Born

₤o, above the Ψays of Жagik there is a way that is not a path; there is a style that can only be conceived, and a power that few will ever know. Лeither the magi nor the clerik are capable of learning such power, for verily it is a part of Ŧhey that wield it. Ξt is Ŧhose of the ξlements who would rule the world and all within, were they to assemble as a great host.
-The Book of ZiNanam, C. 32, V. 1-3

         The Plains in the lower portion of Naholt were not always lush and fertile, but that time had not yet come. Though there would be an age wherein the most envied plot of land in the region became a small hamlet known as Wheat Quarry, so named for the tall yellow grass that waved in the wind as far as the human eye could see on a cloudless day. Their life had been borne of an amazing irrigation system that formed naturally from the mountains to the north. A spring gushed forth with such force that it tore itself a fissure most of the way down its rocky mother. Once at the bottom, the water found itself a valley with thick dirt and desperately dry fields. A few hundred cycles of the seasons and this place would soak up that fresh water like a sponge in the seas; parts of the places surrounding the mountain would be known as Mud Flats for generations. The mud allowed nutrients to be collected more fervently, causing the sickly grass to grow into its true form.

         While this would not occur for some time, a single entity came to a single place within Naholt’s still infamous Plains. A being of such power that to imagine its true form or true purpose would be near impossible for the likes of elf or man. Long before What Is and What Is Not were squabbling over Life and Death, and before Time looked to the stars for its own age, there was another. During the moment that existence became an ideal from something far greater and far more misunderstood than anything that has been or will be, this entity has existed. It has gone by many names, though the human word that best describes it is Fate, the name that came with it into existence, before the formation of All, is Awa.

         Awa stood in an area of great life, great health. Awa was older than Time, and as such had no concept of the passing of ages or seasons or even lives. For Awa, All was laid out, and All was known. Yet, there was something that brought a sort of concern, a truth to a mystery that may not be explained during its own existence. For that, Awa decided it best to come to this place, to the source of a divine frustration that required first-hand knowledge. For that, Awa stood facing the north end of a house that hadn’t yet been built, but had already passed its usefulness. It wasn’t the home that drew Awa out, but it was those who would build it, those who would live within, and those who would die.

         The Keelers were a proud family, whose history had spanned almost all of Time. They were of the First Family, back when such a thing actually mattered. After the Falling, when the King’s closest advisor had him murdered and plunged the Kingdoms into turmoil, being from the First Family was near shameful. This was true of the Keelers, no matter what their place had been in the family hierarchy; noble woodworkers, lumberjacks, and hackers. The trees were their life, and it was a sad day when they were sent from the Forest of the First.

         It was a long journey to the open fields of Naholt, far to the West. Billet, the patriarch, and his wife Biv took their seven children, three of which had married, and their four grandchildren for the long journey. Billet was a powerfully large man, whose hulking physique, red hair and often red face earned him the epithet “Redwood the Lumberjack.” He didn’t mind, for it was the thick, elder redwoods that he called home.

         Billet’s children were strong like their father: the two eldest were boys and lumberjacks alongside him, guarding the Forest as much as trimming it back. They knew their part in Nature was to maintain. They took from the Forest what was necessary to build and to heat and to cook, nothing more. They protected it from those who would come to steal from it: the magus, who believed there was great magic living in the trees, or the thief who knew that the mere site of the bark of the redwood in foreign lands brought in much coin for the pure artistic value. They were as good at throwing their axes as they were at cutting with them. They knew no fear: not heights, not man, not beast.

         Biv was not a quiet woman, having been raised to be a priestess in her family’s church. She said farewell to that life to raise her children when Billet came to call, but she still had the fire in her eyes. She worshipped one of the oldest gods, the god of Life, of Living. Alongside her was her eldest daughter, the middle daughter, and the youngest son. The girls were constantly by their mother’s side; cooking, cleaning, gossiping, and keeping the house safe from predators, animals, and the kind. The women were as fearless as the men, beingfar enough from civilized land that often it was up to them to protect themselves. They could not wait for the soldiers or others to rescue them.

