Excerpt: Journey and Destiny

I don’t really know when this all started. When you think about it, it really started the moment I was born- my mother lying down on her bed with her knees up, the midwife, her sisters, her mother, her husband surrounding her in the dim and calming candlelight. Telling her she would be ok. Squeezing her hand and hearing her loud screams and moans. The midwife handed me to her, and gazing at me in the flickering golden light, she saw a spark. A lightness and strength. Looking at me, she named me on the spot. Not Emma, as she had planned, but Zipporah. As she told me later, she grew up hearing that it meant “Little Bird”. That from the beginning she thought I was her little bird, sent to her with the delicate curiosity but sharp claws of a bird. I took this as a complement. I don’t know if I turned out the way I am because of hearing about what my name meant, or if I was always going to be like that.
My life was simple. We lived slightly outside of the village, with enough money. Not a lot, but we had land. We raised cows and kept horses and we were beside a lake, which held more fish than we would ever need. I always had enough food, and good enough clothes, and I was loved. But sometimes we had to sell a horse to get by, and sometimes I would skip lunch to help. I pretended I didn’t mind. And for the most part I didn’t, because my friends didn’t care, and I could still spend my days running about on my own, exploring the varied terrain that surrounded me.
Our house was a 10 minute walk out of the village- nothing at all for me- and as you approached the house, you saw it in all it’s simplicity- one level with 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, and a parlor with our old and dusty piano sitting within. It had a thatch roof, and crude wood doors that swung open unless you latched them immediately. I loved it there.
On the left, there were the 3 fields. One where we kept the cows, one with our wheat, and the one farthest away, attached to the barn, where our 2 horses lived. Behind the house, there was forest. You had to walk along a dirt path for about half a mile, covered in soft pine needles. After that, you would see the lake. It was huge- at least to my eyes. Trees varying from big and graceful oaks to short and prickly pines where all around, providing shade and places to sit and contemplate.
If you walked to the right side of the lake, and stood under the large Weeping Willow, and looked up through the yellow-green leaves, past the lower branches, you would see me. My whole life seemed to be spent up in that tree. I climbed up there for the first time when I was 6, having my mother boost me up to the lowest, sturdiest branch. I didn’t come down until it was time for dinner. I just sat there, and thought; imagined scenes in my head involving faeries, dragons, and talking animals; imagined that those talking animals where talking to me, telling me about their days, about the wife and children back home who needed to be fed. They told me secrets and laughed with me, and the tree was instantly the place where I felt most comfortable.
When I was 9, I started to read up there. I would go up in the early morning, reading tales of adventure and mystery, and I would see myself there. See myself doing something with my life. All I wanted was to be in the action. To have that suit of armor, to joust with strange knights. I would thrust, parry, eventually win the battle. I would ride off into the sunset. I tried, on the larger of the two workhorses we owned. I put on my finest clothes, ones that flowed in the wind, the sun low in the sky, glinting off gold embroidery. We got to the edge of the field before we reached the sun.
When I was 12, I had my first fight with my mother. Whatever it was about, I was livid, and wanted nothing to do with her. I ran out of the house, flew through the forest, and climbed up to the very top of the tree with practiced ease. I stayed there all night- I slept cradled in between three or more branches, which molded perfectly to every inch of my body. As I cried myself to sleep, I felt held and comforted. This tree was crying with me, feeling everything I was feeling. I felt better the next morning, and got up with the dawn to go back home, to apologize for the stupid things I had said the night before.
At 14, I spent all of my time contemplating the universe. My friends and I would come up to the tree, and talk about everything under the sun. We would giggle and wonder and I would bring up things no one else ever thought about. Things that would sometimes make us scratch our heads for hours, not knowing what we where really thinking about, sometimes things that would make us cry and realize how big the world was, how little we where.
That was the best thing for me. I loved the feeling of discovering new things. The feeling of having power and a hold over my life- when I knew deep down that I could never have a real life like the kind I wanted, I pretended I could make real decisions.
The thing was, my life was planned out. I wasn’t already promised to anyone, thank god. That still happened sometimes, but my Mother was of the opinion that such things where barbaric. Still, I was raised knowing that I would marry one of the boys from the village, or maybe from the city, which was 3 days ride from here. I would marry him and carry on my family’s reputation as good, virtuous people. I would be a good wife, one who could think and manage people if need be- this would only be if I ended up with a man from the city, of course- I would raise children to be good and helpful and worthwhile members of society. Maybe, if I wanted to, I would start a small business. Sell quilts or candles or something of the like. I could even go into healing, or become a wet-nurse. But these where all options that didn’t quite appeal to me, and they were options that my Mother didn’t want for me. The best thing for me was the marriage option, and that scared me a little. I didn’t know what I wanted.
So I gripped to the control I had with a vise-like grip, pretending I had a choice in the way my life went. I felt exhilarated every time I was on my own, when something came up that I could decide upon. I thrived on the times that I could either walk home or ride in the back of my father’s old wagon, when I could either eat one thing or the other. It was just what I needed.
At 16, I had my first kiss up in that tree. We climbed up there in the early morning, the sky slowly changing from a dusky blue to almost grey with pink and orange and purple hues painted across. We sat there for so long, cuddling together, half for warmth, half simply for the feeling of being close, and we didn’t say anything. Just listened to each other breathing. Listened to our heartbeats. At some point, I looked up at him. Now, I felt something inside me, something different. I smiled shyly, and looked slightly aside.
“Hey.” He said.
I didn’t say anything back. He moved my head to look at him, gently, and I smiled again. An almost silent giggle escaped my lips.
“Hey.” He said again.

I kissed him. He kissed me.

We kissed each other, breath mingling and hands roaming. The earth around us was fresh and new and awake. I was slightly cold but alive and sparkling. He held my hands in his to keep them warm, and I nuzzled against him. Lying there, I memorized every detail the moment. I felt and saw and heard everything more clearly than I would have thought possible. The morning lingered. It was calm and quiet and perfect. The grey-green leaves surrounding us made me feel like we had our own little world, away from reality.
And I was in that tree, about a year later, when it all really started.