I apologize for the lateness of this post, but it is still October 14th, which is the 960th anniversary of The Battle of Hastings. For those who don’t know, this battle was when William the Conqueror defeated Harold Godwinson for the throne of England. Because of this, I thought it would be fitting to share the winning story of my first medieval short story contest on this day. The competition between the entries was very close, but since I had to choose, ultimately The Truth in Silence by Journey Bloomfield won out.
Kellan broke into a run as she came to the bridge, feet crunching in the freshly fallen snow. The basket in her arm slapped against her side and her breath caught painfully in her lungs, but she dared not slow even a modicum. Windmere’s life could depend on her.
Her boots rattled along the length of the bridge and she gasped out a relieved breath as she crested the hill on the other side, coming within sight of the little cottage. Smoke still drifted from the chimney, torn into lazy spirals by the wind. She was not too late.
The door hinges squealed in protest, and she kicked her boots off in the entranceway, shaking away the snow that had gathered in her hair, swiftly melting in the warm interior of the cottage.
“Lark?”
She stepped around the corner into the main room, where Windmere lay on her makeshift bed next to the fire, eyes closed, hand extended.
Kellan rushed to take it, grimacing at how paper-thin and frail her grandmother felt. She rummaged in her bag for the herbs she had picked that afternoon.
“It’s good to see you back, dear.” Windmere opened her eyes, bright blue as the midsummer’s sky, braving a smile.
“And it is good to be back.” Kellan bit back the choke in her voice. Windmere had always been the constant in Kellan’s life. When her father had gone off to war with the kingdom to the east, Windmere had been there to sweep back her hair and tell her stories in the small hours of the night, when she could hear her mother crying in the other room. When her mother had eventually succumbed to plague, Windmere had been there with a gentle hand to wipe away Kellan’s tears. They and Kellan’s older brother Helfan had moved from their larger house in town to the cottage, small and comfortable, and Helfan had gotten blacksmithing work in town, leaving Kellan to keep up the house and help her grandmother cook and clean.
But, as her mother had often said, war spared not the kindhearted, and when the Guard came with letters of conscription, Helfan went, pale faced but brave, to go hold the front lines in Saft. When Windmere had fallen ill, that left Kellan to put food on the table and keep the hearth swept and her grandmother taken care of.
After failing to find reliable work in town, she had rummaged up her father’s old hunting bow and a pair of her brother’s old boots. There was plenty of game in the forests surrounding Buckleyshire, and berries and herbs besides. Then there was the vegetable garden, and the kind neighbor Mrs. Oakley, who brought them flour and eggs in exchange for fresh meat. They had been able to live comfortably, if not richly, all that year. But now that the snowfalls had started, there was less fresh game, and few plants survived the harsh winter. Along with all of that, Kellan had been forced to go further and further to get herbs for Windmere, even so far as Tumbley, lately. And her grandmother had been getting frailer and weaker every day despite Kellan’s efforts. Some days she lay awake in the night, worrying that one day she would awake and be truly alone.
“Don’t worry about me, Larkling.” Windmere squeezed her hand tighter, a shadow of her former strength.
Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had called her Larkling, after her middle name, Lark. Kellan Lark Brownstone. It was not a noble name, but it had a certain strength to it nonetheless. In return, Kellan called her Windmere, for that was where she had spent her girlhood, and she had often regaled her and Helfan with tales of her youth there, amidst the windmills and bakeries of the northern part of Allechtan.
“Don’t cry, little one. We will make it through this, just as we’ve made it through everything else placed in our paths.”
Kellan realized she was crying, eyes brimmed with tears that refused to fall. Only not all of us did make it. Not Mother, not Father. And who could know what had become of Helfan, with no news for nearly seven months now? She shook the thoughts away, withdrawing to boil water, crushing the fragrant galil blossoms she had picked and scattering them across the surface of the iron pot. She should be grateful for what she did have. She should be grateful that Helfan would have a warm home to come back to once the war was over.
“Come, Larkling. Let me tell you a story,” Windmere said, shifting her position on her pile of blankets.
“Drink this first. It will help.” Kellan poured the hot liquid into two chipped mugs, taking a drink of the bitter liquid. She had begun taking it as well, as it would hopefully prevent her catching a chill from being out in all weather with holes in her boot soles. “I’ll make us some supper and you can tell me your story, alright?”
