Un-named Story Chapter one

Un-named Story Chapter one

The early morning sun crept lazily over the horizon, touching the treetops of the Sacarune forest with its soft and sleepy light. Clouds were streaked haphazardly across the pink-purple sky and dotted here and there were the birds that had not flown south, chirping their usually morning songs. A hawk cried in the distance and a deer picked her way gently through the forest and out into the grass, trailed by two younger ones. The faint breeze danced through the leaves, lifting them, making them hum the tune of nature. There was a low mist along the ground, covering the grass with moisture that would soon freeze.

Not far from the village of Grusapas, a little wooden cabin stood out among the trees on the outskirts of the Sacarune forest, its little chimney puffing smoke into the sky. The widows were obscured by a thin sheet of ice on the outside and except for the occasional crackle from the burning logs, not a sound peeped out of the tiny house.

Inside, a young girl lay asleep in her bed, snuggled under two worn blankets. Her thick, shiny mane of dark curls was spread across her pillow like a sheet of ebony. Looking about the age of fifteen or sixteen, she had an attractive face with full lips and long eyelashes.

Her face twitched and she rolled over, the blankets falling half off. Her eyelids fluttered a few times before she opened them and took in her surroundings through her beautiful turquoise eyes. She grimaced at the light and pressed her face into her pillow, moaning grumpily.

"Myla?" called a man's voice from another room. "Are you up yet?"

Myla groaned in response and kicked back the blankets, revealing her long, slender legs. Her pale nightshirt stood out vividly against her tanned skin and hung loosely on her body.

"Myla?" he repeated.

She rolled to the edge of her small bed and sat up, placing her feet on the wooden floor and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"I'm up, I'm up." she stretched and yawned.

A man of about thirty five with wavy brown hair and soft green eyes poked his head into the room. He nodded.

"Good." He retreated.

Myla got heavily to her feet and sauntered over to her pitifully small, homemade wooden dresser. The drawers opened with protesting squeaks that Myla was so used to she neither cared nor took any notice at all. She chose a plain, knee length, navy dress with buttons starting at the waist and working all the way up to the collar and slipped off her nightshirt, pulled the dress down over her head, and quickly fastened the buttons.

Ready for her on the little carved wooden table was a loaf of homemade bread and a knife. Taking care not to cut the table, Myla sliced off four pieces and set two on a homemade plate for her father and then went outside to the cold box for the strawberry jam. When her father emerged, dressed, Myla was nibbling on her second piece. He sat down in the chair across from her and smiled weakly.

"Okay," Myla pouted, "I agree we don't need to live in the city, but why can't we at least live in the village, or anywhere that's civilization?"

"Myla," her father was exasperated, "we've been living out here since" -he swallowed thickly- "since your mother died. I'd think that after ten years, you would be used to it.'

"Yeah," she snapped back, "having to make my own furniture, food, and clothes! You make a trip into the village once a month for things like cloth, soap, milk, butter, eggs and nothing else! I've never even been near other people since mom was killed! I'm so bored all the time, I want friends!"

"Myla, please," he cried, "I can"t explain everything to you, you're too young, but you have to trust me when I say it is for your protection, and mine, that we stay away from other people. You have no idea the dangers of certain people knowing where we are. I thought seeing your mother killed would have taught you that by now."

Myla's anger dissolved immediately to be replaced with sadness and guilt. She bit down on her lip and held back her tears. Not even ten years could wash away the horror of seeing her mother murdered before her very eyes. It was hard to be grateful for being alive when there was the constant reminder that you had hidden under the bed and let your mother be slaughtered instead of doing something. Even after telling yourself over and over that there was nothing you could do, you were only six and surely would have been murdered if you had been discovered, there was still that guilt that you had just stayed put and let the horrors continue.

Something must have shown in her eyes because her father bowed his head sadly and said, "I'm so sorry Myla, I didn't mean to upset you. Please, don't cry, everything is okay."

He got up and went to embrace her but his actions were cut short. Instantly, he was alert, terrified. Myla had seen this happen before but never knew why. The only thing she had ever heard a hawk crying out, probably circling above in search of food. She didn't understand her father’s odd panic at this sound and just passed it off as something insignificant, just a part of her life that could not be changed and didn't matter anyway.

