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Showing posts with label Personal Favorite 2025. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal Favorite 2025. Show all posts
But something more than instinct was guiding her trip...
Night was a shield for those who needed it, and kept secrets better than a best friend ever could. It protected, and at the same time, left the weak more vulnerable.
Kiamichis Mountains, Oklahoma
Adam was looking out the window, his eyes narrowing sharply as he squinted against the light. Franklin thought that Adam looked a lot like his father. Same strong face—same far-seeing expression in his eyes, but he was taller and more muscular. And he’d been beyond the Kiamichis. He’d lived a warrior’s life for the United States government. Franklin set his coffee cup aside, folded his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes. It was good that Adam Two Eagles had come home.
Within an hour after arriving back at his home, Adam began the preparations. He drank some water before going out to ready the sweat lodge. On the way down the hillside, he got work gloves from the tool shed and a small hatchet from a shelf. A sense of peace came over him as he worked, gathering wood and patching a small hole in the lodge. Tonight, he would begin the ceremony.
If Franklin and Leila had made a baby together, the Old Ones would find it. He hurried back to the house, gathering everything he needed, then walked back to the small lodge above the creek bank. He undressed with care, shedding his clothes a layer at a time. By the time he’d dropped his last garment, a slight breeze had come up, lifting his hair away from his face and cooling the sweat beading on his body. The first star of the evening was just visible when he looked up at the sky. He checked the fire. Ideally, there would be someone outside the lodge continuing to feed the fire, but not tonight. Tonight the fire that he’d already built would serve the purpose. He lifted the flap and crawled in. Within seconds, he was covered in sweat. He sat down cross-legged, letting his arms and hands rest on his knees. With a slow, even rhythm he breathed in and breathed out. Then he closed his eyes and began to chant. The words were almost as old as the land on which he sat. The hours passed and the moon that had been hanging high in the sky, was more than halfway through its slow descent to the horizon. Morning was but an hour or so away. Inside the sweat lodge, all the words had been said. All the prayers had been prayed. Adam was ready. He crawled out of the lodge. When he stood, the muscles in his legs tried to cramp, but he walked them out as he then moved behind the lodge and laid another stick of wood on the fire. With the sweat drying swiftly on his skin and his mind and body free from impurities, he reached into his pack and took out the carving, as well as the hairs he’d cut from Franklin’s head. Some might have called it a prayer—others might have said it was a chant—but the words Adam spoke were a call to the Old Ones. The rhythm of the syllables rolled off Adam’s tongue like a song.
The log he’d laid on the fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the air. Adam felt the prick of heat from one as it landed on his skin, but he didn’t flinch. Still wrapped in the cloak of darkness, he lifted his arms to the heavens and began to dance. Dust and ashes rose up from the ground, coating his feet and legs as he moved in and out of the shadows around the fire. He danced and he sang until his heartbeat matched the rhythm of his feet. The wind rose, whistling through the trees in a thin, constant wail, sucking the hair from the back of his neck and then swirling it about his face. They were coming. He tossed the owl and the hairs into the fire, and then lifted his hands above his head. As he did, there was what he could only describe as an absence of air. He could still breathe, but he was unable to move. The great warriors manifested themselves within the smoke, using it to coat the shapes of what they’d once been. They came mounted on spirit horses with eyes of fire. The horses stomped and reared, inhaling showers of sparks that had been following the column of smoke, and exhaling what appeared to be stars. One warrior wore a war bonnet so long that it dragged beneath the ghost horse’s feet. Another was wrapped in the skin of a bear, with the mark of the claw painted on his chest. The third horse had a black handprint on its flank, while matching handprints of white were on the old warrior’s cheeks. The last one rode naked on a horse of pure white. The wrinkles in his face were as many as the rivers of the earth. His gray hair so long that it appeared tangled in the horse’s mane and tail, making it difficult to tell where man ended and horse began. They spoke in unison, with the sounds getting lost in the whirlwind that brought them, and yet Adam knew what they’d said. They would help. As he watched, one by one, they reached into the fire and took a piece of Franklin’s essence to help them with their search.
Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, they were gone. Adam dropped to his knees, then passed out.
~~~
It was wonderful to again connect with Sharon Sala on Facebook... I have missed interacting with my many friends there... Now, it seems so different since I essentially had to start over... I've ordered Sharon's upcoming book, but I am so happy I got Rider on Fire to start back reading her wonderful books...
