ChapterOne
Father’s yells wake me from a nightmare plagued sleep. Flipping onto my back on the straw mattress, I scrub at my eyes before pushing back my sweaty golden hair. I let my arm flop back to the lumpy mattress as I stare at the wooden ceiling of our little shack. With a groan, I force myself to sit up before Father comes storming in here to demand his breakfast. Ignoring the hunger pains tingling in my belly and the weakness in my sore limbs from hours of labor yesterday, I look at my older sister’s empty bed and narrow my eyes.
She is getting sloppy at sneaking out now and not even trying to hide it. If Father finds out, he will brand her as a whore, or worse. The beating would be horrific.
As usual, I hurry to dress in my scratchy wool tunic, worn socks, and boots and then open the door before shutting it softly behind me. Father spins, and I meet his enraged eyes before dropping mine to the floor submissively, not wanting him to think I’m challenging him. I learned that lesson early on, even if it’s bitter.
“There you are. You’re late. I have to eat before work!” he screams as Mother stands at the old wood burning stove in the tiny kitchen, which also doubles as our eating area. While she’s used to his wrath, she’s also terrified of him, just as every female in this village is afraid of the men in their lives. Grinding my teeth, I nod and scurry to the kitchen to help her get breakfast ready as he sits in the scarred wooden chair at the small table, watching us.
“Where is your sister?” he finally barks. Practice has me continuing to chop vegetables for the broth without hesitating.
“She went to work early,” I lie, my back tensing as I feel his gaze on me. I hope he believes me. If not, I’m in for a beating, which I really don’t want today, not with how long I have to work in the fields. Besides, it’s getting harder and harder not to hit him back.
Foolish, I know.
It would be a death sentence if I did. A woman striking a man? It’s a sin.
Unheard of.
Against the law.
We are property to be punished in any way the men in our life deem fit. We belong to our fathers and brothers until we are married off, and then our husbands keep us obedient and meek.
He finally grunts, and I hurry to serve him his oats. Standing with my hands behind my back, I watch as he eats like an animal, wolfing it down. When he’s done, he throws the bowl at me and stands. I barely catch it before it can clatter to the ground. Seeing his protruding belly causes me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. His once white shirt is stained brown in places and stretched to its limit around his robust frame. His once brown hair is now graying at the temples and receding, and his plain brown eyes are surrounded by lines from being narrowed and angry all the time. His nose is wide, and his face is even rounder than his belly. His once strong muscles have turned to jelly from years of drinking and eating, yet he’s still stronger than me.
He’s still tougher than my mother and sister.
I bow my head like I was taught by Mother and wait for him to amble out of the skewed wooden front door, which he slams behind him. When he’s gone, I blow out a breath and wipe the table. Mother silently hands me a cracked bowl with a small, nervous smile. Her dull green eyes are lifeless, the fear in them permanent.
She might have been beautiful once, but the years of abuse have worn her down. Her hair is thin and lifeless, a graying, dull version of my own golden strands. Her eyes were once as bright as the emeralds we saw when royalty visited, but now they are dull and empty. Her tanned face is marked with years of age and fear, and her willowy frame is weak and hunched.
Taking the bowl, I sit heavily on the floor, since I’m not allowed to use the table, and throw back the watery soup. All the good food is eaten by Father first, and we only get the leftovers. It’s barely enough to live on, especially when he gets drunk and eats all of our supplies, which happens most days. Once I’ve eaten, Mother has a small bowl of what is left. Staring at her, I beg her to look at me, to speak, to do something other than this mundane routine she survives in, but as usual, she eats and begins to clean, ignoring me like I am not here.
Once upon a time, just like in the fairy tales she read to me about heroes defeating monsters, she would talk to me, smile, laugh, and play when Father was gone.
Not anymore.
Now, we are just two ghosts in this shack.
I don’t even say goodbye as I hurry to the door, sliding a stale slice of bread in my pocket for Kai, my sister, so she won’t go hungry. I would be lashed for it, but I do it anyway and shut the door softly behind me, looking around at the gray, foggy streets of our village.
The Shadow Lands.
The shadows from the Dead Lands—hence our town’s name—echo across the land here. Fog rolls in from that darkness and spreads across the fields. The early morning sun struggles to pierce it, refracting on the dew decorating trees and plants. I shiver in the brisk morning air and wrap my arms around myself, as if that will shield my thin frame. My head turns like always to take in the glow in the distance, where the sunlight hits the castle in the Gilded Lands and burns brightly throughout the day. The night and day difference between that and the Dead Lands is not lost on me. On one side of us, it is nothing but darkness, and on the other side is nothing but gold and light.
As for us?
We are the shadows of both.
The fields where we grow and tend our crops stretch farther than the eye can see over the rolling hills. The granary is farther down near the cornfields, the windmill barely visible in the distance just over the small stone bridge. There used to be more housing and farms beyond that, but they are abandoned now, the families dead. After all, that’s the only way out of here. Nobody from the Shadow Lands goes into the Gilded Lands, where the rich, like the king, live. And the Dead lands? Well, that’s a story for another time.
Pushing forward, I drop my head to brace against the breeze, gritting my teeth as I shiver harder.
I spot the cannery workers, town hall personnel, and the school staff hurrying to their jobs—all male of course. Females aren’t allowed in any positions of power. We aren’t even allowed to attend school, which I once got mad about. All Father would say was, “Women don’t need to know how to add or read, just how to serve and please.” Furious at his words, I snuck in dressed as a boy. The beating I received once they found out I had been going to school for weeks was worth it.
Now, I’m the only female who knows how to read, apart from Kai, who I’ve been teaching in secret. The other women here are either so beaten down into their position or too young to care that we have no rights. Men can do whatever they want, like the easy jobs that keep them warm and fed and stop their bodies from breaking, while women are made to bathe them, cook for them, farm their foods, and make their beds.
To say I don’t fit in would be an understatement. Kai once asked me why I don’t just let it be how it is, because nothing will ever change, but I can’t accept that. I refuse to live this way until I eventually die or am killed by a husband I don’t want. There has to be more.