         The youngest son was learning his way around the house, learning to work with furniture and the wood his father would bring home. The youngest son was better with the axe than even his father, because he was more precise. He could create a chair from a single chunk of redwood, keeping the seat sturdy for many years. Everyone in the family had a purpose, brought life and love to the family, except for the youngest daughter Abby.

         Abby was born mute, at least that’s what the midwife said. She was a priestess of the tiny village near their home, and she was troubled by the birth. Biv almost didn’t survive, but not from pain. Something unusual happened during the birth that almost caused Biv to drown. There was much moisture in the air that day, for a storm was raging outside. The levees were built up around their home, but the water kept coming. There was a flood in the house, but it managed to stay within the corner room where Biv was delivering. There was no explanation why this tiny baby, born during such turmoil, wouldn’t cry.

         She never cried, not until the day they left. She’d cried the entire trip, so much so most of the family joked about where her tears had come from. The older sons said she’d been holding it in, while the daughters just shook their heads. Billet tries to console his daughter, for he feels the greatest attachment to her over all his children. He would never tell his children this, or even Biv. There was something very special about Abby, something he hoped would one day come to fruition. He was scared for her, in this time of uncertainty. Would she ever talk? It was a miracle that she cried, is it possible there were more miracles to behold? He prayed to Ealdor every night that it could be so.

         Finally they came to Naholt, and found the hamlet named Wheat Quarry. It was a farming community, and there were fields as far as the eye could see, though not a tree to be found. The family was devastated, but it was the furthest they could go with what food they had left. They were welcomed with open arms, learning that much of those in Wheat Quarry were of the First Family through some relation or another. Many of those present had come at the beginning of the Falling, the war starting in the Western Holds of the First. They had heard of the Keelers, of Billet and his Boys, of Redwood the Lumberjack, and they were very pleased to have them there.

         The houses were mostly thatched roof and not very sturdy. A strong wind and the town would find themselves rebuilding. There was a family of masons, but there wasn’t enough rock to go around. There were trees, however, far to the South. This was near the lands of the Elves, though the land itself had been uninhabited by either race. The town begged for the Keelers to take the long trek to those woods and bring back what they could. Billet agreed. The rest of the family was put into a hastily built cottage of some rock, but mostly mud, while Billet, his Boys, the family of masons, and the strongest of the town packed up many carriages and mules and horses and ventured South.

         They returned only a few passings of the sun later with an impressive load. It was enough wood to build the entire hamlet anew, and enough left over for the youngest son to make some tables and even a couple bed frames for the families who helped.

         During this time, Abby once again had grown quiet. No more tears or whimpers, and never again did she ask for food as she once did, tugging at her mother’s skirt, pulling at her sister’s hands, pointing up to the melon or the piece of meat that tickled her tastes. The family was certain she had stopped eating, though she did not lose any weight. Billet felt only sympathy for her, trying to feed her from his own meals each and every day. It wasn’t that she refused to eat, but it was that she had no interest in it. It is here that Awa finds the first moment of concern. How could the child continue life without sustenance?

         Awa stood before the house that the Keelers built with their own hands, their own sweat, and the love of a good family. It was very difficult for Awa to see that, for all that its eyes beheld were a home half the size of what they constructed; the chimney jutting from the roof looked as if lightning punched it; a long cloth hanging over the equally long window in the second level; a door too small to fit the largest of the family, it must have been a double door but one side was covered as if removed by a strong wind. Awa could see the men, women and children all working on the house, though they worked on little more than a dilapidated shack.

         Abby stood outside for much of this, watching the sky more than the family. She had withdrawn from all chores, instead focusing all her attention to the clouds and the blue above. The longer she looked, the more distant she became. Billet spent much time with her, trying to talk to her and to hold her. She did not struggle, but she did not hug back. There was a moment when Awa watched the family building the house, watched as Billet tried to talk to his little girl, with the mother making the bread and the daughters cooking the meat and the men tilling the ground, there was a brief moment when Abby turned around, turned away from her clouds and her sky and all the things that she had grown to love in this place, and she looked directly at Awa.