This multi-genre book starts as a thriller as a DEA Agent, Sonora Jordan deals with her life as a child who was "dumped" the day after she was born... A child who never knew who she was...
DEA agent Sonora Jordan was running after a drug dealer when she fell into the twilight zone. One moment she was inches away from grabbing her perp, Enrique Garcia, and the next her gun went flying as she fell flat on her face.
The shot that would have hit her square in the back went flying over her head. Instead of the heat and dust of Mexico, she was in the shade of a forest and hearing the sound of moving water from somewhere up ahead.
She lifted her head, and as she did, she saw a tall, older man standing on the porch of a single-story dwelling that was surrounded by trees. His skin was brown, and his hair was long and peppered with gray. There was a wind chime hanging by his head that looked like a Native American dream catcher. The chimes were different shapes of feathers. It was so foreign to anything she knew, she couldn’t imagine why she would be hallucinating about it and wondered if she was dead. The man lifted his hand, and as he did, she had the strongest urge to wave back, but she couldn’t seem to move. She couldn’t see his face clearly, yet she knew that he was crying. A sad, empty feeling hit her belly and then swallowed her whole.
By the time she realized she wasn’t dead, only face down in the dirt, the vision was gone. If that wasn’t enough humiliation, her perp was nowhere in sight. “Oh crap,” she muttered, then breathed easier when she saw Agent Dave Wills coming back with the perp she’d been chasing. Garcia was handcuffed and cursing at the top of his voice.
~~~
Sonora had grown up essentially, alone, even though she had people monitoring her as an orphan... She would be placed in homes of one sort or another, but she only speaks of one particular foster mother who would lock her up every time a man came to visit... She could hear the two adults, but didn't understand what was happening... After years, she had become afraid of the dark, which has never left her, even while she had grown to become one of the best agents in her DEA section...
She was last involved with the Garcia family, a drug cartel from South America, led by the oldest living son. During the DEA raid, two brothers were taken, one of whom was killed--by Sonora. Garcia came on the hunt, immediately pledging retribution--funny, isn't it, how criminals feel that being caught should result in retribution even though they were the ones doing something illegal... In any event, DEA officials soon learned that he was now in the U.S. and told Sonora she would have to leave the area... Of course, Sonora resented this. But, on the other hand, she soon began to believe it was a good thing...
And it had to do with the vision that had occurred during the fight with the two Garcia brothers... Of course she had no where she could or should go, so she went to a world map and started drawing a line, until she felt it was time to stop... She was heading to Oklahoma...
But something more than instinct was guiding her trip...
She loaded up what she could carry on her bike--but first she had to get it back from a guy she used to date. The only thing she found out much later was that he had asked to give her a message before he died... "I didn't tell him anything..." Garcia will appear once in a while as he chases her...but I'm going to switch to the "fantastic" part of her book...
You see, Sonora was not Latino as she thought; she was Kiowa. Her father was ill with cancer and he'd asked his friend to try to find her... Adam had left his tribe and joined the U.S. Military Services, but had been drawn back to his home to take the place of his father as Healer for the area. So, of course, he knew what he had to do... Adam would need to contact the Old Ones for help!
It was Adam she first met in a nearby town and it was he who suggested he follow her to where she was meant to be... I have to say, I love supernatural stories and this one is simply fascinating... You see, Sonora has found her father, her tribe, a home, and a very, very handsome Kiowa Brave--Adam--to whom she is attracted! And the feelings are very mutual, especially since Adam had been having dreams of her, not knowing who he was dreaming of... Believe me, this romance story is easily worth the purchase!
But it gets even better... As Garcia is catching up on her... As Her newly found father is feeling the pain of the cancer... And as Sonora, who was alone all of her life, is suddenly meeting two men who will be the most important men in her life, for a special happily ever after! Don't miss this one!
Sah-nay-mah aka Snake Woman with son Andrew Domebo, in Oklahoma Territory - Kiowa - 1895
(Photographer unknown)
Snake Woman (aka Bertha Sahananah) was born on the Kiowa, Comanche, and Plains Apache Reservation at Fort Sill in Indian Territory in 1875. She married Eagle Bone Whistle (aka Charley Domebo), and their first child Andrew was born in 1895. They would raise seven more children
It was exciting to find this picture of a woman of the Kiowa Snake Clan on Facebook! It "allowed" (LOL) me to share one of the supernatural events that showed that Sonora, although alone, was never alone. For, of course, Sonora was never separated from her Clan, her Tribe... And, proof was illustrated when, at 16, Sonora went with friends for a tattoo, and was drawn to one particular picture... The one below is as close as I could find of that picture... and, yes, it was placed on Sonora's back...but much longer... WOW!
