New Version as of 2/8/20:
The path back to the cabin solidified under Jane's feet as mud gave way to stone. To either side of the path was a garden, if you could call it that. It was a mish-mash of flowers and vegetables left to grow wherever they pleased. It made harvesting a challenge, but neither Jane nor her mother had the heart to yoke the garden's spirit.
They often lamented that naming the garden had been a mistake, but that naming her Sally had only exacerbated the issue. If they'd gone with Lily or Rose or Carrot, there may have been a built-in direction toward which they could tame the garden. But Sally was the name of a woman, a woman who could not be harnessed and should never be broken. And so Sally grew wilder every year, to Jane's and her mother's collective chagrin.
The cabin (named Stan) was made of solid logs, interlocked at the corners, with a thatched roof. Farmer Beverly from a neighboring farm had helped Jane and Bear repair the thatch just before the rains hit, which should last through several winters. Smoke rose from the chimney into the gray-blue sky, filling Jane with the promise of warmth. Stan's door needed a new coat of red paint, but that would have to wait until summer.
Leaning against Stan, to the right, was a firewood rack (named Sparky, naturally). Jane loved the cathartic whack of ax against wood, so keeping the rack full was easy. To the left, a series of stepping stones led from the stone path to the side of the house. Jane dropped the bucket off next to the front door and then followed the offshoot path, which took her to the cellar entrance. The entrance was a big wooden box that Jane viewed as her own personal treasure chest.
She lifted the lid and climbed down the ladder. For Jane's sixteenth birthday, Jane's mother, Bear, and half of the village had surprised Jane by modifying the underground cellar/pantry into a bedroom. The pantry was still there, just smaller, and the walls had been shored up with cedar. The floor was hard-packed dirt, but Jane loved it. It meant she could tramp in mud and dirt from outdoors without hearing about how she was destroying the floor.
The room was just big enough to house a cot set on top of a wooden base. The bed was unmade, the neat patchwork of her quilt rumpled into a rainbow of warped squares. Opposite the bed was a small wardrobe set next to the small fireplace. The room was blessedly cool in summer and, thanks to the fireplace that shared a chimney with the fireplace above, cozy in winter.
Jane slid out of her father's boots and placed them on the hearth. She shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook next to the fireplace. Later, when she lit a fire, they would dry and be ready for the next day. Before the cellar had been converted into a bedroom, it had served as pantry and storage. Jane had found some of her father's things in a dusty old box that she was sure her mother had forgotten about.
She'd started wearing her father's boots to feed the pigs when the sole of her own boots had come unglued a month ago. Then, she'd adopted his coat as well, as her own was about two years too small. She was glad for the separate entrance to the house so that her mother wouldn't see her wearing her father's things. She was sure her mother would understand, but on the subject of Jane's father, her mother would swing from sentimental and romantic to hurt and angry, and Jane was never sure which it would be. She also wasn't sure which made her more uncomfortable.
The worst part about her father's betrayal had been the surprise. He had been devoted, patient, and affectionate for the first five years of Jane's life, and then, what seemed to be overnight, had turned indifferent, then cold, and then angry. The first time he'd slapped her, she'd been shocked. So had he, she could still see it in his face.
Jane glared at the coat and boots. She swore to herself that she'd burn them, tonight. But, then again, she'd sworn that every night since she'd found his things. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she had been born for great things; everyone said so. In fact, there was a thousand-year-old prophecy that stated it pretty clearly.
Esomha had been a wise and powerful king who had made over a hundred prophecies while he was alive. Two things set Esomha's predictions apart from similarly prolific charlatans; his prophecies were specific and accurate. And he'd written one about her. She was supposed to save the world. She looked forward to the day when a knot didn't form in her stomach at the thought. On that day, she knew, she'd be ready.
The floorboards above her head shifted and Jane faintly heard her mother's laughter. She smiled, shaking off the dark direction of her thoughts. She opened the door to the pantry. The temperature in the pantry was at least ten degrees cooler than in her room. The tiny room smelled like potatoes and -- actually, despite other fruits and vegetables, it mostly smelled like potatoes.
Jane climbed the ladder to the cabin, the chill on her skin evaporating with each step. The cabin was essentially one room centered around the huge hearth. In front of the hearth was a rug made of coiled hemp rope that took up most of the cabin floor. Nearest the fireplace, the rug was ember-eaten, but otherwise clean.
