The Tear Master

Faith, this is the story I wrote for your challenge. I apologize, it did get extremely long.

“Record my lament;

list my tears on your scroll -

are they not in your record?”

<Psalm 56:8>

I leaned over the well, my tears tumbling down my cheeks and dripping into the darkness below. When I was younger, I used to imagine that my tears were a bitter potion that would poison my family. One sip from my polluted well, and our miseries would be over.

Mom's scratchy voice interrupted my thoughts. “Beth, where's that water? Get your backside moving before I tan your hide!”

Yes, my family was miserable.

“And Sammy, bring me those eggs I told you to get ten hours ago or I'll kill you, too!”

I choked back another flood of tears and wiped my steamy face on my sleeve. Heaving the bucket from the ground I ran as fast as I could without spilling it, but as I neared the house, Sammy collided into me, the front of his shirt loaded. I sputtered, jumping to my feet, my torso soaked. Sammy wasn't in any better shape, his belly yellow and gooey with egg.

“Idiot!” he yelled. “Now what am I going to do?”

I winced at his tone. Big sister or no, this was how my ten year-old brother treated me. Too often he reminded me of Dad, something I didn't like to think about. Honestly, I just wanted to cry again, but I couldn't let Sammy see me in such a state.

“You were the one who ran into me,” I managed, my voice shaky.

Sammy didn't hear me. He was frantically counting egg shells, cursing under his breath. “There's one missing,” he finally growled. I took a step backwards, scanning the ground. I heard a crunch and felt something slimy under my heel. Sammy heard it, too, and kicked the bucket into my shins. “Mom's going to kill us!”

Let her, I thought, clenching my teeth at the pain. I was ready to die. Maybe Dad would just come back and kill me in my sleep. That might feel better.

Before I could pick up the bucket and refill it, Mom stalked into the clearing, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “You stupid children!” she barked at the mess. “Now what are we to eat? Do you think I can magically produce breakfast?” Her hand struck my cheek. I cowered, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Mom swung at Sammy too, but he ducked away, only arousing more anger. “Neither of you will eat today,” she screamed. “Unless you can find somethin' in the woods!” She thrust the bucket into my arms and reached for Sammy.

“Don't touch me!” he yelled back. “I hate you, and I hate this farm!” He ran towards the trees and then spun back around. “If you had let Dad stay, things would be better!” Then he was gone.

“Samuel Thomas! Don't yell at your mother!”

I stumbled back into the woods, collapsed to my knees, and covered my ears. Mom's voice still carried through my hands, so I cried louder to drown her out. The tears stung my eyes, and I sobbed 'till my head pounded. I didn't blame Mom entirely, not like Sammy. No, it was Dad's fault. He'd left us when I was eight. Never seen him since. Sammy blamed Mom for his disappearance, but I knew better. I was glad he was gone – I still remembered the bruises he left on my arms and on Mom's face, and the foul smell of whiskey on his breath. Sammy was only three. He didn't remember those things. All he could remember was that there was more food. Which, there was, but it was stolen. Dad never worked. Mom hadn't yelled quite so much then. It was Dad's fault – he left her, taking everything: the china, the silver, the drapes, the coin jar, and our last shred of joy.

Yes, life was miserable. Why did it have to be my family? Did anyone care? My memory fixed upon the image of the Howard's three-story farm house towering above the trees. I used to play with Macy when Mom worked for them, but they fired her when Dad tried to steal a horse. Macy didn't care about me after that. It was like I was just another one of her broken toys in the garbage pile. She went on with her merry life, making new friends the following day. It didn't make sense or seem fair to me that brats like her could be so happy, have big homes, and plenty of food, and I, a girl who only wanted a single ray of peace and joy, was left with nothing. Nothing but broken people in a broken home. If life were a game of fate, I didn't think it was worth living. Perhaps I could throw myself in the well, but Mama, she'd go crazy.

“Dry up those tears, Missy. You're drowning the dandelions.”

I uncovered my ears and stood, scanning the wood for the friendly voice.

“What you crying for, anyways?”

My eyes finally found him. An old man with a white beard and matching garb, perched on the edge of the well. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” I stammered.

The man snorted. “Sure, like I'm twenty-two.” His grin was missing a few teeth. “No, really. What's the matter?”

I hesitated. He looked nice, but maybe it was just all the wrinkles. “I want to die!” I finally sputtered.

The man leaned back, like my words had blown him away, his eyebrows raised again. He whistled. “Those are harsh words, Miss.”

