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Sunday, June 29, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
A Taste of Neighbors, vol. I by Tracy Krauss
NEIGHBORS – A Series
by Tracy Krauss
Forward
I love people watching. Airports,
waiting rooms, shopping malls –these are ripe fields for the student of human
nature. It was during one of these ‘research’ sessions that I started a list of
possible characters that might make an appearance in one of my novels. As I
began to flesh some of these people out, it dawned on me that I had an entire
community. What if they lived in the same neighbourhood, or even an apartment
building, where they could interact? I soon realized that several characters
had their own unique story to tell, perhaps not long enough for a full-length
novel, but perfect for a series.
Thus NEIGHBORS took shape. I hope you enjoy
meeting this varied, sometimes quirky, cast. Welcome to the neighborhood.
NEIGHBORS - Volume 1 - New in the
Neighborhood
Lester Tibbett has to leave his farm in
Southern Alberta for the big city. It means starting over in an unfamiliar
environment - a heavy burden for the guardian of a teenage sister full of
angst. The apartment complex to which they relocate is a far cry from their
spacious farmhouse and offers little anonymity for a man used to doing things
his own way. During the process, he pushes his own loneliness aside in favor of
looking after his sister. As Lester struggles to find a church that will meet
both their spiritual needs, he quickly learns that neighbors come in many
forms, some of them quite meddlesome. Still, he is happy to accept help from an
overtly friendly neighbor named Jed who also happens to work for the same
construction company. The two soon become friends, despite Jed’s habit of trying
to set Lester up with every available single female, and end up frequenting a
local pub where Lester is surprised to discover an ‘old school’ mechanical bull
just waiting to be ridden. The former rodeo cowboy in him rises up, but not
before he meets a mysterious woman who is out of his reach.
NEIGHBORS – Volume 2 – Stuck In the
Neighborhood
NEIGHBORS – Volume 3 – Sneaking Around the
Neighborhood
NEIGHBORS – Volume 4 – Working the
Neighborhood
NEIGHBORS – Volume 5 – Back In the
Neighborhood
And
more to come!
About the Author:
Tracy Krauss is a multi-published author,
playwright, artist and teacher, with several best selling and award winning
novels to her credit. Originally from a small prairie town, Tracy received her
Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Saskatchewan with majors in Art, and
minors in History and English. Apart from her many creative pursuits, she
directs an amateur theater group and leads worship at her local church. She and
her husband, an ordained minister, have lived in many remote and unique places
in Canada's north, and currently live in northern British Columbia. For more
visit her website: http://tracykrauss.com
Links:
Thursday, June 26, 2014
FREE EBOOK - Taste and See, Volume 2, In Kindle, Nook, and PDF
#FREE Taste and See Vol 2 #Kindlebooks best of 2013. #Nook First chapters of 27 books. http://t.co/URnNesMaHg pic.twitter.com/caYjqYMTeE
— Lorilyn Roberts (@LorilynRoberts) June 27, 2014
GET A FREE EBOOK CLICK HERE- AVAILABLE IN NOOK, KINDLE AND PDF.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Christian Fantasy Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Christian Author Lorilyn Roberts
Christian Fantasy Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Christian Author Lorilyn Roberts: Testimony of Lorilyn Roberts http://t.co/WnsOKRaKgC — Lorilyn Roberts (@LorilynRoberts) June 24, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
A Taste of Vanished by Barbara Derksen
Vanished, Barbara Ann Derksen, Createspace, May 2009
Prologue
The intruder shoved her up the
stairs. Diane Michner stumbled. She grabbed the stair treads for support. Tears
of fright blurred her vision.
“Hurry or I hurt the kid.” His
rumbling threat released hot breath across her neck. She scurried faster. An
arm, covered in monstrous tattoos that bulged beneath the sleeve of his dirty
t-shirt, circled the tiny wiggling torso of her three year old son. Jeffrey
whimpered. The thug pushed her again.
“Mommy!” Jeffrey screamed, large
droplets of tears coursing down his pudgy cheeks.
“Quiet.” The man gripped the boy’s
arm and squeezed. He shot a glance at the woman. She bowed her head in
submission and headed toward her little boy’s bedroom.
“H-h-how long will we be g-gone?” Her
eyes traveled over the little blue train stenciled on three walls of her son’s
dream room.
“Never mind. Get the clothes.” He
motioned with the boy’s body, whipping him toward the folded doors of the
closet. Jeffrey whimpered.
She yanked the door open and snatched
a large suitcase from the top shelf. Her tears dampened pieces of clothing from
her son’s chest of drawers as she threw them into the case. With downcast eyes,
Diane glanced toward her son and then back to the task at hand. In a haphazard
fashion, she added some of the outfits hanging inside the closet door and
seized his fluffy brown teddy bear from the bed. Jeffrey whimpered again.
Obediently she turned toward the
doorway where the intruder fought to retain hold of her struggling child.
“P-please. Don’t hold him so tight,”
she pleaded. “You’ll hurt him.” Her arms ached to hold her frightened son, to
protect him from this man who didn’t care if he injured a small child. “It’s
okay, Jeffrey. Please don’t cry.”
The man used his elbow to point her
toward the next room. “Get a move on.” His grip on the child’s body enticed her
to hurry.
The trio moved quickly down the hall
towards the bedroom she shared with her husband of five years. She sucked in an
anguished breath as she stumbled against the doorframe of the closet. She
seized another suitcase and shoved in pants, shirts, and undergarments for both
of them, then closed that case and looked at the man. Her eyes begged as her
arms reached to hold the tiny boy.
The man thrust Jeffrey at her and
grabbed the suitcase, as she wrapped grateful arms around her son’s trembling
body. She could feel his terror. The thug pushed Diane toward the hallway. She
shifted the boy’s weight to one arm but stumbled, almost losing her footing. She
reached out with her free hand to steady herself against the wall.
Moving toward the staircase, the
villain picked up the other suitcase standing just inside the boy’s bedroom.
“Get going.” He motioned for her to descend the staircase toward the living room.
When she reached the first floor,
Diane gasped. Two large men twisted a rope looped tightly around her husband’s
neck. Another coarse length of rope tied Trent’s hands and wrists together,
behind his back. The muscles of his upper arms stretched painfully beneath the
sleeve of his cotton shirt. He grimaced, pain written on his face. Bright red
oozed from a cut above his eye, the evidence of a battle lost. Blood congealed
in his eyebrow and then trickled down his face to drip onto his collarbone. A
jagged piece of cartilage stuck out from the bridge of his nose, blood
coagulating near his upper lip.
