Page 3 of Ruby & Onyx

She marches toward my raggedy old dining table, ignoring the three broken chairs left barely standing, and takes a seat at the only functional stool that remains. That leaves me to stand, I guess. The boldness of some people amazes me. But there she sits, all five foot two of her, with her long black hair falling to her hips and shining in the light of the arched stone window. She steadies herself with her hands in her lap and forces a serious look. “I heard reports that men are prowling on the edge of the forest.”

Her words quake through me, and my face turns a bright shade of red, judging by the amount of heat surfacing on my cheeks.

Men, plural.

I only saw the one.

If there are more men out there, might they tempt fate with a crossing of their own? I can’t stand the thought. What are they doing here? This village has nothing to offer. It’s small and remote. We have no resources worth plundering, no great treasures hidden within. Why bother us?

The rising panic in my chest makes my fingers tremble as I tell her, “I saw a man today. Just like you said. He was grisly and unkempt. And he –” my voice catches on the lump working its way up my throat. “He tried to cross.”

Her jaw drops so low that I can see the back of her throat. “Good gods, Radya, did you really? When? Tell me all about it!”

After I recount the story to her, I fear that she might burst at the seams from the shock. Or, maybe it’s excitement? She’s a gossip through and through, after all, and I just gave her a new story to peddle. A prowler roaming the woods was decimated by the barrier, leaving behind only a pile of ash. I can practically see the story making its rounds, twisting and warping with each telling.

“What did he want?” She asks, but I doubt that concern is what’s spurring her appetite to learn more. More like crafting the story that will soon spread through the village like wildfire.

Regardless of her intentions, a small part of me is thankful that I have someone to talk to about the whole ordeal, even if it is Tana Tovian.

“I don’t know. It was odd. Maybe he wanted food? Or maybe he wanted to attack? I don’t know, maybe both?” The whiskey starts to work its magic, and I feel the buzz calming my mind.

“How tragic! Imagine being lost in the woods and surviving just long enough to see food within arm’s reach just to… you know.” Her gesticulations add more drama to the story as she acts out a scene of longing and loss, nearly tossing herself to the floor in the process. “That poor soul, may he rest in peace.” She bows her head in silence for only a split second before resuming her interrogation. “Do you think there are more people out there, creeping around the village?”

“If there are, then hopefully they learned to stay far, far away.” I begin to reach for the whiskey bottle but then stop myself. If Tana catches me drinking before noon, then it might add an unsavory element to her tales that I wouldn’t appreciate spreading around the village. Assuming she hasn’t already smelled it on my breath. I bite my lips together to keep the scent from reaching her.

“Do you need any protection from the guard? Since you live so close to the barrier… all alone…” She says ‘all alone’ with a judgment-coated tongue that strikes a nerve in me.

It’s uncommon for women my age to be alone – living with neither parents nor husband – but it is my choice. Few have understood why I cannot give my heart, but I have no heart to give. Inside, in the place where love and happiness should exist, there is nothing but emptiness and pain. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember like a void eclipsed my slow beating heart.

It is better to be alone.

Still, the words linger for a moment before I rise from my seat and head toward the front door, pulling it open with extra emphasis. With all of the sincerity I can muster, which isn’t much, I say, “Thank you for your concern, Tana. I have errands to run today, and I really should get a start on them.”

Thankfully, she seems to accept the dismissal and follows me to the door.

“I’m always happy to help a neighbor in need, Radya.” She flashes a fulsome grin and places a hand on my shoulder.

I fear that when Tana Tovian refers to me as a neighbor, what she really means is that I am her charity case – the lonesome girl on the edge of the forest, in need of comfort and rescue. In her eyes, I am a good deed crossed off the list to uphold her own ego.

She forces her arms around me and squeezes tight before skipping to the door. I quietly close myself inside the moment her heel slips through the frame and then return to the stillness of the ghosts that surround me, clinging to the walls like paintings.

I see my parents in every nook and cranny of this home. Their laughs still ring through the walls, and the warmth of their hugs lingers in each room. To me, they are as alive as ever.

My father was the stable master for Lord Myles, who rules over Carcera. He died in an accident at work when I was five. I can hardly remember him – only bits and pieces of stories remain, woven together like a faded tapestry. My mother, on the other hand, died of the blight just a couple of years ago. She took all of the laughter and love in this home with her when she passed.

Is twenty-two too old to be considered an orphan?

These are the cards that life dealt me – trapped in a village, left to fend for myself, caught somewhere between lonely and alone. It is what it is. There will be no statues in my honor, no books written of my valiance. I am simply a nobody from nowhere.

Books keep me company just fine. Actually, I prefer books to people because, unlike books, you can’t stop a person from carrying on a dull conversation by simply closing the cover and moving on to the next. And, more often than not, I spend my days feeling overwhelmingly tired since the nightmares – and those damned red eyes – keep me from sleeping soundly. I would rather not expend the little energy that remains suffering through trivial conversations and stifling my yawns. If that makes me the village hermit, then so be it. I’ll play my part.

Nonetheless, I really do have things to do this morning.

I used the last of my coffee beans yesterday, which, admittedly, may have contributed to my curtness with Tana. Paul, the coffee trader from Alium, comes in today, so my number one priority is getting to the market before he sells out. Again.

I slip on a plain blue dress that’s hung in my armoire for years. The billowing sleeves have frayed from repeated use, but it hides the evidence of my too-long and thin frame. I run a comb through my hair, trying my best to smooth the tangles forming at the nape of my neck. The comb catches, sending a shooting pain running up the back of my skull. Oh, gods. I’ll have to cut out another chunk of knotted hair.

My hair has become too long to manage, but I dread having to cut it again. Since my mom passed, I’m forced to cut it myself. It always goes awry, leaving the sides uneven and the length too short. I end up cutting more and more off until finally I accept defeat and wear it in a knot, like a golden cinnamon bun, for weeks to hide the evidence of my failure.

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