Chapter 19-Arc Two Prologue: “Hello Mr. Diary, What the Hell do I say To You?”

 

Author’s pre-note

I got carried away so this chapter’s chunky.

 

~~~~

 

Day 1

 

I don’t know what day it is.

 

Mom said something about a calendar, The Age of Stars — but admitted she had no idea what date it was at this point beyond being sometime in the Fall. I’ve decided arbitrarily it is day one because that’s when I started this journal. Technically, it was Sailor First Class’s Isaac’s little blue dyed journal, but he did nothing more than write  his name on the first page and doodle a scantily clad cat lady who I doubt was his wife, so I don’t think it counts and he probably wouldn’t mind me chucking the sketch and taking over the journal.

 

It’s my first time with a journal. My old life doesn’t have much to say beyond horror tropes and them being popular in the…I think 22nd century? I might be off there, whatever. I haven’t had much chance to write between surviving, foraging, lessons, and, well, learning how to write in this world. I think I’m still fluent in English, but it’s been a hot minute.

 

[My name is Gwen Mor].

 

Geeze, that was harder than I thought. I’m rusty. Still,  think I still got it.

 

…

 

I don’t really know how to transition this.  I’m writing because Mom wanted me to and probably to distract me from how bad things are. I’m not sure how much a five year old would normally notice, but it’s pretty obvious things are not okay.

 

I’m sad Sandy’s ship form is gone. I liked it. Damage and all. She was practically a landmark back on the island, and knowing the ship is now at the bottom of the sea is somewhat surreal. Albeit, I don’t think she’s that far down? We were pretty close to the coast when she went under. Maybe a trained diver could actually go down there sometime?

 

…

 

It’s weird. She’s here, in a leather pack. Mom brought her on the life raft after extracting her from the ship. I think I even knew when it happened. I’d been sitting in the raft waiting fretfully on Mom, and then the oily, minty smell I’d come to associate with Sandy faded. Not gone, but kinda like someone taking the main platter of a meal away, so only a bit of the aroma remains.

 

She’s smaller than I expected. She shrunk? Went from a big soccer ball sized orb to a baseball sized one. Bit bigger, but the point stands. Not sure how that works, but neat to see more magic at work. I assume. I don’t know a physical process that would turn a soccer ball sized orb into a baseball + sized orb.

 

Still, glad we’re not leaving Sandy behind. Although… well, Sandy’s not happy about where Mom put her. I don’t blame her.

 

“If Victory could see me now she’d—”

 

“Point and laugh.”

 

“...she doesn’t have fingers.”

 

“She’d have her captain point and laugh for her.”

 

“...”

 

“Does it have to be a sack with your spare socks? Surely, there was something more…dignified, right?”

 

“It’s cushioned, and I worry how durable you are outside your control cradle. Sorry, Sandy. Just consider it character building.”

 

“I could very much do without this level of character. Still…better than sunk, I suppose.”

 

This continued for a while. She’s whining, but I think as the core of a warship that got us past a sea monster, she’s entitled to whining about the downgrade. I’d have a fit if I was suddenly a newborn again. 

 

…

 

I still think about it. The woman in the water. Mom called her a sandcrawler. I hope I stop seeing her when I try to sleep.

 

That really wasn’t a good start to our journey, was it Mr. Diary? I hope things go better now that we’re on the mainland.

 

Mom has us traveling. Already exhausted the crawdad’s in the pond. Bit more in a nearby stream, but Mom’s right. Can’t stay here. Has us making and breaking camp as we go vaguely south, along water sources. Now that I think about it, this doesn’t feel all that unusual. Camping, that is. We even went camping on the island. Mom treated it a bit like a little outdoor playtime or adventure, but—

 

Did Mom plan this? She taught me to help set up camp and fire pits and move supplies around, even fold a bedroll. I think it was a fun thing to do on the island but not really necessary, given we could always stay in the Citadel and no place on the island was more than an hour’s walk at worst.

 

…

 

Mom totally planned preparing me for long term camping.

 

I don’t know how to feel about this.

 

Still, we made it. We’re finally on the mainland. Or, well, bigger island. I’m not convinced this is the mainland, and Mom is uncertain, too. That’s something, at least?

 

Still, whoo!

 

Mom says it’s time to move, so I guess I’ll cut off here.

 

 

 

Day 2

 

New land, but we’re sticking close to the coast. Still harvesting shellfish for lunch. Same varieties, bit richer beds than I’m used to. Not a lot, but noticeable. So at least we don’t have to get smellyweed. It’s still everywhere. Yuck.

 

Today, I saw the first signs of some sort of larger animal life. Looked like hoof prints in the mud by the stream bank. Maybe a deer? Mom agreed but said she couldn’t be sure. Biggest thing on the island were some ferret things. Kinda tasty, brownish with a white stripe and liked to hang out in underbrush. Been a while since we ate one, though.

 

…

 

Now that I think about it, they may have only been native to that island. And Mom had us eating them early with rice and a lil of the preserved pepper sauce from the Sandy’s old stores. Then one day we stopped finding them.

 

We may have driven a species to extinction with our hunger.

 

Huh, I just made myself sad. I’m going to be healthy about this and repress this realization.

 

 

 

Back on deer. It’d be nice to see one sometime. Although part of me is wondering at their taste. I don’t think I ever got to try venison in my old life. Just never came up. He was too much of a city…boy? I think. It’s weird and hazy.

 

Sandy says we’re probably not on the mainland continent. Star patterns indicate we're somewhere in the Dawnlight ocean, but she’s not sure where. Mom concurs, noting the island seems large, so probably either somewhere further north or south, given the size of the ocean.

