A Scream from the Lungs of God

[AsheandOak]

The valley lay out before her. The island of Fontaine was like a wheel, whose rim was the strength of civilization. Cities and townships hinged the coastline, the roads following the undulating curve of the water's edge. She could see metal rooftops glistening, reflecting the light of the midmorning sun just as brilliantly as the waves out to see caught and reflected it. Just inward to the island from the roads and cities, noise and people, were the hills. Not tall nor old enough to be called mountains, they rose the best they could. She was at a summit now, standing on a rocky cliff. She could see just over the canopies beyond, towards the wild hub of Fontaine. The heart of the island, the spokes that supported the great and powerful wheel would always be the wilderness.

Here, on that jagged line between here and there, was her favorite place. The wind would toss the free-falling curls of her hairline against her forehead, relieving the press of humid heat from her face for a moment. The forests and wild fields spread out before her, a glorious green that would gather a warm haze about it as the day pressed on. The height of summer was upon them, and with every cooling breath of air, she could smell the honeysuckle that grew wild among the trees.

Rebecca had been meditating at this spot for a year now. She'd established a routine, with an early morning breakfast and the quick hike to her spot. She'd sit and think, waiting for inspiration to strike. After all, wasn't that how it all worked anyway? After that, it had been straight to the town library where she poured through books and manuscripts, old journals and articles, searching for anything that might help her. Her luck, however, seemed to have run dry. She'd been through every possible avenue that was available in the old building, and she'd solemnly walked here this morning in a trance. Could this be the last morning that she came up here, hopeful for the answers to the problems she faced? She turned and looked down the path. In the distance she could see the vague silhouette of the town rooftops, her own shining bright. Then, with a gush of wind that gently pushed her towards the path back down to the road, the idea hit her.

She'd never thought to check through the family library at all. After all, her ancestors were borne from places that magic ran wild, or so she'd heard her granny whisper in the night. No Ashdowne had been blessed with the gift of magic, so why did it come to pass that she was so strange and different? Surely, however unlikely it might seem, there had to be some clue there.

[AsheandOak]

It had been a week now, and the full moon was shining in force outside. The songs of the wild crickets were strong, and there seemed to be a pull from the very soul of nature keeping her awake. Rebecca sat at the end of her bed, a lone candle on the stand next to her lighting her journey through the passages of an old tome. The tiny, precise handwriting in it was nearly dizzying to look at, but she consumed it as if she could eat nothing else and she had been starving for too long.

It had only taken a near-unquenchable thirst to know every journal in the family library before she finally made it to the small collection of her great-great-grandfather. It was only a small chunk of his journals, these of his childhood which were put into a back corner of the library. The only ones that had been read anytime recently were his journals entailing the great exodus of the family, where he led them to Fontaine. But her answers, they were contained within his Salvarian childhood, and a boy named Luca.

When at last she stood, her wanderings took her to her mother.

"May I go on a trip to Salvar?"

[AsheandOak]

Emery Ashdowne was, as she always was late at night, tending to the bread. The thick scent of yeast and cream filled the air, flour puffing into the air as the dough was kneaded on the wooden counter. Hands, thick with the callouses of a working woman, paused only for a moment, before they continued to massage the bread, stretching and folding as they went. Her mother's face was as composed as her movements, her thin lips pressing together for only a moment as a puzzled look washed over her face.

"Why on earth would you want to go to Salvar?" she asked, her voice casually brushing aside the idea as if it couldn't possibly be serious.

"I want to visit the place great-grandfather came from," she said. After a moment, Emery shrugged.

"I suppose that makes sense, what with you having your nose in a book all day and night. Nothin' ever got done by reading, now." She paused in her lecture to shoot another quizzical look. "Why would you even want to go there? I gave a good glance at those books a time or two, you know, and I know there ain't nothing to be found in that place but snow and ice and dangerous things. The whole family left there for a reason, and it wasn't just because they were restless."

"I know," Rebecca said, quietly. She knew that this would be the difficult part, explaining why she needed to go. From the first moment she'd reached out for something and felt the breeze helping her pull it closer, she knew that this was a difference she could never divulge. She was ashamed, an outcast in her own house, yet powerless to do anything but try and blend in. There, however, in the tiny writing of long forgotten thoughts, was a key that could answer it all. "I just want to see for myself. Besides, Henry got to go on a trip when he was my age."

"That's different," the voice was less curious now. She could see the frustration and annoyance growing in her mother's deep brown eyes. It was an anger that bubbled up from the depths of patience the woman had, and Rebecca knew better than to push. "Your brother went out to work, to learn a skill that he could put to use here. What could you possibly learn by boat or in that frigid hell? No, you're not going."

"Okay, Mama."

Rebecca paused for a long moment, watching her mother as she slammed the dough over, shaping it into a loaf while the flour billowed all around her. The lantern light caused the shadows on her face to deepen and darken, until Rebecca thought she could see every wrinkle and line of worry that had been etched into her mother's face over the years. It would be best not to argue.

As she returned to her room, her resolve tightened. It would be best to just go, disappear into the night and point her compass north.