A tormented groan escaped Diane’s
lips, as if from the depths of her heart. She shuddered and cuddled Jeffrey,
trying to shield him from the sight of his father. Her body churned with
unfamiliar hatred as she looked on the three men who had invaded their peaceful
home. She watched as they laughed. The one nearest caressed her cheek. Her skin
crawled in revulsion. She yanked her face out of reach. The intruders laughed
harder.
****
Trent struggled toward his wife. He
watched anguish seep from her eyes, a torment that matched his own. Had he
brought this to their home? What did they want? The thugs yanked him back as
viciously as they would a dog on a leash. He twisted, desperate to reach her
side. Jeffrey’s eyes seemed so large that Trent could almost feel his fright
from across the room. His own eyes cautioned his wife not to arouse their
anger. By the look on Diane’s face, he knew she wanted to scratch their eyes
out, to inflict as much damage on them as they had on her family. He watched
tears fall unchecked as Diane turned accusing eyes on him and then turn her
head towards their son.
****
Diane glanced up again at her husband
and saw a tear slide past the corner of one eye. His helplessness was evident
in the slump of his shoulders. The men were too strong. “Diane...” His voice
croaked. The rope strangling him ended further communication. He saw the slight
nod of her head. She offered him understanding. He had tried to protect his
family but failed.
Diane glanced around at the
destruction of her tidy home, a sanctuary they had built together. Two plants
dripped black dirt onto the carpet, evidence of her husband’s struggle. The
coffee table lay at an awkward angle in splinters, and two sofa cushions
exploded with feathers everywhere. She ached to have control over her life
again as evening shadows crept from the corners of the room and the smell of
overcooked food lingered in the air.
“Did anyone think to turn off the
stove?” She made a move toward the kitchen but a large beefy hand stopped her.
Her subjugator grunted beside her.
His nod told one of the others to check it out.
Diane’s focus switched. She watched
the thug drop the bulky suitcases and then flex his muscles. His grin, when he
caught her watching, caused her stomach juices to curdle.
“Now, we go outside to your car. I
will hurt you and your son if you make a fuss or attract any attention.
Understand?”
Diane nodded once. “Why are you doing
this?”
“Not your business.” He pushed.
“Not my…” She stopped in her tracks
but her captor raised his arm as if to strike her. Diane used her free arm to
swipe at tears betraying her fright. Her eyes traveled down the sidewalk toward
the SUV. Her husband groaned, loud enough for the neighbors to hear if they’d
been home, as the butt of a gun connected with his right shoulder. She saw his
knees buckle. They were defenseless against these men. Her husband stumbled
against the side of the van but no longer labored to free himself.
Diane cried in anguish, not caring
this time who heard. She stared as they grabbed her husband’s shoulder and
squeezed. They lifted him bodily into the backseat.
“We take your car.” Diane jumped. Her
escort’s hot breath drifted across her neck as he thrust her through the door.
The thug let the front door slam behind them. He threw the suitcases into the
backseat of the station wagon parked near the front entry of the house. He
motioned for her to secure the little boy into his car seat.
“You drive. Follow them, and nothing
will happen to you or your man. Make a wrong turn, and you won’t live to see
him shot.” The brute spoke the last word as if a gunshot erupted from his mouth
and then he sneered. He plunked himself in the passenger seat.
Diane’s eyes looked, maybe for the
last time, towards the home she had come to love. She searched for any means of
escape and then slumped in the driver’s seat. Her instincts told her they would
carry out their threats. Her hands trembled as she inserted the key into the
ignition. The motor roared.
She placed the car in reverse and
swiveled her head to linger on the tear-stained face of her little boy. Her
heart felt as if someone had punched a hole in it and all the blood drained
away. Her mind filled with black hatred, hatred so strong that she knew if
she’d had a gun in her hand, she’d use it. Instead, she backed out of the
driveway and followed the SUV containing her husband. She made a quick study of
the home her family had occupied for the last five years, longing to wake from
her nightmare. Will we ever come home again?
About the author: Canadian
born, and with 19 books to her credit, Barbara Ann Derksen works hard to give
her readers the ride of their life when they pick up one of her books. Her favorite genre is murder
mystery, but each book brings forth characters who rely on God as they solve
the puzzle in their life. She also writes devotionals and children’s stories.
Friday, June 13, 2014
A Taste of Where Fitness Meets Faith by Kimberley Payne
WHERE
FITNESS MEETS FAITH
KIMBERLEY PAYNE
Resolutions
I did it all wrong. During the Christmas season, I
stopped doing the things that I needed to do in order to be right with me, and
to be right with the world, but most importantly to be right with God.
My first error was in going to bed much later than
normal. Over the Christmas holidays, I would allow the children to stay up
later than their regular bedtime, and then found myself eventually going to bed
a few hours later. My body clock was thrown off.
My second mistake was letting my body dictate when I
felt like getting up. I know from years of experience that the process of
waking up – no matter what time it is – is slow and painful for me. I will feel
just as groggy and resentful about being yanked from my warm, cozy bed after a
six-hour sleep as I would after a twelve-hour slumber. So, when I relied on my
body to signal me to wake I would actually stay in bed extra hours then feel
guilty for sleeping in. These two mistakes threw my physical and emotional
state into alarm by changing my routine.
Then to further upset my system, I stopped taking my
morning walk. Usually after bringing the children to the bus stop, I would
continue on for a forty-five minute walk. It was a good time to get my body
moving, my blood flowing and my mind thinking. Without this walk, I didn’t get
my usual energy surge needed for the day. Without this morning boost, I felt
like I was dragging myself, and so I also did not have the enthusiasm or desire
to do my other exercise – strength training. I was on a downward spiral.
Physically and emotionally, I was out of sorts. Add to
this the new chores and unique assignments of the holiday season. I was
shopping when I normally would be reading. I was wrapping when I normally would
be writing. In addition to this, I was cooking, cleaning and preparing for
festivities.
As if that was not enough, I had two children home from
school for two weeks. I love my children – let’s get that straight from the
start – but they are kids. They bicker and argue and they complain and fight.
And they love me. They want to spend time with mom. They want to help mom shop,
wrap and cook (they never want to clean though). They want mom to play with
them, to read to them, to be with them.
Too much sleep, no exercise and children all day --
they were the ingredients for a stressful holiday season.
However, there was one other thing that I had neglected
that could have truly helped me. I did not spend time with God. Oh, I continued
to pray at meals and bedtime, however, I did not spend quality, one-on-one,
reflective time with Him.
