Tam??l's Battle - Chapter 1

1

She was homeless. She had no family and no home. All she had were memories that continually flooded her mind and the clothes she wore. Raiders had come and burned her house and killed her parents. Her village, Pizora, was no more. Once, this ash-covered grave had been a beautiful country village in the valley of Pizora. Tall weeping willows grew on either side of the dirt road that wove and curved for miles. Cherry trees grew in every front yard, possibly the oldest trees in Toran. They had inspired the name, Pizora, meaning 'cherry blossoms' in the First Language, the language known to all. A language not learned, but known, a language not known to the evil. The First Language comes from Elshadi, evil is neither able to understand nor speak it. The trees had spoken the First Language so beautifully. Now they were gone. Through the charred skeleton trees you could almost see the tree people inside the burned trunk. Their eyes closed, their mouths open. Horror distorting their faces.

Tamél’s home had been the most beautiful in Pizora. Tamél's father, Mylone, had been the chosen leader of the village of Pizora. They'd had a home in the center of the town with a beautiful pathway that led from the road to their front steps with all manner of flowers along either side of it. At the end of the walkway at either end and on either side were the cherry trees. Now, the only things left of the town were the ashes, the charred trees, and the dirt road. The dirt pathway slithered up to her house like a snake. But her house was no longer a house, it was just a heap of charred timber and ashes. She had so often lingered upon that path when coming home from her daily work. She worked for a man's elderly mother in another village. She hated this job, but the lady’s son paid her family well for it. Tamél hated having to walk seven miles both ways to care for an old lady, especially this old lady. Ms. Huhus was her name. She was a widow, by her own fault, Tamél thought. Old lady Huhus had probably killed her husband with a well aimed flower vase to the head. She threw flower filled vases at Tamél all the time, and when she did, she spewed the foulest language Tamél had ever heard. Unfortunately, Tamél thought, even though she'd heard a messenger say raiders had burned old lady Huhus’ village as well, killing her son, Ms. Huhus house was the only one still standing. Tamél didn’t know why. She probably threw a flower vase or the next best ammunition, large cooking pots, at them when they had come with in a hundred feet of her home.

On the third day after the raid, a man came to Tamél's village with a group of five girls. The few who had survived the raid had fled and Tamél was the only one left in the village, she’d refused to go when the villagers told her they were leaving and now she just sat and alternated between staring into the distance and crying so hard her head hurt.

The man approached her, leaving the girls in the street. “Hello Miss, ma name’s Brutus. I’m a takin these here gals down to tha orphanage in Tora. Tamél ignored him. “Miss?” He questioned. His southern accent scrapped at her nerves. “Miss, are you aw right?”

“No.” This was the first and last thing Tamél hoped to say to this man. There was something wrong about him, but she hurt too much from her grief and from sitting on the ground for three days to pay much attention to the feeling.

“Come on,” Brutus drawled, trying to sound kind, but not really succeeding. “You’re comin’ wi me.” He grabbed the girl’s arm and tried to drag her up. She didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing. Finally he knelt down, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her up over his shoulder, but even that was difficult with the strength that the girl fought against him, which was astonishing for a girl of her size. Especially one who hadn't eaten or even moved in days.

With Tamél over his shoulder, he walked back to the girls who Tamél now saw, each carried a huge pack. Brutus set her down. “Heey, lookie here, you can carry my pack!” He laughed. All the big lug was carrying was his stupid grin. Tamél saw one girl, who, though she looked about fourteen in her features, looked eight in her frame, carrying a pack larger than she herself.

After Brutus had finished searching the ruins of the village for any other people or goods that had survived the fire, they went on their way to the orphanage. Tamél noticed that they were going east. The orphanage was west. But she didn’t care. Her family was gone, and all the people she knew and cared about. She was homeless and an orphan. Nobody cared about her, and she cared for nobody, though, the small girl with the large pack held something vaguely interesting about her. But what did that matter. She'd just die from grief soon enough.

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That night, Tamél found that while Brutus had a huge tent all to himself, the six girls had to share one small tent. They were so crammed together that a couple of the girls had to sleep lengthwise across another’s feet. Tamél ended up right next to the tiny girl and neither of them had anyone lying on their feet. “What’s your name?” the girl asked sleepily.

“Tamél.” She sat up on her elbows, hoping for a conversation. She was a little less grief-striken now, and she was bored to tears. Brutus hadn't let them speak a word on the journey.

“I’m Sona, I know, I look like I’m ten or something of the sort but, I’m not. I am sixteen, so don’t feel sorry for the child that I appear to be.” Sona murmured. She seemed to be confident despite her size and seemed used to giving this little speech.

Tamél was surprised at this unusual answer. “Where do you come from?” She asked.

Silence.

“Son-.” Tamél was interrupted by a small snore from Sona. Tamél lay down again. “Good night,” she whispered into the darkness. Then, she was suddenly no longer bored, but exhausted. She too was soon asleep.

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