The Roadside Shrine, A Short Story (TLO)
If you want to read the story first before my musings, feel free to scroll down and come back after!
I wrote a little short story about a young girl living on her family's farm in the outskirts of Talon, the small town Equinox lives near. It started off as a worldbuilding exercise. I wanted to expand the relationship people in the area have with the land and the land's God.
Because Zola has been dead for so long, I've always imagined that their shrines and temples have long since fallen into disrepair, forgotten by time, but small gestures of worship have been handed down through the generations. The roadside shrine has been a fixture of the forest for a long time. Travelers usually pray there for a safe journey, farmers pray for a good harvest, and hunters pray for a fruitful hunt. But no one remembers exactly why they pray or to whom.
Since Equinox, as Zola's reincarnation, is inherently connected to the land, it's natural that the forest reacts to his presence. This is something I've also been meaning to explore more through my writing.
Anyway, please enjoy!
The Roadside Shrine
Today, I was tasked with cleaning the small shrine just a little off the main road. No one knows the name of the God it’s dedicated to. No one is even sure who built it or how long it’s been there. But even so, my family has maintained it for as long as anyone can remember. We clean the shrine, we pray to it, and every season we make it a big offering. My father says the land here is fickle and sensitive, and that it needs constant reassurance to stay fertile. Our devotion, he says, is what has ensured our family’s good harvests through the generations.
There aren’t many farming the land around here anymore, though. We’re about the only ones left. There used to be more farmers a long time ago, my grandmother told me once, but their land dried up and became barren, so gradually, people left. Just two years ago, we had neighbors on the other side of the river. I used to play with the daughter when I was small, but I don’t remember her well anymore. She got married and left to the city almost five years ago now. But we were on friendly terms with that family for a long time— from before I was even born. Father used to smoke with the neighbor sometimes out on the porch. I’d watch their silhouettes through my bedroom window before being scolded to go back to sleep by my brother. I don’t know what they’d talk about, but their voices were always hushed and too distant for me to make out.
But then the grandpa of that family died, and Father says that the old ways must have died with him. Because their visits to the shrine became infrequent, and then soon, they stopped altogether. It wasn’t long after that when their crops began to die. I still remember tagging along with my father and older brother to the neighbor’s farm. They walked through the fields, and all the time deliberating how this could have occurred. No one seemed to have an answer. There was no sign of disease or pests.
I stood just a little ways from the front of the house, crouching down at the edge of the field. I rubbed the withered leaf of a corn stalk between my fingers and watched as it crumbled into dust from the friction. It fell from my hands, flittering in the air until it landed on the ground. I ran my fingers through the soil, cupping a portion in my hands. It was dry even though it had rained just the day before.
Then I heard yelling from where the men were by the barn. The man was yelling at my father and my brother, accusing our family of witchcraft. He said that our farm did well only because we took the vitality of all the surrounding land. It was nonsense. We would never do something like that. Besides, there hadn’t been a witch in our bloodline in generations. Our family had prided itself on the ability to work the land without needing magic.
But the man wouldn’t listen to reason. He shouted us off the farm, calling my father every manner of name. My brother and I were quickly herded into the cart by our father. In no time, the shouts were long behind us, and the rest of the ride home was silent, save for the rocking of the cart.
I asked my father about the incident that night, and he only shook his head. He tucked me in and turned away to leave. I watched him linger at the doorway, his back to me, his hand resting on the frame.
Without turning, he finally answered, “He’s taken the land for granted… Lost his way…”
A few months later, our neighbor packed up his things. He had sold the land. He didn’t say goodbye to us, but we saw his carriage leaving towards the city, strapped with everything he could fit into it. I think he went to live with his daughter, but Father said he wasn’t so sure. My older brother couldn’t meet my eyes when I said that, and it made me feel odd. As if there was something I didn’t know. I wonder if our neighbor had gotten into a fight with his daughter, and if so, I hope they have made up by now. I can’t ask because the subject is still so sensitive.
But now, it’s just us and our little farm. There are a few villages scattered around, too. The forest is massive, encompassing the Southern tip of Gowoa, edging into Lumin. Sometimes I make my way into town. Often I’m with my brother, selling our goods or buying supplies. Sometimes we go as a family to Temple and during festivals. But lately, I’ve been sneaking away as often as I can to explore the shops on Main Street.
I noticed the town feels smaller than it used to. My father says it’s just because I’m getting older now. But so many of the buildings are empty, and I’m sure they didn’t used to be. My grandmother told me that the town used to have a lot more people, but most moved away over the years. There was less and less opportunity when the shipping industry moved further up the coast. Mostly, it sustains itself through the summer tourism now. The rest of the year, it’s like a ghost town— even most of the other kids go off somewhere else for schooling. My family doesn’t have the money for that, or any relatives to house me, though, mainly, they need me here to work.
