This is the first part of Chapter 3 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
My spirit is torn ragged.
The storm of the day is gone, but it has left behind a gloomy, misty evening, the kind of humid fog that seems to seep into every street corner and hover on each doorstep. I lie across my tattered quilt, face up and unblinking, just as I have been for the last hour. The light through my tiny bedroom window fades from grey to deep blue, the flickering beeswax candlestick sending moving shadows across the sloping rafters. Aunt Skye had brought up some stew, but it grows cold on my tiny desk and leaves the room with a faint scent of cabbage.
I’m not in the slightest bit hungry. Anya’s tattered scream keeps replaying in my mind, an endless echo that refuses to leave me alone. Will she be looking for someone to blame? Will she tell everyone that I had been there, that it was my fault? Was it my fault?
Cursed.
I roll over on the creaky bed, staring at the dancing flame of the candle. The ripe panic in my chest is gone, but a vague, uneasy feeling still hangs over me. It had been so long since I’d had an episode. Aaralyn, our neighbor from the nearby River Tree Farm, had brought me all the way up Lost Ridge Pass after today’s spell. Perched on her horse the whole way back, I wracked my mind, trying to think of something, anything, that could have brought it on this time. But I couldn’t think of anything. Instead, my mind buzzed with unanswerable questions. How long would it be here this time? Would the nightmares return? Would things get…bad again?
By the time our small cottage emerged through the mist, I felt I could sleep for days, but almost as soon as I trudged through the pasture and crossed the threshold, Father and Aunt Skye came rushing up; Father’s soft face twisted with worry, Skye’s body tense. I told them what little I had to—that Sigrid was dead and that I’d been there—but I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to be alone.
It’s nearly dark when the door to my room creaks open, and the sniffing nose of our house dog, Leif, appears in the crack, closely followed by the large silhouette of my father. He approaches slowly; the candlelight glinting off his round glasses as he nears my bed.
“How are you?”
Leif jumps on the bed and settles next to me. I absently reach out to pet his thick fur as a single tear rolls down my nose and onto the quilt.
I clear my throat. My voice is tense, weary. “Okay.”
Father sighs and glances at my desk. “You didn’t eat anything.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, his round eyes searching. “I know you’re heartbroken about Sigrid and the baby. We all are.”
I roll over again and stare up at the ceiling. I hadn’t told any of them about the episode, and I’m not sure I want to. “They’re going to say it’s my fault.”
Father shakes his head gently. “No, they won’t. Skye is going to bring a gift to Anya and Filip tomorrow. This is in no way your fault.”
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice dull. “I’ve already murdered so many people.”
Father gives an exasperated sigh. “Sitka, you have never murdered anybody.”
I shrug away the comment. He’s just trying to be nice. “I could stop it, though. If they let me be a Healer. Did you know women don’t die in childbirth in the Province?”
Father’s shoulders sink. “I don’t think that’s—”
“No, it is true!” I sit up, brushing the hair out of my face. “These deaths are preventable! And we could stop them here, but the Southern Province just doesn’t care.”
Father doesn’t meet my eyes. I know he’s tired of hearing this. They’re all tired of hearing this. But it’s not my fault the Southerners keep their craft of healing secret and only teach it at Sarona Academy. And it’s not my fault that we’re not allowed to attend, or that no Healer in their right mind would move up here, to be overworked and paid a pittance while the Noble families of the South are more than eager to hire their own personal Healers and pay more in a year than we Northerners could scrounge together in a lifetime. It’s not my fault, but it hurts like it is.
Father’s eyes wander over to my desk, where a framed portrait of two young girls sits behind the cold bowl of soup. Drawn in charcoal, the portrait displays their long curly hair and identical jovial faces.
“She was far too young to die,” he mutters, and I’m not sure we’re still talking about Sigrid. He sniffs, turning back to me. “I just wanted to check in with you because Aaralyn said you seemed to…faint outside of the Feyers’? Did you have another episode?”
My heart sinks. Even the word episode makes my skin crawl. I feel gross, contaminated. “No, of course not.” My voice comes out far too highly pitched. “It was just the humidity before the storm. I got overheated. Nothing to worry about.”
Father gives me a long look over the top of his glasses. I twist my hands, but finally he says, “Okay, then. That’s good. But you would tell me if they started happening again, right?”
I smile. “Of course.”
Father slowly stands up again, the crown of his head almost hitting the rafters. “It’s been a long year, and we’re all tired. You can’t keep blaming yourself—what are you doing?”
I’ve climbed out of bed, and I pull the roughly cut stool out from beneath my desk, shoving the stew aside as I grab my well of ink and a fresh piece of parchment paper. “Next year, I’ll be too old. This is my last chance to get accepted.”
The tiniest hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “I was about to say to get some rest, but I should have known better.” He grabs the candlestick from my bedside table and sets it on the desk next to me. It bathes my paper in a warm, honey-colored glow. “Good night,” he says with a kiss to the top of my head.
“Good night.”
As he shuts the door, I turn back to my paper, dipping my pen into the ink. My hand hovers over the paper for a moment as I gaze at the charcoal drawing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I stare into Eska’s blank, drawn eyes.
If she were here, she would have handled things so much better than me. Eska, the one everyone talked about with such admiration; Eska, the one who was named after our mother; Eska, the one who was no longer here; Eska, the one who wasn’t cursed. I both worship and envy her.
I don’t know how to undo curses. But I do know there is a way to make things better. And so, I dip the tip of the pen into the deep black well of ink, address the letter: To Sarona Academy, and begin to write.
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.
