Lost Lighte

Chapter 1 (part 1)

The crunch of leaves was muffled under tanned leather boots as Tilya Woodrow walked along the flattened path between the rows of corn in her crop farm. The late summer harvest had been kind this year, yielding a few dozen more stalks than the previous two years combined. Tilya allowed herself this moment of pride and acknowledgement of how quickly her farming skills had improved since then.

Gripping her wicker basket full of corn by the crook of her elbow, Tilya expertly snapped the last ear of corn from its stalk and placed it on top of the others.

Among the eight separate sections of Tilya’s farm, corn was best harvested and sold in August -- the other seven sections cultivated their own respective produce, each sold at different times of the year. This was the singular source of her family’s income.

Come tomorrow, Tilya would be standing at the marketplace at the village center with a shabby-looking wagon full of gleaming corn, holding a wooden sign with the words “3 Coppers” hastily written across it in charcoal.

Reese had argued that it wasn’t nearly enough for Tilya’s quality goods, and it had been more difficult than she expected to explain to the little boy that any more would not bring business, and any less would render her efforts pointless. When you were the sole bread-winner of your family, you had to make decisions-- even if it meant selling your goods for less than they were worth.

Tilya set the basket down and made quick work of fixing the bun atop her head. Silky black hair tumbled just past her hips, shining iridescent in the afternoon sun, and was twisted back up into its previous style.

She tried not to cringe as she bent down to pick the basket back up and noticed the front of her pale blue dress was heavily stained from fertilizer and soil.

Last month’s harvest did not bring much profit, and Tilya prioritized Reese’s meals over her own. As long as it didn’t affect her work, she didn’t mind sacrificing a few meals for the sake of her little brother. Consequently, most of her clothing now fit one-size-too-big. This dress, which typically stopped just above her ankles, now nearly grazed the ground. The thick blue straps struggled to stay on top of pale, freckled shoulders.

As Tilya walked back to her family’s cabin, the raucous melody of a badly-tuned instrument sounded through its thin walls. She took a grounding breath and put on a saccharine smile before walking inside.

The cabin may have appeared small on the outside, but it was even more cramped within. Tilya stepped into a space barely large enough to be called a living room-- only big enough to accommodate the worn-down bench with a sack of hay lying on top to act as a cushion, and the small wooden table that sat beside it in the corner. On the left side of the cabin, tucked in a corner, was a small circular table they used for eating, and across from that, a space for a tiny kitchen. A wooden door between the two lead to the only bedroom.

“Reese!” Tilya sang over the grating noise the little boy must have deemed as music. She strode a few steps to the dining table and set the basket of corn onto it. A dozen more littered the kitchen and dining space, ready to be prepared for tomorrow. The wagon would surely be heavy this month.

The noise had stopped as Reese popped his head out from behind two baskets, sitting on the floor of the kitchen. The eight year old gave her a charming smile and clumsily stood up, leaving the offending instrument where he had sat as he approached her.

“I see you’re getting good use out of that lute Hadley gave you.” Tilya spoke, her slender fingers ruffling his shaggy brown hair. Reese looked towards the floor shyly, then into his sister’s turquoise eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper as he said, “He told me I would get better if I practiced.”

Tilya chuckled softly and bent down to kiss him on the forehead. “I know, big guy. Say, why don’t you help me shuck the corn tonight? I would really help me out.” She stepped back outside and returned quickly carrying a small compost bin.

Reese’s nose crinkled in disgust and he fought the urge to peek inside the bin. “If it will get this out of here faster, then, of course.”

Tilya stifled a laugh and handed him an ear of corn. “Be sure to keep the silks. I promised Madam Althea I would give her as much as I could salvage.”

“Why do you talk to her anyway?” the boy inquired. “I heard she is really strange.” He threw husk after husk in the compost bin, setting aside the silks in a glass jar Tilya had placed on the table.

“Althea is not strange, Reese.” Tilya replied, peeking at him from the corner of her eye. “She’s kind, she doesn’t judge so easily, and she’s the reason Lydia Black didn’t die last week from that sickness that’s been going around. Perhaps it would be best to get to know someone before you assume their character.”

The sound of a door opening sliced through the awkward silence that had fallen between them, and Tilya looked back to see a disgruntled man walk into the cabin and sit on the living room bench. His short, greying hair was in disarray. The grey against the brown always reminded Tilya of the wood and ash in their fire pit outside. He had the beard to match. His dingy clothes hung in an unflattering shape on his body; too big yet too small all at once.

“Welcome home, father.” Tilya said from over her shoulder. He didn’t respond, but kicked off his boots and ran a calloused hand through his hair. Tilya went back to shucking.

Unexpectedly, a second man entered the home wearing a well-tailored grey suit accented with a golden pocket watch, its chain hanging in a graceful slope from one of its buttons. His quaffed honey-blonde hair was neatly trimmed and the evidence of having lived many decades did not detract from his handsome features.

“You’ll have better luck next time, Samuel.” the man said, shutting the door gently behind him. “Oh, afternoon Tilly. Reese.” He gave the pair a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bronson.” Reese replied sweetly. “Look at how much corn we’ve got this month!” He gestured proudly to the numerous baskets of corn covering the kitchen and dining room floor. Mr. Bronson chuckled and leaned against the wall beside the door in the living room. “Very nice, my boy. Your sister has quite the talent.”

Tilya smiled to herself and brought over a new basket for her and Reese to work on.

“Homer wouldn’t recognize skill if it showed up on his doorstep with the king's guard.” Samuel huffed, leaning back on the bench and thrumming his fingers against his thigh. This would be his third attempt this week at finding work, all of them ending in failure. Soon he wouldn’t have any choice but to seek employment down by the port, miles away from their home by foot. They didn’t own any horses to travel with.

“If that damned Baron Richardson wasn’t such an asshead I wouldn’t be in this position.”

Tilya loosed a sigh. She had heard this stories many times before.

Before her father’s sudden unemployment, he had been an incredibly skilled blacksmith working at a locally renowned forge in a neighboring village. He was paid well and their family had never had to worry about food scarcity or tattered clothing.

One day, a man had come to buy one of his ready-made swords. Of course, her father had not known the man’s purpose for buying it. That was of no concern to a blacksmith.

It wasn’t until Baron Richardson ordered Samuel to be stripped of his position, and for all other smiths deny him employment, that her father had learned the sword he had sold was used in an assassination attempt on the Baron.

“Well, it’s not like he didn’t deserve it.” Mr. Bronson spoke, fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch. “The man is like a cockroach with a king’s ego. He never should have raised taxes so high. The villagers are barely surviving as it is.”

“I’m running out of options, Hector.” Samuel moaned. Tilya cringed at the hopelessness in his voice. She glanced at Reese, who held a stone-cold expression. She swore she felt her heart break a bit.

“I’ll see what strings I can pull.” Hector replied.

Three years. It had been three years since her father lost his job. Three years since they had to relocate from their comfortable home at the heart of their village to a cramped cabin on the outskirts of it. Three years since Tilya had taken on the responsibility of providing for her family. It took a few months for her to discover an efficient means of making money, and that was when she learned of her affinity for farming. From that point on, it had been much easier to earn an income, though, not by much.

Despite herself, Tilya made a silent wish to the Maker that Mr. Bronson could help her father find work.