 

I tried to follow what they said, but without charts the stars just look like stars to me. Pretty, sitting up there like jewels in black velvet, but otherwise I’m only seeing vague shapes.  Sandy offered to teach me a bit, and Mom sat down with me for the lesson.

 

That was nice.

 

Day 3

 

I can’t sleep. It’s too loud.

 

The little island had its sounds I was familiar with. The wind, the seabirds, the rustling of leaves, and the ebb and flow of the waves were all there, but so faint and peaceful. Late at night when I snuggled under covers it felt like a lullaby. Almost as good as Mom’s, to be honest.

 

Here on the mainland, there’s other sounds.

 

Which makes sense, but I’m hearing things at night. More bird song varieties, rustling in bushes, and the chittering, dear god the chittering. Oh wait, Mom said the gods are gone. But, would that account for Abrahamic religion or is that something entirely separate and—

 

Getting sidetracked, existential questions on the nature of reality later. Right now, the chittering.

 

I’m trying to sleep. But I can’t because of the dang chittering.

 

Mom says they’re probably rock knockers. Some sort of squirrel things active from twilight to dusk. There weren’t any on the island. They evidently really don’t like us being in their territory. Or each other because they won’t. Shut. Up!

 

…

It’s not just them. It’s all the little sounds. We’re following the coast. Mom didn’t want to stay near the coast, said we have to move on. It’s a good idea, I think. Still so weird to be able to walk and walk inland and not come to the other side. But I guess that just says how big our little island was, wasn’t it?

 

I’m rambling. I need to get better at diary writing. Just, everything is subtly different enough. It’s not that we’re camping in stitched together sleeping bags and I’m snuggling with Mom every night because it gets so dang cold, but…

 

If I think about it, it’s really that everything is sounding different. The rustling of leaves, the bugs, the bird calls-oh god the bird calls. I know the seabirds, but here I’m picking up so many different birds that my ears are going nearly a meter a second  during the day, and then at night there’s sounds I haven’t heard equivalents too since my first life. I think. It’s hazy, but I think I went camping before?

 

Even the waves sound different. The shores of the island were rocky, leading to a sharper sound, but here they’re more sandy, so everything is muted. Sometimes we’re far enough inland that we’re not even hearing it!

 

I don’t know where we’re going. We keep finding streams, so that’s something, but Mom says we just need to keep going. I wonder if she really knows. I wonder when we’re going to find people.

 

…

 

Or if? I hope there’s other people out there. I hope they’re nice.

 

Mom’s got one eye open and watching me as I write this with her tail flicking, so I think it’s time I went and tried to sleep some more.

 

 

 

Day 4

 

My legs hurt.

 

Camping the last few days has been different enough to be kind of fun, but we’ve pretty far inland by now, way more than the island was wide. Probably could fit a dozen islands into the land we’ve traveled over. The landing spot where we rowed to shore is long gone.

 

I’m used to being outside at this point. Life on the little island saw us outside almost every day, but there you could travel from one side to the other in under an hour.

 

I’m trying not to say anything. Mom is really setting a hard pace, and I’m not used to walking so long. I shouldn’t complain. Mom’s carrying everything. She almost looks comical with her pack and me with my own little backpack, but we need it all cuz we’re not going back.

 

I’ll grit my teeth and bear it for now. Hopefully Mom doesn’t notice.

 

 

 

Day 5

 

Mom noticed.

 

We’ve stopped for a day. We’re near a grove of nut trees Mom says she recognizes, and have plenty of water.

 

Sandy’s propped up on a fallen log. I tried talking to convince her to tell Mom I’m okay. Instead, now she won’t stop teasing me.

 

“It’s not as if she couldn’t. You were lagging behind and taking smaller and smaller steps. Plus, your tail and ears were drooping.”

 

I feel like sulking, but I can’t deny it’s nice to just be able to sit for a while.

 

Although, this has left me wondering what the end goal is here.

 

I mean, hypothetically I know. We find civilization, and other people. We know it has to be out there somewhere. Not like that ship came from the void and we walked from the sea. Probably.

 

But what then?

 

Mom’s told me about her homeland. “Illiana”, she called it. A land of mists and deep woods, of jagged coastlines and magical valleys. Creative, welcoming people, great universities and libraries filled with tens of thousands of books you could read with just a lil scroll saying you were registered there, grand amphitheaters where ancient songs were played, and more. That and “crystal tales”, which I don’t really know what she meant, but it seemed like some sort of animated story telling done with magic…

 

It all sounds nice, even if I’m sure she didn’t mention the bad things. For all I know, it’s the murder capital of the world, although I doubt it’s that bad. Just, not as perfect as she’s been saying. But, I do know there’s some dangers out there and that made her, I mean, our — people arm themselves. I mean, they made Sandy. Sure, she’s a crystal ball now, but her warship form was, well, a warship. If those guns were trained on a town they’d do some real damage, I think.

 

Then there was the lady in the water…

 

…

 

I don’t want to write anymore.

 

Day 6

 

I didn’t sleep well.

 

The noise doesn’t help, but as weird as it sounds, I think I miss the island.  Which is weird as I had a whole moment of putting it behind me and not looking back when we first left the lil’ estuary, but now I can’t help it. I know things weren’t great there and we were effectively squatting in the ruins Mom had jury rigged to be livable, but still. It was more comfortable, it was home, and it was also a dead end.

 

Mom was right. There’s no future there. It was just us. A little family at the end of the world. Or, it felt like. Still, it was home. I know I already had a long thought about this when we were first leaving.

