Lottee Dina's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

In three days the village would name Lottee Dina keeper of its traditions, and her hair refused to hold the crown braid. She sat on the porch of the flower-covered farmhouse, tugging a comb through her coily dark hair. The strands broke and sprang loose. Every braid she started slid apart before she reached her ear. The coronation crown was the oldest custom the keeper wore. Without it, she could not stand before her people. She tried again. She parted a section and twisted it tight. Her hair was too dry. It snapped back like a released spring, and the braid unraveled in her lap. She threw the comb onto the boards. Goats bleated in the yard. A pig snuffled near the steps. None of them cared that she was failing. Lottee needed something to soften her hair, and she knew nothing in the house would work. So she walked past the apple tree, heavy with red fruit, and followed the path toward the river. Cool water might help. Wet hair braided easier. That was her plan. At the riverbank she heard a small, sharp cry. A baby otter lay trapped between two rocks, soaked and shivering. It bared tiny teeth when she stepped close. It was scared of her. She stopped. She did not grab it. Instead she pulled the cloth belt from her baby-yellow dress and lowered it slowly. She spoke in a soft voice, the way she calmed the goats. The otter sniffed the cloth. Its trembling slowed. After a long moment, it climbed onto the fabric and let her lift it. As she cradled the otter, her fingers pressed into its fur. The fur was slick and shining. Then she saw why. The riverbank was lined with a thick green plant, and the otter had crushed its stalks. A clear oil leaked from the broken stems and coated the animal's coat. Lottee touched the oil. She rubbed it between her fingers. It was rich and slippery, not like water at all. Her heart jumped. She scooped a handful of crushed stalks with her free hand. Then she carried the otter and the plant back home. On the porch she worked the oil through one section of her hair. The dry strands drank it in. They turned soft and heavy. She twisted the section tight. This time it held. She braided down to her ear, and the braid stayed. She let go, and it did not spring loose. Lottee breathed out. She could build the crown now. The otter shook itself dry beside her and did not run. It curled against her ankle and watched her hands move. But she had used almost all the oil on one small braid. The crown needed dozens. She looked at the single wilting bunch of stalks in her lap, then toward the river, already far away. She would need much more, and she did not know how much the plant could give.