Artturi Focus

Chapter One

Afallach was nothing without apples, and the best apples were grown in the little town of Chrossili. Everyone knew that. The farmers working there knew it to be true, at least. And who would argue against the self-proclaimed apple experts?

Of course, it wasn't just apples that Chrossili exported. Oh no. That clearly became apparent before even the sun could finally peek past the horizon. Silhouettes danced through fields, orchards, and farmland alike, performing a routine they knew by heart. In the fading darkness, they meandered about-- letting animals roam and collecting eggs for what would end up being a hearty breakfast. A mixture of the need for sleep and a desire to hurry things along in order to get said breakfast should've led to an expected silence.

Silent mornings, however, was not a truth Chrossili could claim.

"Goooood morning!" At just the sound of his voice, all who could hear turned their heads. Some smiled in reply while others stared blankly, still registering what those words meant. Some, if they really had a good night, mumbled greetings that were almost undecipherable. All eyes led to a humanoid silhouette leaning his elbows on top of the gate to an apple orchard. The boy's smile seemed to shine in the darkness. He fumbled with the gate's lock and entered.

The leaves twinkled ever so slightly with the morning dew. However, it wasn't enough. It had never been enough. For more than a decade, rain was a rarity in a land where it used to rain almost every day. A drought, so some of the people of Afallach claimed. A curse, said even more. Strange how this drought had yet not reached the neighboring kingdoms. At the end, some bold scientists gave their verdict that a change in the air coming from the Western sea and blockage from seaside cliffs and mountains were responsible for stealing the moisture from them. It didn't quite make sense, but people will always find solace in a scientific explanation. Plus, it was not like the people were nothing without a regular stream of rain. After all, the apple trees still had lively green leaves. Some farming villages would have more luck than others, if they were fortunate enough to have the right person.

The boy made his way to a corner of the orchard. He placed his hand on the trunk of the first tree in line. It was almost apple season. Around him, little white and pink petals blanketed the dirt and grass. He closed his eyes, deep in thought, for a minute. Two minutes. The wind blowing through the leaves, birdsong, and the bleating of sheep being set to graze created a symphony.

He stepped back, now opening his eyes, and rolled his tunic sleeves up. There were around seventy-two trees oriented into a rectangle. A decent number by all means. He liked going down the rows following the longer side of the rectangle. It was much more effective that way. He leaned forward down the open path lined by trees in front of him and flicked his hand at his side. A small bubble of water levitated over the palm of his hand. It gurgled and grew bigger and less spherical until it was the size of a melon. Shifting and changing, the water caught any light that it could get, creating patterns on his hand and the bark of the tree. Then, he ran.

The spheroid of water changed once again, running with him in ribbons of liquid. The water weaved through his fingers and occasionally splashed up to his wrist. This strange rain fell down to the base of the trees, and they sucked it all in. As the sun continued its ascent, the water took on a red-orange hue, as if it were alive and burning. One by one, the apple trees each received a fresh spray of water. The boy focused his attention on the path in front of him. When he reached the end, he twisted his wrist in a circle, forming the water into a spheroid once again. Without losing pace, he made his way into the next row. His right arm reached across his chest toward the trees in order to reach them with the new direction. There were still five more rows to go and he wasted no time in continuing his run with the magical water.

Just five more trees to go. Four more trees. Three. Two. He skidded to a stop, swinging his hand to the sky, and the water bubble burst. Droplets like little crimson jewels descended in front of him. The sun had now peeked its face beyond the horizon for all to see and color was brought back to the world. The boy shook his hand, shaking off any remaining drops. Then he looked up at the last tree he had watered, pulling back his little side braids, and gazing up with warm gray eyes. Almost obscured by small leaves was a small green fruit that was just beginning to show shades of a brilliant red. He smiled at the sight. When he was younger, his neighbors used to claim that he must have come out of an apple since his hair was as red as the fruit. Seeing them grow every year reminded him of the village that cared for him for as long as he could remember, named him, and supported him in everything he did.

Plus, it was also where he first found his potential as a user of foci.

"This year's harvest will be wonderful. And we have you to thank for it." A voice took the boy from his gazing. A hunched old woman with a knitted shawl draped over her shoulders hobbled over, leaning over a walking stick. Her knuckles protruded from the rest of her frail hand and were red from the force she was gripping the walking stick with. A gentle smile was carved into her wrinkled face.

The boy shook his head and waved his arms in front of him. "Nonono. All of Chrossili had a part to play in creating such gorgeous trees." He then returned the smile to her. "Good morning, Missus Paderau. How are you today?"

"Unfortunately not blessed with the youth and energy of a sprightly lad, such as yourself. Alas, nothing can remind me more about the days when I was young and beautiful than seeing the apples on the trees," she said. She let out a soft yet hearty giggle.

"I think you are still as beautiful as ever," he replied, to which she giggled once again. She had never let go of that "romantic schoolgirl" aesthetic, even as she rose to become the matriarch of Chrossili. Paderau was in fact the one who had named him. She was the closest thing he had to a mother.

A breeze swept past the trees and Paderau clutched the ends of her shawl. "Ooh, a lovely late summer breeze." She closed her eyes, letting the breeze play with her gray hair. "Come, Artturi. It is time for breakfast." She hobbled past him toward a little mud and stone shack beyond the orchard.

The boy named Artturi followed.