Coracle Book 1, Chapter 1

 This is the entirety of chapter 1, now! A sneak peek for everyone. I am still contemplating how I want to illustrate it. I know the style, I'm just not sure how many illustrations I want to do. Each chapter's relatively short and I don't want to overwhelm the text... so I am thinking maybe one spot and one full-page per chapter. More on that as I work on them. 

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CHAPTER ONE

MARDA WAKES UP OLDER

When Marda woke, cozy under a quilt and two afghans, her first thought was that she was so deliciously warm she never wanted to get up. Her second was that she needed to feed the pearly crows before they woke up her father with their kawing. And finally she remembered it was her birthday, and sprang out of bed. She pulled on socks and grabbed the topmost afghan and ran down the stairs, and the morning when she stepped out the door was beautiful: softly dark, but with light running across the horizon through the trees. And cold! But the sun would warm everything up and then she’d have her favorite kind of weather, when the air was just a little warm but the breeze was cool and the air smelled like the first flowers of spring.
 With her basket in the crook of her arm, she hurried out into the orchard. Just as she expected, there was a crow in the boughs of the Merry Aunt, one of the friendliest trees. When it spotted her it gave one of those low, odd warbles that crows use for family and that brought four more birds swooping to perch in a circle high above her.

“Hi, crows!” Marda brought out the week-old bread and broke it up with her hands. Scattering it, she said, “I hope you are having a fine morning. Did you know? It’s my birthday! I am fourteen today!”

They croaked in answer, and she pretended they were congratulating her. Pearly crows, of course, were good luck, so just having them stop by counted as a present, by Marda’s way of thinking… even if they came every day in winter and spring. To be polite, she said, “Thank you,” as if they had wished her well, and grinned at herself. “I know, I’m so silly. You can’t talk and you’re waiting for me to leave so you can eat! Enjoy your feast!”

She rearranged the afghan over her shoulders and darted to the henhouse. Her socks were soaked already, but she only had one more errand and then she could go inside and take them off. The hens were still somnolent, all fluffed over their nests, but she liberated eleven eggs from the boxes without disgruntling them too much. Those went in the basket. She thanked the hens, too, but in a whisper, so as not to disturb them further.

The house was no longer silent when she entered; her mother was in the kitchen brewing small coffee on the stove, its earthy fragrance and cheerful bubble as familiar as sunrise. Marda put her basket down in time for her hug, and it was a good one. Her mother was plush and soft and hugging her was better than pillows when you were tired.

“Good morning, Daughter,” Mama said, smiling. “And happy birthday! Look at you, you’ll be taller than me soon.”

Mama had been saying this since Marda was six. It had been eight years and ‘soon’ hadn’t arrived yet, but Marda could see it from here: the top of her head no longer fit under Mama’s chin. “Good morning, Mama! I fed the crows. And here, the hens gave us eggs.”

“Look at that. Enough for breakfast and your cake besides.” Mama kissed her brow. “Your father and your sister and brother are still asleep, and likely to stay that way for a while. Sit and have your breakfast.”

“Can I have coffee?” she asked, hopeful.

“Your own cup today. You’re old enough.”

So she did, and it was even better than the little sips her parents had let her have since she was old enough to want what they were drinking. Mama made lost bread from yesterday’s loaf, dipping it in egg and cream and frying it golden before topping it with preserves from their own orchard: golden songquinces, sweet and tart.

“All full up?” Mama said, after the third slice.

The coffee had run out, and she didn’t want to ask for more: coffee had to be bought, so it was a luxury. “I think so. There might be a corner somewhere.”

Mama laughed and handed her a big spoon of preserves. “Isn’t there always. Even when you’re my age, there are still corners... especially when there are sweets left over.”

Between licks, Marda said, “Should I wake everyone up?” Because that was usually her chore: to watch her brother and help her sister while Mama went out to sing to the praisetrees.

“Not today. I’d like you to ride into town.” Mama went to the jar by the cupboard and brought out a few coins. “I have a list for you of things to buy at the store—for your cake! Along with some other things I need. And there’s money there for you to buy fabric and ribbons for a new dress.”

“A new dress!”

Mama laughed. “I did say you were getting taller, didn’t I? Pick your favorite color, dearling. Susen will embroider it for you if you ask nicely, I’m sure.”

At nine, Susen was already better than Marda at sewing, and she could make the most beautiful birds and flowers with colored floss. A new dress! An embroidered one! With ribbon! Most of her dresses had been cut down from Mama’s.

Her face was probably giving away her delight, for her mother leaned over and kissed the top of her head, laughing. “A good birthday present?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! And cake too!”

“Whatever flavor you want. Think about it on the way.”

***

Their old pony, Patches, didn’t mind being ridden by small people. “I guess I’m not that old yet, after all,” she told him as she saddled him. He curved his head to look at her with placid eyes, as if to agree. But that was fine, because she liked riding, and if getting taller than Mama meant she couldn’t ride Patches, she could wait.

The road to town was smooth and quiet, and it winded around gentle hills. Other families lived down it on farms of their own, though none of them had an orchard as old as ORCHARD-NAME. The sun was fully up but it was still chilly enough to make her glad of her soft woolen wrap. And while she rode, birds sang, long warbles, quick thip-thip-thips, and the occasional, distant croak of a pearly crow, no doubt flying away in search of someone who needed his luck.

While she rode, Marda tried to decide what color fabric she should choose. Her siblings, like her mother, looked best in bold, dark colors because of the nut-brown skin that spilled over their noses, cheeks, and brow. Marda, though, had inherited her father’s mask color: a lilac-gray that also darkened her lips and reached almost to her ears on either side of her cheekbones. She had his light brown eyes, too, rather than Mama’s aquamarine. Maybe, she thought, a heather color? Creamy yellow?

She was still trying to decide when Patches plodded over the final hill and into town. Morning sunlight was puddled everywhere she looked, as if someone had poured it from a pitcher, and the bees were awake and everything smelled fresh with that “just cleaned up with dew” smell that she loved best. Goldmeadow was a beautiful town, fresh with the season’s first flowers: white savior slippers dappling the grass alongside the road, taller pink fare-ye-wells, and yellow donquils at the intersection where travelers passed on pilgrimage, bringing foreign seedlings on their feet and cloaks.

Marda rode past the school, used mostly by townsfolk, and on to the general store a little ways up the pilgrim’s road. There she dismounted and wrapped Patches’s reins around the hitching post. He had enough room to graze, though he wouldn’t; she’d return to find him napping in his own pool of sunlight, like a cat.

On her own, in town, with a little money to spend—on herself!—Marda stopped and looked up at the sky, then down the road toward the grand church. She felt very free, and very grown-up, and didn’t think she was old enough… at least, not for the latter! She grinned and strolled up the quiet street.