The Seer's Curse

by J. J. Faulks

  The crowd simmered with applause and Orleigh stepped back in line with her classmates. Their order held for a second before falling apart as the children scattered.

  Pityr muttered beneath the clapping, “It’s hard work that we need, not prayer.”

  Meila beckoned her boys and Orleigh with a wave. They rushed over, the twins skipping like lambs around Piprin’s feet. She crouched down to hug Piprin and Orleigh, her hand remaining on Orleigh’s shoulder even after she had let them go. “You both did so well! I’m so proud of you!”

  Piprin looked up to his father, his eyes wide and his bottom lip pinned between his teeth as he waited for his father’s verdict, but Pityr was frowning out towards the farm.

  Meila nudged her husband. “Didn’t they do well?”

  Pityr’s frown softened and he gave a curt nod. “There’s work to do,” he said. “I’ll need the boys and Piprin to help if we’re to finish before nightfall.”

  “But,” Piprin began. With one look from his father, his voice weakened. “I wanted to play with Orleigh.” He trailed off, turning his gaze to the ground. His dark hair fell across his face, hiding his eyes, but the blush that spread up his neck and flushed his cheeks peeked out from beneath.

  “But nothing!” Pityr snapped. Piprin flinched, taking a step away from his father and closer to Meila. “You’re a boy, aren’t you? And one day you’ll be a man, so it’s time you started acting like one! You don’t see your brothers complaining, do you?” Piprin shook his head. “Right then. Off you go!”

  Meila watched her boys traipse away. With his head hung low, Piprin looked frail enough to be beaten by his own shadow. His pain flowed through her, as if the birth cord had never been cut, winding its way around her stomach and clenching it tight.

  “Can I go too?” Orleigh tugged on her sleeve. “I want to help.” She wore a tentative optimism, her lips poised like an archer’s bow, ready to release a smile.

  “No, dear,” Meila said and she squeezed the girl’s shoulder.

  The archer’s grip slackened and Orleigh’s mouth fell flat. The glacial blue of her eyes frosted over.

  “I think it’s best that you stay with me.”

  Meila ushered Orleigh through the dispersing crowd. She stared hard at each face that she encountered, looking for the stain of poison on the lips, but whoever had made those comments bore no trace of their venom.

  “Does Pityr think that I’m cursed too?” Orleigh asked.

  Meila pulled Orleigh aside, out of the street and into the shade of a house. “What do you mean?” she demanded. A chill ran through her, fighting with the noonday heat.

  Orleigh shrugged. “I’ve heard what people say,” she said. “They say that I’m cursed because of what happened to my mother, and that it’s my fault that the harvests are so poor.”

  Meila crouched down, bringing herself to Orleigh’s eye level. She gripped the girl by both shoulders, staring deep into her eyes, as if her gaze could reach inside and sear the message on Orleigh’s mind. “You. Are. Not. Cursed.” No matter how much of Alea’s defiant streak ran through Orleigh, Meila would not stand for the girl to dispute this point. “What happened to your mother was not your fault. It was the will of the Creator. It was in the Script. Do you understand?”

  Orleigh’s mouth was drawn into a pout and her eyes raged with ice-cold fire, but she nodded and held her tongue.

  Meila loosened her grip on Orleigh’s shoulders, offering her hand as she eased back to her full height. They continued their walk to the farmhouse, Orleigh’s features soured by the bitterness of her silence.

  “There are enough people in this world who are willing to blame you for things beyond your control, you needn’t blame yourself,” Meila told her.

  “People say that I sent my mother to the Afterworld and that I ought to have followed her,” Orleigh spoke to the dirt beneath their feet. Her voice was soft, her words tumbling like blossom falling on the breeze. “My father would rather that my mother were here instead of me.”

  “That’s not—” Meila reined herself back. “The Creator brought you here for a reason. Always remember that.” One of the myths came to her like a flower singled out by a beam of sunlight in an abundant meadow. “Let me tell you the myth of Opola,” she said.