Her mother's cot, on a wooden frame, was set across from the fireplace, covered with a quilt made up of faded blue and green fabrics. A large wardrobe was set next to the bed, next to which was the cellar entrance. The walls on either side of the fireplace held larger-than-usual windows with thick blue-gray glass that made the day outside look hazy, even on the brightest of summer days.
There was a solid wooden table with four matching chairs under the window to the left of the fireplace. Under the window to the right of the fireplace, was a large wooden chest, and next to the window and chest was the door, painted red, inside and out. From the thatched ceiling beams, drying flowers and herbs hung in a neat and fragrant rainbow.
As Jane entered the cabin from the pantry, Jane's mother and Bear were crouched in front of the fire, both of them giggling like children. Jane stood there a moment, watching. She liked how her mother and Bear were with each other; her mother more relaxed and Bear less smug and knowing.
Jane's mother rose from the fire and turned, bowl of stew in hand. Jane's mother was tall and and carried the pounds she'd put on over the years with grace. Her face was still relatively youthful, aside from the laugh-and-worry lines framing the sparkle in her eyes. Her orange dress was faded and her periwinkle apron was frayed but both were clean, as was the bun that she wore pinned to the top of her head. Her round face and strong chin were framed by stray curls.
She spotted Jane and grinned. "We have a solution to the Sally problem," Jane's mother said. She handed Jane the bowl and then returned to the fire. She accepted the bowl that Bear handed to her. As Bear ladled out a bowl for himself, Jane and her mother settled on the rug in front of the hearth.
"Ooh, what did we decide?" Jane asked. She blew on a bite of stewed beef, and watched her mother and Bear exchange smirks.
"We're going to marry Sally to Farmer Beverly's garden," Bear said, with an air of mock solemnity.
"Yes," her mother added. "Then her name will be Mrs. Farmer Beverly's Garden, and that is no name for an unkempt garden."
Jane chewed, savored the tang of tomato and spices that the beef was marinated. She was hesitant to destroy her mother's and Bear's shared sense of accomplishment, but she had to be honest. She swallowed. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Wouldn't that mean that she'd move over to Farmer Beverly's farm? Surely, she'd wanted to share a home with her husband. Then Farmer Beverly would have a huge garden and we wouldn't have one at all."
Bear and her mother groaned in unison. Her mother's shoulders slumped and she swayed toward Bear. He caught her shoulder with his, and they leaned on each in commiseration.
"Another perfect solution destroyed by common sense," Bear mourned, wrapping an arm around Jane's mother's shoulder for support.
Jane shook her head. "You've got to think about these things," she said seriously, but she couldn't help but smile at her mother's and Bear's overly dramatic groans.
Old Version:
The outskirts of town are unusually quiet but as we approach the square, I hear the dull roar that usually indicates a town-wide meeting. We don't have a meeting scheduled until next month. I glance at Bear. He shrugs. As we move past empty homes, I try to judge the mood of the crowd by the sound of five hundred people talking at once from three streets away. The energy flowing through the streets is excited, maybe a little nervous, a bit like being at church for a wedding instead of a service. I wonder what The New Commissioner is up to. I don't personally like him -- I liked the old Commissioner. The position had been handed down to the old Commissioner through no interest of his own and he had run the town with benevolent negligence. He retired seven years ago, and his son took over. The New Commissioner had rejected this town in his youth, and gone out and won a navy captaincy and came back with ideas -- most of them too elaborate for this place. He keeps the streets clean and everyone fed and educated and I guess all of that is good. I just wish that he didn't drag me into every aspect of "progress" that he inflicts on these simple villagers. It's not that surprising that he'd call a meeting out of nowhere. I'm just surprised that he hadn't compelled me to be there.
The path back to the cabin solidified under Jane's feet as mud gave way to stone. To either side of the path was a garden, if you could call it that. It was a mish-mash of flowers and vegetables left to grow wherever they pleased. It made harvesting a challenge, but neither Jane nor her mother had the heart to yoke the garden's spirit.
They often lamented that naming the garden had been a mistake, but that naming her Sally had only exacerbated the issue. If they'd gone with Lily or Rose or Carrot, there may have been a built-in direction toward which they could tame the garden. But Sally was the name of a woman, a woman who could not be harnessed and should never be broken. And so Sally grew wilder every year, to Jane's and her mother's collective chagrin.
The cabin (named Stan) was made of solid logs, interlocked at the corners, with a thatched roof. Farmer Beverly from a neighboring farm had helped Jane and Bear repair the thatch just before the rains hit, which should last through several winters. Smoke rose from the chimney into the gray-blue sky, filling Jane with the promise of warmth. Stan's door needed a new coat of red paint, but that would have to wait until summer.
