Kore's Field

by N. C. Sellars

  Chapter 30

  I come now to the part of my story that many of you will not believe. You will say it was a dream, or a vision induced by some mind-altering substance. Perhaps you will even say I am mad, and my witness is not to be trusted. You may be right to doubt me; I often doubt myself. But when I opened my eyes there was no question in my mind that the gods were at work, because the first thing I saw was not feast tables or palaces built on clouds, or any of those pictures we’re told to imagine as children. No, what I saw, rising clearly before my eyes, was wheat.

  Instead of lying stretched out on the altar, I was in a wheat field. I was not afraid; indeed, I felt as though I had always been there. Any other experience up until that point faded away, the same way a dream that seems so real and vivid during sleep dissolves into dust upon waking. I watched the heads of grain sway above me, framing the sky. I was completely alone. It didn’t worry me, though. Nothing could have worried me in that moment.

  After a while I rose to my feet and looked at my new surroundings. Wheat fields spread out in every direction, rippling in the gentle breeze. I felt neither cool nor warm, and as I stood there a sweet, delicious scent wafted through the air, enveloping me in a goodness I had never before known. I wanted to stand there forever, but then a few grains dropped from my clenched fists. The grains for the offering to the God of Souls. Terror spread through my belly as I remembered where I was and why I had come. I whirled around, searching for any sign of movement, but all I could see was wheat.

  Then, I spotted something in the distance. A figure was moving toward me, erect and bright. Soon I realized it was a young woman; to call her beautiful is almost an insult. She was radiant, the way the sun is radiant. Her loveliness preceded her much like the heavy scent of rain precedes a storm. Too late I realized with horror she was walking straight toward me. I wished more than anything to hide, but there was nowhere to conceal myself.

  Ever forward she came, closing the distance between us. I knew I should lower my eyes in shame, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. Here was Kore, I had no doubt. It couldn’t be anyone else. Tiny white flowers covered her hair like a delicate veil, and instead of clothes she wore swaths of roses and lilies and apple blossoms. I couldn’t help thinking of all the times I had sewn flowers into my gowns, hoping to convey a similar picture, and seeing her now I knew how pathetically short of the goal I had fallen. Her skin shone like ivory and gold in the early light, and with each step she took the wheat parted before her. I bowed my head and studied the ground, not wanting to look the God of Souls’ bride in the face and suffer the consequences.

  The fragrance of rosemary washed over me when she finally halted. I started to kneel, but I felt a warm hand on mine.

  “Save your reverence,” she said, in a musical voice that made me want to laugh and cry when I heard it. “There are many who are more deserving.”

  “I can think of none,” I whispered.

  I heard the smile in her voice; indeed, I could feel its warmth on my cheek. “Why have you come?”

  Shaking, I stretched out my hands, careful not to drop any grain. “I’m here to make an offering to the God of Souls,” I said, trying to sound strong. “I came in my husband’s place. The herdsman—” I stopped, not sure if she would understand what I meant. “An advisor told me that as long as I found a worthy substitute, then Adam could live.”

  Her bright eyes searched me. “Do you believe you are the perfect penitent?”

  I started to say yes, but then a very strange thing happened. The breeze grew stronger, swirling around us and turning cold. I watched in amazement as the wheat, previously unremarkable, shifted in the wind, creating waves of gold and bronze, with pockets of shadow here and there. It was stunning, and somehow looked familiar. I turned back to Kore and shook my head.

  “There’s no one else,” I said. “I had no other choice.”

  “Very well. Follow me.”

  She led me through the wheat, not once looking back. She walked so quickly I stumbled to keep up. The queer wind continued to blow, though I took little notice of it when I found myself ascending the steps of a great temple, not unlike Myrilla’s, with one important difference: it had no walls. My feet fell upon the smooth, pink-veined floor, and far above my head hung the carved stone ceiling.

  Kore stopped in the middle of the temple. “The God of Souls will examine your offering,” she said, beautifully solemn, like fresh snow. “But he can accept nothing but a pure and blameless payment. I ask you again: are you the perfect penitent?”

