Spellbinder Notes (Day 1)

Spellbinder Notes (Day 1)

Species (according to Ursa):

1) Gods:

- gods were the first creation of Luoja, the Great Creator

? - is he the same creator of our world or just Ursa's world?

- Gods are supposedly immortal, but they have all disappeared

? - if the gods are immortal where did they go?

- Gods serve Luoja, but also have their own wills

and are almost all powerful (so they are like angels, but still can do whatever they want…sounds scary)

- Gods made lot of mistakes (according to Ursa) but did do a lot of good. Some gods were kind and others cruel

? – if the gods weren't all good, why didn't Luoja stop them?

- There were fourteen gods in total, but two of them were the Great God and Goddess who commanded the others (so they were the king and queen of

gods…maybe like Zeus and Hera)

-Something terrible happened and the Great Goddess disappeared and the world was split in two creating our world and Ursa's world. The other gods soon disappeared after the Great Goddess

? – what happened to the Great Goddess?

? – have the gods disappeared or died?

? – can immortals die?

Watch the flowers bloom and the raindrops come.

Feel the weight of the world lift and your spirit fly.

Come to the fields and watch the moon rise.

A voice sang sweetly, its words hanging in the air delicately, but firmly. Chenoa Rose turned slowly, feeling the long multicolor grass that resembled a painter's spill clothe brush against her calves. Titling her head, she smiled and closed her eyes, allowing the words to wash over her. The voice sounded pleasantly familiar. It warmed her small frame as the silvery sun bathed her with its tendrils of light. Curling her toes, Chenoa felt momentarily surprised at the soft earth between her toes. She was barefoot, odd. Yet not odd enough to disturb her mellow trance. The beautiful singing continued.

My hand in yours and yours in mine.

With your hands in mine, my darling love,

The moon shall rise like a dove

Above of us bright and loving light

The smell of all the seasons swept around Chenoa in a gentle breeze. Bitter, crisp winter combined with hot, sticky summer mingled with fresh, rainy spring and spicy fall. Chenoa knew that smell. How? Opening her eyes, Chenoa gazed at the field around her. Grass painted every possible color surrounded her, some spots reaching her knees and others reaching her chest. A large tree stood in the distance, old and twisted. Its trunk was so large that seven men holding hands would not encircle it as its massive warped limbs twisted up and down like crazy straws. Against the multicolor field, the tree stood out in tones of purest black and white. The white and black streaked along the bark as if racing to the top while pure white leaves, razor sharp, grew next to soft curls of deepest black. Averting her gaze, Chenoa did not like the tree. It made her chest ache and her mind buzz. For some reason she felt as if it were trying to tell her something. Focusing instead on the rich earth beneath her feet, Chenoa studied its rich red and green tones, digging her toes in deeper. As she curled and uncurled her toes, Chenoa frowned. Her feet were small, the size of a child's. Her skin almost blended into the earth between her toes, only the milky cream of her nails showed where the earth ended and her feet began.

How old am I? Chenoa wondered. Chewing her lip, Chenoa thought she knew the answer but could not make the answer come to the front of her mind. Frustrated, Chenoa looked up and around once again. Behind her at least twenty or thirty yards was a set of woods. Even at a distance Chenoa could feel the cool air that flowed through the woods, thick with the musk of damp earth. From the woods the voice continued to sing.

Allowing us to no longer fight

Finally, we shall reach peace

A fitting end for you and me.

Hearing the voice again, Chenoa smiled. The silly questions of how old she was and where she was left her. The voice was safety and love. She wanted to go to the voice. Somehow, Chenoa knew that she had been with the singer only a little while ago but had decided to go exploring. Yet her limbs felt tired now and she wished to go to the singer and rest. Lifting one foot, Chenoa started to leave the fields. The effort of lifting her foot, however, was much more than she would have expected. Chenoa felt as if she was pulling her leg up through water that was rushing against her. Just as her first step landed on the ground, Chenoa felt a hand grab her from behind. While the hand was tender, Chenoa felt a bolt of electricity course through her, burning at the contact point. Confused, for she knew she had been completely alone, Chenoa swiveled her head around to look at who held her arm.

It was a boy. He appeared to be only a few years older than her with shaggy hair that was a complete mess, black with random patches and streaks of white. His large eyes were two different blues. The left one was a deep gray-blue, reminding Chenoa of a rolling thunderstorm, and his right was an icy, bright blue, the same color as a distant star. A long prominent nose ran down his face, something her mind told Chenoa he would grow into. The boy's mouth, long with mildly full lips, broke into a smile that made Chenoa's heart twinge. Yet Chenoa did not know if her heart twinged with joy, sadness, or fear. Sliding his hand down from her bicep, the boy interlocked his fingers with Chenoa's right hand. Together their hands looked like a chocolate-vanilla swirled yogurt, his skin a silvery cream next to her red brown.

"You came back," he said wistfully.

Blinking, Chenoa shook her head. His voice sounded as if two people were speaking, a young boy and a man. Their two tones overlapped seamlessly. Licking her lips, Chenoa wanted to speak, but found she had no voice.

"I missed you," he continued.

The two voices of the boy rose in joy. His gaze was unwavering, even eerie.

"I…" Chenoa managed.

"You said you would be back before the last full moon," he said.

His mouth turned into a pout. Tightening his grip a fraction, he pulled Chenoa closer. Following her hand, Chenoa took a step towards the boy and found that she moved with ease.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice tiny and young. "Mama said we couldn't because of something…I don't remember."