Leaning against Stan, to the right, was a firewood rack (named Sparky, naturally). Jane loved the cathartic whack of ax against wood, so keeping the rack full was easy. To the left, a series of stepping stones led from the stone path to the side of the house. Jane dropped the bucket off next to the front door and then followed the offshoot path, which took her to the cellar entrance. The entrance was a big wooden box that Jane viewed as her own personal treasure chest.
She lifted the lid and climbed down the ladder. For Jane's sixteenth birthday, Jane's mother, Bear, and half of the village had surprised Jane by modifying the underground cellar/pantry into a bedroom. The pantry was still there, just smaller, and the walls had been shored up with cedar. The floor was hard-packed dirt, but Jane loved it. It meant she could tramp in mud and dirt from outdoors without hearing about how she was destroying the floor.
The room was just big enough to house a cot set on top of a wooden base. The bed was unmade, the neat patchwork of her quilt rumpled into a rainbow of warped squares. Opposite the bed was a small wardrobe set next to the small fireplace. The room was blessedly cool in summer and, thanks to the fireplace that shared a chimney with the fireplace above, cozy in winter.
Jane slid out of her father's boots and placed them on the hearth. She shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook next to the fireplace. Later, when she lit a fire, they would dry and be ready for the next day. Before the cellar had been converted into a bedroom, it had served as pantry and storage. Jane had found some of her father's things in a dusty old box that she was sure her mother had forgotten about.
She'd started wearing her father's boots to feed the pigs when the sole of her own boots had come unglued a month ago. Then, she'd adopted his coat as well, as her own was about two years too small. She was glad for the separate entrance to the house so that her mother wouldn't see her wearing her father's things. She was sure her mother would understand, but on the subject of Jane's father, her mother would swing from sentimental and romantic to hurt and angry, and Jane was never sure which it would be. She also wasn't sure which made her more uncomfortable.
The worst part about her father's betrayal had been the surprise. He had been devoted, patient, and affectionate for the first five years of Jane's life, and then, what seemed to be overnight, had turned indifferent, then cold, and then angry. The first time he'd slapped her, she'd been shocked. So had he, she could still see it in his face.
Jane glared at the coat and boots. She swore to herself that she'd burn them, tonight. But, then again, she'd sworn that every night since she'd found his things. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she had been born for great things; everyone said so. In fact, there was a thousand-year-old prophecy that stated it pretty clearly.
Esomha had been a wise and powerful king who had made over a hundred prophecies while he was alive. Two things set Esomha's predictions apart from similarly prolific charlatans; his prophecies were specific and accurate. And he'd written one about her. She was supposed to save the world. She looked forward to the day when a knot didn't form in her stomach at the thought. On that day, she knew, she'd be ready.
The floorboards above her head shifted and Jane faintly heard her mother's laughter. She smiled, shaking off the dark direction of her thoughts. She opened the door to the pantry. The temperature in the pantry was at least ten degrees cooler than in her room. The tiny room smelled like potatoes and -- actually, despite other fruits and vegetables, it mostly smelled like potatoes.
Jane climbed the ladder to the cabin, the chill on her skin evaporating with each step. The cabin was essentially one room centered around the huge hearth. In front of the hearth was a rug made of coiled hemp rope that took up most of the cabin floor. Nearest the fireplace, the rug was ember-eaten, but otherwise clean.
Her mother's cot, on a wooden frame, was set across from the fireplace, covered with a quilt made up of faded blue and green fabrics. A large wardrobe was set next to the bed, next to which was the cellar entrance. The walls on either side of the fireplace held larger-than-usual windows with thick blue-gray glass that made the day outside look hazy, even on the brightest of summer days.
There was a solid wooden table with four matching chairs under the window to the left of the fireplace. Under the window to the right of the fireplace, was a large wooden chest, and next to the window and chest was the door, painted red, inside and out. From the thatched ceiling beams, drying flowers and herbs hung in a neat and fragrant rainbow.
As Jane entered the cabin from the pantry, Jane's mother and Bear were crouched in front of the fire, both of them giggling like children. Jane stood there a moment, watching. She liked how her mother and Bear were with each other; her mother more relaxed and Bear less smug and knowing.
Jane's mother rose from the fire and turned, bowl of stew in hand. Jane's mother was tall and and carried the pounds she'd put on over the years with grace. Her face was still relatively youthful, aside from the laugh-and-worry lines framing the sparkle in her eyes. Her orange dress was faded and her periwinkle apron was frayed but both were clean, as was the bun that she wore pinned to the top of her head. Her round face and strong chin were framed by stray curls.
