Amáne of Teravinea - The Chosen One (The Teravinea Series Book 1) (4 page)

My breath then caught in my throat. I could barely breathe. The stark realization hit me as suddenly as a Valaira — Mother hung on for so long because of me! It was my fault she wouldn’t let her spirit go. Her words echoed in my head, “... please, I do not want you present when I take my last breath.”

A wave of guilt and desolation spiraled around me as darkness wrapped me in its embrace. I had not honored her dying wish. I never left her side after she said that. Not until the wise old Healer gave me the bag of herbs to take to the sick baby. The Healer, for whom I had shown such disrespect, knew my mother didn’t want me to witness her last breath. She sent me away, so Catriona could finally rest. This truth was more than I could bear. I crumpled
to the floor, wrapped my arms around my legs and curled into a ball in the corner of the room, succumbing to despair. I lost track of time — I didn’t care if it was day or night. It was all the same to me as I headed down a tunnel of shadows and nightmares. My mother wandered in and out of my dreams as if she was attempting to lighten my heavy load. She drew near to me with a loving look but there was something else in her gaze — something unsaid. A look similar to that of the Healer. She softly called my name, told me she was at peace, and then faded away to be replaced by fire and wind, lizards and snakes writhing in my disturbed sleep.

Awaking before light the next morning, still curled up on the floor with a pain in the pit of my stomach, I recalled that my mother was gone. But something in me had shifted — a decision made. I would leave today for my memorial journey. This day — my 15th birthday, that had for quite some time been the anticipated pivotal point in my life. I would start my journey in thanksgiving for my mother. Not sure if I was coming back or not, I had made my choice.

I rose from the floor stiff and hungry. It took an immense amount of effort for me to grasp at some substance of hope to blot out my feelings of utter desolation. My thoughts turned to my mother for strength. She would have expected more from me. She deserved better than a cowering, sniveling daughter.

Straightening up, I took a deep jagged breath and said out loud, “I am Amáne, daughter of Catriona, and I will push myself to go forward and make my plans for my journey.”

My mother’s words echoed in my ears, “Accept whatever befalls you, in great misfortune be patient; for in fire gold is refined.”

Whenever she and I felt a need to break from our daily activities, we would pack up some provisions and make the long hike to our special cove on the bay. Nature and beauty and our little family all came together in that one location. This cove would be where I would make my memorial journey. My mother had taught me survival and that was how I would honor her memory and give thanks for her guidance and love she had shown all my life. I owed her that much.

Comforted by the fact I now had a direction to follow, I lifted my chin and took another deep breath. I moved forward slowly, step by step and repeated, “I am Amáne, daughter of Catriona. I am Amáne, daughter of Catriona.” Finally, I was sure of myself and the course I’d chosen.

Changing my clothes, I put on a simple gown — the less skirts, the better. I washed up and brushed my hair until it returned to its original state — long and straight. Then I braided it and secured it in a queue down my back. Once satisfied with my appearance, I turned my attention to my home and put it back in order. Not without effort — it held so much sorrow.

I gathered a bed roll, and our small wedge tent, and put some clothing and other necessities into my pack. It was easy to recall the excitement we used to feel when collecting our supplies for a journey. I took the water skins off of their hooks and filled them, then wrapped up some stale bread, some dried fish and squid, and the last of the apples in the larder. Slowly, I lifted from my darkness and willed myself to keep moving. When I hesitated, my depression threatened to take hold again. I fought it as I poured my entire self into the preparations for my trip.

Before the sun began its ascent into the cloudless sky, and before the heat of the day made itself felt, I slung my pack
over my shoulder. My dagger was secure in its sheath on my belt, and my fishing gear hung from my pack. I was ready to leave. After a last look at my home, I slowly backed out of the door, locked the latch, turned, and walked away.

The narrow path led straight from our cottage toward the water. I turned left and trekked the long distance along the rocky shore, making my way to our sandy spot at a curve in the bay far ahead. I walked until the sun was high in the sky. Sweat ran down under my pack as the heat increased with the progressing day.

After more than two hours of hiking, I finally arrived at our cove. I found the trip was not as enjoyable traveling by myself.
Should I have given more thought to my brash decision to make this trip on my own?
Pushing aside my fears, I set myself to my chores.

Further up from the beach, between three old and twisted scrub trees, I set up my small tent. It was now low tide, so the shoreline was a ways off. If I were to pitch my camp closer to the water at this time of day I would be in for a rude surprise in a matter of a few hours when the tide would rise. This spot, my mother and I calculated, was the perfect distance from the water at high tide. A freshwater spring that poured out of a fissure in the cliffs behind my camp completed the ideal location. The scrub trees hovered over my shelter with branches that spread like gnarled arms, prepared to fend off any harm that would dare to come my way. The familiarity of the location and the fond memories began to offer me comfort.

Wandering the beach, I gathered some large stones to repair the fire ring that still stood from our last trip. Not often, but occasionally, others would pass through and rearrange the
rocks or use them for other purposes. I searched close to the cliff to find large enough ones to use. A fire would be necessary, not only to stay dry if the dew came in, but also to cook my dinner. In addition, it was a deterrent for wild animals. At last, I took inventory of my setup and came to the conclusion my camp was complete — Mother would have approved.

Perhaps tomorrow I would look for shells to decorate my surroundings — a comforting ritual we had always enjoyed. A smile came to my lips as I recalled how we would create an elaborate system of shell-lined paths leading from our camp to the stream, to the beach and other destinations, bound only by our imaginations. I could still see some remnants of paths we had created the last time we visited.

