Showing posts with label YA novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label YA novel. Show all posts
Saturday, July 30, 2022
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Watchers, Part Seven
Another entry in the story started last year: Let me know if you want more.
“Titus, poor Titus! What has this place done to you?” Benjamin sighed before bending over once more to fasten the strap on his other sandal. Should he have left two days ago? He had secured a seat; he had gone to the aeroport. Why had he come back? It could not have been the warmth of his hosts. They had been but strangers. He took a deep breath. “It’s the girl.” There, he had spoken truth at last. He had been plagued with mysteries from the moment he had left his own country, but none were vexing him as much as that child with her sweet voice, big eyes and impossible hand. She had saved his life … and threatened it as well. What was she? For the eighth time, Benjamin ran what he knew to be truth back through his mind. She was a worship house child, she was an adolescent scholar, she was a rich family’s second daughter, she was a ninja warrior. She had two hands, or one, or many? She wore a simple shift or silken gowns, or black tights. She spoke of the “watchers;” she agreed that this was an evil place. What was she? Very smart and much too wise for her physical age, that he knew to be true. Otherwise?
The Wall. She had mentioned a “wall.” She said it had answers. “Hmm.” Benjamin opened the paperback novel and his compupad. He began leafing through the book’s off-white pages, occasionally pausing and noting a word or letter. He typed these characters into a fresh document on his compupad. When he had two lines of text, he hit return, entered a password, confirmed and began to page through the screens that the compupad provided. He took no notes and when he was done, he did not save anything. Instead he ran a second program that deep-erased any record that he had ever accessed any outside source.
__________________________
“I don’t like this.”
Why? the thought passed through Beriana’s mind.
“I am too old, too tall. I am growing up.”
Does that matter?
“You know it does. I used to be a little beggar girl. Now …” Briana made a sour face. “The last time I went out with the bowl, a man offered to take me to a place where they make love. He thought I was trying to sell my body. I don’t like that.”
We have only a few left. We need someone to see for us.
“I don’t want to do this.”
Remember your promise?
“I remember.” Beriana rubbed her right hand, then folded her arms and hugged herself. “This is the last time, for sure.” She began changing.
Nineteen beggars squatted in a line against the north wall of the square. Some were missing limbs. Two appeared to be blind. Beriana seated herself close enough to the group so that she was clearly one of them but not too near. Her business today did not involve coins. She hunched down, trying to make herself appear as small and short as possible before setting down her bowl in front of herself. The sun felt good, and Beriana turned her smudged face toward it, gathering in its heat, then she shielded her brow with her left hand and began watching. She did not have long to wait. The paster arrived within three tick-tocks of her own arrival. He was trying to appear casual, as if he were a simple visitor from the south lands, or some other closer country. He studied the brass bracelets in Uncle Ollie’s stand, spoke briefly with a horse vendor, even looked her way briefly, but gave no sign that he recognized her. Then he approached the older part of a stone-rubble wall that closed in the south side of the market.
“If you know so much about this man that you can predict exactly when he will show up where, why do you need me?”
You know the answer already to that question.
“Humph.” The girl made no further sound but concentrated on watching the pastor’s every move.
Benjamin certainly did not know what he was looking for. He traced the lines and cuts of the wall’s massive boulders, occasionally touching projections or nobules. This had to be the wall the girl had referred to. No other wall was so old or more storied. Here the first humans had overcome the first demons, hurling them from the wall’s heights to destruction on sharp rocks below. Here had once been the altar of love and hate where the first judges had granted marriages and cast evil humans to their deaths. Dark red stains, some washed by rain and scoured by winds back to a limestone white, hinted at ancient violence. Benjamin did not touch the stains. Instead he searched with his eyes, squinting and moving his head back-and-forth to catch each irregularity from as many angles as possible. When three tick-tocks has passed, he straightened and stretched his back. He tried once more, this time using the corners of his eyes as he had in the hotel room. Nothing. The wall, this wall, was supposed to have answers, yet he had found none. He sighed, failure and frustration complete, then, as he turned away, a quick breeze began to blow.
The sudden wind caused stall awnings to flap and even toppled several poles. Merchants grabbed cloth and wood and held on. Shoppers pulled hoods up to shield their faces from the stinging sands and dirt swirling through the booths. The threatening chaos caused even the girl’s companions to pull in their bowls and mute their begging chants.
Benjamin remained still as the sand grains pelted his cheeks, He listened to the sounds of wind and sand squeezing through the crevices and grooves of the wall. The wall was speaking. When the dervish column of air had run its course, he smiled and turned away. He came quite close to the girl as he left, close enough to easily drop a coin in her bowl. The clink of metal against fired clay like a clap of thunder, caused all but the girl to stiffen, but the pastor did not look back as he continued on his way.
“You heard?”
Yes, we heard. We do not need eyes to know that he has caught the first message.
“Am I done then?”
Yes. For now.
The girl retrieved the bowl and its offering with her left hand and got to her feet. For a moment her eyes appeared to see nothing while her left hand rubbed the fingerless knuckles of her right. Then she swallowed a faint sob and followed the same route out of the market that the pastor had just taken. [To be continued.]
“Titus, poor Titus! What has this place done to you?” Benjamin sighed before bending over once more to fasten the strap on his other sandal. Should he have left two days ago? He had secured a seat; he had gone to the aeroport. Why had he come back? It could not have been the warmth of his hosts. They had been but strangers. He took a deep breath. “It’s the girl.” There, he had spoken truth at last. He had been plagued with mysteries from the moment he had left his own country, but none were vexing him as much as that child with her sweet voice, big eyes and impossible hand. She had saved his life … and threatened it as well. What was she? For the eighth time, Benjamin ran what he knew to be truth back through his mind. She was a worship house child, she was an adolescent scholar, she was a rich family’s second daughter, she was a ninja warrior. She had two hands, or one, or many? She wore a simple shift or silken gowns, or black tights. She spoke of the “watchers;” she agreed that this was an evil place. What was she? Very smart and much too wise for her physical age, that he knew to be true. Otherwise?
The Wall. She had mentioned a “wall.” She said it had answers. “Hmm.” Benjamin opened the paperback novel and his compupad. He began leafing through the book’s off-white pages, occasionally pausing and noting a word or letter. He typed these characters into a fresh document on his compupad. When he had two lines of text, he hit return, entered a password, confirmed and began to page through the screens that the compupad provided. He took no notes and when he was done, he did not save anything. Instead he ran a second program that deep-erased any record that he had ever accessed any outside source.
__________________________
“I don’t like this.”
Why? the thought passed through Beriana’s mind.