 

I wonder how our little garden will fare. Well, not really a garden. It was a collection of glorified weeds and vaguely edible herbs Mom had identified with her little survival book. But we’d managed it every year. Only real greens we had on the island.

 

I remember trying to make a salad out of them. It failed, abysmally. Way too bitter, and I had nothing but a salty pepper sauce from the Sandcutter to tie it together, which it very much did not. But, despite that, it added variety and, moreover, I liked taking care of it. It was fun, something to put my energy toward and see actual results.

 

Will it fare well? None of the plants were exactly like, garden plants you’d buy at a store. Just stuff on the islands, some leafy herbs, tubers, and the like, so they might just go wild this year. Part of me says the garden will wither and die without care, just like everything else on the island.

 

I regret never planting any flowers in the garden. It’s not as if there were a lot of flowers on the island, but there were enough varieties to make for a pretty bouquet for when Mom and I visited Celia’s grave, or the other gravesites. If we’d planted a proper flower beds, maybe they’d have prospered in our absence. Even with Fall’s coming, they might leave seeds. They could have overgrown without us there, spreading beyond their beds and turning the barren ground into something tranquil and happy for everyone left behind.

 

…

 

I am going to go sigh for a solid minute and then I will resume writing.

 

…

 

Sighing for a full minute is surprisingly difficult. Especially as Mom caught me. So that was awkward.

 

Mom says we have a long trip ahead of us, so we’re moving camp today. She’d climbed a tall tree surprisingly easily. Said she did it as a girl and only reason I hadn’t done the same is the trees on the island were too little. Which did sound tempting, actually. I don’t think I had the same fear of heights as my first life did, but haven’t really been able to test it.

 

Wait, distracted. She said she spotted a distant body of water. Says we need to reach there by sundown and then, well…

 

I try not to think about it, but it’s really obvious now. I’ve peeked in Mom’s oversized hiking bag. It has lots of little things in there. Gear, equipment, and our food. There’s not much left.

 

Barely any rice.

 

Mom last ate rice on the little island. I haven’t seen her nibble a grain since. I thought she’d been getting thinner, but…

 

This is all or nothing, isn’t it?

Day 7

 

I’ve decided that whatever happens, I’m going to leave more traces behind, like I did back at the island. Just, something to say I was here, that we were.

 

I thought of a lot of little things I could do, from stacking rocks to carving names into trees, but I think the only thing that fits, the only thing that really works, is our family crest. It’s us, it represents who we are, and I can carve it in a rock and toss it in a pile of more rocks no one will ever find.

 

It’s silly. I doubt anything I add will be found, or amount to anything.  Still, I wanted to try. I’d carved a bit into a rock, but I didn’t feel like it was enough.

 

At least, I didn’t feel like it was. So I’m adding an English G to my carved rock and tossing it on the banks of a pond we passed. Mostly because I think it would be hilarious for a future archaeologist to find and be perplexed by. Good luck explaining extra dimensional alphabet!

 

I’m better with charcoal drawings, but I have a little practice scraping designs into rocks too. Guess I’ll see how this goes.

 

Mom says we’re going to break camp soon. Don’t know when I’ll write in here again. To be honest, I've been thinking of jumping around, skipping some days. I feel like I’m starting to run out of interesting things to say, and I don’t want to be one of those people who write their bathroom breaks in a diary, so I’ll hold off until I feel ready again.

 

 

 

Day 9

 

I thought I knew what being angry is like. I was completely wrong because I have transcended anger and discovered true, absolute hatred.  If I were to engrave hate on every single spec of sand on along the beaches, it would not begin to add up to a fraction the sheer level of visceral hatred blossoming in my heart for them. Hate. Hate. Hate.

 

I have never felt like I wanted to strangle another living being and watch the life leave its dim, beady little eyes but I now know that feeling. The name of the beings I want dead? Rock knockers. Little squirrel lemur bastards.

 

Every. Single. One.

 

The day had started so well. We’d paused at a grove of Tom Tom trees — tall, willowy trees that drop lots of acorn like nuts that remind me of vanilla when smashed with a rock and ground down for the little flat fire cakes we’d been making at the last grove. Mom told me to gather more while she set up camp for the night. It took a while, but I’d gotten a nice basket of them, and had turned for just a minute to mess with my pack. When I looked back I saw a rock knocker — a big gray one with grabby little paws hands and beady eyes — standing in in my basket stuffing its cheeks full of the nuts meant for tonight’s dinner. Nuts I’d spent hours gathering.

 

When it saw me it froze, as did I. We had a long stare off. It fluffed itself up while its tail bristled up nearly three times as big as it normally was before I decided to step forward.

 

It promptly shat and pissed in horrifying synchronicity all over my basket and the remaining nuts. While I was stunned just staring, it picked up a nearby rock and hurled it at my face.  This is the last thing I remember before I committed to ultra violence.

 

Mom came running a minute later. Evidently, I was screaming and hissing in unholy rage as I chased the bastard around the wood with a stick. I was half up a tree after the little chittering abomination when Mom pulled me down.

 

It did not help that she was laughing as she did so. Or that Sandy burst into giggles later when she found out back at camp.

 

I know it’s just a dumb animal, but I just can’t bring myself to care. First they ruin my sleep for a week straight, and then they steal my food and poop on the rest. Rock knockers are now at the top of my shitlist.

 

Later, it tried to sneak up on our camp and eat more of our food. Mom shot it and skinned it and now it’s roasting over a fire.

 

I don’t care if it tastes awful, it will be one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.

