earth, moving on to the next one.

Want me to use my words, Mom?!

I want to go to college! I said it. It really came out.

It wasn’t what I had planned to open with, but it was ultimately what I wanted. College would cover all my needs. I stood taller and crossed my arms in front of my chest to show her I meant it.

Mom sighed in relief, almost smiling. I believe that can be arranged. It will have to be one with all-online classes. We need to research scholarships, find out what is available to help cover the cost, but with your awards and academic scores I don’t see a problem.

"No, Mom. I want to goooo to college. Live on campus."

She turned toward me with a deadpan stare. No. She focused back on the soil. Out of the question.

I don’t understand. It’s a prison here. Why can’t I go? I pointed down the road. We left the reservation to get my license. Nothing happened!

I said no. It’s online or nothing at all.

I am so sick of doing everything online. Why can’t I leave? Tell me. Tell me!

Mother’s shoulders slumped. She placed the other tomato cage firmly in the soil, then rested the spade on one of the two-by-six planks of wood from her raised tomato bed. She leaned forward and rose, standing a good five inches taller than me.

She pulled a band-aid from her apron and brushed her dirty hands on her coveralls. Taking the corner of the band-aid wrapper in her teeth, Mom tore it open, peeled the bandage out, and covered the self-inflicted cut in her palm, even though the wound would be healed in minutes.

She finished her non-explanation, wiping both hands on her apron more vigorously before returning my gaze. We have gone over this. It is not safe to leave this reservation.

That’s all you say. I could feel disappointment and heat rising inside me. Come on, Mom! Use your words. Why?!

Kaw’s inky-black wings glided in the gentle breeze above us. He swooped down and landed a few feet away, then walked between the vegetable beds, scouting for bugs.

Well, my words three decibels louder back in my face, Mom practically laughed. Such bite. So much distain. Makes me feel I raised you right. Proud mother moment.

I grew even more heated inside. This conversation was going nowhere.

I know I am a witch!

Mom jolted upright, though she wore an amused hide-a-grin from me. A witch?

I hauled up one of the full vegetable baskets set on the basil green grassy patch to the side of the raised garden bed. You don’t have to hide it anymore. I watch you make the potions. The chanting. How you mix the leaves. The precise way you crush them. We are witches. And the blood. I pointed to where she performed her latest ritual.

Mother huffed with her hand on her hip and repositioned, angling her body more toward the raised beds. We are not witches, love. Ever entertain the idea of searching the word botanist? Herbalist is another label people use.  Witch? No.

You cure people. My certainty waivered at her reaction. Mr. Remeere sells out of your potions as soon as he puts them on his shelves. He told me. He says you are some sort of variation of magical person. A witch doctor.

Witch doctor? Magic? Mom practically snorted. I am good at pairing plants. I studied this stuff, Kiara. I understand about PH levels, about soil, about photosynthesis, about fungi, about what plant has which medicinal properties. This is my life. I studied. I come from a long line of healers, and I am above-average at it. We are not witches.

Great, now I am nothing. Right back to zero. I turned at the sound of tires on gravel as an older, blue Subaru wagon came into view, heading to the farmstand.

Mom continued loading bushels of vegetables into her cart. Kiara, I understand this isn’t ideal. We won’t be limited to here forever. Six years. Give me six years. Then we should be in the clear.

I grabbed the handle of another cart and, once Mother had finished loading, wheeled both veggie-filled wagons down toward the roadside farmstand, slow and steady. I didn’t want the wagons to get ahead of me and tip over.

Mrs. Smith smiled as she inspected the vegetables. These are perfect, Kiara. Ashley Meyer is getting married this weekend and, although I do not approve of her choice in a husband, the food will be remarkable enough to be remembered. I will make sure of that.

I smiled politely and helped Mrs. Smith load the back of her vehicle. She lugged the bushels, pushing them toward the front.

Exquisite, Kiara, Mrs. Smith said as she brandished a ten-dollar tip for loading.

I pocketed the cash. Thank you, Mrs. Smith.

She frowned. Wait! I have something extra. I remember it’s your half-birthday. Or almost.

Mrs. Smith power-walked to the front of her car and groaned, leaning in and pulling something from the cupholder between the front seats. She grinned, trying to cover as much of the cup as she could.

She chuckled. I saw this and, oddly enough, thought of you. I hope your mother doesn’t get too upset with me. I laughed in the store as I thought to myself this is your type of humor.

She handed me a travel mug. Liquid sloshed inside.