She spotted Jane and grinned. "We have a solution to the Sally problem," Jane's mother said. She handed Jane the bowl and then returned to the fire. She accepted the bowl that Bear handed to her. As Bear ladled out a bowl for himself, Jane and her mother settled on the rug in front of the hearth.
"Ooh, what did we decide?" Jane asked. She blew on a bite of stewed beef, and watched her mother and Bear exchange smirks.
"We're going to marry Sally to Farmer Beverly's garden," Bear said, with an air of mock solemnity.
"Yes," her mother added. "Then her name will be Mrs. Farmer Beverly's Garden, and that is no name for an unkempt garden."
Jane chewed, savored the tang of tomato and spices that the beef was marinated. She was hesitant to destroy her mother's and Bear's shared sense of accomplishment, but she had to be honest. She swallowed. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Wouldn't that mean that she'd move over to Farmer Beverly's farm? Surely, she'd wanted to share a home with her husband. Then Farmer Beverly would have a huge garden and we wouldn't have one at all."
Bear and her mother groaned in unison. Her mother's shoulders slumped and she swayed toward Bear. He caught her shoulder with his, and they leaned on each in commiseration.
"Another perfect solution destroyed by common sense," Bear mourned, wrapping an arm around Jane's mother's shoulder for support.
Jane shook her head. "You've got to think about these things," she said seriously, but she couldn't help but smile at her mother's and Bear's overly dramatic groans.
Old Version:
The outskirts of town are unusually quiet but as we approach the square, I hear the dull roar that usually indicates a town-wide meeting. We don't have a meeting scheduled until next month. I glance at Bear. He shrugs. As we move past empty homes, I try to judge the mood of the crowd by the sound of five hundred people talking at once from three streets away. The energy flowing through the streets is excited, maybe a little nervous, a bit like being at church for a wedding instead of a service. I wonder what The New Commissioner is up to. I don't personally like him -- I liked the old Commissioner. The position had been handed down to the old Commissioner through no interest of his own and he had run the town with benevolent negligence. He retired seven years ago, and his son took over. The New Commissioner had rejected this town in his youth, and gone out and won a navy captaincy and came back with ideas -- most of them too elaborate for this place. He keeps the streets clean and everyone fed and educated and I guess all of that is good. I just wish that he didn't drag me into every aspect of "progress" that he inflicts on these simple villagers. It's not that surprising that he'd call a meeting out of nowhere. I'm just surprised that he hadn't compelled me to be there.
***
One street away from the square, Rufus the Butcher catches up with us. He's tall and sturdy with strong arms and the matter-of-fact attitude of a man who works with life and death. I can tell that he's wearing his "good" apron by the modest amount of blood spatters. He's always the last to any town meeting. He has the most cleaning up to do. He nods at Bear and I. "You have any idea what this ruckus is about?" He asked. "The New Commissioner is always calling these meetings -- the last one was about a rug!" He shakes his head and we enter a short alley, and then stop short.
***
The square was built when we were barely more than a village. It comfortably holds about 150 people, and but the population has doubled since then and people are clogging the alleys in between businesses that circle the square. In the middle of the square is a giant statue, three times larger than life, of a woman on a horse. The horse is rearing and the woman is weilding an anchor like a sword. The anchor is enormous, also three times larger than life and definitely big enough to snap a real woman's wrist, were she foolish enough to hold it that way. It's a testament to the artist that in a hundred years, the anchor has never cracked off and crashed into Kate's bakery, which it hovers over. It's a testment to the town's belief in the prophecy that the old bronze statue still gleams like new in the sun. The statue is not of me -- in that it looks nothing like me. The model for the statue looks like a hero -- strong, confident, beautiful. Her sightless eyes follow me around the square every time I come to town on some errand for my mother, and it's why I prefer to enter the businesses that line the square from the back. The townsfolk think I'm humble. The truth is, I don't like being confronted with my inadequacy on a bi-monthly basis.
From the edge of the alley, we are facing the side of the statue, but I can still feel her eyes on me, judging me, and finding me wanting. The base of the statue is three foot-high, and The New Commissioner stands under the horse's belly with a man. The New Commissioner is short and wiry, but with impeccable posture and enough charisma that when he starts speaking, everyone else stops talking. "Thank you all for coming out today," he says. He has an unnaturally deep voice for a man his size, and that combined with the accoustics of the square, make it easy for even us at the edge of the crowd to hear. "I have--" he pauses and glances to the man to his left, and then up at the underbelly of the horse. "News." I have never seen the him less than completely sure of himself. Neither has anyone else in the town, as evidenced by the muted murmurs that pass through the crowd. The New Comissioner clears his throat. He glances at the man to his left again.
