“What, after work?”
“Well, if time permits. We could walk down to Aro’s Cave.”
“Hale, over here!”
They both stopped, and Owen followed his friend’s gaze to sixteen-year-old Molly Thorne. Her brown hair was pinned up in a bun, loose tendrils blowing against her beaming face as she waved at Hale.
“Be right there, Molly!” Hale called. He turned to Owen and said, “I told her we’d go for a walk already.”
Owen’s chest fell. The way his friend looked at her was answer enough to his question. He did not blame him. Hale was twenty, after all, and working with Clyde. He was well past the age to wed if he wanted, and Molly had caught his eye this past spring.
“It’s all right. I have to help Milo a little longer today,” Owen said. He did not want to come between his friend and the girl he had been running off with.
“I can meet you at our usual place later today.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.” Hale smiled and clapped Owen’s hand, then made his way up to Molly.
Leaving his friend behind, Owen made his way along the worn path that wound its way behind the houses and through the sparsely-wooded area. The path led down to the coast, where he emerged out into the open. The fisherman’s house sat upon a ledge several feet above the sand.
Owen loved Milo Bray’s house. The inside was one big room with a bed for the lone fisherman, a wood-burning stove, lots of pots and pans, and utensils. On the outside, a deck ran around the whole thing. At night, after a hard day’s work, Owen would sometimes sit with the old fisherman and sip mead as they watched the last rays of the sun dip below the water on the horizon. It was one of his favorite places in all of Milarc, and he had seen many places in his country—the vibrant flower fields in the southern region of Torke, the crumbled ruins of Wheaton in the north, and now his own home in the west, where he had explored waterfalls set deep into the Mulberry Forest, and glittering caves that ran deep within the high cliffs along the shore.
The sun shone brightly against the blue sky, a rarity in these parts, but enormous white and gray clouds drifted over the ocean, threatening to blot out the light. The breeze brushed the brown tufts of hair from Owen’s face as he closed his eyes and inhaled the salty air. The smell of fish was already wafting his way from the back deck, calling for him.
He found Milo inside the house, making a mess of his kitchen drawers.
“Looking for something?” he asked the fisherman.
“My damn cleaver,” Milo shot out, running a hand down his gray, frazzled beard. “Eh, I swear if it isn’t my bowels, it’s my mind.”
Owen glanced around the room for the cleaver, helping Milo search in drawers and even in pots. When he went through the back door, he found the tool sitting in plain sight on the cleaning table.
“Ah, you found it,” Milo said, coming out into the morning air. “Let’s get to work, then.” He bent down and set out several fish on the table, along with a few tools. “We’ve got lots to gut for the bonfire.”
They both set to work gutting and cleaning. Owen slid his small knife along the belly of a sea trout before taking the fish by the gills and ripping the entrails from its gut. He sliced around the fragile bones to peel away the two slabs of pink flesh, then cut the rest of the head away.
“Remember what I said about the extra meat up top the head now,” Milo told him.
“Yes, sir,” Owen replied with a smile. The man never neglected to tell him, but Owen did not dare correct him.
He threw the entrails into a bucket and washed the fillets in another before laying them within a clean wicker basket. He made sure to cut the extra meat around the head before throwing it in a separate basket for extras. The dogs in the village would eat the entrails and tails. Milo made sure no part went to waste.
Owen had worked with Milo for almost four years. He loved sailing out with the fisherman and casting the net into the water, where the world seemed miles away and sunlight touched only the boat and their faces. Milo, being in his sixties, knew much about marine life.
They had worked several days with their catches in preparation for the bonfire the next evening. Though the days were still lukewarm, the nights were already growing cold. With autumn being two weeks in, the village’s bonfire would signify the end of harvest season. And being so far north in Milarc, they were expecting a harsh winter’s snow.
The air grew warm as the morning waned, and before long the sun perched high in the sky. They finished their cleaning and set the fish aside in crates packed with salt.
