Author's Note: This chapter is more introspective as Morgan pieces through the emotional weight of recent events. It's a slower chapter that involves some discussions of spirituality and the in-game religion.

Here's the breakdown of the Raymond family's spiritual beliefs:

Morgan's grandfather (as has been mentioned in earlier chapters) is a devout follower of Yoba. He's the type who would say grace over dinner and still follow the general teachings of that religion, but due to the farmwork, he'd rarely make it to church service.

Morgan's mother is more of the "seasonal" worshiper who goes to church on major religious holidays out of tradition and obligation.

Morgan is even less devout. She believes in the concept of Yoba but she doesn't go to church. Religion is a way for her to connect to her grandfather's traditions and to his memory, and that's about it.

Elliott's entire family is atheist (as was established in the previous story). From an academic anthropological standpoint, Elliott would probably study theology (since he has a background in philosophy), but he's not adherent to any sort of world-view except for maybe humanism (in its very basic and distilled beliefs).

Disclaimer: The beliefs about a monothestic religion are merely Morgan's beliefs and they are not meant to reflect my own personal background or feelings.

Chapter 10 - Soul Searching (Rated G)

March 14th (Spring)

"You really like this work, don't you?"

Shane and I sat on my front stoop wiping the sweat from our faces as we drank from our water bottles. I peeled off my work gloves and rested the rake against the porch edge. My palms were on fire and I could feel blisters coming on, but I felt suitably exhausted and proud.

"Yeah. I really do." I answered him. "Running a farm is hard work, as you obviously know, but I feel like this is my purpose. Uck, that sounds corny but -"

- "No." Shane interjected, "I think that sounds nice. I still haven't figured out mine."

I looked at Shane. His cheeks were rosy from the physical exertion but he was looking good, a lot better since I last saw him, actually. He had lost about twenty pounds and there was an alertness in his eyes that was previously dulled from the alcohol.

After Shane's suicide attempt last winter, he had been attending weekly therapy appointments that had eventually scaled back to bi-weekly. I only knew about this because Marnie had asked if I would milk her cows on Wednesdays because Shane was in Zuzu City for his night class and for therapy and couldn't do it, and she couldn't do it because she was running the front shop.

So I agreed. I was happy to help out, and Marnie always sent me back home with perks. Sometimes she'd send me home with an extra casserole that she just "forgot" that she had prepared and sitting in the freezer. Other times she insisted that I take a bag of chicken feed for free. I understood why she was doing this. She couldn't pay me a physical wage and the town mostly worked on a barter system anyways. Adding three more cows to my morning milking routine wasn't excessively hard work, and I knew that helping your neighbor out was just the right thing to do.

Marnie had a similar idea, and when she overheard me complaining to Leah about the raking that I didn't get done last fall (on account of my bout of 'meningitis'), she volunteered Shane to come over and help me once the snow fully melted. I felt bad for Shane, but he didn't seem to mind. Sober Shane was introverted like me and so we mostly worked in silence as the classic rock station on the radio pumped out some great tunes.

I took a drink of water and I looked at Shane again. He looked back at me and smiled. It wasn't a beaming sort of smile, but it was a small, self-satisfied one. A kind of smile that someone might have after a long, hard day of satisfying work.

"Are you ready to tackle the area behind the old greenhouse?"

I winced. I hadn't mowed the grass back there since I got to Pelican Town. I doubted whether we could even get our rakes through there at all, so I went back to the toolshed and hefted grandpa's old scythe across my shoulder.

"Let's get to it." I replied.

Shane picked up the boombox from the stump and grabbed our water bottles and his rake.

He nodded to me. His clear dark eyes were alert and wide with determination.

"As Marnie always says, 'More hands makes less work.'"

March 20th (Spring) -

"One. Two. No, again."

I sighed in annoyance.

Marlon came at me with a wooden sword. His strikes were hard and it sent vibrations through my own sword and down into my hands. Not even the four hours of raking with Shane could've caused my hands as much grief as sword fighting did.

"One hand." He barked.

I dropped my left hand to my side and did my best to hold the wooden sword up. It didn't seem all that heavy when we had started training but now the damn thing felt like a lead pipe and my shoulder was screaming in pain.