God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform...
Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
EPHESIANS 4:31-32
Why do you pass judgment on your brother? Or you, why do you despise your brother? For we will all stand before the judgment seat of God; for it is written, “As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God.” So then each of us will give an account of himself to God.
ROMANS 14:10-12
What we are, and where we are is God’s providential arrangement—God’s doing, though it may be man’s misdoing; and the manly and the wise way is to look your disadvantages in the face and see what can be made out of them. --WILL SCHWALBE
I don’t want to do him any favors. I don’t want a killer in my home. Everyone should understand that, most of all God.
This book is about Truth and Lies... It's about good and evil... It's about love and hate... It's about...living!
Once again, it was interesting timing that this book was selected from my TBR long list. There was nothing I knew about the book, other than it was... available to acquire... either free or a low price. I don't even remember which... I do know that I have one fault--or blessing--depending on how you look at it. When I see a free book, I automatically get it! I can't seem to stop myself, especially as I recognize that I have NO idea of anything about the book...
Well, folks, this was a winner! Even though you may not understand until the very end... I like that kind of book--do you? That keeps the mystery, the suspense alive, page by page, wondering... Or trying to pick out clues. Well, for me, it was right before the Prologue... There were three references that were provided which are intended to share the thoughts, the reasons, that, perhaps, the author wrote the story. I was hooked immediately, even before I read one word of the book... One flaw in ebooks for me is that the software has been programmed to take the new reader directly to the first page of the book. Me, I prefer to start right at the cover, so I can ponder how that front cover is meant to convey something about the book, preferably an enticing cover that welcomes the potential reader into the world they might enter.
The Prologue was interesting, only for the fact that it introduced some main characters, and which could be misleading as well. Because the first page of the book takes place about 30 years later... where we meet the main character, who from the first day of her birth, she was told lies. Still she was able to reason herself out of those lies, like many of us now are doing, and had learned about God along the way and began her life in giving herself to the community in which she had been scorned by many... A simply fascinating character that you just might like to meet... I would!
Sleep was a phantom for Hanna for most of the night. She dozed here and there between tossing and turning. For the first time that she could remember, she was relieved when the alarm went off. Rubbing her eyes, she threw off the sheet and sat up. Stretching mightily, “Ow, ow, ow” squeaked out when the side she’d bruised yesterday protested painfully. After the stiffness and discomfort eased, in a few minutes, she felt ready to get up and face the day. On Saturday mornings, she’d meet with her best friend, Amanda, for a brisk walk. Mandy lived a block over and would walk to pick up Hanna. She strode into the bathroom, yawning, then rinsed off her face and pulled on her workout gear. The doorbell rang; Mandy was always on time. Hanna grabbed her phone, shoes, and socks and trotted to the front door. “Sorry I’m a tad late,” Hanna said as she pulled the door open. “I didn’t sleep very well.” Mandy stretched. “That’s okay, I’m moving slow this morning myself.” Hanna closed the door and sat on the porch bench to put on her shoes. “Why are you moving slow today? Missing Brody?” Mandy’s husband was a cycling coach, currently riding in Europe with his team. “Yeah, that. But we had a good Zoom call yesterday. What kept me awake is I’m worried about Edda. Losing sleep over it.” Hanna looked up from her laces. “Edda? Why? She’s the most stable, reliable person I know.” “Maybe. But she met some guy online, and I think she’s being bamboozled.” “Online?” Hanna almost laughed, the thought of Edda being caught up in Tinder or Match.com being so absurd. Mandy’s face made the laugh die in her throat. “That doesn’t sound like Edda.” Hanna tied her laces, grabbed her phone, and stood. Mandy leaned against one of the porch pillars, tension stiffening her shoulders. “It doesn’t. Apparently, it’s been going on awhile. I thought she was a little distracted lately. I wished I had pressed her on it awhile ago. But . . .” “You didn’t want to meddle?” “I’m more than her boss. I’m her friend. I should have meddled.” “So, how’d you find out?” “I caught her on the laptop in a chat room. It was like pulling teeth to get her to tell me what was going on. She said the person contacted