“I am too old, too tall. I am growing up.”
Does that matter?
“You know it does. I used to be a little beggar girl. Now …” Briana made a sour face. “The last time I went out with the bowl, a man offered to take me to a place where they make love. He thought I was trying to sell my body. I don’t like that.”
We have only a few left. We need someone to see for us.
“I don’t want to do this.”
Remember your promise?
“I remember.” Beriana rubbed her right hand, then folded her arms and hugged herself. “This is the last time, for sure.” She began changing.
Nineteen beggars squatted in a line against the north wall of the square. Some were missing limbs. Two appeared to be blind. Beriana seated herself close enough to the group so that she was clearly one of them but not too near. Her business today did not involve coins. She hunched down, trying to make herself appear as small and short as possible before setting down her bowl in front of herself. The sun felt good, and Beriana turned her smudged face toward it, gathering in its heat, then she shielded her brow with her left hand and began watching. She did not have long to wait. The paster arrived within three tick-tocks of her own arrival. He was trying to appear casual, as if he were a simple visitor from the south lands, or some other closer country. He studied the brass bracelets in Uncle Ollie’s stand, spoke briefly with a horse vendor, even looked her way briefly, but gave no sign that he recognized her. Then he approached the older part of a stone-rubble wall that closed in the south side of the market.
“If you know so much about this man that you can predict exactly when he will show up where, why do you need me?”
You know the answer already to that question.
“Humph.” The girl made no further sound but concentrated on watching the pastor’s every move.
Benjamin certainly did not know what he was looking for. He traced the lines and cuts of the wall’s massive boulders, occasionally touching projections or nobules. This had to be the wall the girl had referred to. No other wall was so old or more storied. Here the first humans had overcome the first demons, hurling them from the wall’s heights to destruction on sharp rocks below. Here had once been the altar of love and hate where the first judges had granted marriages and cast evil humans to their deaths. Dark red stains, some washed by rain and scoured by winds back to a limestone white, hinted at ancient violence. Benjamin did not touch the stains. Instead he searched with his eyes, squinting and moving his head back-and-forth to catch each irregularity from as many angles as possible. When three tick-tocks has passed, he straightened and stretched his back. He tried once more, this time using the corners of his eyes as he had in the hotel room. Nothing. The wall, this wall, was supposed to have answers, yet he had found none. He sighed, failure and frustration complete, then, as he turned away, a quick breeze began to blow.
The sudden wind caused stall awnings to flap and even toppled several poles. Merchants grabbed cloth and wood and held on. Shoppers pulled hoods up to shield their faces from the stinging sands and dirt swirling through the booths. The threatening chaos caused even the girl’s companions to pull in their bowls and mute their begging chants.
Benjamin remained still as the sand grains pelted his cheeks, He listened to the sounds of wind and sand squeezing through the crevices and grooves of the wall. The wall was speaking. When the dervish column of air had run its course, he smiled and turned away. He came quite close to the girl as he left, close enough to easily drop a coin in her bowl. The clink of metal against fired clay like a clap of thunder, caused all but the girl to stiffen, but the pastor did not look back as he continued on his way.
“You heard?”
Yes, we heard. We do not need eyes to know that he has caught the first message.
“Am I done then?”
Yes. For now.
The girl retrieved the bowl and its offering with her left hand and got to her feet. For a moment her eyes appeared to see nothing while her left hand rubbed the fingerless knuckles of her right. Then she swallowed a faint sob and followed the same route out of the market that the pastor had just taken. [To be continued.]
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Watchers: Part Six.
A continuation of The Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
First Day, and all breeched and cloaked children as yet unmarried must be in school. Week-in and week-out, summer or winter, that was truth. It mattered not that Beriana shared a private tutor with her sisters and only brother four days a week. On First Day, she must be in the town school from sunup until sundown—a long day for anyone at high summer. Louisa-Bin might still have to suffer on a backless bench, holding tablets and codexes in her hands, but Beriana got an individual seat with a work surface in front. This added little to her comfort, for the seat’s smooth flatness meant that the slightest leaning back would promise a quick slide to the floor. All the students sat up straight and kept their feet firmly on the frayed rugs under their sandals.
“Beriana, did you hear about the hotel fire,” her neighbor whispered.
“Yes. We could see the smoke from the house.”
“We could hear the sirens up on the hill. How many died? What number have you heard?” Another girl added.
Beriana shrugged. “I heard over thirty, but …”
“Class, attention to the front—now! Beriana Krinklesdau,” Madam Teacher glared her. “What answer do you have to the fifth problem?”
“Arrival time of twelve and one quarter turns, plus or minus one tick-tock,” Beriana answered.
“Ah… That is correct. Thank you. Class, please now turn to the second set of problems that are on your screens.”
Beriana ignored the awed stares coming from her classmates and began tapping her way through the new set of problems starting to display themselves on her computablet. She had solved seven out of the eight when her eyes briefly widened. “Ah-oh’” she breathed. “Madam Teacher, please. I need a moment in the hall room?”
Madam Teacher frowned and looked at Beriana. “Yes, you may go.” She nodded to the floor guard.
Beriana stood, curtsied and left the room. The floor guard straightened and followed her out. A half tick-tock later, safely hidden from the attendent’s view in the farthest stall, Beriana opened her right hand and slowly flexed it six times, then laid the palm against her ear. For a several moments she stood still, listening, eyes closed, mind concentrated. Then she shifted her hand away, took a slightly longer breath and rubbed her right palm with her left before flushing the toilet. She remembered to give the guard a nod and smile on her way back to the classroom, even if her deeper thoughts were far away.
First Day, and all breeched and cloaked children as yet unmarried must be in school. Week-in and week-out, summer or winter, that was truth. It mattered not that Beriana shared a private tutor with her sisters and only brother four days a week. On First Day, she must be in the town school from sunup until sundown—a long day for anyone at high summer. Louisa-Bin might still have to suffer on a backless bench, holding tablets and codexes in her hands, but Beriana got an individual seat with a work surface in front. This added little to her comfort, for the seat’s smooth flatness meant that the slightest leaning back would promise a quick slide to the floor. All the students sat up straight and kept their feet firmly on the frayed rugs under their sandals.
“Beriana, did you hear about the hotel fire,” her neighbor whispered.
“Yes. We could see the smoke from the house.”
“We could hear the sirens up on the hill. How many died? What number have you heard?” Another girl added.
Beriana shrugged. “I heard over thirty, but …”
“Class, attention to the front—now! Beriana Krinklesdau,” Madam Teacher glared her. “What answer do you have to the fifth problem?”