On my morning walks, I do more than just look at the
passing homes. I practice my walking meditation. It is a time when I connect
with God and talk to Him through my thoughts and prayers. It is a mindful and
special time between us that I have come to cherish. On my walks, I explore my
life and give praise and thanksgiving for what He has given me. I open my heart
and pour out my troubles. I give thought to others and pray for the needs of my
family, friends and community. Without my morning walk, I not only missed out
on the healthy physical benefits, but more importantly, I denied the spiritual
healing it had provided.
Generally after my morning walk, I return home to hot
coffee and my pen and paper. I spend one hour writing. I record any
enlightenment God has shown me and I reflect on the prayers I had offered up.
It’s a time for me to not only talk with God, but to listen for a response. For
the entire Christmas season, I had not done this.
Lastly, I did not spend time in His Word. My usual
routine affords me time each day to spend reading and studying the Bible. But
because the time set aside was not given its usual priority, it was lost.
I enjoyed my holidays. No one was sick this year and we
were able to visit many relatives. However, each day took a little bit more out
of me and by the end of the month, I felt very drained.
God is the only thing that really rejuvenates me. He
feeds me each day. He gives me the energy and enthusiasm needed to get through
the day.
I will take this past Christmas season as a lesson for
my life. My resolution is to pledge my life anew to Jesus. Although routines
change, and life can throw me curves, I resolve to spend quality time with God first
and foremost every single day in order to be right with me, to be right with
the world, and most importantly to be right with God.
Therefore, if
anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
(2 Corinthians 5:17 NIV)
Monday, June 9, 2014
John 3:16 Readers' Picks - Ten Favorite Books for June 2014
As Part of the May 2014 John 3:16 Marketing Network Book Launch, ten readers won books. These are the books chosen by the winners as books they wanted to read.
Leave a comment on this post and for every ten comments, a winner will be chosen to receive a free book from our John 3:16 Pinterest Page.
Click on the book links below to order a Kindle copy from Amazon!
The Fisherman's Wife (Women of the Bible Book 2) by Dianne G. Sagan
Angels of Humility by Jackie Macgirvin
Psalm 23 Help for Lost Lambs by Bob Saffrin
21 Prayers of Faith by Shelley Hitz
A Life of Faith by Shelley Hitz
How to Launch a Best-Selling Christian Book by Lorilyn Roberts
A Thief in the House: A Stella Madison Caper by Lilly Maytree
The Victor by Marlayne Giron
When Will My Life Not Suck by Ramon Presson
Fields of the Fatherless: A Revolutionary War Novel by Elaine Marie Cooper
Friday, June 6, 2014
A Taste of The Saxon Boy, a children's book by Lisa Lickel
First Children of Farmington: John Klessig, The Saxon Boy
Lisa Lickel, Brenda Hendricks
How can John
learn to love a new stepfather?
When John
Klessig’s father dies suddenly, Mama marries Mr. Ernst, who is very different
from Papa. His beard and his boots are big, and he doesn’t want to help new
families the same way Papa did with the inn. Without warning, fire threatens
the village. John and all the neighbors, including the Indians, help each other
as friends. But where is Mr. Ernst? How can John and his new stepfather learn
to love and respect each other?
John Klessig,
The Saxon Boy, has earned the respect of the Wisconsin Writer’s Association as
the 2013 Jade Ring Stories for Young People winner.
Introduction
John
Klessig was eight years old when his father died and his mother remarried. He
was a first generation American, born of immigrant parents who were innkeepers
and farmers. He grew up with four sisters, and a stepsister and stepbrother in
a large house in Fillmore, Wisconsin, which also had guestrooms, a tavern, a
store and lots of activity.
The
Klessigs and Jaehnigs lived in Fillmore in Washington County , Wisconsin
and were real persons. We do not know a lot about John’s stepfather, Ernst
Jaehnig. He went to California in 1852 to find gold and returned to marry the
Widow Klessig. This is a story about what might have happened when John first
met his stepfather.
After his
stepfather passed away in 1879, John ran the family farm. He named it Spring
Brook Farm and raised cattle and horses. The Farmington brewery was in
operation until 1881.
John
later took care of his mother when they moved from Fillmore to Kewaskum in
1910. He was active in local and county government. Liberta Klessig Jaehnig
lived to be eighty-nine years old. John, in his old age, went to stay with his
daughter in Milwaukee, and he lived to be eighty-three years old.
In
September, 2013, the Wisconsin Writers Association was pleased to award The Saxon Boy with a Jade Ring for best
Fiction for Young Adults in the annual fall competition.
Chapter One
In the
dark parlor of their house, John Klessig sat on the dark green sofa and rubbed
his back against its scratchy upholstery. His oldest sister, Mary, shifted
Emma, one of their younger sisters, on her lap and squeezed his hand very hard.
John sat up straight and then wiggled just a little more, bumping into Johanna.
“Eight-year-old
boys should sit still,” Mary whispered.
Boys his age shouldn’t have to sit still on a
sunny spring Friday when there’s no school, John thought.
Baby Ida
waved her little arms as she lay in the basket nearby. John nudged it with his
foot to make her rock.
Mary
pinched his arm. John sighed and prepared to pinch her back when he spied his
mother scowling at them.
John squirmed
away from his bossy sister and stared out of the window. Little new leaves were
just starting to sprout from the oak tree on this sunny day.
John
stared at Mr. Jaehnig perched on Mama’s best guest chair. He had so much beard
that it covered his whole stomach. Mama could scrub the pots with such a huge
scratchy-looking thing.
“Most of
our guests left the inn last summer after my husband died,” Mama said to Mr.
Jaehnig. “The family staying here now is the Youngbauers. Mr. Youngbauer is
building their new cabin.”
Mrs.
Youngbauer did not smile very much and had a strange way of saying her words.
John
liked to practice speaking German with the guests, for he’d been born here in
America and spoke English at home. Fillmore had English school in the winter
and German school in the summer when they could find a teacher. His friend
Gottfried Goldammer spoke both English and German and sometimes teased John
when he didn’t know a German word.
John
slumped his shoulders again. The shiny buttons of his jacket jingled when they
clanked together. This time Mary did not pinch him. She yawned. Emma sat still
as a mouse on her lap. Johanna sat next to them, her dark blue eyes huge and
round in her scared-looking face.
Mr.
Jaehnig just sat there, silent. Wouldn’t he say anything? Papa would never have
been so quiet. Even Mama had nothing to say. When the clock chimed three times
Mr. Jaehnig put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “I take my leave
now, Frau Klessig.”
At last!
Now John could go outside and play. Mama got up, but turned around quickly with
her finger out at John to tell him to stay put. She accompanied Mr. Jaehnig.
Mary and
John tiptoed toward the door to listen.