But lately, he had become more on edge. It seemed her was always straining to hear everything going on outside and nearly just out of his skin at the sound of wings flapping past the window or a bird calling out in the distance. He would quickly tell Myla to be as quiet as possible then whisper frantically to tell him if that sounded like a hawk. It barely ever was.

Sometimes Myla believed that her father had built the house in the shadow of the trees, out of sight from anyone coming in any direction but from the forest, to hide from hawks, not people. It was a humorous idea she had one day after her father had freaked out over a small hawk in the sky. There was no reason to be afraid of people finding them. Nobody usually went in the forest except for Myla and her father; it was dangerous in there. Even less people ventured their way from towns or even the village, and no one had ever spotted their house.

Her father thrust his hand out and grabbed hold of Myla's wrist with painful force. She cried out but it was stifled by her father's hand over her mouth.

"What is with you and those birds?" she hissed through his palm.

"Do you remember what you told me you heard before the person who killed your mother broke into the house?" he said in an urgent whisper.

"A hawk, so what? What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with this, her death, and the person who killed her." He pleaded with his eyes for her to understand but she was completely at sea. "Myla," he continued as the sound of flapping wings could be heard coming closer, "you must grab your shoes and run. Don't let the hawk see you. Run deep into the safe parts of the forest and hide. I'll come for you if everything is okay."

"What? Why?" she was frustrated. "Dad, it's just a bird for Christs sake!"

"I don't have time to explain. Don't come back here if I don't come for you. Now run, take your shoes and run!"

Confused, Myla dashed to the back door and pulled her old canvas shoes onto her feet. She had barely enough time to tie the laces before her father had poked his head out the door then whisked her through it. Without looking back, Myla darted for cover of the trees. Her father's panicked fear had been the worst yet, and infectious. The farther she ran the more trepidation grew inside her, like cells multiplying through her whole body.

Halfway to her safe spot, a pained cry issued through the woods from the direction of her house and she skidded to a halt, tripped, and fell to the forest floor. The laces in one of her shoes had snapped and it had fallen off her foot. She got gingerly to her feet, rubbing her side then bending down to pick up her poor old shoe. There was a big tear in the skirt of her dress and it was smudged with filth.

A crashing sound far back behind her brought her to her senses. Stomach flip-flopping and heart fluttering, she spun around and started back. But no, she had to obey her father. She stopped again, frantic with worry and fear. She fidgeted on the spot, torn between obeying and disobeying. It was the same as ten years ago. If she went back, she might be able to help her father. On the other hand, she could be killed. If she stayed back, ran to safety, she would live. But then she would be abandoning her only family member in his time of need.

Teetering on the edge for a moment, she decided she couldn't let someone else die without doing anything. She couldn't handle anymore guilt. She took a deep breath and began to sprint back, ignoring the awful stinging of her bare foot.

Hiding behind a tree with her tiny house in view, Myla stopped to catch her breath. There were no more sounds coming from within. She peeked around the tree and watched the windows for any movement. Nobody moved inside. After a minute or so, Myla guessed that her father’s attacker had already left before she got there and it was now safe to go in. But she wasn't sure.

A slight breeze ran through the forest, making an already cold Myla quiver. Standing at about five foot four, her head didn't even reach the first branch of the tall tree. The rough bark scraped painfully against her cheek as she withdrew her head from sight of the cabin. She had to go, had to.

Wincing slightly, she lifted her foot and plucked the pine needles out and wiping away the small amount of blood. Then she hurried out from behind the tree, clutching her useless shoe to her chest.

The cold, early morning dew that covered grass tickled Myla’s bare foot as she crossed the span of ground between the forest and her home. The cold water on her foot was a welcomed change compared to the stinging agony that had occurred to her foot while dashing over the broken twigs and pine needles that cover the forest floor.

