I am a warrior. I am a father. I am a friend. I am an artist. I am a writer. With all these things combined I write the first section of a long saga. The first part of a long life. I hope this story lives on in the hearts of generations to come and teaches them of pain, love, and true sacrifice. It starts the day before I turned 13. That day, I started a journey, a journal, and began shaping the rest of my life.

Dear Future,

First in my journal, I think I should tell you who I am. I am Oner, pronounced honor. I am the son of Jorge the Malimite. Papa is a warrior, but he hides it because the Torish have spies everywhere.

My greatest dream is to be like him. He told me he would teach me to fight 3 years ago when my mama and sister were captured by slave catchers.

I remember watching my baby sister being ripped from my mama’s arms as I stood by. At ten years old, missing them already, wanting them back, I realized there was nothing I could do. The last sound from my little sister, a piercing scream, echoed in the distance as the ship carrying half my family faded down the river leaving only burning pain in its wake.

I knew something had to be done but fighting such a great power felt like trying to stop the tide. Impossible!

Yet, I was impassioned, and I promised myself to forever use this memory to feed my courage and resilience to fight until there are no more enslaved people in the world. Not one. My father noticed my smoldering courage and yearning to fight. He said my warrior training will start on my 13th birthday. That is tomorrow!!

Now, about where I live. I live on the continent Monco. It is hot and humid in the south, cold and biting in the north. Monco has mountains, hills, valleys, prairies, and all types of forests.

Whoever you are, wherever you like to live, we have it all. Monco sounds good, doesn’t it?? Well, it has one blemish. One thing that makes all the good taste bitter. I, we, all the people that live here, are trapped here. Guards from Tori continents patrol our borders.

Torish are a ruthless people. They have grown to occupy all continents (as far as we know) except Monco.

For generations, it has been ingrained in us that we are nothing. Whenever the Torish conquer a land, they put all the people from that land that survive onto Monco. For ages no one has gotten along with anyone. Now, the people are starting to band together, except the Tacatori who attack the rest of us, take captives, and sell them as slaves in trade for their people’s freedom from the Torish, as they have been doing since they came to Monco.

The Torish keep us here, like deer in a pen. If they do not get us on the first hunt, we can’t go anywhere so they can just come get us later. Randomly, the slavers that have purchased licenses to catch slaves make their rounds. We cannot stop them from taking our friends, siblings, parents, and children. We must give them whatever they want, we are told. OR NOT...

Two days ago, Papa outfitted his boat with food, and his men along with a (basically) thirteen-year-old boy who he seems to think was created for mopping and cleaning his cabin. Me.

I tried to tell him that was not what (basically) men were made for, but all I got for an answer was a pointed look at the mop bucket. Almost as if it got up and started walking away.

I have been catching enough fish to feed the whole crew, like bass, bluegill, and this weird fish with scales that...oh dear!

Sorry!! I had to find a new hiding place. Papa almost found me. I’ve mopped his dad-gum cabin three times today. Sometimes I think he doesn’t want me outside breathing fresh air. I feel trapped in small spaces. Like ships’ cabins. I told Papa that, but all he says is, “Did you know that a mop and a bucket could make a room feel ten times larger?” He is actually right, but it isn’t funny.

Seeing Papa just now reminded me that he won’t tell me where we are going. I’ve kept my ears open, but it is weird. We are going faster than I have ever sailed. I can’t seem to figure out why all the women, girls, and babies disappeared from the village just before we left.

Wait!! Something is happening. Everybody is rushing every which way. I get dizzy just watching them from the top of this cabin. Maybe if I go down Papa will be too busy to put me to work. Maybe if I'm careful... Bye!! Wish me luck!

ONER

I started every journal entry with “Dear Future”. This was my first entry. Oh!! To be innocent like that again. To not fully understand the hatred all around. Sometimes I wonder if I will be able to tell this tale. It is hard. A tale of true life. Not the life a child knows, but the life of an adult. But back to the story.

There is a large section of time between the first entry and the next, so I will tell you of the in-between.