Owen had worked up a hard sweat, and his hands ached from his hold on the knife. His fingers suffered the usual minor nicks from the fins and scales, but the meal it would bring would be worth it.
After he cleaned the table and set the baskets aside, Owen stood on the deck with the fisherman and looked out at the ocean as the sun beat down on their backs.
“Ah. You smell it?” Milo inhaled deeply, curling his rugged fingers around the thick fabric of his suspenders.
“The purity of the ocean itself,” Owen replied.
Milo placed a firm hand on Owen’s shoulder and sighed. “I wish other folks felt the same as you, and me for that matter.”
A broad smile formed on Owen’s face and reached his brown eyes.
Clearing his throat, Milo nodded toward the cliff. “You seen that statue yet?”
“Yes. It’s an odd thing. I’m not sure anyone cares for it.”
“Eh, the Legion tryin’ to force their system on us. The world’s been fine without gods, and now they want to resurrect one.”
“Perhaps. I learned in school down south they expect her to return.”
“Eh, all pugwash. Anything like that happens, you’d best be sure to stock up and be prepared to move up north, where that kind of talk don’t touch beyond the mountains. Well, anyways, watch your back, all right?” Milo nodded at him, his arms crossed. “I’m done here for the day. Take some fillets with you.”
With a nod, Owen thanked him, packed a small basket of fillets, and walked up the path through the trees. Most of the villagers were in the field preparing for the bonfire, setting up picnic tables and stringing garland around the area.
On his way home, Owen glanced at the silent statue standing alone on the hill away from the town. Her strange blue eyes seemed to move as he went. She was a peculiar sight to behold. Owen knew her face only from books he had read, and from what he had learned in school as a boy.
There were four gods: Arcan, Neti, Meta and Yuna. All brothers and sisters of the Firmament that supposedly rested in a realm above their world, but now were gone. Most of the people Owen knew did not worship or give offerings to the gods. Owen often prayed to Arcan, as he had been the giver of life and light. He wondered how his statue would look on the hill instead.
He was so immersed in the painted hunk of rock that he stumbled over a small hole in the ground and fell to his knees.
Heat rose in his face, and as he looked around, he let out a breath of relief that no one had seen him. Luckily, his basket had not tumbled from his hands. He brushed the dirt from his brown trousers, straightened his suspenders, and continued through the field until he came to the path that ran south along the cliff.
His home was nestled away from the village at the height of the cliff, just a few feet off the path. It was a cozy place that brought him warmth and solace. Yellow wildflowers grew along the dirt path, marking the way like a road of lemon candies.
Rounding the porch, he bounded up the few steps and opened his door. The room inside was warm from the sun, and he threw open the windows to let in the fresh air. He placed the basket of fish in the pantry, then ladled out soup from a pot resting in the warm hearth. It burned low now, but the vegetables had cooked through.
When he brought a spoonful of it to his lips, he savored the flavors of pepper and juices that bled into the broth. He sat at the table, wishing he would have invited Hale over for supper befo
re their outing that evening.
As he ate, the silence of the room settled. The open windows let in the cool afternoon air. The breeze ruffled the corners of a few drawings on the wall beside his bookcase; a map of Milarc, showing in detail every landmass, river, and mountain; a drawing of the coast along Emberton; and a few sketches of deer, squirrels, and birds. Esther Crowe’s husband had given him the maps, as he traveled from town to town, and Owen had been interested in the land. The others he’d drawn with his own hand; he planned to add in more detail later.
Within the silence of the room, sadness swept over him like a dark cloud swollen with rain. He had his kitchen, which fed him, and his bedroom that housed him warmly, and his books, which sat upon the shelves of his wooden case in the corner, but something was always missing. It was as if a deep hole burrowed in his chest, longing to be filled. He needed more than friends and neighbors. He needed someone to live with, to cook with, to share laughs and stories with late at night before bed.