  When Opola was born her parents looked upon her and thought that she was perfect. However, the people of their village did not agree, for Opola’s face was marked by a dark star that spread from cheek to cheek and chin to forehead. It looked as though some malevolent being had laid its hand upon the girl’s face, searing her skin with its wicked touch. People said that it was the mark of evil, the mark of misfortune.

  Opola was a kind girl and she wanted nothing more than to have friends who she could share her loving nature with, but the parents in the village did not want their children to play with the girl who had been touched by darkness, and so Opola always found herself alone. Soon she stopped leaving her house altogether, preferring to stay inside with her parents where no one else could see her. As time passed, the memory of Opola faded, and the villagers forgot that the marked girl still lived amongst them, hidden in her own home.

  Opola was blessed with the most beautiful singing voice. It was sweeter than the first bloom of cherry blossom in the tentative promise of spring. She would sing morning and night, her voice lifting the sun into the sky and guiding it back home. When she sang, her tune would weave itself into the breeze and dance through the village, bringing warmth and comfort to whosoever should hear it. To listen to that sound was to be immersed in the fondest of memories, transported back to the perfect safety and endless hope of childhood. The villagers listened, bathing in the beauty of Opola’s voice, but no one knew where it came from.

  When Opola was still a young girl, the prospect of womanhood no closer than the horizon, the village was struck by a series of violent storms. Night after night the gales would return, rattling the doors until they were wrenched from their frames and tearing at the rooftops until thatch littered the streets. News spread that the goddess of Air, Onea, had given birth to a baby and it was the infant’s sleepless cries that gave rise to the storms. The villagers were desperate and they prayed to Onea to stop the gusts that were ravaging their village. However, Onea’s baby would not be settled and unless Onea found a way to soothe her, she would be unable to put an end to the storms.

  One day Opola’s voice was swept up by the breeze and carried all the way to Onea’s home in the Land of Gods. The sweetness of Opola’s song swaddled the fussing infant, soothing her to a soundless sleep. Onea followed the voice back to the village in the Land of Mortals and she told the villagers that if they could give her a lullaby to hush her squalling daughter, they would be able to calm the storms.

  The girls of the village were presented to Onea one by one. Each sang her song to settle the baby, but none succeeded. Not one of the voices could compare to the purity and sweetness of Opola’s tune. Opola listened to the other girls from the safety of her home. Though she hoped that someone else would be able to soothe the infant, she knew that only she could save the village.

  Covering her face and its mark of misfortune, Opola stepped out of her house for the first time in years. She approached the flock of villagers like a shadow in the darkness, and at the back of the crowd she stood unseen. Then she started to sing. Her voice was quiet at first, as soft as the light of dawn, but it grew louder, blazing with the strength of the midsummer sun. Her song swept through the crowd, bringing them to silence, and it reached out to the howling infant, who stopped crying, paused for a moment and then smiled.

  Onea beckoned Opola forward, eager to meet the girl whose song of warmth and comfort brought peace to her daughter. Opola stepped to the front of the crowd, her face still hidden from view.

  “Do not be shy, my child,” Onea said. “Let me look upon your face so that I might know who it is that possesses su
ch a beautiful voice.”

  Reluctantly, Opola unveiled herself, drawing back the hood that shielded her face. The villagers gasped in shock. They had forgotten about Opola and her mark of the evil touch. Whispers surged through the crowd, a hum of competing voice. How could a girl so hideous sing with such a magnificent voice?

  “Do not hide your face, my child,” Onea said, “For surely this mark is a sign of your blessing.” She asked Opola to sing again and she captured her song in a seashell so that her daughter would always have the lullaby to listen to. With the infant settled at last, the storms would bother the village no more.

  Opola no longer hid in her home and she no longer felt ashamed of the star that was emblazoned across her face. She played with the other children of the village and found that she had more friends than she could ever have hoped for. Every day she would sing for the other villagers, and every day they would remind her that she was blessed.

