This is the first part of Chapter 1 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
The Northern Territories, Rúnsala
I don’t want to kill any more people.
At least, that’s what I tell myself each Market Day as I begin the long journey down Lost Ridge Pass, my pack laden with fresh rounds of cheese and jars of deep amber honey to sell. I look just like any other vendor in the center square, simple and unassuming, and that’s as it should be. Nobody would suspect the girl in the tattered cloak of anything more nefarious than peddling her family’s goods, even if that girl were cursed.
Arriving at last in Elm’s center square, I set up my wooden cart with the cheese and honey, looking blankly out at the same mossy roofs and soggy sky. It’s for my own good that I’m here—repeating the same mindless transactions week after week, year after year—helping Father and Skye save enough money for winter.
I’ll probably do this until the day I die.
Like any other Market Day, Elm buzzes with local vendors, shoppers, and even merchants who’ve traveled from as far as River Bend and Revna. Autumn is encroaching, and the market seems busier than normal, as it often does when the threat of winter looms closer. Neighbors haggle over the price of a gleaming new dogsled while children chase each other past stands of freshly picked apples, spools of wool yarn, and bright copper pots. Meanwhile, their mothers chat easily and fill their baskets with everything they need to survive the week. The cheerful strains of a fiddle are punctuated by the guffaws of old friends meeting up. I wish I had friends to meet up with.
I sell a few rounds of cheese, but despite the festivities, my gaze is drawn to the sky, which hangs deep with the growing threat of rain. Thick, swollen clouds lull over the mountain peaks, gradually making their way toward the village. A mountain storm. Unlike the storms that come from the sea, mountain storms develop in the northernmost reaches of the Aurora Range and charge toward Elm, bringing wind and thunder in the summers and feet of heavy, wet snow in the winters. The oldest villagers say a mountain storm means change is coming; some say it stirs up the spirits, even bringing some from the Otherworld during such tempests. I’m not sure about the Otherworld, but I am sure that I don’t relish the thought of trudging up Lost Ridge Pass in a downpour. I must stay, however. Returning home with piles of unsold goods—and precious little to show for it—would be far worse than a little rain. A storm I can weather. A winter of poverty we cannot.
I’m so distracted by the sky that it takes me a moment to notice a familiar figure approaching.
“Hi, Sitka.”
I blink, refocusing. Natalya stands in front of my cart, wisps of auburn hair coming undone from her tight bun, cheeks tinged pink from the wind.
“I’m famished,” she says breathlessly, snatching a round of cheese and putting a bronze rún in its place.
She settles on a nearby barrel and adjusts her deep purple cloak, fiddling with a gleaming clasp at the collar and the silver brooch all the midwife apprentices wore.
“Busy day?” The question tastes bitter on my tongue, though I wish it didn’t. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice.
Natalya and I used to spend Market Day together, since we were about fourteen. She sold her father’s handmade knives next to my cart of farm goods. We’d laugh through the chilly mornings and swap stories through the long afternoons. The monotonous days were not only bearable in her company, but almost enjoyable. So, when she got her apprenticeship at the beginning of the summer, it took everything in me to be happy for her.
It’s a feat I’m still not sure I’ve mastered.
Natalya gives an emphatic nod between bites. “A birth down at River Bend this morning—healthy boy—and then called back into town to see Sigrid.”
My heart jumps a beat. Sigrid Feyer had gone to school with us—one of the few other children in our tiny surviving generation. Sigrid’s marriage to Cedar, a farmer from a neighboring village, was the highlight of last year.
“Sigrid thinks it’s going to be a boy,” Natalya continues, “but Ella said that storms bring girls, so we’ll see.”
“And still no word from Cedar?”
Natalya looks down at her hands. After the harvest failed, a recruiter from the Southern Province appeared in Elm at the beginning of last winter. Sigrid’s new husband was among the men who went to work in the mines. Although horrific stories of the mines haunt every corner of the Northern Territories, the promise of lucrative salaries continues to lure residents tired of trying to farm the harsh mountainsides. Sigrid’s husband was supposed to be back by midsummer. No one has heard from him since spring.
“How nice that you can be there for her.”
My accompanying smile feels false. I can’t imagine the horror Sigrid must be feeling, facing the birth of a baby she knows her husband may never see.
Natalya gives a sympathetic look. “I wish you could come with us.”
A numbness falls over me. I had applied to be a midwife’s apprentice at the same time as Natalya. Mother had been a midwife, or so I was told, and the idea of pursuing the same path had long been a hidden dream of mine, a glimmer of light I would cling to on those raw nights when the ache and guilt over her death threatened to swallow me whole. Maybe, someday, I could do something she would be proud of, something to prove I wasn’t cursed.
Natalya did not share my passion for healing but wanted an opportunity apart from the family business her brother would inevitably take over. But while Natalya got accepted into the midwives’ ranks, I got a letter saying they had all the help they needed. They had no need for more apprentices. This was despite the fact that the midwives continued to rush to farther and farther-flung villages, sometimes missing births entirely due to help being in such short supply. I had tossed the letter in the wood stove, knowing their claim was a lie. They needed more apprentices; they just didn’t want a girl who’d murdered half the town to be handling babies.
“I should go. Wish me luck.” Natalya stands, downing the last of her food.
“Love you, Sitka!”
With a flap of her cloak, she is gone.
“I think you’re about the only one who does,” I mutter as she hurries out of sight.
A pulse of lightning flickers against the triplet of the closest mountain peaks, called the Three Sisters. I’m just considering packing up early and setting off for home when another woman appears at my cart. She’s a head shorter than me, with deep wrinkles, a crown of grey braids, and one of my favorite smiles in the world.
Like what you're reading? Scholar & Scribe is hosting a writing contest set within the world of the Sitka Saga, for details check out: @jfuji/win-20-hsbi-and-more
I'll continue sharing more of the Saga over the coming days.
