Amáne of Teravinea - The Chosen One (The Teravinea Series Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

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 packover 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 therocks 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