mother_herbivore | Falnight 01 (of 14)

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The day my youngest son disappeared dawned cool and gray, dampened by another spring storm that had passed in the night. We did not notice a thing that night—the constant rush of rain on the roof was white noise, a lullaby that we ignored until it was gone. Anything could have happened that night. None of us would have known.

Falnight’s disappearance was not the first. There were two others in neighboring towns that had vanished before him, both of them young—I would call them children, but they were at least old enough for apprenticeships, to be trusted with tending their family’s shop alone for a day or caring for their younger siblings while their parents worked in the fields. A report had been carefully written and sent to Ovelia for each one, and for each one a letter came from the chief of police in response, promising to send an investigator when they could. That was it. Ovelia was the largest city in the valley, a few days’ ride away from Sheaside and our neighbors, and their police had more important things to take care of. Our local peacekeepers were not equipped to deal with the issue—they dealt with natural disaster and wild animals and the occasional unsavory character that passed through the area, not unusual magic and missing persons. Our mountains both protected and separated us from the rest of the commonwealth, and we were little more than the backdrop of the trade routes that pass through the valley. In all this, we were alone until Ovelia found time for us. What more could we do but wait?

Perhaps worse than waiting was not knowing. None of us knew anything, because there was nothing to know—the children had simply vanished, without a trace left behind. Doors were still locked, windows were still closed, even the dogs were quiet on the nights of all the disappearances. There was nothing out of place in Falnight’s room in the morning—his books still sat neatly on their shelves, all accounted for. His flowers were still in their vase on his nightstand, wanting for their morning water but untouched. At first I thought he might have gotten up early to see if the rain had washed any frogs out of our bend of the river, but he never would have left the front gate without telling me. The muddy path was pristine, anyway, not a footprint in sight until I walked through it. The Ovelia police might have found something with their proper tools and mages if they had ever come to investigate. It was frustrating, confusing, frightening to have no clues, but what could we do? Life still went on.

Things were tense between all of us—not just within our family, but throughout our community. We had to carry on our business for all the travelers who came through Sheaside in the spring on their way to the Igrigio Ports. All the while, people were waiting for the worst, for their own children to disappear or turn up dead. Normally-cordial neighbors grew arbitrarily suspicious of each other, especially the lesser elfkinds and goblinoids—even my husband Vicaste had been the subject of some scrutiny before Falnight disappeared. As if any cave elf or Qerastan could muster magic great enough to wipe away all trace of a kidnapping. A Greater elf, perhaps, even half-blooded might have that strength if they were well-trained, but I refused to suspect my neighbors.

Spring passed into summer, and Odida’s parents left. Odida, a girl from the other side of town who was hardly older than Falnight, had been the second to disappear—her parents were waiting nearly a year for news that never came. They sold their house to a laundress’s daughter and went east, unable to stand Sheaside any longer. With no other children and only a meager farm to their name, there was nothing left for them here. I was sorry to see them go—they were good, kind people, and her mother was a beautiful fiddle player.

“We will miss you at the spring dances,” I told her on the morning they left, offering a smile. She nodded, but could not seem to bring herself to smile back. Her eyes shone with tears. I gave them a package of my sugared rolls as a parting gift and told them that I would write if there was any news. Their responses were noncommittal. I watched them leave, and I thought to myself that I would not let my family give up like that. Yes, it was hard without Falnight, but his older brother Winedawn was still here. His parents—Vicaste, Ishgod, and I—we were still here. All was not lost.

Another child disappeared, late in the summer, in the same manner as the rest, and we looked for them as we had looked for all the others. It was a familiar process by now, depressingly so: when the family had searched as far as they could, a few of the young bachelors rode as far as a fast horse could take them in a day, but they had to return the next night because they were not equipped for anything more. Letters were sent to Ovelia, unhelpful replies received, and once again, life had to go on. The autumn harvests and slaughterings were approaching fast.

Work was a simple distraction. I was always busy with guests in the hotel, and whenever there was a spare moment, I was cooking or cleaning, or I had mending work to take home with me that kept me occupied. Ishgod’s tinctures were in high demand as the cooling weather brought with it the first coughs and runny noses of the season, and he had his herbal compendium to work on at home. Vicaste always had weaving or spinning to do—I often sat with them in the evenings when I had my own sewing to work on. Winedawn was progressing well in his silversmithing apprenticeship all the while. He made Vicaste a pair of wire-wrap earrings with small bits of glass that had been smoothed by the river, and I have never seen Vicaste without them since. By all appearances, our lives were normal, except for Falnight’s empty chair.