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Lewis: The Wounded (The Books of the Gardener)

By Lauren H. Brandenburg

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A few more seconds. That’s all she needed. Lewis focused on the illuminated droplets of mist as they separated from the glowing waters of the Amharclann. In a matter of minutes, morning would dawn on the Amharclann as the mist brought light to the dwellings nestled in the branches above.
She released her grip on the bark of the massive tree trunk, balanced on the heavy root, feet apart, arms outstretched and palms up—as she had been taught.
She listened to the silence of the new day, the waters still, unstirred by transporters bringing citizens from the Docks on the far side of the Amharclann to the heart of the city, the Ionad.
She waited for the mist to graze the back of her hands and then slip through her fingers. And then… she clenched her right hand, heart racing.
This is it. Today is the day!
Lewis carefully opened her hand and frowned. Empty. She would try again tomorrow… and the next day… and the next day, until she caught one of the first droplets of the morning mist.
She stepped back, her shoulders against the tree, and spread her arms out for balance, then crossed carefully across the streams of glowing waters that flowed between the bulging roots. She made her way toward the pier, stepping over vines and maneuvering under low-hanging limbs, as she had done dozens of times. The mist continued to rise through the Trunks. The undergrowth and leaves looked greener.
Lewis steadied herself and leaped for the next root, but her bare foot slipped on the moist tree bark. She reached up and grabbed a vine, scraping her arm on a branch in the process.
Easy.
She exhaled, clinging to the foliage. Early in her days of training, a slip like that would have sent her waist deep into the cool glowing waters under the Amharclann. Falling was unacceptable. Protectors were sure on their feet, calculated in every step. A fall would cost her a lecture from her mentor… and her mother, reminding Lewis what she had been told her whole life. The waters were sacred, a gift from the Creator of All Things. The waters were their source of life and light, and not a place of play and amusement.
She studied her surroundings—the tall ferns, low growing palms, and vivid green foliage—quickly catching sight of another low hanging limb. She took hold, deftly using it to pull herself onto a larger root and back onto the large tree trunk from which she had slipped.
Lewis pulled the thin pants of her training attire further up on her waist, tightened and retied the leather stripping that was supposed to hold them in place, and studied the thickness of the mist rising out of the waters. Time to go! Tardiness was unacceptable.
She successfully made the leap across the root and scurried across the wooden pier. For a moment, she considered following the series of roped walkways up into the tree dwellings, but the abandoned lift would be more of a challenge. And she liked a challenge. Inside the wooden box, she pulled at the frayed rope, one hand over the other, raising herself high above the glowing waters and thick vegetation into the protective leafed branches of the city. The scents of the Amharclann filled the air with florals and spices, full and fragrant.
She tied off the rope, ran across the suspended bridge to her family’s tree dwelling, and then slowed to a tiptoe to pass in front of the open window. She couldn’t help but pause to watch her mother attaching tiny gold threads to her newest project. Her mother, a seamstress, had a beautiful Story. Once upon a time, she had hand embroidered a bridal garment for a lady of special honor in the World above the under-lands, an empress. Lewis knew the beats of her mother’s Story by heart:
With each golden thread the stitches were meticulously woven…
Sleepless nights…
Months passed, her fingers numb…
The gown, stunning and breathtaking to all who beheld it.
There was no doubt in Lewis’s mind that her mother would one day be one of the most beautiful women in all of the Amharclann—her hair hung dark and long like Lewis’s, but she often kept it wrapped up on top her head with glittery scarves of her own design. Her fingers were delicate like her thin frame. She was elegant and poised. She had yet to show the outward signs of her wisdom and beauty. There was not a crease on her forehead or a strand of sterling in her hair. But they would come, Lewis knew they would. Then her mother would wear her hair down long and silver like the other wise women in the Amharclann.
As a young girl, Lewis often imagined that one day she would look like her mother—tall, elegant, dressed in flowing gowns of hand-dyed silken gauze. But, no. To start with, Lewis was short—even her fingers were short. And she was certain “poised” was not one of the words an author would use to write her Story. She found more delight in conversations of battle and enemies than the colloquial habits of those girls who would have elegant Stories with intricately crafted alliterations describing their accomplishments as perfumers or healers. Even the planters had more grace than she had.
Her parents had seen the difference early, told her the Creator of All Things had created her as she was meant to be created, and promised, as all parents in the Amharclann do, to help guide her to her best Story. So, the layered silken gowns had been replaced with a feminine attire more comfortable for a girl who preferred studying the legends of the Inimicus in the House of Stories, setting her heart to defend the Amharclann against them at all costs.