I drag the sponge across the roof of the little stone shrine, letting the water run down and pool at my feet. It sinks into the ground beneath. I grab the brush from the bucket and begin scrubbing between the ridges where the dirt always gets stuck. Bits of moss have started to grow on the side, and I can never fully get the green off, no matter how hard I scrub at them.
The shrine is structured like a tiny house, sitting on a pedestal. It has a large archway with a small stone plate inside, where we usually leave our offerings. Usually, the first thing I do when I come clean is throw the old offerings out. It almost seems like a waste to me, but who am I to argue with centuries of tradition? I know what Father and Grandmother say, but sometimes I really do wonder if there is a point to this. Maybe our family has always been lucky. Maybe the shrine has nothing to do with it at all, and it’s nothing more than comfort. Maybe the shrine is our way of feeling like we’re in control of chance. I worry I’ll become like our neighbor. That I’ll take the land for granted. That the farm will fall to me, and our family’s luck will end. I scrub harder at the shrine, hoping I am wrong.
But sometimes, when I peer into the woods from my bedroom window or from the edge of the field, I feel something strange. The forest is darker. Heavier. More alive? Last week, when I was picking berries by the creek, I swear it felt like the trees were watching me, and the wind felt like whispers as I walked the path home. It feels like something is changing, but no one else seems to notice. So I keep quiet. Tell myself I am imagining things.
I work diligently until I’m satisfied with the result. No dirt or bits of moss. The stone is still dark from the water. The air around it feels purer somehow. I take out a matchbox and a small bundle of rosemary from my satchel, carefully unwrapping its cloth covering. I strike a match against the stone and set the tip on fire before blowing it out. The smoke wafts out in a long, steady stream. I swirl it around the opening of the shrine, watching as it encircles the structure. Then, I leave the bundle next to the center plate, tucked slightly under its lip. The smoke is still billowing out, rising gently into the air. I don’t much like the smell, but it’s better outdoors than inside. I wonder briefly if the forest animals are bothered by the smell.
From my satchel, I begin to pull out the offerings my grandmother gave me: half a loaf of bread baked fresh this morning, an ear of corn from our first harvest of the season, and two gold coins. I arranged them all onto the plate, hiding the coins behind the bread. Lastly, I pour fresh water into a new, clean cup (tucking the old one into the satchel).
I stare at my work for a while. I wonder if the God of this shrine appreciates my efforts. I wonder if a god even lives here. I wonder if the squirrels watching me from the tree will tear apart the bread as soon as I leave.
I snap out of my thoughts by the ring of a distant laugh. It sounds like a boy. Someone else says something, the voice of a girl, though I can’t make out the words. It sounds like kids from the village, which I find odd because it’s the school season. I look up at the squirrels, and they look strangely attentive, though not threatened, as they face toward the direction of the chattering. One skitters down the tree, running towards the source. For some reason, I follow, crouching down in the bushes, muddying my knees as I crawl on the forest floor. I feel silly, but I can’t bring myself to turn back. The squirrel doesn’t mind me. It doesn’t even look my way. We sit side by side in the forest’s foliage, watching the main road. Waiting.
Then, from a turn in the path emerges a boy, and he’s the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Time seems to stop, and all I can see is him. He has soft black hair with a gentle curl at its tips, sharp features like a fox, and bright, red eyes that glint in the spattering of sunlight that makes its way through the trees. He’s not beautiful in the way that the tourist boy from last summer, with whom I shared my first kiss, was beautiful. Nor is he handsome in the way that the six-pack men in the magazines are. He’s something different. Beyond that. Otherworldly.
And as I stare at him, I feel the way I do when I see the portrait of my mother that my father keeps in his desk. I feel overwhelmed. Overcome. Like the breath has been knocked out of me. Like I want to cry. It’s like looking at the stars. I feel small, but in a way that makes me feel lucky to be alive. For the first time since I was very little, I feel like I understand the world. All of my questions feel answered, but not in words. A sense of calm washes over me. I feel like everything will be alright.
As he draws closer, I am afraid I will be noticed, but he turns the other way and continues down the path in the opposite direction. I feel a sense of relief, but also sadness. Then I notice that the squirrel and I have gathered company. Two birds sit above us in the tree. A deer peeks out from the forest behind us. And a spider dangles from its web next to me. And all of us watch.
We watch until he is a speck in the distance. I notice for the first time that he walks alongside another figure. I remember I heard a girl’s voice, but I can’t remember seeing her. I almost feel guilty for being so enraptured by the boy.
The spider begins to crawl its way back to its web, and I hear the flapping of wings above me as the birds take off. I know I need to go myself. I get up, dusting off my skirt, and walk past the deer. It isn’t startled by me. Instead, it walks next to me for a while until our paths diverge, and it walks somewhere deeper into the forest.
When I get back to the shrine, I see the smoke has mostly withered away. I place my hand on its little stone roof. It’s cold and no longer damp. The squirrel from earlier runs past me. Before it reaches its tree, it stops to look back at me. Its nose twitches. I think our eyes meet. And then it rushes back up the tree, disappearing somewhere in its branches.
