Hello friends,
Sorry, I'm back! I know I said I'm done updating TBOMBOD for now—and I am—but I thought I'd give you some bonus content. Up until a few minutes ago, this is what I was considering making the new prologue... And now I've changed my mind. (I've decided I want something with more intrigue and excitement.) So I thought I might as well let someone read this draft before it gets buried in my Google Drive.
I hope you enjoy this very rough draft.
Yours Truly
***
Prologue: Twenty Years Earlier
"Beauty can be found anywhere, even in the gloomiest of places. All you have to do is look hard enough." No one knew the origin of the quote, all potential leads either long dead or long forgotten. Despite the mystery surrounding its dubious origin, or perhaps because of it, it was the queen of Valennia's favorite quote. To Queen Dalilah Garcia, it described her beloved kingdom, her home, perfectly, for Valennia was best known for its lack of size and its sheer, rocky cliffs. However, in a small corner of the kingdom, beyond the village lovingly called Ilah, lay a seemingly endless expanse of green. Mile after mile of grassy hills and valleys stretched in every direction, halting only at the forest that bordered The Unknown.
Most days, the vast landscape was the picture of tranquility, empty and silent save for the whisper of an occasional breeze dancing in between blades of grass flower petals. But on this particular summer afternoon with the sun high in the sky, the grass had been disturbed only by the impressions of human feet, the air abuzz with keen interest and anticipation. Atop a hill, a small one, a few miles out from the village, a crowd of villagers had gathered in a circle, the source of the humming energy. And noise. Lots of noise.
"I can't believe it!" One had exclaimed.
"After all these years," another had agreed.
"A lady on her knees."
"A royal getting her hands dirty!"
"Who would have thought?"
"History in the making!"
All the while, they'd shuffled their feet—back and forth, back and forth—pounding out a warning to the creatures who called the fields their home. Stay away. The humans are out. Stay away!
The villagers had spoken to each other, though not quite, as they all had fixed their eyes on their circle's center. There had stood the subject of their conversation, a party of three: Queen Dalilah, her husband, King Richard, and her best friend, Margaret Hart, the second most powerful witch the world would ever unknowingly know. Well, the newly crowned king had stood. Dalilah and Margaret had been kneeling in the grass, sweat glistening on their foreheads and dirt caked beneath their fingernails. Each woman had wielded a trowel and between them had been a hole growing in width and depth with each passing second. To the side, an oak sapling had quivered, excited at the prospect of its new home.
The tree-planting had been an idea Dalilah and Margaret had imagined for years. Since childhood, in fact. Separately, Dalilah had dreamed of making their already green village greener, and Margaret had coveted the solitude and peace that only a tree could provide. Together, both had sought to inspire a feeling of unity amongst their fellow villagers with this dream, but neither had possessed the material wealth, resources, or power to carry out this plan. Magic, they had long ago discovered—magic in general and developing magic in particular—could only do so much. Now, years later, with Dalilah as queen, they finally could. And so, even as the afternoon sun had relentlessly sent wave after wave of heat down on their backs, they'd dug at the soil in the exact spot they had once so often schemed.
Hours had passed, and more people had joined the party in the middle. More knees had pressed into the dirt. More assisting hands had wielded tools. More tools had bitten into the soil. By the time the hole had been half its proper size, the entirety of Ilah had been present at the site. There had been a system in place. Everyone had been doing something; everyone had been assigned a role. Whether it was working in the dirt, facilitating the effort, or supervising the children, they had all done their jobs without complaint. Eagerly, even.
When the time had finally come, the hole deemed the proper size, a hush had spread through the villagers. Not so much as a word had been uttered as dirt and sweat-streaked, Dalilah, Margaret, and even Richard had lifted the oak sapling and gently placed it in the hole. A cheer had erupted from the crowd. While the royals had once again busied their hands, refilling the earth and patting the soil down around the tree, the villagers had continued to cheer. They'd jumped up and down, holding each other in their arms. Nobody had noticed Margaret's palm spread flat against the ground or the slight frown tugging at her lips.
Now, as darkness fell, a lone figure clad in black was silhouetted atop the hill that just a few hours ago had been the heart of activity. The moment the soil had been replaced, the sapling firmly secured, everyone had left, assembling in the village square to celebrate. In the midst of all the music and dancing Margaret had been able to slip out of reach of the lanterns' glow and into the shadows. No one would miss her. After all, she was nothing more than the queen's closest friend, and she had only one dance partner to satisfy. But that was an issue for later. She could easily fulfill that request at some point tonight. Just not now. First, she had a puzzle to solve.
Margaret knelt in the grass and splayed her hand in the dirt. She knew she would get her answers sooner if she made direct contact with the tree, but the sapling was far too young. She could wrap her whole hand around its trunk. What would become of it under a chokehold of magic? No, best if she sent the sapling magic indirectly.
So she did. Margaret summoned her magic, feeling the power course through her veins, flowing down her arm and into her hand. Mist a deep, royal purple, poured from her fingers, seeping through the earth and into the little oak's thin roots.
The tree straightened, sprouting up a couple of inches. Its trunk thickened, and leaves began to unfurl. The little oak was accepting, even devouring the strength she fed it. A triumphant smile spread across her face. Unlike earlier, it worked. Somehow, by some miracle, it was working. Until it wasn't.
Margaret knew the second her magic was rejected. She felt the sharp snap in her bones when the tree severed their connection. It did not make sense. Why had the tree denied her magic when it was first planted? Why had it accepted it when she'd tried again? Why did it stop now?
She had to know. Margaret released her magic once again, frustration already building as she expected to feel her mist slam against a barrier. It never did.
