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

by D. Maria Trimble

  At the break of day, after a feverish night for my mother, she sent me on my way for the Healer. I’m small for my age, but I’m fast and I love to run. I decided I would get there more quickly on foot than if I had ridden Ezel, our donkey. Running in a gown, however, posed problems for me, so whenever I took a path where I would meet with few passers by, I would tie a sash around my waist and pull the back of my skirt forward through my legs, bringing it up and tucking it into the sash. It made it much easier to run. So, I tucked up my skirts and headed for the Healer’s apothecary shop. I went as fast as I could, running most of the way.

  The Healer — the only name I’ve ever known her by — lived at the most northeastern corner of Dorsal, inside the town walls. I had known her all my life and her age was debatable — at times she seemed ancient and at other times she gave the impression she was as young as my mother. A highly respected member of our township, I suspected she was well known throughout the kingdom. Her past was shrouded in mystery. The Healer took care of the ills and injuries of the inhabitants of Dorsal, but yet there was more to her — a certain vigilance or protectiveness about her. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  I turned in at the east gate, and zigzagged through an alley, and then one more lane, finally arriving at her apothecary shop, which took up the front room of her large residence. She had a substantial expanse of land that started at the lane on which her shop opened. Then it stretched back and butted up against the cliffs to the north.

  I charged in the door, breathless, and found her assistant, Gallen, at the front counter grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. I had known and loved this man all my life — he was the closest to a father figure I’d ever had. Many hours were spent in this front room of the apothecary shop as I watched him prepare herbs and seeds. It was he who had acquainted me with the dragons who had been the heart of Teravinea. He told of how dragons hatched and linked to their riders. Along with those of my mother, his accounts had kept the lore of dragons alive for me. The fact he lamented their absence was not lost on me, but he never shared his theories regarding their disappearance.

  “Good morning, Gallen. I need to see the Healer, please.” I didn’t waste time with the formalities and manners of greeting him. I knew he would understand my abruptness. Before I finished my sentence, the Healer came in through a door at the far end of the room.

  “Greetings, Healer. Please, my mother has sent me. She said to tell you that she is now at the stage you discussed with her, and she will need to see you.” I didn’t really know what my message meant, but delivered it as instructed.

  The Healer was a very good friend of my mother’s — and had been such long before I was born. I caught a deep sadness in her eyes at my message. She exhaled quickly and her shoulders dropped. I got the feeling she was expecting me.

  Because of the urgency of the situation, the Healer announced, “Meet me in the courtyard. We’ll take Thunder and you’ll ride with me.” She quickly exited the way she had come.

  Confused by her haste, I looked with shock at Gallen and was met with sympathetic eyes. He remained silent and with a hand of comfort on my shoulder, he led me back through the kitchen to the courtyard. Their behavior had only solidified my terror that my mother’s illness was life-threatening — they didn’t convey much hope. I refused to believe it.

  Thunder was the Healer’s beautiful grey stallion that ran like the wind. I used to imagine he could outrun a Valaira. No one that I knew of had ever ridden on Thunder, besides the Healer. On any other day I would have been elated with the expectation of being the only one to ever fly with them — which was the appearance they gave as they glided over the land. But this day did not allow any excitement, I was too busy building a corner of my mind to hide in — denial was my only hope.

  The Healer and Thunder rapidly approached from the barn. Upon reaching the courtyard, the Healer put her arm down. Hardly slowing she locked wrists with me, and with ease swung me up behind her. “Hold on!” she shouted as she gave Thunder the reins.

  I wrapped my arms around her waist and off we shot. Her horse was well-named. His powerful legs pumping and his hooves striking the ground echoed like peals of thunder. My stomach lurched and I bit my lip to keep the scream in my throat that was fighting for release. The experience was exhilarating, but again, in a dulled version, as I couldn’t allow myself to enjoy it. We arrived at our cottage before I even realized where we were.

  I waited alone outside while the Healer spent time with my mother. Finally, the old woman came out, looking most ancient. She turned to me with eyes full of sorrow and pity.

  “Your mother has some things she needs to tell you.”

  She gave me a lingering hug, walked slowly to Thunder and was gone before I could ask anything.

  In terror, I rushed to my mother’s bedside. She smiled weakly and beckoned me closer, taking my hand in hers. I couldn’t hold my tears back, I couldn’t face what, in fact, I knew was inevitable. I let out a moan of despair, and tried to will away the fact I knew my mother was preparing to rest with our ancestors — how could this be happening? Panic and anger fought for command of my emotions.

  If I closed my eyes it would go away. It was my standard solution to situations of which I wanted no part. She waited patiently while I struggled for composure — to get a hold of my anger, which continued to be my own worst enemy. If I lived for a hundred years I’m not sure I would ever be able to fully master it.