“But they're true!” I dared to step closer. “All my life, all I've ever wished for, is a happy, normal family. Instead, I have a broken family who fights and struggles to live from one day to the next. Neither gods nor men show even an ounce of compassion. What have we ever done to them? Are we simply subject to fate or did some cruel god invent my life for entertainment?” The man stared at me, unblinkingly. “Tell me!” I sobbed.

“I don't know, Child,” he murmured. “I don't know.”

My heart sank farther into my chest. Anger shook my body.

The man stood and paced the ground, his brow furrowed. I would have screamed but his face suddenly brightened and he lifted his shaggy head. “Well, wait a minute. I guess there is someone...”

“Who?”

“He's said to only be legend, but...”

“Just tell me, please!” Legend or no, I was desperate. If he could give me one ray of hope, I would consider living even a decade more.

The old man raised his hand to stop me. “I was getting there.” He resumed his pacing. “Some say he's legend. Others say he's a fact, but all people, near and far, call him the Tear Master.”

“The Tear Master.” I let the name fall off my lips, savoring the comfort it somehow gave. “Who exactly is he?”

“It is said that the tears of mankind he records on a scroll, keeping account of all the suffering that occurs in our world. Never does a sparrow fall to the ground that he does not see, nor a tear fall from the eye that is not recorded.”

“But what will he do about it?” I asked. It was nice to know someone might care, but what was the use if he never did anything to help?

My companion lifted my chin so that I had to stare directly into his eyes. They were a solemn blue, but warm. “Perhaps you should ask him, Child.” He released my face and turned back to the well.

I looked at my grubby toes, confused. “But how do I find him?”

Silence.

I jerked my head up and spun around. The old man was gone. I massaged my forehead, willing my headache to fade away. My tangled thoughts only worsened the matter. Surely the old man had been a figment of my imagination, an image I had created to relieve my pain, yet, how in all Narrozzania had I come up with such a fantasy? It had to be real. I wanted it to be real. Wiping the last bit of tears from my face, I made up my mind to find out, and I knew exactly how to do it.

My thoughts swirling and hope swelling in my chest, I hastily drew more water from the well. As I neared our tumble-down shack of a home, sobbing reached my ears. Guilt churned in my empty stomach. I wasn't the only one suffering here. With caution, I peeked through the doorway. Mom sat at the table, her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. I padded across the dirt floor to my sleeping mat, leaving the bucket by the door. Taking a deep breath, I lifted up the corner of my ratty quilt. Three copper coins smiled up at me. I fingered the twinkling metals and held them close to my chest. My time, my labor had earned these coins, but I knew what I needed to do.

“Mommy?” I tapped her shoulder.

She sniffled and jerked her head up. “Leave me alone,” she spat, but I held out the coins. Her eyes widened and snatched them from my fingers. “Where did you get these?”

“The Tyndale's paid me to scrub their flooring and beat their rugs.” I wiggled my toes in the dirt, remembering the feel of the smooth, finished wood on my bare feet.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?” Her words were harsh, accusing.

I tried to look her in the eye. “I had hoped to buy a dress.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I awaited an explosion. Nothing happened. I peeked at Mom. Her eyes had actually softened, but she tightened her grip on my money, not willing to let the treasure go.

She finally dropped the coins into her dress pocket. “Go fetch Sammy.”

I released a sigh and drug my feet towards the door. Then I remembered. I spun around. “Mom?”

“Yes?” She hadn't looked up from her pocket.

“Have you heard of the Tear Master?”

Mom's expression turned sour again. She stood, her back to my face. “He's just a fable, Elizabeth. Pay no heed to stories of him.”

My heart leaped in my chest. I hadn't been hallucinating.

“Beth? Ignore, those stories, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” I mumbled as I fled the house, but I knew I had to know more.

◘◘◘◘◘

I shuffled my bare feet down the dusty road leading into town. My foot hit a stone, and I stumbled over it only to trip into a deep track a wagon had left days ago. Slight pain in my ankle made me wince, but I kept going. My mind was on a mission, and the rocks and ruts in the road weren't going to stop me. Besides, I'd been going barefoot for years. A horse galloped by, kicking dirt in my face. I spat. Looked like my weekly bath had been useless. I watched the rider disappear into the distance. He didn't look back once. I planted my hands on my hips. Well, I was going to find someone who did care.

Upon entering the bustling little town, my hopes plummeted. People bumped into me like they hadn't seen me or would avoid my side of the street. I knew they saw my patched and thinning garment and guessed I was a beggar, or worse, a thief, like my Dad. How would I find out more about the Tear Master if no one stayed near enough for me to speak to them? I scanned the crowds for friendly faces. There had to be someone. I couldn't give up yet.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I tapped a man's shoulder. “Could you -”

The man jumped and spun around. He was well-dressed and clean-shaven, but seemed nice enough. It only took a second before he judged my motives.

