Between Lines

Where We Start

In the heart of this quaint little town, nature's bounty unfolds in a magnificent display. The land, ever-generous, bestows its blessings upon the inhabitants, ensuring their sustenance and prosperity. The farmlands, meticulously tended to, thrive with an abundance of crops, each seed sown with care and nurtured to fruition. The fertile and yielding soil offers a cornucopia of harvests, a testament to the toil and dedication of the hardworking farmers. As one gazes upon the landscape, a vast expanse of lush grassland stretches out before them, a verdant carpet that seems to go on endlessly. The grass, vibrant and velvety, dances in the gentle breeze, whispering secrets to the wind. It is a sight that evokes a sense of awe and wonder, a reminder of the beauty that nature can bestow upon even the humblest of places. In every corner of this serene town, flowers bloom in a riot of colours, their petals unfurling like delicate works of art. They adorn the gardens, the streets, and the windowsills, casting a spell of enchantment upon all who see them. Their sweet and intoxicating fragrance perfumes the air, infusing it with a sense of joy and serenity. And then there are the rivers, pristine and pure, their crystal-clear waters meandering through the landscape like shimmering ribbons. The ethereal beauty of its surroundings was enough to make us momentarily forget the arduous journey we had recently endured, as if it never actually happened.

Obviously, this town wasn't always as heavenly as it is now, and how it was isn't a distant memory at all. Not a single blade of grass dared to sprout from the hardened earth, as if nature itself had abandoned this forsaken place. The air hung heavy with a sense of despair; when the sun is up, it is to burn every crop of any sort on the ground to a rotten state, and when it rains, it rains heavily to wash everything away, as if the very essence of growth and vitality had been snuffed out. Hunger was knocking on each and every single one of the houses, and the balance of survival was hanging by a thin thread. Seeing neighbours and friends lose their lives to hunger during the struggle to find a new home or being the day's dish to the hungry and aggressively hunger-driven wild life forced us to face the wrath of God. One may wonder how foolish we are to stay back and fight for our home, but we are still here, standing against all odds.

In the quaint village of St. Mary's, nestled in a humble church. Its weathered walls echoed with the wisdom of Father Pete, a man of unwavering faith and a beacon of hope for the townsfolk who were growing less and less in number every Sunday. With his silver hair and gentle eyes, he possessed a unique ability to impart profound teachings to his congregation. He used to teach us about the situation being the devil's claw ploughing into our faith to weaken us. He used to say it was a spiritual war. He would stand at the pulpit, his voice resonating with a mixture of authority and compassion. He would recount tales of temptation and struggle, reminding his congregation that the devil was always lurking in the depths of our souls. We could not deny the overwhelming sensation that the universe itself conspired against our every desire. It did feel like it, with everything working against our will. Father Pete's words resonated through the air like ethereal beacons of hope, casting their radiant glow upon our weary souls. With each syllable that escaped his lips, our hearts were nourished, not with physical sustenance, but with the intangible nourishment of faith.

The passage of time seemed interminable as we yearned for a divine intervention that might never come to fruition. Yet, undeterred by the unknown, we persevered, steadfast in our unwavering faith. With bated breath, we awaited the arrival of a saviour, clinging to the fragile hope that one day God's benevolence would grace our lives. With unwavering determination, we exerted every ounce of our strength and resolve to preserve our faith and fortify our bodies, eagerly anticipating the arrival of that fateful day.

And it was then, in those dreadful days, that I met the one person my heart beats for. The memory of our initial encounter remains etched in the deepest recesses of my consciousness, forever imprinted on the tapestry of my existence. We were in the church, and though it was early and the sun was supposed to be gentle, it was suffocating, as some souls were showing beads of sweat on their foreheads. The morning liturgy normally draws a large crowd, but that morning there were only ten of us, and Father Peter's voice carried further down the aisles of the church's two rows of pews than usual.

He stood out taller and seemed huge, though he was sitting, his commanding presence casting a shadow over those around him. His figure, lean and chiselled, bore witness to a lifetime of effort. The man possessed a complexion kissed by the sun, its golden hue radiating warmth and vitality. His raven-black hair cascaded down to his strong and sturdy shoulder blades, accentuating his broad and muscular physique. The memory of him remains etched in my mind, vivid and alive, as if it were only yesterday.