Oner shoved his journal roughly into his pocket, climbed onto the deck worn smooth from years of being walked on, and slipped around the cabin. As he viewed the frantic preparations of the crew, he sensed someone behind him. Before he could whirl around, his arm was pinched in a vise like grip. “OWWWW!!” He yelled. But before he could properly finish his manly yelling, a smelly, calloused hand clamped over his mouth. He turned slightly and saw his father, which confused him. What did I do? He looked at the deck and mentally scanned through the last few hours. Nothing. I can think of nothing.

“Be quiet.” Jorge, Oner’s father, whispered in his ear. His breath smelled like the fish Oner had been catching. Oner nodded slightly and was released from the terribly tight grip. He rubbed his sore arm, tucking his journal into his pocket, and followed his father who was already motioning from halfway down the deck. They tiptoed to the back of the boat, and Oner realized that they were pulling up to the muddy shore. The boat bumped the bank as he and his father jumped to land their bare feet sinking into the muck.

Oner stood in front of Jorge, looking questioningly into his face. Worry made its home in his eyes. “What is going on?” he whispered. Jorge put his hands on Oner’s face, tilting it a little higher. The wind toyed with the boy’s hair. I couldn’t protect his mother or sister, but I will protect him with my life. He needs protected. He must live to liberate Monco, for that was the vision given by the Maker.

Jorge looked at the small boy in front of him for what he thought would be the last time. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic that was made of dull brown undyed wool. He was wearing deerskin leggings and his tough brown feet were bare. His hair was dark brown and shaggy. He was strong for his age, but it was the strength of a boy. Oner’s eyes were bright, royal blue. They were innocent. They were the surest proof that he was still young inside.

“Son,” said Jorge picking his words carefully. “Travel due north for as long as you can until you find a large mountain that stands alone. The Maker will go with you as long as you go with him.”

The first mate called frantically to Jorge, the captain, “Sir, they are coming. We need to go!” Jorge ignored him. Desperation showed in his eyes.

“Oner, remember, the Maker has not given you a spirit of fear but of power, love, and a sound mind.” The first mate called again, running down the deck. Jorge handed Oner a leather canteen of water and a leather bag thrown to him by one of the crew. “Stay strong for me, son.” His voice broke, his eyes shone.

He was so tempted to send his crew to their deaths alone and go with his charge. Jorge went down on one knee, his head down. He froze, the mud seeping through his pant leg to his knee. The first mate smacked the rail in frustration, his blond hair soaked with sweat. Jorge stood up and looked into Oner’s eyes with violent intensity. “Earn this,” then he jumped back onto the ship, running along the deck, calling orders as he went.

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Oner was totally confused, he was pretty sure his father had just bowed to him. Then his Papa left him on the bank of the Antaro river and sailed away.

Oner watched his father sail away through the tunnel of trees that hung over the huge river. The trees touched in the middle of the river blocking the light and making the air itself feel dark. The small amount of light that was able to penetrate the trees was gloomy and depressed like a boy who had to eat oatmeal. What the heck was going on?

Oner looked far down the river, for something caught his eye. A shadow flitting about in the darkest shadows on the edge of the river. Oner gasped. A slave ship!! Mentally he screamed for his father to fight or run, whatever it took for him to survive, but no sound escaped him. Someone told him silence would be wise.

He waited. The birds stopped singing and the light faded. Surely the lookout would have seen the ship by now. But his father’s ship stayed on the course it was on, which would intercept the slave ship very soon. He sank to his knees, the muck seeping through his leggings as the ships came together. Oner hurled the contents of his stomach into the river. This could not be happening.

Jorge stepped onto the rail, right where the ships would clash together. He stood there, defiant. Taking a deep breath of the humid air he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Fight to the death. Protect your honor!!” The first man was felled by the archers of the slave ship. “Out with a bang,” Jorge thought as he jumped onto the enemy ship, wreaking havoc all around. His two best friends widened the split he made in the enemy behind him.

A knife slid gently through his bicep, leaving his arms useless. Wet trickled from his back. He looked around for what would be the last time. Blue sky. Red bird. A glider fish jumped from the water slicing through the air. It was barely ahead of the jaws the burst from the water. The blond haired first mate sank to the ground. If only he had been given a chance, like the fish. But he was the last person to die from his ship, and he knew there was no escape now. The world faded to black.