Her eyes widened. She could not believe it—she refused to believe it. She watched as her mist climbed up the trunk in spirals and evaporated, only to reform in a new color. Grey. Her mist was grey now... Except it shimmered as if dipped in moonlight. Not grey, she realized. Silver.
A shiver made its way down Margaret's back as before her eyes, the silver mist took the shape of a man. In his arms was a bundle. He cradled it in his arms, hugging it close to his chest and gazing at it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
The mist transformed into a new scene, still featuring the man. He was climbing up the hill, carrying the bundle in one arm and a watering can with the other. When he reached the top, he whispered something to the bundle before tipping the watering can over the roots of the tree. After that, the man came frequently to the tree, sometimes with a watering can or a pail but always with the little bundle.
Then the bundle became a baby who Margaret instinctively knew was a girl. No longer wrapped in a blanket, her features were more visible. She was pudgy; she had a small tuft of hair on her head that stuck straight up, and her eyes sparkled all too knowingly. They glinted with mischief, curiosity, and somehow a weariness that no child, never mind a baby, should ever know. In that moment, Margaret knew that this was the girl's story—not the man's.
Other images flashed by in rapid succession:
The man holding his baby girl up to the sun and the girl gurgling in response. The man sitting patiently as he watches her crawl and later take her first teetering steps to him. The man setting the girl in the snow for the first time, her eyes widening . The man chasing her around the tree, her legs growing steadier. Stronger. Taller. The girl sitting cross-legged in front of the man, trying not to wince as he learned to braid her hair. The girl, now with two braids on the man's shoulders, reaching out to touch the top of the young oak. The man unfolding a blanket on the ground, his back turned, and the girl touching the tree, the plant shooting up several inches. The man and girl climbing the hill to water the tree in the day. The girl sneaking out and coaxing another few inches out of the oak with her touch every night.
By the time the girl looked to be of about five years, the oak was fully matured, and the man visited less frequently. In his stead, came another girl the same age with unconventionally short hair and boundless energy. Together, the two girls made their own memories.
The girl with two braids pulling her friend's arm, tugging her up to the tree. Healing the other girl's arm when she tried climbing the oak. Footraces. Chases. Snow fights. Gift exchanges. Meals. Flower crowns and hairstyling. Wishing on dandelions. Games of imagination. Naps under the oak's shade. The two sometimes just sitting there. Talking.
Occasionally, the man joined the girls for picnics or to read them books. Mostly though, the girl with two braids came alone. She brought books, snacks, and a blanket in the colder months. She came at all times of day, even at night, to read or to simply gaze at the sky. Margaret noted how as the years continued to pass, the girl grew and changed. She learned how to plait her own hair, merging two braids to one. She still brought the girl with short hair, but a boy sometimes appeared too. Those were the only things that seemed to change—her habits stayed the same. Always reading, always observing the sky.
The final scene, many years in the future, appeared. The girl with the braid, now a young woman. A man. A bundle. A boy. A girl. She gingerly hands the bundle to the man. Steps forward. Reaches up. Snaps the branch of flowers from the oak. Lightly, she touches each of the blossoms before she sets the branch down at the foot of the tree. An offering. A farewell. She steps back. Back to the others. To her family. She leans against the man. Takes the boy's hand. Takes the girl's. Pulls them close. They regard the tree in the dying light. Together.
The scene faded, and at last, Margaret was able to articulate the answers to her questions. She understood. This tree was where the girl with the plaited hair had her firsts. Where she took her first step, celebrated her first birthday, brought her first friend. Where she read her first book and threw her first punch. Where she shared her first kiss and first fell in love. Where she first tested her magic. This wasn't just the girl's story—it was the tree's as well. Her magic, her history, her life was entangled with the tree's. The tree was hers; she was the tree's.
The epiphany was useful, but Margaret had no idea what to do with it. "What now?" she wondered aloud.
"What do you mean 'what now?'" a familiar voice replied from behind her. She mentally kicked herself even as warmth filled her heart.
"Hello, James," she smiled, turning to face her fiancé. Then she froze.
James's expression, which had also been a grin, promptly fell, morphing into one of confusion and concern. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She had. The man in the mist. Her fiancé. James. Why did it have to be her James?
"Nothing is wrong," she lied. "What are you doing here?"
James gave her a look. He clearly did not believe her. Despite this, he did not press her, choosing instead to answer her. "I'm looking for you."
"Shouldn't you be down there?" Margaret nodded in the direction of Ilah. "That's where the party is."
"But it's not a party without you." James's words sent heat rushing to her cheeks. "Stop evading the question though. What did you mean 'what now?"'
"I meant exactly what I said. What now?" At some point during their conversation, they had unconsciously removed the distance between them. They were close. Impossibly close. Margaret closed the space even further, smiling coyly up at James who did not seem the least perturbed by her obvious lie.
"And now," he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I kiss you."
"Isn't that—" But his lips had already descended on hers, cutting off whatever protestations she'd been about to make.
Minutes later, the two came up for air, both grinning blissfully. She said suddenly, "Let's dance."
"Without music?" When Margaret's only response was a nod, he bowed and offered her his hand. "May I have this dance?"
"Of course." Before she could even begin the customary curtsy, he grabbed her hand and twirled her, laughing.
That night, only the stars gazed upon the couple on the hill outside of Ilah. Only they saw the pair waltzing in the moonlight, swaying to music that they alone could hear, so enraptured by the other's presence that they took no note of the tree besides them. They missed the phenomenon that occurred, missed the one thing, the one life that was glaringly out of place. But the stars noticed. They saw everything, would later record everything.
Their records of the event began, On a hot summer night in the middle of July...
On a hot summer night in the middle of July, among thin branches of oak, a single, sturdy bough of flowering quince blossoms thrived.