The man to his left is tall. Although he stands at the higher end of the horse's rearing belly, the top of his head brushes the bronze. The New Commissioner's friend has long, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. He also has a long, brown face with sharp cheekbones and an equally sharp jaw. Not only is he tall, but he has very large muscles. I know that Sally the Smith has been looking to retire and doesn't think that her daughter Sarah isn't quite old enough to take over yet. I wonder if this man is the new blacksmith. He's dressed simply in a shirt with breeches -- a modest version of Bear's outfit -- and he has a sword strapped to his back. I can see the strap and the hilt, but not much else from my angle. He's handsome. I can feel the excitement of every female in town, vibrate in my own belly. A tall, strong, handsome replacement for Sally who isn't already related to anyone in town? He's going to be a problem.
The man smiles, and steps forward. "My name is James Anthony Sawyer," he says. I knew it; his voice is a rich, smooth baritone that flows through the crowd, ruffling feathers -- and undergarments. Rufus the Butcher glances down at me. I shrug. The man has the same last name as me. What are the odds? I look up at Bear. He doesn't return my gaze, his own is fixed on James Anthony Sawyer.
So much for my prospects, not that it bothers me. Although this man is objectively every woman's dream, he doesn't affect me that way. I don't trust handsomeness and charisma -- it always hides something bad, like the Commissioner's ambition. Or my father's tendencies toward violence. However, even if my instinctual mistrust of him is wrong, this gentleman is related to me. My gut is clenched but I can't tell if it's out of excitement or fear.
I look at Bear again. He's frowning. I frown, too. Bear doesn't frown. He has a permanent smug little smile, as though he knows something no one else does. Although, to be fair, he's been around for thousands of years, so there is a LOT he knows that none of us do. I nudge Bear. He glances down at me and then his focus is immediately drawn back to James Anthony Sawyer. Bear shakes his head, and his frown gets deeper. So does mine.
James Anthony Sawyer smiles, his gaze grazing everyone in the crowd. "I am here to the save the world," he says. He holds up a scroll. I recognize it as the bane of my existence. The prophecy.
The crowd doesn’t like it. Mutters flutter around like angry ghosts. I’m glad that Bear and I are at the back of the crowd, so no one is looking to me to step forward. I can definitely hear my name being bandied about amongst the mutters.
James Anthony Sawyer raises his hand, his confidence smothering the majority of the crowd’s resistance. “I understand,” he says, his smooth baritone soothing the heated crowd, “that you all believed that one of your own was destined to save the world.” He smiles. “However, I am one of your own. I was born to the sorceress Misty Montague and the hero John Sawyer but I was kidnapped as an infant. My mother died in childbirth and my father never knew about me. It was only the midwife who ever knew, but she was a mistress of Darkness, and so allowed my name to be written out of my family’s history, leading you all miscount the descendants.”
He steps forward, to the edge of the platform. “I am the 13th scion of Sawyer the Great and I am here to save you all.”
I stand there and watch this man steal my destiny. I suppose I should feel robbed, or even relieved - I never wanted it or felt like I was right for it anyway - but I am just stunned. I have a brother? My father had a child with someone other than my mother? I cringe at James describing my father as a "hero" but it's true enough in the strictest sense. He killed a lot of people during a war. That's a hero, right?
This time the mutter is closer to a roar. “But the savior is supposed to be a woman!” someone shouts out.
"Yeah, what about Janie!" Someone else yells out.
James Anthony Sawyer smiles, his confidence anything but shaken by the challenge. “The prophesy only specifies a scion. There were some misinterpretations of the rest of the prophecy that led you all to believe the savior would be female - and, of course, your intimate knowledge of the Sawyer clan.”
The crowd murmurs again. It’s more subdued, now, however. “I suppose you can prove your birth?” a man shouts out.
James Anthony Sawyer nods. He unbuckles the sword strapped to his back, and places it gently at his feet. He straightens and tugs his shirt from the waistband of his pants, and the crowd rumbles again, although there is more of a verbal response from the females than the males. Sarah, the smith's daughter, fans herself. James removes his shirt and then turns so that the crowd gets a glimpse of his muscled torso and then his equally impressive back. Just under his left shoulder is a birthmark that looks like an anchor. Every firstborn in my family has had one for the past 13 generations, when the prophecy was formed. My father had one. I have one. The damned statue has one.