Every detail of his appearance is etched into the recesses of my memory, forever imprinted upon my consciousness. A vision of sartorial elegance. A pristine white shirt adorned his broad frame, accentuating the contours of his muscular physique. The shirt was meticulously tailored, showcasing his high-class presence. My lower lip was subtly biting as a heavy sigh came out of my mouth. At that moment, a wave of overwhelming emotions crashed upon me, engulfing my very being. I discreetly cleared my throat, a nervous habit that had no real purpose other than to steady my racing thoughts. Sitting up straight, I made a conscious effort to maintain my composure, though my heart fluttered with anticipation. My eyes couldn't help but steal glances at him. Until this very day, that Sunday was the most enjoyable church service I'd ever attended.

After the morning ceremony ended, I saw Father Pete approach him, and I was already walking along with my mother, who was holding my younger brother by his left hand, as we approached her friend Isabella. We stayed behind for a while with Alice, her daughter, and my best friend.

I remember seeing him walk out of the church, and the attention he drew to himself was extraordinary, and he didn't even care. He is so tall that everyone he walks by seems short, as if he demands attention, whether he likes it or not. I looked in his direction and looked back at Alice, who was biting her lower lip in complete awe. I wasn't the only one feeling something for him.

"I don't know what type of man would come to this God-forsaken place," my mom voiced her thought to Isabella, who seemed very tired.

"I don't know who, but I have this good feeling about him," Isabella smiled mischievously to my mother, who secretly gasped at her with a slight blush on her cheeks. "I have to go now anyway," she added.

"Me too; I'm sure my husband will be at home." My mom held Henery up in her arms and smiled at Isabella sadly. "Are you sure you have to do that?" she asked her. They were talking about Isabella's family fleeing the town, and it's kind of sad since their family was one of the three founders of the town, as mine was.

"It's really not up to me," she said, squinting her eyes as she answered, and I would even dare say she seemed sad as the words came out of her lips. They started walking away, and I looked in my mother's direction, who seemed a bit lost in her mind.

If the days weren't so miserable, we would have taken the horse-drawn carriage home, but luxury seemed to befall us because every horse in our town was starving to death or was already dying. We started walking home, and the air was filled with the murmurs of passersby, their voices carrying snippets of conversation in the gentle breeze. Intrigued, I strained my ears to catch the words that danced on their lips.

"I wonder if he is married," a woman points out openly, and they giggle as they walk right past us.

"He's going to stay at Father Pete's house," another voice murmured loudly, tinged with a hint of curiosity.

"But who is he, really? No one seemed to know about him or where he fell from." Everyone seemed intrigued by the strange man in our town.

"Oh, Mother, be kind,” I mocked her playfully. “Our horses wouldn't like the rumours either." I smiled, making my point, and she chuckled. But we quickened our pace, and my mind was awash with questions regarding the stranger that took my heart and attention at first glance.

As the sun reached its zenith, casting a warm golden glow upon the world, my mother and I finally arrived at the sanctuary of our humble abode. The weariness of our journey clung to our bones, but it was the gnawing emptiness in our stomachs that demanded our immediate attention. The arduous trek had consumed the morning hours, leaving us famished and longing for sustenance. With a sigh of relief, we stepped over the threshold.

To our great surprise, Father Pete and my father were engaged in a conversation about the enigmatic stranger. The atmosphere was thick with intrigue as they exchanged hushed words, their faces etched with curiosity and concern. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the weight of their discussion. Little did we know that this encounter would mark the beginning of a journey that would forever alter the course of our lives.

With a gentle smile, my mother placed little Henery into my arms, his tiny fingers curling around my own. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and trust as she gestured towards the kitchen, silently urging me to take the lead. I took a step forward, cradling Henery close to my chest and feeling the warmth of his small body against mine. My mother followed closely behind, her presence providing comfort.

She headed straight to the drawer, and with a swift motion, she snatched a piece of dry bread, her fingers wrapping tightly around it as she split it in half. Dry bread was a luxury to be found in the town's reachiest households at the time. She placed some for me and Henery and took some off the plate with cups of water. As she made her way back towards the company of my father and Father Pete, I followed suit, sinking my teeth into a portion of the bread. Straining my ears, I struggled to decipher the words that were being spoken, but they remained elusive.

With a gentle and deliberate motion, I began to remove my shoe. I lifted Henery up in my embrace as I walked to leave him on the floor with some of the dry bread and water in a cup to soothe the bread for a chew and an easy swallow. I tiptoed to the wall and leaned against the worn wooden wall to get a clear understanding of their conversation.

