Cursed: Traitor's Trail

Chapter 3 part 1

Aya tossed and turned, loose bits of tent flapped against each other, like youngsters playing a game of patty-cake, infiltrating her restless dreams.

“Get outside, you can't play in here,” she muttered to the unseen children. What were they doing in her tent anyway? And why couldn't she see them? Darkness hung before her eyes.

“Aya?”

“And it's not clap-clap-clap-slap...here, like this...” She tried to show them...but, her hands...they wouldn't move. Gahh! She was paralyzed!

“Aya!”

Her body twitched, and she had the weird disorientation one got when awoken from to vivid a dream.Her hands flung above her head, balancing her before she fell from her skins. Then, thrilled that she could move them she practiced working them up and down...they seemed fine. But, to be sure, she sat up and tried clapping. Clap.

“Again Aya? Would you stop that racket? If you can't be quiet, fetch the water and light the morning fire.”

Aya blinked as reality nestled in, glad the dim predawn murk hid her embarrassed flush. Across the tent, Grandmother lay on her pallet, raised up on her elbows, ostensibly looking in Aya's direction. It was the fourth time that night she had cried out in her sleep. What is wrong with me?

“Sorry, Grandmother,” she whispered.

Giving up on the rest that evaded her, she rolled herself out from between her furs, sending little cracks of static across the soft material.

She found her robe folded neatly on the ground, and pulled it over her head letting the soft material slide along until the hem settled to her feet. Then, she tied on her sandals, leaving the head scarf for later. The water skin hung, suspended from the crisscrossing poles of the twig lattice which supported the skins of their shelter. She pulled the knot that held it secure on a pole just high enough to be poured easily. It plopped into her hand with a little slosh produced by the dregs of yesterday's usage. She tucked it against her waist and reached out a hand, intending to pull back the entrance flap of the tent.

Then she remembered the black demon, and fear stilled her movements.

She listened carefully. There was not a sound from outside, or from the other side of the tent.

Had Grandmother fallen back asleep? Or is she just waiting impatiently for me to comply? Admitting her cowardice was not appealing. Still, remembering the attack sent a wave of anxiety through her.

She waited, judging. Surely Grandmother is asleep.

Making a decision, she worked her way back toward her sleeping pallet, each step in the dust thumped too loud in her ears. She wasn't sure what the consequence would be for such direct disobedience, but she hoped she wouldn't find out.

The floor of the tent was smooth and even, nothing littered the dust or impeded her path, allowing her feet to tread silently. The slight breeze pushed the hem of her robe, billowing about her legs; slapping in a way that had her glancing nervously in the direction of the sleeping woman. She strained to hear as she lifted the top skin of her pallet, grasping quietly for what lay beneath.

Her fingers brushed a handle of cool bone, tingling excitement ran through her digits and up her arm, followed closely by guilt. Silently, she lifted the dagger from its hiding place and tucked it into the waistband of her robe, beneath the fabric and against her skin. It was an uneven blade, poorly crafted with a nick along one side, but it was one that the weapon smith hadn't missed from his pile when she took it late one evening. With its reassuring presence, she moved forth to escape the tent and face the world outside.