ALOJA: The Journal of Pteridophia Anteres Lumina

* ENTRY 1

Dearest Eve,

The Queen has allowed me to complete the remaining entries of this journal. I hope this chronicle will shed some light on the strange path on which you've been placed. At the end of everything, I know you will do what's right—even if you can't forgive me.

Yours in the Antecedent Star,
Pteridophia Anteres Lumina

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My father had already been buried by the time the news of his passing reached me at the University. A villager had found his body in the grove of oaks at the edge of our farm, his gnarled hands still gripping a strip of cork. I was devastated, but knew Father had left this world on his own terms--he lived to work and had died doing what he loved.

I drifted across the campus in a daze, haunted by grief. My desire to become an archeologist waned with each passing day and when the diploma finally hit my hand all I felt was emptiness. My classmates comforted me as best they could, but soon all of them were gone—having left Barcelona behind to pursue careers abroad. I was no stranger to loneliness, but I hadn't felt so truly alone since the day I washed up on the shore of Tossa de Mar.

Was it really only thirteen years ago?

It was just after dawn when the man I would come to call Father discovered a strange child lying all alone, unconscious on the beach. What a sight I must have been—pale as dead coral with barely enough ragged scraps of linen to cover my fragile frame. Abandoning his crab pots, he picked me up carefully in his strong arms and carried my limp body to his humble farmhouse.

I awoke under the gaze of the man's kind eyes and immediately felt at ease. It took some time, but a few stammered words eventually escaped my lips. We were both surprised to find I didn't speak a word of Catalan or Spanish. My thoughts coalesced in English but my memory was a blank slate, leaving my arrival in the village an utter mystery. The well-weathered man guessed I was about seven years old but there was no way to be sure.

Rumors spread quickly. Some villagers said my parents had simply abandoned me. Others claimed to have witnessed me bobbing in the water on the very same day a small ship had dashed against the reef, killing everyone aboard. Once every lead dried up, the flummoxed local authorities left me in the hands of the gruff but softhearted farmer, saying they'd return once they had determined the best course of action. They never came back.

Toiling in the harsh sun had aged my father beyond his years, leaving his skin like leather and his hair white as the caps of crashing waves. He was serious and often stern, but we shared many tender moments while working together in the cork orchard. The labor was unforgiving but it made me resilient and strong.

Wanting nothing more than to make the old man proud, I saved every penny he gave me and read every book I could get my hands on, readying myself to attend the University of Barcelona. Before departing for the city, I offered to take over the orchard so Father could retire but he refused. Leaving Tossa de Mar at the (assumed) age of 16 was the hardest thing I had ever done. Four years later, I would have traded in my Arts and Humanities degree in an instant to share one more day with my father.

After Father's death, I had no desire to return home. As beautiful as the village was, it would only stir up my pain and regret. I remained in Barcelona, running off the fumes of my extinguished ambition.

I was trudging through yet another pointless day when a repressed childhood memory pierced my mind like a white-hot knife: A few months after waking up on the beach, I had met a strange woman above the cliffs of Tossa de Mar—but she was no stranger. How could I have forgotten? More and more details of the bizarre encounter trickled into my thoughts, driving me to tears all over again. I had to go home.