In the center of the world was a kingdom; in the center of the kingdom was a forest; in the center of the forest were villages; in the center of the villages were little homes; in the center of the homes were pillars; in the center of the pillars was a seat; in the center of the seat was a spirit; in the center of the spirit was a changeable heart; in the center of the heart was murder; in the center of murder was love; in the center of love was fate.
We prayed to fate and the nimble spirit hummed and gobbled our prayers and when we prepared a hefty feast, our humble table laden with dishes made from the bounty of our forest, we made an offering dictated by the tenets of our religion. The spirit seemed content and we lived our days in our small home, confident that nothing would harm us because we were penitent, fate would favor us.
Our home was two hundred years old and the pillar had been carved from old oak over three hundred years ago by distant relatives who lived only as names on a family tree in the book of our religion.
When famine spread because of a long drought, Papa decided that we should move. At least for a few years. We had no income and our pantry had only a jar of pickled eggs and cherry fruit.
Papa told us we were going to a vast icy island called Kaira. Papa wanted to fish instead of farm. This, I knew, was a bad idea because Papa knew little about deep waters and the muscular fish that dwell below the rough sea. He could not be swayed in his decision.
We packed our belongings and dismantled the precious pillar. I felt the pillar quiver in my hands as I helped Papa take it down.
“Perhaps we should leave it, Papa,” I said.
“No,” he insisted. “It’s protected our home for three hundred years. It will protect us in Kaira. Now be a good girl and lift.”
We boarded the boat, long and narrow with taut sails, and sailed for one month. There were other families sailing with us, space was limited, and an illness spread so that the deck was messy with vomit. One day, as I was heaving over the boat, I spotted snowy mountains, and then a craggy cove was in view. Papa and the sailors threw the pillar overboard. They tracked the pillar and when it floated on shore, near a cold mountain, Papa said that was where we would build our home.
We built our home with the pillar at the center. Papa began fishing – there were so many fish. It was difficult in the beginning, but we learned how to cast the nets and haul our treasure onboard. We sold the fish at a market near the pier while Mama grew potatoes and soon our pantry was stocked to last us two winters.
One winter, four years later, there was an awful blizzard; we huddled inside near the fireplace. We had our backs to the pillar. I thought I could hear the pillar whisper angrily. I told Mama the spirit in the pillar was unhappy and she laughed, unwilling to believe the spirit would wreck our earned fate. .
Soon we heard and felt a massive quaking. We rushed outside and an avalanche, rolling from the mountain, headed towards us. We screamed and I ran. Papa and Mama, who decided to watch the snowy terror, died and the house was destroyed except for the pillar, which laughed louder than the thunder careening down the mountain.
On that day I left the old religion behind and began the trek back home. Our old home was vacant and the village nearly empty, but I met a man, a blacksmith who I married, and became a mother. There is no pillar in my home, there is no center in my home, and I am not at the center of anything. When I became pregnant with my second child, my husband hauled a long slab of oak to our home and I could see based on the markings that it was my family’s pillar.
“My love, I found this pillar floating on the shore.” My husband was beaming and I collapsed onto the soil as laughter erupted across the kingdom.