No matter how much I tried and despite how much I needed it, sleep was elusive. I laid, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling of the small tool shack that they were pretending to call a home. I felt awkward being there, like my taking up any space was being unfair or unkind to them, even though it didn’t seem like they were doing anything different about where they were huddled in the corner opposite the door. I hadn’t even partaken of their watery soup of kitchen scraps that they hungrily wolfed down like ambrosia, but I still felt like even having inhaled the vapors has perhaps taking from them in some way. They just had so little and it worried me how quiet their baby was, it had only fussed once since I had arrived and even then it had been much more lackluster than I had expected. She had been quick to press the child to her breast, but her face had given away how despondent and upset she was, she knew she was too hungry for her body to be producing enough to keep the baby fed. The child was still somewhat chubby, but it was showing signs of acclimating to being underfed and that baby fat would start to melt away if nothing was done.

How anyone could throw what would have been a nearly newborn child onto the street was beyond my understanding, the idea gripped my chest as I lay there, feverishly trying to come up with some way to help them. I had already worked what I could for now on the potatoes, though perhaps I had enough magic in me yet to walk back up to the field and pour what I had left into the seedlings. Though it still felt like not enough, the potatoes were already on track to being done well in advance of the brutal winter as it was and a nursing mother needed more than a boiled potato to sustain her. That is perhaps what haunted me most and tugged at my sense of decency, her eyes were sunken and suffering, it was obvious her body was giving all of itself and struggling to maintain for the sake of her child. I still could not remember anything from my past, but that hit home in a way I could not place. I could not stand to awaken in the morning and stare into her hollow gaze once more with no solutions to offer.

I silently rose to my feet, which is quite a feat considering that I was not yet used to being an arm down and my body was still exhausted. Careful to open the door without alerting either of them, I stepped out into the slightly nippy night air and closed the flimsy wood behind me. It was still very much summer, but I could detect the subtle temperature dips that warned autumn would not be all that far off and the idea of them being stranded in the drafted shack needled into the back of my mind. In this area this was perhaps the best most people could do to help them, but it seemed not good enough, even if they were outsiders, human decency dictated to take care of your fellow man. Unsure of what exactly my plan was, I quietly padded up through the yard that separated the shack from the farmhouse. Just beside the well that sat on the property, my nose detected the pungent, earthy aroma of rotting vegetables and other organic matter. In the pale moonlight I nudged a rounded mound on the ground that nearly came up to my knees and found that it was squishy. Squatting down, I could barely make out various pieces of odds and ends of vegetables and eggshells that were in various states of decomposition. The surface seemed to have been recently disturbed, an idea churned my stomach and I wondered if the woman of the house had truly been generous with her scraps or if the mother had simply become desperate enough to resort to such measures. An idea of a better use of the compost rose in my mind and I tucked it away, I felt it was wise to let a few ideas bubble to the surface before I sifted through them and settled on the best plan of action.

Next to the farmhouse, but in an area of the yard that would be most often downwind from the property was a chicken hut. Having even one or two chickens would greatly increase the nutrients the small family had access to and all that would require was a rooster to be brought around to the coop if it did not already have one. If the family had been here for more than just a couple weeks, it seemed like an obvious idea to simply hand them a chick or two and let them start their small flock. Approaching the gate, the hen house looked old and weather worn, but sturdy and I could not see how many chickens were asleep inside. Given the fact that the fence set up around the coop was looped several times with rope and wire and held fastened by a thick, sturdy lock told me that the owner knew just how important of a commodity their chickens were. Another idea blossomed and I tucked it away, it was more bold and had potential for negative backlash, but I would think on it anyway if I thought things needed such desperate actions.

Next to the farmhouse itself, I found my way to the back door and pressed my ear to the wood, listening to see if anyone was up at this late hour. There was silence, but I still felt uneasy about what I was about to do. I didn’t want my actions to end up looking badly for the family in the tool shed and get them forced out. My mind wandered over how I wanted to approach my plan and I began to wonder if my latent magical affinity towards biological processes might also work on people. Experimenting, I flared my magical will and sent invisible tendrils under the door, seeking through the house to discover who all was inside and where they were. I had no idea if anything was working until I felt a sense of where someone was. I could both see them and could not, it was a strange sensation that defied explanation. I knew exactly where they were in the house, that they were a woman, which I already knew, how they were laying, and how deeply she was sleeping. This opened up a whole world of exciting possibilities to explore, but for now I needed to act on my chance. The rest of the house seemed empty, so I kept my magic tendril trained on the sleeping person and carefully pressed my weight into the backdoor, opening it quietly. In theory, I should know when or if the woman woke up and be able to rush out the back door before they were wise to who it could be. Very worst case scenario I would keep running and never look back so as to not raise suspicion against the family.

