Vessia
A woman opened her eyes. She was in a field at dawn. Two people stood in front of her—an old man and an old woman.
They cried and smiled at the same time. They touched her. Their touch was gentle, like they feared her. But it was also possessive, like they owned her.
She did not know them.
They tried to look at her face, but she stared past them. She felt nothing for them. Not love. Not hate. Nothing.
But the light shining through the leaves—that, she found strange and beautiful.
When they tried to hug her, she screamed.
Her scream was not angry or scared. It was only a sound. It matched the way their touch made her feel—uncomfortable.
When they stopped touching her, she stopped screaming. Her face became still again, like nothing had happened. She kept staring at the leaves, watching them shift in the light.
The old couple pulled back. They still cried. They still smiled. They still tried to touch her, but only as much as she allowed.
"Daughter," they said, again and again. Sometimes like a question. Sometimes like a truth.
"You are our daughter"—as if they wanted to believe it, and hoped saying it would make it true.
"You are our daughter," she repeated. Her words pleased them, but not completely.
The field meant nothing to her.
The couple meant nothing to her.
So it meant nothing when they led her away from the field.
But slowly, something new grew in her. A small emotion—curiosity.
They brought her to a dome-shaped house made of baked clay. It had a tiny door at the top of a ladder. She had to crawl to go inside.
Inside, the round room felt wide and open. There was a hole in the roof to let in light and air. Rugs with woven patterns covered the floor. Light and shadow danced across the zigzags and chevrons in the cloth. It made even more patterns. It was beautiful.
And she was happy with that.
Inside her lived something wild. They called her 'daughter,' and called her 'Vessia.' But she could not stay inside for long. She had to run outside. She ran as if searching for something. She threw herself into the wind, flipping and twisting, trying to catch the clouds.
But the ground always caught her.
The old couple loved to watch her. They could watch her forever, the way people never get tired of a waterfall, a sunset, or a sleeping baby.
If the river itself jumped from its bed to dance, it would not shock them more.
But her wild leaps also scared them, like seeing a forest fire or a wild animal—something beautiful, but dangerous.
"She dances," they whispered when they thought she could not hear. "Never the same, never repeating."
But she was not trying to dance. She was trying to fly.
They gave her food and water. They gave her a place to sleep. They tried to meet her eyes, but she had no interest in their faces.
They tried to hug her. She pushed them away or screeched when they didn't stop.
They gave her clothes, but if the cloth itched, she took it off.
However, she loved to look at cloth while it was still on the loom. Beauty moved her. If she found beauty, she could look at it for hours—lights, patterns, colors, movement.
One night, the old woman left the loom set up before bed. In the morning, she saw the weave finished.
"You made the whole thing in one night!" said the old woman. "Not one mistake! You are amazing!"
"You are amazing," Vessia repeated. She showed no feeling. She didn't look at her.
After that, they let her weave often.
But other chores did not go so well. They gave her a needle to sew the cloth into clothing. She just stared at it.
In the end, the old woman sewed the clothes for her. That dress was the first one Vessia kept on.
Seasons passed. The old couple shrank, like grapes turning into raisins. But Vessia did not change.
At last, they decided it was time to show her to other people.
They lived alone in the forest, in their dome house. But beyond the woods, near a brook, were more domes and more people. "Our clan," they told her.
"They will ask why we hid our daughter so long," said the old woman.
"No," said the old man. "Once they see her, they will think they know why."
"But she is beautiful," said the old woman.
"Too beautiful," said the old man. "Too strange."
Vessia went among the people, though it was hard for her. They stared. They spoke loudly. They tried to touch her. They told her all the things she must not do.
She liked market day. She liked to touch the things laid out on blankets. But this made the women angry.
The old woman told her, "A bargain has two sides." She gave Vessia small gold beads to leave in place of the things she picked up.
Vessia could not fly. But she could dance. And others began to notice.
When she danced, people could not look away. This made the old couple nervous.
"If they ask, tell them you are a Tavaedi," they said. "Tell them you are our daughter. Tell them you are the Corn Maiden."
One day, on market day, a man came to the clanhold. He wore a golden neck-ring and golden arm bands. He saw her dance. Afterward, he came close to her, but did not touch her.
"I love you," he said. "Don't tell me no."
"Why would I tell you no?" she asked. She hated when people told her no.
"Then I will speak to your parents tonight."