Books were always something he’d stolen away into when the loneliness became too much. He would open one up and soon get lost in the throes of his imagination. But lately, when settling down at night to read a book by candlelight, he would open the binding to the first page only to close it back again within minutes. He would sigh, pull the blanket over him, and then fall asleep.
He thought of Hale, how his friend had taken to picking on him when he first came to Emberton over four years ago. Owen had been three months shy of sixteen, still an orphan in the eyes of most, but when the village folk saw him working with his own hands to repair and build the “shack upon the cliff,” as they called it, they hushed their gossip quickly. Hale had teased him for having no parents, no true family to call his own. Months later, the two found themselves both working together with Milo Bray. After an adventurous fishing trip on a boat, the two struck up a friendship and had remained golden ever since.
Until Molly Thorne caught Hale’s eye.
Rather than think about losing his friend to romance, Owen got to his feet and cleared away his bowl. He walked to his bedroom long enough to pluck his journal from his dresser and then came outside into cooler air. The afternoon was still bright, the air warm enough for a walk.
He closed his door and strolled down the southern path away from his house, a thumb hooked around one of his suspenders, until he reached a part of the cliff that sloped downward. It was a well-worn path used by many children who played in the woods nearby, and he had taken to using it as well. The vacant beach stretched for miles north and south, wrapping around the way of the cliffs until it disappeared far into the distance.
It was still too early for Hale to meet with him, but he did not mind. He sat on the large boulder he frequented, letting his feet dangle inches above the sand. The ocean was calm, the wind just right for writing.
He looked over the entries in his journal. The first ten pages were a collection of poems. Then began the drawings of the beach and sea, the houses of Emberton from a distance, a waterfall he and Hale had hiked to last summer, and a few birds that had sat long enough for him to sketch.
He was not sure whether he liked writing or drawing more, so he did a bit of both. He flipped to a blank page and slipped his charcoal pencil from the back pocket in his journal.
“‘The wind is heavy against the surface of the ocean,’” he said aloud as he wrote. Biting his lip, he scratched out the words. “No, that’s not right.” He glanced up as the cold water rushed over his bare feet.
Seagulls flew in the western sky. His eyes roamed the horizon, where a fisherman’s boat sailed, and he thought of Milo. The sound of gentle waves was calm enough to lull Owen to sleep. When the breeze blew in, it caressed his cheeks and ruffled his hair, and when he inhaled the air, goosebumps rose on his skin. The fragrance of salt and sand was his own to savor.
“No, not wind,” he said to himself. “Perhaps something lighter, something more delicate.”
Taking up his pencil, he wrote out, I love the feel of the ocean air against my face. It holds within it a part of the sea I cannot touch, for it has touched the faces of those far from here who speak other languages, and has traveled along the surface of the water that runs for many miles to the west. And in this way I have breathed in the very air that foreign common folk have exhaled.
“‘The ocean breeze is life ever-flowing, that which circulates until all have tasted of it,’” he finished aloud.
Beside his entry, he sketched the horizon and the gulls. Then he closed his leather-bound journal and drew up one of his knees, resting his cheek there. He sat for a while, staring at the water as the light bathed him in warmth.
He sighed. “I never want to leave this place.”
As the sun lowered, Owen looked along the beach. When he saw no one, he slipped down to the ground.
He pressed his palms against the sand, digging his fingers into the soft grains. For a long moment, he froze, his heart beating wildly against his chest. Looking up the beach once more and seeing it empty, he closed his eyes. Breathing in deep, he allowed himself to feel the vibrations of the earth. In this way, he could see the world around him and feel for energy that was good or troubling.
Through the slight shudders within the ground, he felt the energy of the people in the village and the scurrying of animals along the beach. Like streams of water, the surrounding forces flowed against his palms, running up his skin until his arms tingled.
He dug his hands deeper, willing his mind to open up more to his power. His aim was to find Hale, but instead he found the energy of something menacing, like the shadow of someone tall and compelling. His heart thumped fast, the ill omen shaking his bones, and he quickly drew his hands out of the sand. He panted, searching the area to see if anyone had seen him.
