Forsaken: The Chosen Trilogy - Book One

Chapter Five

Sunsday - seventh day of the week

KRYSSA

Northwestern Valory

569- 572A.F.

I would like to say that was the end of Father's madness, that he repented of his actions in the morning and returned to the loving, smiling man of my childhood.

It would be a lie, but I would like to say it all the same.

Since I cannot, I shall say instead: there were still good days, though they became more and more infrequent as time passed and his madness claimed whatever remained of his mind.

On good days, Father would rise, ignoring us children as if we did not exist, and leave the house to tend the fields and the gardens, wearing himself ragged with their care. He returned at sundown, and fell, exhausted, into his bed, to sleep until the next morning. If we were neglected, well... At least we were being fed again, and we weren't harmed.

On the bad days, Father screamed and wept, cursing both the Gods and his children for the loss of his beloved Adelie. Often, he would not even rise from his bed, and would merely glare at us as we tended to our chores, sullen and morose. It terrified the others, and I kept the door to his room closed, and entered alone if needed.

But even those days paled in comparison to the black days, and it was then I came to truly wish that the Gods had taken him instead of our mother. He paced our tiny house like a caged beast, striking out in blind anger at anyone who came near, cursing us unmercifully. At last, his wrath would spend itself, and he would sink into helpless despair, turning docile as a babe and allowing himself to be led back to bed before slipping into easy sleep.

We learned the warning signs of these dark tempers, how to hide from them, how to protect ourselves against him. But, all too often, he would raise his hand to Lanya, or Reyce, or one of the twins, and I would be forced to step forward, allowing myself to be his target, and suffered the brunt of his rage in marks upon my skin.

But try as I might, I could not fully protect my brothers and sisters. Brannyn refused to let me suffer alone, and took his share of the wrath from our father's hands, no matter how much I begged and pleaded for him to stay away. He was determined that he would save me as much  he was able, and so he did. The others, though spared from the beatings, were not immune to his cruelty, and their faces grew haunted and unhappy. Father's misery and madness infected our lives like a sickness.  We had lost our mother, and Janis, and somewhere in between them we had lost our father as well. He was like a ghost in our home, a shade of someone else, eaten by his desperate loneliness and the obsessive memory of Adelie.

Malachi Rose had become a monster.

There was a lullaby Lanya used to sing to us, and whenever I am forced to think back on that time, it is her sweet, haunting voice that I remember, soothing the others as I fought to hide the despair that threatened to swallow me.

To sleep, to seek out all your dreams,
Find those quiet, sparkling things,
Stay here, wait here, in your bed,
Rest your lovely little head.
Night calls, light falls, no more sun-
Darkness plays when light is done.

Certainly, it seemed then that the Darkness enjoyed playing with our lives.

The winter snows were late that year, but they thankfully kept Father from the Crone, and, as the days passed without his potions, he slipped into catatonia once again. Though I worried for him, I was glad as well, for the weather kept us all trapped within the house, and I do not know how I would have protected the others from his brutality.

Spring came at last, the sun shining through the grimy, soot-streaked windows, the grass turning pale green beneath a breathtaking sky. Father disappeared for two days, and came home in the terrible, familiar rage, his clothes and breath reeking of ale and sweat and something sickly sweet.

He had returned to see the Crone.

The summer came, and the fall. Our harvest was pitiful, for Father gave up halfway through the planting, and nothing I could say would convince him to finish it. We struggled through the winter as he sank into despondency, and I rationed our food as we prayed for spring, wishing I dared to forget Father's meals so that he would not survive to see it.

So the years came and went, making us hard. Our innocence had been ripped from us, and it made us bitter- but we were stronger for it.

We grew. I was forced to mend our clothing over and over, struggling to make it fit our lengthening limbs. I took to wearing a much-hemmed pair of Father's breeches and one of Brannyn's old shirts, wearing them more for their utility than out of choice. I used Mother's wardrobe to dress my sisters, and a chest of Janis' late husband's clothing was divvied among my brothers. I did my best to keep us warm throughout the winter, turning ragged sheets into shirts and ripped coverlets into cloaks. I even made a hazardous trip to the village, to beg the Crone for help procuring what we needed, not knowing where else to turn. She gave me a pile of used sheets and blankets, covered in unidentifiable stains, her dark eyes unreadable as I stammered out my gratitude.

So we were clothed, though most would consider what we wore little better than rags. But at least we were covered, and warm during the cold.

I turned thirteen without notice. Underfed and gangly with growth, I struggled alone through the changes of womanhood, shielding the others from knowledge of my discomfort. I knew what the changes meant thanks to Janis, but I hid them, afraid of being bride-sold or slave-traded by Malachi to offset the debts of our farm.

For debts came, and quickly. Taxes to the Empire, which our meager harvests barely covered, were a constant burden as I took over the household budget. I watched Father's addiction to the Crone's potion with rising suspicion, and wondered how we were affording it- I knew by then that she did nothing without payment of some kind. At last, I offered to clean for her, thinking to repay what I was certain was a substantial debt, and she agreed, though her gaze upon me seemed filled with remorse and self-loathing.

It was then that I finally learned the steep price Father had promised to forget his darkness.