Ad Astra

Chapter 1

On the anniversary of my father's death, my mother, younger sister, and I gather at the banks of Tetoa Bay in the early morning, when the sun has just barely risen. We move in silence, feeling the silky sand shift beneath our feet as we navigate toward the shoreline. I'd like to believe our quiet nature stems from mourning, but as I watch my mother's gaze repeatedly turn left and right, I know she is equally as focused on keeping an eye out for any wandering soldiers.

"There," my younger sister, Kiana, says. I follow her pointed finger toward a quiet spot on the beach situated near some shrubs that will provide a layer of disguise.

I keep my silence as we take a seat on the sand and empty our basket of belongings. Kiana has fashioned a small, handheld wooden raft from tree bark that she collected in the jungle a few days ago. My mother produces some of my father's favorite fruits and baked goods, which she layers gently on the wood. The smell of my mother's baking the evening prior was yet another reminder of the anniversary of my father's death. I can't recall the last time she made something sweet just for me and my sister to enjoy. Just when I think everything is complete, my mother fishes deep into the basket to retrieve a single button, which she plucked from one of my father's old shirts. I watch her lips gently trace the button before she squeezes it tight in her hand, mutters something quietly, and layers it with the other items.

"Is it ready, then?" Kiana asks.

My mother nods.

I walk with them quietly to the shoreline. The sunrise has cast an orange glow over the ocean waters, and the waves brush gently against the sand in the morning tide. I think that if the day weren't marked by mourning, it would be a beautiful sight to behold, but not a day goes by in my home country of Landiani when I'm not reminded of the unspeakable tragedies that have occurred here.

I turn to look at my mother, Arihi. Steadfast and strong, it is strange to see her appear mournful this morning. Her grief has always been channeled into anger, but today, I can see the faint glints of tears rolling down her cheeks as she marks another year without her husband. Her grief makes my heart ache, and to save her from pain, I reach for the small raft, ready to set it adrift into the ocean.

My mother's arm clutching my wrist prevents me from making another move.

"Mama?" I ask.

"No, Fetia. Let Kiana do it. She found the bark," my mother says. Her voice shakes with sadness. I remove my hand from the raft, uttering a small apology to Kiana, and watch as my sister grabs the handheld raft in my place and wades into the surf.

I look forward, watching my younger sister become beautifully illuminated by the morning sun. Unlike my long, flowing hair that my mother has described as being as "dark as the night sky," Kiana's shortened hair has natural golden highlights that glimmer in the sunlight, similar to my mother's own. In fact, glancing back and forth between them, I am once again reminded of their physical similarities. They are both tall, thin, and graceful, with warm brown eyes and tan skin kissed by sunlight. My eye and skin color may be identical to theirs, but Kiana and my mother share similarities that I will never quite understand.

I watch Kiana wade until she is waist high. Slowly, she drops the raft onto the water and lets it balance on the waves. Water drips from her skirt as she walks back up the shore. She takes a seat beside us, and for a few moments, we sit, watching the raft bob along the waves. The silence is a reminder that yet another year has passed since my father's death, and in that year, even more of our people have been slaughtered as a result of the Magnuvian Empire.

I raise my head and open my mouth in song. Gifted with the same beautiful voice as my father's, it has always been a tradition for me to sing during this day. It is one of the few ways I can honor him, considering some of the most vivid memories I have from our time together was singing with him. The ancient Landiani lyrics weave into a story of sadness and mourning. The words' meaning are a mystery to me; very few remember the ancient language these days. My voice is shaky, weakened from a lack of practice, but singing was never a talent that my mother encouraged, especially once my father passed. My voice fades as the song concludes until we all three are left sitting in silence again.