“Arrival time of twelve and one quarter turns, plus or minus one tick-tock,” Beriana answered.
“Ah… That is correct. Thank you. Class, please now turn to the second set of problems that are on your screens.”
Beriana ignored the awed stares coming from her classmates and began tapping her way through the new set of problems starting to display themselves on her computablet. She had solved seven out of the eight when her eyes briefly widened. “Ah-oh’” she breathed. “Madam Teacher, please. I need a moment in the hall room?”
Madam Teacher frowned and looked at Beriana. “Yes, you may go.” She nodded to the floor guard.
Beriana stood, curtsied and left the room. The floor guard straightened and followed her out. A half tick-tock later, safely hidden from the attendent’s view in the farthest stall, Beriana opened her right hand and slowly flexed it six times, then laid the palm against her ear. For a several moments she stood still, listening, eyes closed, mind concentrated. Then she shifted her hand away, took a slightly longer breath and rubbed her right palm with her left before flushing the toilet. She remembered to give the guard a nod and smile on her way back to the classroom, even if her deeper thoughts were far away.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Watchers: Part Five
A continuation of The Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
Pastor Benjamin had said good-night to his new hosts and was standing in the bedroom they had provided. He was just saying his last prayers of the day, when he felt a cold hand grasp his neck. The thumb settled just left of his windpipe, the slender fingers easily working their way into the muscles by the back of his neck. He stiffened. “What? Who is this? Ah …?” The finger tips now had blades with sharp tips that already were settling under his skin.
“Do not move, Cleric,” a young voice hissed. “I saved you once. Now your life belongs to me. No! Do not move anything! You asked about my right hand. Do you understand what it can do? A little tightening, just a little, and its fingers will find your spinal cord. It will part easily. Then you will not be able to move even if you want to. A strange life that will be.”
“What do you want, Child?”
“What do you want? Why are you here? The Watchers are curious.”
“The Watchers? I do not know them.” Benjamin found that he was breathing slowly and carefully. It was easy not to want to move at all.
“You don’t have to.”
Benjamin took a deep breath. “My people have heard little from our own kind who live here. I persuaded our Council of Elders to send me here to speak with your elders. They … they wish to know that all is well. I am afraid it is not.”
“You’re pretty smart, Benjamin. No. This place is a mess. Tell me more.”
“My … my eldest disciple was a young man who came from Tartuff. When he spoke of this land, he spoke of wild apples, sweet wines and bold women who dared to show both their hands and faces. He spoke of how your people were hospitable to all, kind and generous in goods and spirit. He said you loved to tell stories and celebrated those who spoke and wrote the best.
“A turning of the seasons ago, he went home. When he returned to my place, he was changed.” Benjamin swallowed and closed his eyes. Even moving his lips was bringing pain to his neck.
The hand settled its grip and Benjamin found he could breathe easier. “What was his name?” the girl asked.
“Titus. Titus Adornett. He was no longer happy. He was with me, you understand, but his spirit remained back here. One morning he was gone. He left a message on his computer, apologizing for taking my time. He said he had to go home. I assumed he meant here; I assumed he returned here”
“Hmm. You came here to look for Titus?” she asked.
“Yes. I had searched the web. Many sites spoke of the bad things happening here. I contacted others of my faith, as I said.”
“I believe you. Come, I will release you now, if you promise not to ask me any more questions about myself, or seek me out again.”
“You fill me with curiosity, but, yes, I will be silent and circumspect.”
“Swear on all you hold holy and sacred.”
“I … I swear.”
“Cross you heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” The hand slipped away from Benjamin’s neck. He sighed, took another deep breath and sighed again before carefully touching his wounds. He glanced at the girl. She was in front of him now, clothed completely in black—including a hood that hid all but her face—the cheeks and nose which bore streaks of black. As he stared at her, trying to see both the beggar of half a day ago and the rich child of supper, she brought up her hands so that to see her eyes, he had to look through ten fingers.
“Do not always believe what you see,” she whispered. “This is a plagued land with many sick people. Be careful. The wall holds many answers; the watchers seek answers.” She lowered her hands, nodded briefly and disappeared into the shadows. By the time Benjamin located the window she had used, she was more than a quarter dial turn gone.
Pastor Benjamin had said good-night to his new hosts and was standing in the bedroom they had provided. He was just saying his last prayers of the day, when he felt a cold hand grasp his neck. The thumb settled just left of his windpipe, the slender fingers easily working their way into the muscles by the back of his neck. He stiffened. “What? Who is this? Ah …?” The finger tips now had blades with sharp tips that already were settling under his skin.
“Do not move, Cleric,” a young voice hissed. “I saved you once. Now your life belongs to me. No! Do not move anything! You asked about my right hand. Do you understand what it can do? A little tightening, just a little, and its fingers will find your spinal cord. It will part easily. Then you will not be able to move even if you want to. A strange life that will be.”
“What do you want, Child?”
“What do you want? Why are you here? The Watchers are curious.”
“The Watchers? I do not know them.” Benjamin found that he was breathing slowly and carefully. It was easy not to want to move at all.
“You don’t have to.”
Benjamin took a deep breath. “My people have heard little from our own kind who live here. I persuaded our Council of Elders to send me here to speak with your elders. They … they wish to know that all is well. I am afraid it is not.”
“You’re pretty smart, Benjamin. No. This place is a mess. Tell me more.”
“My … my eldest disciple was a young man who came from Tartuff. When he spoke of this land, he spoke of wild apples, sweet wines and bold women who dared to show both their hands and faces. He spoke of how your people were hospitable to all, kind and generous in goods and spirit. He said you loved to tell stories and celebrated those who spoke and wrote the best.
“A turning of the seasons ago, he went home. When he returned to my place, he was changed.” Benjamin swallowed and closed his eyes. Even moving his lips was bringing pain to his neck.
The hand settled its grip and Benjamin found he could breathe easier. “What was his name?” the girl asked.
“Titus. Titus Adornett. He was no longer happy. He was with me, you understand, but his spirit remained back here. One morning he was gone. He left a message on his computer, apologizing for taking my time. He said he had to go home. I assumed he meant here; I assumed he returned here”
“Hmm. You came here to look for Titus?” she asked.
“Yes. I had searched the web. Many sites spoke of the bad things happening here. I contacted others of my faith, as I said.”
“I believe you. Come, I will release you now, if you promise not to ask me any more questions about myself, or seek me out again.”
“You fill me with curiosity, but, yes, I will be silent and circumspect.”
“Swear on all you hold holy and sacred.”
“I … I swear.”