 

 

 

Day 10

 

I don’t know what dreams for a five-year-old are supposed to be like.

 

For that matter, I don’t know what five-year-olds are supposed to be like. It’s not like I’ve met other kids here. I think that bothers Mom. But it’s not as if I’m unused to it. It’s just what I’ve experienced in this life.

 

But…

 

 My old life is full of memories, but they’re hazy on what kids are supposed to even be like. Indistinct, only vague indications. I guess that life had no real reason to focus on five-year-olds. What is there says they’re small, loud, playful, naive. That’s about it. My old life didn’t focus on it too much, nor cared to. I mean, he was young, a full life ahead, with a dream of career and kids and purpose but fear and worry over how to find that and…

 

It’s not me. He’s not me.

 

I mean, it’s hard to explain, even to… me. I remember a life before this one. I know that life was… active, feeling, there, when I was really little. It was there, I thought differently, than I do now. But now, it’s more… distant, feeling. I remember thinking in certain ways, looking at things in a particular perspective, but now I’m grasping at how to get into that same mindset, like everything’s shifted slightly different enough that none of the pieces quite match up. It’s still there, but it’s like pulling things through murky water now. I can remember them if I try, and even beneath the surface they’ve still helped make me, well, me, but it’s different.

 

I’m not who he was. Not anymore, I think. I don’t know how to feel about that. I know he had loved ones, things precious to him, dreams from another world, but while they’re there, he’s there, it’s just so distant some days. But, he’s there, too. Maybe I’m just a cup full of mismatched memories and feelings. I don’t know.

 

This brings me back to my dreams.

 

Hazy as his life has become, small things from his life sneak into my dreams. I’ll be walking on a path only to see a plane pass overhead or wonder why I can’t drive somewhere. I’ll wonder where Mom is only to think I could call her, but then I can’t remember what my phone looks like. Frigid lands and seas split by towering skyscrapers and highways, sandstone ruins plastered with bright advertisements for potato chips.

 

I don’t think I’ve had any potatoes since ever in this world. Are they even a thing here?

 

Lately, though, I keep dreaming about dying.

 

I suppose it makes sense. I died once.

 

Or, at least I remember dying. That hasn’t faded. The feel of the heat burning around me, burning me, the scent of charred pork…

 

I keep hoping time will make it go away. It hasn’t. But, that was all before we left the island.

 

Now there’s a new face. It’s a woman.  Sometimes, she’s in the distance, sometimes she’s right before me. But, wherever she is, she’s smiling and has open arms yet the sound of waves and dripping, dark water follows her.

 

Mom told me who she is. Or, at least, what it’s from.

 

“It was a sandcrawler, kitten.”

 

“Sandcrawler?”

 

“[Meascán] monster of the seas. It’s…look, it’s something in normal circumstances you wouldn’t learn about until you’re older, but it’s a monster that hurts people and ships real bad. Drags them under, and worse, while beguiling people with its pretty song. You saw it, right?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Well, there’s a reason we never went swimming in the sea, even in the summer months. Not in deep water, at least. If you can’t see the bottom, be wary, Kitten. That thing? There’s worse out there.”

 

I can’t help but feel like she’s still there, just out of sight. I know that face was just the tip of something bigger, that there’s far more beneath the waves, but even so.

 

I could have died. If I hadn’t slipped, I would be dead.  I feel like she still wants me, even though Mom assures me that its song doesn’t last this long. I worry one day I’m going to see her standing out in the waves, and I’m going to have to make a choice, but it won’t really be one I have a say in.

 

I’m only five years old. I nearly died when I was barely newborn. My sister didn’t make it for more than a month. When Mom was asleep and wouldn’t wake up, we could have frozen to death. A sea monster nearly took me.

 

I still remember the flames.

 

…

 

Is it sad that this isn’t even the only [Fucked] thing I’m dealing with, Mr. Diary?  I haven’t even mentioned the lingering shadows and paw prints.

 

I’m done for today.

 

 

 

Day 14

 

Today’s a special day. Why is it special, you might ask Mr. Diary?

 

Why, we ran out of rice today.

 

Mom tried to be sneaky about it and pass it off normally, but I was not having any of it. I insisted on sharing with her.

 

It was such a tiny little pile. Mom clearly wanted me to have all of it. But I wouldn’t eat until she did.

 

I felt a little vindictive joy when I saw how fast she scarfed what was there down. I then finished mine off, and we ate what little else we had — mostly foraged shellfish and nuts. I’m still angry about that big basket that was ruined, but I am trying to move past that even if every little chittering makes my tail twitch and claws come out. They’re hiding now, after Mom shot a few of them.

 

After we finished the last of the blue rice off, Mom said we’re going to have to be more careful with food going forward. We were already rationing but no more easy c-a-r-b-o-h-y-d-r-a-t-e-s.

 

Technically, there was more rice. Just, Mom wasn’t able to get it off Sandy’s hulk before her shipform sunk..

 

It’s frustrating.

 

Mom says we have to keep going. Coastal foraging is okay, but it’s Fall and we do not have the old citadel to shelter in. Winters can get bad.

 

 

 

 

 

Day 21

 

Hi Mr. Diary,

 

It’s been another week, hasn’t it? Mom talked with Sandy and said we’ve probably gone about 70, maybe 75 kilometers. She was unhappy with our progress. She didn’t have to say why.

 

It’s me.

 

I get tired too easily, and I keep lagging behind. I’m trying, but every time I try to push through Mom notices and calls a break.

 

I’m also feeling more and more hungry. Mom is too.