Oh, your favorite latte, extra caramel. I remembered. She winked, and I read the text on the tumbler: I shoot people and sometimes cut off their heads. Cameras in all shapes and sizes dotted the background.

I didn’t even try to suppress an ear-to-ear grin. I love this! Where did you find it?

I had to drive into the Springs to pick up some specialty wedding decorations. This wedding is so black and white that the only color is going to be from the food.

She pointed to the travel mug. They have a new photography-themed section. Gifts and fancy wedding albums. Nothing like lenses or expensive specialty items you would be interested in. I found this, though, and just had to get it for you. Happy sweet-sixteen-and-a-half.

She gathered me into a hug. If Willow lets you, go check it out. They have all kinds of fun, gifty stuff. Maybe bring some of your pictures. Put them in frames. I bet they would take them on consignment to sell.

She winked to me and waved to Mom after she pulled down the hatch. I gotta go. Happy half-birthday, sweetheart.

I smiled and sipped my latte as I waved to Mrs. Smith with my fingers wrapped around the travel mug.

Mom wheeled two more wagons full with local orders to the farmstand.

What’s that? She pointed to my new black, white, and red mug.

Mrs. Smith bought me a half-birthday gift. I held the mug aloft for her to read: I shoot people and sometimes cut off their heads.

She raised her eyebrows. Photography humor?

I wore a wide grin. This is my new favorite mug.

Your half-birthday isn’t until tomorrow.

I shrugged. She has to prep for that wedding everyone is talking about.

Mother frowned and muttered under her breath, The only news around here is about babies, weddings, and death.

She loaded the boxes on the back shelf behind me. I get it. You feel like I am holding you back.

I held my new mug to my chest. Held back? I am in prison.

Mother continued to load the boxes. Atop each was an envelope bearing the customer’s name, with an invoice resting inside. Fifty-mile radius isn’t a bad sentence. And it’s Colorado. It’s beautiful here.

I shifted on my stool, agitated. I just wanted her to leave so I could get back to day dreaming.

I set my new mug on the counter at the front window and began to help unload the carts to get her back to the house so I could be alone and think.

The difference is you want to be here. You chose this place. I don’t have a choice. You don’t talk about family, my father, or even where you grew up. What state are you really from and why did you leave? Why is this place so important to you?

Mother muscled up the box she was lifting and plunked it on the counter, clearly frustrated. It’s important because it is sacred land. The government can’t touch this land. Can’t pollute it or hurt it. It’s beautiful here. You see it with the photographs you take. This place ... She inhaled a long, controlled breath. It’s perfect.

I huffed. I just want to see what’s out there beyond my confinement. Why is that such a problem?

She took another deep breath, slowly releasing out from her mouth and calmly centering her body. Kiara, I swore to protect you. This world is not the fantasy you imagine in your head. It’s not the romance in the books you read. It’s not the logic in your studies. It’s deeper. Underneath all the layers ... it’s cruel. It’s heartbreaking. The fighting. The pollution.

She pondered out the farmstand window, scanning the beige and green fields, brilliant Paddington-blue sky. Her posture softened as she spoke, You give yourself to it and it takes what it wants. Leaving you alone. Reminding you that you are a mere sacrifice. That’s all you are. A sacrifice.

She turned to face me and I noticed her eyes were glossed with tears. And they tell you it is for the greater good. She shook the sadness out of her face and stood taller, not allowing a tear to shed. So, I will be the sacrifice of my choosing. Safe. Healing people. This is the greater good. This is where we belong. This is where we are making our own decisions.

I couldn’t help it. I was the one stuck here. You belong here, not me. This isn’t my decision.

She started to march off and stopped, stepping back and striking the farmstand doorway frame in frustration. My heart sank. I pushed her too far.

She grabbed both handles of the empty wagons and stormed up the driveway.

Kaw landed on top of the farmstand’s open door and squawked at me.

I know, I said. I don’t need a lecture from you, too.

2. The Visitor

We didn’t say much to each other over dinner. It was convenient to just keep reading my book while I ate. I figured she had purposefully cooked one of my favorite meals because of our fight. The chicken was tender, and the garlic sauce mouthwatering. I continued eating slowly, savoring each bite, keeping my nose in my book.

I still didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t understand this bubble we lived in.

These seasoned baby potatoes are the best. I cut one into quarters and glided a piece through the garlic sauce. Each bite, heaven.

Mom stared at me. I could feel her watching me.

My eyes darted up as her fork hit her plate with a loud clang. She folded her hands with her elbows on the table and supported her chin, staring, waiting for my attention.

