Young Writers Society

The sun rises higher in the sky; I watch its light travel across the rough floor. Dread bubbles like a cauldron inside. It is almost time. Almost.

“Nightingale!” Mom’s voice pierces the walls. I raise my head from the wooden boards, and turn weary eyes to the trapdoor. It is time then.

The air is hot, almost stifling, and outside it will be worse. The sun is going full strength today. All her power is bearing down on us from above.

Sighing, I force my body towards the door. A day never started will never end. And this day must end. At least there will be company in the field, if I want it. The few people that will actually talk to me will be there. The harvest is here; we have much food to bring in before nightfall.

I skirt the edges of the light. It is close, too close for comfort; a single ray licks the tender skin on my hand. Hissing in sudden pain, I hurry down the steps of the ladder. There is no Amber at the bottom. But Mom is there.

“Hurry up, Nightingale.” Her hands reach out towards me. Grasped in one is the dark form of my cloak, the other holds the heavy gloves for my hands. “We need you today, girl. Hurry.”

I take the cloak first, fastening at my neck and pulling the hood down over my white face. “Are the others already there?” She hands me the gloves and I slip my hands into their itchy depths. Heavy, woven from wool. They aren’t the perfect protection, but they work, stretching up to past my elbows.

“Yes, they started directly after breakfast.” She cocks her head to the side slightly, still smiling at me. “You were so quiet, we thought that you must be asleep. Didn’t want to wake you.”

I shake my head and fold my arms protectively in front of my body. “No… I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.”

Her blue eyes narrow. “Why?”

I shrug my shoulder, grasping for something, anything that I can say. One question comes up. One that has been bothering me, but for so long. Years, upon years. “I was just thinking… Once I am taken care of, married or whatever ends up happening, will you and Dad separate?”

It catches her by surprise, I see the brief flash of pain cross her face. “Nightingale!”

I lower my gaze to the floorboard, casting about for an explanation. “It is just, you never seemed like you loved each other. Both always angry and fighting. I couldn’t help but wonder.” I look back up at her. “Will you?”

She sighs and turns away. “It isn’t that, Nightingale. I love your father, and he loves me. But we don’t always show it.” A strange laugh escapes her, breathless and sad. “We never show it.”

Turning back on me, her eyes flame in sudden emotion. “In the beginning we stayed together for you; that was the agreement. We were going to separate, but decided to put it off until you had a home of your own. Now… we’ll stay together no matter what. We trust each other, even if we don’t act like it. We do love, Nightingale. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

“You would have broken up if I hadn’t been born?” I ask the question to buy time, crushing the fear that clamors in my chest. The sun is coming. Even protected as I am, sometimes the gloves slip, or the wind finds my hood. Every moment spent inside is one more away from her shining threat.

“We married in haste, Nightingale. And would have broken up in haste as well.” She sighs. “It would have been wrong. We put it off for you, and now we know how to make it work.”

“But you still fight?” The face that lifts up to hers is puzzled. I feel the confusion filling my dark eyes, and don’t attempt to hide it. “Why?”

She shrugs and turns away again, this time heading towards the door. “Habit. We did it for years, it would feel weird to stop. Now come on, Nightingale. Everyone else in working, and we need to get out there also.”

I tug on the end of my gloves, tucking them into the sleeves of my gown. “I’m ready, Mom.”

She smiles. Her hand touches the door and throws it open. A flicker of light slips through the opening, coming from the clouded surface of the kitchen window.

A slight wince touches my mouth, but I swallow my fear. Remember, I tell myself sternly. At least she cannot touch you, Nightingale. When the sun is there, she is not. At least… not normally.

We walk slowly through the village; mom holds my arm tightly and leads away from the house. The path to the field is dry and dusty, the only thing I can see on the way. Every step that brings me closer also brings more sweat to my white face, already the thick gloves are glued to my skin.

On reaching the corn field, mom hands me one of the bags she had been holding in the crook of her arm. “Do you want to stay with me, or stumbles along as best you can on your own?”

I raise my head, risking the sunlight for a quick glance over the tops of the golden stalks of corn that extend farther than I can see. Well, not farther perhaps if I could actually raise my head high enough to see to the end.

Here and there, the yellow plants toss and turn as if in a wind. From the same place comes the murmur of speech. There they are. The younger ones of the village. And there, talking with the others, is Peregrine. He has to be.

“I’d rather go on my own, if you don’t mind.” Tearing my eyes away from the gently waving strands, I fix them on a different part of the field. A part that has no movement in it. “I have much to think about, Mom. Silence is best for that.”

Her hand touches my shoulder; I turn my head and dare to glance upwards at her face. A ray of light touches my cheek. Wincing in pain, I lower my head, gathering the hot folds of my cloak about me.

“You’re certain, Nightingale?”

I lift my shoulders in a shrug that I meant to seem careless, but comes off as uncertain. “I think so. She won’t bother me this afternoon, I hope. The sun is too bright. She normally stays within the shelter of the trees on days like this.”

Mom gives me a light hug, and then hurries away on her own to find the group she normally picks with. The village elders, and so on.

I watch her feet walk quickly down the dusty path, and bite back a sigh. “Better get going, Nightingale.”

Forcing my feet to move, I begin my own brief journey down into the corn field. The golden stalks bend in the wind in greeting, and finally, swallow me up completely.

The sun shines down still. As the day stretches on, the heat becomes worse. And I have no water. Could go and ask, but I don’t want to seek out Mom. She’ll have water with her, but the other people will be there also. I don’t want them to see me.

