Advent Calendar: Day 16
Today's excerpt is the prologue to one of my many attempts at retelling "The Goose Girl". This one was called Stolen Lives, and was set in a world where a culture of people with supernatural gifts is oppressed and enslaved by a larger empire. The heroine of this story has the gifts of shapeshifting and healing, which she's forced to use to beautify the queen and princess, but when the princess is sent to wed a foreign prince, our heroine sees a chance to claim a royal life for herself.
None of that really comes up in this prologue, which just shows us the circumstances that led to the heroine being captured by the queen's forces, but it's got some worldbuilding that I really like. If I ever did anything with this premise, I'd probably drop the "Goose Girl" angle and just write an original story.
This is the day of new creation.
The festival song soars through my heart as I race across the kitchen. Mama stands at the table near the window, chopping onions as the rising moon looks down.
“Mama, look!” I say, showing off my hair. It’s red as the flames beneath the roasting lamb, and two hands longer than it was an hour ago. I’ve never changed the color of my hair so dramatically before.
Mama’s eyebrows rise, and I see the pride in her eyes, but she only pats a hand on my flaming hair and says softly, “Not on the Night of Waiting, love.”
I let my hair fade back to its usual brown length, the ends now barely falling past my shoulders. There are so many rules to the creation festival. One day I will remember all of them.
“But tomorrow?” I ask.
Mama smiles. “You may change as much as you like once dawn breaks.”
Joy pours through me at the reminder that I’ll be awake to see the dawn. The other children are asleep, tucked into their beds in the far rooms, or dozing in corners as sleep claims them, but I will be awake with the adults.
Mama told me I would be old enough to stay awake for the Creation Feast when I was old enough to fast, and I took her at her word. Though I won’t be required to fast until I’m fifteen, I’ve started my devotion six years early. For six days I’ve been faithful as my diet shrinks day by day. Fasting from the meat of beasts was easy, and fasting from the meat of birds and fish wasn’t much harder. Fasting from all the fruits of beasts—milk, butter, cheese—and the next day from the eggs of birds, was more difficult. On the fifth day, we could eat none of the plants that grew above the ground, and on this sixth day, even root vegetables were forbidden. We have eaten nothing but bread and water since dawn, and we’ve been fasting even from that since the sun went down. At dawn, we will feast, but until then, the smells of the cooking food drive me near to madness.
I refuse to give in. I will show Mama that I’m old enough for all the joys of the festival by enduring all the sufferings. I pull up a stool and stand by her side. “How can I help?”
Mama sets me to washing the first greens of spring while she carefully debones a chicken. I am careful to stay far away from her work, letting none of the bones or juice touch me. I doubt a single touch would interfere with my ability to shift, but I don’t want to take a chance of dousing my festival joy.
As we work, Mama tells me the story of creation that we celebrate tonight. How man was made to hold dominion over all created things, all in their proper order—first light, then air, then water and land, then plants and beasts and birds. Our gift, the Eighth Gift, is rarest of all, given only to women, to care for the bodies of mankind. We go back to the beginning with our celebrations tonight, giving up things in their reverse order until only light is left. And then we will be in the dark, waiting for the dawn of a new creation. I can hardly wait.
Around me, the house bustles with activity. We have all slept much through these last days of fasting, and we are now wide awake to prepare for the feast. Aunts bring food, prepare dishes, and hang decorations. Uncles gather candles and firewood. They chatter softly as they work, discussing children and farming and politics. When the bell rings at moonrise, we all fall silent. We will fast from our voices—holding back the air of our lungs—until dawn.
We slow down after that, moving quietly, and settling into a silent period of prayer. I find a lot to say tonight, surrounded by my family, and a lot to hear in the silence. I don’t even think of sleeping.
Until I find myself pulled up from a drowse by Mama, who takes me by the hand and brings me to the dining room. Though I know the room is full of drapery and greenery, with wind chimes hanging from all the windows, I see none of it. The room is pitch-dark, lit only by a single candle. It is nearly burnt out, and soon, the light will be kept in existence by my father’s power alone, from where he sits atop the boulder that represents the founding stone of the world.