She dreaded what she might find when she entered the hut. If her father was still in there she would surely see him, but what state would he be in? If he was alive, would he be a mess, half dead, on his last breath? Or worse, what if he was in so much pain he begged her to put him out of his misery? The thought of all these terrible possibilities brought a new wave of tears to her eyes.

With a tear streaked face, she walked up to the front door and stood in the open doorway. The sight that met her eyes was not as bad as she had feared; there was no blood splattered on the floor or walls. However, there was a small splat of blood on the floor near the sink and red foot prints leading to their little wooden bookcase. Her hopes were slowly rising; if the inside of the house didn't look as though there had been a violent battle, maybe there hadn't. Maybe her father had stabbed his attacker who fled, then he walked to the bookcase with blood on his feet. Simple, easy, how she hoped it was true.

But as she turned a corner from the small eating and sitting room, she found what she had been afraid of.

Her father wasn't dead, but he was in a dire state. There was a deep gash across left cheek and a wound in his shoulder. He had a heavy flow of blood issuing out from under him, as though he had literally been stabbed in the back. A large, thick book was lying across his chest for reasons that Myla didn’t know. It appeared his ribs were crushed in, and while the book didn’t seem too heavy, its weight was pushing his ribs slowly downward. In time the book would surely cause his ribs to puncture his lungs.

"Father!" she cried, falling to her knees beside him. She was afraid to touch him and cause him more pain.

"Myla," he gasped in a small choked voice. It was a miracle he was still conscious. "I told you to run, to leave this place. Why are you still here?"

"Father, I..."

"Hurry, leave now!" a trickle of blood was running from his mouth.

"No father! I'm here to help you! You'll live if I patch you up and remove this book!" Myla exclaimed, more tears soaking her already damp face.

"No Myla, I'm going to die," her father whispered quickly, painfully. "I'm sorry, but there is nothing you can do. I guess it is good you came back if only for one reason; this book. You must leave here and take it. Read it carefully and make sure you don't lose it. It is an extremely important tool in you survival now. It can provide you will most the answers I have not given you."

Myla looked at the old, beat up, leather bound book lying across her father's upper body. How could this book be so important? She had seen it before in her house; her father used to keep it high on a shelf where she could not reach it.

"Kasgrian could not have known I had this or he would have taken it with him." Her father muttered to himself. "Funny that one of the reasons he came for me and your mother before me was this book, and he didn't even realise we had it. Stupid of him to not search the house but it is a good thing he didn't. You need it."

"Kasgrian? Who is Kasgrian?"

"That's not important now, you'll find out later. All you need to know is that there is something special in this book."

"I don't care about that dumb book!" she cried hopelessly. "Please don't die!"

"My…" he began, but at the moment, he gave a wet cough, shuddered, and said his final words, "Stay away from any hawks. He will come in the form of one. I love you, my Myla."

He gave a final cough, spitting up blood, and then went limp.

"Father!" Myla exclaimed, grabbing the book off his chest and flinging it over her shoulder. She lunged forward to hug him but stopped when the book hit the floor with a thump and began to emit a faint hum.

She turned around and crawled across the floor, curiosity blossoming inside her. The book had fallen open, its pages revealed to be blank, yet they seemed to have a soft glow about them. Myla frowned; how could an empty book with shimmering pages be of any help to her? She picked up the book and made to flip through it, hoping to find words somewhere.

Immediately, she dropped the book and stuffed her fist into her mouth to smother her scream of surprise; the moment her fingers had made contact with the oddly glowing pages, words had appeared. The once blank page now read:

The Tome of Furnikta
When the cleverly created pages of my book are touched by human hands, they will reveal the easiest answer to the question the person is thinking of. I am sorry to say, the more difficult part of the answer will have to be solved by the person in question. Some problems have to be worked out on your own, but my tome will give you a head start.

Sincerely,
Shadhar Furnikta

Myla read and reread these words over until she was sure she knew what to make of the book. Why would her father have this weird "Tome of Fernikiss" or whatever it was called? Where did he get it? Odd though the book was, she could easily see how it could help her. But why did she need help to survive from some book instead of parents? Why had her they been killed? Was it because if this peculiar book she now held?