Jorge and his crew had decimated the slave ship. It didn’t even have enough men to finish gathering slaves. The captain was mortified that a force half again as small as his had nearly beaten them. Standing in the middle of the deck that was slick with blood he screamed at his scrap of a crew. The ones left just hung their heads finding more reasons by each second to desert. To leave. He always did this.

Asesino, the captain’s manservant was done. He was close enough to freedom, but freedom was no longer enough. He needed to help others gain their freedom. He had heard of a mountain. . . yeah. That’s where he was going. The One That Stands Alone.

Oner had seen his father die. And he still couldn’t believe it after sitting unmoving for twenty-four hours staring at his wavering reflection in the water. Why?? What made him think I was worth it?

Now he was finally ready to get on with life. Oner realized that his father had died for him, and he decided not to waste it. Slowly, at daybreak, he stood. He drank some of the warm, leathery water from the canteen. And promptly puked it back up. Warm leathery water wasn’t the best thing for a completely empty stomach, apparently.

Oner refilled the canteen with fresh water from the river and looked at the contents of the leather bag his father had handed him. A knife. A cloak. A bundle wrapped in oiled canvas which looked suspiciously like... He almost dropped it in his haste, ripping it open, allowing himself a small worm of satisfaction. Food. Thank the Maker.

After eating just enough bread, smoked fish and crusty cheese to dull the spasms of hunger shooting though him, Oner started walking north. He allowed himself no breaks, no rest. He didn’t deserve it. He walked throughout the day and into the night. Fighting the swampy earth all day was tiring and Oner wasn’t no longer aware when, finally, he dropped, asleep before he hit the ground.

She took a step. She took another. Her feet burned from the hot sand and the sun was blinding her. She slid backwards twice as much as she had moved forward. Sinking to the ground she accepted the very compelling offer being given her by the sliding sand dune to lay down and take a rest. Just a short rest.

She rose again a few moments later, painfully aware of the after-effects of being a slave. She limped the rest of the way up the hill and tripped at the crest, rolling down the other side. Hot, but welcome wind blew over her. There was sand in her mouth, nose, hair, and everywhere else she knew of. Would it not be easier to just die here? Why should she put in the effort when she might not make it anyway? But she pushed on. Stumbling to her feet, crashing to the ground again. It was a vicious cycle. But she would make it to “The One Who Stands Alone.”

Oner awoke the next morning and ate a little. It was much more than he deserved. Then he went on, ever north. Slogging through the mud was monotonous, and the mosquitoes must have numbered in the millions. He had slept so little in the last few days he was never fully rested, but he didn’t really care.

The sun shone in his eyes. Flies bugged him. He could not process what had happened to his father, he was too busy depriving himself of any satisfaction or contentment, let alone happiness. Everything annoyed him and small problems made him want to yank out his hair.

That afternoon he realized something. The air was starting to feel less humid than the swamps and more breathlessly hot. The vegetation was changing as well. The trees were farther apart and shorter. The plants closer to the ground were getting covered in thorns and Oner was seeing them less frequently. He felt no emotion over any of this. Still, he kept walking.

Oner finally stepped out of the last row of scrub brush and lifted his eyes from his feet for the first time in several hours. The sun reflecting off of the miles of sand dunes blinded him. He blinked rapidly, his eyes watering as they stung.

The first thing he was able to see was a kid walking on a path some 30 yards away. The kid stumbled, tottering dangerously. Oner had been one of the older kids in his village and had taken care of all the younger kids until they disappeared, and he went with his dad. Out of pure instinct he ran over and supported the child. He tried to drag him to the shelter of the trees but was soon too busy puking his guts out to move him.

Oner set the kid down and ran to the nearest dune. Dropping to his knees at the edge he kept gagging for a moment even though there was nothing left to come out, not that there had been much in the first place.

What a smell! He thought, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Surely his father made him take baths twice a week too. Even though baths are terrible, if the consequence of not taking them was that smell I will take them!! As his head sagged against his chest, Oner realized that he was smelling ripe himself.

Getting a quick drink from his canteen, Oner spat in the sand, and ran back over to the kid. He realized now the kid was a girl.

Something was wrong with her, he thought. She was skinnier than anyone he had ever seen, and her cheeks were flushed pink. Bright pink. Her skin was darker than his, and her matted blonde hair was almost to her waist. She was wearing a ragged tunic and her leggings had definitely seen better days.

