Home by Shayna Krishnasamy Page A

such joy.
    She was never blind in her dreams.
    An odd sound broke her from her reverie. It was a moment before she realized what she was hearing.
    Liam was humming.
    Shallah sat in up amazement, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Was it truly Liam humming this strange melody? It was a complicated tune, much more intricate than any she’d heard sung in the village. Its haunting music spoke of loss, but of discovery and redemption as well. It was a song of hope.
    As the morning breeze grazed over her, mingling with Liam’s song, Shallah was filled with gladness. She didn’t linger in her amazement that the boy had such sounds in his head, but none to share in words. He would speak when he needed to. In that moment it seemed to her that everything was happening just as it should, and it was best not to question it.
    She’d pulled her kirtle over her head and was tying the laces when Liam saw she was awake and came to her side. He took her hand and pressed something into her palm. She grinned. It was a small sprig of fresh berries.
    After a quick breakfast of oat cakes and ale, Shallah and Liam got on their way. They began at a leisurely pace, for Shallah didn’t want to tire too early.
    Better to pace ourselves and enjoy the journey, she thought. I certainly won’t be in this good a mood every morning.
    The day passed with the telling of stories. Once again Shallah felt herself opening up to the boy, speaking of things she never admitted to anyone. She told him of her childhood, describing those carefree days before she’d lost the world to darkness. She found herself dwelling on a description of her father, recalling his large hands, his shy grin, his clumsiness. She explained how she’d felt when her father had gone and left her alone, how she’d railed against him in her thoughts, but never allowed herself to blame him aloud. How she’d clung to the house, unwilling to leave it even for a brief moment in case her father returned. And how the days had stretched out before her without her father’s voice to fill them.
    What has come over me? she wondered to herself.
    It was as though every secret she’d ever kept was struggling to be set free, and she could hardly talk fast enough to let them out. The villagers wouldn’t have recognized this forthcoming girl as the Shallah they knew, for that Shallah was reserved and often silent. That Shallah never let her true self be seen.
    Then who is this Shallah? she mused. Am I still myself? Or has the wood transformed me into some other girl?
    But Shallah didn’t feel like somebody else. For the first time in a long while she felt like herself. With each story she told she was letting go of all the hurt and pain she’d been holding within. She felt more free than she had in years, and she had Liam to thank, for he was as rapt an audience as anyone could have wished for. He leaned his cheek against her hand when she spoke of something sad and sucked in his breath at the frightening parts. When she paused for breath, or to think of what to say next, he tugged at her kirtle, urging her to go on. He never seemed to tire of the sound of her voice.
    Absorbed as they were, they paid no attention to the forest about them. The spruces and firs in this part of the wood were barer than those of Trallee, their branches emerging high above the heads of those passing on the forest floor. If she could have seen, Shallah might have commented on the loneliness of the surroundings. The foliage was sparser here, allowing the eye to travel for miles in all directions, encountering naught but mossy trunks, each isolated from the others as though they’d been warned not to touch. The cones were more numerous here as well, scattering before them as they walked.
    In between tales Shallah noted that there was little sound save the crunching of their shoes on the needles and the rolling of the cones. No birds chirped, no squirrels scrambled about. All the familiar sounds of the forest had ceased.