  Once more I started to assure her that yes, I was, but the breeze picked up once more. Because there were no walls to impede my view, I could see the endless fields stretching out below the temple. The curious light played across the plains, and I nearly spilled the grain from my hands when I realized what it was depicting.

  Segments of my life, shifting from one to another with precision and speed, played throughout the wheat. Except I didn’t see any kind acts or gracious gestures—the images you’d want to see if someone provided you a picture of your life. Instead I saw myself uttering every nasty comment I had ever said, every cruel glare or unspoken judgement. I saw myself speaking viciously to Turius, waiting for him to make me angry so I would feel vindicated in my dislike for him. I saw myself glowering at Princess Aveline, thinking unkindly of her without the slightest bit of remorse. I saw myself doubting Adam, again and again, never giving him the opportunity to do anything but disappoint me. Always assuming the worst of him, and refusing to offer him love until the end.

  Shame and humiliation swept over me, drowning me in despair. To have my endless catalog of flaws paraded before me—in the very presence of Kore, no less—obliterated any remaining shreds of hope I still held.

  Kore’s voice broke the endless barrage of memories. “What is your answer?”

  “I’m not,” I admitted, tears dripping from my eyes. A foul smell filled my nostrils, and it was such a severe change from the fragrance of the field that I cringed in disgust. Then I realized it was coming from my own hands. I looked down and saw the grain I had held for so long had begun to rot. I wondered how such a thing was possible, then remembered the cuts Lilianne had carved into my skin. My own blood had turned the grain into putrid clumps of decay.

  It took everything in me not to hurl the grain to the floor. I turned to Kore wildly. “What can I do?” I asked her. “If I have nothing to give the God of Souls, what will happen to Adam? The herdsman fulfilled his promise, I must fulfill mine—”

  I fell silent when a rushing wind filled the temple, as loud as a lion’s roar. A bright light followed, so fierce I hid my face behind my rot-filled hands. I heard footsteps and thought I might be joined by my parents or Syrano or any of the other shades who had passed before me. Instead, when I looked up, I saw the herdsman.

  His face was the very picture of kindness. He had a peace about him, a certain strength that emitted from his body like a pulsing light. Everything I had noticed when I visited his mountain struck me once more, only now it was pure and unfiltered, unhampered by the hazy mountain air. For the smallest instant my cares melted away, and I knew deep in my heart that all was well. Then I smelled the decaying grain in my hands and my anger surged anew.

  “You told me to bring a substitute,” I nearly shouted. “And I followed your instructions: I brought myself. You said nothing about perfection, you never said the penitent had to be blameless.” I lifted my handfuls of grain. “Do you see what’s happened? No god would ever want this offering now.”

  His smile was endlessly patient. “You are certain of this?”

  “Of course I’m certain,” I snapped. “It’s wretched.” I could hardly see the filth through my cloudy tears. I couldn’t believe the terrible turn this errand had taken. “I know I’m not perfect,” I said, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “I know I’m not Kore, who danced in the wheat fields and won the God of Souls’ love with her virtue. I’m nothing compared to her; it’s folly to p
retend otherwise. I know I’m not kind or merciful or generous. I’m thoughtless and cold, and selfish with my desires.” My voice caught in my throat. “What misery the gods must feel when they look upon me.”

  Instead of balking at my tone, the herdsman laughed. “What misery, indeed? Turn and look, Alyce. See yourself through the gods’ eyes.”

  I obeyed and found myself studying Kore, who had remained by my side. Her radiant beauty rushed at me, not diluted the least by my reluctance. The curtains of flowers, the sweet perfume, her laughter-filled eyes, all of it joined together to create the lovely, unattainable perfection of the God of Souls’ bride. The longer I stared, though, the more I realized I recognized her. My courage grew and I looked her full in the face, only to find my own looking back at me. She wasn’t Kore at all. She was me.

  I gaped at the young woman—my perfected image. “H-how is this possible?”

