Journal Entry I

Elora Starts Her Story

I am a legend. I am the girl who was thrown into the sea, taken by gods. I am their offender. I am the girl who stopped the rain. I am Lady Ocean herself. But that is my story, and in every story there must be a hero; mine is my husband. He is the hero of my story. Glory to him.

I’m old now, I smile and I feel it. I’ve always been afraid of growing old. Which is why I lived and lived hard. I hated the idea of my young soul being trapped inside a dying body. I didn’t want to smell like I was rotting. I thought I'd want to run, and my bones would cry out in opposition, that they wouldn’t let me. I thought that people helping me out with extremely simple mundane tasks would be a constant reminder of my state of being. I thought I’d miss my gold hair and sometimes I do. But now that I am old, I realize that I wear my testimony in every strand of gray. Yes, I am old, though I’ve come to realize that grandchildren…they are simply the best. They are the fruit of our labor, and for them, aching bones are worth it. 

On cold nights when the snow is drifting past the vast windows, I will tell the tale to my grandchildren, the ones with wild hair, wide eyes, and wet mustaches of dripping coco. They nestle together in thick quilts on the floor while I rock in my trusty chair. When they start chirping a little too much I tell them to hush, wouldn’t want to wake their parents. It’s way past their bedtime. 

When I hear the sound of logs crackling in the fireplace and I hear little giggles under quilts, that’s my cue to start the story. For that, I will have to go back a long, long time. Back when I was as small as them. Back when my eyes were as blue as the sea. Back to a time when my feet were little and rough. Back to the time when I could run and run fast. Back when the rain came every day at noon, and the gods were not angry with me. Back when I was just a girl, racing the wall. 

* * *

“When you hear the roar, run.” I grinned, watching the dark clouds form over the cliffs. And when the water came…it poured. 

On the day of my birthday I ran barefoot with my equally barefooted sister, racing the great wall of water through the wheat fields to our humble country home. Boy did I run fast that day! Faster than ever before because that day, I had turned eight, and eight-year-olds could run much faster than seven-year-olds. I had lost so many times before, but not this time, this time I was determined. The rain would not win. 

I will always remember the sound of a gazillion overweight raindrops plummeting into the earth. I will always remember the wall nipping at my heels. My long braid out behind me, the wheat whipping at my legs, and my smile as broad as my father’s ship. It was coming fast so I had to be faster! I was proud of myself for staying in the sunlight the whole way, though I didn’t care about my sister. The rain ate her a long time ago. 

However, we weren’t just racing the rain, we were racing a herd of five hungry older brothers who ate unholy amounts of anything Mother would put on their plate. Mother would tell us to come when the rain started. She always made sure to feed us before the sweaty animals came huffing and puffing back from working out on the docks. So, every day at noon we’d rush home. 

Mother loved to listen to the rain while she cooked, so that’s why she left the door open…well, that and because she had two hungry girls who would be running through that door soon. 

The wall was so close it roared, straining to eat my toes. With one final stride I leaped into the house. Little did my mother know I’d come barging through that door like a deranged blacknose sheep. I couldn’t stop! The wood floor welcomed my wet feet with affection and the rest of my body was forgotten in their embrace. I came sliding into the wall, books fell on me, and the giggling continued. Nothing hurt, I was too happy for pain. 

“Yes, yes, yes, YES!” I shouted, sprawled out on the hardwood with Dante’s Comedy flopped upon my head. 

My mother could do nothing more than just laugh. Really, when you’re a mother of seven adventurous children, what else can you do?

“Did you beat the rain?” She said, matching my excitement. 

“I did, I did! See, I told you eight-year-olds were faster!” 

“They are, they really are! Good job Elora!” She said, for that is my name. 

Mother came over and resurrected me from the pile of pages, dusted me off, and smiled. Curly strands of gold sprung out in every direction, and the amount of leaves I had in my hair was immensely impressive. She chuckled and began to do my braid again. 

“Supper is almost ready. What happened to your sister?” 

In came Layney, the mud monster.