Sunday, January 26, 2014

"The Calling" is HERE!!!

Well, The Calling has been e-published, but I have not yet been able to preview it on a kindle device, so if you are super eager to buy it right away, please be aware that there may be glitches in the format. I recommend waiting till next Sunday, when it will be available for FREE, or hold on a few weeks till I've been able to make sure it's working right as an e-book. But if you can't wait, just go to Amazon's kindle store and do a search of my full name: Dawnna Jean Pearson. Meanwhile, you can read Chapter One here, or, by clicking on the cover on Amazon, you can actually read the first three chapters :). I have now begun in-depth revisions of Book Two, The Black Isles, and I'll keep you posted on its progress.



 

 
Chapter One: The Family

 

Caen paused and listened. A sweet, ethereal music emanated from the depths of the forest.

The boy smiled. “A wood-fairy, indeed,” he murmured to himself. Such was the rumor.

But he and the trees both knew the singer well.

With a sigh, he followed the sound.

 

* * * * *

 

In a clearing beside the bubbling stream called Merriwater was a twisted tree with a mass of roots forming a nest. There sat the singer. Her name was Ella, and she was a twelve year old girl wearing the plain beige dress of a farmer’s daughter.

She leaned against the mossy trunk and lingered over the last melancholy notes of the ballad of a Rhohinian hero.

As quickly as the dappled sunlight danced across the forest floor, her mood changed, and she began a new song with mischief in her voice. It was a rhyme of her own making:

 

“A jealous little snake

Eyes a king upon a throne,

And forms a wicked plan

To make the kingdom all his own.”

 

“Sneaking, lying, stealing,

He turns the people’s minds,

He kills the king and queen,

And every good man that he finds.

 

Hang their followers!

Burn the books!

Find the rebels,

Search all the nooks!

 

Re-write the songs

That people sing,

So everyone will know

That the snake is king!”

 

She could have gone on much longer—but then she cut off the song with a sharp gasp.

There was now no sound except the chatter of birds and squirrels and the rushing of Merriwater.

She was certain she was no longer alone. She scurried up the ancient tree and perched on a sturdy limb.

There was a heavy rustling in the brush, and she caught sight of a boy walking through the trees. He was older than her and dressed in the same rough cloth of the peasants.

“Ella!” he called out.

There was no response.

“Now Ella, it’s no use; I know you’re here.”

He walked closer to the old tree.

“You may as well come out.”

He stood directly under the branch on which she was crouched.

“Come out at once!”

She gave a wild yell and pounced, knocking him to the ground and landing on top.

“Go sneaking in my woods, will you?” she growled, giving him a shake.

“Elowene!” He flung her away. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether I have a girl or a wildcat for a sister.”

He rose to his feet and brushed a hand through his brown hair, dislodging the twigs and moss that had looked quite at home there.

“Well, I did surprise you that time!” she said.

“Only a little. I was looking for you, and I heard you singing…”

“Singing?” she tapped her chin. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“You must have heard a bird…or perhaps that wood-fairy.”

Her brother gave her a look, his dark eyes growing almost black, making her squirm inside. “Ella, you must be more careful. If anyone ever came near enough to hear the words to some of your songs…well, we would all suffer for it.”

“Oh blast it all! Gothel has all of Rhohin…at least here in the woods he can’t stop me from saying what I like about him!”

“Hush!”

She scowled. “And why were you looking for me?”

Caen sighed in the way only elder siblings can. “Father will return from town in a few hours, and you haven’t even begun your half of the chores!”

Ella flushed crimson. “Oh? And I suppose you’ve already cut kindling, repaired the leak, and what not?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I even milked the cow for you—but only out of pity for the poor creature.”

Ella stuck out her tongue, then smirked. “Hurry—I’ll race you back!”

With that, she ran off into the flickering shadows of the forest.

“The loser has to take a dunking in the pond!” Ella called over her shoulder.

“I’ll agree to those terms!” His thudding feet followed.

The brother and sister raced out of the wood, through a field of waving grass, up a hill, and down into the valley where they lived.

Caen reached the goal—their thatch-roofed cottage—first with little difficulty. Ella complained it was unfair, as he had two years’ advantage and longer legs. He replied that it had been her idea, and she had gotten a head start.

She knew she was beaten, and marched to the pond with what little dignity remained to her. The summer was not yet very warm, and the pond still had a chill at the bottom. Ella lingered on the edge, waiting to see if her brother would have mercy. He only laughed. So, with her face stony, she walked straight in.