“So, it
is agreed, then, Frau Klessig?” Mr. Jaehnig said, his deep voice booming in the
entry room with the chandelier and the staircase.
John
peeked around the doorway. Mr. Jaehnig held his felt cap in his hands and
turned the brim.
“Yes, Herr Jaehnig. It is
agreed,” Mama answered. And she closed the door behind him.
Mary
pulled John’s sleeve and he followed her quickly back to the sofa where she
tucked Emma back onto her lap. He dove in place next to Johanna.
Author
bio: Lisa Lickel is a Wisconsin writer and historian who lives with her
husband in a hundred and sixty-year-old house built by a Great Lakes ship
captain. A complete list of her novels: mysteries, award-winning romance and
children’s books, and contemporary fiction can be found on her website. She
writes newspaper features, short stories, magazine articles and radio theater,
and is the executive editor of Creative
Wisconsin magazine. An avid book reviewer and blogger, freelance editor,
and writing mentor, she loves to encourage new authors. Married to a high
school biology teacher, she has two grown and married sons. Find more at
LisaLickel.com.
Monday, June 2, 2014
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
Wonderful piece on friendship by Carole Brown.
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
~ Michelle Dennis Evans ~ author : He Who Has a Friend with Carole Brown
Friday, May 30, 2014
A Taste of Tooth For Tooth by Kimberley Payne
TOOTH FOR TOOTH – A NOVELLA
KIMBERLEY PAYNE
Chapter 1
My daycare provider’s
apartment always smelled like a combination of applesauce and baby powder, and
my daycare provider, Donna, smelled the same. She had hair highlighted red and
a goldfish face with eyes set wide. When I knocked on her door, she shouted her
familiar, “Come in. It’s not locked.”
I let go of Caitlin’s hand
and gave her a tight hug before releasing her to join the other kids at the toy
chest. Donna sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, feeding a toddler some banana
goop out of a jar. Two boys played with dinky cars on the pale taupe
carpet.
I reminded Donna, “I’m working till four again
today, so I should be back to pick Caitlin up around 4:30.”
Donna looked up and smiled,
revealing small white kernels of teeth. “We’ll be here.”
“Bye, Caity-Cat. Have a good
day,” I called to Caitlin.
Caitlin looked up from her
puzzle. “Bye, Mommy.”
I blew her a kiss and then
signalled for her to take her thumb out of her mouth. Although she never did it
as a baby, she’d recently started sucking her thumb.
Once outside our apartment
complex, I zipped up my coat to protect myself from the biting wind. Usually, I
didn’t mind the walk to work but days like this reminded me that winter was on
its way. Twenty minutes later, I was glad to step into the warmth of the dental
clinic.
From the cloakroom, I called
to my co-worker, Connie, “There sure is a nip in the air.”
Connie’s brow wrinkled.
“Yeah, it’s a change from last week. That’s what I hate about September. The
weather changes from one day to the next. By the way, your mom says hello.”
I smiled and nodded. Mom and
Connie talked on the phone almost daily since I started at the clinic. I think
Mom must feel more in tune with my life when she can talk about me with Connie.
Today, Connie had pulled her
unruly brown hair into a braid. She wore a tight jean dress with one gold
bangle wrapped around her left bicep.
I took off my jacket and
walked through the waiting room. That’s when I saw the petite, blonde woman
sitting with her back straight, and both hands in her lap, twisting the handle
of her purse.
She looked up and smiled.
“Hi. I’m a little early.”
I continued past her and sat
at my reception desk. I looked to the appointment book to see her name was
Sarah Dowe and she was indeed twenty minutes early.
“Can I get you a cup of
coffee while you wait?” I said and handed her a clipboard with the standard
dental forms to fill out.
Taking the paperwork she
answered, “No, thank you. I just brushed my teeth.” She smiled brilliantly.
“I’m a little nervous. No offence to Doctor Mott, but I don’t like dentists.”
As if on cue, Dr. William
Mott entered the room. His tall frame filled the doorway. He had full lips,
high cheekbones and slightly sunken sea-gray eyes. Carrying a motorbike helmet
and leather jacket, he wouldn’t be mistaken for a dentist.
“Bill, your ears must be
burning,” Connie said.
Bill’s face creased in a
smile. “Hmm. Three women talking about me? Please don’t stop.”
I could feel the heat rising
up my neck.
Connie wagged her finger at
Sarah and me. “These two were saying how they don’t like dentists.”
Bill’s smile faded, “Oh.”
His eyes found mine. He looked like a pierced puppy. Sarah sat up straighter.
“Oh my, no. I like dentists. You come highly recommended. It’s just that I
don’t like dentist appointments. I mean, I don’t like dental work.”
She seemed flustered so I
tried to rescue her. “Dr. Mott, Sarah is a new patient and will need a
preliminary exam.”
His smile returned so that
both dimples showed. “Well then, let’s get her set up with some x-rays.”
The hygienist, Gail, walked with purpose down
the hall. In her late fifties, she wore her slate-gray hair in a tight bun. I
turned to Sarah and said, “Gail will take you to the room.”
“Thanks.” Sarah stood,
handed me her paperwork, and followed Gail down the hall.
Bill winked as he passed my
desk and again I felt my face flood with color.
I was relieved to have a solidly booked afternoon to keep me busy and
focussed on work. I picked up the receiver and dialled.
“Hello, it’s Heather Williams from Lakeside
Dental Clinic. I’m just calling to get some insurance information for one of
our patients. Paula Wagner.” I waited for their response. “Yes, she did give me
some primary insurance numbers.” I read the numbers to the woman on the other
end of the phone. “But you’re not showing anything? Okay. This must be really
new. I’ll have to call her to get the right information. Thank you.” The
numbers are probably from her dog license. I smiled.
I continued with my work but
my thoughts returned to Bill and my regular daydream. I imagine us walking
barefoot along the beach, with the sun streaking the sky brilliant blues,
oranges and pinks. He’s wearing a white shirt that flutters in the warm wind. A
lone seagull calls in the distance. The waves crash onto the beach erasing our
footprints as we walk. He takes my hand and turns me to face him…
“Hi again,” Sarah said, her
words jolting me from my thoughts.
“How’d it go?” I turned my
chair to face her.
“No cavities. I need to book
another appointment for a proper cleaning though.”
Looking up at Sarah,
something about her smile twigged my memory. “Did you used to go to St. Anne’s
High School?”
Sarah leaned over the
counter. “Yeah I did.”
“Was your last name Kinsey?”
She raised an eyebrow in
amusement. “Yes! Dowe is my married name.”
“I’m Heather. Heather
Williams.”
