Chapter 3: The First Jest
The road back to Harrowhill felt longer than usual. Tara's mind churned with questions and doubts. A perfect joke? How could she possibly create something like that? She wasn't a comedian or a bard. She was just a scribe, trained to record history, not change it.
The mask hummed faintly in her satchel, its presence a constant reminder of her task.
By the time she reached the village, the sun was low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The silence of Harrowhill pressed against her like a heavy blanket, but now, for the first time, she found it unbearable.
As she passed the baker's shop, she noticed a young boy sitting on the steps, idly poking at the dirt with a stick. His face was smudged with flour, and his expression was as grim as the adults'.
"Hey," Tara said, crouching down. "What's wrong?"
The boy looked up, startled. "Nothing," he muttered.
"Come on," she said, offering a small smile. "You can tell me."
He hesitated, then sighed. "I spilled the flour barrel this morning. Father was so angry he didn't speak to me all day."
Tara's heart ached for him. In any other village, such a small mistake would be met with a laugh or a shrug, not stony silence.
She sat beside him, pulling the jester's mask from her satchel. "Want to see something funny?"
The boy's eyes widened at the sight of the shimmering mask. "What is that?"
"A gift," Tara said. "From someone who knows the power of laughter."
The boy tilted his head, intrigued. "What does it do?"
Tara hesitated. She didn't entirely know herself. But something inside her urged her to act.
She put the mask on and felt a surge of energy course through her. The world seemed to shift, colors becoming brighter, sounds sharper. She stood and began to perform, mimicking the exaggerated movements of a clown.
"Behold!" she said in a grandiose voice. "I am the Great Spiller of Flour! No barrel is safe from my clumsy wrath!"
She pantomimed tipping over an invisible barrel, throwing imaginary flour into the air. Then, with a mock-horrified expression, she skidded across the cobblestones, arms flailing.
The boy stared at her, his mouth twitching. Then, to Tara's delight, he burst into laughter.
It was a small laugh at first, hesitant and rusty, as though his voice had forgotten how to form such a sound. But soon it grew louder and freer, filling the empty street like music.
"Do it again!" he said, clutching his sides.
Tara grinned and obliged, this time pretending to trip over her own feet and land in a heap. The boy's laughter grew infectious, and nearby villagers began to peek out of their windows, drawn by the sound.
"What's going on?" an elderly woman asked, stepping out of her house.
"Just a little joke," Tara said, pulling off the mask and bowing. "Nothing dangerous, I promise."
The woman frowned but didn't retreat. More villagers began to gather, curious and wary. Tara could feel their eyes on her, their skepticism weighing heavily.
"What's the meaning of this?" a deep voice demanded.
Tara turned to see the village elder, a tall, stern man named Emrick, striding toward her. His thick brows were furrowed, and his hands were clasped behind his back.
"Elder Emrick," Tara said, bowing her head respectfully. "I was just—"
"Making a spectacle of yourself," he interrupted. His gaze fell on the mask in her hand, and his expression darkened. "Where did you get that?"
"It doesn't matter," Tara said, standing her ground. "What matters is what it can do. Look around you, Elder. People are smiling, laughing. Isn't that worth something?"
Emrick's lips thinned. "Laughter brings chaos. It always has."
"No," Tara said firmly. "Fear brings chaos. Silence brings chaos. But laughter? It brings life."
The villagers murmured among themselves, torn between Emrick's authority and the joy they had just witnessed.
"You risk everything for a foolish jest," Emrick said, his voice cold. "Do you think Ludicar's games will bring us prosperity? Do you think they'll protect us from the storms?"
Tara met his gaze. "I think they'll remind us who we are. Harrowhill wasn't built on fear—it was built on community, on connection. And laughter is part of that."
Emrick studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. "You're young. You don't understand the cost of chaos."
He turned and walked away, leaving the crowd in uneasy silence.
Tara felt a pang of doubt but pushed it aside. She looked at the boy, who was still grinning, and then at the other villagers.
"This is just the beginning," she said, her voice steady. "I'll find the joke that wakes this village. And when I do, you'll see that laughter isn't something to fear."
She slipped the mask back into her satchel and headed home, her resolve stronger than ever.
As she walked, she heard a faint chuckle in the wind, as if Ludicar himself was watching and approving.