The Moon

Prologue-2

Sarah walks over to him and picks them up. “You don’t put them on the floor, silly, look.” She holds up the girl doll and fixes her dress, then picks up the boy doll and makes them hold hands and dance. “See, that’s how you play with dolls.” She holds them back out to the boy.

The boy just stares at her. Before she can react, he snatches the dolls from her hands and throws them across the room. Crossing his arms, he shrinks himself into the corner. Sarah looks at him, eyebrows furrowed and then stomps over to pick them up. She hugs the dolls to her chest, looking back at him, and grits her teeth. He begins to whimper. Gloria walks up to the kitchen door, stopping, and watches them. Sarah loosens her jaw, biting her lips, and holds a doll in each hand. Sighing, she walks over to him.

Sarah sits on her knees in front of him and holds the dolls. “They remind you of your parents, don’t they? It’s ok, you can talk to me.” She walks on her knees towards him, hands outstretched.

The boy looks at her. Eyes filling with tears, he nods. Before Sarah can move, he throws himself at her. He hugs her, moving his head to her lap, and sobs. She strokes his head like her mother always does when she’s sad. The boy grabs at her skirts. Clinging to the fabric, he cries into the crease of her lap. Sarah’s fingers glide through his curls over and over. She sings a lullaby her father sings to her when she’s sad or ill.

Taking in a deep breath, she looks down at him. “The songbird sings to the sky as the sea sings to the shore.” Her singing turns to humming as she brushes his hair away from his face and looks down at him. “What is your name?”

The boy looks up at her. They lock eyes. He is quiet for a long moment, staring up at her, and then looks at the floor. He sniffles, wiping his nose with his hand, but she doesn’t know if the fabric he had over it was his sleeve or her dress.

The boy sighs, sniffling again. “Peter.”

Sarah smiles at him, lifting his head, and holds him by his shoulders. “How old are you, Peter?” She wipes his tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, still smiling at him.

Peter looks her in the eyes, wiping his nose on his hand and sniffs. “Seven.” He wipes his nose one more time with the back of his hand and sits back. “How old are you?” He pulls at his dirty sleeves.

Sarah puts her left hand to her chest, sitting with her legs to her right. “I am seven too!” She giggles, and their faces light up. “Oh!” She puts a finger in the air, letting a smile creep its way across her face. “Peter, do you know how to read?”

Peter shakes his head. “I never learned. We didn’t have books.”

Sarah’s smile falters for a second but returns. “Wait here.” Sarah gets up.

Gloria moves out of the way just in time. Sarah runs through the doorway, holding the doorframe, and slingshots herself into the family room. Minutes later, she returns, hugging a small red rectangle. Gloria moves back to the doorframe, watching in silence.

Sarah kneels next to Peter, smile remaining. “Now you can learn.” She holds out the small leather-bound book to him.

Peter takes it, opening to the title page, and then looks up at her. “What is it?”

Sarah giggles. “It’s my favorite T’lucco tale. It’s about a red-headed princess who is held captive by an evil king but is saved by a dragon who turns into a prince at the end.” They smile at each other. “Peter, will you be my friend?” She pauses, looking at the book. “I’ll teach you to read, too, if you’d like.”

Peter sniffs, grinning, and nods. “I’d like that.” He picks up the dolls, handing them to her, and holds the book to his chest.

Gloria enters the kitchen, walking to the washbasin. She wipes a tear from her cheek before acting as if she is cleaning the counters.

Eight Years Later

Luke leads Peter to his and Gloria’s bedroom. Sarah abandons her chores in the family room to follow them. She stops in the doorway, putting her hands on either side of the frame. Peering from side to side, she tries to see what her father is after. The sun shines in through the windows. Dust dances in the rays. Peter and her father stop just in front of the old trunk at the foot of her parent’s bed.

Luke sighs, grinning, and looks over his shoulder at Peter. “Alright, Peter, today is a big day. You’re fifteen.” Crossing his arms, he faces Peter, standing tall. “It is time you learn to fight for real.” He swipes his hands through the air to either side, shaking his head. “No more of that wooden sword mess you and Sarah do.” He kneels in front of a large mahogany trunk.

Bubbly gold plating surrounds all four corners of the lid, the top of the trunk, and the bottom. Luke takes a key from his pocket. It glints as he puts it in the golden lock holding the matching flap latch over the metal loop. The lock thuds against the floor.

Peter watches, looking across the room at Sarah. Her eyes haven’t left her father since she stopped in the doorway. Peter grins. He expected no less.

Luke lifts the creaking lid, and the latch clanks. “These were my father’s and his father’s and so on.” He looks back and up at Peter. “They’re the most valuable and the only heirlooms I own besides Sarah’s books.” He watches Peter peer into the trunk.

Sarah inches her way into the room. She stands next to Peter, peering past her father’s shoulder, and looks from one side of the trunk to the other. Not much calls her attention other than the small collection of books she’s not allowed to read and some objects wrapped in leather.