Tired from my exertions, I lowered myself silently next to my cold fire ring and allowed a few tears to escape. I wondered if I would ever really be able to enjoy sunshine and happiness again. Nothing could convince me it could be possible. A scar was left upon my heart. I went through all the thanksgiving and memorial songs that I knew, and also sung a few grieving songs until my sobs would no longer allow me to sing.

Staring at my fire ring, I sighed and decided to start gathering wood. I needed the distraction. I also had to think about preparing my tackle to catch a fish for my dinner. Angling would give me an activity to keep myself busy, but it was not imperative, as I did have some dried food if the fish decided not to bite. It was, however, the way my mother and I would always start our trips — with a contest of who could catch the first fish or the largest. We were both very competitive and I was up for a challenge. This day, it was only me competing with myself. But it was another ritual that would comfort me.

I had a nice blaze going before I gave my attention to catching my meal. Living in a fishing town had its advantages. We had several shops that specialized in tackle. Rather than having to make our own, my mother had saved some money to buy each of us a rod, some horsehair line and a few metal hooks. We cherished these items, not only because they were costly, but because they were very much a part of our escape to our cove.

Wading into the water, I netted some small fish that swam close to the shore. Impaling one on a hook, and silently thanking it for its life, I cast the hook and bait as far as I could and waited. Angling is an art and is not to be rushed. It was one of the most enjoyable activities we had shared. We were able to use the time to discuss issues important to us or just merely talk about the oddities of the local people. My mother would often tell me of her childhood and early adulthood in the City of Teravinea. She wasn’t originally from Dorsal, but was a city girl, the daughter of prominent ceramic artisans that ran the pottery guild. The family had a permanent booth at the Teravinea Marketplace where they sold their wares. They also filled orders for the Royal House of Drekinn. It was there she met my father, Duer, with whom she fell in love and moved to Dorsal. I was allowed no more details of that part of her history.

As my mind wandered, thinking about some of our adventures in this cove, I felt a small tug on my line. I was fully attentive now to see if the fish would take my bait. Another stronger tug prompted me to yank back on my rod, which set the hook. The fight began. Its pull told me it was a large one. Time flew by as I pitted myself against the fish. It looked like it would win the battle as it headed out to deeper water — not what I was hoping it would do. Unexpectedly, the fish changed
direction and headed toward me. Its scales shown colorful in the sun. I ran backwards to keep the line taut. Fighting for its life, it tried several more tactics to loose itself from my hook. In the end, I was able to get it close enough to pull my pole quickly and beach the fish.

I ran to where it flopped on the sand, gasping for life, as it tried to get back into the water. Pulling my dagger from my belt, I quickly ended its struggle. I whispered a short song of thanks for its life and began filleting it on a nearby flat rock. It was a big one and I would have to cook what I could eat today and then try to prepare the rest with salt and smoke to preserve it. I had never done that by myself, it was always my mother who would process it. I was going to have to learn.

Later, after eating a portion of my catch, I lounged by my fire. Humming another grieving song, I resumed my doubts. Perhaps my decision to come here was a little premature. My memorial journey may not have been such a great idea after all.
What was I thinking coming here alone?
I was a long way from anywhere or anyone, and I told no one where I would be.

A fear seized me. I began to consider maybe I was not as brave as I thought. It had gotten too late to head back to the cottage. But I was also too stubborn to end my journey just yet, even if there had been time to go back home.

As I struggled with the whirlpool of emotions that threatened to pull me under, I felt maybe I should just succumb to my spiral of despair and let it take me down again. It would be so easy to sink back safely into my depression. Then I wouldn’t care what happened to me.

I missed my mother. She used to tell me when I got frightened to start singing, so she could hear me. It always
worked. It made me feel safe. I fought off the depression once more and followed her suggestion from the past. I softly started a favorite ballad about an ancient battle.

I closed my eyes and began to sing louder as my fear intensified. In spite of my increased volume, I could hear a soft humming sound that began to accompany me.
Had someone arrived while I was distracted?
My nerves reached their breaking point. I turned quickly to see who had entered my camp. There was no one. Turning back to my fire I decided the sound originated from the vicinity of my flames. At first, I thought it may have been the wet firewood, but usually that sound came out as more of a hiss. This was definitely humming. It was, truthfully, a very soothing a sound. I found that my body started to relax, comforted by the beautiful tune — almost hypnotic — like a sedative herb the Healer had once given me when I was very ill.

Slowly, I was drawn to the rock that sat directly in front of me — part of my fire ring. I found myself pulled strongly toward the stone. It was one of the larger ones I’d carried from the cliffs behind me. I remembered it wasn’t as heavy as I had expected from its size.

As if called to do so, I reached out to touch it. I felt it vibrating, drawing me in still closer as it continued to hum its mesmerizing strain. The volume and the vibrations intensified. Still I held my hands on its warm resonating surface. Subconsciously, a song began to surface. It tickled the edge of my memory but I couldn’t get it to reveal itself. If I could remember, I felt it would tell me what was happening. Something about a Chosen One, but the details would not come to mind.

Then, without warning, cracks appeared in the rock as it vibrated more violently. The humming was at a feverish
pitch, although it didn’t hurt my ears. Something inside of it was pushing out. A fissure appeared in the top of the rock — which was not a rock at all. A small horn or tooth knocked the opening larger. A glow of yellows and reds radiated through the cracks, as if there was a fire inside. My eyes went wide as a creature thrust its head out of the opening.

A small dragon appeared. It tumbled out in front of me, fatigued from its struggle to release itself. A beautiful being that I wanted to scoop up in my arms. No fear was left in me as I gazed in wonder. It had tiny horns on top of its head, and large golden eyes. Lifting its short body on its four legs, it unfolded its wings, still wet from the moisture in its egg. It looked like a living flame. Iridescent scales of red, orange, yellow and hints of blue played through its body. I was held spellbound.