"Keep the count in your head." Marlon said. "Hit. Hit. Hit. Block. One, two, three, and four. Got it?"

It had been the twentieth time he asked if I 'got it' and my hunger-induced temper was rising to my tongue.

I squared my jaw and just nodded. He came at me again. Our swords met once, twice, and — Fuck! His wooden sword struck across my knuckles and I dropped my own weapon to the ground.

"You blocked when you should've striked." Marlon replied sagely. He picked up my sword and passed it to me. I shook my head and flexed the fingers on my right hand. They tingled and frustrated tears sprung to my eyes.

"I've had enough." I said throatily. "You win. I concede."

Marlon grunted. I was starting to learn that his grunting was more of a passive-aggressive 'suit yourself' sort of grunt where he didn't agree with my decision but he wasn't going to fight me on it either.

"You won't get better if you don't practice." He said.

"I am practicing!"

Marlon cocked a bushy eyebrow at me. He grunted again. This time the grunt was him doubting me.

"I do!" I exclaimed.

Another grunt. 'Keep fooling yourself'. The grunt said.

Marlon passed me my sword and I slid the wooden blade into an actual sheath. We started this sword fighting training the day after I told him about what happened at the Community Center. Marlon told me that some of the items that were offerings for the Junimos were found in the vast cave systems in the mountain mine. But he wanted to make sure I could take care of myself before he unlocked the mine entrance. At the rate my training was going, I wasn't going to be let into the mines until mid-winter.

"Alright, fine. How can I train on my own then?"

Marlon walked over to a pine tree and plucked a dead branch off the ground. He snapped it over his leg and handed me one half. The bough was several inches in circumference and it felt like I was holding a small log rather than a branch.

"Hit your opponent." Marlon said and he gestured at the tree.

I gave him a baleful look, sighed, and then I stepped closer to the tree's trunk. I adjusted my grip on the makeshift weapon and struck the tree and followed through with a backhand strike to the left side.

Marlon's mustache twitched in amusement while my hand rang out with uncomfortable tingling numbness.

"Good. Now do that … oh … let's say about one thousand times per day and I think you'll be more accustomed to absorbing the blows when we next train."

I sighed and took the stick and leaned it up against the tree trunk. My right palm was tender and I couldn't grasp anything without feeling a sensitive ache shoot up my forearm.

"See you next week." I said glumly.

Marlon nodded, "Next week it is."

He clasped my shoulder and gently squeezed. Neither of us were huggers and that sort of gesture didn't seem terribly appropriate. He was my paternal grandfather, but we were still getting to know each other. Marlon gathered up the equipment that he brought out to the training ground and brought it back into The Adventure Guild. I waited until he made it inside the lodge before I gathered up my own things and trudged my way down the hillside and back towards town.

My stomach rumbled and the sun was setting. Greasy food and warm hoppy beer wafted through the air. My mouth watered and I made my way towards the Saloon without really thinking about what I was doing.

The place was busy for a weeknight. Most of the bar was full. Pierre, Dr. Harvey, Clint, and Willy occupied the front bar stools. Pam sat in her usual spot in the corner. I could've slid into Shane's old spot (as he was playing Journey of the Prairie King in the arcade with Sam), but I didn't want Pierre to strike up a conversation with me in which I'd accidentally incriminate myself about my trespassing in the Community Center.

"Hey Morgan! I'll be with you in a minute. Just help yourself to any open seat." Emily said.

I scanned the dining area and found a two-top table tucked away in the corner. As I sat down, I noticed a tan-faced man with bleach blond hair staring off into the distance. It took me a moment to realize that was Sam's dad, Kent. I wouldn't have recognized the man if he hadn't been wearing his army green jacket with the name tag on the chest that said Underhill. Three yellow chevron patches were stitched onto his right arm. I didn't know anything about the military, but I did know that Kent was a lifer. He joined up when Sam was a baby, so I assumed that he had to be someone of importance. As much as it pained my introverted self to do so, I figured that I should say hi.