  Chapter Six

  "It’s not fair!” Piprin cried. “Everyone’s leaving!” Anger roiled in his belly, rising up to fight with the breathless sorrow in his chest. They wrestled one another like warring gods until they boiled over into the sting of tears.

  “What are you crying for?” his father demanded. “Stop being such a girl!”

  Tears overflowed from the dam of Piprin’s eyes, falling faster than he could catch them. He buried his face in his mother’s shirt, hiding from his father.

  His mother drew lazy circles on his back, soothing the shame of his tears. “Terla and her family are moving away from the village,” she said.

  “That’s nothing to cry about,” his father snapped. His voice fell to a mutter, quietening with distance. “If anything we should be thankful that there’ll be fewer people to feed come the winter.”

  The slamming of the door punctuated his exit. Piprin loosened his grip on his mother’s shirt, lifting his face to look at her. She was blurry, as if he were viewing her through a film of drizzle. He blotted his eyes on his sleeve. “Father’s mad at me.”

  His mother ran her hand over his hair, sweeping it back from his face. “No, he’s not,” she said. “He’s just upset that the crops aren’t doing well.”

  “But he’s always shouting at me,” Piprin said. His lip trembled. “He never shouts at the twins.”

  His mother looked away. “You’re older than your brothers,” she said after a long pause, “And that means that one day, when you’re grown up, the farm will be yours to look after. Your father knows that and that’s why he’s harder on you sometimes.” She placed a firm hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye. “He just wants you to be prepared.”

  Piprin avoided her stare, finding interest in the freshly swept floor. Her words poured into him like pebbles filling his stomach, each one dragging it further and further down. “But I don’t want to look after the farm,” he grumbled. “Why does it have to be me?”

  “Because you’re our eldest son and that’s how it works.” She squeezed his shoulder, stooping down as she tried to catch his gaze.

  His eyes flitted up from the ground. “But why?” he asked.

  “Because that’s the tradition,” she said.

  “But why can’t we change it? I’m not strong like the twins.”

  “Your father only knows the old ways, ways that require strength,” his mother said. “You have good ideas and when you run the farm you will find new ways to do things.” She pulled him into a hug. Her arms were snug and safe, like a thick quilt on a winter’s night. “Things will get better. I promise.”

  The weight in his stomach lifted.

  “Now off you go and play.” She released him from her arms and nudged him towards the door.

  Piprin swept his eyes over the fields, but he could not see his father. He darted along the path that crept through the weedy crops towards the old oak tree. Orleigh was stood in the shade, staring up at the branches. Her freckle-dotted nose was scrunched up in concentration. The two piles of rope and the plank of wood that they had taken from the farm in order to build their swing sat at her feet.

  “What are you looking at?” Piprin asked.

  Orleigh jumped, her shoulders jolting up to her ears. She raised one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. “You scared me!” she protested, but she smiled too. “I wanted to see how we get the swing to hang from the tree.”

  “Using the ropes,” he said and shrugged.

  “But how do we get the ropes up there?”

  “That’s easy,” he said. He slung the coils over his shoulder and began to climb the tree. His fingertips slipped into the grooves of the bark, balancing him as his feet found the knots and propelled him upwards.

  “Be careful!” Orleigh called out.

  Piprin swung his leg over the main branch and edged along. He fixed his eyes on the rough wood beneath his hands, trying to block out the sight of the ground below. Orleigh was reduced to just a blur of strawberry curls. When he reached the midpoint he let the ropes slip down from his shoulder, catching them on his forearm. He positioned them evenly over the branch and then scrambled back down the tree trunk.

  “Now what?” Orleigh asked.

  “We tie them to the tree,” Piprin said. “Look, like this.” He looped one end of each rope into a knot, feeding through the free ends and then pulling them all the way through until the knot rose up to tighten around the branch. “Then we tie this end to the seat.”

