Catalyst

CHAPTER 1



Fourteen Years Later

I sat in front of the fireplace, trying to get lost in the fire the way I had countless times before. This time I wasn't able to. I kept fidgeting and stealing glances at my mother as she got ready to go to the village church. She wore her finest clothing—her only decent dress. It was also the only piece of clothing we had that wasn’t heavily mended and faded from long wear.

“Hellsfire, can you help me with this?” my mother asked.

I went to her, attaching her butterfly headdress to her hair. She fiddled with it, making sure it would stay on, and smoothed out the light wrinkles in her dress.

“You look very fine,” I said, looking past the worn fabric at her elbows and cuffs. She looked as fine as we could afford. If I had the money, I would have given it to her to spend on looking as grand as possible to honor her god, even if I didn't believe in him. There were many in town with more elaborate clothes, but in my mind she outshone them all.

My mother looked at me, her light green eyes filled with hope. “Are you sure you don't want to go with me to church?”

I sighed and bit the inside of my lip. I did not want to have this argument again. “I'm sure.” If it weren’t for most of the people that went there, I might go sometimes. But not today.

Her sigh was full of disappointment. I hated to see her like this, but I held firm. “All right, son,” she said, “If you change your mind, the doors are always open.”

“I know, Mother.”

“Goodbye, Hellsfire. I’ll be back later tonight. Be good and don’t get into any trouble.” She walked out the door and headed for the church.

“I won’t.” I loved my mother, and I hated arguing with her. Every week, the holy day gave me the quiet solitude I needed. The town shut down while almost everyone went to church. It was a day where I didn't have to work on our neighbor’s farm, straining my back, carrying bales of hay, or wallowing knee deep in dirt, feeding the pigs for a pittance that couldn’t even keep us decently clothed.

I waited a few minutes until I was sure my mother would be out of sight. I had learned that if I rushed out and she saw me, she’d think I’d changed my mind about going with her. I'd always feel bad saying no and seeing how hurt she was. Sometimes, I'd end up going because of it. Every time I went, I regretted it.

Finally, the oppression of our small longhouse got to me. It was only my mother and me—my father died before I was born. My mother had always told me how he had planned on building a bigger place so they could have a big family. I wished he was around to teach me carpentry and woodworking. But if he was around, I wouldn't be thinking about a bigger home. We would have had one.

A draft picked up and forced its way inside, up near the roof. That was just one of many places that needed to be repaired. The breeze made our dented cooking pots sway on their hooks and clang lightly together. As hard as I scrubbed them clean and tried to repair them, they never seemed to shine. And the metal was worn so thin, I always expected our meals to fall through the bottom.

The roof I could fix. Tomorrow, I would do just that. We weren't in any danger of it raining tonight. I got up from the creaky, wobbly chair and left, not wanting to dwell on how poor we were.

As I walked out of town, I kept getting the evil eye from all the well-dressed townspeople on their way to church. Some were polite and greeted me, but all of them looked at me as if I were doing something wrong.

In the entire town there was only a handful of people who were like me and believed in many gods, instead of one. I learned and celebrated with them. My mother let me go to their services, even though I never told her why. When I was younger, I had made up my mind to be closer to my father. Since he was dead, this was the only way. Unlike my mother, he believed in the four gods. When I died, I hoped I walked with my father.

I reached the edge of town, breathing easier because I didn't believe I would run into anyone else. That's when I saw them.

A group of older boys surrounded Corwyn, who was a year younger than me. They were laughing, taunting him and pushing him back and forth like it was a game. He looked terrified—too terrified to fight back. He knew that would bring him far more trouble than he was in now.

I could see Corwyn trying not to cry and quickened my steps. Fighting back wasn't the only thing that would push the bullies further. If Corwyn cried, they would beat him mercilessly.

If I wanted to I could have slipped by them, but I couldn’t let them pick on Corwyn. He was one of the few people near my age who didn't judge me based on what their parents said. They wouldn’t let him be friends with me, but that wasn’t his fault. In spite of the consequences, I rushed head-long towards them.