Tao of the Broken

Chapter One

One

            Sorrel quietly ducked out from beneath her covers and stood still beside her bed.  It was still early and there was very little light shining through the small window high on the wall of her basement room.  She crept as soundlessly as she could across the room to the small desk in the corner.  She pulled the heavy chair to the window and turned its back against the wall.  She paused briefly to listen before climbing on top of it.

            When her fingers brushed the windowsill she pushed the sheer curtain aside and stood as tall as she could on her toes to peer outside.  There was a light fog just above the damp grass as she scanned the yard from fence line to tree line looking for him.  It was usually at sunrise that she could see the man she knew as her father training each morning.

            He didn’t know she watched him, she was supposed to be asleep still.  She didn’t think he would mind that she watched but she was too scared to ask.  She was content climbing to the window every morning to see the stretches and stances he moved swiftly through every day.

            He was always so precise and calm during these hours.  He swayed and ducked, sidestepping and bobbing.  His feet were always moving as he punched and kicked and sometimes his hands were so fast that they seemed like a blur.  She thought maybe it was because of the mist and the angle of the sun.  No man could move so quickly as to blur out the lines of his own body.

            After nearly an hour Sorrel eased herself down from the chair and sat in it.  Her toes always cramped from watching him and her feet were aching now.  She gently rubbed them and wondered what it was that her father did that he needed to be in such shape.

            She barely remembered when she had come to live here.  She had walked for many days, it had been cold and her feet and stomach had ached the whole way.  The first time she had laid eyes on Batur, the man she called father, she had feared him.  In many ways she still did.  He was gruff and rugged but seemed rich and refined.  He was so tall and muscled and had reminded her of a hungry bear.  She had been naked in front of him and he had argued with a woman about her.

            She blushed thinking of it.  She was too afraid to ask what these memories were of.  She doubted he would answer her even if she was courageous enough to ask.  She only remembered small things about the farm.  Like the horses.  They had smelled sweet and had gentle eyes.

            She hated horses.  They reminded her of scars and a hungry belly and she couldn’t remember why.  She thought it could be for the better.  Her father didn’t own any horses.  Sometimes men would come to the house and he would lead them to his office, asking her to tie their horses at the back of the house.  She never told him that she didn’t want to, she was afraid it would make him angry.  The horses never hurt her, and they watched her with soft eyes.  She didn’t like them though.

            She didn’t like a lot of things, she hid most of them.

            When her feet felt better Sorrel dressed and climbed the stairs to the kitchen, she was getting hungry and assumed her father would be in soon and would like breakfast.  She busied herself warming bread over the coals that were still red from the day before and prepared to make coffee and eggs when her mother, Aster, entered, smiling at her sleepily.

            The woman had straw colored hair and bright sky blue eyes that always made Sorrel feel ugly by comparison.  She always smiled at her with such happiness that Sorrel couldn’t decide if it made her feel loved or even more lonely.

            “Morning sweet thing, what can I help you with?”  Her mother asked, briefly touching the top of Sorrel’s head.

            “Nothing, I can manage,” she answered, “Are eggs and bread okay?  I can make something else if you’d like.”