[Chapter 1] The Last Elder of History

Chapter 1: Where the Tide Creeps

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Without further ado, here is Chapter 1: Where the Tide Creeps

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The knuckles on Hemi's hands stood out like knobs of weathered coral as he carefully unrolled the woven pandanus mat. Its edges were frayed due to age, kind of like himself. But the patterns, geometric lines passed down through generations, still held their shape. He smoothed it flat with deliberate slowness, his movements precise despite the slight tremors that sometimes appeared in his fingers these days.

The air hung thick and heavy, carrying the constant tang of salt from the nearby sea and the musty, green mildew which clung stubbornly to the overhead thatch and the wooden posts supporting it.

From the worn bundle he pulled out the checker board. It wasn't beautiful, not like the ones carved from rich Tamanu wood in the old days. This one was rougher, fashioned years ago from a thick plank of driftwood washed ashore after a storm. Its surface had turned gray and scoured by salt and sand. Yet Hemi handled it with reference, tracing the boxes painted onto its surface. Scratches in the paint came from decades of play. He placed it gently in the center of the mat.

As he sat down and crossed his legs, he felt a familiar annoyance. The floorboard beneath him shifted, rocking slightly with his weight.

"Still loose," he grumbled. "The damp seems to get deeper every year."