First Light (2 page)

But a full minute passed, and she did not speak. And, as I had at times like this before, I gave up all hope of ever understanding her or making her dreams for me come true.

“I don’t want a new gown,” I reiterated. “And there are
no
princesses. At least not in my life.” Certainly no prince would arrive to sweep me off my bare, dusty feet. Taking the mending from the top of the pile of laundry, I began walking away.

There is no happily ever after.

Much later than I would have liked that afternoon, I finally made my way to the barn and Father. My stomach grumbled and I felt weak, having not eaten anything since my breakfast porridge. My limbs moved from sheer will.

There wouldn’t be much time for lessons today, but that couldn’t be helped. We’d been out of both wormwood and comfrey, and it had taken quite a lot of searching the woods to find all that I needed of both. If it were just our needs that I was worrying over, it would have been one thing, but more and more folk from other farms sought out my healing abilities. As the drought lingered and sickness came with it, I’d found myself sharing what remedies I could.

Today Father was seated at a stool, caring for one of our horses. I paused to bestow a kiss on his temple as I passed, then carefully climbed the ladder to the rafters above. I’d always had a fear of heights, and Father knew it. He was a firm believer in conquering one’s fears, and so it was at his insistence that I spent time far above the ground each day until— he assured me— I should be as comfortable there as I was with my feet planted on solid earth.

With caution I made my way across one of the large beams spanning the room. My eyes strained to read the passage Father had sprawled on the dirt floor below.

“
The first shall be last, and the last shall be first
. Is that today’s lesson?” I called.

He gave a nearly imperceptible nod as he resumed his work— scraping out the shoe of one of our haggard-looking mares.

I straddled the beam, leaning over to study the words once more. I didn’t have a slate, much less the opportunity to attend school, so Papa’s scratchings in the dirt had to suffice for my instruction in reading, writing, and arithmetic. Lately he’d abandoned our more traditional lessons in favor of lectures, followed by animated discussion between the two of us. I much preferred this to conjugating verbs or working the same boring sums, and I took this improvement to mean that Father thought me ready to move on to more advanced learning.

Though he oft said he favored country living over life in a township, he had done his best to pass on the education he’d received to his children— not all of whom were appreciative of his efforts.

“The first last, and the last first,” I repeated, wondering what Father was getting at. I glanced at the mending in my hand and felt discouraged, realizing how long it might be before such a statement applied to me.

Before
I
was first.

I’d been last my whole life. It seemed to be what I was best at, the thing I was made for. Growing up as the youngest of eleven, I always got the last of everything, the end piece of bread— the hardened heel, oft burned in our temperamental oven. The milk jug reached me last, frequently empty by the time it made its way to the far end of the table. And the bath water was chilled and murky by the time my brothers and sisters had all taken their turns. There were times I swore I was dirtier when I stepped out of the old washtub than when I’d stepped in.

Papa interrupted my thoughts. “The least among us shall be the greatest.”

I snorted, wondering what sort of miracle would have to occur for that to happen. Now Father was having delusions. Was all of Mother’s talk of meeting royalty rubbing off on him?

“I’ll need a fairy godmother then.” I fingered the thin fabric of my skirt. Only magic could transform my patched, faded hand-me-downs into something great.

“And a sorcerer’s brew will turn out some fine stallions from these old nags.” Papa looked up, a glint of mischief in his weary eyes.

I felt grateful to see it there. His usual mirth had been absent of late.

“We shouldn’t discount magic,” he continued, his serious manner returned. “'Tis real and more powerful than many would believe.”

“If it’s so real,” I scoffed, “then why does someone not use it to end the sickness sweeping the land? Why do you not call upon it to send rain for our crops?” I bit my lip, regretful the second the words fled my mouth. The state of our farm was a sore subject for Papa, his inability to provide for our family both worrisome and shameful.

“I am not possessed of magic,” Papa said. “The good Lord saw fit to bless me with other abilities— like extra patience with my youngest child.”

The rebuke, though gentle, set me in my place. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

He nodded his forgiveness. “Remember, though you have seen little to make you believe, magic is all around us, much closer than you think. But it is only part of what will turn the least to greatness. Reflect on that.”

His tone told me the discussion was closed for now, so I took up the mending, attempting to render yet another garment— a cast off from one of my eight older sisters— serviceable. Father continued his work, and I pondered more on the least of circumstances we found ourselves in. We were fortunate to own land— a good twelve acres of it. But Father could no longer work the fields, and three years of continuous drought had yielded increasingly poor crops, so he couldn’t afford to hire out help. My lazy brothers offered little assistance.

A shadow fell across the floor below, and I looked down to see Mother standing in the open doorway. As quietly as possible I pulled my legs up on the rafter and tucked in my skirts.

“Do you know where Adrielle is?” she asked. We had words earlier…” Her hands rose as if in helpless surrender.

A shaft of sunlight slanted behind her, lighting her hair so that it looked more golden than gray. My father, ever observant, took notice. He left his stool and walked toward her, then wrapped his arms around her, kissing her gently.

“Stephen, you shouldn’t—” She turned away from him.

“And why not?" He gave her a curious look.