"But you don't know him," I heard my father say. He seemed a little concerned about Father Pete. My mother was serving bread for both of them as I was eavesdropping from the kitchen. Since my family is one of the three founders of this small town, he is supposed to be informed about everything that goes on in our town, and I am the one sharing information with my friends regarding what I heard about.

"I'm hardly worried about it," Father Pete said. "It's someone or the hunger, anyhow," he mentioned with his weak voice, and they both shared a laugh. "But he mentioned something interesting," he said, going on with the conversation. "This plague of hunger is not only here but in other towns distant from ours as well.” There was a shared sense of silence between them, and I deepened my furrow as I tried to catch the details of what they were talking about.

"Everywhere?" I suddenly heard my mother's voice coming in muffled behind the wall that separates us from them, and her worry was palpable.

"Perhaps he is fleeing and in search of fertile land," my father suggested.

"He said he wanted to help. Try his way on the church’s land and see what he can do. I say we have nothing to lose trying something he may have in mind," Father Pete said.

"But why this town?" My mother asked. "I mean, if there are other towns suffering from the same faith," she cleared her question.

"Words from his lips," Father Pete continued. "This is the third town he reached with hope, since others seemed too scared to welcome strangers. It's bad to the point that even neighbors are harming each other in search of something to eat," Father Pete explained what he had heard from the stranger.

"My concern is that he seems a little too refined to work on a farm." I heard my father's voice explaining his concern.

"Well, this is a time of desperacy. We cannot lose something we don't have. There's the hunger, the wild life, or we turn on each other like the stories from other towns." Father Pete placed the ultimatum, and the whole house settled in silence for a while. I slowly lifted my blue dress off the ground and started to sneak out of the house through the back door while at the same time listening to their conversation.

"I guess we have nothing to lose in that case," my father's voice poured into my ears, receding farther and farther away as I made my way out of the house, extra careful not to make the wooden floor creek as I stepped on it. I slowly opened the door, and once I was out, I closed it carefully behind me, and I raced to the woods and straight to the river bank, where my friends would be waiting for me. I perfectly recall how powerful I felt sharing the information with my friends regarding his stay.

Word quickly spread throughout the town like wildfire on a gusty summer's eve. Whispers filled the air, carried on the lips of curious townsfolk, as they gathered in small clusters on street corners and in cosy taverns. Hadad's name danced on their tongues with a newfound fervour; it was as if it were a spell. Parents with unmarried daughters would come seeking marriage advice with Father Pete, technically asking if Hadad was available; they were looking for men who were strong, caring, hardworking individuals who could be family people. I, one too many times, witnessed Faher Pete brushing their interest with a simple smile.

As if a divine intervention had occurred, the church's land was miraculously transformed under his skilled touch and profound understanding of farming. In our small town, the church's land held special significance. It was the very first plot of land to yield a bountiful harvest, providing sustenance for the townsfolk. Naturally, it became the designated place for communal cooking, where the delectable aromas of hearty meals wafted through the air, tantalising the senses of all who passed by.

As the daughter of one of the esteemed founders of our town, along with my mother, a great responsibility fell upon our shoulders. It was my responsibility to see to it that the locals were well fed and that the nourishing meals they received satisfied their hunger. Moreover, my mother was entrusted with the task of guiding the young females of our community, assigning them to the cooking tasks, and instilling in them the values of communal service, as I helped serve those who needed it most.

With each passing day, I embraced my role with unwavering dedication. Rising with the sun, I would venture into the church's kitchen, a bustling hub of activity where pots and pans clanged in harmonious rhythm. The tantalising scents of simmering stews and freshly baked bread create an atmosphere of warmth and comfort. Young girls, eager to learn the secrets of the culinary arts, would gather around my mother, their eyes wide with anticipation. I would see her patiently guide them through the intricacies of preparing meals, sharing the wisdom passed down through generations, but with what we had during those times.

We would work together; we would chop, stir, and season what we got from the land, transforming potetos into stews or soups and barley and rye into breads, and that brought joy to the hearts and bellies of our townsfolk. The church's land became a place of unity and camaraderie, where the clatter of cooking utensils mingled with laughter and conversation. It was here that friendships blossomed as we toiled side by side, our shared purpose binding us together. We started to welcome strangers into our town, and some who had left started coming back. My demeanour grew grave, and my skills were honed to perfection, for I knew that success in this endeavour was of the utmost importance, mostly to lure Hadad closer to me.

