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Because Daila made it so

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Sorry for the terribleness of the painting... I'm not too big on this chapter but if I'm going to continue the story I kinda need it.

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My mother had always said, “Because Daila made it so, Braid.” And that was her answer when I asked her why I adored music so much. From an early age I knew I was musical, which can probably be evidenced by my first memory of my mother and the ocarina. Ever since I heard that beautiful, wonderful instrument, I couldn’t get music out of my head. In fact the day after that evening, that first memory, I went deep into the woods in search of materials to make my own ocarina. I brought back a bag full of large slabs of bark, a few dirty pebbles, and a slop of mud at the bottom, dumping the contents on my father’s work table. Reaching for his carpentry tools, I set to work creating my very first instrument. It obviously turned out nothing like the stunning instrument my mother played; in fact it didn’t even do anything to remotely qualify it as an instrument. But my parents were so excited to see me find my passion at such a young age they promoted the musical streak inside me anyway.

Years and years later, as I came to realize my element of Earth, creating instruments and music became much easier. I bended the bark and pebbles to smoothen into a flute, complete with carved embellishments and six or seven little holes. By that time I’d forgotten about the ocarina, since my mother didn’t play it quite so often anymore.

A few other Shinlai, and even humans from the village, grew fond of my instruments. A few of them gathered together to play in harmony, making a wonderful symphony with my creations. I even aided in the process of creating the music itself, something that buoyed the passion inside me to move on to more complex materials, man-made plastic and molten metals. By the time my brother was born, I was making instruments and selling them to travelers who passed through Clipso.

My father was especially happy with my growing passion for music. He told me once that my mother’s playing was what made him fall in love with her, and that after she gradually stopped it was nice and refreshing to hear a new music. At first I didn’t attempt to play my own instruments, but I eventually gave in to that temptation and tested out a harp I had made for a travelling Shinlai. I was soon composing melodies that captured my father’s attention; he even paused from working to listen to me play. After that I created instruments for myself, to write my own music, to serenade my father when he was feeling ill or simply uneasy.

Although my mother had stopped her playing, her love for music never died, and she kept my playing close to her heart. She would sometimes sing along with my melodies, crafting the most stunning poetry I’d ever heard about nature and life. And it was for that reason why I adorned the grave my father carved for her with a small wooden flute, embellished with designs from her mask and markings. I scratched her name, Eana Candess, into the side, making sure that no passersby would steal it. Not that an engraved name would stop anyone.

My father spent the first few days of my mother’s death muttering prayers to Daila and working studiously on her gravestone. I couldn’t help worrying about him; this was his second big loss, and I knew he loved my mother very, very dearly. But a small part of me also couldn’t help detesting his reservation. It’s easy to fall into yourself when you lose a loved one, to just sort of curl up inside your shell and forget the world exists. But you can’t let that happen, especially not when you have two young ones to care for. So I watched as my father bowed his head before my mother’s cold body, praying and praying and praying. I watched as Story mewled for the warm milk of, at this point, any Shinlai. For obvious reasons I couldn’t produce milk, but since my father wasn’t going to do anything about it any time soon, it was my responsibility to feed the pup.

So on that day, the morning after my mother died, I placed Story in a small sack my father generally used for tools, slung it around my neck, and ventured into the main streets of Clipso. At this point Story had thankfully fallen asleep, but I knew he was still hungry. It baffled me, however, that he remained asleep even as I walked through the bustling city, carts and buggies rumbling all around and people and Shinlai conversing while performing daily errands. It wasn’t too loud, but loud enough. Either way, I was grateful for Story’s slumber.

Eventually I came across a small stone structure with a sign out front reading “Clipso Nursery.” A nursery would have means of feeding pups, right? I stepped inside, welcomed with a crowd of three female Shinlai, surrounded by a group of eight or nine scrambling and barking pups. When I asked them about milk and feeding, they replied positively, saying that they always had extra milk in reserve. I wasn’t about to leave Story here with a crowd of toddlers, so I purchased some jars of milk and returned back to our cottage in the woods. Story had awoken by the time I came back, crying out in hunger. He eagerly drank half a jar of milk before falling into sleep again. Infants acted strangely. I had to prepare for some restless nights.

When my father finally came around to participating in normal activities, I had begun to make an important discovery about Story. It started when I called out to him, wanting to get his attention so he didn’t crawl off into the woods. I kept shouting his name, hoping he would soon understand I was calling to him. But no matter how loudly I shouted, he didn’t turn to look. It was heartbreaking, really, to have a deaf younger brother when your one love in life involves listening. Story could never participate in my music, and it completely destroyed me.

But what destroyed me even more was how upset my father was when Story didn’t respond to his sudden kindness. I wasn’t surprised; of course the pup wouldn’t be happy to see his father because for the first few weeks of his life his father wasn’t even happy to see him. It was simply the pup’s natural tendency to wander to me for food, comfort, love. And what really left me at a loss was that my father stopped caring after a while.

That’s how we went on, years and years later. I’d fully realized my element and had taken my mother’s mask as my own. Story never developed any speech; how would he? He didn’t hear it, so how could he learn to repeat it? That was one thing that intrigued me about Story, he was obviously quiet, but his eyes spoke of so much learning and understanding. He often repeated tasks I’d performed. If I came back with bundles of wood for fires, I’d see Story trailing behind with small twigs. If I were to go to the stream and fill jars with water, Story would tag along and fill little makeshift stone bottles. He’d never want to help, only do the same thing for himself. Right from the beginning he was a very solitary Shinlai.

I flat out told my father one day that Story was deaf. He nodded, showing slight interest. Story was like an unrelated Shinlai to him, at least for a majority of the pup’s childhood. As the days went on, I’d catch my father playing silent games with his son, and some days I’d find him wordlessly showing the bemused toddler all of his sculptures and models. I could tell Story was beginning to understand that this Shinlai was important as well, because when he brought home something special from the woods, be it a feather or dead mouse, he’d show both me and my father. It lifted my heart a little.

But nothing could lift the feeling that the whole situation struck me as unfair. This pup, this little brother I’d never even asked for, had in essence taken my mother’s beautiful life. Of course it wasn’t his fault, and I was growing a new love for him. But my mother was gone and the only thing I had now to remember her was her mask, my mask. Of course there was the wren feather, which dangled lightly from the right side. The feather was reassuring in a way. It reminded me of that cycle, the one my mother told me about. It reminded me that we must all respect it. But it angered me. Why respect something so cruel?

My mother would’ve said, “Because Daila made it so, Braid.”

Well if that’s the case, I wasn’t about to pray to Daila.

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Braid & Story (c) =WrenTree
Shinlai & Elaisha (c) *AlanaRoseheart
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