 

Coastal forage has been okay, but it’s hard to get enough mussels and clams.  The water and coast we’re at isn’t that bountiful, or maybe the time of year is off, and their beds are few and far between.

 

I think I found at least one of the reasons. While walking around the coast gathering more seaweed, I noticed a snail.

 

In fact, it was the same type of snail I saw months ago. Bright, colorful shell and yellow, slimy body perched atop a very unfortunate clam. A clam it was boring a hole into. It was at this point I realized there were a dozen of those same snails in eyesight, and I remembered what mom said about them. I may have yowled.

 

Mom spent a solid twenty minutes running around stomping them with her boots, but we both knew she didn’t get all of them. I still don’t know their deal or why she hates them so much, but given my memories associate bright colors with being “toxic beyond belief”, I’m inclined to think they’re bad news.

 

Still, if they’re out here in bulk, the nicer mussels and clams might be in trouble.

 

…this really doesn’t bode well.

 

Still haven’t seen any larger animals, or signs of that hoofed thing. Rock knockers are nice eating, but they hide now. Quieter, at least.

 

We’re back to eating seaweed. A disgusting amount of it. At least it’s not smellyweed, thank fucking god, but even so, it’s what we fill up on now.

 

Mom says she has a plan, so maybe it’ll turn out okay?

 

Day 21

 

Mom’s plan was unbelievably stupid, and I can’t believe I had hope for her.

 

What did she do, you ask Mr Diary? Why, she cupped her claws to her mouth and chittered. Badly.

 

It was higher pitched than theirs, but she kept doing it. It sounded awful and bad. There is no way they should have been fooled.

 

…

 

It’s so stupid that it worked.

 

Two popped up and angrily chittered at us in the clearing. She shot both of them.

 

I asked her where she learned that. She just raised her little survival book and I wanted to scream. I asked why we haven’t been doing this since before, and she said she honestly didn’t expect this to work more than once or twice.

 

I’d maintain even if they don’t taste great, I still get satisfaction out of eating them. Annoying little monsters.

 

 

 

Day 23

Mom was right. It stopped working really fast. I can still hear the chittering, but it’s more distant now.

 

I wish the ones we did get went farther, but at least they’re muffled now and keeping their distance. Good riddance. Little jerks.

 

I’m still hungry.

 

 

 

 

Day 25

 

It’s funny. My belly is full but I can’t stop thinking of food.

 

Intellectually, I know why. I didn’t fill up on something with actual nutrition to it. I filled up with seaweed. Roughly boiled in a large tin cup and served in little tin cups from Mom’s mess kit.

 

I wish I could say hunger made it good. It didn’t. The only seaweed growing in enough mass to gorge on is smellyweed. It’s still awful even if I can make myself eat it.

 

God, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget the rotten egg taste.

 

I cannot get over how bad it is. Nothing in my memories of the old world suggest anything this vile should be remotely edible, yet it’s 70% of what we’re eating now. The only comparisons are things legitimately rotten or meant to be inedible. It feels almost like a cruel joke that the only plentiful food we can get routinely is along the coast. Even Mom looks miserable eating it and she can inhale entire bowls faster than I can blink.

 

We would harvest berries, but all the bushes dropped their leaves. We would harvest nuts, but the trees are few and far between now and what ones are there have been picked clean by rock knockers hiding out of sight now. We would harvest shellfish, but the beds are sparse.  Sometimes we get some roots, but trying to identify edible plants from bare stems or dried leaves is not easy.

 

The only thing we’re getting is smellyweed. I don’t have words for how much I hate it.

 

I can do basic math, you know? Well, I mean I can make sense of the obvious.  We’re suffering malnutrition. Or, will soon.

 

I don’t know how many calories smellyweed provides, but it can’t be much. It’s mostly water bound in disgusting snot. Or taste like it, anyway.  Probably has good micro-nutrients, or so Mom says. But I doubt even if we sat around all day shoveling it in our mouths we’d get enough to live.

 

We could have all we want with bellies full to bursting and still starve.

 

I hope we find people soon.

 

 

 

Day 27

 

We didn’t find people, but we did find the first signs of something. 

 

Next to a spring, we found what looks like an old camp. A sloped, log walled shack leaned against a withered oak.  Overgrown brown grass between stones, an old fire pit, and wooden stands litter the area. Mom says it looks like an old hunter’s camp. Sandy concurred and added her own comments.

 

“Odd. Despite the minimalistic nature, I’m seeing some influences of multiple cultures here, particularly in the style of the chimney. Possible cross cultural pollination at work.”

 

I think Sandy’s mildly full of it given it’s a wooden shack in the middle of nowhere, but I guess it’s something, but given the layer of dust on everything and how utterly barren everything inside is, I’m guessing no one has been here for a long time. But, I think someone clearly intended to, given the wood pile. Better for us, I suppose.

 

Still, Mom says we’re going to camp here for the night and that, since it is still standing and has been, we’ll be staying in the shack. It’ll be nice to have a roof.

 

There was one thing I found.  In the very back of the shack, wedged between the chimney and a corner, was an odd, scraggly little thing, with cloth wrapped around a carved, vaguely humanoid piece of wood with wisps of some sort of hair and a cord for the tail.

 

It’s the first doll I’ve seen in this world. It’s the first I’ve held.

 

I’ve been staring at this doll for the past half hour. I don’t feel a huge urge to play with it. I feel weird holding it. This was someone’s doll. It’s rough, but I can tell it was lovingly built. I have to wonder if its owner cherished it, brought it with them everywhere. Was it a surprise gift for a birthday or maybe some other holiday? Maybe a lovable father decided to surprise his little girl one day.

