Amarae's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

For longer than her eldest grandchild had been alive, Amarae had chased one color. It belonged to a goddess the world had let itself forget. Amarae found her first in a rotted market painting, and she had painted gods ever since so people would remember them. But she could not paint what she had never truly seen. Today someone claimed the last scrap of the goddess still existed. And that someone kept it. Amarae ducked into the round driftwood yurt where she worked. Half-finished gods watched from the walls. She had come to trade, and she had brought her best offer. Vellune sat on the worktable, small boots swinging, plum curls stuffed with feathers and stolen buttons. She was the island's godling of lost things, and Amarae's oldest friend. She was also the only reason for hope. Vellune held things others gave up. Sometimes she gave them back. Usually she did not. "You have something of hers," Amarae said. "The goddess. A last piece." Vellune tilted her head. "Do I?" "You know you do." "She's not lost." Vellune smiled. "She's sleeping. Sleeping things get comfortable. Why wake her?" "Because people forgot her. I want to give her back." Vellune's tail curled. "Everyone wants to give things back. What will you trade?" Amarae set down a shallow woven basket. Milky white stones filled it, smooth as eggs, catching the stained-glass light. Sea glass and a tiny charm hung from the handle. Vellune peered in. She poked one stone. Her interest died at once. "Pretty," she said. "But pretty isn't worthy. These stones were never yours to lose. They cost you nothing." She pushed the basket away. "I don't trade for nothing." Amarae's chest tightened. She had nothing else. No coin mattered to a godling. She had spent her whole search on the search itself. Then Vellune went still. Her ears twitched toward Amarae's waist, toward the shell pouch of brushes. "Wait," Vellune whispered. "Something's calling." Amarae looked down. One brush was worn to almost nothing. Her first brush. The one she had used to paint the trickster god of doorways, decades ago, when she wanted to know what lay past a threshold. "That's not lost," Amarae said. "It's calling to be. You've carried it too long. You're afraid to finish anything." Vellune held out both small hands. "Give me the beginning. I'll give you the piece of her." Amarae's fingers shook. That brush was her whole life. But the goddess needed a hand that could let go. She placed the brush in Vellune's palms. Vellune's face changed. No mischief now. She reached into her curls and drew out a folded square of cloth. She pressed it into Amarae's hand. Amarae opened it. A torn corner of old canvas lay inside. On it burned a single color she had never once managed to mix. "There she is," Vellune said softly. "Now finish her. Fast. Colors like that don't wait."