Jureka

In the forest of amber leaves, songs are currency and a well-baked pie is a declaration of love. Jureka knows the melodies to every harvest hymn and can shape river clay into perfect, tiny frogs. But the clay washes off. The ninja mask does not. The elders who teach them the songs pretend not to see the dark cloth. The bakers who slip them extra tarts say nothing of the silent way they move. Their training happens in the wilder, outer woods, where the trees are greener and the rivers run faster. They learn to be a shadow among sun-dappled leaves. No one ever speaks of what they are training for, or what threat could possibly warrant a secret protector in a place so full of light. Jureka only knows the weight of their wooly shoulders feels heavier each day.