         This was the moment of concern for Awa, this was what called the Divine from what can only be called its home, this is what caused an entity that lives outside of time, where eternity and All That Is and All That Was and All That Will Be are little more than a blink of the eye, it is this singular moment above even the end of All. How is it she knows of Awa’s presence? How is it this tiny creature, who Awa knew before coming here that she does not turn around, how is that when Awa comes she is at least partially aware of it? Awa continued to watch the mystery of Abby Keeler unfold.

         There was a drought not long after the good times, during the time when life was at its fullest, when the wheat would grow, when the merchants would come delivering goods from afar in trade for the well tilled earthen breads that Wheat Quarry was now famous for. The drought was so bad it seemed that it would continue in the months where the sun beat down the strongest, unforgiving in its glory and hatred. Still, Abby stood outside and watched high into the sky, never at the sun, always to the north, always at what few clouds she could see.

         One of the grandchildren died that year of an illness that they thought could not be cured without the help of a powerful magus, but there were none in Wheat Quarry. The Keelers and the family of masons had seen the illness before, and it had always been seen as a magical illness. It was little more than cholera, which could have been cured or at least helped with enough fluids, as oft prescribed by the magus, but there was no drink and no understanding. The passing took a terrible toll on the family. Her parents, the eldest daughter and her husband, left Wheat Quarry and sought to return to the Forest of the First, to see if they could be welcome back in their old homeland. They were never heard from again. Awa knew they would never make it home, that they would be killed by highwaymen in terrible ways, but it was not Awa’s place to interfere. It was Awa’s place only to know.

         Things changed rapidly in those hot months of the sun’s power, when Scima showed those of All the sheer power that this single star had over this planet. Abby began standing outside all day and night, never stopping for food or play. There was nothing that would deter her from staring. The family tried to ask her what she was looking at, but she wouldn’t answer them. They did not force, they did not pry, nor did they make her come inside. When she wanted to sleep, she came inside, found herself to her bed, opened the window wide, which faced the north, and slept with her eyes open. Biv knew not what to do, and Billet found himself very troubled the more this continued.

         One day, when her father came to her, tears in his eyes for his sadness and fear had finally taken a toll on him, he pleaded with her not to say anything she didn’t want to say. He asked her to just please tell him what it was she was looking at. Two words came from her lips. They were spoken perfectly, eloquently, as though she had been speaking all along. There was no dryness in her voice, no stuttering. She was blinking and pointing to the one spot she had seen to the north the moment they arrived.

          “My home,” she said aloud. There was power in her voice, a roll of thunder across the land. Awa shivered, feeling the energy from this tiny body.

         Billet did not understand. He tried to explain to her that they had not come from the north, but from the east. He tried to point her hand in the direction of the Forest, but she merely shook her head and pointed to the sky with her other hand.

          “My home,” she emphasized. There was that thunder again, this time accompanied by a growing wind.

          Billet looked to the north, perplexed. His wide shoulders and tall body crouched down low to hug his daughter. Tears were streaming from his eyes as he no longer cared what she said; only that she was able to say it. That’s when he saw it, the one thing he had waited for her entire life, even more than speech. She smiled. Abby smiled. Billet stood to his feet to shout in celebration, but he was knocked over by an instantly powerful surge of wind. Abby stood where she was, smiling.

          Billet stood back on his feet, seeing the clouds forming to the north. This was impossible, he told himself over and over. The clouds were gathering a dark gray tone, the central mass forming blackness. He could see the wind pushing southward on the plains. Abby started to giggle. Billet looked down to his youngest, beginning to understand. Awa, too, was beginning to understand more than mere knowledge could grant.