“Cross you heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” The hand slipped away from Benjamin’s neck. He sighed, took another deep breath and sighed again before carefully touching his wounds. He glanced at the girl. She was in front of him now, clothed completely in black—including a hood that hid all but her face—the cheeks and nose which bore streaks of black. As he stared at her, trying to see both the beggar of half a day ago and the rich child of supper, she brought up her hands so that to see her eyes, he had to look through ten fingers.
“Do not always believe what you see,” she whispered. “This is a plagued land with many sick people. Be careful. The wall holds many answers; the watchers seek answers.” She lowered her hands, nodded briefly and disappeared into the shadows. By the time Benjamin located the window she had used, she was more than a quarter dial turn gone.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Golden Horn Reviews
What the reviewers have said about the Golden Horn:
"Alternating between Jim's and Jonnie's point of view, this fast-moving tale blends romance, mystery and adventure as the couple fights against long-standing prejudices and a culture in which the right to revenge is unquestioned. The breathtaking climax holds more than a few surprises. Jim and Jonnie may be able to set the record straight about a pivotal event in Starnovia's history, but will they escape the turmoil they've created? The unique setting, appealing characters and plot twists make this an enjoyable read." Chesakis on Amazon.
"This book is a must-read for fans of Indiana Jones and for those who love stories about ancient myths and legends. Set in the present day, the story centers around an archaeology student who seems to find danger, and love, in the most unexpected places. Two-thumbs up." Archaeologist on Amazon.
"The author does a good job in creating characters and atmosphere. The two main characters (Jonneanna and Jim) alternately tell the story. This is a little bit different - but works well in creating empathy with the characters and showing the different worlds they're coming from."
Avery on Amazon.
"This author has accomplished what this reviewer would confidently call a literary tour de force, in creating out of whole cloth a sovereign nation, presumably part of what we once knew as Yugoslavia, and telling a thoroughly engrossing tale about that nation against a backdrop of history both modern and ancient."
"The author's knowledge of Eastern European history, archaeological theory and practice, and his skill in creating a plausible vignette of life in the years following the recent conflict in the Balkans, together with his craftsmanship in creating characters and putting them into action, all combine to make a stunningly workmanlike debut novel." Clempage on Amazon.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Watchers: Part Four.
A continuation of the Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
“Be sure the cucumber slices are not too thin.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“You said that last time, but they were so thin, the plate held nothing but a slimey mess. Our guests could pick up nothing.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“Beriana Beth, are you listening?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” Beriana emphasized her answer with an extra-loud chop of her paring knife, then waited until her mother had moved on to the meat trays Madam Cook was assembling. Her hands remained motionless as she let her gaze drift away from the chopping table, taking in shining pots and pans hanging from hooks near the stoves and the hung strings of dried apples, tomatoes, red peppers and—her favorite—klemfruits gathered among the overhead beams. She wondered for a moment if she could break off one or two from the one string that might be a bit longer than the others. Her mouth and tongue reminded her of the tangy snap mixed with sweetness that klemfruit always delivered. “Mmm.” If Madam Cook and Ma-Ma and Madam Assistant and Master Souper all left the kitchen for at least half a dial … She wrinkled her perfectly-complexioned, delicate nose with its slight bump right in the middle. She might as well hope for an elder’s blessing. Not today, anyway … Beriana’s gaze moved from the fruit to nearest west-facing window. The sun was still too high in the sky for her to see it, and no one would eat until a dial-turn after it had set. Why did Solstice Day promise such marvelous foods, yet make everyone wait so long to enjoy them?
Fiona, Beriana’s sister, opened the swinging door and leaned in. “Ma-Ma, the Fletchers just called. They won’t be coming. They said something about their dog being sick?”
“Oh, dear. I was going to seat them next to our off-land visitors.” Ma-Ma sighed. “This always happens. I will think of something.”
“That dog of theirs is always getting sick,” Fiona agreed.
“That’s because they don’t have any children to get sick when they don’t want to come here. Bappsie is their baby,” Beriana pointed out. “Besides, they’re always feeding her sweet breads and biscuits,”
“Beriana Beth Krinklesdau, mind your tongue and your manners … and get back to your task.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” She glanced in her sister’s direction and was rewarded with a return wink. Chop-slice, chop-slice: Beriana was back at her task.
The guests began arriving shortly after the last sunrays faded from Krinkles’ upturned eaves. The women all wore shawls woven from the finest, thinnest wools and covered with floral and leaf motifs over their light-weight summer dresses. They greeted their lady host warmly, pressing covered dishes into her hands and often kissing both cheeks as well. The men wore somber black jackets ornamented with many pockets underneath pale robes. They nodded to the lady and bowed to her husband but did not kiss. “Betty, Rauldo, oh, so glad you are here! We had thought you might be in Tartuff.”
“And miss any of Madam Theresa’s cooking? Shame on you, Margareta,” Betty answered with mock horror. “Come, we have brought you a special guest.” She gestured that the stranger dressed in clerical grey and blue should step forward. “This is Shepherd Benjamin. We met him this morning in the aeroport. He was going; we were coming. Oh, but he did not want to leave. It was just that he had no longer any place to stay. You know the Avon Hotel burned at lunch time? Yes, the news is everywhere. So we invited him to stay with us while he completes his research. And, of course, we had to ask him to share Solstice with you!”
Margareta smiled and nodded as Benjamin gave her his best clerical smile and bow. “I hope this does not mean you will have to look for another plate?”
“No, certainly not. I shall just tell Madam Cook to add more water to the soup,” Margareta replied. Everyone laughed except for Beriana, standing unseen behind the foyer’s curtain. Instead, she squinted and glared at the cleric who stood grasping his staff, smiling and gripping her father’s hand.
“This is our eldest daughter, Fiona-Bel. This is our middle daughter, Beriana-Beth and here is our youngest, Louisa-Bin.” Margareta pointed each of her three youngest standing in line, feet carefully alined and heads slightly bowed.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” the uninvited guest replied. Benjamin’s smile froze then faded as he took in the middle daughter. Thrusting his head forward he studied Beriana. “We have met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered indifferently, then with a slight nod turned and followed her sisters.
A solstice even’ meal should have forty-two in attendance: thirty for the days of the month and another twelve for the months of a year. The Krinkles often did manage that many, but tonight they were still one short—the unexpected Shepherd Benjamin making up for only one of the missing Fletchers.
“Beriana?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma?” Beriana stood still, waiting.
“Would you sit by our newest guest, the cleric? I know you can sparkle in conversation when you put your mind to it.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“He did specifically ask for your company. What do you think of that?”