Luke pulls out the objects wrapped in thin leather. He puts them on the edge of the bed, one by one. Taking the longest of the objects, he unwraps the light leather sheet to a dark, stiff leather sheath. The leather straps loosen at the top, and he opens the flap of the sheath, pulling out a long steel blade. Gold swirls slink their way in and around the silver handle from the flat, circular pummel to the gold handguard. Etched into the blade is a phrase. ‘A man’s sword is only as strong as his heart.’ More swirls surround it halfway down where they come to a joined point.

Sarah draws in her breath. She watches her father hand the blade to Peter. She watches him hold it in both hands. He swings it, cutting through the air in slow motion. Sarah bites her tongue. Why does he get such a special gift? Where is her sword? She studies the other leather covered objects on the bed. Only one is close to the length of the sword Peter holds. Is it hers? She watches Peter hand the sword back to her father. He turns to her, grinning from ear to ear. She tries to return the sentiment but is a bit more preoccupied with her father unwrapping the other swords. Anticipation pushes its way up, rising with every small movement of her father’s hands on the leather. Once the last fold of the leather flap falls on the mattress, Sarah lets out the breath she didn’t realize she has been holding, and her shoulders drop. The other sword is only a sparring sword, the blade tinged and dinted with dulled edges. Her heart drops to her stomach. She glances at Peter looking at the two swords. His grin hasn’t moved. Alright, so the two swords are Peter’s. Maybe the other smaller object is for her.

Peter points to the smaller, mounded object. “What’s that?” He looks Luke in the eyes.

Luke smirks, unwrapping it. Sarah’s hopes rise as her father takes the leather sheet from a stack of sheathed daggers. He spreads them out on the bed. Each individual sheath has a loop and thin belts for strapping to different parts of the body.

Peter shrugs his lips, grin returning. He picks one up, turning it over, and pops it from the sheath. The small double-edged bladed twirls over his finger. He puts too much pressure. The point pricks through his skin. He yelps for a second, putting his fingertip in his mouth and then pulls it out with a smack.

Sarah can’t help but smirk at his misfortune, but her smirk fades. She shouldn’t feel that way. He didn’t ask to have something so precious just handed to him. Maybe if she proves herself, her father will get her something similar.

Sarah moves closer to Peter and looks at her father. “Father, why haven’t you told me about these?” She takes the dagger from Peter, looking it over, and puts her finger on the sharp tip.

Peter sniggers. “Careful, it’s sharp.” He cuts his eyes at her, grinning.

Sarah offers a side glare with matching smirk. “I’m not dumb enough to poke myself with it.”

Peter nudges her with his elbow. Sarah sticks out her tongue, giving him back the dagger.

Luke clears his throat.

The two of them look forward in unison.

Luke stands tall, bowing his chest with a long sigh as he looks down at Sarah. “Because, dear, you’re a young lady.” He sets his hands on her shoulders. “When you married, I was going to give them to your son, seeing as you don’t have a brother.” He puts his left hand on Peter’s shoulder, patting and rubbing it. “But with Peter here, I thought it best he has them.” Luke takes the dagger from Peter, putting it back in its sheathe.

Sarah looks her father in the eyes, hopefulness sending her heartbeat into a frenzy. “Well then, am I at least to learn, too? With Peter?” She puts her hands in front of her and stares at her father, eyebrows rising, and a small grin spreading across her face.

Luke sighs, putting his hand on the nape of his neck, eyes falling to the floor.“No, daughter.” He turns his eyes up at her, eyebrows raised. “You are to keep learning how to knit, sew, cook, and keep house. It’s enough I let you wear men’s clothes, taught you to hunt, and shown you how to use a bow, but fighting...” He shakes his head. “Fighting is different.” He walks over to her, brushing her cheek with the back of his calloused fingers. “I don’t want my little girl getting hurt.” He leans down, kissing her forehead, then puts a stray hair behind her ear. “Besides, you need to act more like a lady and less like a boy. How else will we find you a proper husband by the time you’re eighteen? It won’t be too much longer until you both will be participating in The Mounding.” He glances at Peter and then at Sarah. “I hope you both find a suitable love when that day comes.” He puts his rough hands on her cheeks and smiles.

Sarah mumbles at the floor, “If I participate.” She sucks her teeth.

Luke sighs once more.

Sarah looks up, and he rubs her cheeks with his thumbs, leaning down, and kisses her forehead again. She just gives him a fleeting tight-lipped grin before letting her frown find its way back as she looks at the floor. She’s not a cow for sale. The Mounding is an archaic ceremony for a village’s couples to flaunt their so-called love in front of everyone while fathers try to wed off their single daughters and single men suss out a potential house slave. Only on occasion does one actually find love. Or so she’s gathered from the few women who pass by their cottage on the way to another village. The northern outskirts of Careem are quite quiet.