“It’s— It’s not proper.” Mother stepped from his embrace and waved her hand toward the open doorway. “It’s broad daylight. Anyone could see us.” She brought a hand to her mouth, stifling a cough but not her stern expression.

Father chuckled. “And I’d think, that seeing how we’re the parents of eleven,
anyone
might suppose we kiss each other once in a while.”

“Why don’t you help me instead?” A frown creased her face, diminishing some of her loveliness. “I need Adrielle inside.”

“Whatever it is, let it wait awhile. She stayed in all morning.”

“I don’t know why you encourage her.” Mother followed him into the barn. “It was one thing to neglect her education when she was younger, but she’s nearly eighteen. She ought to be with me, developing the skills she’ll need.”

“Adrielle’s had a fine education. Her wit is quick, her mind sharp.”

I couldn’t hold back a smile at Papa’s praise. I did so love to please him. And though Mother would never have guessed, it bothered me greatly that no matter what I did, she never seemed satisfied.

Papa continued. “Adrielle has plenty of skills— and talents. Her gift with herbs has saved more than one life, and you know as well as I, she has a fine hand with the garden.” He picked up a curry brush and began stroking the mare. “As of late, I fear where we would be without her abilities.”

“Do you
want
her traipsing through the forest and digging in the dirt when she’s grown?” Mother threw her hands up in exasperation. “You know that’s not what she’s meant for. But if she doesn’t develop grace and learn to be a lady, I fear that’s where she’ll end up. And where will that leave us?”

“With a fine daughter.” Father’s voice was quiet.

Mother’s breath caught. “You know that’s not possible. You must get such a foolish notion from your head. We agreed to let her go. We promised.”

Promised what?
What had my parents agreed to without my consent?

Father held his hand out to Mother. “Would you have me lose another daughter?” His voice was lower yet and had an odd strain to it. In contrast, Mother’s rose.

“The other you speak of is not lost—
if
you honor our vow. She can return to us once Adrielle is gone.
I
am the one who suffered in all this. The child we have well and truly lost, the babe I carried inside me, lies buried in a far field.” Mother looked out the west-facing window. “One I’ve never been to visit. I will never get her back.”

A child? Mother lost a baby?
I reeled with this revelation.
When? And what has that to do with me? And who is to return once I go—
where?

“You miss what is not here, yet you choose to
dismiss
what lies in front of you.”

I cringed at Father’s tone, though the words were not directed at me. His response was anything but sympathetic, and most uncharacteristic, especially in light of what Mother had just said. My parents were as different from one another as night and day, but I had never witnessed a scene like this before. That I was the cause of their disagreement was most worrisome.

“You must let her go,” Mother said. “It’s almost time."

Time for what?
I wondered.
To be married or sent to work as my older siblings?
I

leaned forward to hear what else Father might say and lost my balance and plunged toward the

the barn floor. I landed in a shallow pile of hay and scrambled to regain my feet. My awkward curtsy did not amuse Mother.

“Ladies do not eavesdrop.” Severe disappointment glinted in her eyes, and worry etched her brow. “I swear, Adrielle, you’ll be the death of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I began. “I never intended—”

A strangled sort of cry escaped her throat. Her face went ashen and she clutched at her chest. Papa thrust his hands out, catching her as she fell forward.

I raced over, trailing hay as I knelt beside them on the ground. “Mama, I’m sorry!”

“Help her.” Father sounded frightened, desperate.

I put my ear to her chest.
No beat.
I grasped her wrist, pressed my fingers to her throat.
No pulse.
I pried open her mouth.
Nothing.
But she was just speaking. She was well.

“Wake up, Mother.
Please
.” I shook her gently. She remained limp, like a rag doll. I pulled back her eyelids and her eyes stared up at me, sightless.

I fell back, hand covering my own mouth as I turned to Father.

“Gretta.” He gathered her in his arms and held her close. “Hang on a little longer. All will be well, you’ll see.”

All was not well. I knew of no herbs to make a heart beat again. I could not save her. I sat helpless as Father held her and cried.

You’ll be the death of me
…

Mother’s words had echoed in my memory for weeks, and here they were afresh as my eyes blurred yet again. My last image of her— the only one I could seem to conjure— was Mother’s thin frame laid out in the casket Father made. I’d touched her cheek once, just before the lid was nailed shut. Her skin had been so cold. She was locked in a dark pine box beneath the barren ground, and it was my fault.

The quilting frame shook, and a bright red drop of blood welled up on my finger. I’d pierced it again, my inability to concentrate rendering my sewing skills even poorer than usual.

That conversation in the barn haunted me. Though Mother and I never understood each other, I hadn’t wanted her to die, hadn’t even realized she was sick.

But I should have.
The weight of guilt had descended squarely on my shoulders in the weeks since her death. Missed opportunities filled my mind; my own cross words reverberated in my ears.
I should have known. I could have helped. I’d healed so many others but let my own mother die.

How long had she known? Why didn’t she tell us? The sickness creeping over the land had swept in and taken her and what little potential this farm seemed to have. With Mother gone, there seemed not even the remotest possibility that anything would ever get better.