Scout Stories: Bruised Beginnings

Mist

Everyone called her Grandmother.

A young girl sat in a corner and hugged her knees. It was dark, but she didn't turn on the light. She was cold, but she didn't reach for the blanket that was close to her. At her feet lay a book full of recipes and personal writings. Her head was full of memories of better, warmer days.

Miach knew that the old woman had a name, but she couldn't remember anyone ever saying it. They all called her Grandmother. It had become a title of sorts over the years that she had served in the village as a Healer and Adviser. Even the Rí himself said it. 

It wasn't until she was seven that she noticed it was weird. Other children would call some older women Grandmother as well. So Miach thought it might be an age thing and tried doing the same. All that happened was that confused herself (and a few old ladies) all the more.

She went to the Rí to ask him about it because, in her mind, he had the answers to the universe. He had ruffled her hair and teased her in a kind and playful sort of way that she hated at the time. He told her that it was usually something people called their parents' mothers.

"Does that mean your my uncle?" she asked.

He laughed. "Not in blood," he told her. "Do you understand?"

At seven, Miach confused questions as a sign of immaturity, so she lied and said that she did. Then she left to go play with the others.

It was a short conversation but it was enough to plant a small seed of a thought in her. At first she barely noticed that it was there, lying in the back of her mind and growing like a weed. Soon in began to intrude on other thoughts. Then it followed every single idea like a shadow. Within a week it was her first worry every morning.

What if her Grandmother wasn't her Grandmother?

Tegid noticed her discomfort and somehow knew what it was about. It was a nasty talent for a child to have, yet alone someone who was almost an adult. He mocked her in whispers when no one else was around and told her that she was a foundling. Miach had gotten quite good at ignoring Tegid, but still some of the poison of his words slipped into her.

Their village was small, and it did not so much rise out of the ground but sink into it. Even the wall, build to protect them from the monsters outside, was crumbling. Large parts of it had been overcome by overgrown brushes. Storage sheds, built at either side of the wall, used it as a support. Every small house had a small garden for growing crops. Several small fields spilled out from the safety the warded rock and over the meadows. Except for a tiny wood, the surroundings were gentle slopes. Anyone approaching could be seen miles before arriving.

Not that many people ever came. The village was separate from any important road and far from the vital trade rivers. Most travelers who did arrive were nervous and quick to leave. Many of their own people were quick to leave as well. Some went off for an education or to see the world. One or two had left with hopes of becoming rich. Most people left because staying meant being single forever or marrying your cousin. By the time Miach had been born, only fifteen families remained in the village. By the time she was seven, that number had dwindled down to twelve. She didn't know if she belonged to any of them.

She hadn't planned to ask the question that day. It was one of the few times the surgery was empty. No one in the village had anything wrong with them. Not even any of the old men, who always had something wrong with them. It was a rare moment. A rare chance. 

"Should I be calling you Grandmother?" Miach asked.

Grandmother laughed. She had a deep, infectious crackle that usually set Miach into laughing as well. That day she didn't find anything funny. The older woman noticed this and her laugh faded into a gentle smile.