The Keeper’s Machine: Chapter One
Persephone is ascending. The signs are everywhere. Each step the Earth Queen takes from the Underworld is a promise of another harvest, melting snow underfoot and prompting crocuses and daffodils to bloom in the shallow depressions left behind. Flowers multiply in her path, and the dew-drops that collect on their petals glitter in the early morning sunlight. They gather on my skirts as I weave through the fields of unshorn sheep, searching for a rare speck of red in patches of white and green.
A soft whistle wavers over the fields, an unwelcome distraction that turns the heads of the ewes in the direction of home. They bleat softly, gossiping, but I ignore it, keeping my eyes glued to the ground.
There.
Nestled beneath a cluster of lupine, glistening red, is the first strawberry of the season. I stoop down to snap the ripened fruit off its stem and pop it into my mouth. It bursts with decadent flavor that drips down my chin and onto my boots.
The herd gathers around me, suckling on soaked leather and nibbling on the folds of my skirts. For a moment, I can forget about all of my problems. For a moment, I feel like a Persephone.
“We’re going to be late.”
I sigh. I had done such a good job of ignoring my brother’s arrival that even the ewes managed to forget. Now they scatter as he closes in. I look at him accusingly and find him clean shaven. His usual gray flannel is gone, replaced by a dark blue cotton shirt that lends a softness to his blue eyes and a sheen to his black hair.
“We’re not going to be late.” I assure him, wiping my hands on Mother’s hand-me-down skirts. The rich brown linen is faded beige from years of work in sun and snow and rain. The hem’s been repaired ten different times, and the waist is a little tight, but they’re still the best skirts I own. When I pull my hands away, I find them sticky and coated in rough strands of wool.
I sigh before relenting. “We’re going to be late.”
Flint turns and walks away. “Don’t worry,” He says. “Mother set out a few clean skirts for you to pick from before she left.”
“She left already?” I peer around him, half expecting to see her waiting for us with knitted brows that give away her impatience.
“Yeah. She wanted to be the first one there so she could get the best seat in the hearing room. I hope she meant the back.”
A pulse of nervous energy tightens in my chest like a snake around its prey. It’s silly, really. I should be happy that my mother is proud of me. I should be proud, too. I’ve been through so much. But I wonder how she’ll feel when she learns the truth.
The bright green outer shell of our underground dwelling rises before us, flecked with the familiar white and yellow blossoms of early spring.
Flint disappears behind the black slate door that marks its entrance. I follow him into darkness.
A slit of faint morning sunlight slips through the small window in the kitchen. It slices through the breakfast table, where a pitcher of water and leftover morrowbread sit next to a woven basket of boiled eggs. Our sheepdog, Pebble, gets up from her bed beneath the table and shakes, sending rough winter hairs up into the light. They enter an endless dance with specks of dust and I watch.
The door grinds shut behind me and again I remember.
We’re going to be late.
I escape down the earthen steps to my room, guided by the seed oil lantern Mother left behind. The light is weak, but a quick twist of the small knob at its base brightens the flame, casting the small room in an orange glow.
I made my bed just this morning, but the woolen blankets are gone. Now the bed is covered in a plain cotton sheet and a yellow quilt with delicate blue flowers that smells like Persephone’s Spring. A single skirt sits folded neatly on top.
It’s darker than I expected, like rich fertile soil untouched by the sun. I smile. I was expecting a hand-me-down, but this is a nicer one.
I pick it up and set it aside, eager not to waste any more time. It isn’t until I remove my soiled skirts and pick it up again that I realize a second one is there, tucked just beneath the first.
I run my hand over the fabric, shocked at the softness of it. I didn’t know Mother owned anything so soft. It drapes as I lift it, slipping over my arm as I lift it toward the light.
No. This can’t be right. This skirt. . . It’s blue. A bright and brilliant blue.
I can’t remember the last time I wore this color. Perhaps I don’t want to. It’s difficult to create a pigment this strong, and it doesn’t seem worth the effort considering it only serves to highlight my eyes.
Even so, I find myself smiling as I tug it over my blouse. I stand in the middle of my room, spinning in slow deliberate circles watching the fabric float around me. It drapes like a waterfall and feels like a cloudless night. I sit on the edge of my bed, pull on my boots, and grin at the realization that this is not a hand-me down.
No. . . These skirts are mine.
*
The path to the community center is lined with fields of oats and rye and buckwheat that were planted in the fall. Their seed heads grow heavy with grain.
The harvest has already begun in some parts of the fields. The grains have been plucked and the soil turned over. By late summer, bright yellow sunflowers will grow tall and strong, spreading out as far as the eye can see. Beans will vine up their stalks, squash will sprawl at their base, and their heads will be plump with seeds.
Flint looks out over the fields with a knot in his brow that only forms when a question is brewing, one he’s spent a lot of time thinking about.
“Were you serious?” He asks. “About finding our father?”
“Of course.” I answer.
We both know the chances of finding my vagabond father are slim. The chances of getting him here are slimmer. But if there is any possibility that his blood is earthen, then it’s worth trying. Proving our lineage is the only way Flint can become an elder.
“You don’t even know his name.” He points out.
“Do you?”
Flint pauses, and I tilt my head curiously.
“Do you?” I ask again.
To read the rest of this chapter, please consider purchasing The Keeper’s Machine, by Lydia Ruanna.
