The small canoe creaked and croaked as Jermia (Jer-Me-Uh) paddled the pitiful craft downstream. He barely had escaped, the pursuit was heavy. If he hadn’t had known the river as he did his own palm, he wouldn’t had survived.
A shuffling to the side of the stream caught his attention, a slight flicker of the bushes. A small deer, hardly the size of a large dog, has stepped onto the bank. What a fickle creature, carefree, not a worry in the world. If only I could go back to those days, whenever I was but a boy. The long days in the fields, chasing deer, picking corn and other crops. The days of my childhood were well spent, with friends and family alike.
Jermia looked over the side of the canoe, looking at his own reflection. His once handsome face was now scarred. Physical scars and mental scars shown upon his face, years of sadness and hatred could still be seen. His deep brown eyes shown worry, despair of what was to come. His long, forceful arms bulged with each stroke, his once long sleeve shirt now torn to tatters. He donned a small, plaid hat, now old and dusty with age. He looked down at his tattered pants, holes ridden in the knees and the cuffs ripped. His pitiful sandals looked as though they may snap at any second.
He had never been this far downstream, he had no idea of what was to come ahead.
“Only time will tell,” his father always told him, “good or bad, you take it as it comes.” Wise words that nearly killed him. You don’t always “take it as it comes”. Sometimes you need to change what happens, change it to survive. If only his father had listened to him, he may be sitting in this very canoe with him.
“Oh, but that’s behind me. Now I have to find where the hell this river goes.” Jermia thought aloud, trying to pass the time and kill some boredom. Jermia glanced over his shoulder, his long sword sheathed and his Short Bow lay atop it. A quiver of arrows was sitting beside the former, all of it ready to be used. “Hopefully,” he said, “that won’t be necessary.”
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