“Humph. Yes, Ma-Ma.” She bowed and walked slowly over to station herself by the tall-backed chair next to where the cleric already stood, staff still in hand. The prayers and holiday salutes went on and on. Beriana thought about how empty her insides felt, and how she longed to sit and eat. But an end did come at last, and the assembly eased into their seats, Beriana waiting until Benjamin had settled into his before taking her own. Soups and cheeses started their rounds. Except for a few courteous remarks and nods her way, Benjamin spent most of his supper responding to questions from the woman to his left. Beriana was halfway through her roast mutton when he politely freed himself from the woman’s curiosity and concentrated on his own food. Three bites into his main course, he paused and, without looking her way, spoke softly. “You have an unusual ability to leave sunburns behind quickly.”
Beriana did not answer but continued to cut and eat, carefully chewing each bite.
“Come, child. I know you can say more than ‘Yes, Ma-Ma.’ I heard you say more than that in the dawn turnings.”
“Sir?”
“Ah. Now I have this strange curiosity that must be satisfied. How is it that a beggar girl wearing little more than one, threadbare gown and missing most of her right hand should now find herself seated beside me an a dinner fit for a ruler, dressed in silk and with both hands intact?”
“Tsk. It is a puzzle,” Beriana allowed. She helped herself to a soft roll, broke it in two and began to mop up some of the gravy.
“May I see your right hand?”
“No.” Beriana continued to eat. If she was offended by this direct demand, her voice did not show it.
“You’re strange one, Child.”
“And you also, Shepherd. What flocks are they that you tend?”
He grinned. “Ones that walk on two legs. I am a shepherd of men and women, a pastor, as they say in my own land.”
“And that gives you a staff that is not a crook, but a versatile and even deadly weapon?”
“You spar well for one so young,” he admitted.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Beriana rejoined, ending the conversation.
“Be sure the cucumber slices are not too thin.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“You said that last time, but they were so thin, the plate held nothing but a slimey mess. Our guests could pick up nothing.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“Beriana Beth, are you listening?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” Beriana emphasized her answer with an extra-loud chop of her paring knife, then waited until her mother had moved on to the meat trays Madam Cook was assembling. Her hands remained motionless as she let her gaze drift away from the chopping table, taking in shining pots and pans hanging from hooks near the stoves and the hung strings of dried apples, tomatoes, red peppers and—her favorite—klemfruits gathered among the overhead beams. She wondered for a moment if she could break off one or two from the one string that might be a bit longer than the others. Her mouth and tongue reminded her of the tangy snap mixed with sweetness that klemfruit always delivered. “Mmm.” If Madam Cook and Ma-Ma and Madam Assistant and Master Souper all left the kitchen for at least half a dial … She wrinkled her perfectly-complexioned, delicate nose with its slight bump right in the middle. She might as well hope for an elder’s blessing. Not today, anyway … Beriana’s gaze moved from the fruit to nearest west-facing window. The sun was still too high in the sky for her to see it, and no one would eat until a dial-turn after it had set. Why did Solstice Day promise such marvelous foods, yet make everyone wait so long to enjoy them?
Fiona, Beriana’s sister, opened the swinging door and leaned in. “Ma-Ma, the Fletchers just called. They won’t be coming. They said something about their dog being sick?”
“Oh, dear. I was going to seat them next to our off-land visitors.” Ma-Ma sighed. “This always happens. I will think of something.”
“That dog of theirs is always getting sick,” Fiona agreed.
“That’s because they don’t have any children to get sick when they don’t want to come here. Bappsie is their baby,” Beriana pointed out. “Besides, they’re always feeding her sweet breads and biscuits,”
“Beriana Beth Krinklesdau, mind your tongue and your manners … and get back to your task.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” She glanced in her sister’s direction and was rewarded with a return wink. Chop-slice, chop-slice: Beriana was back at her task.
The guests began arriving shortly after the last sunrays faded from Krinkles’ upturned eaves. The women all wore shawls woven from the finest, thinnest wools and covered with floral and leaf motifs over their light-weight summer dresses. They greeted their lady host warmly, pressing covered dishes into her hands and often kissing both cheeks as well. The men wore somber black jackets ornamented with many pockets underneath pale robes. They nodded to the lady and bowed to her husband but did not kiss. “Betty, Rauldo, oh, so glad you are here! We had thought you might be in Tartuff.”
“And miss any of Madam Theresa’s cooking? Shame on you, Margareta,” Betty answered with mock horror. “Come, we have brought you a special guest.” She gestured that the stranger dressed in clerical grey and blue should step forward. “This is Shepherd Benjamin. We met him this morning in the aeroport. He was going; we were coming. Oh, but he did not want to leave. It was just that he had no longer any place to stay. You know the Avon Hotel burned at lunch time? Yes, the news is everywhere. So we invited him to stay with us while he completes his research. And, of course, we had to ask him to share Solstice with you!”
Margareta smiled and nodded as Benjamin gave her his best clerical smile and bow. “I hope this does not mean you will have to look for another plate?”
“No, certainly not. I shall just tell Madam Cook to add more water to the soup,” Margareta replied. Everyone laughed except for Beriana, standing unseen behind the foyer’s curtain. Instead, she squinted and glared at the cleric who stood grasping his staff, smiling and gripping her father’s hand.
“This is our eldest daughter, Fiona-Bel. This is our middle daughter, Beriana-Beth and here is our youngest, Louisa-Bin.” Margareta pointed each of her three youngest standing in line, feet carefully alined and heads slightly bowed.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” the uninvited guest replied. Benjamin’s smile froze then faded as he took in the middle daughter. Thrusting his head forward he studied Beriana. “We have met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered indifferently, then with a slight nod turned and followed her sisters.
A solstice even’ meal should have forty-two in attendance: thirty for the days of the month and another twelve for the months of a year. The Krinkles often did manage that many, but tonight they were still one short—the unexpected Shepherd Benjamin making up for only one of the missing Fletchers.
“Beriana?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma?” Beriana stood still, waiting.
“Would you sit by our newest guest, the cleric? I know you can sparkle in conversation when you put your mind to it.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“He did specifically ask for your company. What do you think of that?”
“Humph. Yes, Ma-Ma.” She bowed and walked slowly over to station herself by the tall-backed chair next to where the cleric already stood, staff still in hand. The prayers and holiday salutes went on and on. Beriana thought about how empty her insides felt, and how she longed to sit and eat. But an end did come at last, and the assembly eased into their seats, Beriana waiting until Benjamin had settled into his before taking her own. Soups and cheeses started their rounds. Except for a few courteous remarks and nods her way, Benjamin spent most of his supper responding to questions from the woman to his left. Beriana was halfway through her roast mutton when he politely freed himself from the woman’s curiosity and concentrated on his own food. Three bites into his main course, he paused and, without looking her way, spoke softly. “You have an unusual ability to leave sunburns behind quickly.”