Concentrating on what seemed to be the most important question, she gently touched a finger to the shimmering page. Instead of words, something else materialized. It looked like a good quality picture of a tear shaped pendant set on a fine gold chain. It looked like glass or crystal, but hollow, turquoise in colour and filled with what looked like water. But it couldn't be water; water didn't sparkle like that, didn't glow like that. And yet Myla knew it was water, or rather, tears. How she knew she couldn't be certain of. She just simply knew. It was as though it was written on the page that it was the tears of someone or something powerful, mystical, magical...

Was it just the effect of the iridescent pages, or was the pendant actually glowing and sparkling as though it was sitting on top of the page? Myla tipped the book up, meaning to get a closer look at the odd pendant, but when she did so the necklace fell right out of the book and into her lap.

Myla stared at the tear shaped necklace with wide eyes and her father's words ran through her head.
"There is something special in this book."

This had to be the special object her father had been referring to. But what was so special about hollow a tear shaped pendant filled with, well, tears? And why would someone kill her parents to get it?

She set the pendant back on the open book but it did not go back inside. She frowned and picked it up again to inspect it closer. The tear shaped crystal was held onto the chain by the gold in swirls and loops around the top.

"This is why my parents were killed?" she said with frustration. "Over some pretty piece of jewelery?" She tossed the pendant aside in anger and touched the book again. New words appeared.

"The Pendant of Sarasehp, defeated by Jodas," she read and looked back to the discarded necklace. She had never heard the name Sarasehp in her life, but Jodas seemed vaguely familiar. Leaving her hand on the page, she thought, what is the pendant for?

More words scribbled themselves across the shining surface.
Sadness of Sarasehp shall subjugate all sin by the soul of the lover.
When asked who Sarasehp was, all the book said was the lover of evil. It claimed Jodas to be the "foolish father of Proparus". Myla had no idea what or who Proparus was. In her mind, the book had only succeeding in confusing her further, not helping her.

It was with wet, shining eyes that she turned back to her father, cursing him for not providing her will the answers she wanted, cursing herself for being even a little bit mad at the man who had raised her, and cursing the person named Kasgrian that had killed both her parents over a necklace.

"I will avenge you father," she said softly and brushed her lips against his undamaged cheek, "And mother too. I promise." She closed his eyes with her fingertips and let her tears fall openly.

Myla spent the next fifteen minutes gathering up everything she would be taking. She had not bag of her own to keep things in so she took her father's. It was made for him by Myla’s mother back before she died, out of deer skin. The material was soft, sturdy, and tan in colour with a pretty pattern stitched into the front with gold and turquoise thread. Her father used it to carry his purchases home after a trip to the village.

Myla could only carry a few things as the bag wasn't huge. She crammed two other dresses, the loaf of bread, her mother's gold locket, her father's light hunting knife, her warmest blanket, a bar of soap, a jar of water, some matches, and a bundle of cloth into the bag. She also scavenged around and collected all the money in the house for her journey. If she was going to survive she would have to mingle with people and buy other necessities, like new shoes. She couldn't just hide.

Cradling the book in her arms with the bag slung over her shoulder, Myla walked to the still open doorway. She paused, set the book down, and dug around in the bag until she found the tin of matches. She selected one, replaced the tin, heaved the bag back over her shoulder, and tucked the book under one arm. Looking at the wall that she knew her father's body was concealed by, she struck the match and tossed into the house. She watched the flames lick the wood, catch hold, and begin to burn the floor. Then she left and did not look back.

Myla had changed out of the blue dress and into a yellow one much like it. She had left the torn and dirty one behind to burn. She also replaced the broken shoelace with a thin strip of cloth and now wore a doe-skin coat. The pendant was fastened around her neck, hidden down the front of her coat. She headed for the village of Grusapas, about a three hour walk away from where she started. She held the book close as she made her way. After buying new shoes and a few apples, she planned on asking the book where to go next, not what to do there, just where to go. She would figure out what she was doing from there.