“Very well.”
She set about chopping carrots and the last of the fall potatoes, the knife slipping in her numb fingers. Kellan warmed them by the fire a moment longer. It would not do to slice her fingers off by accident simply because of impatience.
“Once upon a time there was a brave young woman,” her grandmother began, voice scratchy but carrying a certain strength, too. “Her name was Valida.”
Kellan smiled to herself. The story of Valida was well known in every village in Allechtan, a popular tale in which a simple village girl journeyed across the Drimalt sea to slay a sea serpent of massive proportions.
“The girl was a mere tradesman’s daughter, plain and poor, but intelligent, and with a good heart. She set out from her home upon hearing that there was a serpent in the East, terrorizing villages and slaying all who crossed its path.”
The evening sun blazed across the Western sky, setting in a blaze of fuschia gold light. Kellan stirred her soup, adding fragrant herbs and what spices they had remaining.
“She traveled across the sea,” Windmere continued, “And when she reached the stretch of sea where the serpent was rumored to be, she found. . . nothing.”
“What?” Kellan couldn’t count the number of times she had heard this story, but it had never gone like this.
Her grandmother only smiled and continued. “The stories had been nothing but rumors and fairytales, but by the time she had returned the tale had already spread of her heroism. She was lauded as the heroine of the realm, and as much as she tried to stop the stories from spreading, they did nonetheless. She had no peace any longer.”
“Is that the truth, then?”
“Is it? Who can say? Is it truth that Valida had a little sister at home, who took care of their ailing parents while she was off gaining glory she did not deserve? Is it true that this sister grew up to have a quiet, peaceful life with those she loved, content in her anonymity? Who can say?”
Kellan nodded, mulling this over. It was just like Windmere to tell a story like that, when Kellan herself was the one home, while Helfan fought a war far away. She smiled to herself, rushing to take the almost forgotten soup off of the fire, ladling it into two bowls.
For now, it was enough to be here, to take care of someone she loved in a place that had long held a piece of her heart.
#
But nothing could last forever, and soon it became clear that Windmere was not getting better. In fact, she began to speak less and less, and soon there were no more stories, no more laughter. The house grew silent and dark, and eventually when Kellan went to check on her grandmother, she was pale and still, and her pulse had grown silent.
Kellan shed tears over her lifeless body, and buried her beneath the ancient Elm in the back garden, just as the snow melted and life and green things returned to Buckleyshire.
It was easier, then, to feed only herself, to stop going so far. But it was hard too, to return to an empty cottage and a cold hearth, to speak to the empty air before she remembered that no one was listening. She often stood beneath the towering elm, pouring out her worries in a rambling spillage of words. Her sorrow at being so alone, her fear that Helfan would not return from the war that had claimed so many lives. Her worry that she should have done more, that perhaps if she had just tried a little harder, her dear grandmother would be alive and well instead of in the cold hard earth below her feet.
Slowly, she began to unpack Windmere’s things, the things that had been packed away so carefully in the upper loft. Things she and Helfan had made her, heirlooms long since forgotten in a layer of dust, and, in one small blue box tied with red ribbon, a stack of letters in a sweeping hand.
Kellan blew the dust off of the first and began to read. Dearest sister, it began, I have now passed from this kingdom, sailing forth to the next. I hope this finds you well, as I am not sure whence the next shall come from. . . It went on to describe lands Kellan had only begun to imagine, the endless raging sea, calm waters full of exotic seaweeds, cities of pearl and gold far across the ocean.
And a serpent that never was, A story that was not more than myth, a fame undeserved.
All my love. The letter closed, with a signature that took a moment to decipher. Valida.
Kellan looked up, surprise warring with confusion replaced with an understanding she had begun to hold for quite a time, now. Is it truth that Valida had a little sister at home, who took care of their ailing parents while she was off gaining glory she did not deserve? Is it true that this sister grew up to have a quiet, peaceful life with those she loved, content in her anonymity? Who can say?
“It seems that some can.” Kellan said softly to herself, fingering the rest of the letters in the box. A small lifetime of stories, of pains and joys and longing. A story she itched to uncover one ink-splashed page at a time.
