The Voice of the Valley

By Emily Barnett

There are echoes in the valley, and they speak my name.

Emereth. Emereth.

Desperate and muffled like a man with his face in a pillow, using his last breath—for me. It is carried on a low, whistling wind that aches through tall cliffs on either side of this place. It rustles through wildflowers, collecting pollen and doubts.

Do I dare answer such a plea? What do I expect to find on the other end of distress?

I have distress of my own. A life that was meant to be shared—torn from me in violence.

Now, my life is devoted to cultivating this rocky, clay-ridden soil. With little tools and even less knowledge of how to bend the earth’s will to my own. Pa had a stubborn mule he had whipped tirelessly until it obeyed his sadistic whims.

Could I be as cruel a man?

Is dirt and weed discomforted when I plough and rip until my fingernails crack? Surely, I am more consequential than thistle and worm. The valley does not speak their names—only mine.

Years slip by, slow and painful, and I haven’t heard the echoing whisper. Time’s coarse and steady flow carves hearts and rubs walls raw. I touch my chest—now short-breathed with old age—wondering if what is inside is more flesh or stone.

Emereth. Emereth.

My head snaps up.

Tears collect in wrinkled rivulets on my face. Shakily, I wipe them with dirt-crusted fingers, then leave my trowel against the shed and walk my bountiful field. My stooped shoulders graze green cornstalks and tomato and pea plants brush my shins. But I barely feel them.

I stare at the multi-colored cliff walls, searching for the speaker of my name. Does he see me now? After all this time?

But the whisper doesn’t return, and I shake it from my mind. Autumn breezes in, then a cold winter. Too cold for my creaking bones.

It is spring when the stranger comes. She is beautiful, reminding me of a woman I once loved.

She finds me in my garden, lying between rows of bleeding hearts and crocuses. I thought I had more time. But Time has scraped me clean. It has tamed me as I have tamed the land. But has it ripened me? Will my bones sprout into something worthwhile in this now-rich soil?

The woman bends over me, worry in her youthful gaze, cold fingers feeling for my pulse.

“Please.” Her voice is quiet, a lullaby. “What can I do for you? Can I get you inside?”

It has been so long since I’ve seen a face that wasn’t a reflection in a stream. I have often wondered if it is the water’s ripples that warp my countenance, or my own anger.

“No,” I breathe. “Time has claimed me.”

“No. Not when I’ve just found you.” Something warm tickles my cheek. The woman is crying.

I feel a resurgence of strength. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Gwendolyn. Your daughter.” She pales slightly, wiping her eyes. She takes my hands in hers, and I feel the softness of her skin. I still feel this close to the end. This is a gift. “I think I am, at least,” she says, quieter.

“Daughter?”

Then I see her clearly, the woman I once loved. My wife. But the war took her. Took everyone—so I thought. An entire village burned, not by the slow hands of Time, but the violent claws of men. Regretfully, I was spared.

I fought the enemy for years after. The land was expansive, and even when blood was spilled to every corner and the war ended, I was not satisfied, roaming from town to town, drunk on bloodlust. On revenge. Anything to dull the pain.

Finally, I’d stumbled upon this hidden alcove and tried one thing I’d never tried before: to forget. To pour my grief into a hard land, so I could either shape something new or let it bury me.

And now, as I lay dying in its flourishing embrace, I wonder if they are one and the same.

But I never forgot, as much as I tried.

Even my name haunts me here.

Trembling, I touch the girl’s smile and her coppery hair—as copper as mine used to be—and she chokes out a sob.

Something did grow from this man of sorrows. Something more precious than lilacs and radishes.

Gwendolyn.

I wish it was her name whispered to me. I wish I knew my wife was with child, and that she survived.

My hand falls away. “What… have I done?”

I hadn’t fought for them enough.

Gwendolyn shakes her head, answering my grief. “Mama passed after I was born. We thought you’d fallen in the war, but then stories kept finding their way to me of Emereth the Gallant, Emereth the Heartbroken… Emereth. Emereth. And I knew it was you.” She sniffles. “I had to find you. But… it is you, isn’t it?”

I smile, and my hardened heart furrows. “Yes. I-I am your pa,” I say. “Emereth.”

The valley responds swiftly, stealing my words. My name reverberates between the rocks. Gwendolyn lifts her gaze in surprise, as if she’s heard the voice before.

Somehow, by magic or Time’s strange workings, it is familiar to me too—muffled and desperate—like a man using his last breath. My future self sending a message across a war-torn land to a daughter who feels alone; to my younger self who only wants to forget.

“Emereth, Emereth.” My voice echoes in the valley—to the past, to our present.

Do not forget, it seems to say. New things will grow.

With my name ringing in song around us, I slip from this life, my daughter’s hand like a budding seed in my palm. And I find my rest.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Barnett resides in Colorado where she dreams up magical places that feel a bit like home. She is married to a bearded man, homeschools two boys, and loves the slow-process of sourdough. Her debut YA Fantasy, Thread of Dreams, will be published March 2024.

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