This is the second part of Chapter 1 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
“Flora!”
The numbness I had been feeling melts at the sight of her. The old woman extends a wavering hand to touch my face. “The storm is coming.”
“I noticed.”
Flora withdraws her hand. “Sigrid needs help.”
She draws a stoppered bottle from her multicolored cotton bag. I cock my head, looking from Flora to the bottle. Of course, she would know about Sigrid. I don’t know how, of course, but it’s Flora. She always seems to know. She hands me the bottle; I take it and hold it up to the light. The liquid inside is a bright, clear purple.
“Is it—”
“Valerian, lavender, and yarrow, for stress and pain,” she finishes for me. “Along with a few other…ingredients. If she drinks this, everything will be alright.”
My guess was correct. Flora’s tinctures are my favorite. Even though most of the town swears by our apothecary, Eldan, I find myself partial to Flora’s concoctions. They seem to work better than anything I’ve tried before, and although she hasn’t sold them since Eldan moved to town, she has a peculiar habit of knowing just when someone needs one of her herbal gifts. I put the bottle in my bag. Having Flora around is not the same as having a true Healer in the village. But it’s better than nothing.
Flora smiles, a wide, gap-toothed grin that lights up her entire face, and waggles a finger at the sky. “You take this to her. Now.”
“I will.”
As Flora turns to go, she flashes me another smile. This time, a glimmer of curiosity gleams. “You do not want to join them.”
I frown, taken aback. “What?”
But Flora just tells me to go, and so I grab my bag, move my remaining goods to the bottom of my cart, out of sight, and leave the bustle of the main square. I walk down the dusty streets to the edge of the village and arrive at the home of Sigrid’s parents, which sits above their carpentry shop. Inside the ground-floor shop, I’m greeted with the sight of freshly cut boards and the bright smell of sawdust. I make my way past rows of lumber and toward the back of the shop, where a dark stairwell leads to the second floor. I had run up and down the very same stairs hundreds of times as a child with Sigrid on my heels. Although I haven’t been here in ages, it looks exactly as it did back then.
I ascend the creaking steps to a wooden door on the first landing. The door stands ajar, and a flurry of activity sounds from the other side. I peek in the doorway, and between the flutters of dark purple cloaks sweeping across the room, I spot Sigrid on the bed; her dampened hair clinging to her sweat-soaked face. Natalya dabs a clean white towel against her forehead. Ella, the head midwife, is rushing about the room. She delivered most of the young people in this village, including me. She grabs a bowl of water before approaching the end of the bed to inspect the progress of the baby.
“He was supposed to be home by now,” Sigrid cries, throwing her head back as another pain takes over her body.
My stomach lurches at the anguish in her voice. I hesitate before knocking to enter. Instead, I close my eyes together tight, summoning every fiber in my body to will the best for Sigrid, as if it will help. Skye says that’s how the Gifts work. But I feel nothing, so I open my eyes and prepare to knock on the thick oak frame.
But I don’t have to knock—for at that moment, someone trudges up the stairs. An older man in a moose leather jacket and grey hair tied behind his neck appears. It’s Eldan. He nears the landing, his thick, weathered hands clutching a basket filled with bottles of various colors: tinctures and salves, made with herbs carefully tended and plucked from the earth.
“Sitka,” he says carefully when he notices me. “What are you doing here?”
One of Sigrid’s heart-wrenching screams sounds from the other side of the door.
“Flora sent me. She wanted me to bring this to Sigrid.” I hold up the bottle for Eldan to take. He sniffs it, nose wrinkling, before gingerly putting it in the basket with the other bottles.
“I’ll see that she gets it. Excuse me.”
“Can’t I see her?”
But Eldan pushes past me, and as he enters the room, I briefly catch sight of the dark eyes and soft face of Anya, Sigrid’s mother. In the breath of a moment before leaning over to wipe her daughter’s forehead, she looks up, and when she sees me, her kind expression contorts into one of alarm.