Lewis risked the time to peek further into her mother’s sewing room, catching a glimpse of her recent tapestry—a piece commissioned by the head of the perfumers. But nothing could ever be as fabulous as the empress’s gown—the denouement—the moment that revealed all the beauty building throughout the course of her mother’s life. It was the end, the identifying chapter told with such loveliness there was no doubt among the citizens of the Amharclann that her mother was indeed a seamstress.
“You were down at the Trunks?” her mother’s voice called back to her. “Trying to catch the mist, again?”
“I was so close!”
“The waters are sacred,” her mother said, not taking sight from the task in front of her. “Did you finish your readings?”
Lewis frowned. She didn’t need to read more books to be reminded. She knew the waters were sacred, everyone did. For as long as she could remember, something inside her wanted to catch them, to hold one droplet of mist in her hand, one of the firsts released from the water before it traveled up into the branches, rising to the height of the dome where it would light the Amharclann for the rest of the day until it fell, blending once again into the waters below. Kellen had shown her how, but for some reason her fingers would not cooperate.
“Will the tapestry be done in time, Ma’ma?”
“Why are you changing the subject, Daughter? The readings are important—the Words of the Creator of All Things give life.”
Lewis knew this too, but she found the Stories of the citizens far more interesting. She thought for a minute, attempting to find a way to say that she would get to the readings when she had time. She would not lie to her mother. The Words of the Creator of All Things were clear: Truthful lips will be established forever, but a lying tongue is only for a moment. It’s what her parents had taught her since she was a child. “I need to catch the mist.”
“And what kind of Story would that make? The Girl Who Caught the Mist?” Her mother laughed. Lewis didn’t. That’s not the Story she wanted. Catching the mist had nothing to do with her Story. It was a hobby, something Kellen had taught her, something to help her focus on her training, she assumed. Her mother spun around on the metal stool, revealing the nearly complete tapestry behind her, an embroidered depiction of the perfumed florals of the Amharclann, perfect down to the tiniest petal. “Your papa would like to speak with you. I believe your training will wait today. Get going.”
An odd chill swept over her. Training could never wait. Missing would only set her behind. Every training, every word of instruction, every correction mattered. At least, until her Story was told: The Youngest to Walk Among Them. She had thought of the title herself. It wasn’t the best title; her author would change it anyway… if she were ever assigned an author. And if she ever found the ending to her Story. But one day soon, very soon, she would walk among them. She knew it.
Out of habit, Lewis paused in front of the tall double doorway at the front of their tree dwelling, the doors kept open to allow the mist to float on the cross-breeze from one side of the treehouse to the other. She ran her hand across the Words etched into the doorframe—As for me and my house, we will serve the Creator of All Things—before running inside.
She made her way down the main hallway, the wood paneled floor creaking slightly beneath her feet. She stopped at the base of the hand-carved staircase that wound around the massive trunk supporting their dwelling.
She gently turned the handle on a small door at the foot of the stairs and peered inside. “Papa?” He sat at his desk, writing instrument in hand, most likely sketching a new dwelling or House of Trade, surrounded by long rolls of paper containing sketches and configurations. Like her mother, her papa was a master artisan—an architect who had not only designed but led teams of workers to construct many of the newer dwellings and houses in the Amharclann. But it was the Leahbarlann that had become the grand conclusion to his Story, her papa’s masterpiece. It was the stage used by every citizen on the day their Stories were told. One day, Lewis hoped to have a Story as grand—one that was read and reread to the children and referenced in a House of Education by educators. She’d read her papa’s Story so many times in the House of Stories she practically had it memorized.
Lewis breathed in the warm smell of ink, paper, and whittled cedar. She loved spending time in his cozy workspace, especially when it was the two of them, retelling the Stories of her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family members long gone, and doing quite possibly the only thing she loved more than training. She glanced over at his Ludum board—the hand-carved tiles stood exactly where she had left them. She loved the game. He’d taught her and Remi to play when they were young. It was a process of moving and stacking the wooden disks, creating towers while strategically outwitting your opponent in an attempt to have all your pieces land at the center of the circular board.
Her papa looked up from his task. “Come! Come! How is my girl this early morning? Did you catch it?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I slipped…but didn’t fall in.”
He laughed, deep and hearty. “I thought the Shamar were steady on their feet.”
“They are! But I am not—” she covered her mouth, hiding the escaping gasp. He’d referred to her as Shamar.
“I’ll get straight to it…or maybe a game of Ludum first?”
“Papa! Tell me, please!”
He laughed. “I tease. A messenger appeared at our door while you were away…with an invitation from the head of the House of Defense.”
