I don’t remember learning how to read or write.

  My mother can’t read, neither can any of the peasants I’ve ever known. Books and paper are for lords and ladies, not boys who grow up chopping wood and sleeping in old, drafty hunting cabins. Yet somehow my mother still caught me years ago writing my name in the dirt at the village market. I learned as a young child, I was never to talk about it. Most importantly, I could never do it again.

  But I can't stop thinking about it. Why? How? My thoughts tumbled in my mind like the rickety wheel of an old cart, pulling me out of my restless sleep. I stared up at the ceiling of the one-room cabin my mother and I shared deep in the forest. The dim rays of the morning sun trickled in through the scattered holes where the planks had slowly rotted away.

  Through heavy eyes, I gazed across the room toward my mother's bed. It was empty, the blanket pulled perfectly straight as usual. I rolled back onto my back and, with a sigh, I drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

  Later I awoke with a jolt, sitting up in my bed and struggling to catch my breath, my face drenched with sweat while my heart raced. Once again, I had that dream. At first it was only a stone room, but now it was cursed with a black cloth and behind it, were a woman's cries. I rubbed my forehead with my arm, but it did little. Even if my arm hadn' been violently shaking, it wouldn’t have done any good. A wet cloth won’t dry up spilt tea.

  Cursing myself for oversleeping, I scrambled out of bed, nearly falling over as I tripped on the thin blanket that had slipped onto the floor. I grabbed my wool shirt from the old wooden dining chair, wondering how it got there. My mother must have draped it across the low backrest on her way out. My toe met a soft resistance. I looked down to see my ragged leather boots. My mother thought of everything, except waking me up.

  I pulled the wool shirt over my head, snagging my ear on one of the many holes in the tattered fabric, then tugged on one of my boots. A sharp pain shot in a straight line from my toe up my calf before fading into my upper leg. My feet have finally outgrown my boots. Now the question: which pain do I endure today, the boots or my bare feet?

  Barefoot, I ran down the forest path, ignoring the sharp stones and twigs cutting into the arches of my feet. Even in the height of summer, the dense canopy of tall evergreens blocked the warmth of the sun. A chill always lingered on the forest floor and on the goosebumps on my arms.

  At the pond I briefly stopped to watch the rippling water stirred by a light breeze. I should stop and wash up, even though I was so late. My mother always insisted that I wash every morning. It was another one of her quirks that I never quite understood. Why spend the time washing when I would just put on dirty clothes anyway? I shook my head and continued down the path toward the shadowy trees silhouetted against the bright light.

  Without the cover of the trees, the bright sunlight felt like daggers. I squeezed my eyes shut, trusting my instincts to follow the path until my eyes adjusted to the sun and its reflection on the waves of grain lining the rocky road. The murmuring voices around me grew steadily louder. By the time I could finally look upon the village on the horizon, I was nearly there. The crumbling walls slowly rose into view.

  When I reached the village, the market road was already bustling. Merchants canvas tents lined the dirt path, their mismatched colors and patched-up fabrics resembling a quilt hastily stitched together. I ignored the familiar shouting and arguing between merchants and customers. Most of the time, the customer was right.

  I slowed to a walk, scanning the tents around me looking for the tent emitting the aromas of freshly baked bread. The familiar tingling in my mouth grew stronger the closer I came. A rumble in my stomach rumbled in a long, groaning complaint. I dug through my pockets, finding only the hole from which my last precious coin must have escaped. With a sigh and a sharp pang in my belly, I trudged down the path.

  It was here where my mother’s small tent stood, hidden amongst the rest, easy to overlook. Inside she sold her obscure service to those who knew where to find her.

  ──── ? ────

  My mother insists I learned to read and write at the market watching her clients write in their tiny books. I disagree. How do you learn letters when you’ve never seen them?

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  A small, brown tent nestled between two larger colorful tents caught my eye. I stood before it, the heavy tarp of the door closed tightly. My mother was busy and didn’t wish to be disturbed. I looked down at the dirty, beige rug laid carefully in front of the tent’s door. One spot in the corner rubbed clean through years of heavy use. My spot when I didn’t feel like running around the village anymore. Today, I didn’t have the energy to roam.

  I don’t know how long I sat in the hot sun on that rug waiting for my mother to come out. A stick found its way into my hands. I zoned out watching the hypnotic movement of drawing circles in the dusty dirt of the market pathway. A shadow briefly obscured my face but I didn’t look up. Round and round, like the slow moving spoon of the cook, the stick scratched more circles into the dirt.

  “I thought I told you, no writing at the market.” I flinched, startled by my mother’s stern voice.