Afterwards, in a spirit of goodwill, Caen offered to help with her chores, but she refused. Ella’s pride had been damaged enough already.

As the sun was casting its last light and the first stars were beginning to wink, Ella was still scrubbing pots in the scullery. The clip-clop and rickety-creak of horse and wagon was heard in the yard. Ella tossed her cloth aside and ran out to meet her father, Errel.

He brought his wagon to a stop near the barn and lowered himself from the seat. A smile filled his weathered face as he embraced his daughter with oak-strong arms. Errel laughed as he picked a piece of cabbage from Ella’s blonde hair and brushed a charcoal smudge off her nose.

Caen came out from putting the old horse Clay in his stall, and asked, “What was Market Day like?”

“Very prosperous for us,” his father answered. “I sold or traded nearly all our produce and made good purchases. Here, if you’ll help carry these bundles into the barn, I’ll show you some of my more interesting finds.”

Market Days were always important occasions in the nearby town of Drune. For up to a week at a time the town square would be full of colorful tents and booths belonging to merchants who sold everything from seeds to fine clothes. The atmosphere was festive, as there were always acrobats, minstrels, players, magicians, and a fortuneteller or two who performed in the square.

But Errel rarely allowed Caen and Ella to attend—for reasons he did not make clear.

When sacks of grain, a new plow, and several other items were put away, the little family gathered in the main room of the cottage. The father sat in his customary chair with a lumpy package on his lap, and the two children brought their wooden stools close to him.

He withdrew the largest lump with a wide grin on his face. “Here is something very valuable, and we must be careful with it. Understood, Ella?”

She nodded eagerly. In his hands, Errel held a book. The cover was worn, and the pages wrinkled and stained. She reached out and took it as gently as if it were an infant. The title was engraved in faded gold letters. “‘The Legend of the Kings.’ Oh, Father! How did you…? Oh, my!”

He chuckled. “Well, it cost quite a few silver pieces, but I believe it was well worth it.”

Ella grinned and hugged the book to her chest. Inside was a lengthy history, told in rhyme and prose, which chronicled all the kings of Rhohin from Shawn to Trintan the First—the last to have his story properly recorded. Books were scarce in peasants’ homes (they themselves had only five), but an old chronology, unauthorized by King Gothel, was rarer still. With some hesitation, she handed the treasure to Caen.

He opened the book to its first page and quietly read a few lines of the poem that introduced the history.

 

“Rulers and kingdoms

Do crumble and fall,

Till time has its end,

They shall pass away all.

 

But one Name will stand,

God our Highest King,

An everlasting rule

And Kingdom He does bring.

 

Jesus Truest Prince,

Was in stable born,

So by His great grace,

The least a crown have worn.”

 

“Beautiful!” murmured Ella. “I’ll read it every day!”

The last two lumps proved to be small gifts for the brother and sister. Ella thanked her father, but she could not conceal an envious glance at Caen’s dagger as she fiddled with the latch on her little hinged box.

“You aren’t pleased with it, Ella?” asked Errel.

“Oh no, Father,” she murmured. “It’s very nice. I’ll keep my treasures in it.”

As she spoke, the latch came loose and the lid cracked open. She caught sight of a bundle of cloth inside. From it she raised two pendants of white stone on delicate silver chains.

Her father appeared equally surprised. “I thought it was only an empty box!” He leaned closer to look at the objects.

They were shapeless, but carved with beautiful patterns.

“What’s this writing?” Caen asked, pointing to tiny inscriptions on the stones. “I can’t read it.”

“I can’t see it,” chuckled his father.

“It must be some foreign language,” Caen decided.

“I wonder where they came from?” said Ella, holding the pendants up to the lantern, where the light glowed through them. “How could you miss that they were there, Father?”

“I didn’t look,” he admitted. “The peddler made no mention of them. I wonder if he himself knew?” His brow furrowed. “He surely would have charged a higher price.”

“I can keep them, can’t I?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure, Ella. We wouldn’t want to cheat a poor peddler. I’ll think it over.”

She hurried to prepare a simple vegetable stew for dinner. While they ate, and long after their bowls were scraped clean, Errel told his children stories about Market Day. He described a merchant from Alistria who displayed every variety of bird imaginable, another who sold miniature harps and flutes, the tales of a storyteller who sat beside the great sundial in the square, and much more. It was soon far into the night, and Caen and Ella reluctantly retired.