Keeping her head bent low against the wind, Myla trekked across the semi-frozen ground. It was nearing the end of autumn. Myla knew, from stories her father had told her of his trips, that it was colder near Grusapas. If she was fortunate, the snow would not start falling until after she reached her destination. If she was very fortunate, it would not fall at all.

Her head covered by her hood, Myla bought five apples from a nice looking man standing next to a fruit stand. From an old native woman she purchased a moderately priced pair of knee high, moose-skin, moccasin boots lined with soft rabbit fur. They had a beautifully beaded design on the front and were wonderfully warm. She disposed of her old shoes and then found a secluded area to consult her book.

It told her to go to the city of Novis and find a woman named Mora Cladden. When asked who the woman was, the book replied "the helper". Starting to like the idea of having such a helpful tool, Myla left the village. Her father had talked to her of Novis before. It was the closest city to them in their cabin and to Grusapas as well. By this time it was about five o'clock. Myla figured she'd reach Novis before midnight at most.

It began to snow about a minute outside Grusapas. It started with large flakes drifting languidly downward but after five minutes the flakes had changed to small, icy bullets. The wind picked up, slapping Myla in the face with its cold, harsh hand and ripping her hood off to whip her hair around like a tornado. It cut through her jacket and lashed at her skin. Numb to the bone, she had to turn back.

When she reached the village again, the outside shop owners had covered over their stands, removed their food and sitting blankets, and taken shelter in their homes. Myla looked down at her snow and ice caked boots. She had saw long, thick, and warm looking parka-like coats being sold by the same old woman she had bought her boots from. Seeing as how even though the rest of her was freezing her feet and calves were toasty warm, a coat made by the same person should be as effective.

Myla fished her money out of her bag and made her way down the winding street. The old native woman had taken her wares into a small wooden house much like the one Myla had just burned down. Snow crunching beneath her feet, she walked up to the door and knocked. The door opened and the little old woman stood behind it, smiling. Her grey-black hair was in a braid lying on her shoulder and her eyes were soft and dark.

"Dove-feather knowed you'd be returnin', child," she said, "Thin coat be no help in that." She nodded her to the blizzard. "Come in child, get warm, Dove-feather take good care of you." She beckoned with a small hand.

"Actually, I just wanted to buy a better coat from you," Myla replied, raising her voice to talk over the howling wind. "Can I still buy one? I have money." She showed her fistful.

The woman shook her head.

"It be no good to set out in this weather," she cried, as the howling got, if possible, even louder. "You come in child, get warm and dry. Dove-feather take good care of you.” She wrapped her little fingers around Myla's wrist and dragged her inside then closed the door with a snap.

"I don't want to be a burden," Myla mumbled, shaking snow out of her hair.

"That be nonsense," Dove-feather assured her and left to get a warm blanket.

Myla, feeling nervous, bent down and pulled off her boots. She unfastened the buttons on her coat and shrugged it off. Dove-feather returned, passed Myla a bear-skin blanket and took her coat to hang it up. Myla stood in front of the door awkwardly, unsure of what to do or where to go. She was about to say thank you when the old woman spoke.

"No need to thank me child," she said, "You be Myla, and you be needin' help."

Myla gasped.

"How do you-?"

"Dove-feather know many a thing, child, many more than you. The people round here call Dove-feather a 'seer'. Dove-feather look in her fire and uses the shapes in the flames and smoke to know what going to be happenin'."

"Oh," Myla blinked. "What's going to happen to me?"

"Dove-feather see that you will travel far and meet many a new people. And that dangerous shadow lurk above you. Dove-feather be here to help."

"Why will I travel? I can't just be hiding from a dark shadow or bad person, there's got to be more to it."

The old woman looked at her with interested and impressed eyes.

"You are wise, child," she said. "No, you isn't just runnin'. You be fightin' too."

"Fighting?" Myla frowned. "Fighting what?"

"You be one trying to end the Division. Trying to take all the hidden places and bring them into the light. Make them one."

"Hidden places? What?" Myla was getting more confused by the second. She shook her head. "I don'’t understand what you mean."

The old woman smiled.

"Doesn't matter now, that for later."

She began to walk into another room but Myla stopped her with another question.

