Young Writers Society

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Amarie reached the entrance to the Tarasova Forest just before sunset. Rather than setting up camp out in the open meadow Amarie decided to seek shelter under the canopy of oaks, cottonwoods, golden dells, and wild cherry trees. A small dirt path snaked it’s way through moss covered rocks and overgrown tree roots leading deep into the darkness of the woods. About fifty yards into the forest Amarie found a small clearing that would serve well for her resting place.

Dismounting, she tied Mystic’s lead rope around the trunk of a yellow birch. As time was against her Amarie hurriedly began setting up camp, gathering fallen branches and dried leaves to start a fire. In the wild her best defense was a blazing fire and a continual awareness of everything around her. Amarie snapped a branch over her thigh, breaking it into the right size for firewood. Nimbly, she arranged the wood into a circle stuffing the dried leaves and some moss into the base for kindling. Using her flint and steel she had a decent fire going in mere seconds.

Keeping her ears perked for unnatural noises Amarie began to unpack. Cooking items were placed just to the right of the fire, her wool blanket spread out on the flattest stretch of earth she could find, and her other packs were placed at the head of her simple bed. She unsaddled Mystic and filled up the cast iron skillet with some water from her canteen. Mystic sniffed at the water but didn’t drink, instead she took a generous bite out of the earth and chewed on the grass. Amarie ate a diminutive dinner of bread, cheese, and ale her hand constantly on the hilt of her sword.

Sleep did not come easily. Amarie had forgotten how restless she became in the wild. Every animal creeping in the underbrush caused her to hold her breath. The groaning of the age old trees and their whispering leaves even made her tense. She wondered why she had allowed herself to get caught up in this ordeal. There was no reason, other than her own foolish determination, that she couldn’t turn back now and go home. So what if she didn’t deliver the ridiculous package? How could a piece of paper possibly be that important? It’s not as if the survival of all things good and just hung in the balance. And that talk of a prophesy was probably just some garbage the stranger had thrown in there to convince Amarie to take on the laughable assignment.

But if that were the case how did he know about the scar on her back? And why had Amarie had the distinct feeling that her friend Ruslan was holding something back from her? There were too many questions and not enough answers. Amarie rolled onto her side disgusted to see that Mystic had settled down on the ground and was sleeping soundly. If a horse could sleep in this noisy place why couldn’t Amarie? Clutching her sword in one hand and a dagger in the other Amarie closed her eyes at an attempt to sleep.

She didn’t wake up until the next morning. Her fire had sputtered out just before dawn and it was the sound of the dying embers that woke Amarie from her slumber. Stiff from laying on the hard ground Amarie rose slowly, stretching her limbs. She added more firewood and started a new flame to ward off the morning chill. Hungry, more from stress than a lack of food Amarie set out on foot with her bow to see what she might round up for breakfast.

It didn’t take her long to find a crabapple tree heavy with the bitter fruit. She was filling up the pocket of her cloak when she saw the gray squirrel scurry past. Quick as lightening she had an arrow strung and her bow made an audible twang as she let it loose. True to her target the squirrel fell over mid-run with her arrow straight through his heart. Amarie claimed her prize and hurried back to camp to cook the rodent.

By sunrise Amarie had eaten, packed up camp, and had the saddle back on Mystic. Just to be sure Amarie checked in her pack for the inconvenient parcel. She let out a sigh of relief as her fingers closed in around the rough brown paper. Satisfied, Amarie untied Mystic and led her back onto the dirt path. The quiet ride through the Tarasova Forest gave Amarie a lot of time for reflection.

This mysterious prophesy had to have been written somewhere. With Ruslan constantly locked up in that dreadful library he probably stumbled upon the very place where it had been inscribed. Furthermore, Ruslan had been the only other person besides her parents who had ever seen the scar. Amarie figured this was the only logical explanation for her friend’s queer behavior. As for Davelle knowing where she was headed, well, that had to be a lucky guess.

Amarie rubbed her lower back remembering how she had been given the jagged pink blemish that was shaped like a crescent moon. Her father had once again been adulterous and her mother was in one of her jealous rages. She was throwing clay plates and mugs against the walls, each dish splintering into a million jagged pieces. Amarie had sat in the corner listening to her mother’s shrill voice scream long winded curses. Of course her father just sat at the table drinking his pint of ale acting as if none of this was happening.