“I'm sorry, Miss, but I already gave my spare coin to another beggar.”

Liar, I thought, as I watched him scurry to his wagon, his shiny black boots mocking my bare toes. If the high and mighty's wouldn't listen to me, perhaps I should have been looking for someone closer to my own station. Yes, the wealthy probably didn't think they needed a Tear Master anyways. Another “beggar,” on the other hand, might tell me something.

I wandered into an empty street. My surroundings changed, from bustle and buying to filth and litter, and I knew I had found the proper place. A baby cried, somewhere on my right. I heard the mother shhh the child.

“Hello?” I peered into the shadows. Only darkness.

I jumped when a hand grasped my arm. “Looking for someone?” A rattly voice questioned.

“Yes...I mean, no. I just have a few questions for someone. Anyone, actually.” I stared into the bloodshot eyes before me. They squinted at me, distrust in their dull shine. The woman finally stepped from the shadows. I guessed her to be in her fifties, slight wrinkles framing her eyes and creasing her forehead. Her wispy hair was graying, her garment worn, and her feet bare. I had found my match.

“I'm open to questions,” she squinted at me again. “Dependin' on what they are.”

Her rotten breath blasted my face. I stepped back. “I just want to know about the Tear Master.”

She laughed, a smile stretching across her face. “Well, if that's all you need, Sweetie, then ask on.”

My heart pounded faster, and I smiled too. “Is he real?”

The woman chuckled again. “Of course.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, but I know he's real 'cause my daughter is alive, and I know it's no doctor's doing.”

“Was she sick?”

“Deathly sick. Had no money for a doctor, so I thought she'd be gone by morning, but she wasn't. I'm telling you, it was the Tear Master's doing.”

“Where can I find him?”

The woman sighed. “I wish I knew, Dear. I'd like to thank 'im someday.”

Frustrated, I kicked a pebble. It skidded through the dirt and landed with a puff. I turned to leave. “Thanks anyway,” I mumbled, but a low rumble drowned my voice.

“My Mama used to tell me,” the woman yelled after me, pointing at the sky. “that the rain is sent by the Tear Master himself. It's his way of sayin' he cries with us. That always helped me when I was feeling depressed.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, sincere this time. Her words warmed my heart. Another peal of thunder rolled in the distance. I fled the alley, knowing I had better run home, and fast. Those black clouds were some of the worst I had ever seen.

The town flew by me as I sped for the main road. Thunder rolled again, this time louder. I stopped dead in my tracks. If the Tear Master sent the rain, then did he live in the mountains? I glanced at the wall of clouds covering their peaks. It had to be. I spun back around, and ran straight for them.

◘◘◘◘◘

My hands grasped at the jagged rock, and my feet slid on the wet stone. Monstrous rock formations loomed on all sides of me, casting gloomy shadows over my path, but I pressed on. My mind had been made up, my decision written in blood and stone, and I would not turn back. Whatever it took to find this Tear Master, I would do it, for without him, I knew my life was meaningless. It had felt like days since I had begun my journey. Perhaps it had been days or maybe weeks. A trip through the mountains would take no small amount of time. In fact, I hadn't heard of a single soul who had done it. I had had neither water nor food nor rest, yet I felt like I had the strength of a mountain goat. Yes, I was going crazy, I decided as I reached another summit. I let my gaze wander my surroundings. The heavy fog hanging all about me inhibited most my sight, but here and there more mountain peaks protruded like spears through the cloudy blanket. There was no sign of the plain, no sign of town. For all I knew, I had been wandering in circles, yet, there it was again: a flash of lightening, a roll of thunder, a rattling of pebbles at my feet. I adjusted my course to where I was certain it had come from and stumbled onward.

◘◘◘◘◘

Finally, I was there. I had made it, at last. My legs were now shaky with fatigue and my hands red with blood, but my heart was light and my mind determined. I pulled myself onto the ledge and stood, my jaw agape, my heart pounding. This was it, the final summit, but – I collapsed to the ground – there was nothing. Nothing but fog and rain and thunder. I lay panting and shaking, angry at myself for believing, angry at the Tear Master if he did yet live somewhere, and angry that the only hope left in my life was death. Black death, in dark mountains, in the midst of a stormy night. “Tear Master,” I whispered. “Where are you?” Closing my eyes, I let the tears roll down my cheeks one last time.

◘◘◘◘◘

A warm light beckoned my eyelids to open, but I squeezed them shut, afraid that death had not yet taken my life. A gentle hand stroked my cheeks, and a calm voice soothed my shivering body. “Awake, Child.”

