Young Writers Society

Prologue.

In one year misfortune had struck many times. No child or man had been spared the agony of loss, as death mercilessly took all there was to be taken, and every color had now faded away along with the hope of even the most hopeful. It was a curse, the villagers said, that a man had cast upon the people to avenge his loved one’s demise.

His love had come one stormy night seeking shelter until the man would come, so that they could set out together to see the world, and had found it under the roof of a family with more children than adults. But as time passed a rumor spread across the village, that everything the loved one touched, would die, as the children in the house became ill. The loved was hated and was then found dead, but no one knew who’s hand had committed the crime. Some said the parents, driven by hate, others said a demon, who wanted to claim her soul.

Three days later the man had come, and, upon the sight of his love’s broken body he shouted to the heavens and cursed the land, bringing illness and desperation, accusing the villagers of the crime. And no one had ever seen him again.

Beginning.

The sun had barely risen on the horizon, pink, orange and blue mingled in the sky; a girl was watching the leaves of a tree fall to the ground, their colors so similar to her hair. The priest had said, “before the last leaf falls he’ll be no longer with us,” and his grave voice kept echoing in her mind. Her father was dying as the tree was, and she could do nothing to prevent it. So she sat in front of the tree and watched as the leaves fell, counted the ones that were still strong, only three.

But that morning, from distant lands away a stranger had come to the village, seeking shelter. The scared villagers granted him none, because he was the shadow of the one who had ruined it all. He wondered around aimlessly, no place to go to, no place to return to, and there was no person who waited for him.

He stumbled on the girl who counted the leaves, saw her sadden look as one more leaf fell and neared her. She turned and saw him standing behind her, her amber eyes met with his green.

“I wander across the land, and I’ve no wish to harm, only to aid. Might I ask, why are you sad?”

“Because when the last leaf falls my father will no longer be with us.”

“What will take him from you?”

“The curse. The man’s curse.”

“Lead me to your father, and I will lift the man’s curse.”

“But who are you?”

“I am no one, my name is of no importance. The only thing that matters is that I can lift the spell, and I am here to do so.”

They stared at each other for a long while, but his eyes concealed no lie, and the child trusted him. She lead him to her home, as only one leaf still stayed strong against the wind, and the family let wanderer in. The black came to the sky, and as the stars resurfaced, their light blinking in the night, the wind took the final leaf, but death did not seize the father’s life, for the wanderer had lifted the man’s curse.

The sun rose once more in the sky and the child and her family rejoiced, and a smile was etched on the wanderer’s mellow face seeing their joy.

“You saved me from death’s wing, how could I ever repay such a great act of kindness?”

“Show me the rest, take me to the others who are falling from the curse. The only way to repay my act is to help me achieve my dream, to take within me the man’s curse, to set right what he has done wrong.”

“Sir, your wish shall be granted. But how? How have you ended the curse?”

“The curse is not ended. It can never be ended. I can only be taken away."

So the family brought the wanderer to the friend and the wanderer saved them as well, asking only to be shown to more of the cursed. The land was reborn, the grass was getting greener each day, no cloud broke the infinite blue sky, and to honor the wanderer a feast was held, crimson flags flowed in the wind, petals of pink roses carpeted the ground, the children colored the walls of every color and the people danced in circle, together, united.

The wanderer watched as they all sung, and the child of the leaves came once more.

“Why is your dream to take the man’s curse?”

“Because he made a grave error, and I have to set it right.”

“But did you know the man? Why would you risk so much for a man to whom you do not owe anything to?”

“I did know him, but I owe nothing to him. He was my brother, young one”

“Your brother?”

“Indeed, my little brother. He is the one who cursed the town, and I will set it right. The only one who can take it away is the caster, and I am the one closest to him.”

The villagers overheard this and fear swept the town amidst the celebrations. What if he’d lied and more terror was to fall upon the city? The music ended, the sky was no longer illuminated by fireworks, the wind died and no flag stirred. As sun set and the walls and streets were painted orange, bathing in the sun’s color, the wanderer told them his brother’s story.

He was curious and wanted to see the world, and he, along with his love had decided to leave. His love was the only thing he lived for, everything else had been taken from him by someone. The man had told him that the one who had taken everything was a dear friend who had betrayed him, and the wanderer had gone after him, trying to retrieve his little brother’s possessions. Two years he had traveled, but the one he had found to have taken all that his brother was most certainly not a dear friend. He found a demon with a face of an angel, dressed in regal clothes, richer than any other in the world. He told the wanderer that his brother had come to him, seeking power and strength superior than any other, and he had traded all of his belongings in exchange for power. He had sealed the deal in blood, and because his blood was the same as the wanderer’s he too had a small part of the power his little brother had. The wanderer tricked the angel-faced demon into telling more, about what the little brother was dong, where he had gone, and it told him everything, and, in a fit of rage, he also told him about the village where it had taken the one thing the man had not given him: his loved one.

And so he had had set out to find the village. Another year had passed since the wanderer had met the demon, and one day he saw from afar the child who counted the leaves. He heard rumors of the misfortune as every villager shut the door in his face, but thankfully the child had trusted him, and let him help her father.

“I know that no apology could repay the loss you have suffered by my brother’s hand, and so here I am, I have lifted the curse from your village. I humbly ask you here and now, on my knees, to forgive my brother.”

He ended his story so, and the village was silent once more. Spite was concealed in some of the villager’s hearts, while others remained faithful to the wanderer, and he was torn in a war between the two sides.

Dawn rose again, and a blood red sky was to be seen on the morning of the third day of the wanderer’s stay. The village was still adorned for the night’s feast, but many had stayed up the night arguing on what to do about the wanderer. But none of the decisions that they had made would come to a use. The child had wrongly counted the leaves on the tree: there was one more leaf that had lived in the past three days. And it too had finally fallen. The wanderer had taken within himself the curse, and now he died the same way that the villagers were supposed to as his brother’s spell overtook him. He died by the child’s side under the tree where they had first met, the only one who was there to listen.

Epilogue.

Years and centuries have passed since the day the wanderer died. The morning that he died he struck a vow with the girl, that every year, to keep at bay the soul of his brother who, to gain revenge, had sank into the land itself, making sure that the curse would always return, she would repeat the ceremony he had used on her father. She passed on the tradition to her daughter and she to hers, and we stand here today to repeat once more the wanderer’s ceremony.

We can all hear the sound of the enemy’s battleships that fire the walls of our great city, hear the plains soar above us and to rain hell on us, we’ve all suffered loss in this war, which they say, is now global. A world war. To honor our fallen, to remember the victims, to vow once more to the wanderer, I hereby begin the eight hundredth ceremony.

End.

Note: this was edited after wisegirl22 and ArticMonkey's reviews