No one emerged.
What am I doing? He wiped his sandy hands on his trousers and raked his fingers through his hair. If someone saw him, they might wonder what he was doing. Perhaps they would not recognize his ability, but it was not worth the risk.
Owen stared at a wave as it crawled slowly toward him before drifting out again.
He often wondered if the Legion’s forces would ever find him. After all, he was not marked. They could not possibly know of the Astran power within his veins. His friend Amias had made sure of that a long time ago, after Owen’s mother passed and left the older man in charge of his guardianship. It was why he had traveled through so many regions within Milarc, from Torke, to Lower Milarc, to Wheaton, and finally Brynrock. He was not sure how long he could keep up the tirade of hiding in plain sight.
Yuna’s statue seemed to be a sign itself that even the village of Emberton, tucked safely away within the region of Brynrock, was not out of reach of the Legion. They had become powerful over the past two thousand years and now waged war in other countries. It wasn’t enough for them to rule in Milarc and its sister country, Avathon, in the south. They wanted control everywhere, all in the name of the fourth goddess.
So long was Owen lost deep in thought, pondering his omen, that he did not realize how late the day had become. The sun peeked out briefly from behind the clouds, its orange light gleaming along waves.
Owen looked up and down the beach and waited until the sky grew dark. With a heavy sigh, he wandered back up the path to his house. There would be no seeing Hale this evening. He seemed to have forgotten their plans.
“Can’t say I blame him for wanting to wed. Isn’t that what they all do?” he said to himself.
Before he opened his door, Owen thought of his omen again. His power seeped through his mind, as if warning him of something coming. The premonition left his body vibrating. Opening his mind, he sensed many energies, from the ocean, to the warmth of Emberton, to the strange presence of the statue. He took one long look at Yuna’s effigy and winced.
Rather than be cautious, he sealed his mind from feeling such energies. Suppressing it would make it go away, and if it went away, he had a better chance of staying hid
den from the forces of the Legion.
Chapter 2
Owen watched from his porch as several children played chase around Yuna’s statue. He wondered, if Yuna still dwelled in the Firmament, if she would mind all the children playing on her idol. But since the Legion could not even get the color of her eyes right, he supposed the goddess did not care. After a while, the children seemed to forget about the deity watching over Emberton and raced down the hill into the village, where their parents were hard at work preparing for the harvest bonfire.
It was early morning and the clouds were heavy, though not yet ready to burst with rain. Owen had worked hard all week with Milo and welcomed the day off. The children playing in the field reminded him of his own youth, when he would run through the streets of White Oak down in Torke. At the time, he’d lived with a woman who fostered him not long after his mother died. He stayed with her for two years before Core Wielders began frequenting the area and Amias, his guardian, moved him up north to a farm in Wheaton. The folks he stayed with there were hard on him, and often beat him for straying from his tasks on their farm.
Those were years that grew him up quickly. When he was fifteen, he begged Amias to take him elsewhere, and Amias brought him to Emberton. At twenty, he was able to hold his home, maintain work for food, and he had even started a small plot of tomatoes behind his house.
A few girls from the village fancied him, but he was not interested, and grew all the more worried when the married folk began asking him if he would ever wed. He often craved the affection of others, but marriage was not something he believed was in his future, and he wished they would not badger him about it.
Clearing his thoughts, Owen picked up the book in his lap and opened the cover. He’d intended to come out to his porch and read Creatures of the North until it was time to cook his fish stew.
He had read the book more times than he could count. It contained all sorts of lore: men who turned into wild, rabid dogs hungry for flesh; black-eyed folk who lived in caves and drained the blood from living things to drink; beautiful nymphs that ran among the trees, enticing men into their lairs to kill them; and his favorite, Wispmen, who were said to be tall, thin, and gravely-looking figures with dark hoods and gray eyes. These were told to have “the stroke of death,” for a single touch could weaken a man, and possibly kill him.
Beyond the Core (The Starborn Series Book 1) Page 2
