Coracle, Chapter 4 (Patreon)

In which our headstrong narrator does not sneak around her parents because she knows what's best.  

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CHAPTER FOUR

MARDA DOES NOT GET THE ADVICE SHE HOPED FOR

Marda and her father ate the cake, and even managed dinner, and after that it was time for chores. But even while working, Marda thought about the dandelion letter, and she couldn’t help but notice that the chicken coop needed a new roof, or how Patric’s blanket was getting too short for his bed, or that Patches ate a lot of hay when the grass was too short for the family to pasture him. She tucked in her brother with Scout Cody perched on the foot of his bed—“To watch for predators and void monsters!” her brother exclaimed with bloodthirsty glee—and turned down all the lamps in the house. Father was already asleep. Susen was getting there, holding her Hearthkeeper doll und her arm.

Mama, though, was awake, fluffing her pillows. She was such a comfortable and comforting sight, in her pretty long nightgown and quilted robe, with her hair in one long braid, that Marda said, “Mama? Can we talk?”

“We can always talk,” Mama said, smiling.

“In bed, maybe? Like we used to?”

Mama turned back the comforter. “Go and bring your afghan, dear.”

Marda darted back to her room for her afghan and returned to find her mother already cuddled into bed. Wrapping her afghan around her shoulders, Marda joined her, resting her head on Mama’s chest.

“Fourteen seeming a little hard?” Mama asked, kindly.

“Maybe,” Marda said, hesitant. “Mama… that dandelion letter I got? The girl in it said her brother went to the Outremers. And that while he’s there, they pay his family.”

Her mother was petting her hair gently. “Mmm-hmm?”

“Should I go?”

Mama sat up on an elbow, her cheek in her palm. “Do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Marda said. “I never really thought about it. What I want to do when I’m older. I figured… I would stay here and help with the farm.”

“You could,” Mama said. “You already help me a lot.”

“I don’t know how much they pay, but maybe it would be enough for you to hire a boy to help you,” Marda said. And then, studying her mother’s face. “Do you know how much they pay? You do, don’t you.”

“I do, yes,” Mama said. “When I was Susen’s age, I thought it would be very romantic to sail off in a coracle and become an Outremer.”

Marda gasped. “You wanted to be an Outremer? You, Mama?”

Mama laughed and tucked some of Marda’s hair behind her ear. “Is it really so hard to believe? I like to think I would have made an admirable Hearthkeeper. Or a dashing Muse. I do like singing.”

This image of her mother as some adventurer sailing the islands in search of broken cracks to heal and people to succor was so stunning that Marda couldn’t immediately collect her thoughts. Rallying, she said, “So you do know. Is it enough?”

Mama’s mouth firmed a little—almost a frown, but not quite. “Yes, dear. It would be a great help to us.”

Marda said, “Should I do it?”

“I don’t know,” Mama said. “Do you want to?”

Marda flopped onto her back. “Mama!”

Her mother chuckled. “Did you think I would tell you what to do? Marda, you’re fourteen. It’s time for you to start thinking about what you should do with your life. You’ve been taught the Savior’s Example, just like the rest of us. But all of us have to decide how best to do our duty to God, family, and our islands. If you decide that staying here and helping me with the farm is how you want to be useful, then we’ll make that work. But now you see there’s another choice, and that choice would also be acceptable.”

“I don’t know anything about the Outremers,” Marda said, staring at the ceiling.

“Oh, now, that’s not true.”

“I guess,” she allowed. “I know that they train to follow in the footsteps of the Savior’s original Companions. And that they travel the islands, healing them and their communities of the wounds caused by the Shattering. And that they have vigils, and patron saints, and talking animal friends, and that you get to their school on a coracle. And also,” she glanced at her mother, “that they pay their students’ families enough to really help them.”

“You see? You know quite a bit about them.”

“But I still don’t know what to do!”

“Maybe you should pray on it, then,” Mama said, smiling at her. “And sleep, too. Sleep makes a lot of things clearer.”

Marda said, slowly, “I don’t want to leave you and Father.”

Mama kissed her brow. “Dearling, all children leave their parents. Even if they stay in their houses and inherit their lands and work, they leave childhood and become adults, and are nevermore the children who needed you so.”

“That sounds terrible,” Marda muttered.

“It’s not.” Mama smiled. “It’s one of the best things in the world, to see your children grow into the adults who will continue long after you have passed on. Every stage has its joy. This right now, this is wonderful. The Marda of seven years ago wouldn’t have considered this choice, and been worried about how to make it.”

“The Marda of now wishes the choice were already made,” Marda confessed.

Mama drew her into her arms. “You know what I’m about to say, I imagine.”

Marda sighed. “That I have to get it over with.” And laughed. “You’ve said that forever, since I was old enough to remember.”

Mama grinned. “You’re a very good listener. When you’re paying attention.”

“Mama!”

Her mother laughed and kissed her cheek. “Just know that whatever you decide, we’ll help. That’s what parents are for. Whether you want to dig in your roots here or push out on that coracle, we’ll be there.”

“You’re here now,” Marda said, cuddling into her and wondering if one day she’d be so old that she no longer would want to lie under the covers with Mama, asking her questions. And then she thought: One day I’ll be the mama, and some little girl will be the one asking me questions. That seemed so strange that this choice no longer seemed quite so overwhelming.

Not that it wasn’t still overwhelming.

After she parted from Mama, Marda returned to her room and sat on her bed with her afghan curled around her. Outside it looked cold and the wind was rustling through the leaves; her room was still and warm and cozy, and she was glad to be in it. Would she have to camp outside a lot as an Outremer? If she decided to be one? What would it be like?

“Hi, God,” she said aloud. “How are you? I hope You’re doing fine, and that we’re not troubling You too much. I’m pretty sure You’ve been listening to all my thoughts, but I just want to say... again... that Mama did not tell me what to do.” She grimaced. “Why is it that she always tells me what to do when I don’t want to do any of it, but the one time I really need her to tell me what to do, she doesn’t?” And then she laughed. “That sounds whiny, doesn’t it.” She hugged her knees and rested her cheek on them. “You won’t tell me what to do either. Except by the example of the saints. Lots of saints have stayed home and been helpful, but lots more of them were travelers, weren’t they? But I love home!” She thought of the dandelion letter. “Though it would be nice to see Chandelier, and some of the other odd islands. But you see them and then come home!”

Marda sighed. “Praying isn’t really helping, but maybe I haven’t asked for help yet. So... God? I would really like it if I woke up knowing what to do. That would be really helpful. I know You don’t always give us what we ask for, but... help would be nice!” She tried to think of anything else she’d like to add to her prayer, and gave up. “Thank You for listening.” Then she leaned over and turned the lamp down, and composed herself for sleep and, hopefully, the arrival of divine aid.