The Springborn

CALDER

T he wagon seat is cold and unforgiving beneath me as we leave Hiram’s farm and set out for the main road. I deserve “cold and unforgiving” after what I just did. The memory of it sickens my stomach.

My guilty hands clench the reins. These hands were no more made to cut off Sabella’s antlers than they were to shatter the windows of cathedrals. But what choice did I have? The chore had to be done and she all but begged me to do it. Blazes, my backbone might as well be made of jelly when I’m near her.

I train my eyes on the road ahead and try to forget her tears and the bitter dust the saw cast into the air, my nose, my lungs. This road is well traveled, the only route linking the mountain coal towns to the valley and then the world. I must take care, for if I steer the wagon into a ditch or break a wheel on a stone, other travelers might stop to offer aid. It is best to avoid contact with strangers. If Sabella’s parents told the authorities that she ran away or was stolen, there could be trouble. And while most of us appear ordinary at the moment, we do have a bird-legged boy in our company.

Above me, the sky wears a smooth garment of gray cloud. The sun hides, hoarding heat I wish she’d share. I’m cold, within and without.

Baby laughter filters through the canvas wagon cover, followed by Sabella’s laughter. There, now, the universe seems to say. Sabella would not be sharing joy and warmth with Sparrow if you had not wielded the saw. Forgive yourself.

Sparrow laughs again and this time, I cannot help but smile. If there is any magic in the world other than that which gives the Springborn their gifts, it is surely contained in the laughter of infants.