Mama. Chenoa suddenly remembered her mother was there, in the wood with the singer, waiting for her. Turning her head back towards the woods, Chenoa remembered also that she was supposed to be heading back. Her mother would not be happy that she wandered off.

"Stay with me," the boy begged. "We haven't played in a long time. I have been lonely."

"Lonely? Why have you been lonely?" Chenoa asked in surprise.

Looking at the boy, she saw his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"You know why…no one likes in the village…they make fun of me or ignore me…except for you. You like me, don't you?" he asked.

"Of course," Chenoa forced a smile.

She knew that this was true. She did like the boy, whoever he was.

"Then stay with me."

"Stay with you?"

"Yes, don't go back to that other place. I don't like when you go back there."

"But my papa is there and my friends."

"Aren't I your friend?"

"You are, but mama…"

"You don't need them. I will protect you."

Giggling, Chenoa squeezed the boy's hand.

"Protect me from what?"

Becoming serious, the boy stared directly into Chenoa's eyes.

"From everything. From everyone. From the world."

His seriousness made Chenoa nervous. The air snapped around them and Chenoa tried to take a step back but couldn't. Her feet seemed melded into the ground. Glancing at them, Chenoa could not see where her legs ended, and the earth began. Even the cream of her nails had disappeared. Panicked, Chenoa began yanking at her legs. They would not budge.

"Stay with me," he repeated. "I have been having dreams again and they tell me you need to stay."

Dreams? Dreams? Wait, this had to be a dream, Chenoa realized. Yes, she was dreaming.

"I don't know you," Chenoa said, voice shaking.

"What?" the boy appeared shocked. "That's not funny. Of course, you know me."

"No, I don't. This isn't real. This is a dream."

"How can you say that? You are my only friend! You are the only one who loves me!"

"No, I am not. I don't know who you are. I need to get back to my mama. I need to wake up."

"You must remember me!" the boy said, his voice growing louder.

The man's voice in the boy started to overpower the young voice. Grabbing Chenoa by the shoulders, the young boy's eyes blazed in anger. Shaking her, he appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"You must remember me!" he repeated.

"Stop! You are hurting me," Chenoa yelled.

His fingers bruised her flesh as he shook her, his voice growing louder.

"How could you forget me? How could you just disappear? I gave you everything!"

The boy's young voice had disappeared. Now everything he spoke came out in the man's voice. It was angry. Angier than anything Chenoa had ever heard. Her heart felt as if it were being crushed. Tears began to pour down her cheeks.

"I am sorry," she cried. "I don't know who you are."

"How could you forget me?"

The rhythm of his shaking had become violent. Chenoa cried out in pain and fear. In the distance the singing had stopped. Cowering, Chenoa cried in the boy's grip. His face contorted in rage and anguish as he shook Chenoa so hard her teeth clacked together.

"Chenoa! Run!" a voice called from somewhere deep in the woods.

As if the voice broke whatever spell she was under, Chenoa's feet broke free from the earth. Wrenching away from the boy, Chenoa ran as fast as she could towards the woods. Letting lose a cry like a wounded animal, the boy howled for a moment. Then Chenoa heard him run after her, screaming at her to remember him. She didn't dare look back. Nearing the woods, Chenoa saw her mother appear at the edge, her face pale with terror. Opening her arms, Chenoa's mother called for her.

"Run, Chenoa…run to me," her mother ordered.

"Mama," Chenoa sobbed, crying in relief and fear.

As she ran towards her mother, Chenoa noticed something strange. Shimmering behind her mother were two translucent wings that fluttered in trepidation, reflecting all possible colors when the sunlight glanced off them. Her mother had wings? That couldn't be right.

"This is a dream," Chenoa repeated to herself, although she kept running. "This is a dream. Wake up."

Yet Chenoa didn't wake. She kept running with the boy chasing her, pushing against the invisible rush of water that slowed down her body.

"Chenoa," the singing voice said, its speaker unseen. "Enough. Stop tormenting yourself and wake up. You did nothing wrong. Wake up."

Bolting up, Chenoa gasped for air. The painted field, the woods, her mother, and the boy were gone. She sat in her bed, her face swollen and crusty with tears. As the singing voice had spoken in her dreams, Chenoa's feet finally carried her to the edge of the woods, and she had been about to hug her mother. Then she woke up. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Chenoa tried not to cry. She had wanted to hug her mother so badly. Yet not even dreams, Chenoa decided, could defeat death. Sliding out of bed, Chenoa padded her way to the bathroom to wash her face. Her phone's screen lit up as she did, showing it was only two in the morning.

A shadow flickered next to her bed, solidifying until a man became visible. He stood half in the shadows watching Chenoa, his eyes flickering between anger and sorrow. His long velvet black hair blended into the shadows as his silvery cream skin wavered with a faint light. Chenoa scrubbed her face and took deep breaths. The man watched.

"Why do you refuse to remember me?" he asked.

Chenoa did not hear him. Continuing to watch her, the man narrowed his eyes. Icy anger began to roll off him like fog from a lake.

"I will make you remember me," he promised bitterly.

He faded back into a shadow as Chenoa returned to her bed. Pulling her sheets back, Chenoa slid into bed, her heart still racing from the dream. Closing her eyes, Chenoa drifted off to sleep.