Light of Innocence

Chapter 1 : The Farm in the Wood

    It is mid-May and rain pelts the tin roof of our porch. I have my nose wedged in my favorite book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. The pages are dog eared and yellowing. The illustrations murky and muddled, bleeding blues and greens, the once vibrant reds softened to blushes. I've memorized each page, but I still am throne by its whimsical impracticalness. We have 37 books in total. One dictionary, one thesaurus, seven medical journals, thirteen fiction (my favorite genre), nine biographies, five How to blah blah, and one Bible. A library that I have read and reread hundreds of times. My Dad and Mama both took a hand in teaching us a proper education. But my Mama always said with her hands on her hips, "The wild is by far the best education of all and with that my sweet dears you are both geniuses."
     My socked feet dance to the cadence of the torrential rain, they are terribly stitched up, held together with various fabrics like a hopeless patched quilt. Ada quietly alters a dress she was given last fall. It was Mamas before it was mine, but Ada's womanly figure hasn't fully come in yet, and she huffs as she must take it in more at the chest. The faded blue pattern of flowers is delicate and has been all our favorite at our own times. I grimaced when I realized I finally needed to pass it to her. My shoulders were getting too big ever since I had to take over the wood chopping duties, with Dad's back giving out this past winter.
     Ada was already more delicate than me, she had the finer jaw, straighter nose, softer flowing hair and willowy eye lashes. She matched the pictures of Alice better than I did, with her delicate frame and child-like supple cheeks. I hated it. I had been an image of my father through and through. I shared his hands, they looked like knitted gloves bulbous and stiff. I had his course eyebrows stitched thickly together when questioning something. And now great muscular shoulders that showed up as soon as I took on his chore.
     My appearance was very little to me. I had only spotted three human souls in my whole life and all of them matched my same disinterest of care in appearance, however, your mind does set a standard image that is maintained. My mother's image, clean, kept, and pulled together tightly in a neat bun. Her face turning rouge when she cooked our meals in our cramped kitchen. She'd wipe her brow when she pulled out a chicken from the hot stove, sighing as if she was never met with her expectation. My father had two hair looks, the first someone lopped it all off with either a hunting knife or dulled scissors, resembling a rogue garden of chopped curly locks springing away in various directions. Or his other look a shaggy mess of hair over his shoulders. He would grow hot and tired of his hair, asking for his one haircut. Simple taste like the rest of us.
     I liked my hair in two ways, long and braided tightly out of my sweaty face or long billowing crazily atop my head in a fire storm of blonde curls. My sister Ada seemed fairy-like, twirling through our camp with a seasonal flower crown, porcelain skin with rosy cheeks, and a forever whirling dress. She learned how to braid and never stopped, I indulged her when I needed it out of my face, and she'd feverishly work her fingers, flying and looping a little masterpiece.
     The rain lessened its tirade and I heard my dad's gruff voice inside, "Getter back to it," he grumbled.
I snap my book shut, sliding my quilted socks into my muddy boots. Ada gives a longing sigh to her in-progress-dress and sets it aside. We resume our chores in the peppering rain, it is mistier now, however, still annoying when you are pulling up the vegetables in the sloppy soil. Dad resumes his work , shoeing the horses, and Mama hums to herself as she repairs a few of the shingles on top of the roof, clearing out the fallen branches and debris that had collected on the solar panels.
     Everyday mirrors the last. An illusion of freedom. We live in solitary with nothing but the wilderness and our busy farm to keep us company. A constant chirping of birds, the droning whir of the generators, and the rapid mimics of nature that we live in. I promise myself this year will be different because this year I will make the summer trip into the Market.
     The Market trip usually falls in the last weeks of June. The snow has completely melted over the mountain pass and it provides enough time for a safe return. Up until now it has only been my parents who've braved the trip. But with the unfortunate decline of my dad's back he has softened to the idea to take me with him.
     A new adventure that I have dreamed about since they began the Market trip, it usually takes about 15 days, 15 days away from this cage and its shackles. 15 mesmerizing days to absorb every new tree, path, animal, and maybe person that we cross. Perhaps, on this trip we will finally stumble upon another family like ours. Another cluster of souls that had decided to due away with society and its suffocating grip. This what led my parents to find our own private oasis, we now call it home. Perhaps, we could rescue them and bring them back with us.
     All these possibilities have fired up every ounce of diligence I can muster. I have worked hard to not complain of my added chores, studied every map over the pass, and notched the days on my bed post. My excitement quietly bubbles, I must make them believe that I am ready to endure this journey. I must maintain that I am there for only gathering needed supplies, if I veer from that notion than my parents will kick the idea as far away as they can. I don't think I could live through another dilapidated winter of chores, solemn holidays, tedious upkeep, and barricaded boredom. I will most likely wither away without the proper quench of a fresh adventure.
     So, as we inch closer to June and my bed post notches get more feverish. I tug the sloppy vegetables out of the muck, flinging mud all over my cheeks. I imagine if I pull up each radish and carrot without fuss then it will earn me a coveted seat to the Markets. This is my only plan and it must work.

     "We have to decide who is going and who is staying." Mama's voice is stern as we sit around the crackling fire. The notches on my bed have covered it and it is already June. My skin has been buzzing for weeks.
     "If Kallon gets to go I should be able to too!" Ada's voice spits into the fire. She hasn't been happy about the proposed situation for awhile now. I let it slip that I might be getting more books for our library on the next trip to the Market. This sent her in an absolute uproar, spooking the chickens as she clomped away angrily.
      "For the last time I'm the oldest! Someone needs to feed the animals and upkeep while we are away!" My voice raises uncontrollably, not its needed uniformity to show my maturity. If my parents think this is too big of a nuisance, they may not take either one of us.
     "Girls please!" My father's voice booms through the room, snapping all our racing thoughts away. He knits his bushy eyebrows together, pinching the bridge of his nose in a tired frustration. When he speaks next it comes out eerily quiet, "The Market is dangerous. The miles and miles of trek is unforgiving, as many times as your mother and I have made it through there has been many close calls. And the Market itself is...Both of you maybe too young, your mother and I haven't officially decided. But someone does need to stay." He struggles with every word. As if each syllable weighs on him heavier than the last.
      Moments pass and all that fills the room is the fighting pops of the fire. My father or Mama have never spoke details of the Market. I honestly don't know if it is a meeting or place, they call it the Market, however, never discuss any barter or trade. All my books mention some kind of exchange. Even the exact definition of the word, a regular gathering of people for the purchases of sale of provisions. I don't want to ask now. They always ignore the question or become too irritated to bother with an answer.
     All we know is that they decide on a list of what we need and roughly 15 days later return with the truck and trailer piled high with supplies. The past years my mother and father went to the Market, leaving me in charge of Ada and the farm. Every time they left, it seemed longer and longer that we waited for their return.
     This was the year that I would see the Market for myself. The thought of me waiting another whole year turns my stomach into spoiled milk, curdy and unpleasant. I wage if I can keep my mouth shut for a few more days I'll be fine. I have the strongest argument and I am sure they will take me. Either Mama and I will go, or Dad and I will go. Either way I will be waving goodbye to Ada and the caged farm for the first time in 23 years. This eases my stomach to its nice calm self. I give a soft smile as I peer into the smoldering embers.

"Soon," I whisper lowly to myself.