  The herdsman didn’t answer. I gave a start when I noticed he had moved closer and was standing directly before me. He had stretched out his hands over mind, covering the rotten grain. Bright red blood coated his palms, which held wounds much like the ones Lilianne had cut into my skin during the dedication ceremony. I forgot everything but the herdsman, watching in amazement as the grain healed, growing plump and healthy once more. It had nothing to do with my worthiness, I finally understood, and everything to do with the gods. Kore—the real Kore, the one who tread the fields generations before me—hadn’t won the gods’ love, she had simply accepted it.

  The roaring sound filled the temple once more, and as I squeezed my eyes shut against the wind I thought I heard a voice whisper, “We will meet again.” But I may have just imagined it, for when I opened my eyes I found myself back in Myrilla, stretched out on the altar in the temple, with Adam kissing my face and sheaves of golden wheat pouring from my arms.

  Chapter 31

  As I write this last bit of my story, I’m sitting in the garden. It’s the beginning of spring, with crocuses blooming in clumps of purple and white and gold. The apple trees are heavy with blossoms, and pale green leaves are pushing out of the earth. I look at them and marvel at their courage; how much strength it must take to die back each autumn only to force their way out of the darkness once more in the spring.

  Adam stands a short distance away, tuning his lyre. He still visits the herdsman each day, though sometimes he meets him in the fields instead of the mountains. Myrilla enjoys the peace that began with Adam’s reign, and he continues to grow in wisdom as a king. Laughing, he sets his lyre in its case and scoops our eldest daughter, Elna, into his arms. At six years, she’s the spitting image of her father. She has Adam’s golden hair and bright, laughing eyes. She has his penchant for stubbornness as well, much to the chagrin of her little sister. Maydene, at age four, already prefers the gardens to anywhere else on the castle grounds. It’s touching to watch her talk to the flowers, encouraging them to grow and singing the little songs she’s heard from me. She is the picture of charm and grace, and will be tall like her father.

  In the basket beside me lies our infant son, sleeping soundly. His hair is dark, nearly black, and his eyes are a pale hazel. We haven’t named him yet, though we promised each other we’d agree on one today. A task unaccomplished, so far.

  “I still don’t see why you object to Merwyn,” says Adam, setting Elna on her feet. “It’s a good name. The name of a fighter who’s also a scholar.”

  I brush the baby’s hair back from his smooth forehead. His tiny lips pucker as he dreams and his doughy fist squeezes the air.

  “No,” I sigh. “I don’t think that’s right.”

  “Then how about Byrle? Isn’t that a name in your family?”

  “It is, but that isn’t right either.” I watch Maydene stroke the petals of a fading winter rose with her delicate finger. She’s utterly engrossed in the plants; a sudden gale wouldn’t disrupt her focus.

  Adam drops onto the grass next to me. “Then what, Alyce? Any name you like. I simply want to know what to call our boy.”

  The baby stirs and I rock the basket, lulling him back to sleep. “I thought we’d call him Syrano.” I look up at Adam. “What do you think?”

  Adam peers into the basket, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter. He has long, dark lashes that brush his cheeks when his eyes are shut. Smiling at me, Adam nods. “I think it’s perfect, Alyce.”

  He kisses me, and we sit shoulder to shoulder, watching our little daughters play in the flowerbeds. They are the picture of pure joy and love, and every time I see them I thank the gods.

  • • •

  I don’t know how my children will feel when they hear the unflattering rumors of their father, or if the myth-makers will have the final say in what kind of wife I was. After all, the first thing you learn about the truth is that it’s rarely as simple as you think. But be assured: one day, before I pass from this life and join the God of Souls, I will tell them this story, as I have told it to you, patient Reader. The story of a girl in a tower who became a queen, of how a king’s life was spared by a selfless herdsman, and how, thanks to the boundless love of the gods, the wheat grew once more in Kore’s field.

  About the Author

  N.C. Sellars is the author of the children’s book The Oak Tree Prince and Other Fairy Tales. She lives in South Carolina, where she tries to return her library books on time. This is her first novel.

  Visit her at www.ncsellars.com