But just as she reached for the first letter, there came a bang from downstairs, and she heard the sound of someone calling her name.
Someone she had not heard do so for ever so long.
Kellan was down the loft ladder like a shot, dashing into the living room, tears in her eyes. “Helfan!” She rushed into his arms.
He was taller than she remembered, and when he returned her embrace, it was stronger than it once had been, but it was still beautifully completely him. “My lovely sister. It is so good to be home.”
“Yes.” She stepped back, studying him, and then they were both laughing, joyous and alive.
“The war is over,” he said, “We are free, now, to do as we wish.”
And they would. Soon, she would tell him why she spoke to the elm tree in the silence of quiet nights. Soon she would show him the letters in the loft and they would read them together and piece together the story so long kept concealed.
But for now? For now, Kellan was content to be here, to watch him smile in his steady way.
To be in a home she had kept safe, knowing that this moment, this life, was more than she could ever ask for.
My Thoughts:
Oh my goodness, I LOVE the family aspect of this story! The love and care Kellan and her grandmother give to each other, the grandmother’s secret, and the lore! I’m a sucker for legends that don’t tell all the details, and of course the message–that sometimes just serving your family IS the most important thing in life.
And that ending! I LOVE that Kellan’s brother finally came home!
About the Author:
Journey Bloomfield is a young adult fantasy author, violinist and entrepreneur who spends her time making string figures she calls Pocket Pals, swordfighting, and engaging in a variety of creative endeavors. She reads far too many books, (though really, is there such a thing?) and has traveled full time with her family for the past ten years.
Where You Can Find Journey:
Website ~ https://journeybloomfield.wordpress.com/
Substack ~ https://substack.com/@journeybloomfield
A Short Q&A with Journey!
What inspired The Truth in Silence?
I suppose I have always been fascinated by wars, both in history and fiction, and yet I find myself drawn more often to those who weren’t soldiers. The people left behind. The ones growing up in a time of unrest, their family members fighting far away. There is a strength in fighting for what you believe in, in grand heroics and fierce struggles, yes. But there is also a strength in holding the home front, in making sure that those soldiers have someplace to come home to. A reason to keep fighting. And I feel that a lot of stories don’t really explore those who are left behind, unsure how things are going. That uncertainty has always fascinated me, and I was glad to get to explore it in The Truth in Silence.
Is The Truth In Silence part of a bigger novel?
No, it isn’t! In fact, I was sort of surprised how real the world felt, because I had so little time to flesh it out and build it, but as soon as Kellan crossed that bridge, the world spread before me. I always love it when that happens in a story, because worldbuilding is something I struggle with at times and it makes everything so much easier!
What is your current WIP?
In terms of drafting, I’m working on a fantasy mystery story at the moment, which has been an immense amount of fun! It’s called This Bitter Blue World and it’s about a girl who never sleeps, who teams up with a boy whose mother was killed to try to figure out how and why she was murdered. I love the worldbuilding and the humor, and I’m very much enjoying writing it!
Do you have any tips for aspiring authors?
Don’t let what you think someone else’s idea of a story is shape the way you write. Writing advice certainly has its place and you should read as much as you can, but I think sometimes we let other people’s idea of what writing should look like affect us a little bit too much, and it’s important to remember that only you can tell the sorts of stories you’re best at, and though you should always seek to improve, don’t feel like you have to change that special quality that makes your stories beautiful and special. When I first started writing short stories, I let myself believe that they had to be written a certain way, and that really stole the enjoyment for me. Once I broke out of the mold I’d constructed for myself and started writing the sorts of stories I truly enjoyed writing, not only did I rekindle that spark, I started winning writing contests and getting published. If you write what you enjoy writing, that really shines through, and people can feel that passion and excitement, and they will feel it too. I guess what I’m really getting at is don’t limit yourself! There are so many things in this life that will hold you back, don’t let yourself be one of them!
Congratulations, Journey! This was such a heartwarming story, and I’d love to read more about these characters, world, and discover the truth behind the legend! Let Journey know how you enjoyed her story in the comments, and totally follow and connect with her on her substack and website!
And a huge thank you to all who entered! I’d love to do another contest soon, so if you have any topic or theme ideas for one, let me know in the comments below as well!
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