"Mama, is father there with you?" I whimper from beneath her, digging my small fingers into the coarse fabric.
Damp air, thick with blood, batters my hair. A faint rumble of horse harnesses cuts through the ground beneath my feet. Mother, her hands trembling, pulls me by the arm. She doesn't look at me, but I know she's afraid. Her wide eyes, like glass beads, stare lifelessly, and her face, usually warm as Son's own image, now glows pale. Then, pulling her headscarf tighter to her neck, she says:
"It's battle, my daughter. Your father is fighting for us, for our kin. Go, find some royal herb... over there, by the river. You know it, don't you?"
"Mhm..."
A faint smile crosses her face, weighed down by thoughts far from mine. She lets go of my little hand and fixes her gaze on the impenetrable forest.
Slowly I crouch and stroke the ground. I press my ear to it, trying to hear the sound of battle.
Is father fighting there, and is it dangerous?
The finches are silent, and only the stream murmurs. The soil is dry, folding into deep creases around every blade of grass. I hear nothing and rise quickly, as if scalded. With unsteady steps I run toward the river. Its restless current washes the stones in the worn-out trough. Mother had bought it from the Chakarar clan in the town of Pliska. They gave it to us as alms, though father was firm about it. He taught me seriously once, when he told me the story: "Little soul, whatever someone gives you freely, return to them from your heart whatever is dearest to you."
With effort I drag the wooden trough toward myself, its rough surface scraping my fingers. It was carved long ago, in seasons past. That's what Bayan told me, the eldest son of the wealthy clan. He whispered in my ear that every herb placed in it gains irreplaceable energy and power.
Suddenly a splinter pierces my thumb, pulling me instantly from my thoughts.
I look at my hand closely, childlike. It still smells of the ointment with lady's herb we mixed the night before, under the full moon of Son. But now I need royal herb, growing by the fastest part of the river. Warmed and loved by the sun's rays. Ahaaa! There it is, at the edge of my sight.
Excited, I run to it barefoot. I feel the morning dew on my skin, and the cracks in the earth thirstily drink every escaping tear. I gaze at the little blades and the gentle dance of the wind with the droplets. Together, in symphony, they gather and part. A true whole in their essence, one that cannot be so easily divided.
A sharp sound cuts through the air above me, pressing me to the ground. I don't move, frozen, watching the dance stop. I hide within myself, retreating into my own heart. Darkness engulfs me and fills the place with smoke.
I breathe, I exhale.
I open my eyes abruptly, and the river has turned the color of wine. I sit paralyzed, and I make no sound.
