The Arena

A Visitor From All Over

On a small rise on the edge of a tiny village, a small group of people stood, watching the sunset. Children rolled, screeching, down the grassy slope, over and over again, until they collapsed on the ground breathlessly. The adults stood, chatting quietly together, but mostly just watched. Watched the children playing. Watched the last bloody rays of the sun. Watched darkness descend slowly over their little village. Soon, they headed back home. Doors closed, shades drawn, children tucked into bed.

The warmth in the air was finally overtaken by the cold of night sky. This was when Acadia came alive. She crept down the wooden stairs in darkness, placing each step carefully to avoid the creaks. When she reached the bottom, she padded silently over to her father's bedroom and placed an ear against the door to check he was still snoring. Then, she dashed for the door.

Her house had a huge backyard. Situated on the far South side of the village, there was miles and miles of open land on the other side of their house. Acadia thought, surely, somewhere, her father's land ended and unclaimed territory began. But if it did, it wasn't marked.

She hurried through the tall grass, feet callused from years of running outside without shoes. Slowly, the ground sloped downward, the earth growing muddier and muddier until Acadia's feet sunk into the mud with each step. Eventually, the ground sloped upwards once again, and the coarse, dry grass wiped the mud off her feet as she dashed to the top of the rise, nightgown whipping in the wind.

At the top of the little hill was a small stand of trees, branches rustling in the cool night wind. Acadia sat down against the trunk of a weeping willow. The inky blue sky was flecked with stars. The moon glowed a creamy white, casting the landscape of the valley in a blue, shadowy hue. She stared at the faint outline of the mountains against the horizon.

I wonder if my mother is still alive.

She sighed and slid down to the ground to stare up at the swaying leaves of the willow tree.

The next morning started, as always, with birds chirping and a warm morning breeze. Acadia rolled out of bed and glared out the window.

She splashed some cold water on her face and changed into her work clothes, then brushed her long, wavy hair into a high ponytail; pinning back the wispy bits that floated around her face. Grabbing her bag as she went, Acadia ran down the stairs two steps at a time and into the kitchen, where her father was making breakfast.

"Good morning," she said in a singsong voice.

"Morning, Addi."

She sat down at their tiny dining table just as her father set down a plate in front of her.

"Thanks, dad," she said cheerfully, grabbing the jam and butter from the pantry.

"No problem," he murmured, fixing himself a plate.

Acadia slathered her biscuits with jam and wolfed down her breakfast.

"Slow down! You're gonna get a stomach ache."

"I never do," Acadia said through a mouthful of sausage.

Her father sat down across from her. He'd barely taken his first bite before Acadia's plate was clean. She stood up from the table, ready to drop her dishes in the sink and go, but her father stayed her with a single raised hand. She sank slowly back into her chair, setting her plate back own on the table with a dull tink.

He chewed the last bite of his eggs thoroughly, not hurrying himself. Acadia waited patiently. Her father communicated rarely and sparingly.

His dark brown hair was cropped shortly and speckled with gray. After years of working in the outdoors, his skin was tough and deeply tan. He was one of the most important men in the town: if you needed anything in your house fixed or a replacement made, he was the guy to talk to. Not to mention, he sourced nearly all his materials from the forest himself, making his goods much cheaper than the other handymen in town who had their supplies shipped in from other cities.