A Place of Promise

My father used to work in a market district in Altair’s main plaza where small stalls made of wood and fabric lined the area. Residents and children roamed the plaza to see the brandished textiles, weapons, and exotic foods. With that came many weary merchants and travelers who spoke tales of their long journeys and the stories commonly filled with monsters, talking animals, or hardships. Many used these tales as useful tools to endorse sales – although, Father insisted that the tales he brought home were hidden gems, which made them true.

As a child, I was told I lived and breathed in those stories as if they were a part of a necessity in fulfilling my youthful mind. I chased fictional rabbits down the rabbit hole and crossed seas to fight with mighty brigands. My father fed my imagination, and he enjoyed it.

“It gives her spirit!” my father used to claim. My mother was highly disapproving of my adventures partaken in our yard, as my dresses were consistently torn or ruined with mud. I didn’t get to stay as the wild and adventurous child for long.

A time I don’t quite remember, but my father tells me about often, was one where he came home as per usual. He sat me down that night to tell me of a typical story, but one that seemed to impact me more than others.

The story followed a girl who saw a porcupine who climbed up a tree which led to another world above her own. This particular porcupine transformed into a human man who captured her and made her become his wife. She picked turnips for her husband’s village and one day she found one so large, that when she plucked it from the ground she could see her home just below her. She crafted a lasso from sinew and lowered herself back into the tree that took her home.

I was told that days after, I went into the yard to play while I babbled about saving a land that I could not reach. I climbed our very own tree, and fell from it. I don’t remember the incident, which was a condition brought on by knocking my head on a branch on my way down. I was let off with severe bruising and a minor concussion with retrograde amnesia that qualified me to be lucky. They suspected my memories would return, but they never did.

I often wonder if the fall changed me in some way and left a part of me always desiring to see the illusory effects my mind created.

Yet, sometimes when I dream, I imagine the life I was told I had. And sometimes when I wake, I can hear the faint whisper at the edges of my waking mind.

‘Come back,’ it whispers. ‘Come back…’