The minutes add together slowly, becoming an hour, and then finally, two. And the sweat grows with time. It coats my limbs in salty water. Beneath my heavy hood, my long, black hair is glued to my scalp. And behind my eyes, a steady ache is starting to pulse.

It doesn’t stop. It becomes larger with every passing moment. The ache become a jab that lances into my head with every rush of blood.

I press on. I force myself to work. “You must pull your own weight, Nightingale,” I mutter sternly to myself. “Can’t be a burden.”

Reaching up a hand, I wrench off another husk and stow it in my bulging bag. The fourth full bag this day. Soon I will have to haul this one also out of the field, and up the hill to the rest of the harvested corn.

A stab of pain stops me in my tracks. The bag falls from my hand, and I sink to the ground. Thoughts are trapped behind the agony. Grasping my throbbing head in my hands, I bite back tears that threaten to come.

“Nightingale!” The voice slaps the side of my screaming noggin, but I welcome the pain this time.

Redden eyes try to lift up to his blond hair. The sun’s rays fall between us, forcing my gaze to drop. All I can see of him is his shoes, the brown leather dusty from the cornfield.

Then his knees, he squats down beside me. “Are you alright, Songbird?”

I find my tongue with difficulty, forcing myself to think through the pain. “If I was alright, Peregrine, do you think I would be sitting in the middle of the path clutching my head?”

He hesitantly touches my shoulder. “What’s wrong then?”

“Lack of water, too much heat, overwork after weeks of hiding inside, and a reaction to the pressure that is always bearing down on me,” I answer through the confused pounding in my skull.

The hand resting on the back of my black cloak moves down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the browned knuckles curling around the handles of the abandoned bag at my side.

I slap it away. “No, you don’t. Just leave me alone, Hawk. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

He pushes me aside, regaining the bag. “Stow it, Nightingale. I’m carrying this, and you are living with it. There are worse things in this life than being forced to accept help.”

Gathering my courage, I force my head to lift, braving the light. Our eyes touch.

His are blue, and filled with steel. Lips are pressed firmly together in a thin, hard line. The entire attitude of the young man at my side is one of stubbornness.

“I will be up in a bit,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “The pain will level off after a moments rest, and I will be in good enough condition to work.”

“Being able to do something doesn’t mean that you should do it,” He counters. “You aren’t going to work, Nightingale. I’m taking you back to your house.”

“I’m not going!” I raise my voice, and then wince at the extra pain that slaps my skull.

“You will go if I say so, Songbird.” He tries for a grin, the light flickering across his cocky features. “Look at yourself, girl. Can’t stand, and have difficulty thinking and speaking. You want to work like that?”

My teeth grind in frustration. I stare back up at him, black eyes filled with growing anger. “It is my choice, Peregrine. Leave me alone. What does it matter to you?”

His shoulders lift in a shrug. “I don’t know. Guess I don’t like seeing anyone in pain, Nightingale.”

Irritation is starting to dawn on his face; I watch the patience slowly leave his expression. “I’m done with this begging, Songbird. Either you come with me now, or I go directly to the Elders and let them decide. Do you want me to make a disturbance?”

My gaze drops to the trodden down dirt beneath us. He has me beat, and he can feel it. I’m not willing to risk him making good his threat. He will do it, I know that. He’s not afraid to make a stir if it means accomplishing his own ends. Which, in this case, would mean dumping me in the little attic upstairs for the rest of the day.

“Very well, Peregrine,” I give in bitterly. “You win this time. We’ll do it your way.”

He smiles, completely charm now that things are once more going his way. “Nice of you to see reason. Can you walk, or should I carry you?” A touch of derision enters his voice: he knows I’d rather die than allow him to pick me up. He’s laughing at me.

“I’ll walk.” I raise my head back up, challenging him to cross me with a glare. I will raise hell-fire and brimstone if he dares, and my eyes tell him so.

“Can you stand?” He climbs to his feet and extends his hand towards me. “Come on, Nightingale. If we don’t start, we’ll never get there.”

I stare at the hand resentfully. My own hand reaches up to slap his away. He grabs it in his iron grip before it can make contact, yanking me to my feet.

I stumble as the first wave of pain from the sudden movement catches me; his arm slides around my waist and braces off. Furious black eyes flash to his, mouth opening to tell him off. The second rush of agony robs my thoughts of everything, but the torment. The deep throbbing in my head. I can’t speak, only stare at Hawk in dumb suffering.

“Come on, Nightingale,” He says again. The hand on my side pushes onward, trying to make me walk. I stagger forward, almost falling face first onto the well traveled trail between the rows of golden corn.

Peregrine catches me, dropping the carefully gathered corn to wrap both arms around me. Protest rises in my muddled intellect, but I still can’t speak. And my body won’t move on command.

His finger fasten on my face. Gently, he cups my head in his hand, scanning my redden eyes. “That does it, Songbird. I’m carrying you, and don’t care if you like it or not. I don’t have all day to see you back, girl. Doing it your way would take too long.”

He drapes one of my arms over his shoulder, scooping me up off the ground. And he keeps talking. “I know you hate this, Nightingale. It is rather awkward, but I can’t just leave you there.”

From somewhere in my screaming body, I scrape up enough strength to answer his absentminded mutterings. “You aren’t making it any better, Hawk, by this constant mumbling. Be quiet. The noise is hurting my head.”

“Sure, whatever,” He responds, a hint of annoyance reentering his voice.

And so we keep silent on the long trek back to the house. My head pounds with every step he takes. He doesn’t say anything, but through the blur of pain, I can still make out his face. He’s having a hard time. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t complain. But the sweat beads up on his forehead and trickles down his skin. His lips press together, turning white as the blood leaves them.