“What is that girl doing here?” Anya barks.
Before I can so much as blink, the door to the room shuts tightly in my face, and I am left empty-handed on the darkened landing. Eldan’s muffled voice on the other side of the door explains the tincture is from Flora. His explanation is followed by the sound of breaking glass.
“I don’t want any of that old crone’s potions. Give me yours.” Anya’s voice is loud even through the door.
“Anya, please,” Natalya’s voice pleads.
“…the Fever…”
“…was fifteen years ago…”
“…but still. Make sure she isn’t hanging around. We don’t need any more bad luck.”
Anya’s words are like a cold knife. The numbness is back, creeping through my chest and down to my limbs. That girl. Bad luck.
Cursed.
Footsteps approach the door and I flee down the stairs, the unwanted creature that I am, while Sigrid’s wails echo through the stairwell. Once I land in the first-floor shop, I rush for the door. I’m just reaching out to grasp the handle when a voice stops me in my tracks.
“How is she?”
I spin around. Filip Feyer shuffles out from behind a large pine door, his wrinkled forehead glistening with sweat. He wipes his hands against his stained work apron, his light blue eyes looking both worried and hopeful.
“She’s…okay, I think.” I can’t imagine what an excruciating wait it must be.
The tension in his face eases. “I’m glad to hear it. Thank you all so much for helping.”
“I wasn’t…”
But Filip waves a hand. A shy, almost childlike smile crosses his face. “I’m so looking forward to be a grandpa soon.”
I attempt to return his smile, but as I catch Filip’s bright blue eyes, a pounding headache begins in my ears. I clasp a hand to my head, wincing.
“I should get back,” I say, shifting for the door once more. “I’m so sorry. Good luck, all of you.”
Before Filip can say anything, I let myself out of the shop and stumble onto the dusty street, breathing in deep lungfuls of humid, storm-tinged air. I shake my head vigorously, trying to rid the pounding from my ears. But it’s not just the pounding. A deep, uneasy feeling grows in my chest. Something feels wrong. I need to get away.
I start the walk back to my cart, and get the creeping feeling that I’m being followed, but the street behind me is empty every time I look. I push through the crowds and back to my stand, the talk and laughter in the square overbearing. The throbbing intensifies, and just when I feel like I can’t take it anymore, a muffled shout rings through the square. It’s followed by a skirmish and people running. Running to the Feyers’.
No.
I stumble out of the square and back to their street. Lungs tight in my chest, I feel like I’m choking on the humid air as I run to where a small group has congregated outside their window. Eldan emerges with his empty basket, a look of panic coloring his face. Two people hug. A small child starts to cry.
My body understands before I do. The uneasy feeling swells into a deep tremble as I stagger closer to the shop, toward the crowd. For a moment, my mind believes I have it wrong—that it’s all okay, that my body has misinterpreted, that the cheers will start soon, followed by the dancing and drinking and the watery cries of Elm’s newest citizen.
But then the scream slices through the air, the saddest, most wounded sound I’ve ever heard. Anya’s scream.
And then my mind understands, too.
The first drops of rain fall from the sky as a flicker of purple cuts through the crowd. As the group parts, Natalya’s stunned face emerges. Her eyes stare blankly ahead, not seeing me as she passes. A thick streak of blood smears up her cheek and into her hairline. Then through the crowd, through the walls of the building, come Filip’s heavy sobs, echoing against my ears as the first vein of lightning bleeds across the sky.
And then it is no use. The headache returns in full force, searing into my mind, ready to slice me open. My chest is being squeezed as the words ring like a gale in my ears.
Cursed. Cursed. Cursed.
The vision takes hold with the next flash of lightning—a pair of blinding blue eyes sear my mind, refusing to let go. My legs can no longer hold me and I sink to the muddied ground, the thunder drowning out my scream as the earth and I cry for Sigrid together.
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.
