Okay, not to brag or anything, but I seriously think the following is absolutely brilliant. I wrote it for one of my novels and I absolutely love it. Especially the last line. It's just pure genius.
(for furture reference, "contingency" means "a possibility that must be prepared for; a future emergency". just something to keep in mind.)
High in the mountains that dotted the northern half of the world, buried deep in the thick woods that stretched over rock and earth, there was a small village. On a clear day you could stand in the middle of the plain the surrounded the base of the range and see streams of smoke curl up from what seemed like the middle of nowhere. If you were lost, contemplating your fate as darkness crept over the land, you could follow the smoke and stumble across the quaint little town that was rich in manners, if not in anything else. For a few coins, less than half of what you would pay for a room in the worst inn somewhere else, you could have the largest room in the inn and a meal that would instantly set you thinking of home and your own dear mother.
Life was simple but it was fulfilling and rich. The town had plenty of wood and spent their few summer months adding on to their homes or carving delicate pieces of furniture for their families. The houses were simple but elegant. They fitted need not desire for these simple folk would not have been able to understand desire that went beyond need. They saved animal pelts or special pieces of furniture for any sudden needs that should come up. If a doctor was required or tools were needed, a few men would gather together, hitch up the few horses that the village shared, and travel the week to the nearest town. Many families that were there had been there always. Every once in while, a spirited child would leave and find their path somewhere else. But even then, many returned to the simple life, often bringing a wife or a husband. The village would then band together to clear a new space of ground and erect a home for the new family.
It was not a farming village. There was nowhere to grow crops, so the villagers didn’t bother with such thing. A few managed to grow small amounts of barley in their back yards. They would hoard it carefully, bake it, and then share it generously with their neighbors for festivals and special occasions. Everyday bread, in the village, was made from potatoes that flourished in the tough ground. With so much wilderness around them, game was easy to find. It was not unusual for a man to come home hauling a bear to his family. Nor was it unusual for a bear to haul a man to his. The woods were wild and the people liked it that way. They had no need to restrain their hunting. Whether they hunted a lot or a little, the animal population seemed to adjust to the need. There were always wild berries to be found or edible roots or wild onions and garlic.
The village, for these blessings, paid homage to the goddess Artemis, Mistress of the Hunt. Old men told stories of their encounters with their beautiful patron, glimpses they caught of her as she raced through the forest, trailed by wood nymphs and sprites. The heart of a kill was always left in the woods, in the spot where the animal died, as a tribute to the sacrifice it made, as a tribute to Artemis for the gift she gave them. Young hunters prayed for her to guide their arrows, young women prayed for her blessing over their wombs. For while Artemis had no interest in giving birth herself; she cared for human children as much as she would a bear cub. Strong-willed girls and boys who didn’t want to settle down were said to have been touched by Artemis at birth.
Two such children, a girl with no desire to be quiet and complaisant and a boy who didn’t want people relying on him, found comfort in each other. Both independent, they were able to take comfort in each other. They lived deep in the woods, away from the village, striving to be alone with each other and no one else. Eventually, as young lovers do, they had children. Their children were calm and polite, the opposite of their parents. At first the father and mother balked from their offspring, unsure of how to establish a connection. But as their hearts were once touched by Artemis, as she blessed their birth into the world, so they were touched again as their patron gave them the understanding to see that their children simply had a different way of looking at the world. Parents and children connected. They learned and grew together. They were happy. The children had children who had children who had children. And so the line passed on. The town grew or shrank with the generations as sometimes many young families would stay or sometimes many would leave. Little changed in this small town as little changed in the world.
One day, the silence was broken by the screams of a newborn infant. It was not an unusual sound but one that was standard in the village. There was celebration with the father and obsessive care over the mother and her daughter. It was a normal family with a normal birth and a normal child, nothing particularly remarkable.