The mutterings turn into an uproar. James turns back to the crowd. Rufus the Butcher turns to me. He is angry, but I don’t know why. We have a savior who actually looks like a savior. This is good, right?
Rufus pushes me forward, through the crowd. “No!” He shouts! “We have the real thing right here!” Shoulders and elbows batter me as Rufus continues to shove me. The people that I knock into turn and see me. They quieten, and the silence spreads from the center of where I am and circles around the rest of the crowd. There is still bursts of shouts but the way before me opens as people turn and now my path to my long-lost half-brother is clear. Yay.
With the way clear, Rufus stops pushing me. I stand there, frozen, halfway between the crowd and the statue, being stared down by muscles, confidence, and purpose. James cocks his head, for a moment, clearly wondering who I am, and then he grins. “You must be Janie.” He holds out a hand to me. I shake my head. My feet are firmly planted and I’m sure that if I reach out, the force of his personality will set me on fire and burn me to ash. Brother or no, I feel no more kinship to him than to my dead father. He sees my rejection, and his eyes flash disappointment. His smile turns gentle and he continues to hold his hand out to me. Up close, his eyes are hard and gleaming like polished bronze -- and empty of everything but courage. I suppress a shudder, but he sees it in my eyes, and for the second time in less than a minute, I've hurt him. And I haven't even said, hello.
"Hello," I say. I allow him to pull me onto the platform and stand under the symbol of my destiny. The lie of my destiny.
The New Commissioner flashes me an apologetic smile and then raises his arms to get the crowd's attention.
The town has been patient with The New Commissioner long enough, however. "Let Janie speak!" someone calls out and the rest of the crowd picks up the chant. My stomach tightens up even more, threatening to shove the half-digested stew I had for dinner back up. Oh, gods. My mother is going to be furious. I picture her at home, in front of the fire with a book, snug in her knowledge that although she was powerless for much of her life, her daughter is destined for greatness. I don't know what I want to do more; throw up or cry. I can't go home. Bear and I will just have to go out and find some magic beans or find ugly old hags to give food to or -- something that will make me into a hero after all. I can't go home and tell my mother that I'm the nothing that I always knew I was.
The chant cuts off and silence roars through the square. They want me to speak. What can I say?
I take a deep breath and turn to James Anthony Sawyer. "Welcome to the family," I say as I offer him my hand.
The silence turns hostile. I hear Bear groan from the edge of the crowd and I inwardly cringe. I did the wrong thing. I don't know what the right thing was, but that wasn't it.
The New Commissioner steps forward and raises his hands again. "I know that this feels like bad news," he says to the crowd. "But--" his voice trails off. Everyone, almost as one, has turned away from the statue and are in the process of leaving. They shuffle off back to their homes, their work, their lives, but there is no purpose in their steps. Rufus stares at me for a moment, betrayal etched into the laugh lines around his eyes. He shakes his head and follows everyone else out of the square. Heat engulfs my hand and then streams throughout my entire body. I look up. James has taken the hand I offered and now he looks deeply into my eyes. "I promise it'll be okay. In a few days, they won't even remember why they were upset."
I tug my hand away and wipe his charisma on my skirt. "Right," I say. Together we have destroyed the collective will of an entire town in a matter of minutes. I have serious doubts that anything will ever be okay again, for any of us. Bear has made his way to the platform and he helps me down. His cool touch flows through me, replacing James' warmth.
"Janie."
I hardly recognize The New Commissioner's voice as it cracks under the pressure of my name. I turn and look up at him. He seems smaller than he did earlier. He crouches at the edge of the platform and reaches out to me with his eyes, begging for forgiveness. I remember that he was just a boy once, running around, tugging pigtails and teaching the local kids how to frighten sheep. He'd been so eager to bust out of the cage of this town, and he'd come back so ready to conquer it with his progressive ideas that he refused to see that we didn't need them. That we didn't need him. I reach up and place my palm on his forehead. He rests his head against my hand. "There was a better way to do this," I say. That I don't know what a better way would have been keeps the judgment from my voice, from my touch. He nods against my hand and then stands up. He looks at me through faraway eyes. My old friend looks like a stranger and I look away first. I nod in James' direction as I turn away. "You'll have to come over for tea sometime," I say as Bear and I move away from the statue.
"Thank you," I hear James say. "I will stop by after I save the world."
There's no reason they should, but his words chill me.
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