“Oh, my goodness! Heather! I
didn’t recognize you with the dark hair. You used to have blonde hair and
braces. How are you?”
“Good, good. I’m working
here now.” I smiled sheepishly. “Well, obviously.”
I’d known Sarah since we
were “minor niners” in high school together. On the first day, she told me that
although her teeth were perfectly straight, she wished she had braces like me.
I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to have to wear the ugly metal contraptions
and immediately felt a warm bond with this new friend. She was shorter than me,
with bright blue eyes and fair skin. Pretty and petite while I was athletic and
tanned we looked like an experimentation in opposites. Later that same year, I
dyed my hair blonde to look more like her.
The phone rang and I excused
myself to answer it. After I hung up the receiver I asked, “Listen, do you have
time to visit for a tea after work? I’ll be off at four and just live a short
walk from here.”
“I’d love to. I have some
errands to run and then I’ll return.”
“See you then.”
With two emergency
appointments, the afternoon passed by quickly. By four o’clock I felt rushed to
get my paperwork done. Sarah returned at ten past four. I held one finger in
the air and called to her, “I’ll only be a few more moments.”
On our way home the earlier
bright skies had clouded over and the chill was still in the air. I was happy
for a drive in Sarah’s mini-van.
“I’ll have to wear an extra
sweater to work tomorrow,” I said.
“Do you always walk to
work?” Sarah asked as we drove past the commercial area. Next to the garden
store was a patch of field, Bath and Body Works, the Bargain Dollar discount
store, Holland Video, the pizza joint, and the computer store.
“Yeah, that’s why I moved
close to work. You remember I used to be on the running team? I don’t run
anymore, but I do love walking and hiking.”
“There are some lovely
trails around Holland. But I admit I don’t get out as much as I probably
should.” She laughed, a nice lilting sound.
We both giggled as we drove
past the Lighthouse Christian Assembly Church outdoor billboard. It read:
Don’t let worries kill you.
Let the church help.
I asked, “So what have you done since high
school?”
“Oh, I went to Hope College,
got married, had a baby. The usual. You?”
“About the same.” I didn’t
feel like getting into the fact that my marriage ended only last year. We
caught each other up quickly on parents, siblings, and our jobs.
“Here we are.” I pointed to
my apartment. Sarah parked on the street in front.
When I opened the doors to
the building, I was surprised to find Donna waiting in the hallway.
“Heather, we need to talk,”
Donna said.
Her amber eyes, normally
bright and animated, were clouded and wrinkles creased her brow.
What is she, the time
police? I thought as I looked at my watch. “How’s right now?” I offered, a lump
rising in my throat.
“It’s good. I have a
sitter.” She exhaled.
“I should go,” Sarah said,
twisting the ring on her left hand.
“No, please stay.” I grabbed
hold of Sarah’s arm. As we ascended the stairs, Donna’s ominous announcement
made my heart race with a surge of adrenaline. Had Caitlin hit another child?
Kicked that little curly-haired boy? I hoped she hadn’t bitten anyone. But if
it were any of these things, wouldn’t Donna have just told me? Why the secrecy?
I could never have imagined
what Donna would tell me that day. The very thought made me want to retch.
#
Later that night, in my
living room, my mother paced the floor. Her short hair, which looked more salt
than pepper, swayed with her nodding head. “How could this happen?” Tears
streamed down her face.
My father, a heavy-set man
with graying curly hair, sat quietly, arms folded across his chest. Through
clenched teeth he muttered, “If I ever see the man again, I’ll kill him.”
Still in a daze, I reached
for the phone and dialed the number scribbled on the notepaper.
“Children’s Aid Society
answering service,”
a voice on the other end
snapped.
“H…Hello,” I stuttered, my
lips stiff with the strain. “I got this number from a friend. Is this the
correct number for reporting child abuse?” My mother let out a loud moan. I
shot her a look to remind her that Caitlin was sleeping.
“This is the Children’s Aid
Society answering service. Name?”
Did she want my name or my
daughter’s?
“Name?” she repeated, louder
this time.
“Heather Williams.”
My mother leaned over to my
dad and remarked, “At least she kept her own name.”
“Address? Phone number?”
I gave them to her.
“Marital status?”
My voice caught in my
throat. “Um, well, I’m separated.”
As if on the phone with me,
Mom added, “She never should’ve married the man.”
“Married,” the voice on the
phone countered, clicking away at the form.
“No, no. I’m not married.
We’re separated.”
“So you’re divorced, then.”
Her tone was flat, final.
“No.”
“Then you’re married.”
“No, I’m not. I’m separated.
I no longer live with this man. I’m not married,” I said, sharper than
intended.
“You’re either married or
divorced. Which is it?” she retorted.
“Neither!” Who am I dealing
with here? The blood rising to my face thumped in my temples. She has all the
compassion of a boy stabbing a worm with a dull hook. I could see my parents
exchanging looks of confusion.
“Fine. I’ll check off
married. An advocate will call you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone with a
small whoosh of relief and shared with my parents the full conversation.
“This whole thing is such a
nightmare!” my mother cried.
After many tears and hugs,
my parents returned to their own home. Before leaving, they asked permission to
tell my sister, Janice, and although I wanted to tell her myself, I agreed. I
didn’t have the energy to go through it again. I assumed they would tell their
pastor and the prayer people at their church, too.
Closing the door behind
them, I sank down to the floor as tears poured down my cheeks. My cat,
Blue-Casey, sensed my distress and hopped into my lap, circling twice before
finding the right spot. I stroked his silver-blue furry back absentmindedly and
began sobbing.
#
I awoke the next morning to the phone ringing.
It took me a moment to realize I had fallen asleep on the living room couch.
Blue-Casey lay curled at my feet.
“Hello?” I answered
hoarsely.
“Is this Heather Williams?”
“Yes,” I admitted in a small
voice.
“My name is Megan Schwartz,
an intake worker from the Children’s Aid Society.”
“Yes.” I sat up, still
groggy.
“Can you please tell me why
you called our service?”
With some measure of reserve
I said, “My daughter. My daughter told the daycare provider that she was touched
in her private parts. She’s been sexually assaulted.”
“Has she been to the
hospital?”
I bit my lip. “No, I only
found out yesterday and was told I had to call you. Do I need to take her to
the hospital?”
“Yes. I can give you the
number of a clinic where your daughter can be seen.”
“Can’t I just use our family
doctor?”
“Yes, fine. I also need to
meet with you. I have an opening on Thursday, September 5 at 9:00.”
“I can be there,” I said.
She hung up. I put my head
between my knees. I felt as if a rush of wind had just burst into my apartment
and taken my breath away. Was I having an out-of-body experience? Or a nervous
breakdown? Everything seemed surreal. How could Rod have done such a thing?
