This was no ordinary stone, this was, as the people of Hukapa called it, a weather stone.
Weather stones were small hollow glass orbs that when lit by a torch and thrown into the air, could change the weather. Jakob didn't know what the substance was in the orbs, he only knew that the colour of the substance changed depending on the weather.
He smiled as he remembered once, when he was younger, he had been caught out by the changing weather and had gotten soaked by a blue stone. The memory played vividly in his mind—a day that started with the warmth of the sun on his face, and a clear sky that deceived him into thinking it was safe. However, he had forgotten that it was a watering day. A day where the farmers would throw a small blue weather stone to cause rain to water their crops. As he walked around the village, a sudden downpour surprised him. The once sunny day transformed into a downpour, all thanks to the dark blue stone. Jakob found himself drenched to the bone, a consequence of his forgetfulness. That day, he learned the power of the weather stones in a very personal way.
The weather stone at the present, a brilliant red stone, had another purpose. As the red sphere expanded, clouds parted revealing clear star-lit night skies. The wind died down, and in front of Jakob, Raki Valley lay exposed like an unfurled map. The crisp, cold air carried the faint scent of pine, as if the very essence of the surrounding trees had been released by the changing weather. The chill bit at Jakob's exposed skin, a reminder of the wintery night.
At the base of the mountain Jakob stood on, over half a mile below, was the Awatio River. The river, now visible in the moonlight, emitted the soft symphony of flowing water, echoing the ancient song of the land. The river began in the mountains and grew, gorged powerfully by many mountainous streams into a mighty force that carved its way east towards the sea, which appeared as a distant grey smudge in the moonlit horizon.
Just north of the river was Hukapa, a collection of brown buildings. The scent of burning wood permeated the air, a comforting aroma that defied the dreadful cold. Small plumes of smoke rose from many of the house's chimneys, weaving intricate patterns into the night sky. Despite the biting cold, the smell of warmth and hearth lingered, a testament to the resilience of the village against the harsh weather.
In the heart of the village, towering over the buildings and dwarfing even the largest house, stood a colossal wooden canoe. It was a testament to tradition, meticulously crafted from the trunks of ancient, towering trees. These massive logs were carved with precision, each piece fitting seamlessly into the next. For the past month, the canoe had occupied the centre of Hukapa, a communal canvas for the villagers to inscribe their lineage and heritage. Every villager had taken up the carving knife. Every villager had inscribed the names of their ancestors. Every villager had inscribed their heritage. Every villager, apart from one.
The village came together, hands united in this collective identity, leaving Jakob on the outskirts, a spectator to a tradition that seemed to elude him.
The Festival of Harewaka, with its roots stretching back over three centuries, commemorated the daring expedition of the first seafarers who challenged the belief that the Maurere mountains marked the edge of the world. These pioneers, in their ocean-faring canoes, circumnavigated the treacherous tip of the Maurere's, eventually anchoring at Hukapa—marking the beginning of a tradition that echoed through the ages.
Initially conceived to honour the courage of those early sailors, the Festival of Harewaka had evolved over time. While the historical feat was still acknowledged, the essence of the festival had transformed into a celebration of personal origins and heritage. Today, it served as a reminder of one's roots, a communal exploration of identity.
Jakob, however, found himself at odds with the festivities. Unlike the villagers who celebrated their known histories, he grappled with a profound uncertainty about his own origins. The festival, meant to be a joyous reunion with ancestral ties, became a reminder of his own mystery—a void in his understanding that the traditions couldn't quite fill.
The Festival of Harewaka ignited the night with a breathtaking display of flames. A torch was lit and passed from hand to hand. A cascade of light burst forth, illuminating the night in a vivid dance of reds, blues, and golds. The flames, like spirited dancers, leaped and twirled, casting shadows that flickered across the faces of the villagers in a mesmerising play of light. When the torch had travelled a full circle around the members of the village, an elder then stepped forwards, torch in hand, lighting the canoe on fire. There was a pause, it looked like the canoe would not light. In an instant, like magic, flames sprouted from the canoe. Within a heartbeat the canoe was coated with flames of all colours, shapes and sizes.
The Festival of Harewaka had begun.
From his vantage point on the mountain, Jakob watched the spectacle unfold. The fiery display reflected in his bright blue eyes, its radiant colours mirrored in the depths of his gaze. Flames of every shade and shape adorned the ceremonial canoe, painting the night with an otherworldly glow.
A sense of longing tugged at Jakobs heart as he watched the people he had grown up with celebrate their ancestors. A sense of longing because he did not know who his ancestors were. He did not know where he came from.
Almost fifteen years ago, when Jakob was only two days away from his first birthday, his mother, Maríma, had come home to Hukapa carrying him wrapped in a bundle of cloth. The story was that she had been in one of the southern cities, below the mountains, for almost ten years studying magic. When she had returned to Hukapa, she found her brother, Bjari, and begged him to raise Jakob.
When Bjari had tried questioning her, asking her why, she had cried saying"It's for his safety, it's the best choice."
Bjari eventually relented, agreeing to raise him. Staying only for Jakob's first birthday, his mother had given Jakob a slim silver necklace. Then, as quickly as a rapikorn, his mother had left, never to be seen in Hukapa again.
In moments of solitude like this, Jakob would trace the delicate patterns of the necklace with his fingers, gazing into the distance as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who had left him with this enigmatic legacy. The festival became a time of both reflection and yearning, a clash of celebration and the weight of unanswered questions.
The only image Jakob had of his mother was but a faint memory, a fragile impression propped up by the stories and assurances of his uncle. A picture painted with words, not colours—a motherly figure blending into the realms of imagination. Yet, despite the ambiguity, the necklace anchored Jakob to a heritage he couldn't fully grasp.
Alone thinking about his mother, Jakob felt a mix of emotions run through him. Possibly due to the festival, buried thoughts and questions rose to the surface.
In a few days, it was Jakob's sixteenth birthday. The day not only marked his coming of age, but also the anniversary of his mother choosing to leave. Why was leaving him with Bjari safer? Why had she left? Was it due to magic or something else? No matter the questions he wanted to ask, two stuck in Jakob's mind stronger than them all. Who was his father? Was he responsible for his mother leaving? All these questions had remained unanswered throughout Jakob's life, for his mother had not mentioned anything about his father. He wished with all his heart that he knew who his father was, if only to have a name, and to know where he was from.
A loud bang pulled him out of his thoughts. Looking down at the valley below he was instantly distracted from his thoughts. Lights of multiple colours and shapes hurtled exploded throughout the sky, each one more different than the last. The fireworks had begun. All the effort Jakob had put into climbing the mountain was rewarded time and time again. Sitting alone on the watchtower he easily had the best view of the celebrations.
The fireworks flew through the sky until the early hours of the morning. Jakob sat alone, content, watching each daring display. Once the sky was quiet, devoid of explosions, Jakob relaxed completely. With one hand he tucked his necklace into his cloak, despair temporarily forgotten. Wrapping himself in blankets from his pack Jakob waited for sleep to come for him.