I lowered my book. Fine, what?

I don’t want to fight with you. Tomorrow is your half-birthday. I don’t want to celebrate the dark anymore.

But you said with all the good we must embrace the downside.

I just don’t want to. Keeping you here is embracing it enough.

So, no cake?

I will make you a cake. I just don’t want to hide anymore. And drag you through all my traditions. I chose this life for us.

So, no ritual of giving our blood back to the earth?

Mother shook her head. Nope.

That’s the other reason I thought we were witches.

She slowly smiled. No, that was just us giving back to the earth.

What do we do tomorrow?

She lowered her right hand to rest on the table, leaning into her left palm. I don’t know. Let’s make it up as we go.

Okay, Mom. I like that.

She sat straighter. I’m sorry you feel trapped here.

I don’t. I felt the last of the anger drain out of me as I set my book on the table and walked over to her, taking her right hand. I just want to explore. See different scenery in person. Take pictures. Make a coffee-table book. Enter bigger, better photo contests.

She stood and embraced me. How about we make a deal? Five years instead of six. Take your college classes online, then we will go to Europe, travel around, see the world.

I’ll be twenty-one and a half?

Yes, twenty-one and a half.

I smiled and pressed harder into her shoulder. You promise?

She kissed the top of my head. Promise.

I nodded gently. Okay, five years.

I AWOKE AND SAT STRAIGHT up in bed. Cool goosebumps tingled all over the skin of my arms. I rubbed them and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Two a.m., the time when I was born. Something was happening.

I slid my feet out from the warmth of the homemade, Christmas-tree-green-and-white pattern quilt I made with Mom when I was eight.

My black tank top and flannel black-and-white plaid bottoms weren’t enough right now. I picked up a navy-blue hoodie and slipped my arms in, zipping it most of the way up, and padded to the window.

The moon was glowing strangely bright, especially because it was only a three-quarter moon. There wasn’t any reason for it to be this luminous.

As I faced out toward the raised vegetable beds, I spotted a figure. I gasped and covered my mouth before putting my right hand on the window frame to steady myself.

A surge of alertness coursed through me. As my eyes adjusted to the light outside, I observed the form more vividly.

Mom? I whispered to myself.

Smoke was rising to the right of her. Flames broke from the smoke and a small fire confirmed it was Mother, holding a dagger in one hand.

A wave of understanding washed over me as I knelt to a more comfortable position, now holding onto the window frame with both hands. Mother is going through with the blood ritual without me.

I sat and watched quietly. One less crazy ritual and another step toward freedom. Maybe if I don’t participate in any of her made-up little ceremonies, I can shorten the five-year sentence. She can do these as often as she likes. Give back to the earth. Never understood this. Why would the earth want some drops of my blood? Never understood any of this.

I continued to stare as Mother removed the hood of her cloak and pulled up the right sleeve. Blood dripped from her hand while she chanted. Her voice was deep and steady. It was almost over.

The dagger rested on top of the flames. Mother turned it over with her clean hand. Seconds went by and she picked it up and pressed it against the open cut, still chanting, neither flinching nor letting her voice waver.

All at once the scar on my palm itched, then began to burn. It looked normal, but the pain made me grab my right hand and rub the scar hard with my left thumb.

The ceremony was over. Now came the part where Mother prayed over the water, then thanked the fire, slowly pouring the prayer water over the sticks, and thanked the earth for her life and mine.

I could feel my eyes swell with tears. Ever since I could remember I had been made to take part in this ceremony to respect death on the midway point between my birthdays.

Memories of that dagger in Mother’s left hand, firmly gripping my tiny right hand, with no chance of getting away. All I could do was turn my head and wait for the pain of the dagger cutting a tiny slit into my palm.

By middle school, I would anticipate the dread of the ceremony approaching long before the day itself. My stomach would twist into knots days in advance over the knowledge of what awaited me. As I grew older, I still hated every part of it.

Why bleed for the earth? I never understood why Mom sacrificed, opening the same wound each year, to put some drops of blood into the soil. She already did that enough during harvesting season.

Now I was a bystander, witnessing what Mom was doing with fresh eyes, seeing the beauty of the ceremony. Seeing the gratefulness to the earth for providing our money to live and put food on the table.

My heart swelled with an understanding deep inside. Drips of tears rolled down my left cheek. I was proud to have such a strong, albeit crazy, mother.

The smell of smoke wafted into my bedroom. I wiped my eyes and inhaled, watching the wind push the cloud of smoke toward our rustic-brown, one-level, log-cabin ranch.