  “How did you know how to do that?” Orleigh asked. Her eyes were wide and they sparkled with admiration, as if he had helped the Guardians to defeat the Hunters instead of putting together a simple swing.

  Piprin’s cheeks flushed. He shrugged, and scuffed the dust into the air with toes of his sandals. “It’s nothing really,” he said. “It just makes sense to me.”

  “Push me?” she requested and launched herself onto the swing.

  “Ready. Set. Go!” Orleigh shouted and she dashed towards the river with the graceful stride of a young horse.

  Piprin lolloped after her. Within the length of one field, he was out of breath and Orleigh had built up a healthy distance between them. “Wait for me!” he cried.

  Orleigh glanced back over her shoulder, her curls flying, her face flushed. She cackled and hurtled faster towards the river bank. “You can’t catch me!”

  Piprin leant forward, resting his hands against his thighs as he sucked in huge billows of air. When he looked up, Orleigh had already reached the river and she was rummaging on the ground for stones to skip across the surface of the water.

  Scorlan stood in the shade of the grain store, watching Orleigh. A shiver shuddered through Piprin’s shoulders and neck. He shook it off and began to jog towards Orleigh.

  Orleigh launched a pebble at the water. It bounced three times before plummeting below the surface. Piprin collapsed on the grass and watched as she picked up a second from the pile and repeated the action. She observed the flight of each rock with perfect stillness before ducking down to claim the next.

  Scorlan was still watching them. He clutched a stone tablet in his hand, but he was staring over the top, his eyes never leaving Orleigh.

  “He scares me,” Piprin said.

  “Who does?” Orleigh whipped around. She looked surprised to see Scorlan. She smiled and waved at him, and he buried his nose in the tablet, turning away as if he hadn’t noticed her greeting. “Oh. Scorlan? He’s not scary.” She picked up another rock and lobbed it at the river.

  “He was watching us,” Piprin said. “He reminds me of an evil spirit, like Hayron watching over Raenia in the myth.”

  Orleigh paused, poised to launch another rock from her hand. She wrinkled her nose and her curls danced as she shook her head. “Scorlan’s not evil,” she said. “He’s just strange. Different.” She threw the rock and grinned as it bounced five times before sinking. “He’s not from round h
ere.”

  “I still feel like we’re being watched,” Piprin said. Something cold prickled at his skin. He looked around, but there was no one else there except for Scorlan and the sight of their reflection rippling in the water.

  *

  When a man looked in the water, at most he would see himself. But a man’s reflection was just the surface. In the depths, the water held far more than any man could possibly imagine. The Seer looked deeper, for he remembered the secrets of the water that man had forgotten. He looked beyond the surface and he saw everything.

  He watched as Orleigh dragged Piprin to his feet and showed him how to skip rocks across the river’s surface. He watched as she coached her friend, coaxing him into persevering even though his initial attempts failed. He watched as her face lit up and she jumped and squealed with delight when her friend found hard-earned success. He watched the girl who had been born in the wrong place and whose future had been lost but, guided by his plan, would soon be found.

  Chapter Seven

  There was no school that day. Orleigh and Piprin met with their classmates underneath the old oak tree. It was hot in the fields beneath the sun and when she stood still for long enough, Orleigh’s skin prickled with anticipation of blistering in the heat. The shade of the oak provided a brief respite.

  “Let’s play Guardians of the Sanctuary!” Orleigh said. Her suggestion was met by a hum of approval. “I’m a Guardian!” she chimed before anyone else could.

  “Me too!” Piprin and the others cried, their voices blurring together. “I’m a Guardian too!”

  The role of Hunter was awarded to whoever was last to put in his claim. This time it went to a boy so small that he stood a whole head shorter than all the other children. He was quiet by nature, always squeaking like a mouse whenever called upon by their teacher. His timid voice protested now, “But I want to be a Guardian too! I’m always the Hunter!”