"What is this?" she spread her arms out to reveal the pendant. "And why would someone kill me parents for it?"

Dove-feather’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of the pendant.

"Child," she said in a hushed voice, "Where did you find that?"

"It was in this." Myla pulled the book out of the bag. She had stuffed it in there so the snow couldn't get it.

The old woman's small mouth made a perfect o and her eyes opened even more.

"Great gods above," she cried with her hand over her heart, "Shadhar Furnikta's magical book!" she closed her eyes and took two deep breaths. "It be an honour to be in your presence. Never did any of my ancestors dream the One would be a child."

"The One?" Myla asked, wrapping the blanket around herself again.

"The only one who can truly end the Division." Dove-feather looked like she might faint with joy. "Tear and book holder! You can't be stopped! You must leave first thing in the morning to find out how to do it! But for now, sleep."

With a million questions swimming around inside her head, Myla let the old woman lead her to a small room with a heap of warm looking blanket on the wooden floor. It was obviously a bed. Myla waited until Dove-feather had left before she opened the book. All the previous writing was gone. She touched her hand to it. The answer quickly wrote itself down.

"The division of the world into separate secret ones," she read in response to her question of what is the Division. She couldn't get anymore out of it than that. After making sure the pendant was still safely around her neck and the book was tucked away in her bag, Myla snuggled herself down into the many blankets, hoping for sleep. Instead, she was overwhelmed with tears and confusion. She missed her father and didn't hold back her flow of misery. It was many hours later that the escape of sleep finally came to take her away.

The next morning when Myla awoke, Dove-feather had already prepared her with travel able food. Her boots were dry of all snow and had been kept close to the fire all night which made them wonderfully warm. When Myla questioned Dove-feather about buying a coat, they old woman shook her head with a smile on her lips.

"You be silly, child," she said, placing her hands on Myla's shoulders. "Dove-feather can't possibly take money from you. Here," she held out the money Myla had paid for the boots, "Dove-feather know you be needin' this more."

She forced the money into Myla's hand and went to her small room. When she emerged again, there was the most beautiful parka-like coat Myla had ever seen in her arms. The ones she had viewed yesterday were plain and boring compared to this one, even the most expensive ones. Tan like the boots and Myla's bag, the coat had lines of soft white rabbit fur stitched into the front, along with patterns of different colour beads. The hood had thick, gorgeous fur and beautiful, glossy feathers around the edge. Myla's jaw dropped.

"Dove-feather finish last night," the old woman told her. "You like?"

"It's breathtaking!" Myla squealed. "Is it really for me?"

"You an' only you, child." Dove-feather's smile grew as she handed the coat to Myla.

So soft and warm to the touch, the coat was a great deal more efficient than Myla's old one. She swung it around behind her and gently pushed her arms through the sleeves. It hugged her body with fluffy, fur-lined warmth and came down her knees to meet the tops of her boots.

Myla thanked the old woman over and over again. Dove-feather glowed with appreciation and shuffled away to get Myla some gloves. The gloves too were made of soft, sturdy hide and lined with seal skin and fur, like the boots. Dove-feather must have been up all night doing things for her, because both gloves had 'Myla' beaded onto the back.

After admiring her hands encased in the wonderful gloves, then her beautiful coat and superb boots, Myla threw her arms around the tiny old woman and embraced her, still muttering her thanks. Dove-feather patted her on the back and whispered in her ear, "May the spirits of my ancestors be guidin' you."

Myla gave her one last thank you squeeze and set about gathering all her things. During the night, Dove-feather had neatly organized the things in Myla's bag so they would fit better. After tucking the pendant safely down the front of her green dress, Myla fastened up the hand carved buttons on her coat and slung her bag over her shoulder. She flipped the hood up onto her had and pulled it down so the fur and feathers almost covered her eyes.

"Goodbye Dove-feather," Myla called as she stepped out into the dissipating storm, holding the strap of her bag on her shoulder with one hand and her hood in place with the other. "I can't thank you enough!"

Dove feather waved back at her. Myla returned the gesture and started away into the blustery morning, just barely hearing the door snap shut behind her.