I cleared my throat and spoke loud enough to be heard over the idle bar chatter. "Hey Kent! Welcome home!"

His eyes scanned up to meet mine. His eyes were pale blue and they carried a depth to them that was both intense and haunting.

"Morgan? Is that really you?" His brow furrowed as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Yoba you've grown up. How long has it been?"

"A while." I replied with a small grin.

"I didn't know that you were back. I heard about Adolph's death. My condolences."

"Thank you." I replied. "And maybe you haven't heard, but he willed the farm to me. I moved here in the Spring."

"I did hear. That's wonderful." Kent replied with a tired smile. "Sam tells me that the farm is thriving. You truly are Adolph's granddaughter."

I blushed at the praise.

"By the way, thank you for your service to the Republic." I said.

His expression darkened when I said that and he stared off into the air above my shoulder. "Yeah. Well …" He cleared his throat. "Just glad to be home, that's all. Glad to be retired. Glad to live to see another birthday."

"It's your birthday! Oh shit, sorry. I didn't know."

Kent shook his head and brushed my apology away. "Don't worry about it. Once you get over the hill in your age, birthdays don't matter as much anymore."

I did the mental math based on what he said. Wow. Kent was only 40. I knew that the military life and the stress of being in an active war zone aged you, but I never expected that Sam's dad was so young. Sam was a little younger than me. He was old enough to drink which meant that Kent had Sam when he was 19. Yoba, that's young.

Kent finished the last dregs of his beer and left a pile of gold stacked neatly on the table for Emily.

"Enjoy your dinner, Morgan. I'll see you around."

The man got up and slipped through the front door without anyone noticing. Maybe folks were just too focused on their dinners or too engrossed in the conversation, but the fact that nobody even acknowledged his presence made me feel uneasy.

"Hoo boy." Emily said with a good-natured smile. "Sorry 'bout the wait Morgan. Everyone must've had the same idea for dinner tonight - not that I'm complaining. I'm just getting some kinda weird vibes in here today."

"Weird? How so?"

Emily stuck her blue ballpoint pen behind her ear. Red gemstones shone in her earlobes and the gold stud in her nose contrasted with her pale skin. She lowered her voice a little and stooped over to whisper, "The Welwick Oracle foretold that the spirits were very displeased today."

I bit my tongue to stop myself from laughing. Emily believed in the occult and this New Age stuff with the same devout reverence as Evelyn had for The Sign of the Vessel and Yoba. Far be it for me to judge someone on their personal beliefs, but after the mostly shitty past few days that I had, I wondered if there was more to that fortune teller channel than I originally thought.

"Well, what can you do about bad luck?" I asked. "The way I see it, you either have bad luck or you don't. You can't really control it."

"That's true." Emily agreed. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't fight against it."

I snorted at that. "Seems like that's been the only thing I've been fighting against."

"I'm sorry to hear that." And she was.

"Thanks." I said wearily. Suddenly I wasn't all that hungry anymore, and I mostly just wanted to go to bed. "Hey Emily, can I put in an order of french fries to go? My body is trying to decide which I want to do more: eat or sleep, and sleep is winning."

"You can't just eat french fries for dinner." She chided teasingly. It was a comment that if it came from anyone else, I'd tell them that I was a grown ass woman and to mind their own business, but coming from Emily, I knew she was just trying to look out for me.

"I'll put in an order of fries and I'll slip you some of our leftover winter root and crab gumbo."

"You don't have -"

Emily held up her hand and shook her head. "It's on the house. Trust me. Gus would be upset with me if I let you leave here on a hungry stomach. Besides, I was going to throw the gumbo out at the end of my shift. It only keeps for a few days. You'd be doing me a favor and easing my guilt about wasted food."

"You and Gus are too good to me." I said.

Her smile brightened. "Nonsense. Just pay it forward. If you send good vibes out into the universe, you'll get them right back."

