...she's set adrift

A girl sat in a chair too large for her and fidgeted.

The room smelled of timber and fresh-cut grass. Far, far overhead, summer sunlight streamed in between the ceiling joists. Holes dotted the thatched roof after last night's storm, and her brothers had been cutting reeds and straw all morning to replace them. The smell was one that the girl had come to associate with summer: the ripe green scent of grass clippings, and beneath it the sharper smell of the goat pen. She had already fed the chickens and taken in the laundry, but before she could muck out the goats, her mother had called her inside. She was an obedient girl and did as she was bid.

She froze on the threshold, seeing her mother and her father sitting at the long family table. She had feared that she was in trouble, but neither of them looked angry. They looked worried, and that worried the girl. Her father knew everything and her mother could fix any crisis. If the two of them were worried, what chance did she have?

"Come, Teysa, sit down," her mother had said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. She had, scrambling up into the chair and letting her legs dangle. They didn't touch the floor yet, but maybe in a season or two... she was growing all the time now, growing so fast that her mother had to alter her clothes every season. Springing up like a stalk of corn, her brother Tobyas had said, and she'd punched him in the arm for his impudence, but inside she was proud. She wasn't a baby anymore.

Her father looked from her to her mother and sighed heavily. There were heavy bags under his eyes, but his hair was a beautiful golden blonde. Had it always been that color? It spilled down onto his shoulders like spun gold. Teysa scrunched her eyes up and tried to remember. It was difficult... she recognized her father, every craggy line in his face, but she couldn't remember what she had done yesterday. Or that morning, come to think of it. She had fed the chickens, right? She must have. She did that every day. A phantom pain throbbed in her chest and she nearly doubled over. It was gone in an instant and she straightened back up to see her moth and father looking at her with faces full of concern.

"Teysa, my love..." her father began, and trailed off. "Teysa, do you love me?"

What an odd question. "Of course, papa!" she piped up at once. All of a sudden he looked so sad that she wanted to hop down off the chair and run over to give him her biggest hug. Something held her in place. Her father sat in the middle of a sunbeam that dripped lazily down through a hole in the roof. It glimmered in his hair and twinkled in his eyes. Her mother, by contrast, sat in shadow. The air around her seemed darker than it should be, given the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. Her skin was pallid, too, more grey than pink, and her hair was almost white. She looked at Teysa with genuine love in her eyes, though, the same loving look she'd wear when washing out a scraped knee and kissing it better or telling a bedtime story.

Her father turned to her mother and shook his head. "It is as I feared," he said, and Teysa realized he wasn't speaking to her. His words hurt her ears and made her head throb. She felt like an eavesdropper. She knew that sometimes grown-ups talked about things that children were not meant to hear, but she was helpless to leave and unable to close her ears to the discussion at the other hand of the table. Unheeded, she clutched her hands to her forehead.

"I have watched over her since she was small," her father was saying. "I know her heart, but it is not mine to command."

"I know her heart as well," her mother replied. "She showed it to me. You raised her well. This is as it must be. Her fate is not yours to decide."

Teysa's mother laid one hand on the table. Her father stared at it in confusion, then slowly extended his own. Their fingers reached towards each other and intertwined. Teysa's heart somersaulted in her chest. She had seen her parents dancing together at the harvest festival, her mother's skirts whipping up around her knees as she roared with laughter, but this was somehow more intimate.

"Nor is it yours," her father replied. "You cannot beckon her like a dog. If her future lies with you, then you must be the one to convince her. I cannot turn my back on her in her hour of need."

"I will not hurt her," her mother said, and her eyes flicked over at Teysa for a moment. "I could not."

"And yet you will. You cannot stop it. If I abandon her, she will suffer for it. Not at my hand, but at her own. Her faith is a flame not easily snuffed."

"You know what is at stake. You know what will happen if her path cannot be changed." Her mother's voice was grim and hard as iron, yet there was pain in it, too, and buried desperation.

"Then change it. Convince her. Give her a reason. You cannot entrap people in your webs and hope that in time they come to love you. You must open yourself up to her. Have you ever done that?"

"I..." her mother trailed off. She fretted nervously with the hem of her dress. "I tried, once. I failed. You saw what happened. I cannot fail again."

Teysa's father stared at her mother for what felt like an eternity. Teysa could tell that some momentous decision was being made. She was aware in a vague way that they were talking about her, but she could not imagine how or why.

"If you want to know what you must do," he rumbled, "ask her. The wisest learn from those they teach."

Teysa could remain silent no longer. "Mama, papa, please don't be sad," she cried. They both looked at her in shock, as though they had forgotten she was there. "I love you both. I don't want you to cry."

"Teysa," her father said, "do you remember what I taught you? The lessons I said were the most important."

Teysa did. Odd, that. She remembered the lessons but didn't remember learning them. They sprang to her mind unbidden. "Protect the weak," she said. "Stand up against injustice. Tell the truth. Help those who can't help themselves. And bring a light into dark places."

Her mother smiled at her and clapped her hands. "That's perfect, my dear!" she said. "Just perfect. Never forget that."

Her father smiled, too, but it was a weary smile, a brave face put on to hide worry. Even at her age Teysa was more than familiar with that kind of smile. She'd worn it more than once. He stood and crossed the room until he was standing next to her chair, then knelt down so that his head was level with hers. She turned to face him and rested her hands solemnly in her lap.

"Never forget that," he echoed. "I am sorry, Teysa, for my recent silence. I thought it would make this less painful. I thought it would ease your transition." He eached out with one gnarled hand and she took it in both of hers. His hands were so big compared to hers, so soft, the skin like worn leather. Teysa leaned forward and rested her head against his hand. She was surprised to feel a tear dripping onto her head from his chin.

"You are a brave child, Teysa," her father said. "You always have been. I need you to be brave now. You are in a place without sunlight. The light must come from within you."

"What are you talking about, Papa?" she asked. She couldn't understand. The afternoon sunlight was fading away, leaving a twilit gloom in its place. Somehow, her father still shone as though standing in a personal sunbeam. He reached up to his face and wiped his eye. There was something in his hand: something like a blob of golden wax or a dollop of honey, a glowing drop of amber. He pinched it between two fingers and held it in front of Teysa. She drew in a deep breath and smelled it: it smelled like dry hay, like honeysuckle, like fresh milk and feathers, the smells of her childhood. Her papa gently took her by the wrist and pulled at it until her hand was open in front of him, palm-up. He deposited the droplet in her palm and closed her fingers around it. He let go of her and held his own hand in front of him, then raised it to his chest and laid it over his heart. Teysa did the same, and gasped as she felt warmth spread outward from her chest. For a moment, her heart raced and her blood fizzed. Her breathing returned to normal, but she could feel it inside her: a tiny seed of warmth and light nestled in her soul.

"Take this," her father whispered. "Take this for your service, and my blessing. Never forget who you are. Ways change, Teysa, but righteousness does not. I will always be proud of you."

She wanted to say something else to papa, but he was fading. As the light dimmed and the house filled with shadows, he drifted away from her. She cried out and reached for him, but as she did, her mother stood up and strode forward.

She loomed over Teysa, a dark shape against the far wall of the the farmhouse. A scintilla of fear shot through Teysa, and she told herself she was being ridiculous. This was just her mother, who loved her and sang to her and combed nettles out of her hair. She wasn't scary.

The farmhouse dissolved.