When I was born, my mother knew that I had great things in store for me. She named me Aura, a name that held a certain amount of power for me in my youth. When I learned the meaning of my name, I began to take on several of the characteristics of it. I can remember lurking around in the shadows, pretending to be invisible so I could see what others were doing. When my little sister Artemis was born, I began to think that I really was invisible, though one person did see me: my father.

My father was very important to me. He would do everything with me, since mother had to spend her time either in the temple or with the baby. I loved being close to him, and I felt that as long as he was near, there wasn't anything that I could not do. I often became too brave and tried doing things that got me injured and made my mother want to keep me indoors. Like that time I tried to climb the wall of the cliff and fell off and banged my knees up. I remember sitting there on the rocks, crying and bleeding, and my father coming up to me and saying, "Aura, you got so high that time. You'll do better next time." Then he'd scoop me up and take me to the bay to wash off my wounds. I just remember snuggling into him as he carried me home that night. He didn't see the wounds, he only knew that he was proud of me for trying. That alone made me love him more.

My mother, on the other hand, could have killed him that night. Though she never raised her voice, you could tell when she wasn't pleased. She wanted me to stay near the house and go to school. I reluctantly complied, but I knew that my relationship with my father would remain forever unchanged.

He had always gone on these big hunting excursions with the other men, so I did not think anything of it when he kissed me goodbye and disappeared for the week. I knew that he would bring back some beautiful skin that mother would make into something warm and soft for me.

A few days later, Kimble Johnson knocked on our door. "Daddy's not here," I said in my matter-of-fact way. Kimble managed to smile down at me, while he went aside to my mother. It was then that I noticed he was carrying my father's hunting knife. Kimble's words all blended together and held no meaning for me. I just remember staring at my father's knife, then up at the face of my mother, which twisted up in pain. She was crying. Kimble held her. I reached out and took the knife, carefully hiding it in the folds of my robe, and ran out the door.

I ran and ran until I came to the place where my father and me always went when things got too crazy at home. I closed my eyes and tried to will his spirit there. Try as I might, I could not conjure him.

I took out his hunting knife and lay it on the grass before me. The blade was cool and sharp, and I remember having watched him sharpen it the night before he left. He always made sure that it was good and sharp before going out with the other men. The handle of the knife was bound with leather thongs and had pieces of smooth amethyst tied to it for courage.

I can remember the day he made the knife, because he also made me a necklace with a single piece of amethyst on it that was much to big for his knife. He gave it to me and said that no matter where he went, as long as I wore that necklace, I would be with him. Of course, I was much younger then. Maybe about two. The time where you believed everything your father told you. Besides, it kept me from touching his knife.

It was so beautiful, but until now, I had been afraid to touch it. It seemed like a sacred instrument that only my father could wield. I did not want anyone else to have it. They would not understand its power. I vowed that I would keep it for myself, and hide it from every other person. Under my robe, I still wore that necklace he made me. Having grown two years under his love, I understood better what he had meant, but I still thought that he would come home. I could not fathom him not.

As time wore on, I began to realize that he would not be coming home. Mother's frequent fits of crying and the reworking of his clothes into things for Artemis and I told me that he was not coming home. But I still did not know what had happened to him. My mother would not tell me for a very long time. Partly because she didn't want to admit it to herself that he was really gone. Reworking clothes was a usual thing for her to do, but his things were still where he had left them, for many years after he left.

I know that she did not want to tell me what had happened because she did not think that I was old enough to understand. But the mind of a child creates fantasies in the place of truth, and I had already conjured up reasons for my father's disappearance. To me, he was a spirit that still haunted the glades where we used to play. I'd always go to our secret spot when I needed to talk to him, and I always felt as though he was there. Listening. Somehow guiding me from beyond the grave.