  I had every right, I thought, to be angry. It was not fair that my best friend, my mother, was being taken from me. In truth, I had no choice but to resolve myself to that conclusion — she will be joining our ancestors. Finally, with great effort, I was prepared to listen to what she had to say.

  “Amáne, my only child — sometimes as unruly as water — most of the time obedient — always my strength. I’ve known for a while now I would soon be leaving this life. I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I didn’t want you to have to suffer any sooner than necessary.”

  My heart threatened to break. I earnestly hoped this was one of my bad dreams, and I would wake up soon to the smell of her bread baking in the oven.

  “Your fifteenth birthday is quickly approaching. Don’t worry, I haven’t made marriage arrangements for you.” A corner of her mouth turned up as she tried to make this as light as possible. I breathed a sigh of relief — my mother knew me too well. “But I’ve discussed your care with the Healer and she insists you stay with her. She has been a close friend and soon you’ll understand our friendship. I know you will continue to make me proud.”

  She took a shallow breath, “I want to give you my blessing. I see a monumental change coming in your life, a fire burning in your soul, a time of decision and perhaps danger.” My mother was somewhat prophetic and not often wrong. “Be sincere of heart, Amáne. Accept whatever befalls you, in great misfortune be patient; for in fire gold is refined.

  “Now you’re nearly of age. I’m sincerely sorry I will not be able to watch you turn into the beautiful young lady you’re already becoming. You’ll need to use your intuition and your intelligence in deciding which paths you choose — remember to follow your heart. In your resolutions, please do not neglect your own happiness. Your life is in your hands. Direct it well.”

  Her weak smile faded and her expression turned serious, “I want you to know, my sweet Amáne,” she paused to make sure I was truly listening to her. “You need not worry about me. I’m at peace with this and I will see you on the other side with our ancestors when it is your time. Do not forget that, my precious daughter.”

  She is at peace with this? What about me? I selfishly thought. I’m the one being left alone!

  And then she finished off with one devastating request. “But the one thing I ask of you, please, I do not want you present when I take my last breath.”

  “No!” I cried out. This request was more than I could take. “I am not leaving your side. I’ll be here until the end. You can’t tell me not to b
e here, Mother, please!”

  No more was said on that subject.

  So, the days went by, slowly creeping one day after the next. I struggled to exist as my world got darker, but I couldn’t let my mother see my sorrow. She was at peace with her fate. I wasn’t, but couldn’t let it show each day she held on became another day I couldn’t bear. I put on a brave face in her presence and took care of her as she slowly drifted closer to our ancestors. I read to her and talked to her to pass the long hours, but still she remained here in this life.

  Every few days the Healer would arrive on Thunder to check in on us. Hoping knowledge of what my mother was going through would help me in my suffering, she explained, “The body will shut down slowly, as each organ finally gives in. Crossing to our ancestors is different with each person. Some go quickly and for some reason, others do not. It is a mystery.”

  She advised me to keep talking to my mother, because even if she couldn’t respond, she could hear me from whatever path her departing spirit traveled. I told my mother that I loved her and accepted that she was leaving, then assured her I would be fine. She taught me well, to persevere until I achieved my goal — whatever I set my mind to. We were fighters, she and I.

  I silently cried myself to sleep every night, but it was a fitful sleep — it did not restore or revitalize. Instead, I tossed and turned, listened to my mother’s labored breathing and wondered which breath would be her last. But she would not let go. My agony increased.

  One day, no different than the rest that had dawned grey and dreary, the Healer came to visit. She held me in her arms for a few minutes and then looked at me closely. She could see I was not doing well.

  “Amáne, I would like to ask a favor of you. First, you need to clean yourself up. You look a fright, child. Go wash your face and change your clothes. What would your mother say if she could see how you looked now?” She held up a small leather pouch and said, “Please take this to Dorjan, the blacksmith’s home. Their baby is sick and these are some herbs to help him. I will sit with Catriona and watch. It shouldn’t take you long. Now go.”

  “What?” I asked with less civility than I should have. Was I to believe that while I was numb with grief, this woman dares to ask me to leave my dying mother’s side to take some herbs to a sick baby?

  “I can’t do this! They live all the way on the other side of Dorsal, outside the west wall. I can’t leave my mother when any moment could be her last. I won’t chance it,” I said, trying in vain to control my anger. I realized with increased remorse, the disrespect I directed toward the Healer.

  I was mortified by my bad behavior, yet not enough to hold my tongue. Surprisingly, she didn’t reprimand me as I deserved, but simply tilted her head, looked with pity into my eyes, and said gently yet incontestably, “Amáne, go clean yourself up.”