The back door opened into the kitchen, a place that still had low coals glowing in the back of the hearth and the smell of freshly baked bread somewhere in the room. The idea prickled me into anger, there was a mother literally starving herself away to nothing in their backyard and yet they were baking bread and sleeping soundly. Careful not to let my anger break my soft steps, I padded over to the table and located a large candle that was already partially burnt down. Next to the hearth I slid my hand around the stonework until my hand fell upon a leather pouch that had been hung up and filled with several lengths of splintered wood. I took one and leaned into the dying coals, pressing the wood to them until the end caught fire. I walked the new born flame over to the candle, lit it, and was relieved to find that the candle threw an appreciable amount of light. It was strange, when my powers had exploded into existence in the demon realm, it had seemed like the deep nighttime had meant nothing, my eyes could easily see everything around me, but here it was different. I wondered if the only reason I could see so well then had been the magic that ran through everything and the discovery of my potential had allowed me to connect with the conduit that flowed through even the air. It felt right, but until I found someone knowledgeable about what I was experiencing that I trusted, I would develop my theories.

A quick search of the room produced not one, but several loaves of bread, each one left to cool with a different mark on the top made by a sharp blade. It was a little hard to decipher what the marks were, but I was inclined to think they were some sort of initials. Perhaps the woman was making and selling her bread to earn income, though with only a few loaves on the table surely it could not have been her main source of income, bakeries would be rolling in coins if it were that easy. I paused for a moment and made sure I was certain they were still asleep and kept looking through the mess of utensils and ingredients that had been left out on the counter. If she was making money with her baking it would be smart of her to keep some sort of ledger to track her orders, expenses, and ingredients. Tucked into the back corner, away from the mess of flour, was a loosely bound book with several torn pages folded in half and shoved into various parts of the book as makeshift place markers. I opened it up and found the last page that had been written in and began to read:

Eight loaves to make today, Martin’s wife has given birth to my third grandchild and I will make the biggest for them in celebration. The others go to Wallis, Mary, Fredrick, Jenna, Daniel, Haddie, and the last to Patricia. I despise handing one over to Haddie, but it can’t be helped, she will give me sour looks from her pew on Sunday and come up with some nasty rumor about me or my family if I don’t play nice. She still is suspicious that I am able to keep my farm with my husband long dead, I suppose she is not all that wrong.

My nostrils flared and anger bubbled in the pit of my stomach. Not only was this bread not something she did as a necessity to earn a living, but she was even giving it away to people she hated instead of sucking up a bit of social awkwardness and giving it to a mother in need. I briefly considered stealing all of the loaves and taking them to the family, but as soon as the idea materialized I realized it was a bad one. They would be the obvious people to assume had taken it and I was pretty sure that even if they ate it out of desperation they would feel guilty enough to fess up to them having done so. They were good people and hadn’t yet learned that sometimes doing bad things in the name of survival was normal and placed no blame on them.

I flipped through the book in irritation, looking for a date a few weeks back, maybe she had recorded her thoughts on when the family arrived that might reveal some redeeming reason why she sent them out to the back like farm animals and forced them to fend for themselves on scraps whens he had so much more.

They arrived today. The Church sent the letter ahead, but I had hoped that they would find someone else along the way who could provide for them instead. I hate having to do this, but what choice do I have? I know that it fed my children and continues to ensure their life of relative comfort, but I know it’s not fair to the people that get sent to me. The Church says I’m doing the right thing, not giving them handouts so they learn the value of hard work and the piety of simple living and struggle, but it feels so wrong when I don’t have to worry about any of these things. I guess I did once and this is my reward, it just doesn’t feel like a reward.

The Church again. I still couldn’t recall anything about them, though so far they were not being presented as something benevolent.

I was in their shoes once, cast out as a young girl to the streets, left to fend for themselves and it was a woman much like myself and her family that set me up in a tent on their farm and paid me in scraps to fend for myself. I suppose it worked out in the end, even though I had thought at the time that if I were in her shoes I would have been a bit more generous, but well… I didn’t understand the stakes then. I know now she couldn’t risk her livelihood and home being pulled from her with two young children tugging at her skirts. Life is funny, you never know just how complicated someone’s situation is until you go through the scenario yourself. I used to go to bed cursing her name under my breath for having to eat the bitter tops of the beets while smelling the roast dinner she made for her family wafting through the kitchen window. Yet, I’ve become her.

A sob story? I’m not sure how I feel about it. I feel like I don’t have all the perspectives on her situation, but at the same time I couldn’t see how even knowing getting caught could be bad for her, she could still be sleeping soundly with the choices she had made. If she had been worried for her children at one point, that should no longer be a concern since it seems like her children no longer live with her. Is well time for them to stand on their own feet without her support if they are old enough to have children of their own. From just what I knew right now, I didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for her. A thick letter sat just a page back from the entry, a flowing, elegant script addressing the envelope to Maryanne. I was far beyond feeling any sort of guilt for prying into her personal affairs and pulled the parchment to read the letter.

Maryanne,

The young couple and their child will be along later this week. You are also very compliant with our rehabilitation system, but we must remind you of the program requirements all the same.