 

* * * * *

 

Eight-year-old Caen stared at his mother Elowene’s pale face and struggled to keep from crying. It was approaching midnight. The boy had hesitantly asked his father several hours before why he and Ella had not been sent to bed.

“Your mother wants you near,” was the only reply.

They were in his parent’s chamber, lit by a candle, beside the bed where she lay. Caen sat at her right, his father at her left, holding Ella on his lap.

The little girl’s head drooped, and her eyes grew dull with sleep. She was only six, and she did not understand.

But Caen did. He was old enough to know things, and he knew that they were watching their mother on her deathbed.

The wasting disease had begun to affect her long before, making her wearier each year, each month, and then each week, until she was unable to leave her bed. Many cures had been tried, and a few charitable physicians consulted, but none had done any good.

Now the end was near. Neither his mother nor father had told him so, but Caen could sense it.

Elowene sighed and opened her eyes. They were dull and hollow. With her sunken cheeks and thinned hair, she looked like a breathing corpse.

Caen held back a sob.

Her hand found his and held it in a weak grasp. She looked at her husband and daughter.

Ella was asleep, draped over her father’s arm like a rag doll.

“Poor little thing,” murmured Elowene. “Put her to bed…just let us say goodnight.”

Errel gently raised the girl and whispered in her ear. Ella blinked rapidly and yawned. He set her on her feet.

“Goodnight, Mama,” she murmured, stretching to kiss her mother’s cheek and have her own kissed.

“Goodnight, Darling. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mama.” She reached up for her father, asking to be carried out. At the last moment she turned around again. “Oh, Mama, I forgot! I wanted to show you the butterfly I caught today, but it flew away so I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“It was a big butterfly, with yellow stripes. It was pretty.”

“I’m sure it was, and you know? I’m glad it flew away.”

Ella yawned again. “Why?”

“Because God made butterflies to be free and happy, and we can best enjoy them when they are. But I’m so happy you thought of me.”

The little girl nodded wearily, and swayed. Her father reached out to steady her.

“I’ll pick you some flowers tomorrow, Mama,” she whispered as he carried her to her own room.

When his father and Ella were gone, Caen lowered his head onto his mother’s pillow and finally began to weep, quietly at first, then with wrenching sobs.

Errel silently returned and took his place by his wife’s side.

Caen grew quiet, and then his mother spoke.

“Oh, Caen…my dear, dear boy.”

He sat up and looked at her.

Her eyes were pooling with tears. She turned her head toward her husband, a desperate look stretching her already tight skin more taut. “Please, Errel,” she whispered. “Please.”

“No!” he said in a sudden, harsh tone. Then tears poured down his face, and he leaned close to kiss her forehead. “You know we can’t.”

They shared a long, painful look, an understanding that seemed very hard for both of them.

Elowene sighed heavily and slowly turned back to Caen.

He grasped her hand desperately, as if that would prevent the terrible parting.

“These are the things I want you to do,” she said, looking into his eyes. “First, remember that God will never leave you alone. Second, always be kind to people who are poor and sick. And third…take care of Ella.”

She glanced at her husband. “I fear she’ll be a handful, even for the two of you.”

A sob burst from Caen. “Mama! Can’t you stay?”

She reached up with trembling arms and drew him down, holding him tight against her frail form. “God always stays,” she whispered.

Caen wept until he was too weary to keep crying, and fell asleep in his mother’s embrace, listening to his father’s murmured, grief-wracked prayers.

He awoke to grey light and a warm breath in his ear. His mother’s words were so faint he barely heard her.

“Oh…beautiful. It’s worth it…worth it all…”

He jerked up, staring at her, and saw her blue-green eyes alive with a glow they had never had before. She gazed at something distant, and smiled.

It was over. Her eyes drained of life like glass orbs pouring out their shining contents, and were left empty. But her smile remained.

 

* * * * *

 

Caen awoke suddenly, and found it to be night again. He was trembling, and when he put a hand to his face, it came away soaked with tears. He knew that he was in his own room, the one he shared with his father—not his parent’s old bedchamber.

The door to that room had been shut six years ago, soon after his mother’s death, and he had never entered it since.

It was a dream, he told himself, wishing to still his rapidly beating heart. He shut his eyes and listened to his father quietly snoring on the other side of the room. Yes, this is reality.

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