Chapter 4
Loss & Lessons
Arella turned and watched the familiar buildings of Loden grow smaller then disappear altogether as the wagon rounded a curve. Gone. Everything and everyone she knew: her hair ribbons and winter boots, her needles and thread, the farm, her mother and sister. And Papa.
A tear slid down her nose, then another, and another. She couldn’t stop them. She reached into her pocket for her handkerchief and found only crumbs. Arella rocked back and forth, heartbroken. When her sobs subsided, her head hurt and her heart felt heavy. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and noticed all but one of the pearl buttons were missing. The goat had eaten them, too. “I want to
go home,” Arella said.
Samira looked at her, “You made a wish, remember?”
“I didn’t wish for this!”
“Wishes are unpredictable.”
“You picked the wrong person.”
Samira tilted her head. “I don’t
think so.”
Arella crossed her arms and slouched against the wagon. “I want to go home.”
The old woman snorted. “So your mother can yell at you and thump you on the head with a thimble?”
Arella stared at Samira. “How do you
know that?”
“I listen.” Samira held up the reins. “Take them.”
Arella drew back. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
Samira put her gnarled index finger in the air. “Lesson number one.” She pointed to herself. “Mentor.” Then she pointed to
Arella. “Apprentice.” She thrust the reins at Arella. “Remember your promise.”
Arella grasped the leather between her fingers. Tamon turned and stared at her. Then he whinnied and moved forward.
Arella slumped against the seat and they rode for many miles in silence. She had no idea what was expected of her. Lara would be pestering Samira with questions if she were here.
“Noisy show-off,” Samira said.
Arella looked at her and then at Tamon. “Who? Your
horse?”
“Your sister.”
Arella was surprised. Noisy show-off was a good description of her sister, always taking charge, telling Arella what to do. “Bossy, too.”
Samira raised an eyebrow. “More to
being a storyteller than that.” Then she pulled her walking stick and a knife from under the seat. Most of the stick was covered in intricate designs and symbols; she began carving near the bottom where the wood was smooth.
“Stories.” The old
woman rotated the stick as she pointed with the knife blade. “My stories are here.”
“Oh.” Arella said. “Are you carving a new one?’
“For Verda.” Samira resumed carving while she hummed a slow tune and swayed slightly from side to side.
Arella wondered if there were a special story for each town. She wondered what happened when the stick was full? She longed to ask, but was too timid.
Bits of wood fell away as the carvings took shape under Samira’s knife. Most of them were
angled lines and squiggles that meant nothing to Arella, but some carvings were tiny animals, others were gruesome-looking creatures.
Samira looked more like the good-natured storyteller from the bonfire while she carved. . .
.
To read more, visit The Storyteller’s Apprentice website here.
