Shorn: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

One evening, after spring had really settled in, and the crops were growing noticeably by the day, Shorn was sitting outside relaxing after the evening meal. He’d made a crude chair that was big enough for him out of split logs, and he often sat there in the evenings. It was peaceful with the sounds of insects, the chirping of bats circling overhead.

He must have drifted off a bit—he’d spent most of the day digging the new well and was exhausted—when something touched his hand and woke him up. He started and was surprised to see Ren standing there, clutching her dolly.

“What is it, little one?”

She thrust her little arms in the air. “Up.”

That surprised Shorn. While the children had warmed to him, they still seemed intimidated by him and were careful to keep their distance.

He looked up and saw Melda watching from the doorway. She saw the question in his eyes and smiled.

“Go on. It’s okay.”

Ever so gently, afraid he would hurt her, Shorn lifted the little girl and set her in his lap.

Whereupon she curled up against him, doll close, thumb in mouth, and went right to sleep. He stared down at her, afraid to move and disturb her. She was so tiny and innocent.

He couldn’t help it. The most painful memories of his life, worse than the day of his exile, came flooding forth…

His daughter, J’nest, was two when he was badly injured in action against the Sedrians. His low-altitude craft was shot down while he was returning from inspecting a forward base. He managed to pilot it back to main base, but the landing was more of a controlled crash. He ended up with two broken legs and various internal injuries.

After being discharged from the hospital, he was sent home to convalesce. The first day his wife, Badmalu, thrust his daughter into his arms.

“The servant is sick. I don’t have time to watch the child. You’re not doing anything else.”

Before Shorn could argue with her, she was gone. He didn’t know anything about taking care of a child. He’d held J’nest briefly after she was born. Other than that, the most he’d done was pat her on the head. He was home so rarely that she had hardly any idea who he was. When she saw him, she hid, peering at him around doorways.

It was the same thing he’d done with his son, Aran, except he’d never held Aran at all. It was known that too much affection for children made them weak. His own father had held him a lot as a child. He’d carried Shorn around and generally doted on him.

Shorn learned the folly of that once he went away to the Khivoz. There was no room for sentimentality at the military academy. Any signs of it were dealt with swiftly and harshly. By the time he returned home for a visit at the end of his first year, he spurned his father when the man tried to hug him. Shorn told him, right then and there, what a weakling he thought he was.

“You tried to ruin me!” he shouted at his father before stomping out of the room.

He barely spoke to the man after that. In his mind, he had no father. It was easier to imagine him dead. He resolved never to make the same mistake with his children. He would be the father his own blood could not be.

After Badmalu thrust the child on him, Shorn assumed J’nest would pull away and hide from him again. Instead, surprisingly, she snuggled up to him and fell asleep.

Shorn moved to pick her up, thinking to put her in her room, but something stopped him. He looked down at her. She was so small, so fragile. Her skin was almost golden. She seemed to glow with her own, inner light.

He had never noticed these things about her. Had never really noticed her at all. After all, sons were a man’s future. It was they who would carry on his name after his death. Daughters were an expense, a burden to be passed onto a husband as soon as they were of age.

But sitting there, feeling her warmth in his lap, watching the small movements of her chest as she breathed, something changed inside him.

Slowly, he put his arms around her. She murmured and snuggled closer.

They were still there when Badmalu returned much later.

“At least you got her to sleep,” Badmalu said. “She’s been cranky all week. Says her stomach hurts.” Her tone made it clear what she thought of that.

“She’s been sick?” Shorn asked. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Since when have you cared if your child was sick?”

When J’nest woke up, she was hungry. Shorn carried her into the kitchen, put her into her chair and found something for her to eat.

Over the next few cycles, Shorn and J’nest grew very close. She followed him everywhere, chattering constantly. She wanted to be carried. She wanted to sit in his lap. She wanted to play make-believe games with him.

Shorn delighted in her. He’d never found anyone so fascinating, so full of life and energy. She lit up his day with her simple joy. She was always excited about something, and she liked nothing better than to share it with her father.

He lost tracks of the days. It was a special time. He looked forward to seeing her each morning. The sound of her running feet made him smile.

But it was short-lived. As Shorn was getting close to returning to duty, her illness returned. She grew pale, complaining her stomach hurt. Shorn took her to the doctor, then waited in agony while the lab ran their tests.

And then, just like that, she was gone. She went to sleep and never woke back up.

Shorn came out of the memory slowly, unwillingly. There was a terrible pain in his chest, and it was hard to breathe.

“What is it, Shorn? What’s wrong?”

Shorn looked up and saw that Melda had come to stand over him. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be alone. But Ren was still sleeping.

Then he surprised himself. He was tired of carrying the pain alone.

“My daughter was about this age when she died.” His voice was harsh with pain. “Her name was J’nest.”

“Oh, Shorn. I’m so sorry.”

“After her funeral, I went back to my unit. I never said a thing to anyone. My wife never spoke of it. It was like she never happened.” His chest heaved with emotion.

Melda looked off to the side, where there was a clearing with two graves in it, one adult and one child.

“Nothing hurts like losing a child. It’s like a piece of you is ripped away. It never grows back. Not the whole way.” Tears were running down her face.