Beriana did not answer but continued to cut and eat, carefully chewing each bite.
“Come, child. I know you can say more than ‘Yes, Ma-Ma.’ I heard you say more than that in the dawn turnings.”
“Sir?”
“Ah. Now I have this strange curiosity that must be satisfied. How is it that a beggar girl wearing little more than one, threadbare gown and missing most of her right hand should now find herself seated beside me an a dinner fit for a ruler, dressed in silk and with both hands intact?”
“Tsk. It is a puzzle,” Beriana allowed. She helped herself to a soft roll, broke it in two and began to mop up some of the gravy.
“May I see your right hand?”
“No.” Beriana continued to eat. If she was offended by this direct demand, her voice did not show it.
“You’re strange one, Child.”
“And you also, Shepherd. What flocks are they that you tend?”
He grinned. “Ones that walk on two legs. I am a shepherd of men and women, a pastor, as they say in my own land.”
“And that gives you a staff that is not a crook, but a versatile and even deadly weapon?”
“You spar well for one so young,” he admitted.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Beriana rejoined, ending the conversation.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Watchers, The Holy Man is watched.
Another entry in the continuing saga of Shepherd Benjamin and the watchers. All copyright 2009, Michael W. Loder
“There he goes.” Several pairs of eyes watched as the holy man left the hotel and started down the street, his crook-staff in one hand, a fawn-colored dufflebag slung over his opposite shoulder. Even at two rods’ distance, the watchers could mark the look of fear and anger on his face
The girl nodded and chewed on her lower lip. “Puffy-filled pants,” she whispered.
“He does not wear trews, just his robe, tunic and jack.”
“You know what I mean!” She had been forced to use one of her flash bombs to save him. Three of her friends had risked their lives to obtain those bombs. “He has power enough. Why did he not use it to check, instead of doubt’n my word.” Holy man—silly outlander, she added in her mind.
“Perhaps not so foolish if the Elders brought him here?”
“Humph.” She watched until the cleric had turned the next corner and disappeared into the market crowds. It was disgusting in that old building.It stank horribly—like burnt sausage.
“Is he headed for the aeroport?”
The girl stood, leaned left and shaded her eyes. “He has crossed the street.”
“Then Rasstut will pick up. We can do nothing more here.”
“I know.” She shook herself and sighed, then grasped the roof’s soffit and, using its support, swung down easily to the ground. She immediately slipped behind a bulky pillar that was part of the roof’s support.
“Later?”
“Yes. Little-later.” The girl straightened a long, cream-colored, cotton dress with many opaque folds and her grey wool shaw and waited. Half a dial-turn later, when a young couple wearing custom-fitted and matching great clothes striped with gold and silver ribbon walked by, she left the pillar’s shelter and fell in behind them.
She matched her pace to the couples’, keeping a careful three yards back. The two were both nineteen; both thought they were in love and had eyes only for each other. It was easy for the girl to suddenly appear as if from nowhere.
“Beriana, where have you been?” Her sister, blurted out in surprise.
“Nowheres, but I’ve been good, I promise,” Beriana answered, tossing her loosened. now-wavy hair—held only by a silken ribbon that matched the color of her dress.
“Good for whom?” the boy asked with a thread of irony.
“What mean you by that tone?” Beriana pouted.
The boy and her sister stopped and turned around. He leaned over so his eyes were level with Beriana’s and she could not miss their twinkle. “What I mean is, if you do good, why does trouble always seem to follow in your wake? Aye?”
Beriana looked away and sniffed. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oooh, I sense a nose too long for a face,” the boy laughed. “But come, we will speak no more.” He grabbed the other girl around her waist and squeezed. She returned it with a crooked smile and shrug.
“There he goes.” Several pairs of eyes watched as the holy man left the hotel and started down the street, his crook-staff in one hand, a fawn-colored dufflebag slung over his opposite shoulder. Even at two rods’ distance, the watchers could mark the look of fear and anger on his face
The girl nodded and chewed on her lower lip. “Puffy-filled pants,” she whispered.
“He does not wear trews, just his robe, tunic and jack.”
“You know what I mean!” She had been forced to use one of her flash bombs to save him. Three of her friends had risked their lives to obtain those bombs. “He has power enough. Why did he not use it to check, instead of doubt’n my word.” Holy man—silly outlander, she added in her mind.
“Perhaps not so foolish if the Elders brought him here?”
“Humph.” She watched until the cleric had turned the next corner and disappeared into the market crowds. It was disgusting in that old building.It stank horribly—like burnt sausage.
“Is he headed for the aeroport?”
The girl stood, leaned left and shaded her eyes. “He has crossed the street.”
“Then Rasstut will pick up. We can do nothing more here.”
“I know.” She shook herself and sighed, then grasped the roof’s soffit and, using its support, swung down easily to the ground. She immediately slipped behind a bulky pillar that was part of the roof’s support.
“Later?”
“Yes. Little-later.” The girl straightened a long, cream-colored, cotton dress with many opaque folds and her grey wool shaw and waited. Half a dial-turn later, when a young couple wearing custom-fitted and matching great clothes striped with gold and silver ribbon walked by, she left the pillar’s shelter and fell in behind them.
She matched her pace to the couples’, keeping a careful three yards back. The two were both nineteen; both thought they were in love and had eyes only for each other. It was easy for the girl to suddenly appear as if from nowhere.
“Beriana, where have you been?” Her sister, blurted out in surprise.
“Nowheres, but I’ve been good, I promise,” Beriana answered, tossing her loosened. now-wavy hair—held only by a silken ribbon that matched the color of her dress.
“Good for whom?” the boy asked with a thread of irony.
“What mean you by that tone?” Beriana pouted.
The boy and her sister stopped and turned around. He leaned over so his eyes were level with Beriana’s and she could not miss their twinkle. “What I mean is, if you do good, why does trouble always seem to follow in your wake? Aye?”
Beriana looked away and sniffed. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oooh, I sense a nose too long for a face,” the boy laughed. “But come, we will speak no more.” He grabbed the other girl around her waist and squeezed. She returned it with a crooked smile and shrug.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Third entry for The Watchers, Enjoy
Shepherd Benjamin was what many refer to as a “competent man.” If pressed, he can butcher a sheep, make his own clothes, tune a buzz ship, even restore an operating system. He had climbed glacier-covered mountains, pot-holed his way through underwater caverns and written successful grant proposals. In his own world, he liked to think that nothing wrong could happen to him that he could not either prevent, solve or pass off on someone else. Now he felt as close to helpless as a naked mouse standing beneath a descending owl. His life had just been saved by an half-grown child with a missing hand, and without her word … and well-aimed missile, he could have done nothing to save himself. He had not been alert; he had missed all the obvious signs. All his mind had read was that he was late, very late, to a critical appointment.