I began to feel a little heavy, as if gravity recalculated, wrapping me in invisible pressure, pulling me down. My weighted shoulders drooped, and my brain tingled.

I dragged my hands from the window to the floor and bent over, struggling to catch my breath. The room felt lopsided. What is happening? What ...?

I sat there, eyes closed, as the feeling began to fade. My room filled with the burnt ember smell from the fire dying. It tasted like smoke was filling inside my room. I kept my eyes closed as I reached up, pulling the window shut. My eyes now safely open watched as the smoke blanketed the outside of the window and travelled up the side of our home, as if searching for another way inside.

I lowered and felt my way along the floor. It took all the strength I had to hold my head up. Why do I feel so sleepy? I crawled to my bed and climbed back in, shutting my eyelids and immediately drifting to sleep.

LOOKING LEFT, THEN right, I noticed thick woods all around. The colors were vivid and crisp, but the area was unrecognizable. Nothing familiar. The trees were taller than any I had ever seen.

I walked with the tip of the dagger in front of me, bobbing in sync with my footsteps. I glanced down. It was in my hand. I could feel the heated metal in my hand, throbbing with each step. I gripped tighter.

Am I in danger? I turned. Where is this place?

I became aware of the weight of my clothing hanging from my body. I grabbed at the side of the thick velvet material, pulling a section into my view, stopping to see what I was wearing. It was Mother’s ceremonial cloak. My hands reached up, still holding the dagger in my right hand, feeling for an edge to grab on my hood as the chill of the night air burned against my cheeks and ears.

I covered my head, still holding tight to the dagger, and scanned the strange forest for anything recognizable.

A shadow! I leaned forward and started to crouch, bending my knees and gripping onto a thin tree. No, not a shadow. It was a human figure. Possibly a man.

I scrunched my eyes for better focus. My stomach twisted. My lungs tightened. My hands quickly covered my torso, protecting from an attack, holding the dagger against my body.

The forest started to spin. Everything started to spin, and I shifted forward onto my knees for better support. My body begged to lay against the cool, firm ground. The hood covered my face and the foul scent of decomposing leaves and dirt filled my nose. Everything went black.

MOM KNOCKED ON MY BEDROOM door for a two-second warning before opening. Happy half-birthday, my beautiful and talented sixteen-and-a-half-year-old!

I sat up as she walked toward me holding my red velvet cake with our traditional black frosting. When I was younger it was funny how the black colored the inside of our mouths. Now, not so much, but it was still well worth it for the taste. It was hands down the most delicious thing on this planet. Possibly because she only made it once a year.

No song, just a few words to reflect. My mother caringly passed the cake to me. My greatest love is you, Kiara. We are all born to die. It is the only thing guaranteed. But the footprints we leave, what we accomplished, what we have given back, how we treat others, animals, the earth, all life, is what matters in the end. You are so kind to all. Your photography brings joy. You will see the world, I promise. Just never doubt the life you have been given is a gift. You are responsible for the person you will become. Only you, and you will take that to your death.

Sometimes I wish there was a cheery half-birthday jingle.

What are your three wishes?

You let me out of this prison. Travel. Tell me about my family. Fame. Meet more kids my own age. Get really good at photography.

She took the cake away from me and handed me a rectangular box to open. This covers two of those.

I unwrapped the black gift paper as she cut two slices out of the cake.

It was the zoom lens I wanted. Mom this is ... wow ... really expensive. I knew not to argue about the cost. Thank you. This means a lot.

She smiled. Make people feel what you see through your lens.

I hugged her. I try.

So, I was thinking, how about you take the morning and try out your new accessory? I can cover the farmstand.

Seriously? I popped the last bite of cake into my mouth. Are you sure?

Mom stood with the remaining cake in her hand. I’m sure. Go out to the meadow. Enjoy the open air. Have a little freedom.

She was mocking me, but in a kindly, caring way. The sides of her mouth turned up slightly. I get it, Kiara. Sometimes I just need to be reminded.

I scrambled out of bed to hug her. She understood what I was feeling. It wasn’t relocating me off this reservation, but I had time to myself to play with my new camera lens.

Thanks, Mom.

She rubbed my back, then we both let go. Take the blade.

I nodded, understanding that she thought I needed protection even on this reservation. Okay. It wasn’t worth protesting.

And shoot people, or whatever that cup says. She grinned, pointing to the kitchen.

I chuckled. Not sure anyone will be in shooting distance at the meadow. Animals most likely. Kaw for sure. I will snap some good pictures with this zoom. Just wait until you see the difference this makes.