After I left the Saloon, I made my way back down the dirt road with my food. Emily had packaged my fries up in a cardboard to-go box. They smelled greasy and amazing; my mouth watered just thinking about them...and I might've snuck a few out of the box as a snack on my way back home. The last of Gus's gumbo sat in a closed tupperware bowl which I promised to bring back to him after I washed it. Delivering food this way probably wasn't up to the strictest of health codes, but after watching a documentary about pollution I was trying to use less styrofoam. I mean...the amount of trash that I pulled out of the lakes, rivers, and oceans when I went fishing spoke volumes to the pollution problem in Pelican Town.

The walk back home was serene. My breath came out in visible puffs of white vapor and the cloudless sky and moonless night opened the sky to a blanket of stars. I looked upward and smiled. Some of the larger stars twinkled while the smaller ones were clustered together in a fine white speckled blanket. It looked like someone took a paintbrush full of white paint and splattered paint across a wet canvas. Blues and deep violets gave way to dark blues and midnight blacks.

I thought back to the evenings where grandpa and I would lay down in the pasture on his thick wool blanket and stargaze. He once told me that all troubles seem less important when you look to the heavens and realize just how small we all are in the grand scheme of things. We're just one tiny dot in a sea of unknowns. I mean, Grandpa had his faith in Yoba to help guide him and I had my faith in him. "Had" being the painfully accurate version of the word.

After everything unfolded, I tried to not let my thoughts linger too long on my grandfather. I mean, part of that was because I didn't want to trigger some long lost memory, but thinking about him now that I knew the truth burned me up inside. Betrayal was a horrible sensation, and sadness didn't get close to describing how I was feeling.

I made it back to the cabin and realized that I had lost my appetite. I was hungry for something else. Answers, maybe. But I needed to know the truth. I needed to know why grandpa lied to me all these years. I went into the cabin, put my food in the fridge, and walked right back outside with a purpose in mind. What I was about to do seemed silly. If Elliott was here, maybe I'd feel self-conscious about putting so much faith in a God or in religion, but talking with Grandpa worked once before. Okay...talking was too generous, but he communicated with me last Winter's Eve. Maybe he'd communicate with me again.

The beam from my headlamp made the large oak and pine trees that grew in the corner of the property seem even more imposing. The weeds and brambles that I had yet to clear were still dead, but a few thorny bushes had enough teeth to pull at my thick jacket sleeves and at my blue jeans. The mossy ground was soft and still slightly damp from the snowmelt and the rain, and it felt like I was walking on thick carpeting.

Dead leaves covered Grandpa's grave. I brushed them off and I scooped out the muddy and slushy ice-snow that was left over in the four candle holders. I didn't bring any candles with me this time, but that was fine. I didn't need grandpa to answer back. I just needed him to listen.

My breathing came out soft, short gasps as grief and frustration gripped my heart. Hot tears burned my eyes and I stared at my grandpa's grave willing him to hear me.

"Yoba damn it, Grandpa. I'm mad at you." I told him in a low, gravely voice.

Oh that's a good start, I admonished myself. Let's just keep going. Let's get all of the blaspheming out now.

I sighed. "Why did you lie to me? Better yet, why did you let mom lie to me? How could you stand having me around knowing that a part of me was magically erased? That part of my memories of you were erased, too?"

My anger started spilling out like waves crashing upon the beach. I don't care if what I was saying didn't make sense. I had feelings and they just needed to be said.

"Damn it … I - I -TRUSTED YOU!" I shouted.

My tears spilled down my cheeks and landed on the forest floor. My nose plugged up and my throat was slightly sore from shouting, but I didn't care. I was on a roll and I couldn't stop now.

"Damn it, Grandpa! You and Mom let me believe that I grew up my entire life with a layabout father. You let Mom tell me that my father ran out on her and that he was useless. You made him into the enemy, and that affected me! I needed a father, Grandpa! And you were there in the summers, sure, but during the school year, I needed someone who could be proud of me. Someone who could go to parent-teacher conferences with me, or help me with my math homework. A man in my life who loved me! Mom tried, but she was always working. And Chuck tried, but he's not my father. And you took that from me!"