He handed her an envelope. Her full name was written in beautiful scrolling letters on the front, obviously done by a calligrapher. She turned it over, staring at the black seal on the back. She knew the emblem well—a creature called a dove holding a small twig in its mouth.
“Go on. Open it.”
She rubbed her finger across the symbol pressed into the dark wax and reminded herself to breathe. Then, she ran her finger under it, releasing the seal from the paper. She pulled out the card inside, read the words, and looked up at her papa. Her insides flittered; her heart raced.
“I’ve been selected to candidate.”
“A candidate! My girl a candidate for the Shamar! And so young!”
The Shamar, the protectors of the Amharclann. It was what she had trained for, to one day walk the Tops, protecting the citizens she loved below from invasion of the Inimicus. And they had invited her to be a candidate! She’d have to leave her mentor Kellen, and her family, but to train in the Tops from the best protectors in all the under-lands, to no longer be a mentee but a candidate! She had waited so long for this letter. Lewis pulled the letter to her face and inhaled the aroma of black roses, grapefruit, and spices. The scent had wafted past her many times at celebrations and Festivals. She had a vial she kept in her room that her mother had bought her at a Festival when she was young. It was the scent of the Shamar, and it was about to be hers.
Her papa picked her up, spun her around in the embrace of his arms while the fragrance of the architects, cedar and vanilla, enveloped her. “Your Story is taking shape! This is grand news! Grand news, indeed! We must celebrate! Tonight!”
This was it. She would truly be the youngest to walk among them. No one had ever been asked to candidate at thirteen almost fourteen. They must have been observing her. How had she not seen them?
“I should have an author now, shouldn’t I? This is my Story!” She grinned, hoping this news would change her papa’s mind about parents interfering with the Stories of their children. Stories were the way of the Amharclann. Everyone had one. Some grand, some beautiful, some celebrated, and some forgotten. But Stories like those belonging to her papa the architect and her mother the seamstress—those were remembered.
“Enjoy this moment! Do not force the words of your Story. It will come. The Creator of All Things has blessed your hard work. A candidate! My girl a candidate!”
She tried to hide her disappointment.
“Lewisia Anna, you know how we feel. Stories take time. We will encourage you, but we will not interfere. You were selected, that is all. Wait and see what is to come. Do you understand?” He reached for her hands. His hands were strong and rough, an architect’s hands. The hands of someone she trusted more than anyone in the Amharclann.
“I do, Papa.” The truth was, she only partially understood. She knew exactly how her parents felt about plotting Stories for their children. It had become a bit of a trend over the past decade for parents to outline the life paths their children would take, meeting with authors before the mothers had given birth. She understood her parents’ position on the trend. They were old fashioned, believing life Stories developed naturally over time, guided by the Creator of All Things. But to Lewis, she felt behind… left out of the excitement and chatter of her peers as their parents created events and situations to move their Story toward completion. Two of her classmates already had their Stories told at the Festival of Stories. She was beginning to feel as if she would be an old maid before her Story was told, and she doubted the hours spent studying the Inimicus and learning new ways to wield her bo staff would ever benefit her Story. Even one of her best friends, Nevan, who happened to share her Potential, had been recently assigned an author.
With this news… a candidate for the Shamar, was it not the perfect time to acquire an author?
“It is anxious parenting. You cannot know so young how your Story will end. Yes, you are nearly fourteen. I was eighteen before my Story was told and your mother twenty-three. You are young… a child. We must trust the Creator of All Things.”
She frowned, only hearing one phrase: A child.
Fourteen was hardly a child.
“But Remi was thirteen when his Story was told. He was assigned an author when he was eleven!”
“I would imagine at your age Remington would have traded his blindness for sight any day. Besides, your brother is an anomaly—but don’t tell him I said that.”
This made her grin. Her brother Remington was definitely an anomaly, not only because she could consistently best him in Ludum, but he was the only Citizen in the Amharclann who had ever possessed the gift of the watcher. Even though he did not have physical sight, he could see the workings of the Amharclann in a way that no one else could.
“But I will have a Story, won’t I?”
“Everyone has a Story. Everyone. But they take time. Use this opportunity that has been set in front of you. Remember who you are.”
It was a phrase her papa used often when Lewis brought up the authors: Remember who you are.
She paused her thinking, remembering the training that taught her to take her thoughts captive. Remember who you are.
In this moment, she was a candidate. The youngest candidate to the Shamar in the history of the Amharclann. And if she worked hard, she would be the youngest to walk the Tops as a protector in the Shamar: The Youngest to Walk Among Them.

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