The Cursed Years

The Cursed Years Short Story

 

In my family, there is a curse.

We don't know how to end the curse because the caster was killed by my ancestorbefore she could finish.

Killing the caster before the curse finishes does not stop the curse.It just cuts off the last lines, which usually give a hint as to how to break the spell. This is common courtesy.

Unfortunately, my ancestor was an idiot.

The curse states that each firstborn member of my family shall, at some point in their life, be forced to leave home and wander the earth for seven years.

I am a firstborn.

Just a few years after I was born, my father,the king, followed a butterfly out of the royal garden and wasn't seen for seven years. When he did return, I did not recognize him, and he did not recognize my younger sister, Kay-with-eyes-of-Autumn. That is probably because she was not technically his daughter. If my mother had not been preventing the kingdom from falling into ruin for the past seven years, things may have gone differently. But for her diligence, it was suggested that Kay was the king’s daughter. My father said not a word about it, or about much of anything else. He and my mother were distant figures, as our country was often unstable and in need of attention. My sister and I were each other’s comfort then, both through war and neglect.

These are the reasons I left. I did not want my life interrupted as my father's was, did not want to leave a wife and child and country behind. If the curse could not be avoided, perhaps acceptance would ease the transition. For me, and for our country.

I packed my bags, and Kay and I said our goodbyes. I captured the picture of her face in my mind, her small features and her eyes the color of leaves rustling underfoot and chill evenings before the winter snows. If I never returned, everything went to Kay, including the kingdom.

It has been six-and-a-half years since I blithely strolled out of the palace, unaware of the troubles that awaited me.

The Present—Year Seven

"PY!" yells my talking sword, Anwar.

I can barely hear him over the wailing of the wind. "Busy!" I shout at the sky. I am currently clinging to a cliff face, fingers frozen into useless claws. Snow burns my face as it whips past us. Meanwhile, the frigid wind steals into every loose seam.

“I THINK THEY STOPPED CHASING US,” Anwar yells.

“Splendid,” I mutter through cold teeth. I look up instead of down. The “path” continues vertically for at least another hundred feet. After that cloud and snow obscure the way.

The road across the mountains is a mile below. There is no road to the center of the range, but a villager near the base of the mountain told us of this path.

He did not tell us it is guarded by ancient spirits who rise from the grave when you cross the boundary. We had run—or rather, I had run and Anwar had bounced at my side—across the last bit of the road and had begun to climb.

My feet find a sturdy ledge and I stop to rest, wrapping my arms around my body for warmth.

“Do you remember,” I start to say, and then stop to keep panting. The climb is tiring and the air is thinning.

“The cliff from Year Three?” Anwar cackles. “The muddy one you slid all the way down?”

Anwar has been with me since Year One, when I stumbled over him in a ditch. I grabbed him to fight off the bandits chasing me. Then, remembering I was terrible at sword fighting, I had crouched in the ditch until they had run past.