Soon, however, the mother began to worry. It seemed to her that her child was a bit unusual. She loved it as all mothers love their children, but could not help wondering about certain things. Where the mother had pure blond hair and the father had brown, the child’s was blood red. The women of the village brushed off the mother’s concern, claiming any number of coincidences: the size of the moon, the day of the week, Artemis’s mood when the child was conceived. The father, for a brief moment, wondered if perhaps his bride had been unfaithful. The concern passed, though, since there were no red-haired men in the village and he was sure his wife would not do such an impolite thing. She was a good woman and a good wife. There was love enough in their marriage, even if it was not soul-mate love like in the stories they had been told as children.
The mother continued to worry, though. She was a new mother, this was her first child and she didn’t quite understand how things worked with small children. It seemed to her the infant cried a lot. At first the concern was brushed off, but eventually the cries the infant made even the old women concerned. The herb-woman of the village, an elderly lady who’d learned the skill from her mother who’d learned it from her mother, took a lock of the child’s hair and did her best to read the course of the life of the small child. She was able to determine nothing. Puzzled, she awkwardly confessed that for the first time in her life (and, she claimed, all the generations before her), no future was to be found.
The village remained puzzled as to what this meant. The herb-woman insisted that the child was doomed to a short life. If no future could be found, it must mean that there was no future. They could either wait till a, as the old woman insisted, gruesome death befell the child or they could kill her mercifully.
The mother, as much as the child worried her, loved her daughter. She wanted to take neither course of action. The husband, who cared for the child, as fathers often do, also wanted no such options. But they knew, in their hearts, that village would not allow they child to live should anything suspicious happen. They sent their friends and family away, claiming they need time to decide. It was then, in the dark of the night, that they packed their belongings and traveled deep into the woods and far from their home. The villagers, finding the house deserted the next morning, begrudgingly admitted that, if the parents weren’t will to give up the child, this was the best course of action. They divided the rest of the couple’s belongings amongst themselves.
The couple, having fled all they knew, headed into the woods. The father had once stumbled upon a deserted house while out hunting. He had been driven inside by a storm and was surprised by the strong craftsmanship. He insisted to his wife that he could find it again. And indeed he did, though it took much longer than he expected. So in a house built by a couple who understood each other but not their children, the man Jacob and his wife Leala lived and grew and tried to understand their own daughter, Adara. Fate, no doubt, has a sense of contingency.
(for furture reference, "contingency" means "a possibility that must be prepared for; a future emergency". just something to keep in mind.)
High in the mountains that dotted the northern half of the world, buried deep in the thick woods that stretched over rock and earth, there was a small village. On a clear day you could stand in the middle of the plain the surrounded the base of the range and see streams of smoke curl up from what seemed like the middle of nowhere. If you were lost, contemplating your fate as darkness crept over the land, you could follow the smoke and stumble across the quaint little town that was rich in manners, if not in anything else. For a few coins, less than half of what you would pay for a room in the worst inn somewhere else, you could have the largest room in the inn and a meal that would instantly set you thinking of home and your own dear mother.
Life was simple but it was fulfilling and rich. The town had plenty of wood and spent their few summer months adding on to their homes or carving delicate pieces of furniture for their families. The houses were simple but elegant. They fitted need not desire for these simple folk would not have been able to understand desire that went beyond need. They saved animal pelts or special pieces of furniture for any sudden needs that should come up. If a doctor was required or tools were needed, a few men would gather together, hitch up the few horses that the village shared, and travel the week to the nearest town. Many families that were there had been there always. Every once in while, a spirited child would leave and find their path somewhere else. But even then, many returned to the simple life, often bringing a wife or a husband. The village would then band together to clear a new space of ground and erect a home for the new family.
It was not a farming village. There was nowhere to grow crops, so the villagers didn’t bother with such thing. A few managed to grow small amounts of barley in their back yards. They would hoard it carefully, bake it, and then share it generously with their neighbors for festivals and special occasions. Everyday bread, in the village, was made from potatoes that flourished in the tough ground. With so much wilderness around them, game was easy to find. It was not unusual for a man to come home hauling a bear to his family. Nor was it unusual for a bear to haul a man to his. The woods were wild and the people liked it that way. They had no need to restrain their hunting. Whether they hunted a lot or a little, the animal population seemed to adjust to the need. There were always wild berries to be found or edible roots or wild onions and garlic.
