Chapter 4: A Village Divided
The next morning, Harrowhill buzzed with an energy it hadn't felt in years. Tara's impromptu performance had sparked something in the villagers—a tiny ember of curiosity, faint but growing.
Whispers floated through the market square as Tara walked through. Some villagers glanced at her with cautious smiles, while others turned away, frowning. It was clear that not everyone was ready for change.
As she passed the blacksmith's forge, she overheard a heated conversation between the blacksmith, Merrick, and the baker, Ila.
"She's playing with fire," Merrick said, pounding his hammer against a glowing piece of iron. "We don't need laughter to survive. We need discipline."
"But didn't you hear it?" Ila countered, her voice soft but insistent. "The boy's laughter... it was like music. It reminded me of when my daughter was small."
Merrick snorted. "Music won't keep your roof standing when the storms come."
Tara paused, clutching the jester's mask in her satchel. The mask seemed to hum faintly, as if urging her to intervene, but she hesitated. She wasn't sure how to bridge the growing divide.
---
By midday, the tension in the village had reached a boiling point. Elder Emrick had called a meeting in the square, and nearly everyone had gathered.
Tara stood at the edge of the crowd, heart pounding, as Emrick stepped onto a wooden platform. He raised his hands, commanding silence.
"People of Harrowhill," he began, his voice booming. "Yesterday, we witnessed a reckless display of chaos. Tara, the scribe's apprentice, brought a relic of mischief into our midst and used it to stir emotions we buried for good reason."
The crowd murmured, some in agreement, others in protest.
"Laughter," Emrick continued, "is a luxury we cannot afford. It clouds judgment, invites folly, and tempts fate. We must not forget the storms that nearly destroyed us."
Tara couldn't stay silent any longer. She stepped forward, her voice ringing out. "The storms didn't come because of laughter, Elder. They came because we forgot how to stand together. Fear divided us, not joy."
The crowd parted, allowing her to face Emrick directly.
"You speak of fear," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But do you understand the burden of leadership? The weight of protecting this village?"
"I understand the weight of silence," Tara replied. "It's crushing us, suffocating us. Don't you see it? People aren't living—they're merely surviving."
"Enough!" Emrick barked, his voice sharp. "You've caused enough disruption. Leave this foolishness behind, or face the consequences."
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. Tara could see the doubt in some of their eyes, the longing in others.
She took a deep breath and reached into her satchel, pulling out the jester's mask. The crowd gasped, and Emrick's face darkened.
"I'm not giving up," Tara said, holding the mask high. "If laughter is chaos, then so be it. Chaos is better than this hollow existence."
She turned and walked away, leaving the villagers to their murmurs.
---
Tara found herself back in the Silent Woods, the mask warm in her hands. She sat on a mossy log, staring at its shifting colors.
"What now?" she muttered.
The mask glowed faintly, and a voice echoed in her mind.
"You're close, my dear," Ludicar said, his tone playful. "But a joke isn't just about laughter—it's about connection. The perfect jest must make them see themselves, their fears, and their folly, all at once."
Tara frowned. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
"Start with truth," Ludicar said. "The funniest jokes are the ones that reveal what's hidden."
The voice faded, leaving Tara alone with her thoughts. She closed her eyes, searching her memories for a story, a truth, something that could cut through Harrowhill's fear.
Then it came to her.
A simple tale, one her mother used to tell her before the storms. It wasn't a joke, exactly, but it had the bones of one—a truth wrapped in humor.
She smiled. "That might just work."
---
By evening, Tara returned to the village square. This time, she didn't wait for permission or an audience. She climbed onto the same platform Emrick had used and clapped her hands, drawing the villagers' attention.
"Gather around!" she called. "I have a story to tell!"
Curiosity won over hesitation, and people began to assemble. Even Emrick stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, watching warily.
Tara took a deep breath and began.
"Once, there was a farmer," she said, her voice steady. "This farmer had a rooster who crowed every morning, loud enough to wake the entire village. One day, the farmer decided he didn't like being woken so early. So, he told the rooster, 'Stop crowing, or I'll get rid of you.'"
A few villagers chuckled softly, but Tara pressed on.
"The next morning, the rooster stayed silent. The farmer was thrilled—until he realized the entire village had overslept, and their crops were ruined by the sun."
Now the chuckles grew louder, more genuine. Tara smiled, gaining confidence.
"The farmer ran to the rooster and said, 'Why didn't you crow?' And the rooster replied, 'You told me not to!' The farmer shouted, 'But look what's happened!' And the rooster said, 'Well, maybe you should've thought of that before you silenced me.'"
The crowd erupted into laughter, a sound that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. Even Merrick cracked a reluctant smile, and Ila wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.
Tara stepped down from the platform, her heart swelling. The laughter rippled through the crowd, connecting them in a way they hadn't felt in years.
Elder Emrick remained silent, his expression unreadable. But as the laughter continued, something in his eyes softened.
For the first time, Tara felt hope. She wasn't done yet—there was still work to do. But the ember she'd sparked was growing, and she wouldn't let it go out.