I thought about how I felt when I saw Henry for the first time up at the Adventure Guild. I recognized our physical similarities right away, and although I was guarded and cautious, a small part of me wanted nothing more than to get to know him. I wanted him to know me. I wanted to dive into these past twenty years and tell him everything about my schools, about my childhood friends and becoming the regional president of the Future Business Leaders of Ferngill club. Maybe if he was around, he could've given me advice about Brandon (or maybe in true Dad-fashion, he would've recognized Brandon's awfulness and chased him away from me with a shotgun). But I didn't get to do any of those things. For the past two decades, I always thought that my father left because of me...because he didn't want me. I thought that I was the problem.

A gust of wind kicked up which threw the dead leaves on the forest floor into a mini tornado. I pulled up the hood on my jacket and stuffed my bare hands into my pockets. Grandpa's grave sat inert and cold. I felt exhausted. Emotionally, I was tapped dry.

I was about to head back to the cabin, but then I heard my grandfather's voice calling out from the darkness.

"Morgan?! Morgan, where are you sweet pea?!"

"Grandpa?" I croaked.

Then I heard my mom's frantic voice.

"Morgan! Morgan! Where are you?!"

Sheer terror gripped my heart and I bolted back towards the cabin. The light from my headlamp flickered twice and then it went dead. I clicked the button several times but the batteries must've finally died. Without a light source, I forced myself to slow down so I didn't trip over an exposed root or something.

"I think she went into the barn." My grandfather said.

I tried to make my way towards the barn. Thorns and brambles pulled at my blue jeans. One sneaky branch even scratched at my cheek. I could've used my cell phone as an emergency light source, but I left it inside sitting on the charger. The damn thing could barely hold a charge for any longer than a couple of hours, and I was still too stubborn to drop a whole bunch of gold on a new one.

As I got closer to the barn, I heard Stella plaintively moo. The two goats let out near unison bleats and then I heard a horse whinny...except, I didn't own a horse. I let myself into the barn through the attached milkhouse so I could grab the kerosene lamp I had inside. I found the box of matches, lit the lamp, and carefully brought it into the barn with me. Stella swished her tail and her moos became more urgent when she saw me. Scout was safely stashed behind her mom. The bovine's physical heft blocked almost all of her baby. I only knew she was back there because I knew Stella didn't have eight legs. The two goats rose up onto their hind legs and pawed at their gate - it was their way of begging to get out.

Morgan, are you in here?

I jumped at the sound of my grandfather's voice. I didn't see any spectre or ghost, but I did feel his presence. I smelled the faint aroma of his pipe tobacco and the barn grew just a tad warmer. And then I remembered it. I remembered the moment when I had lost everything, including myself. I sat down in the middle of the barn and I put the kerosene lamp on the floor next to me. The memory came as soon as I closed my eyes.

I saw myself, my six-year old self, crawl deeper into the haypile in the large barn. Several of grandpa's cows stood lowing nervously as this human child buried herself in their food. His grey gelding, Silver Dollar, stamped his back feet and whinnied as soon as Grandpa stormed into the barn. He looked so young, at least, younger than I had ever seen him. Grandpa's blond hair had already lightened to become almost completely white. His thick mustache still hand small tints of strawberry blond coloring amid the swath of deep steel grey. He carried a slingshot tucked into the waistband of his pants. He wore a grey loose-fitting shirt that was unbuttoned at the top to reveal silver wisps of hair and grey suspenders.

"Is she in there Dad?" Mom called from outside.

Grandpa looked around the barn. He checked under an overturned water trough and climbed the ladder and looked through the tightly packed hay bales that were stacked up three-high.

"No, I don't see her." he yelled out. "Where's Henry?"

"Marlon's got him. He's keeping him in the mines until we can find Morgan and try to explain ..." her voice faltered. "Yoba. What am I going to do, Dad? Morgan saw him transform. She watched her father turn into a beast and then he abducted her! It's a miracle we got either one of them back from that witch."

Grandpa nodded and he made a sign in the air in reverence to The Vessel.

"Yoba, it is a province that we got both of them back. Let's just hold to the faith that we'll find her soon."