Questions thrashed around in my head like cod caught in a fishing net.
I reached for the phone and
dialed Dr. Carmen’s office. I explained my reason for needing an appointment
and the receptionist booked me for 3:30 the next day.
My bottom lip quivered. Now,
what to do? What day was it anyway? I looked at the clock, then at the
calendar.
I could hear my daughter
stirring in the room down the hall. Tears welled in my eyes. How can I take
care of this precious little girl when I can’t even focus? I went to the
bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
Looking in the mirror, I
didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. I turned away.
“Mommy?” Caitlin called from
her bedroom.
“Yes, Caity-Cat. I’ll be
right there.”
My instincts kicked in and I
moved into autopilot-mother.
Friday, May 23, 2014
A Taste of The Birthing Tree, Book VII by William Burt
THE BIRTHING TREE
BOOK VII in the
“King of the Trees” series
By William D. Burt
©
2010 by William D. Burt. All rights reserved. Cover and text illustrations by
Becky Miller.
Rights
to all illustrations transferred to the author, William D. Burt, from Becky
Miller, by assignment.
WinePress
Publishing (PO Box 428, Enumclaw, WA 98022) functions only as book publisher.
As such, the ultimate design, content, editorial accuracy, and views expressed
or implied in this work are those of the author.
No
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any way by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy,
recording, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the copyright holder,
except as provided by USA copyright law.
Scripture
references marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible, ©
1960, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation. Used
by permission.
ISBN
13: 978-1-60615-043-6
ISBN 10: 1-60615-043-X
Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number: 2010922018
In memory of Gordon Patterson,
husband, father and educator; servant of God, and friend to all. Earth has lost
a worthy soul, and Heaven is the richer.
There
is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves
punishment, and the one who fears
is
not perfected in love.
(I
John 4:18, NASB)
PROLOGUE
N
|
ever
should I have challenged these mountains alone. I have come to loathe the
barren rocks and shrill winds of this place I call, “the Mountains of the
Moon.” Only the moon’s light tempers its rugged desolation.
Ifor’s trail has since grown cold. I fear I shall
never catch him now, for he must have turned aside long before crossing the
plains. He may do us much harm with the book he stole from Winona. My only hope
is to find a way through these mountains to a land where neither sorcerer nor
turncloak can easily reach us. Perhaps then my people can live their lives
without the threat of slavery.
When the moon looms behind these jagged peaks like a
grimacing gork’s face, the cursed yeggoroth come out to hunt. Their horrible
screeches and howls echo madly from cold stone. So far, those bloodthirsty
creatures have not heard or smelled me, but the higher I climb, the more
exposed I am to the sky.
Two nights ago, I was certain the yegs had found my
hiding place beneath an overhanging rock, such was the racket they raised.
Instead, I witnessed a fierce aerial battle between a pack of batwolves and
some winged beasts more wondrous than any animals I have yet encountered in
these unexplored regions.
Silhouetted against the moon’s pocked face, these
creatures of the griffin kind resemble lions with owls’ heads and wings. The
ferocious beasts tore through the yowling yegs as easily as my sword cuts
through the crusted snow that slows my steps.
Foolishly, I left my refuge for a better vantage
point from which to observe the fray. Swooping down, a yeg struck me from
behind, and I hit my head on a stone. When I awoke, I found an invisible,
trebly hooked crook rolled up in my cloak beside me.
The events following my brush with the yeg are so
fantastic I have never related them to another living soul. Perhaps my knock on
the head inspired this tale, which I have written down on strips of papery
birch bark. When I doubt my sanity, I reread those sheets of bark and touch the
three-pronged staff, which led me to a king mightier and nobler than I. As the
sorc Swiftwing instructed me, I am burying this wondrous crook to prevent the
king’s enemies from stealing it. When the time is right, I will unearth the
hooked staff and follow it to the king’s hidden treasure.
In the event, however, that I fall in battle or for
some other reason am unable to restore the king’s prized possession to him, I
charge you who are reading these words to take up the three-pronged crook and
carry on in my place. If you fail, Lucambra may be lost beyond all hope of
recovery. May Gaelathane bless your labors and speed your way to the Mountains
of the Moon.
In the Tree’s service, Elgathel, King of Lucambra.
Chapter
1: The Hallowfast Besieged
C
|
lang!
Clang! Someone was ringing the Hallowfast’s new doorbell! Elwyn son of Rolin
leapt out of bed and threw on his tunic and trousers against the early spring
chill. Grabbing his lightstaff, he rushed out the door and down the winding
staircase, joining several half-dressed Greencloaks.
“Make way for the rest of us, Opio!” shouted Emmer.
The stout Lucambrian obligingly flattened his bulk
against the wall, allowing Elwyn and the other Greencloaks to squeeze by him.
Breathing heavily, Opio followed them to the landing at the bottom of the
stairs. The bell’s jangling grew even louder, as if some mischievous Lucambrian
child were playing a prank.
“Who could be out and about at such an early hour?”
Elwyn wondered aloud as he helped Gemmio unbar the massive door.
As soon as they opened it, a grim-faced Rolin pushed
his way inside, followed by Windsong the griffin. The king’s long green cloak
was smoking, and Windsong’s wing feathers were darkened with soot. A foul,
acrid odor clung to the shivering pair.
Elwyn cautiously poked his head outside. He heard a thump,
as of a heavy object falling to earth. For a second, the grass blades in
front of the door blurred. Then they came back into focus.
Whipping out his lightstaff, Elwyn pointed it at the
patch of grass. Yellow tongues of fire leapt forth to meet the staff’s light-beam.
Even as the flames died, a petrified dragon appeared on the grass. Stinking
smoke still curled from its gray, gaping jaws.
“Will we never be rid of these camouflaged
creatures?” Elwyn muttered as he slammed and barred the door. “I can’t help
wondering how they avoid crashing into one another.” Turning to his father, he
said, “I petrified a cam-draig on the front step.”
“Good! You probably dispatched the same beast that
was chasing Windsong and me,” Rolin remarked. “At this rate, we’ll be buried
under dragon statuary.” Removing his singed cloak, he poked his finger through
a ragged hole in the burnt fabric. “Drat that cam-draig,” he growled. “He
spoiled my best cloak and nearly made breakfast of me and my mount in the
bargain.”
“Why didn’t you use your lightstaff on him?” Elwyn
asked.
“He was a smart one,” the king replied, rolling his
cloak into a bundle. “He flew right above us, so close I could hear him
breathing. If I had petrified him, he would have landed on us.”
