Chapter 2: The Echo of Laughter
The morning sun rose sluggishly over Harrowhill, bathing the village in its usual muted light. Tara sat at her writing desk, the jester's mask resting in her lap. Its surface gleamed with an iridescent glow, shifting between colors she couldn't quite name. Every time she touched it, a tingle ran up her arm, as if the mask itself was alive, eager to fulfill its purpose.
But what purpose? She had no idea how to begin. A joke strong enough to awaken an entire village? It sounded absurd.
Her grandmother shuffled into the room, clutching a steaming mug of tea. "You were out late last night," she said without looking up.
Tara stiffened. "I... just needed some air."
"Hmph." Her grandmother sipped her tea, eyeing the parchment on Tara's desk. "Write anything worthwhile?"
Tara hesitated, then pushed the blank sheet aside. "No. Nothing yet."
Her grandmother grunted and left, but not before shooting the mask a suspicious glance.
Tara exhaled. If she was going to break the curse on Harrowhill, she couldn't do it here, under her grandmother's watchful gaze. She tucked the mask into her satchel and slipped out of the house.
---
The market square was as dreary as ever. Villagers moved about their business in silence, heads down, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Tara scanned the crowd, searching for someone—anyone—who might help her.
Her eyes landed on Ryn, the village carpenter, who was struggling to balance a stack of wooden planks on his shoulder. He was young, maybe a few years older than Tara, and one of the few people in Harrowhill who didn't scowl all the time.
"Need a hand?" Tara asked, hurrying over.
Ryn looked up, startled. "Tara? Since when do you leave your scribe's desk?"
She rolled her eyes. "Since now. Can I help or not?"
He shrugged and handed her a plank. "Suit yourself."
As they walked toward the carpenter's shop, Tara tested the waters. "Do you ever think about, I don't know, what it'd be like if Harrowhill wasn't so... grim?"
Ryn chuckled softly. "What, like the old stories? Laughter, festivals, that sort of thing?"
"Exactly," she said, surprised by his response.
He shook his head. "It's a nice thought, but people here don't change. Not after what happened."
"But what if they could?" Tara pressed.
Ryn stopped and gave her a curious look. "What are you up to, Tara?"
She hesitated, then pulled the jester's mask from her satchel. It shimmered in the sunlight, drawing Ryn's attention like a moth to a flame.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It's... complicated," she said. "But I think it can help us. I just need to figure out how."
Ryn frowned, but he didn't walk away. Instead, he nodded toward the woods. "If you're serious about this, you might want to talk to Old Marlow. He knows more about the village's past than anyone."
"Old Marlow?" Tara asked.
"The storyteller," Ryn said. "Or he was, before the laughter stopped. He lives on the edge of the forest, in that rickety old cabin. He might have answers."
Tara nodded, clutching the mask tighter. "Thanks, Ryn."
He gave her a half-smile. "Be careful, Tara. People around here don't like change."
---
Old Marlow's cabin was a crooked thing, leaning so heavily to one side that it looked ready to collapse. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the faint scent of herbs and old wood filled the air.
Tara knocked on the door, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet woods.
"Go away!" a gruff voice barked from inside.
"I need your help!" she called back.
The door creaked open just enough for a pair of sharp eyes to peer out. "Help? What could a scribe's apprentice possibly need from me?"
Tara held up the mask. "I think you know."
The door swung open, revealing Old Marlow. He was a wiry man with a long, tangled beard and a robe that looked like it hadn't been washed in years. His eyes locked onto the mask, and his face twisted into a mixture of fear and longing.
"Where did you get that?" he demanded.
"It was given to me," Tara said. "By Ludicar."
Marlow recoiled as if she'd said a curse word. "Ludicar? The god of chaos and laughter? You fool! Do you know what you've brought into this village?"
"Hope," Tara said firmly.
Marlow snorted. "Hope? That mask is a tool of mischief. It doesn't solve problems—it creates them."
"But Harrowhill needs mischief," Tara said. "We've been asleep for too long. Don't you want to see the village alive again?"
Marlow stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. "You're braver than you look, girl. Or stupider." He stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.
Inside, the cabin was cluttered with books, scrolls, and strange trinkets. Marlow gestured for Tara to sit, then pulled a dusty tome from a shelf.
"This village," he said, flipping through the pages, "wasn't always like this. Laughter was our lifeblood. Festivals, stories, jokes—we thrived on them. But then the storm came."
He found the page he was looking for and pushed the book toward her. It showed an illustration of a crowd, drenched in rain, glaring up at the sky. Above them, a figure hovered, half-hidden by clouds.
"Ludicar," Tara whispered.
"After that storm," Marlow continued, "the elders declared laughter dangerous. They said Ludicar had cursed us, and they banned all forms of joy. But they were wrong."
"Wrong how?" Tara asked.
Marlow tapped the mask. "Ludicar didn't curse us. He tested us. And we failed."
Tara frowned. "So how do we pass the test?"
Marlow smiled faintly. "You'll need a joke. But not just any joke—a perfect one. Something so clever, so unexpected, that it wakes the village from its slumber."
"And if I can't find one?"
"Then Harrowhill will stay silent," Marlow said, his voice heavy. "Forever."
Tara swallowed hard. The weight of the task pressed down on her, but she refused to give in to fear.
"I'll find it," she said. "Whatever it takes."
Marlow chuckled softly. "You've got spirit, girl. Maybe that's a start."
As she left the cabin, the mask seemed to hum in her hands, as if it, too, was eager to see what she would do next.