Read Online The Color of Love (The Color of Heaven Series) by Julianne MacLean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julianne MacLean
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Seth’s compass out of its leather case, I took a careful look around, then established a field bearing and picked out a series of landmarks along my chosen route.
Just before I slid the compass back into the case, however, I paused. Something in my heart moved me to flip it over. I don’t know what it was. I still can’t explain the feeling, except that I knew with astonishing conviction that there was a message there. It practically called out to me.
So you’ll always find your way home. Love Carla
Yes, I thought with a buoyancy that caught me off guard and sent a flock of butterflies fluttering into my belly.
Yes . This compass will guide me home.
I will make it.
Sliding the precious instrument back into the case, I began to walk south.
o0o
Two days later, I found myself standing on a barren, windswept coastline somewhere on the edge of the North Atlantic. Below me lay a choppy gray sea dotted with slabs of broken ice slowly floating by. It was a haunting landscape of snow-covered granite and sandstone, and the fierce wind nearly knocked me over as I stared hopelessly out at an ocean that seemed to go on forever.
Where in the world was I?
Could this be the Strait of Belle Isle, between Labrador and Newfoundland? Or was this the eastern tip of the Great Northern Peninsula? Or somewhere else?
Perhaps, if I followed this coastline, I might eventually reach a fishing village.
The possibility of that filled me with a sense of purpose and direction. It was a concrete, achievable goal, and I was pleased to have one, for I believed in my heart that I was not yet done with this life. There was still something more for me. Something important.
Though I couldn’t yet define it, I could feel it, and whatever it was, I needed to get home to it.
Carefully, I leaned out over the edge of the cliff to see what lay below. A narrow rocky beach was home to a few pudgy walruses, sunning themselves on flat, wet slabs of rock.
Maybe I could gather some seaweed, I thought, which would provide me with vitamins and minerals for my journey. The way down didn’t look too arduous, for further along the ridge there was a gentle, rocky slope that led to the beach.
I sat down for a moment to rest, turned by back to the biting wind, drank some water, then stood up again and headed down.
Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, of course, but I wish now that I had remained on the top of the cliff.
o0o
A short while later, I was crouching over a shallow pool of crystal-clear seawater in between the rocks, gathering kelp, when all the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I don’t know what alerted me to the danger. Maybe it was something primeval inside me.
Instinct told me to remain still and listen. I heard the gentle lapping of the waves against the rocks. A seagull called out to me from high in the sky. Then I heard a terrible squeal farther down the beach where the walruses were lounging about, and I knew there was trouble.
Swiveling on one knee, I turned to see a polar bear—he must have been at least seven feet long, close to a thousand pounds—attempt to tackle an equally large walrus that was shuffling in a panic toward the water’s edge.
Unable to sink his jaws into the thick blubber, the bear backed off and paced impatiently along the shoreline, searching for a smaller, more realistic meal.
More than a little aware that I was a smaller, more realistic meal, I slowly crawled away from the water’s edge so as not to attract the bear’s attention, picked up my backpack, and hurried in the opposite direction.
As soon as I was a safe distance away, I turned to see the bear dragging a smaller walrus, most certainly dead by now, out of the water and up the beach to feast on.
Overtaken by fear and panic, I began to run. I knew that I was heading in the wrong direction, toward the north, but I’d sort that out later. All that mattered, in those blinding seconds of self-preservation, was escaping the gruesome and bloody
Just before I slid the compass back into the case, however, I paused. Something in my heart moved me to flip it over. I don’t know what it was. I still can’t explain the feeling, except that I knew with astonishing conviction that there was a message there. It practically called out to me.
So you’ll always find your way home. Love Carla
Yes, I thought with a buoyancy that caught me off guard and sent a flock of butterflies fluttering into my belly.
Yes . This compass will guide me home.
I will make it.
Sliding the precious instrument back into the case, I began to walk south.
o0o
Two days later, I found myself standing on a barren, windswept coastline somewhere on the edge of the North Atlantic. Below me lay a choppy gray sea dotted with slabs of broken ice slowly floating by. It was a haunting landscape of snow-covered granite and sandstone, and the fierce wind nearly knocked me over as I stared hopelessly out at an ocean that seemed to go on forever.
Where in the world was I?
Could this be the Strait of Belle Isle, between Labrador and Newfoundland? Or was this the eastern tip of the Great Northern Peninsula? Or somewhere else?
Perhaps, if I followed this coastline, I might eventually reach a fishing village.
The possibility of that filled me with a sense of purpose and direction. It was a concrete, achievable goal, and I was pleased to have one, for I believed in my heart that I was not yet done with this life. There was still something more for me. Something important.
Though I couldn’t yet define it, I could feel it, and whatever it was, I needed to get home to it.
Carefully, I leaned out over the edge of the cliff to see what lay below. A narrow rocky beach was home to a few pudgy walruses, sunning themselves on flat, wet slabs of rock.
Maybe I could gather some seaweed, I thought, which would provide me with vitamins and minerals for my journey. The way down didn’t look too arduous, for further along the ridge there was a gentle, rocky slope that led to the beach.
I sat down for a moment to rest, turned by back to the biting wind, drank some water, then stood up again and headed down.
Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, of course, but I wish now that I had remained on the top of the cliff.
o0o
A short while later, I was crouching over a shallow pool of crystal-clear seawater in between the rocks, gathering kelp, when all the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I don’t know what alerted me to the danger. Maybe it was something primeval inside me.
Instinct told me to remain still and listen. I heard the gentle lapping of the waves against the rocks. A seagull called out to me from high in the sky. Then I heard a terrible squeal farther down the beach where the walruses were lounging about, and I knew there was trouble.
Swiveling on one knee, I turned to see a polar bear—he must have been at least seven feet long, close to a thousand pounds—attempt to tackle an equally large walrus that was shuffling in a panic toward the water’s edge.
Unable to sink his jaws into the thick blubber, the bear backed off and paced impatiently along the shoreline, searching for a smaller, more realistic meal.
More than a little aware that I was a smaller, more realistic meal, I slowly crawled away from the water’s edge so as not to attract the bear’s attention, picked up my backpack, and hurried in the opposite direction.
As soon as I was a safe distance away, I turned to see the bear dragging a smaller walrus, most certainly dead by now, out of the water and up the beach to feast on.
Overtaken by fear and panic, I began to run. I knew that I was heading in the wrong direction, toward the north, but I’d sort that out later. All that mattered, in those blinding seconds of self-preservation, was escaping the gruesome and bloody
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