The village, for these blessings, paid homage to the goddess Artemis, Mistress of the Hunt. Old men told stories of their encounters with their beautiful patron, glimpses they caught of her as she raced through the forest, trailed by wood nymphs and sprites. The heart of a kill was always left in the woods, in the spot where the animal died, as a tribute to the sacrifice it made, as a tribute to Artemis for the gift she gave them. Young hunters prayed for her to guide their arrows, young women prayed for her blessing over their wombs. For while Artemis had no interest in giving birth herself; she cared for human children as much as she would a bear cub. Strong-willed girls and boys who didn’t want to settle down were said to have been touched by Artemis at birth.
Two such children, a girl with no desire to be quiet and complaisant and a boy who didn’t want people relying on him, found comfort in each other. Both independent, they were able to take comfort in each other. They lived deep in the woods, away from the village, striving to be alone with each other and no one else. Eventually, as young lovers do, they had children. Their children were calm and polite, the opposite of their parents. At first the father and mother balked from their offspring, unsure of how to establish a connection. But as their hearts were once touched by Artemis, as she blessed their birth into the world, so they were touched again as their patron gave them the understanding to see that their children simply had a different way of looking at the world. Parents and children connected. They learned and grew together. They were happy. The children had children who had children who had children. And so the line passed on. The town grew or shrank with the generations as sometimes many young families would stay or sometimes many would leave. Little changed in this small town as little changed in the world.
One day, the silence was broken by the screams of a newborn infant. It was not an unusual sound but one that was standard in the village. There was celebration with the father and obsessive care over the mother and her daughter. It was a normal family with a normal birth and a normal child, nothing particularly remarkable.
Soon, however, the mother began to worry. It seemed to her that her child was a bit unusual. She loved it as all mothers love their children, but could not help wondering about certain things. Where the mother had pure blond hair and the father had brown, the child’s was blood red. The women of the village brushed off the mother’s concern, claiming any number of coincidences: the size of the moon, the day of the week, Artemis’s mood when the child was conceived. The father, for a brief moment, wondered if perhaps his bride had been unfaithful. The concern passed, though, since there were no red-haired men in the village and he was sure his wife would not do such an impolite thing. She was a good woman and a good wife. There was love enough in their marriage, even if it was not soul-mate love like in the stories they had been told as children.
The mother continued to worry, though. She was a new mother, this was her first child and she didn’t quite understand how things worked with small children. It seemed to her the infant cried a lot. At first the concern was brushed off, but eventually the cries the infant made even the old women concerned. The herb-woman of the village, an elderly lady who’d learned the skill from her mother who’d learned it from her mother, took a lock of the child’s hair and did her best to read the course of the life of the small child. She was able to determine nothing. Puzzled, she awkwardly confessed that for the first time in her life (and, she claimed, all the generations before her), no future was to be found.
The village remained puzzled as to what this meant. The herb-woman insisted that the child was doomed to a short life. If no future could be found, it must mean that there was no future. They could either wait till a, as the old woman insisted, gruesome death befell the child or they could kill her mercifully.
The mother, as much as the child worried her, loved her daughter. She wanted to take neither course of action. The husband, who cared for the child, as fathers often do, also wanted no such options. But they knew, in their hearts, that village would not allow they child to live should anything suspicious happen. They sent their friends and family away, claiming they need time to decide. It was then, in the dark of the night, that they packed their belongings and traveled deep into the woods and far from their home. The villagers, finding the house deserted the next morning, begrudgingly admitted that, if the parents weren’t will to give up the child, this was the best course of action. They divided the rest of the couple’s belongings amongst themselves.
The couple, having fled all they knew, headed into the woods. The father had once stumbled upon a deserted house while out hunting. He had been driven inside by a storm and was surprised by the strong craftsmanship. He insisted to his wife that he could find it again. And indeed he did, though it took much longer than he expected. So in a house built by a couple who understood each other but not their children, the man Jacob and his wife Leala lived and grew and tried to understand their own daughter, Adara. Fate, no doubt, has a sense of contingency.
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