Benjamin sighed, rubbed his face and studied his ransacked room. “Think of it, things could be worse.” He had thought, and things got worse. In the half morning he had been gone, someone or something has entered and smashed, ripped or broken every furnishing, case or article of clothing. What they had not destroyed, they had covered with enough passings to ensure that no human would touch the remains. He groaned, closed his eyes and let the prayers come. One is never alone in the presence of That Which Animates All Living Things, he told himself, but he certainly was feeling vulnerable now—a stranger in an increasingly strange and hostile world where even friends were weird. He owned nothing but what he carried; his only possible hope for returning to his own world with answers to his many questions had appeared to be those elders, his supposed hosts and assistants—and they were gone. He really was up that proverbial stream without the means of propulsion. What was making things worse, he now had to factor in something called the “Watchers.” Who were they? The term meant nothing. Why would they send that beggar girl to warn him? Why did they care? What did they gain from his survival?
One matter was certain: he could not stay here. His aging nose was not about to tolerate it. Benjamin lifted his staff and aimed it at the most transportable of his luggage. A few simple instructions later and the staff’s end had become a steam nozzle cleaning and sterilizing the excrement-covered duffle. When the bag reached a stage just short of new, Benjamin began to retrieve, clean and pack it with other essentials. He was soon able to rehabilitate an extra set of small clothes, socks, his field boots and a meagre travel kit. As he had hoped, everything fit into the duffle sack with room to spare.
As his staff did its work, he used his left-hand ring to rescan the room. The ring found no snoops or monitors. It did show Benjamin the location of his computpad which he had feared to take with him that morning and had left behind in a random, vision-blocking path cycle around the main room. He snagged it on its second pass by his outstretched hand and slipped it into a cloth sack strapped under his left arm. Good. One more item and he would have all the essentials. He tip-toed across the room, checking for detect traps and other unamusing and possibly-fatal retards to his progress. “Ah,” Benjamin smiled faintly, then gently lifted up a dusty codex whose title hinted only at a romantic bodice-ripper, its vivid cover depicting a pink-clad damsel succumbing to some beak-nosed, large-pectoraled dark-haired man. Benjamin scanned the tome twice before shoving it in the duffle. That was it. He retraced his steps until he was once more standing by the outer door. Perhaps his enemies were not as omnipotent as he had begun to fear. Still, he dared not underestimate their resources.
One more scan, instrumental and visual, and he would be gone. The first three days here had given Benjamin many good memories. The gear he was about to leave behind had granted him even more. Half of his most recent life was bound up in this now ruined and destroyed garbage, but he would be angry and grieve later. “Aye,” he breathed again. That mark had not been there before. Benjamin studied the small, red stamping—like a signature chop—that floated just left of the room’s fireplace. If he tried to look at it directly, it disappeared, leaving just blank wall. Only when he shifted his vision and tilted his head slightly right, could he see it. “Clever.” It had definitely not been there before this morning, and, since seeing it required his peripheral vision, he still could not take in any details. Red horns? Yes, the chop was an image of some creature with red, curved horns and very long teeth—like a sabre-toothed cat crossed with an Irish Elk. Not the sort of thing one wished to meet in a dark alley or even a public boulevard. Shivering only slightly, Benjamin stepped out of the room, gently closed the door and made tracks.
Benjamin sighed, rubbed his face and studied his ransacked room. “Think of it, things could be worse.” He had thought, and things got worse. In the half morning he had been gone, someone or something has entered and smashed, ripped or broken every furnishing, case or article of clothing. What they had not destroyed, they had covered with enough passings to ensure that no human would touch the remains. He groaned, closed his eyes and let the prayers come. One is never alone in the presence of That Which Animates All Living Things, he told himself, but he certainly was feeling vulnerable now—a stranger in an increasingly strange and hostile world where even friends were weird. He owned nothing but what he carried; his only possible hope for returning to his own world with answers to his many questions had appeared to be those elders, his supposed hosts and assistants—and they were gone. He really was up that proverbial stream without the means of propulsion. What was making things worse, he now had to factor in something called the “Watchers.” Who were they? The term meant nothing. Why would they send that beggar girl to warn him? Why did they care? What did they gain from his survival?
One matter was certain: he could not stay here. His aging nose was not about to tolerate it. Benjamin lifted his staff and aimed it at the most transportable of his luggage. A few simple instructions later and the staff’s end had become a steam nozzle cleaning and sterilizing the excrement-covered duffle. When the bag reached a stage just short of new, Benjamin began to retrieve, clean and pack it with other essentials. He was soon able to rehabilitate an extra set of small clothes, socks, his field boots and a meagre travel kit. As he had hoped, everything fit into the duffle sack with room to spare.
As his staff did its work, he used his left-hand ring to rescan the room. The ring found no snoops or monitors. It did show Benjamin the location of his computpad which he had feared to take with him that morning and had left behind in a random, vision-blocking path cycle around the main room. He snagged it on its second pass by his outstretched hand and slipped it into a cloth sack strapped under his left arm. Good. One more item and he would have all the essentials. He tip-toed across the room, checking for detect traps and other unamusing and possibly-fatal retards to his progress. “Ah,” Benjamin smiled faintly, then gently lifted up a dusty codex whose title hinted only at a romantic bodice-ripper, its vivid cover depicting a pink-clad damsel succumbing to some beak-nosed, large-pectoraled dark-haired man. Benjamin scanned the tome twice before shoving it in the duffle. That was it. He retraced his steps until he was once more standing by the outer door. Perhaps his enemies were not as omnipotent as he had begun to fear. Still, he dared not underestimate their resources.
One more scan, instrumental and visual, and he would be gone. The first three days here had given Benjamin many good memories. The gear he was about to leave behind had granted him even more. Half of his most recent life was bound up in this now ruined and destroyed garbage, but he would be angry and grieve later. “Aye,” he breathed again. That mark had not been there before. Benjamin studied the small, red stamping—like a signature chop—that floated just left of the room’s fireplace. If he tried to look at it directly, it disappeared, leaving just blank wall. Only when he shifted his vision and tilted his head slightly right, could he see it. “Clever.” It had definitely not been there before this morning, and, since seeing it required his peripheral vision, he still could not take in any details. Red horns? Yes, the chop was an image of some creature with red, curved horns and very long teeth—like a sabre-toothed cat crossed with an Irish Elk. Not the sort of thing one wished to meet in a dark alley or even a public boulevard. Shivering only slightly, Benjamin stepped out of the room, gently closed the door and made tracks.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Second entry for The Watchers, Enjoy and give me feedback.