  I sidled off in shame and went to make myself presentable to deliver the herbs. Taken aback, I stared in shock when I saw my reflection in the glass. My eyes had dark circles under them and my unbrushed hair hung in a tangled brown mass, as twisted as the sage brush that grew outside. I hadn’t realized how bad I looked. I scrubbed myself, brushed my hair and changed my clothes.

  Back at my mother’s bedside, I took her cold hand and put it to my cheek where a fresh flow of tears was unleashed. Explaining to her what I was about to do and that the Healer would stay with her, I kissed the palm of her hand and then her forehead. I told her I would be back soon. Feeling an ever-so-small twitch from her hand, I knew she understood. I took the herbs from the Healer, charged out the door, tucked up my skirts, and ran toward the blacksmith’s home.

  As I ran, I almost let myself enjoy the feel of the wind on my face. My hair blew in long waves behind me. The Healer was a wise woman. I don’t know how long I had been in that house, suffering. I actually felt better than I had for days — it may have even been weeks since I came home to find my mother in her bed.

  I delivered the herbs to the thankful mother, and felt good about it. I knew it was something my mother would have encouraged me to do. She would never hesitate to help a needy family, no matter the sacrifice to her.

  As I stepped back on the path to head home, I heard a dog’s mournful howl in the distance. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach twisted in a knot. I ran faster than I had ever run before. The tears started again, stinging against my cheeks as the wind hit the salty wetness that flowed from my eyes.

  I bounded up the path and rushed into our cottage. The old Healer’s eyes told me all. It was over. My mother was now at rest. A pressure that started at the bottom of my lungs released itself in a wail drawn from the very depths of my heart. At that moment, even a Valaira could not have muffled the sound that came from me.

  I ran to her bedside and threw my arms around her now cold body. “Mother. Mother. No. Don’t leave me.” Although I thought I was ready to accept this moment, no amount of preparation could possibly lessen the devastation of this ultimate separation. My body shook with uncontrollable weeping. I cried until I was spent. My sobs continued, even though there were no more tears left in me. My mother was gone. I had never experienced anything so shattering.

  The Healer lit her herbs and candles around the room, softly sang her dying songs and waited patiently until I was silent. Mother was her good friend — this death was obviously difficult for the Healer as well. She took me by my shoulders, gently guided me away, and lovingly pulled the burial cloth over my mother’s now peaceful face. My grief renewed, she held me as my shoulders heaved while I sobbed dry tears. Staying with me for quite a while, she watched and waited until I at last calmed down.

  She had come prepared with her donkey and cart to take my mother away. It is our custom for the Healer to take the deceased, to prepare the body for crossing, and then to cremate it. Once a year, when the desert flowers bloom, we have a gathering in the fields outside the south wall to celebrate the lives of those who had passed that year. The deceased’s family is then given the urn that contains their loved one. It’s a beautiful celebration, but much easier if it was not your own mother’s ashes being handed to you. I was not looking forward to the next Life Celebration Gathering.

  Another solemn practice we have in Teravinea is called a memorial journey. It’s a pilgrimage in honor and thanksgiving for our loved ones. The family must decide on a location significant to the deceased, and travel there to sing our memorial songs. It could be far or close, of short duration, or long. As it was only Catriona and myself and no other family, I would make my memorial journey alone. I wasn’t in the least opposed to going by myself.

  I assisted as the Healer dressed my mother in her favorite gown. The one I will always remember her in — the blue one. She was fond of saying it was her favorite, because it matched my eyes. We gently lifted her into a box that waited on the cart. The colorful cloth lining will forever echo in my memory. The Healer slowly let the lid down, as I caught my last glimpse of my best friend, my mother.

  Trudging back inside, the Healer followed me. She put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face her, “Won’t you ride with me back to my home and begin your stay with me? It would be better that you don’t stay alone tonight. Also, if you need me, I would be honored to accompany you in your memorial journey, when you decide to go. I’ve always considered you and your mother as family.”

  “No thank you, Healer, I’ll be fine by myself here ... and when I make my journey. I’ll come and stay with you afterwards.” I wanted nothing more than to be alone with my misery.

  She hesitated and appeared to struggle with my decision, but then relented. I felt she left something unsaid, but with a look of intense sorrow, she left my home and climbed onto her cart. She clicked to her donkey and rode off slowly. I stood at my doorway and watched until the cart was no longer visible as my mother — my life, was taken away.

  At that moment I forced myself to face the fact I was truly alone. I turned, closed the door, and looked around our humble little home as I tried in vain to fight o
ff the approaching depression. Maybe I should have gone with the Healer.

  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.