I had never been to my family farm for anything in my life before, but I started going to the church's farm to speak with him about the crop and what he was doing, or I would take lunch to him to start a conversation. Anything that would help me get close to him, and in a few days he started noticing me, and he also seemed to find a way to communicate with me. It was clear that we both couldn't deny the pull between us.

***

If I were to journey back to the earliest memories of pure happiness, my mind would undoubtedly transport me to the cherished moments I shared with Hadad alone. After six long months filled with countless conversations and our hearts entangled in a delicate dance of anticipation, we found ourselves caught in a perplexing predicament. Each passing day seemed to present a new challenge as we desperately sought to create a plausible excuse to see one another. The yearning in our souls grew stronger with every passing moment, urging us to bridge the physical distance that separated us.

Hadad had already started working on my parents' land, using his magical touch to bring the dead back to life. That day, he had begun to toil on the land, his strong hands delving into the soil with purpose. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. I admired his dedication and the way he poured his heart into every task. I was supposed to take his lunch to offer a brief respite from the arduous labour that consumed his days. However, as I made my way towards the fields, a basket of food in hand and my heart brimming with anticipation, my mother's voice echoed through the house, calling me to her side. With a heavy heart, I abandoned my mission and made my way to the kitchen, where my mother awaited. Her face wore a look of urgency, and her eyes were filled with a mixture of suppressed anger and exhaustion.

"There are many females who would love to do that; you're more valuable here," she said, arching her forehead in my direction. I swallowed my disappointment and embraced the role that had been bestowed upon me.

The searing disappointment etched itself into the depths of my being, leaving an indelible mark on my soul. It was a tempestuous turmoil that I knew I must conceal, for it was not meant to be laid bare for all to witness. So, between the struggle to hide my anger and avoid my mother's gaze upon me, I was lost in a world of murmurs and rustling sounds. My hands moved aggressively through the cupboards and drawers, seeking the necessary ingredients to bring my culinary vision to life. The air was heavy with nervousness as I embarked on the task of crafting the perfect dough, destined to be transformed into a loaf of freshly baked bread.

The room fell silent as my mother's voice pierced through the air. Her words hung heavy, like a dark cloud threatening to unleash a storm. "You better straighten your attitude or I will, young lady," she scolded, her eyes narrowing with a mix of disappointment and concern. I could feel the weight of her words pressing against my chest.

"I am working," I said. As I responded to her, a sense of unease settled within me, compelling me to keep my voice low. I made a conscious effort to avert my gaze, avoiding any direct eye contact with her.

With a voice strained and clenched, she uttered, "You get over here," her words seeping through gritted teeth. In a swift motion, her hand wrapped tightly around my forearm, exerting an unyielding force that propelled me towards the corner.

"Mother!" I called out for her. I attempted to wrench my arm free from her unyielding grasp. "It hurts," I pleaded.

"Shut it!" she said. Her voice is audible just for both of us, but it’s clear it’s tinted with the secret scream suppressed underneath. "Do you think you are right to act the way you are?" she said as she looked back, checking that we were alone. "You think I haven’t seen what you have been trying to do?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at her. "What did I do wrong, mother?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of confusion and sorrow as I put a great deal of effort together to halt my anger or shock from showing. My heart felt heavy with the weight of her disappointment. Her gaze was strict, her expression unread, and I mustered every ounce of strength within me, determined to conceal the raging storm of frustration and shock that threatened to consume me. "Am I not doing as I am told?" With a concerted effort, I carefully crafted my words, ensuring that no trace of my inner turmoil would betray me.

Her voice, filled with a mix of concern and disappointment, reached my ears. "Oh, child," she uttered, her head swaying gently from side to side, a silent plea for me to abandon my deceitful ways. Her green, tired eyes stared wide at me. "We don’t know who that man is," she barked in a whisper. "And you cannot act like any other female in our town," she whispered, and my attitude fluttered away just like that. She looked down at her expensive blue gown with the long sleeve that was rolled up her arm, which was adorned in a way that clearly showcased our family status even at that time of stress in a modest manner, as the bodice held her upper body for a great display. Her natural golden hair braid was a mess, betraying her effort to conceal her weakness and say she was struggling with the new way of living. "You cannot be with him." Her voice poured into my ears, clear and final.

