Falling Skyward

Chapter One: Locked Boxes

 "Unparalleled strength is forged from unimaginable sorrows," the gypsy witch whispered, her voice punctuated by rasping breaths. But what happens to those who can't remember their sorrows?

The echo of last night's dream reverberated in Lana's mind, allowing her to relive every detail of the gypsy bazaar. She associated nothing extraordinary with the memory save an exotic attraction, yet her dreams transported her to that night again and again.

The old woman, her skin like translucent paper webbed with blue veins, gazed at Lana—her eyes taking in every breath without seeing. She smiled a knowing smile, taunting in the tent's twilight. "I know who you are, child, for I am also haunted by the dreams."

How was it that Lana could remember the exact detail of those pale eyes, cataracts seeping over them in a milky haze, and yet she retained no memory of the first eleven years of her life?

She had less than eight years of memory. Whenever she tried to delve further into her past, she discovered a vast blankness—an oblivion awakening from beyond her existence. It was as if she had been created in an instant—in that moment her uncle found her body in a scorched and frozen field. That image blazed in her mind like fire: the land a blackened carcass—every blade of grass bowing ash, greeting her rebirth into this world as snow fell from the sky.

She recoiled from the memories—those present and those tantalizingly vacant.

But the gypsy's colorless eyes fixated her mind. In the lightening hours, she strode through the woods, the last droplets of ice falling to the ground as she tried to clear her mind.

Lana knew the dream was nothing more than the result of her argument last night. Her nightmares intensified with conflict, conflict that generally arose from the same source—the letter on the mantel. This sealed letter sat in a black box, a permanent fixture in the house after her aunt's death. Iron leaves coiled across the lid like ivy, locking together in a bramble of metal that was only opened the day a family member came of age. The box had been unlocked only once—the day her younger cousin Vanessa married.

Memories from the argument last night intruded on Lana's thoughts. "Uncle, how can you continue to deny your wife's dying wish by refusing me her letter? She told me she wanted me to have it, to know more about my parents—her sister. I have a right to read it, a right to know." Lana had been bent over the ironing, her dark eyes blazing more furiously than the coals in the grate.

"If it truly was your right, God would have seen fit to restore your memory. Until then, I will not go against his wishes." Orrick, a large but lean man with grey-fringed hair, emphasized his words by pounding his fist didactically.

"Isn't knowledge of one's own past a basic right? The Light Bringer works through his messengers. You said so yourself, and as one of his holy messengers, you could help restore some of what I've forgotten. All you have to do is let me read that letter."

Orrick's face steamed more than the freshly pressed clothes.

"Confound it . . . It's those books. My biggest regret is the day I taught you to read. I had no idea it would have such a horrid effect and fill your head with such . . . unnatural ideas."

"Are you calling the words in your sacred texts unnatural?" The smug emotions playing across Lana's mouth were enhanced by her dark lips.

"No, God help me, no. How could you say such a thing?" Orrick bumbled, his fingers nervously combing his thick eyebrows. "All I am saying is that those books have filled your head with thoughts unfit for a girl and unsuitable for a wife—or a husband, for that matter. Learning is a base pastime, Lana, suitable only for light amusement and dangerous when sought above the survival of the family. As the prophet Telmut says, 'Food, family, and shelter. All other thoughts are abominations to the mind. The Mighty's high winds purify our souls, teaching us the simplicity of existence.'"