“That draig must have been toying with you,” said
Emmer. “If he had been hungry, he would have plucked you right out of the sky.
A pox on that turncloak Larkin for opening Gundul! If it weren’t for him, those
dragons never would have escaped in the first place. Now we can’t even go
outside to fetch water.”
“I, for one, dislike being cooped up inside this
stuffy old tower instead of hunting conies and squirrels,” Windsong said.
“I don’t blame you,” said Opio. “We are all growing
restless. I don’t think I can face another dish of moldy vegetables. If only
that cam-draig hadn’t spoiled the queen’s birthday banquet!”
“It’s a blessing nobody was inside the dining hall
when the dragon stuck his snout through the window,” Gemmio said.
“Yes, but think of all the food he charred with his
hot breath,” said Opio wistfully. “What a waste of good vittles.”
The pesky cam-draigs had held the royal family
hostage in the Hallowfast all winter, and its occupants had “tower fever.” No
one had yet devised a plan for outsmarting the wily dragons. Two weeks earlier,
one of them had attached itself upside down to the Hallowfast’s outer wall with
its head hanging just over the door. The creature’s chameleon-like skin
mimicked the tower’s stonework so perfectly that nobody realized the dragon was
there.
In the end, the cam-draig gave itself away with a
fiery sneeze, and Sigarth handily dispatched it with his lightstaff. Even so,
the petrified beast just missed him as it fell away from the tower.
Other draigs had taken to circling the Hallowfast on
leathery wings, in hopes of nabbing an unwary two-legs hanging laundry out a
window to dry. Marlis had nearly met her end that way.
“What were you two doing outside so early in the
morning?” demanded the queen, who had just clattered down the stairs.
Rolin sighed. “I had hoped to catch the dragons
sleeping. Instead, one nearly caught us unawares. It was all we could do to
escape. We couldn’t get back into the tower through the sorcathel, because more
draigs were guarding it. That left the door. Windsong and I had our hearts set
on some nice, fat trout, too.”
“Bother the trout!” Marlis declared. “I’m just glad
you and Windsong have arrived home safely, thanks be to Gaelathane. It’s a good
thing we installed that alarm bell by the door, too.”
Throwing her arms around her husband, the queen made
a wry face. “Phew!” she said. “You stink of dragon’s breath. Since we are short
on bath water, I’m afraid you’ll have to scrub yourself with some mint leaves.
Now, let’s all go upstairs and enjoy a leisurely breakfast. Our resourceful
cook tells me that he has prepared something extra-specially tasty for us this
morning.”
“More Turnip Surprise,” grumbled Opio. “I can hardly
wait.”
However cleverly Cook prepared them, turnips were
difficult to disguise. Elwyn couldn’t stomach another bite of those mushy,
pasty-white tubers. Aptly named, the lowly roots seemed to “turn up” at every
meal—even in the breakfast porridge.
Since the dining hall still reeked of dragon, the
Lucambrians took their morning meal in a cozy room adjoining the kitchen. After
the banquet disaster, this breakfast nook’s outer window—like all the others in
the Hallowfast—had been walled up with stone and mortar, courtesy of Toefoot
and his friends. Afterwards, the gnomes had gone off to delve tunnels in the
mountains.
Elwyn glumly reflected that he and his family were
leading a gnome’s sunless existence inside their gloomy, torch-lit tower.
Outside, the sun could be shining in a clear sky for all anybody knew. The
prince yearned for just one breath of fresh salt air.
He and his companions entered the room to find
Bembor, Meghan, Mycena, Gwynneth, Timothy, Medwyn and Scanlon already seated at
the table. Hunger had carved hollows in every face, yet the Tree’s light still
shone in the Greencloaks’ eyes.
Elwyn was surprised and pleased to learn the
breakfast menu did not feature turnips in any form—baked, boiled, fried or
stewed. Instead, Cook had sweetened the drab oatmeal mush with the last of the
honey in the musty pantry. There was even a pitcher of thin chestnut “milk” to
pour over the porridge.
Balancing bowls, spoons and saucers in his arms,
Cook flounced into the room. A cheery cherry-clanner, he maintained a reliably
rotund figure, whether he ate turnips or cake. “Has anyone seen the key to the
scullery?” he asked sheepishly as he set the table for thirteen. “I seem to
have misplaced it again.”
No one had seen the key. As if the dragons weren’t
bad enough, small items around the Hallowfast were vanishing with alarming
regularity—especially keys. The king set clever traps to catch the culprits,
but they had outfoxed him at every turn.
“We can’t blame Larkin this time,” Scanlon remarked.
“Despite what he did to us and to Lucambra, may
Gaelathane have mercy on that wretch’s soul,” said Mycena fervently.
“Could the glynnies be at fault?” Timothy suggested.
Gwynneth shook her head. “I have never known them to
steal,” she said. “Besides, they have become our dearest friends.”
After Bembor had asked Gaelathane’s blessing on the
meal, everyone dug into the pot of mush. Elwyn kept a watchful eye on his two
sisters, certain that at least one of them was plotting to launch an oatmeal
war. If so, he wasn’t about to be the first casualty. His mop of red hair made
an easy and tempting target.
When stomachs were pleasantly full, the conversation
turned to the unpleasant topic of dragons. Everybody agreed that lightstaffs
were useless against a foe that could so cunningly blend in with his
surroundings. The draigs were most dangerously invisible on moonless nights,
when their skin turned a coal black.
“They breed faster than we can petrify them,” Emmer
lamented, waving his spoon. “They’re devouring all the game, too.”
“Then why do they kill animals such as squirrels and
leave their carcasses uneaten?” said Elwyn. On one of his rare excursions
outside the tower, he had come across a family of squirrels lying under a fir
tree as if sleeping. However, they were quite dead. Except for a few tiny punctures,
their bodies were unmarred.
“It’s us I’m worried about, not a bunch of
squirrels,” Opio growled. “We’ve nearly run out of water, not to mention
rations. Someone needs to replenish our provisions, and quickly, too.”
“Are you volunteering, Brother?” Gemmio dryly asked
him.
“I would if I could,” said Opio with wounded
indignation. “Unfortunately, I am hobbled with a severely sprained ankle.”
Rolin said, “You saw what happened to Windsong and
me this morning on our fishing trip. We nearly became dragon bait. If we can’t
forage in Lucambra, we should try a different world. So far, I haven’t seen any
cam-draigs in our Thalmos spasels.”
“I’ll go!” Elwyn cried. He jumped at any opportunity
to escape the Hallowfast, even if it meant doing battle with dragons. Besides,
he had personal reasons for wishing to visit Thalmos.