Oner picked the girl up awkwardly and carried her over to the tree line on his shoulder. He laid her down on the ground and put his bag underneath her head. Then he took the lid off the canteen and tipped a bit of the water into her mouth. This revived the girl, whose eyes widened in fear when she saw Oner. He smiled at her, “It's okay. I’m gonna help you.” After several minutes of him slowly giving her some food and water she finally lost the scared look in her eyes.

The shadows lengthened and the wind died. Both kids were too uncomfortable to sleep, and too tired to talk. They sat, alternatively viewing the ground around them and each other. It was brain-numbingly boring.

Several hours later, both of the kids had fallen asleep where they sat. A friendly wind blew their hair revealing faces any mother would love.

The sun saw them and moved on, off to light the other side of the earth.

That night they woke up, somewhat cold, but both felt better. Oner was looking at the girl, and the girl was looking at him. Neither knew what to say. “Umm. What’s your name?” asked Oner just to break the sheet of silence, like ice, between them. His voice cracked from lack of use over the past days and his eyebrows creeped up toward his hair line when he heard it. He cleared his throat.

She looked at him a little puzzled. “What’s a name?” she asked, her voice grinding almost like a rusty hinge. A bird flew from the sand nearby.

Oner looked at her surprised by both her voice and her question. “A name. Umm. A name is what people call you. Like my name is Oner.” His voice was only slightly better.

A sad look covered the girl's face. “I don’t think I ever had a name.” She sighed. “The slave catchers just called me Girl or Slave.”

Oner was so shocked, for a moment he did not speak. No name? That is terrible!! He thought for a moment. The clouds raced from one horizon to the other. Oner looked at her with a big smile. “You can name yourself! Anything you want.” He nodded his head with satisfaction, glad that he had found a solution. “Yes, you can name yourself.”

She looked nervously at him. “What if it doesn’t make sense? Or it is silly?”

“Don’t worry,” Oner said. “I’ll tell you if it is a good name.”

“Hmmm,” was all the girl said, and then fell silent. She was obviously thinking on a name.

Oner handed her a hunk of bread and took a bite himself. It seemed as though they chewed forever. The bread was very stale, and by the time Oner swallowed the last of his, his jaw was sore. As soon as he was done, he saw that the girl was asleep and decided to join her.

The next morning, Oner was up before the girl, so he looked at her. But that was weird after a minute, so he jumped up and looked for water to fill the canteen. He found none and got back just as the girl woke up. They both sat on the ground and shared some bread and a sip of water.

Oner looked at the girl. Really looked. It didn’t feel so off since she was awake. Her clothes were raggedy, but her eyes. Oh my! Nearly black, they were the eyes of royalty. He felt foolish the minute he thought it. Eyes aren’t the best indication of royalty. Desperate for distraction, “Do you know of any mountains around here?” He asked, “My father said to just keep going north until I find one that is all alone.” He decided not to tell her the whole story.

The girl realized she now trusted Oner, which was odd because she usually took a long time to even like someone. Part of the reason was, she would not have survived by herself, and her unconscious mind knew it even if she didn’t. Also, Oner was good with kids, and she knew instinctively that he would never leave her. And his black/blue eyes looked nice, innocent.

She decided to tell him. A lizard sunning itself on a rock caught her eye as it slept. “That’s easy!!” She smiled slightly, her lips cracking. “The Ever-Smoking Mountain. The Place Untouched. Mount-in-Mount Island. Yes. There is a place like what you say nearby. It is northeast of here; you can barely see it if you know where it is. I can show you where ‘tis if you’ll help me get there.” She pointed.

Oner followed the tip of her finger with his eyes and saw a mountain outlined by the sand. It was black. He simply nodded and started gathering up the supplies from his pack.

So it was agreed, apparently they would help each other. The girl looked sadly at the lizard as they left their little camp. He must have an easy life. To be honest, she was slightly jealous. Bye free one! She looked back one last time as they left camp.

The desert air felt like it was slowly roasting them, except at night. Then it was freezing. It was hard, walking in loose sand. Both children were weak and dehydrated. The skin on the bottom of their feet was worn off in places from the sand. At night they consumed small amounts of Oner’s dying supply of bread and water, collapsing in heaps on the rough sand and stone. And so, they traveled for several days.