She is shrouded in starlight, eclipsed by the creature who swims by her side. Rarely does Amalia tether the whale, but in this place she is made uneasy, coaxing and coercing Jyoti to remain nearby. Something about the endless fathoms which extend far below- the girl shudders to think of it, so generally she does not.
Indeed, she rarely thinks about this place at all, if she can avoid it, as though by taking it from her mind she can will it to no longer exist. The Bone Bridge is not a place she loves (though perhaps few are, in the Hollowed Grounds, especially now that she ha seen the world, tasted freedom and towering trees). This is not a place of joy, but it is one of memory, shifting shadows and half-caught words spoken long ago by silken tongues. Ghosts live here, the girl knows, phantoms of childhoods spent on this path. She does not like to think about it, except for once a year when she does. Then she walks the path above the nothing, a private pilgrimage for her and her fears, a tradition Amalia carries on from a time when she was not alone.
She is not alone today. Each step of bare feet on the Bone Bridge is lit by singing stars. In some ways, Jyoti is a better companion than her mother: less judgmental, more cheerful, curious and eager and wholly unafraid. In other ways, though, she makes the trip harder. The baker is not yet so old that she does not wish to hold a hand, find stalwart solace in the presence of others, have fears absolved by a depreciating laugh. Amalia may not have liked her mother, but she loved her as a daughter will, carried her close as steaming coal and ached in her absence, even now.
Discontent she carries on, until there comes another who rises in the dark, a figure on the narrow path. Drawing short, the girl stares, black stare narrow as she awaits its dissipation, anticipating this, too, to fade back into mist. But the figure does not vary, does not drift away; so Amalia takes a careful shift, her hands upon the starwhale, her bare feet shifting on the stone. "Who's there?" she calls to the ghost, the wind, half expecting the void below to reply with nothing but an echoing laugh.
Indeed, she rarely thinks about this place at all, if she can avoid it, as though by taking it from her mind she can will it to no longer exist. The Bone Bridge is not a place she loves (though perhaps few are, in the Hollowed Grounds, especially now that she ha seen the world, tasted freedom and towering trees). This is not a place of joy, but it is one of memory, shifting shadows and half-caught words spoken long ago by silken tongues. Ghosts live here, the girl knows, phantoms of childhoods spent on this path. She does not like to think about it, except for once a year when she does. Then she walks the path above the nothing, a private pilgrimage for her and her fears, a tradition Amalia carries on from a time when she was not alone.
She is not alone today. Each step of bare feet on the Bone Bridge is lit by singing stars. In some ways, Jyoti is a better companion than her mother: less judgmental, more cheerful, curious and eager and wholly unafraid. In other ways, though, she makes the trip harder. The baker is not yet so old that she does not wish to hold a hand, find stalwart solace in the presence of others, have fears absolved by a depreciating laugh. Amalia may not have liked her mother, but she loved her as a daughter will, carried her close as steaming coal and ached in her absence, even now.
Discontent she carries on, until there comes another who rises in the dark, a figure on the narrow path. Drawing short, the girl stares, black stare narrow as she awaits its dissipation, anticipating this, too, to fade back into mist. But the figure does not vary, does not drift away; so Amalia takes a careful shift, her hands upon the starwhale, her bare feet shifting on the stone. "Who's there?" she calls to the ghost, the wind, half expecting the void below to reply with nothing but an echoing laugh.
Amalia & Jyoti
born from dark water, daughters of the rain and snow
