The Hymn

Chapter 1 - Mother

Mother is upset. Her thin, sharp angled brows crush her narrow blue eyes. Her small lips are pulled back into a snarl. The long sleeves on her dress are pulled back to her elbows, and she grips my dark hair, so unlike her own.

Mother is indeed very upset, at the child who is not her own. By blood, yes, but inside we are opposites. Mother is light, the light of God. I am dark, the darkness of the Devil, says mother.

Mother whips her hand across my face, the pain attacking my senses. Tears do not well to my eyes, and I do not cry out. I am used to Mother being angry at me. Why wouldn't she be angry at a child that wields magic?

"Look at what you have done, child!" The woman screams. She throws a finger behind her, gesturing to the broken window. Blood sprinkles the woman's face, small marks from the glass that shredded across her features just minutes before.

I hold back a smile. I know what I have done. I broke the window. I did not use my hands, or a rock, or a heavy candle. I used my mind.

I used magic.

Mother grips my head and twists it to face her.

"Well? What excuse have you?"

"None, Mother," I say. "I am sorry."

The woman pauses and a smile hints at her mouth in satisfaction.

"Very well. Return to your quarters immediately. No supper for one week."

I nod in submission. "Yes, mother."

She releases my hair and shoves me away towards the attic steps. The attic is her study, and a place that I have learned to associate with pain. I stumble down the steps, my long white dress catching on my shoes.

This is my home, and home to twenty two other young girls. This place is called the Hymn, because the legends say that one can hear the bells on the clock tower for hundreds of miles. It chimes out sorrowfully across the land, its song for all to hear. A mourning hymn. I would not know myself how far the sound travels, for I have not left the Hymn for the entire fifteen years of my existence.

I live in the basement, along with the other Cursed Children. The Cursed are the ones who have magic coursing in their blood. There are six of us, each assigned an eight by eight square in the basement. Our only possessions each are a blanket, a bag of oats to act as a pillow, seven candles per month, eight dresses, and a bible. I am the only exception. I, unlike the other Cursed Children, have a note written by my father. My real father, not Mother's husband.

The note is written in a language I have not learned, as I am not allowed to learn it. I only recognize my father's signature because it shares my last name. Mother says no girls are allowed to learn, especially Ty Ebers. Ty Ebers is a Cursed Child, for she possesses magic.

I am Ty.

I reach the long stone staircase that descends to the basement. Through the corridor, I hear girls laughing. I know that they will receive stern words from Mother. Cursed Children are not allowed to laugh.

I descend the stars anyway and step carefully through the darkness. The girls hush immediately and watch me. Concern shines in their eyes. The other girls upstairs do not show concern for any of us or even themselves. The other girls upstairs are cold and silent.

"What did Mother say?" asks Mary. Mary is a quiet but brave girl. She gladly takes extra lashes for her sisters when she feels it is ill deserved. Mary used to be beautiful, just like the other girls. But her face was marred when Mother found she possessed magic also, and now Mary is blind. Trapped in eternal darkness, I do not know how Mary maintains her sanity.

"No food for one week." I dip my head in fake shame. I do not feel shameful for shattering the window in a fit of rage. But nobody can know, as the penalty for such thoughts carries two weeks outside the Hymn.

I would rather die than leave the Hymn.

I trudge to my square of space in the farthest corner of the basement. The roof leaks above me, and it is coldest here beneath the only window, and cockroaches and spiders creep along the walls. A line of ants trails directly through my square from the opening high in the wall.

Mother does not like me, even as I am her only birth child. I have heard the girls upstairs speaking to one another about something called love. "Love is a feeling beyond like," says Virginia, an older blonde girl that lives a floor above my own. "A feeling that aches and tugs at the heart beyond all, that I would steal just to feel over and over again." If that is love, what Mother feels towards me is not love. What Mother feels is more than dislike, a word that has long been cast away from the Hymn.

I remove my undersized flats and tug my dress up over my head. The other girls have beautiful gowns encrusted with gems that they slumber in; us Cursed Children sleep in only our undergarments. As a result, the nights are cold and sleepless and in the morning our joints are stiff and aching.

I curl up under the rough canvas blanket and stare at the cold stone wall. I start weaving my magic, the complexity of the power soothing me into a trance.

The Cursed Children only have one element each that they can control. Mary controls water. Stephanie, a short blonde girl with yellow eyes, controls light. I simply control all of the elements. I am the artist, and the world is my canvas.

I vividly remember being beaten six years ago for making it snow in the unbearable summer heat. I once had to climb the bell tower and polish it in the dead of night for sending a pack of illusionary dogs after the girls upstairs. At the age of twelve, I spent two nights sleeping on the roof in the pouring rain for lighting a candle with my mind.

I startle out of the painful memories when I realize that Mary is shaking my shoulder and whispering my name. And I look at the wall at which I was staring, and freeze. Painted on the wall with illusions is… A starlit sky, complete with every constellation and both moons. Tree silhouettes line the dark sky and a curving hill peeks into sight, glowing a faint red from the westernmost moon Athena. Her blue counterpart, Poseidon, shines just as bright. On the hill, two small figures dance and twirl and laugh with joy.

I notice the other girls staring at the scene in awe and something else. Perhaps longing?

I quickly banish the sight from existence. That is, if it even existed in the first place. I sense their disappointment. Longing for this type of joy is forbidden, for one must leave the Hymn to dance with the stars and leaving is forbidden with the exemption of punishments.

I quickly shake my head to clear it of the thoughts and vanish under the rough canvas covers. The stone below me is achingly cold and I feel tiny insect legs climb across my feet. This is just another night here at the Hymn. Nothing ever changes, and nothing ever will. This is simply who I am. The Hymn is a part of me, however I am not a part of the Hymn. Why mother allows me here, I still do not know.