Even when her mother got into his face, her eyes wild and spittle projecting from her mouth, he seemed completely unperturbed. Finally it was more than Amarie could take. She crossed the small cottage ready to escape into the night, away from all the hatred being spewed. Her mother whirled on her, “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Amarie remembered saying, her hand already pushing the door open.

“Come back here you spoiled little tramp!” Her mother screamed. Amarie had heard the dish whirring through the air but hadn’t been able to dodge it. Fragments of clay had been lodged in her back and there had been a lot of blood. Her mother didn’t even apologize as she cleaned the wounds with healing salves. And her father just sat at the table drinking his ale acting as if he didn’t even have a daughter.

Amarie shook her head, as a few hot tears escaped her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She was an idiot to let these memories haunt her. Why should she allow herself to be tied down with all this emotional baggage her parents heaped on her? They were dead and everything they did to her should have died with them. Amarie hated herself for loving them and she hated herself for hating them.

Her father, that stoic man with no heart, had been her idol. She had done everything in her power to impress him. She practiced swordsmanship, hunting, tracking, horseback riding, she had even chopped off all of her hair at one point just to get his approval. But she wasn’t a son. Nothing could change that she would never carry his name, she could not pass on his legacy to her children. Embittered, Amarie rejected her last name and vowed to never have children. They were sticky, noisy little things anyways.

Her mother, so soft spoken and fragile on the outside but cold and cruel on the inside, should have just left the brute of a man. His constant infidelity caused her such pain and jealousy. And Amarie was always the one getting unloaded upon. Her mother would complain for hours on end about what a horrible person her father was. Amarie always felt like she had to chose sides. Her father who she adored so blindly or her mother who was the poor abused wife.

Amarie actually felt relief when her mother poisoned that fateful dinner. She sat at the table her food untouched watching her father vomiting at her mother’s feet. Amarie remembered watching the way the poison had tinted the corners of her mother’s mouth greenish-purple. She sat unmoving watching her father choke on his own bile. She watched her mother’s beautiful turquoise eyes roll into the back of her head as her breath came in wheezing gasps. Amarie sat at the table for two whole hours as her parents died slowly. She didn’t even feel resentment towards her mother for tainting her food, only pity that woman did not realize that Amarie could smell the rotten stench of poison.

Amarie shook her head again, bringing herself back to reality. She had been riding through the forest for quite some time. Although the entwined limbs and leaves of the trees offered no view of the sky Amarie knew it was early afternoon. Her stomach grumbled hungrily and Amarie thought she heard the gurgling of rushing water. Sure enough, around the next bend there was a small treeless area with a bubbling stream running through it. Amarie dismounted, tying Mystic near the stream. Thirsty, she cupped her hands and filled them with the icy water. It was like a rejuvenating elixir going down her dry, scratchy throat. When her thirst was quenched Amarie stood back up and pulled out some bread and cheese. Sitting on a nearby stump she began to consume her lunch.

Suddenly, a noise behind her made Amarie stiffen. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to see what had caused the noise. There in the underbrush was a big black and gray boar rooting around completely oblivious to Amarie. Stealthily, she reached for her bow and arrow. How good it would be to have that much meat this soon in her journey. Amarie’s mouth was watering at the thought of roasted pig, salted jerky, and wild bacon as she strung an arrow and pulled it even with her jaw line.

She had a perfect shot when Mystic snorted, spooking the boar. Furious she gave chase after the wild pig. She was an expert hunter and tracker, there was no way Amarie was going to let this magnificent animal slip through her fingers. It was easy to track him, as the animal was bulky and his tusks had cleared a path for him. Amarie’s real task was to remain as silent as possible so that she would not spook him again. He had run for quite a distance before he rested momentarily under a willow tree.

Amarie knelt slowly in the underbrush, her focus solely on the animal. His breathing was labored from the chase and Amarie could smell the fear excreted on his hide. Slowly, so as to not make a noise she restrung her bow aiming carefully at her target. The boar turned his broadside to her, so that she had a clear shot, there was no way she was going to miss him. Just as she released the arrow the boar took off with a jolt. Amarie didn’t have time to figure out what had spooked him as she felt the pressure of a short sword on her neck.

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