Chapter 12 - Sacred Land
1341 Words
By afternoon, the house felt softer.
The kind of soft that came with familiar walls, warm food, and children finally running somewhere that was not my living room.
Mom had taken over the kitchen as though I had never learned how to feed myself.
The girls were outside, chasing each other between the backyard garden and the chicken coop, laughing every time one of the roosters strutted too close.
For once, I did not stop them.
I only sat on the rattan rocking chair in the upstairs hall, right beside the window.
The air was different here.
Cleaner.
Older.
The kind of air that entered my lungs and reminded my body it did not have to hold everything all the time.
Maybe that was why sleep came so easily.
Just now, Mom had told me to rest.
I wanted to argue.
Out of habit.
Out of guilt.
Out of the strange belief that if I stopped moving, everything would fall apart.
But my body was tired.
The afternoon breeze slipped through the curtains.
Somewhere outside, my children were laughing.
Somewhere farther, chickens clucked, leaves rustled, and my mother's voice moved softly through the house.
For the first time in days, I closed my eyes without fear.
And sleep took me.
At first, there was only darkness.
Soft.
Weightless.
Almost kind.
Then, slowly, the darkness thinned.
Mist curled around my feet.
The scent of damp earth filled my lungs.
And when I opened my eyes again...
the forest was waiting.
The glowing flowers.
The small cottage.
The shut door.
The cry of the newborn baby.
Everything was exactly where I had left it.
Only this time, the air felt heavier.
The men with lanterns were still searching beyond the trees, their lights moving slowly through the darkness.
They never came closer.
The invisible barrier held them back.
I turned toward the cottage, but before I could take a step, the hooded priest appeared before me again.
Wooden cane in one hand.
Old manuscript in the other.
His face remained hidden beneath the hood.
But this time, when he opened his mouth, I did not wake.
"The child will keep crying," he said.
His voice was low.
Ancient.
Almost familiar.
"Until the root remembers."
My breath caught.
"What child?" I asked.
He did not answer.
Instead, he lifted the manuscript and opened it.
The pages were old, yellowed by time, filled with symbols I could not understand.
Some looked like herbs.
Some looked like stars.
Some looked like veins beneath skin.
Then I saw something drawn across one page.
A tree.
Its roots split into two worlds.
One grew deep into the earth.
The other reached upward into a sky full of silver light.
The priest placed one finger on the roots.
"The cure is not in the cry," he said.
"It is in the blood that forgot where it came from."
I tried to move closer.
The newborn cry grew louder.
Sharp.
Desperate.
Painful.
Then the priest's voice turned colder.
"Do not follow the men with lanterns."
I looked toward the forest.
The lights were still moving.
Searching.
Waiting.
"Why?" I whispered.
The priest lowered his head slightly.
"Because not every light is meant to guide you."
The page beneath his finger began to glow.
For one impossible second, I thought I understood.
The cure.
The child.
The root.
The warning.
Everything.
Then the manuscript burned bright white.
And I woke up gasping.
I sat up slowly, pressing one hand against my chest.
The saffordite pendant was still there.
Warm.
Quiet.
As though it had not just dragged me into a dream I could not explain.
For a moment, I tried to remember the page in the manuscript.
The symbols.
The tree.
The roots split between two worlds.
But the harder I tried to hold on to it, the faster it slipped away.
Only one word remained.
Root.
"Zattie?"
Mom's voice floated from downstairs.
"Lunch is ready."
I wiped my face with both hands and forced myself to stand.
By the time I went downstairs, the roasted chicken had already been served. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, mixed with herbs, butter, and something earthy I could not name.
The girls were already at the table, hair messy from playing outside, cheeks flushed from the heat.
Zach was there too.
And so was Uncle Matt.
He must have come back with Zach after repairing the fence at the farm.
"Look who finally woke up," Uncle Matt teased, pulling out a chair.
I smiled faintly and sat down.
"I didn't realize I slept that long."
"You needed it," Mom said simply, placing rice onto Arya's plate. "Your face looked tired when you arrived."
I did not argue.
For once, I let someone put food in front of me and accepted the quiet comfort of being cared for.
The conversation moved easily around the table.
The kids talked about the chickens.
Zach mentioned the broken fence.
Uncle Matt complained about wild boars ruining the farm edges again.
Mom clicked her tongue and said the land had been restless lately.
That word made my hand pause above my plate.
"Restless?" I asked.
Mom shrugged. "Just the usual. Animals acting strange. Chickens refusing to sleep where they normally do. Dogs barking at nothing."
Uncle Matt looked at her, then glanced toward the backyard.
"Not nothing," he said.
The table grew quieter for a second.
I looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.
"This land has always been like that," he said. "Your late Granny used to say it could feel things before people did."
My chest tightened.
Granny.
The name stirred something old inside me.
Granny was my late grandfather's youngest sister.
She lived nearby too, and I used to spend a lot of time with my grandparents and her during my childhood.
I still remembered how people treated her with quiet respect.
She was some sort of healer, though no one in the family ever called her that directly.
Many villagers came to her for help, buying herbs, massage oil, and small remedies she prepared herself.
Sometimes, I helped her too.
I would sit beside her, watching her pour oil into tiny bottles, tie herbs together, or murmur things under her breath while her hands moved with the kind of certainty I never understood.
Back then, I thought she was just old.
Just experienced.
Just someone the village trusted.
Now, I was no longer sure.
Mom gave him a look, the kind that warned him not to start old stories in front of the children.
But Uncle Matt only chuckled.
"What? It's true."
I swallowed.
"What did Granny say?"
He looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
"She used to say some families do not inherit gold or houses," he said. "Some inherit land that remembers them."
The words settled over me like a hand pressed gently against my back.
Land that remembers.
The dream flashed through my mind again.
The cottage.
The crying child.
The manuscript.
The tree with roots split into two worlds.
I tried to keep my voice steady.
"And our family?"
Uncle Matt's smile faded slightly.
"Our family," he said, "was never ordinary around this land."
Mom sighed. "Matt."
He lifted both hands in surrender, but his eyes remained on me.
"Your Granny knew things. Your grandfather too, though he pretended not to. People used to come here when they were troubled. Not because this house was special, but because they believed someone in our blood could listen."
"Listen to what?" I asked quietly.
Uncle Matt looked toward the open window.
The afternoon light slipped through it, touching the floor in soft gold.
"To the land," he said. "To dreams. To warnings."
A chill moved down my spine.
Outside, the chickens clucked near the fence.
The children continued eating, unaware of the weight that had settled around the adults.
Mom changed the subject after that.
Too quickly.
Too deliberately.
But the words had already found a place inside me.
- Writer