          Billet ran to tell his wife and remaining children to seek shelter, but there was none to seek. The storm was upon them in moments, all the while Abby stood perfectly still, except for her happy laughter, as if she were playing with a puppy. The two eldest sons gathered together their own families and moved to the smaller section of the house, one that had been reinforced with stone from the masons, the northernmost portion of the house. As Billet rushed the rest of his family inside, he could no longer hear Abby.

          Leaving the family behind, Billet slammed the door shut and locked them in. He then charged through the house, seeing the sky had grown completely dark. Unable to see, he tripped over some furniture before finally reaching the door. He managed to push against the wind, which was forming a funnel around the house. He called out for his daughter, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the gale. Awa, too, felt the darkness and the squall that had overtaken the plains.

          Billet forced part of the oak door out into the storm, only to have it thrown open against the side of the house. He could feel bones in his hand moving and breaking as he tried to hold on. He tried to protect his face with his hands, but once outside, he no longer felt the full force of the wind. It was still strong beyond his reach, but it was not the gale that he had fought against to get outside. It was calmer, peaceful. He looked around for Abby, but he could not see her. He did, however, hear her laughter. It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

          “Daddy loves you,” he said aloud, the tears falling off his face and getting whipped up in the funnel. He could see some of her clothes amidst the darkness and wondered what had become of her.

          Seemingly in response, there was a loud crash at the far side of the house, and Billet could see the reinforced stone pulled away like embers floating from a fire. It was as if they were never attached, as if they didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear the screams of the remainder of his family, but he knew what happened. He stood there in the storm, no longer feeling the wind at all, though it tore around him like a tornado. His hair settled, his tears stopped, and his heart sank. He fell to his knees in defeat, seeing the destruction that befell his house, his family, his life. The rest of Wheat Quarry was destroyed in that first storm, so completely the ground looked as though no one had ever lived there, except for the Keeler house. Except for the house that Billet himself put his hands on and constructed, Wheat Quarry was nothing more than devastation. No one from the town or the Keeler family was ever found, regardless that there was no one to come and look for them.

          To this very day, during the months of the sun, a storm comes through Naholt, tearing apart the countryside in an indefinite path from the north to the south. None knows how it starts, and none knows where it ends, not even Awa. But, all know that the storm passes over a tiny disjointed shack without fail. Its path always finds itself passing over this house, and all know there is one man who still lives there, who still waits for the day when his only daughter will once again speak to him. The trees have grown closer now, and a brook has formed near his home. Powerful changes in such a short time speak to the magic in the air.

          Though it was the storm that took away Abby and his family, Billet loved the coming of the storm, for he can hear her voice on the wind, saying those same two words softly even as the devastation of yet another garden passes him in the gale. He knows that it was Abby who brought forth the trees. He knows that it was Abby who tore up the ground from the north, creating a wider path for the water to come down from the mountains for his yearly garden. He knows that it is his Abby, his own summer storm that loves him.

          The storm, named Abrecan after her full name, would continue for many cycles of the four seasons, almost twenty in fact. Billet would wait outside, looking to the north, for his daughter to come and say hello to him once more. It was all that he lived for. It was all that he had. He did not cry during his time alone, nor did he cry when she came to call. He only cried on the Last Day, when his life would end, when Death would separate his spirit from his flesh and take his soul away. He did not cry for the loss of his own life, for it mattered little to him. He cried because he would no longer see his little Abby again, he cried because he had watched her grow and mature and do all she could to make him happy and fulfilled. He cried because while all those around him or who came to visit the crazy old man who lived in squalor thought him senile, he knew the only truth in his life was the storm. He knew that the only peace he wanted was to be taken up into her arms like the rest of his family. He cried because she didn’t take him away.

          Once more did the storm pass over the house in the months of the sun, and people from far away could hear howling in the storm, a pain so terrible it caused the ground itself to tremble. There were those who had come to see the storm on that day, and on that day the storm called Abrecan vanished. The clouds that formed over the house dissipated in a flash of sunlight, never to return again. Awa made careful notice of what the onlookers were saying, and nodded in Divine agreement. Those who came to watch the storm say that on that day it was not rain that fell, but tears.