 

I don’t know. I’ve been staring at it for half an hour and I’m no closer to an answer. Even writing in you, Mr. Diary, has done little to help me figure out my thoughts.

 

I just can’t help but wonder.

 

 

 

Day 28

If the gods were still here, I would wonder if we angered them. Almost as soon as we woke, a great storm rolled in.

 

We haven’t left since. We’ve kept the fire going and only get up to tend to it. Mom has me in her sleeping bag. I feel like a baby again held in her arms, but it’s so cold. 

 

Snow is falling.

 

Once, when I peeked out the door, I thought I saw something moving in the distance, but couldn’t tell. A blurry shape that might’ve been just another snow flurry.

 

Out of the corner of my eye I keep thinking I’m seeing pawprints but they’re not there when I focus.

 

I wish whatever is messing with me would just come clear at this point. I don’t know what is going on anymore.

 

 

 

Day 30

[The written text below is notably rougher]

 

I thought of a fun game, Mr. Diary. I’m going to write a number of things down, and I want you to guess what I’m thinking of. To make it more fun, I’ll even add some things I’m remembering from my old life.

 

• Magister Monty’s Mint Drops
• Fresh raspberries
• Steamed clams in spicy sauce
• Savory Noodles with bits of pork
• Fish and Rice
• Seafood soup with extra scallops
• Bread and crackers
• Pepperoni Pizza
• Spaghetti and meatballs
• Mint ice cream
• Blueberry Pie with whipped cream
• Peaches&Cream
• Cherry Cheesecake

 

We are low on food and we can’t leave to forage even for roots. Snow’s everywhere and the wind’s too harsh. It’s like stepping into a wall of ice out there. We had storms like this on the island, but it was always with the sturdy walls of the citadel to keep the wind out. Here, the walls are sturdy enough, but the air seeps through and it’s so cold. It hurts to step out from under covers or away from the fireplace. Thank goodness there was some wood left stocked here…

 

Sandy keeps talking with us. She doesn’t seem too bothered by the cold, but she isn’t exactly fleshy like we are. I would say lucky her, but she can’t move without her body, so I guess it evens out. We tried doing lessons, but I’m having trouble focusing. Even Mom’s slower to respond.  We stopped trying and Sandy switched to a story.

 

Evidently, in the old days, magic was hard. Really hard. It was something only people with lots of time, training, and resources (not sure what those are) could do with any confidence, and the runic alphabet wasn’t really known then. So, effectively, it was reserved for sorcerer kings and nobles. These people in turn controlled everything across the land in great clans. Sandy didn’t say much more, but I suspect they weren’t nice. People had to listen to them or else.

 

But this all changed thanks to one man’s invention.

 

I’m not sure I really get the next part, but Sandy said the key to changing this and breaking the stranglehold  these tyrants had on the masses was the release of the runic alphabet. With this, magic, no, thaumaturgy,  wasn’t some innate thing requiring a pedigree and training from birth, but something even the lowliest person can learn. It wasn’t easy, but it made it possible for people to learn how to make magic, rather than born into and being magic. I think? Hazy.

 

This was pivotal. Like development of steam engine pivotal, or I guess literal alphabet? But Sandy said it triggered a revolution that saved the world. Tyrants fell, and liberty and freedom won. I think Sandy is probably just making it sound nicer and not at all as messy as what my first life says revolutions were, but eh.

 

You’d think the person who makes this would probably be old, have a long and fancy beard or, alternatively, maybe a fancy mustache, and some regal sounding name that sounds like they have no joy in their life. At least, that’s what I think.

 

Sandy corrected me. The inventor, or pioneer who figured out the runic alphabet was named Sir Sir Halburt Lalafufo, baron of Sugarbottom town and acclaimed inventor of moon dreams cream sauce. No, his parents actually named him Sir, middle name Halburt, last name Lalafufo.

 

I giggled so much I cried. I needed a laugh. Mom even joined in.

 

…

 

Sandy’s so nice for trying to distract us. I hope the storm lifts soon.

 

 

 

Day 31

 

The storm is still going. We’re almost out of food.

 

Mom hugged me close tonight. She was crying and her green eyes were really red.  She said she’d messed up, that she’d waited too long, that we should’ve gone another way.

 

I hugged her tight.

 

Even if… even if we don’t make it, I’m happy to have had her as my mom. She did her best.

 

 

 

Day 32

 

I took inventory of what food we had left.

 

 Some dried out husks of berries, roots, and dried seaweed. Enough for some watery soups boiled in in our mess kit. I know the soup wouldn’t be filling because that’s all we’ve eaten for a while now.

 

I think we need meat more than humans. But I don’t know. Why is that relevant, Mr. Diary? Well, that’s because  we ran out of meat what feels like days ago. The hunger is gnawing at me now. I’m always hungry.

 

Mom is bundling up and heading out. Sandy tried to stop her. I begged her not to. The snow hasn’t let up. The wind still feels like knives just glancing through a creak in the door. I couldn’t even see a tree I definitely knew was across the clearing.

 

“I love you, Kitten. I promise on my everything I will be back.”

 

I don’t want those to be Mom’s final words. I tried leaving with her, but she was gone by the time I managed to get to the door. Sandy was panicked.

 

I’m holding her orb now. It’s cold.

 

She said I don’t need to do this. I ignored her and curled up in my bag by the fire.

 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this. I keep hoping it’ll help me think.

 

 

 

Day 33

 

Mom’s still not back.