My eyelids fluttered open, searching for the voice. A warm, strong face smiled down at me. He offered me his hand, and I took it. Pulling me to my feet, he led me towards the hearth. I glanced back to where I had been lying, and trembled. Somehow, here in the middle of this glowing, warm room, a dark mist hugged the floor. Within the darkness I could see the fog, the jagged peaks, my blood and tears smeared across the rocks. My confusion, my fears, my suffering, all before me. As I stared into the mist, I felt it growing, expanding, sliding across the floor boards towards my feet. “Master!” I shrieked as it nipped at my toes.

“Take heart,” the Tear Master smiled. “It is no more.” He scooped up a fistful of flaming ash and coal from the hearth and sprinkled the light into the darkness. The mist dissipated and sizzled, baring the glowing floor once more. “Now come,” he touched my shoulder. “You must wash.”

He led me to a table across the room and poured a glistening pitcher of water into a large basin. I glanced at my hands, and shuddered. Yes, I did need to wash. I was just about to plunge my bloody hands into the water, but he took the basin from the table and set it at my feet. With tender hands he bathed my sore feet, the warm water washing away filth and wounds alike. Speechless, I watched as he also wet a towel and wiped my face and hands clean. I wanted to speak, to say thank you, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, parched and dry.

As if reading my thoughts, he set the basin to the side and once again reached for the pitcher, but this time pouring into a small cup. I gulped down the sparkling water in a couple swallows and handed the cup back to the Master to ask for more, but realized, I wasn't thirsty anymore. “Here,” he said, pushing a small loaf of bread into my hands. “You must also eat. The journey will be long.”

The journey? What journey? “Are you sending me back through the mountains?” I asked, fear tingeing my voice.

The man smiled again, but this time, a bit of sorrow in his eyes. “Come, you must see.” He led me to a desk covered in a million scrolls of paper. A shelf spanned the wall behind, also storing a countless number of scrolls. I peered at the open scroll on his desk. Tiny blotches covered the paper, as if someone had sprinkled water on the desk, but I knew better. These were tears. Hundreds of them.

“Whose are these?” I dared to ask, touching one of the drops.

“Your Mother's” he replied, reaching for a couple scrolls off the shelf.

“Where is mine?” I asked. He unrolled one of the ones he had just retrieved and handed it to me. Compared to my Mother's it was small. Barely a third of the amount of tears on hers was on mine. Guilt rose in my chest. I had lashed out at her so many times, unmindful of the fact that she, too, was suffering.

“This, the Tear Master pointed to another on the shelf, “Is your brother's, and over here is your father's, and this one,” he paused and held up the other in his hand. “Is Macy's.”

Macy? My wealthy, stuck-up neighbor? And my father? I shook my head, baffled. I hadn't realized, hadn't even considered the fact they had pain and suffering, too. I was so heartless, so cruel, so selfish.

“Do you see why you must go back?” The Tear Master lifted my chin. “They must know about me, Child. Tell them I know their pain, and I can heal.”

As he led me back to the hearth, a part of me was saddened that I must leave him. We had just met, but, yes, I did understand. I had found whom I was looking for, or rather, he had found me, and there were others who needed to know what this man, or Master, whoever he was, had done to my soul. “You will not be alone,” the Tear Master read my thoughts. “A part of me I send with you.” Once more he reached into the hearth, but this time, pulling out a single, large coal. “Take it,” he said. “I will be your light.”

I hesitated, staring at the orange flame, licking at the coal. “Will it hurt?” I asked.

“Fear not,” he assured me. “I will give you joy in suffering.”

I took the coal, the flames crawling up my arms and down my body, but I did not burn. Instead, I was tickled in warmth. Yes, perhaps the journey wouldn't be so impossible.

“It is time.” The Tear Master led me too the door. He swung it open, the mountains and fog seeping into the room, but they did not seem so hopeless now. Holding my flaming coal in front of me, I stepped in. As the light radiated through the atmosphere, the fog lifted, revealing a narrow path through the mountains, leading towards a tiny town in the distance. “Someday,” the Tear Master continued. “I will take you to my Father's home, where there will be no more suffering, no more tears; but in the meantime, be strong.”

I smiled, and turned back toward the Tear Master. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded, smiled, and shut the door.

◘◘◘◘◘

“Mama, she's waking.” Sammy stood over me, his face curious yet concerned. Mama rushed over and grasped my hand. Her face was gaunt, but I saw a flicker of love in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, Elizabeth? My, you are warm.” She felt my forehead.

I smiled, imagining the coal still in my hands. “Mommy,” I took her hand back. “The Tear Master, He is real!”