Shepherd Benjamin saw himself as a quiet scholar, a seeker of truth and the higher planes of existence. He do not care for the thrills or dangers of violence, but this was inhospitable and unprovoked! He tapped his staff against the doorstile, stepped back in front of the doorway, pointed the staff’s end into the interior, closed his eyes and spoke a few, seldom-used phrases. The flashes of light that followed were all any mid-summer festival could have hoped for in pyrotechnics. Screams and grinding metal sounds preceded a break-building explosion. He shivered. “Ugh!” The place still stank. He turned and walked away, mumbling brief prayers for the souls of the sapient beings his staff had just turned to ash.
When he reached the far side of the fountain, the beggar girl moved in beside him, matching her pace to his own. “That was impressive,” she enthused. “What happened to those inside?”
Benjamin stopped and took a deep breath, letting the clean, stenchless air he was now moving through his lungs linger in his nose and throat. “I am afraid that all those inside were overly sensitive to light. It is possible that they separated.”
“Separated? Life force from body?”
“Indeed. Their bodies have departed. I know not where their life forces now reside.”
“You use strange verbs, holy man.”
He chuckled, allowing himself a nervous look at his most-recent savior. “You have a strange way of understanding them. Thanks for the warning …and the flash bomb.”
The girl gave him a brief, fierce look then shrugged and cupped her right stump in her left hand and rubbed. Head tilted back slightly, she returned his look in the same manner as before. “Where do you go now, holy man?” she asked.
“Back to my lodging, I guess.”
“You do not wish to examine the place you just incinerated?” she asked.
“Hmm. Had not considered that.” Benjamin stopped, turned around and studied the worship house. It appeared unchanged except for faint streams of pale smoke that continued to drift from the doorway and several small, shattered windows set in its upper dome. Nothing now would be alive inside—not even the elders he had sought—if they had yet been resident. No, he needed the fresh air and these clean, sanded streets, not rooms half-filled with burnt meat. “No, child. I think I have done enough here.”
“Then I shall,” the girl answered, and left him. He watched her skip and weave her way back to the entry, tapping the fountain’s basin edge with her good hand as she passed it and whistling a simple melody that he was sure he knew but could not at that moment place. She waved to him once, then disappeared inside.
“‘You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din,’” he quoted, sighed and resumed his retreat as the fire sirens began scream their warnings. It was only the next day that he realized that the girl’s melody was Bach’s “That Sheep Might Safely Graze.”
Shepherd Benjamin saw himself as a quiet scholar, a seeker of truth and the higher planes of existence. He do not care for the thrills or dangers of violence, but this was inhospitable and unprovoked! He tapped his staff against the doorstile, stepped back in front of the doorway, pointed the staff’s end into the interior, closed his eyes and spoke a few, seldom-used phrases. The flashes of light that followed were all any mid-summer festival could have hoped for in pyrotechnics. Screams and grinding metal sounds preceded a break-building explosion. He shivered. “Ugh!” The place still stank. He turned and walked away, mumbling brief prayers for the souls of the sapient beings his staff had just turned to ash.
When he reached the far side of the fountain, the beggar girl moved in beside him, matching her pace to his own. “That was impressive,” she enthused. “What happened to those inside?”
Benjamin stopped and took a deep breath, letting the clean, stenchless air he was now moving through his lungs linger in his nose and throat. “I am afraid that all those inside were overly sensitive to light. It is possible that they separated.”
“Separated? Life force from body?”
“Indeed. Their bodies have departed. I know not where their life forces now reside.”
“You use strange verbs, holy man.”
He chuckled, allowing himself a nervous look at his most-recent savior. “You have a strange way of understanding them. Thanks for the warning …and the flash bomb.”
The girl gave him a brief, fierce look then shrugged and cupped her right stump in her left hand and rubbed. Head tilted back slightly, she returned his look in the same manner as before. “Where do you go now, holy man?” she asked.
“Back to my lodging, I guess.”
“You do not wish to examine the place you just incinerated?” she asked.
“Hmm. Had not considered that.” Benjamin stopped, turned around and studied the worship house. It appeared unchanged except for faint streams of pale smoke that continued to drift from the doorway and several small, shattered windows set in its upper dome. Nothing now would be alive inside—not even the elders he had sought—if they had yet been resident. No, he needed the fresh air and these clean, sanded streets, not rooms half-filled with burnt meat. “No, child. I think I have done enough here.”
“Then I shall,” the girl answered, and left him. He watched her skip and weave her way back to the entry, tapping the fountain’s basin edge with her good hand as she passed it and whistling a simple melody that he was sure he knew but could not at that moment place. She waved to him once, then disappeared inside.
“‘You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din,’” he quoted, sighed and resumed his retreat as the fire sirens began scream their warnings. It was only the next day that he realized that the girl’s melody was Bach’s “That Sheep Might Safely Graze.”
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Plug for book
I will start this with an unabashed plug for my first book (The Golden Horn, published August 2007, ISBN: 1-4241-8927-6, Available from the publisher, PublishAmerica, or through Amazon, or at the Waldens in the Fairlane Mall, Pottsville, or the bookstore at the Schuylkill Campus of Penn State)."In the Balkan country of Starnovia, a land of roses and dust, memories and hatreds run deep, and poor families sell their daughters to city brothels. Here, over one long summer, an American boy and a Starnovian girl discover the power of truth and love.
"For Jim Gailey, the excavation of the ancient fortress of Castelschtop begans as just a job to earn extra college credits. But for Jonnie Gilenhoff, the native girl he rescues from a bar and hires as his assistant, the archaeological dig means far more—for it promises of a new future for both her country and herself.
"As the excavating progresses, Jim and Jonnie struggle to maintain proprieties yet help each other. A death vendetta, ancient lies, stolen equipment and growing affection all come together in a fatal climax, sparked by the recovery of a national treasure believed lost in an invasion 300 years earlier."
Sales have been good, reviews have been helpful and positive. Perhaps its biggest problem is finding a niche. Is it YA, crossover or adult? Is it an adventure, a coming-of-age story, a mystery or a romance? Is it a guy-book- or chick-lit? Have it any way you like, because it is all of these. If you have read it, let me know your thoughts. I am open to any feedback and suggestions.
For my next entry, I will share a little something that might be appropriate for the coming Halloween season.
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