 

Sandy is distracting me with trivia.

 

Like, apparently, there’s snow pixies out there. Little ice princesses who live in mountain passes and sing songs about their ancient homeland. Or how there are 932 light tubes in a Victory class battleship.

 

It’s nice listening to her.

 

I know what she’s trying to do. It’s not working very well. I want Mom back.

 

I had to get more wood today. The storm’s abated slightly. Still windy, but I don’t feel like every bit of exposed skin is being pierced with thousands of needles if I step out. Snow is still falling.

 

I couldn’t tell where Mom went. Her steps have filled in.

 

I thought about just picking a direction and walking. Maybe I’d find Mom. Or maybe I’d disappear into the snow. I felt weirdly tantalized by the idea. Just to let things go and let myself walk into the snow forever.

 

I’m not sure why I didn’t. That’s a lie.

 

Mom would be sad if she returns and I wasn’t here. I hope she’s okay.

 

 

 

Day 34

Mom’s not back. I’m out of food. I ate the last of our soup. My belly wants more.

 

Sandy keeps talking to me. I’m still holding her even though her orb is so cold. She’s started telling me fairy tales now. Funny how only now she really does kids stories.

 

Stuff like tales of knights and dragons, enchanted glades with ancient dryads, and stuff. Neat to know dragons were a thing. Latest one was about someone named the Daughter of the Stars (what a mouthful) and how she brought light to the Dark Paths to guide her love back to her.

 

…

 

You know, Mr. Diary, it occurs to me Mom never told me why she thinks the gods are dead.

 

I haven’t forgotten what Mom said.

 

“Kitten. I never taught you to pray because the gods are dead. There’s no one left to answer."

 

She hasn’t elaborated on it, even when I asked. I’m not sure she knows the answer. But, I think I understand why she was so shaken when she found out I prayed.

 

I don’t know a lot about gods, or divinity, or whatever. Just, what I remember from my first life which included a lot of honestly contradictory information I’m having a hard time figuring out. One memory gives the impression of an omnipotent, all powerful father in the sky watching down upon the world he created. Another suggests people with all the flaws of humanity jockeying for power to impose their order on the world. The last memory makes me feel small as distant and immense gears circle far off, forgotten stars while eyes flash in the dark.

 

I’m not sure what the big chested girl with weird eyes crashing on a follower’s couch and stealing his booze because she can’t pay rent or hold a stable job is about, but in retrospect that goddess might be fictional.

 

Regardless, I think gods are supposed to answer prayers. Or, well, hear them, right? It comes with the job, more or less. But, if they’re dead, who is the prayer reaching out to? Who listens to prayers no one’s home to or even can answer?

 

Something heard me all those months ago. I prayed for help, and something responded.  Mom wouldn’t have woken up without it. I know it.

 

The gods may be dead, but something is listening.

 

It feels like something is stacking the odds. It’s been too long. The storm is still going. It’s too cold.

 

I think it’s time to see if they’re willing to hear me out again.

 

After all, what do I have to lose?

 

 

 

Day 36

 

It happened again. There’s tracks leading from the cabin. Sandy doesn’t see them. I don’t know what to think. I hope Mom’s back soon.

 

Day 35

 

Mom’s back.

 

Can’t write much. Mom’s hurt. Bad. Nearly frozen all over. Cuts on her arms. She wrestled with something big.  Collapsed by the fire. I have her bundled up. Sandy helped me check her. Well, instructed. But Mom dragged something in with her. Looks like a small seal. It’s frozen and thawing by the fire, but I can see the holes from Mom’s shots in its side. It has bite marks on it. I’m drooling and worrying and scared and—

 

I’ve never butchered anything bigger than a fish. Guess the time to learn is now.

 

 

 

Day 36

 

I couldn’t help myself. As soon as I managed to cut a hunk off  of it I bit into it raw. It’s gamey and fishy, but super concentrated. It felt like it slithered down my throat. I both wanted to gag yet crammed more in my mouth. With something in my belly, I restrained myself and boiled the rest in cooking pot. I don’t have anything else but it and water. I fed mom some of the broth. She mumbled! Progress!

 

I cooked another section of it. I don’t know what’s appropriate or not. But, I managed to get the heart out. It was really hard and it wanted to stay stuck in there. It was weirdly warm. I cooked it over the fire and placed it outside on a rock. I’d looked around at the trees and snow and sky and said, “Thank you for bringing my mama back.”

 

It was gone before I finished turning around.

 

Somebody is listening!

 

 

 

Day 40

 

Mom’s talking again. She doesn’t remember much. Just ice, snow, and bitter cold. Had to hunker down in a cave. Afterward, just flashes. A group of seals by a cliffside overhang. Shots. Something chasing her.

 

That’s worrying, but not nearly as much as her hands.

 

Some of her claw tips are blackened. Her tail isn't moving. Mom said not to worry. Just, let her rest and keep the fire going. She tried to tell me to eat. I shoved blubber in her mouth instead and told her to chew.

 

 

 

Day 41

 

The storm is breaking. It had ebbed and flowed, but I’m seeing the sun for the first time in what feels like forever.

 

Mom’s right. I know she had frostbite. Bad frostbite. I had been sharpening a knife for — well, I have my suspicions.  But I’ve been watching. The black spots are fading. How in the world is she doing this? My first life wasn’t too focused on medicine, but I don’t think [humans] could recover blackened appendages? Is this something I could do too? Or something only Mom could do? Or is it related to my…I guess I’ll call it a benefactor? I feel like it’s a her. Or is it something else entirely?

