Karasi of Pelnora

Beginnings

The forest was always our sacred place. My father and I would spend every moment we could there. Away from the heartache that our home had become since my mother's passing, we spent the daylight hours having small adventures. His gruff appearance always lightened the moment we entered the trees' welcoming threshold.

As his only child, it would have been acceptable for him to have pined for a son. But my father was a traveled man and having spent his younger years in the company of many a spectacular adventurer, of all makes, he held me in the same regard as any son or daughter could have wished. His teachings sought out a discipline of kindness mingled with that of strength and knowledge.

Every day we explored and sought a new understanding. Amongst our chores, we'd tussle with wooden broom-handle swords and crowns of flowers, twigs, and bones. And at night, we would discuss the knowledge of the world, but more importantly, there was never a night my eyes fluttered closed without the whispering of a daring tale spilling from my father's masterful lips.

My childhood was a dream that I remember fondly to this day. Whether my bones have aged and my body has started to weather, my memories remain as crisp as the day they were made. I have lived a life of wonder and exploration, and I can truly say it was because of the love, imagination, and knowledge from which my childhood was built.

I tell you this, because it is important to note that everyone comes from something. Everyone's story starts with the smallest and oldest parts of their life. No matter where their life ends, the beginning has just as much importance.

With that said, my story has transitioned much since my blessed beginnings. And as such, it is only fitting that I tell you of the part of my story where things took their drastic turn.

My father was a very knowledgeable man and would often travel for different events, leaving me in the company of a few of my mother's old friends in the city. Confident and kind, my father was quite beloved in our village. So he had many women ready to dote on him, after my mother's passing. And to their credit, many of them were kind enough to share their homes and company with us. But, though a few would look hopeful in their pursuits of obtaining his love, none were so bold as to grab my father's loving affection. That is until, a recently widowed woman by the name of Helita swept in and demanded my father's attention. My father was captivated by her during his travels and, following their marriage, moved Helita and her daughter Pasheem into our home.

It was not long before Helita made my father aware of the need for me to have a formal education. And so, Pasheem and I were enrolled in a private school in the city. My father attempted to keep our home learning and adventures in tact during our spare time together. However, my childhood soon came to a halt when my father suddenly died from a venomous snake bite, during one of his solo explorations.

Amongst the sudden loss and sorrow, Helita's true nature presented itself in all it's cruelty and hatred. Ready to strike at every turn, she chose to demote me from doted-upon-daughter to scum-beneath-her-shoe servant. Had I been able to find a friend in my new step sister, maybe things would have been tolerable. But, like her mother, Pasheem proved just as vile and would find ways to make life unbearable for me.

Education became non-existent as I was pulled out of my private school. Subjected to doing every bit of the cooking and cleaning, Helita made it her mission to squash the fabric of my prior existence. But as I've said before, my mind is one of perfect remembrance. As such, no matter what Helita and Pasheem threw my way, I held onto my memories, stories, and knowledge for comfort. Every night I'd recall one of my father's stories from my memory bank and fall asleep to the envisioned sound of his voice lulling me to sleep.

Another bit of comfort came in the form of my neighbors. Though Helita had pulled me from school, I was still forced to leave the house to shop and complete certain chores. As such, my neighbors became a form of learning and comfort. They taught me the skills I lacked and would find ways to bring me small comforts. Whether it be in the form of cocoa on a stoop for a brief check-in, an extra to-go treat handed my way as I left the grocery, or a short story telling while we laundered together at the stream. In many ways, I found an even bigger family after my father passed. And thankfully, from them, my knowledge of love and kindness continued to grow as I matured into a young woman.

And so, things continued in much of the same manner for many years. Chores, work, chores, a bit of friendly chatter, work, chores, work, small moments of grateful banter, chores, work... until one fateful day, when the course of my life was changed by a single bowl of soup.