I was born in a small village on the coast of the sea. The village fished, of course, but the main source of income was protecting various trading ships that hired our men and women. Social status was determined by strength in combat, and our leader was the best fighter.
When I was a baby, I was small and weak. The village elders encouraged my parents to give up on their sick child, but they refused, claiming that she would be the best warrior the village had ever known. And so while other girls around the country received a doll and a brand new dress for their birthday, I was given a sharpening stone and a brand new knife. My father began instructing me in weapon lessons as soon as I could crawl.
I didn't have many friends, since I spent most of my time training, but I got to know two kids really well. One, a boy, older than me, but an amazing sparring opponent. The other, his little sister, a year my younger, and a great friend to hang out with. Their names were Shekel and Ava. Muscle building, weapons building, and chatting occasionally with my friends was how I spent my childhood.
My parents were good people, and I lived in a happy home. In the mornings, my mother would make a healthy breakfast, while teaching me how to build a delicious meal from scanty ingredients. Then my father would take me to the yard and we would practice swordfighting. Throughout my early years, I learned how to craft and use various weapons. Then we would head inside and eat whatever my mother had made. Afterwards, she and I would take to our small study, where I would learn about the geography and history of our country and others around us. I learned the names of all the surrounding rulers, including ours, King Benjamin, and his children Prince Herman and Princess Elizabeth. I was brought up knowing that sometimes, fighting isn't the answer, but sometimes it is, and I learned to tell which is which. I had a good life.
At age 12, I could best almost every other person in the village, since I practiced more than they did.
And then it happened.
One day, I was on a mid afternoon jog when I heard noises behind me. Turning, I saw a dark ship in the harbor, which could only mean one thing. Pirates. About once a year, a band of pillagers would be ignorant or foolish enough to attack our village full of warriors. I began sprinting down the hill I had just climbed, apprehensive, but hoping to be able to help out with the new swordsmanship move my father had taught me a few days earlier.
I reached the village gates in a few minutes, but by that time the ship was already limping away. Upon entering my small town, it became apparent from the unfamiliar bodies lying on the ground, red water slowly pooling around. I gasped and crouched, holding my stomach. No matter how many times I saw death, the moment the battle was over, I always felt sick. I struggled back to my feet, and started to stumble slightly through the narrow streets, hoping to find some sign of life.
I found the villagers in front of the small healers hut in the middle of the square. They were in a tight knot, surrounding something I couldn't see. My stomach flipped again. Someone from the village had died. Seeing Shekel and Ava in the outer rings of the crowd, I made my way towards them, thankful that they were alright. They saw me approach, but their eyes refused to meet mine. There was a numbness inside as I turned and lurched through the crowd, already certain of what I would find. A few people tried to restrain me, but I eventually broke through. In the center of the mass was my mother, lying on the ground with a face that said she defied the inevitability of her death.
I fell to the ground beside her, sobbing, not caring if my brand new britches would be stained. The people around me took a small step towards her to use the customary farewell of our village. First, the people she had impacted the most besides her family would come and say their thanks for her life. My mother's friends, the people she had given her life for, their families, they would all kneel, murmur their gratitude, and step away from the body, allowing the next in line to step up. Later I would learn that my mother had been protecting the ill inside of the hut behind her. Ava said that her own mother had been inside giving birth inside their new baby sister. But at that moment I could think of nothing but the crushing grief I was feeling.
After the small ceremony, my father took me home. He cleaned me up as best as he could, and sat me down at the dinner table. I looked up and examined him. He hadn't shed a tear during the ritual, and even now, in the walls of our house, he remained dry-eyed. Instead, there was only a grim determination. I leaned forward. Whatever he was planning, I was in.