  I threw the stick onto the road and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “I wasn’t writing,” I protested and turned my head away from her.

  “Good.” She twirled a lock of my shoulder length, light cream hair around her finger. It pulled uncomfortably tight against my scalp. “You didn’t wash your hair.”

  “Nope. I didn’t feel like it.” I leaned away from her, my hair gently fell out of her hand. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I figured you were tired. You woke me up a few times last night with your sobbing and whimpering.” A typical answer from my mother while she’s working, simple and to the point, almost distant. I bit my lip. So my dreams keep my mother awake too.

  The sun hung high in the blue, cloudless sky. I wiped the sweat from my brow and glanced at my mother. Her golden brown hair, as usual, was neatly combed and pulled back loosely behind her ears. Despite sitting on the ground, my mother always sat up straight, her ragged brown dress tucked tightly under her legs. As far as I know, she’s the only one who does that. I never understood it. Slouching was much more comfortable, I’d imagine.

  My mother stared at the road in a daze, her light blue eyes watering up as they scanned the villagers casually walking by. I wondered where she was in her thoughts. Her face is as emotionless as the crumbling stone statues by the small chapel in the village square. I deeply inhaled and exhaled before tugging on my mother’s tattered sleeve.

  “Mother, how did I learn how to write?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t react at all. Her blank stare stoked a fire in me. My stomach tightened up. My brows scrunched together. I huffed and pulled harder on her sleeve.

  “Come on, don’t ignore me again!” I slapped my thighs, the dust from my pants wafted up into a cloud around us. “You can’t read! You can’t write! Why is it that I can?” My voice slowly grew louder with each word I flung at her. I looked toward the statue next to me. Her shoulders subtly bunching up but she didn’t respond or acknowledge that I even spoke to her.

  “Mother! Stop ignoring me and tell the truth!” Merchants across the road curiously glanced our way. Their hands slowly returning their wares to the rickety tables in front of them.

  She turned sharply to face me. I recoiled from the change in her round face. I’d never seen my mother truly angry before. Her light blue eyes narrowed, her jaw tightened and she sharply inhaled.

  “How dare you speak to me that way, you ungrateful brat!” She snapped. Her lip curled up into a small snarl. “Look around you. Is this the place to do this?”

  I crossed my arms. “Yeah. Why not?”

  She leaned closer to me. I could feel her warm breath across my cheek. “You will never understand. What I’ve had to give up. What I’ve done to keep you safe. How long has it been? Sixteen years? No, closer to seventeen now.” Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes. She sat up, perfectly straight but her dress bunched up between us, no longer perfectly tucked under her small frame. “The market is no place to discuss this.” She rubbed her dress flat on her thighs.

  “Then where? When?” I kept my voice to a whisper. I rubbed my face with my hands, pushing the hair out of my eyes. My mother’s hand locked around my wrist. She forcibly pulled me toward her, causing me to fall on my side against her.

  “You will never speak of your abilities at this market or anywhere outside our cabin. Unless, I allow it. And I mean all of your abilities.”

  I felt my wrist start shaking in her grasp. I sharply inhaled and bit my lip. I didn’t dare to pull away.

  “As far as anyone here is concerned,” I could barely understand her angered whispers, “you’re as illiterate as the stones holding down the edges of my tent. If others learn who you are, the consequences will be far worse than you can imagine. Do you understand?”

  I wasn’t listening anymore. In the distance a crowd of villages hastily parted allowing a noble girl to pass through. I focused on her graceful walk and the emerald dress that seemed to dance on the light breeze that gently pulled at it. This young girl was one of my mother’s most distinguished regulars, a noble of one of the high houses. I need to escape but my mother’s grasp tightened.

  “Abel,” she hissed. I flinched at the sound of my own name, slowly turning to look at my mother. The cold look in her eyes demanded an answer from me.

  “Yes, mother,” I quietly replied, “I understand.” I didn’t understand at all but I knew better than to keep pushing when a client approaches. I jumped my feet and offered my mother a hand, pulling her up before helping to brush the dirt and dried grass off her dress.

  As the noble approached the tent, I quickly bowed my head. My mother held the flap to the tent open and the two ducked inside. The tent closed with a dull thud. I exhaled in relief and turned to run off. A hand fell hard on my shoulder, thin fingers dug into the soft flesh by my neck.

  “Sit down. It’s time we talked,” a woman’s voice sharply commanded as she pushed me down. I fell back down on to the dirty rug sending an ache through my lower back. Light blue clouded my vision as I blinked the tears away from the dust prickling my eyes. I couldn’t begin to understand what a noblewoman would want from an impoverished peasant boy.