In that fleeting instant, time seemed to stand still as our gazes locked. The intensity of the moment was palpable, as if the world around us had faded into insignificance. My heart, once buoyant with hope, now plummeted within my chest, weighed down by shock and worry. "I..." I stammered, my voice barely a whisper, my lips trembling, but before I mustered the courage to utter a word, she abruptly struck her left thigh with a resounding smack, making a buffing sound as her hand smacked on her dress, causing me to startle and let out an involuntary yelp.

"I don't want to hear it," she muttered, her voice laced with frustration. She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the weight of the day's troubles bearing down on her. With a determined stride, she turned away and made her way towards the table that stood proudly in the heart of the kitchen. With a sudden burst of emotion, she declared, "This conversation never happened and never will." Her voice quivered with a mix of determination and sadness as she reached for a nearby bowl, her fingers delicately wrapping around its smooth surface.

I found myself whispering softly, almost as if the words were meant for my ears alone. "It's barely a conversation," I murmured, my voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.

"I said!" With a voice that carried a hint of restrained anger, she declared, "We are done!" she uttered in the controlled bark of a scold. "Get back to work," she commanded, her voice cutting through my chest all the way to my heart. In that instant, a torrent of tears cascaded down my cheeks, as if the heavens themselves had opened up and unleashed a downpour upon my sorrowful soul. As the words were forcefully stifled within me, I relinquished them to the tears that welled up in my eyes. The weight of hopelessness settled upon my shoulders, for it seemed as though there was no glimmer of possibility left to sway my family's steadfast convictions if I wasn't able to do it with my mother, who was easy for me to convince under other circumstances.

Throughout the rest of the day, I felt my mother's gaze sneaking a glimpse in my direction; she didn't want to show affection towards me in fear I might confess to her the profound affection that resided within my heart for Hadad. I could sense the unspoken tension between us—a delicate dance of emotions that neither of us dared disrupt. I found myself lost in a whirlwind of emotions. The weight of my unspoken love for Hadad pressed upon my heart, threatening to burst forth like a dammed river. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to confess to my mother, to lay bare the depths of my desires.

Hadad, the strange man—no one seemed to know his origins or anything about his past. He was an enigma, a puzzle waiting to be solved. Towering and built for a fight, the man had an air of mystery that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His winter grey eyes, piercing eyes, held secrets that no one could decipher or care to try. His presence alone brings abundance to a land. Everything about him feels blessed and safe; what more should one need?

The weight of my family's social standing burdened me heavily, casting a shadow over my heart. It was a truth I had long resented, but it was my mother's reaction that morning that solidified the harsh reality I was meant to face. It served as an unwelcome proclamation that I would never be permitted to be with him.

What troubled my heart more was the unfair advantage that other young women seemed to possess. It pained me to witness how effortlessly they get the unwavering support of their doting parents. Oh, how I despised the way fate seemed to favour these fortunate females. They were blessed with opportunities that were denied to me; their path to love was paved with the benevolent guidance of their families. Knowing that the lack of such parental support would harm my chances of getting along with him was a bitter reality to accept.

I have witnessed countless conversations between Father Pete and fathers or mothers, checking if he was available or pointing out that one of their daughters is good for a man like Hadad, a man with a blessed divine touch that a dying town needed at that time.

The weight of sadness settled upon me, casting a shadow over my heart. It was a bitter cold that seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. This was unlike any other day I had experienced, where warmth and joy were my constant companions.

In the depths of my heart, I held a secret—a truth that whispered softly in the recesses of my mind. I knew he felt the same way I felt for him, but I couldn't help but be jealous of other females with the support of their families. Oh, how jealousy twisted and turned within me, like a serpent coiled tightly around my soul. It slithered through my thoughts, poisoning my every perception. Whenever I caught a glimpse of him conversing with other females, a pang of unease would seize my heart, squeezing it mercilessly. But that day, I felt different; I was lost and scared, as if I had lost him.

Why do I feel this way when I know he also looked for reasons to see me? He would come to the kitchen, asking for water or anything, but in the bustling kitchen, amidst a sea of females, he would approach me. On the winding roads, where chance encounters were not uncommon and I was never alone, he would call out my name, his voice carrying a warmth that was reserved solely for me, just to greet me. Even in the most crowded of spaces, I could feel his gaze unwavering and fixed upon me, as if I held a captivating allure that he simply could not resist. If I say he also has feelings for me, I cannot make it up. However, his confession remained elusive, leaving me in a state of perpetual longing. It seemed as though I was caught in a delicate dance of expectation, forever hoping for a revelation that might never come.