He climbed back down the ladder and left the barn. Minutes later he came back in with a pitchfork and wearing a different set of clothes. His grey work pants were tucked into knee-high muck boots and he wore a brown jacket over a plain long sleeve shirt. Early dawn light streamed into the barn when he came inside. The cows reacted to his presence and pressed their weight against the stalls, their heads nuzzling the empty feed bags that were about to be filled. Grandpa looked exhausted. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed and he was moving a lot slower.

He took his pitchfork and stuck it into the hay pile, pulled off a decent size chunk of hay, and dropped it into the horse's food trough. That small disturbance was enough for the child-me to stir and make a small noise. Grandpa heard it and he set the pitchfork against the wall and went to the hay pile. He dug deep into the hay, let out a shock of surprise and relief, and pulled me out. Straw stuck out of my hair like a pin cushion and my face was terribly pale; my lips were blue.

"Sweet pea?" Grandpa croaked. He held me to his chest and sobbed.

"Diane!" he yelled.

"Did you find her?" Came the excited and scared reply.

Grandpa chuckled in relief, "She was hiding in the hay. Damn near buried herself to the bottom like a little rabbit. My sweet girl. Clever girl. Call the doctor Diane. She's got hypothermia and she's probably dehydrated. I'm gonna bring her inside and get her warm."

As he carried me out, I caught a glimpse of myself. My eyes were open but they were completely vacant and life-less. My shoulders gently rose and fell which was the only indication that I was breathing at all. I looked dead. All light was gone from my eyes. It was a look that photographers captured when they took pictures of children from war torn parts of the country. I looked like I had seen hell itself.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring at the dying flame in the kerosene lamp. I was lying on my side; my right arm was asleep because I had been using it as a makeshift pillow. I didn't know the time nor did I know if I had been asleep for very long. Right next to my kerosene lamp was another piece of parchment, similar to the one that I found at Grandpa's grave during the Feast of the Winter Star. I unrolled it with clumsy, half-numb fingers and read the familiar handwriting.

Remember my last words, sweet pea. Trials and challenges are upon you now. Evil cannot be vanquished without help. I am sorry for the part I played in trying to protect you from this evil. I'm a fallible old man and a fool. Please know that I have never stopped loving you.

My hand trembled as I held the note up to the lamp. I re-read it several times and the words still took a moment to sink in. I put the note in my jacket pocket, and then I struggled to my feet, extinguished the kerosene lamp and left it on the hook by the door, and ran back to my cabin.

I threw the door open and slammed it shut with such force that Golden bolted from her resting place on the couch and into the bedroom to hide beneath the bed. I followed her into the room, tore open my top drawer, pushed aside some underwear and socks and found the other note … the previous note that my grandfather had left for me when I went to his grave.

It was real. They were both real. I kinda thought that the first one was a fluke. Maybe I was hallucinating or maybe someone was playing a terrible trick on me, but a line from the first note struck me in my gut: Trials and challenges await you, sweet pea. Don't be afraid to ask for help. The town will come through just as they did for me.

My ringing cell phone startled me out of my thoughts. The LED screen on the front of my phone read 1:40am and the caller ID beneath it said "Elliott." I also had four unopened text messages.

Oh shit.

"Hello?"

"Morgan!? Oh thank Yoba." Elliott's voice was tight with stress and I heard him audibly exhale a breath when I answered the phone. "I was so worried, love."

"I know. I'm sorry." I replied. "It's been a busy day and I haven't had my phone on me. I just got home."

"You just got home?" Elliott echoed. "Are you okay? Did you experience another memory again? Is that why you were out so late?"

"Sort of." I replied. "It's kind of complicated and I'm still processing through it. I'm fine though. I'm back home. I'm safe and sound. I'm sorry that I worried you."

Elliott chuckled. The sound was throaty and a little wet. I suspected that his chuckle was trying to mask a sob. "No, love. I'm sorry that I'm so paranoid. Sometimes my anxiety brain kicks in and just assumes the worst. I'm just glad to hear from you. Can you call me tomorrow afternoon so we can talk a little longer? We both should get to bed."

I yawned again. Sleep was already pulling me down.

"Yeah. I can do that." I said. "Love you."

"I love you too," he replied.

"Goodnight."

I snapped my phone shut and I was asleep before I could even put it on the charger.