His mother frowned. “I’m not sure it’s such a good
idea to send the heir to Lucambra’s throne into certain peril,” she said.
“If someone doesn’t go soon, we’ll starve,”
Elwyn argued, his face flaming to match his hair. “We can’t send the king,
since he’s needed here. Besides, I’m the swiftest runner in our family.”
“I used to claim that distinction,” said Gwynneth
ruefully.
“Please, Father?” Elwyn pleaded. “At my best speed,
I can reach Broadleaf the Thalmos-torsil in two minutes. I’ll shine my
lightstaff into his branches to petrify any cam-draigs hiding there.” Rather
than flying after their prey, the slothful dragons preferred to perch in a tree
and wait for supper to come to them.
“Very well,” said King Rolin with a sigh. “Perhaps
while you make for Broadleaf, we can arrange a little diversion on the
sorcathel to draw away any dragons lurking around the tower.”
“I suppose that would be a good plan,” Marlis
conceded. “Just don’t dilly-dally, dear boy. And while you’re in Beechtown,
don’t look down your nose at any eligible Lucambrian maidens that may cross
your path. Many of our people have been staying in Thalmos until it’s safe to return
to the Land of Light.”
Elwyn groaned. His mother sounded just like Aunt
Glenna. “What if I decide to marry a Thalmosian girl?” he said archly.
Marlis scooped up a spoonful of oatmeal and
pretended to flip it at him. “You may marry a naiad, for all I care. Just make
sure she loves Gaelathane and doesn’t track water on my floors. As the heir
apparent, you have the responsibility of preserving the royal line. Thus far, I
haven’t seen you taking that obligation very seriously—unless you have been
courting someone behind my back.” Her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
The eyes of everyone at the table fastened on Elwyn.
His face warmed, and he squirmed in his seat. “I’d rather hunt and fish and
pick mushrooms,” he confessed. “Most girls are boring.”
His father firmly reminded him, “Nonetheless, you
still must find a proper wife. You cannot allow the pursuit of personal
pleasures to interfere with your princely duties. Please keep your mother and
me informed of any likely prospects. And don’t forget to ask Gaelathane for His
guidance in this crucial matter.”
“Yes, Father,” Elwyn meekly replied. “I can’t think
of anyone suitable at the moment.” Inside, he was seething. He didn’t want to
marry just any girl who batted her eyelashes at him. The life of a prince, he
reflected, was not all pomp and tournaments.
“What about Kyleah?” Meghan innocently piped up.
Elwyn flinched. How had his sneaky sister known
about the sugarmaster’s daughter? Had Meghan been spying on him?
Bembor winked at him, and Elwyn’s parents exchanged
hopeful glances. “Kyleah?” they chorused. “Do you mean Kyleah of Mapleton,
daughter of Larissa, Queen of all the Wood Folk?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elwyn growled in as deep a
voice as he could muster. He glared at Meghan. “Kyleah must be ten years
younger than I. She’s just a child. Now, please stop playing matchmaker. I can
find a girl my own age without any help.”
“I’d say you already found one,” Gwynneth said.
“Otherwise, why have you been climbing so many Thalmos-torsils?”
Elwyn’s oatmeal spoon clattered into his bowl.
Gwynneth’s guess was perilously close to the mark. Why couldn’t he have been
blessed with like-minded brothers instead of nosy sisters?
“I’ve been hunting sponge mushrooms there,” Elwyn
lamely answered. “Lucambra’s weather has been too dry for mushrooms to grow.
Now stop pestering me with your silly questions!”
In truth, Lucambra had long been withering in the
grip of a severe drought. Even summer thunderstorms were growing rare. When the
sky flashed at night, it meant the cam-draigs were on the prowl, looking for
prey. The dragons were always hungry.
Though he would rather die than admit it, Elwyn had
been secretly keeping an eye on Kyleah. For the past three or four springs,
he was always the first in his family to make passage—to the wooded hills above
Mapleton. He was also the last to leave Thalmos during leaf-fall, at the risk
of stranding himself there. Winter’s bitterest weather could not drive Kyleah
from his mind.
Perched in a maple up the hill from Kyleah’s rebuilt
cottage, Elwyn could watch her comings and goings at leisure. It would never do
for him to drop by her house unannounced without some sort of plausible
excuse—and he couldn’t think of one.
He also took care to return home with mushrooms.
Gwynneth saw right through him. “Sponge mushrooms grow under cottonwoods
along the Foamwater,” she
reminded him. “The velvet-stem mushrooms you’ve been bringing home grow
on maple trees in the Tartellans.” She smiled sweetly in triumph.
Elwyn immediately saw the wisdom in changing the
subject. “It’s a good thing we broke into Larkin’s home-tree last fall,” he
said loudly. “Otherwise, we never would have recovered our stolen lightstaffs
and Winona’s parchments. Have you learned anything new from those parchments,
Great-Grandfather Bembor?”
Bembor chuckled. “Not as yet. Aside from trying out
a few of the queen’s tasty mushroom recipes, I haven’t had time to examine her
jottings further. Besides, these old eyes of mine don’t work so well under
torch light. I need real sunlight to read by.”
“I’m sure the dragons would love to find you reading
by a window,” Medwyn quipped, and everyone laughed. The breakfast party’s mood
sobered as Lucambra’s high chancellor offered a prayer on Elwyn’s behalf for
safe passage to Thalmos and back.
Afterwards, Marlis gave her son several of Gannon’s
empty honey sacks, along with a shopping list and a fistful of gilders. “Now
off you go!” she told him, playfully shoving him out the door. As he turned
back to wish her and the other Lucambrians farewell, a spoonful of oatmeal
caught him full in the face.
“A perfect shot, that was,” crowed Gwynneth,
grinning at him. Then she retreated into the kitchen and slammed the door.
Offering his boyhood friend a helpless shrug,
Timothy said, “Your sister does as she pleases, and it pleases her to plaster
you with mush. I’ll see you to the door and bar it after you. I’d love to come
along, but I’m supposed to help stage the diversion.”
After cleaning the oatmeal off his face, the prince
took Timothy down the stairs to his room in order to retrieve his lightstaff.
Next, they descended the stairway to the landing, where Timothy paused to
remove a slender chain from around his neck.
“I want you to have my griffin-whistle on your
trip,” he told the prince, and he handed Elwyn the silver whistle on its chain.
“Thank you!” said Elwyn, looping it over his neck.
Timothy unbarred the door, and Elwyn cracked it
open. Smelling no sulfurous dragon’s breath, he slipped outside. The door
boomed shut behind him, and its heavy bar thudded home.
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