We gather around the table—aunts and uncles and cousins from a dozen different isles, holding all eight of the gifts that we celebrate tonight. Uncle Taffin’s hound settles by his feet; the dogs stays silent as the rest of us, thanks to their connection. A bird comes in on silent wings and settles on my Aunt Reyna’s shoulder. All of creation, gathered into this one room. I have never been so proud to be Rioman. Every minute of the fast was worth it.
When we are all of us, every one, seated in our proper place, Father lifts his hand. The light, now held in existence by his will alone, rises to hover above his hand, then disappears. The room plunges into blackness. We all sit in the silent dark, waiting for the renewal of the world.
A crack like thunder fills the darkness. I jump from my seat, terrified. Mama did not mention this as part of the ceremony.
A moment later, I am sure it is not the ceremony. My aunt screams. My uncle shouts, using language unfit for a holy day. Father kindles a light, and in the soft glow, I see the white, terrified faces of my family.
“The Riomans!” Aunt Vesha shrieks.
Uncle Jelvar runs to the window. “They’re coming up the hill!”
“The children!” Mother says, rushing to my aunts and pushing them toward the halls where the babies sleep.
I grab what I can from the table—cutlery, candlesticks, anything that might be useful as a weapon. Mother tears it all from my grasp. “No, Isa!” she says. “We can’t fight.”
She’s right. None of us can. Our gifts are weak after the long night of fasting. Rioma must have known this, and chosen this holiest of nights for their cowardly attack.
Mama places her hands on my shoulders. Her power surges through me, and my own power rises to meet it, following her lead to change my body in the space between breaths, far more than either of us could do alone. In moments, I stand as tall as Mama, with night-black hair that hangs only to my chin. In the glimpse I can see of my face in the darkened window, I can see that I appear much older.
Mama’s eyes are wild as she looks into my new face. “Isa! Run!”
She pushes me toward the door and I stumble into the darkness. With my longer legs, I can run faster than I’ve ever run, but I feel no joy in this race.
Behind me, I hear shouts, screams, and far too soon, the sound of boots. I’ve been spotted.
I flee down the twisting forest paths, stumbling over roots and tripping over rocks, keeping to the narrowest of trails in the hopes of outwitting my pursuers. Branches slap my face—I don’t know where to watch for them in this taller form. I would make myself shorter, but I fear that in my terror, I will try so hard to disappear that I will erase the advantage Mama has given me.
Despite my longer legs, the soldiers gain on me. I lose my footing as I run down a hill, and my face scrapes against the dirt and branches. I jump to my feet, but I’m already surrounded. Five Rioman soldiers circle me, their blades drawn, their golden armor gleaming in the light of the new sun.
One of them looks at me in confusion. “This one’s not Delmeran.”
My heart rises, proud of Mother’s trickery. I look nothing like my small, dark relatives. My new form is as tall and pale as the invaders themselves.
Their captain steps closer, his blade still drawn as he examines my face. “It’s a woman,” he says. He gestures to a soldier whose gauntlets are covered in blood. “Test it.”
The soldier steps forward and swipes his hand across my face. A thick smear of blood (whose blood?) runs from my temple to my chin.
My body reacts instantly. If I had any of the other gifts, Mama’s shift might have held, but any contact with blood always causes me to shift back to my natural form. In moments, I stand revealed. No longer a woman, but a child.
Alone.
Afraid.
Doomed.
The captain looks at me as Father examines a prize mare. “It’s young enough to be trained,” he says, “and shapechangers are rare. The queen will want to keep this one.”
The soldiers move as one well-tuned instrument of evil. They bind my hands and feet with shackles of bone to keep me from shifting again. I scream and scream and scream, praying to God above that someone has survived, that someone will save me. That Papa will blind them with his light or Uncle Alric will pull the air from their lungs. That Mama will shatter their bones with a touch of her hand and we will run, free and whole, to safety.
No one comes. The captain slaps my face until I fall silent. One of them carries me over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carries me toward their camp. In the distance, I see that my home has been set aflame.
As the sun rises on a new day, all of creation burns.
