“Grappa, tell me a story.”
I sit back and stare at little Ellya, looking up at me from my lap—all of six years old, and beautiful, her skin the color of the wet earth down by the river. Lighter than mine, but her hair is kinky too, a throwback to one of our ancestors. Probably an Angel.
Wind whips the heavy cloth of the tent. Outside, a summer storm lashes the mountain valley where we make our home in the warmer months. Their parents are likely happy for the break from all those inquisitive minds.
Inside it’s warm and comfortable, and all the children of the village have gathered here for story time, seated on the woven purple rug that takes up a good part of the tent.
Ioyo, my grandson, sits in the front row, next to his best friend Onley, watching me eagerly.
I kiss Ellya on the forehead, feeling her eagerness through the emp nestled in its pouch on my neck. “What would you like to hear?”
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I have many stories from my life of almost seventy years—more than fifty of them spent here in the mountains, taking care of my little flock. In that time, the ce’faine have grown to almost five hundred, living a nomadic life spanning three generations. They are my family in the truest sense, my proudest accomplishment.
She reaches up to touch my cheek, her little fingers warm against my skin. “Tell me about the Long Trek.”
I close my eyes, a mixture of pain and pride filling me. Such a long time ago, but I still dream about it often, that rough passage that brought us out of Egypt and into the holy land.
I laugh at my own erudition. None of the children here have even the slightest idea what Egypt was. What Earth was.
In our great wisdom, or perhaps our obstinate stubbornness, we decided to make a clean break with the old culture of the Heartland, discarding everything we've been taught and beginning fresh.
I rub my wrinkled chin. “Let's see. It was a very long time ago. You weren’t even a wisp in your mother's eye.” I look at her—my granddaughter—so perfect in every way. I don't want the world to change her. I don't want her to face the ugliness that I did, growing up in a repressive culture. I want to shelter her from all of that.
Of course, none of us can protect our children from the beauty and peril that life brings.
I stretch out my hands, cracking my old knuckles—a bad habit, that. I take a sip of the herbal tea Merwyn, Ellya’s mother, made for me, measuring my time. It’s a poor substitute for akka, one of my only regrets about leaving the Heartland.
So many years passed. So few left to me. I must teach them while I can, this new generation.
I clear my throat, and the chatter of little voices silences. “Once upon a time, I lived in a wicked place, a cruel city by the sea called Gully Town. There were five islands, like five long fingers—we called them spines. And beyond, only a few small villages and many farms.” I close my eyes, remembering that dark time. “They called me Charlie back then. Or Cha’Fah…”
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