She laughed softly and walked out of my bedroom. Kaw is a good model.

I had the morning free. I have the morning free!

Quickly changing from my nightwear, I secured my white bra, then put on an emerald-green cotton tank top with my green-and-blue plaid flannel shirt that smells like our fresh-breeze-scented laundry detergent. I was glad Mom and I finally agreed on this one. I had really gotten sick of that lavender scent.

Jeans. Hiking boots. I was ready. My camera, new lens, and extra batteries were all secured in my backpack.

I packed a couple of bottles of water as Mom extended an item in each hand: The family dagger and my new travel mug, filled with our house coffee. I had to kneel down on the floor to tuck the dagger into my backpack just right.

I stood, swinging the pack over my left shoulder and securing the coffee in my right hand.

Here are the keys. Keep your cell phone on you and the family crest close.

That’s code for the mini-sword. I will. What time do you want me back?

She shrugged. Noon? Oh, take a hat.

I grabbed our Noir Ranch baseball cap off the coat rack and headed out the door. Freedom, finally. No blood ceremony. No morning chores. I didn’t have to garden, water, or open the farmstand.

I hope I see wildlife. My pictures have been pretty good of them walking, flying, sitting on a branch. I’m sure they knew I was there. This lens is a game-changer.

I could finally get the close-ups I had always wanted. Now I had the option to sit further into the field, so animals wouldn’t detect my presence.

A cool morning breeze blew through the maple tree as my crow called from the top branch, watching me walk out. The chilly weather of fall was here, but I was dressed right. I could grab a hoodie, but I wanted to get to the meadow, and the sun would bring the temperature up as the day pressed on.

There wasn’t a cloud in the canyon-blue sky. Come on, Kaw, race you to the meadow.

Kaw squawked, watching as I slipped into the driver’s seat of our old red-and-white pickup. Pulling the handle below the seat, I rocked and strained to move the entire bench seat forward.

Mom had promised the next truck would have a split bench and auto-adjust. I like the idea of the press-a-button-and-the-seat-moves option. This strained my abs every time I fought to move it.

Off I drove down our gravelly road, kicking up dirt clouds behind my tires. This season was a little dry. Our new rain-catching barrels worked out well. Mom already had our winter hydroponic automatic watering systems in mind to build.

Yay. Can’t wait for that. Not.

A half-mile later and around a small hill, I stopped at the main road. Even though this was a reservation, it was a busy area. Mom picked this reservation, in part, because it had a museum, a cultural center, a gift shop, and a specialty market.

A lot of Mom’s elixirs were sold in there. People traveled miles to visit our downtown tourist area. Strangely enough, they came from all races and economic backgrounds.

I helped at the market three years ago. Got a lot of comments that I must have been of mixed race because I didn’t resemble the locals.

I truly decided after that summer I just don’t fit in anywhere. Mom says, Why fit in when you can stand out and be original?

I made a business plan and opened the farmstand to the public that fall, and it’s been mine ever since.

Perhaps I will expand it next year. Word is getting out to surrounding towns about our produce. Mrs. Smith owns the restaurant The Mountain Barn two towns away from the rez in the suburbs where I had to go to get my license.

Yes, word was being shared about our superb produce, and that’s without any advertising.

My meadow was fifteen miles north, away from all the attractions. It was a good half-hour of beautiful scenery that I would one of these days catalogue in pictures. I needed permission if I wanted to put a book together and sell it, though. The tribal council would want their cut.

I liked it when the cattle were down from the mountains. Those were always fun pictures to take. They stayed just far enough away from the road that I had to walk inland quite a bit. That meant watching out for rattlesnakes who like to take residence in the in-between part of the land. In-between the road and where the cattle hung out. I have a few fantastic shots of rattlesnakes.

They are to be respected, but they are also beautiful. The patterns on their skin. Leave them alone and they will leave you alone. Laws of nature. Respect the earth. I could actually hear my mother’s words repeating in my head.

I enjoyed this drive for the most part. But when I was this alone the questions always popped up in my head, asking where and who my father was. Did I look like him? Was he just a sperm donor? A one-night stand? A mistake that was so horrible my mother had to leave and settle in the middle of nowhere?!

Change the subject. Change the subject. Change the subject. If she told me and talked about it, I could deal with it. Not knowing was torture.

I smiled and thought, oh sweet, my parking spot is empty. Rural humor. I pulled over and put the truck in park. Pulling my backpack over, I had already framed a couple of shots in my mind. Perfect day. My crow landed