Your job is to provide a roof over their head and be mindful of any serious illness or true starvation signs. Remember, only contact your local priest if you think any one of them is in serious danger of dying within the next few days. Leave food scraps as if to compost, do not provide direct food. We do not want to breed a sense of giving handouts. That is detrimental to their rehabilitation. Stress to them the good works the Church does and invite them to attend service with you on Sundays and Thursdays. You will receive a bonus for every time their name appears in the ledger of attendees. Discourage anyone from providing additional help, they are to learn to fend for themselves.

Included is your stipend for being a diligent steward of Church lands.

May the sun light your way,

Rodridge Viao, Archcleric

Rehabilitation? That word only made sense to me in terms of someone gaining their strength back after a debilitating injury or illness and what was happening in her backyard was opposite of that. I simply couldn’t think of any other way the word could be interpreted in a way where having them starve and suffer made any sense as a positive way to change something for them. Something was definitely wrong here. While I couldn’t place what I might have once known about the Church, I felt certain that most religious systems embraced the ideas of charity, good works, and kindness, and this letter went against all of that. If this religious movement was as widespread as it seemed to be, it didn’t make much sense why so many would follow their tenets. This had to be a rogue wing of the organization, something shady that was being done without the people in charge being fully aware, surely this was something a corrupt person had set up once the power had gone to their head. That felt like it had to be close to the truth, even the most pious people can be easily corrupted by power.

I folded the letter again, tucked it into the ledger where I had found it and placed the book back on the counter. I had a lot of thinking to do and choices to make. The obvious choice was to help them, I would not feel right walking away now when I knew there was no help coming on the near horizon. I shuddered to think how long they were going to be left to sway in the end, especially since the letter did not provide any end goals, how long would it continue? Was the only help going to come when it mentioned going to the priest when they were near death? That seemed like a monstrous ending point, but it was the only one I could see. I would ensure that did not happen somehow, though I would have to make sure that none of their good fortune seemed suspicious and no blame could fall to them. It all had to look like happenstance and that was going to be the hard part. I exited the home after blowing out the candle, the old woman slept deep for someone with heavy crimes on their conscience. I needed to take a walk to clear my head, to get the blood pumping so my thoughts could clear. It would probably be helpful if I had rest and food, but I would persevere, I felt like my magic was enough to still keep me going a while longer.

Venturing into the small copse of trees next to the farmhouse revealed a lovely little area filled with signs of wildlife. It was mostly small animals like squirrels and chipmunks, hardly enough for more than a mouthful, but might stretch nicely in a stew with the potatoes they were growing. Hunting would have been top of my list for ideas of how they could survive so it seemed strange that they had not resorted to it just yet, though I had to keep in mind that Marcus had only ever been a city dweller and a tailor, hunting was never something he had ever had to think about before. I would make sure to speak with him about it in the morning and help him figure out some easy traps we could make using only the materials he could scavenge.

While bent over to closely study what I could about the vines that clung to the trees by the dim moonlight, I heard a soft rustling in the undergrowth a few feet in front of me. A young buck emerged, looking confident as he surveyed his domain, this fall would probably be his first season for mating and his form was stocky from all the eating he was doing in advance to prepare for a hungry fall. I admired his natural beauty and felt a little blessed to be able to see him so closely, but then it dawned on me that this might be the exact kind of solution I needed if I could only coax him a little closer to the shed. I extended my magical will and pressed gently into his body. It was met with no resistance and the animal raised its ears in alarm, looking around to try to figure out what was happening. With soothing intentions I calmed it and its ears slicked back and it leaned forward to tear some foliage from the ground, once again at ease. The creature had practically no magical potential of its own, so it was easy to apply a very tiny amount of suggestion and have it follow a safe distance behind me as I led it back to the shed. Just in case anyone saw me, I wanted it to look like it was just a deer too curious for his own good and not being actively led somewhere. Outside the shed, I had it pause, looking curiously at me, while I pulled open the door and slipped inside. I pressed myself to the other side and waited for my eyes to adjust to ensure that everyone was still asleep. Once I was certain they were and their breathing was even and deep, I tugged the buck closer to the door until I could hear its hoof steps just outside the door. The next part I had been dreading. I had not considered taking the life of anything before now, not even the wolf that had gnawed off my arm, but this was the best out of all my considered options right now and it had to be done. I squeezed my will into a tight ball around its heart and there was a heavy thud on the ground outside. I felt even more weakened by the expended magic and sick from having to kill something, but it was all worth it, they could eat and it would just look like a deer had wandered in and chose a spot to lay down and die. No signs of trauma or wounds, just a wonderful coincidence it fell over right outside the door of a starving family.

I crawled back into a sleeping position and hoped now I would be able to get a little rest before someone got up and discovered it. It would not be a long term solution, but now I had time to work that out. I really had not expected to entangle myself in a situation like this, but it felt nice to be helping and I would feel guilty for the rest of my life if I had turned my back. The dark thought crossed into the back of my mind that this was a way to make up for the dark deeds I had done as whomever I had been before. I rejected the thought and pushed it from my mind, regardless of if it was true or not, I wasn’t currently that person and had no recollection of anything I had done. All I could do was focus on figuring out who I was now, who knew if I would ever know my origin story.