 

 I have so many questions.

 

 

 

Day 43

 

Mom is still bedridden.  She’s sleeping a lot. Not like the time she wouldn’t wake up, but it’s a lot. Sandy thinks it’s part of a “healing trance”, part of the spells built into her sigil which is evidently something Mom has inside her? Sandy explained it like a preprogrammed spell built into a machine inside her which has interesting implications.

 

I just hope it keeps working. It’s been amazing watching the black recede from her fingers. I’m keeping her tucked into her sleeping bag as best I can, but I worry about food.

 

The seal she dragged back is helping a lot. I don’t know how much exactly is there, but it’s a lot of meat, for now at least. It’s all we have so it will go fast. At Sandy’s recommendation I’ve been making broth from the fat and bones to keep Mom fed. When she is awake she is ravenous, to the point Mom nearly snatched the food from my hands before the energy seemed to leave her and she started snoring.

 

Also as it turns out I’m really not great at butchering. Like, amateur horror levels of bad. It’s a complete mess, I’ve wrecked the hide, and blood was everywhere. I might have licked my fingers a bit. I know that’s weird, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry. My old life was never more than a few hours away from food of any variety even if it was awful, and up until now Mom kept my meals plenty routine. Now, after going without food for days, I’m finding it hard not to constantly be gnawing on something.

 

It was only a few days, something I know people in the old world survived regularly, but…

 

 I’m keeping the meat in a sack hung outside to preserve it for now, given I can’t dry it and it’s still freezing out. I’m sure Mom probably would have a better idea, but I’m the one who’s up right now.

 

Which is so weird. I’m the child, yet Mom is the one having to be babied. I’ve even had to change her clothes which is just all sorts of eww. And hard. I’m still so little and it’s annoying.

 

Still, I am grateful. I don’t know why my benefactor is helping me, but I am glad to still have Mom. It’s a little thing, but I’d love to have lessons with her again.

 

I miss them.

 

 

 

 

Day 44

 

Mom’s still weak, and sleeping a lot. I’ve noticed something else. Or, well, only writing it down now.

 

She’s thinner. Mom’s always been muscular. I suspect if I didn’t remember an old life or hadn’t seen the occasional inappropriate doodle from a sailor with far too much time on his hands I’d have an extremely skewed view of what women are like.

 

But I noticed while feeding her that she is so much thinner. Like, even more than what we were doing even though she’s eating now. It looks like she lost a lot of muscle. Which means what? I’m honestly not sure. I spent far too much time thinking about this before realizing I could ask Sandy about it.

 

Sandy was oddly hesitant but explained that Mom’s “healing trance” was likely consuming a lot of resources. It’s why we keep feeding her broth with melted fat.

 

This is so different from what my old life said about magic. Which, well, would often have instant healing. Stab wound, blood on the floor? Cast cura! Wound be gone! Maybe with sparkly effects.

 

But this is operating according to a lot more, well, physical constraints. In fact, I don’t think it’s doing anything but work with what’s already there, like how I can heal a little cut on my pointy claw without too much issue. Which makes me wonder what the sigil in Mom’s back is actually doing.

 

I hope she doesn’t get thinner. It’s already bad. I don’t think she’s going to be able to move as fast as she did before. Or, what’s the word I’m looking for? “[Physical Therapy]?” I think that was how to help people recover from injuries. I’ll ask Sandy about it as I have no idea what it actually entails.

 

 

 

Day 45

I’ve been thinking. Not a lot else to do while Mom heals up.

 

I know Mom said she messed up. I can see why she’d think that. But I don’t think she did.

 

 I think Mom was doing the best she could with our situation. We don’t know the land. We don’t know the geography beyond what we’ve found. We’re explorers without a map, or basecamp, or supplies, or a place to retreat. Just rough guesses and what we could carry. Staying would’ve seen us be caught in this endless storm without even a drafty cabin for protection. And where to? It’s all wilderness. Mom did what she could.

 

But, you can do everything right and still lose.  I don’t think we’ll be fine until we find friendly, well-supplied people. Civilization, basically.

 

At least Mom is talking now when she is awake. She is falling asleep very easily, but she is coherent enough to hug me. I missed that.

 

 

 

Day 47

 

Can’t write. There’s smoke in the distance.

 

We’re not alone.

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If you've paid to read this anywhere outside of Patreon, SubscribeStar, or Ko-Fi, then you've been scammed and someone is ripping you off as it is stolen.

 

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Chapter 19-Arc Two-Prologue Author’s Note

 

And here we go, the intro to arc Two. I wanted to do something different and establish a bit of a different beat here to setup arc two, and I ended up going for this way. I imagine this won’t be the first time Arc Two has a time skip, either, but we’ll see.

 

Honestly, was fun writing this out and experimenting with a diary format. Was originally longer, but I think the other bits would be better in scene, and this was a very good stopping point.

 

Also, I have a new announcement. I am running into some issues with my continued employment. Work in higher education, and that is not looking so stable right now for next semester. Okay for the moment, but worrying. To help there, I’m opening up writing commissions for those interested, so please be sure to check out my Ko-Fi if you’re interested to see my word rate, membership discounts, and more.

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Obligatory author plug because I'd love to write more but society sadly says I need monies to keep living (and support my growing addiction to commissioning catgirl art)

 

Support me on Patreon, Ko Fi, or Subscribe Star. Check them advance chapters uploaded every weekend, too. Or check out my website for links to my other author accounts, contact, socials, etc. Anything is appreciated :3

 

Also I have a discord now! Check it out. I would love to chat with fans. :3

 

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