her on the memorial website she set up for Bobby.” “What were they chatting about?” “At first she thought the guy was struggling with addiction, like Bobby. Now she’s not sure. All she would say was that she thought someone was pretending, and she wanted to find out who it was.” “Pretending?” Hanna slapped her forehead. “Edda sent me an e-mail, said she wanted to talk.” “About what?” “Legal help, I think. I never responded. Right after I read the e-mail, I was interrupted. I forgot all about it.” “Well, talk to her. Her son’s death really hurt. She’s not over it, and if someone got ahold of her online and is trying to take advantage, they need to be stopped. What if she thinks she found Bobby’s dealer?” “Why would you say that?” “No specific reason. I’m just worried. I should have paid more attention.” Hanna took a step and stood next to Mandy. “Agreed. I should have answered her e-mail.” She couldn’t remember the exact wording of the e-mail now. Could Edda have been trying to find the man responsible for Bobby’s death, or was it something more dangerous? “Yeah, I’m hoping you’ll talk to her and maybe look into this guy she’s been conversing with.” “Consider it done. I’ll drop by for a visit after church tomorrow. Ready?” Mandy nodded and together they hopped off the porch. She changed the subject. “I know you had quite a day yesterday. Braden is a handful for any babysitter.” News always traveled fast in Dry Oaks. It was no surprise that Mandy knew about the incident. “Yeah, the boy has endless energy. I hope that accidently falling from a cliff is the extent of his mischievousness.” Falling into step with Amanda, they headed for the local high school to walk the track. Saturday was a light day for both of them. Amanda was an avid cyclist. Hanna’s exercise of choice was running, and a normal run for her was around six miles. To mix it up, on Tuesdays and Thursdays she swam in the local pool. While vigorous exercise always helped clear her head, Saturday was a welcome break. The pleasant easy walk and chat with Mandy helped center Hanna, especially when the workweek had been tough. She was certain she did the same for Mandy. Her friend ran a local crisis pregnancy center, and often Hanna could feel the hurt and sadness radiating from Mandy. Too many young women saw abortion as the only option, and it weighed on Mandy and, to a certain extent, Hanna as well. Saving and protecting the innocent was a central reason she went into law enforcement. This morning, the most pressing thing on Hanna’s mind was Joe. Mandy was more than Hanna’s friend. She and her grandparents were family to Hanna. Joe murdered Mandy’s parents. How could his probable release not affect her? Hanna wasn’t certain how to broach the subject. “Braden only suffered a broken arm?” Mandy asked. “Yeah, besides that, just bumps and bruises. He got lucky.” “Did he say how he ended up on the ledge?” “Chasing the dog, who was chasing a squirrel. Cassidy couldn’t keep up.” “Hmph.” For a few minutes, they walked in companionable silence. Hanna had the sense that something was on Mandy’s mind. Was it still Edda? “Sounds like there is more to follow,” Hanna said. “Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s certainly not a Christian thought. It’s the Buckleys. Well, it seems sometimes as if they are cursed.” “Cursed?” Mandy waved her hand. “I know, I know, we don’t believe in curses. But so much tragedy for that family. First Chase, then Chase’s son, then Braden’s mother, then Scott . . .” “As a law enforcement officer, I could say there is nothing cursed about it. Just a lot of bad life decisions and unfortunate situations. Chase hung with the wrong crowd, his son was an unfortunate victim of a motorcycle accident, and Braden’s mother never had both feet on the ground—” “Okay, okay, I hate it when you get all official and pragmatic on me. Whatever the reason, it’s sad. And I hope this tumble is the worst thing that happens to Braden for a good long time.” They started their first lap around the track. Hanna could never do this boring type of workout without Mandy. “Speaking of bad things and curses,” Hanna began, “I got a strange visit yesterday.” “Visit? From whom?” “The Department of Corrections.” “What?” Mandy stopped, and so did Hanna, a couple of feet ahead of her. She turned back. “Did he die?” Mouth half open, Hanna looked at her friend. Was there hope in that question or sorrow? She shook her head. “Not yet. But he is dying. Cancer. They want to grant him compassionate parole.” Mandy frowned. “Huh? What is that, how would it work?” Hanna shrugged and started walking again, and Mandy hurried to catch up. “They want to send him to me. On hospice.” “You’re kidding.” “I wish I was. My answer is no. I’m too busy. Running a PD means I’m at work most of the time, for heaven’s sake. I don’t even have time for a dog. Besides, he’s really nothing to me.” Mandy grabbed her arm and they stopped again. “Don’t tell them no, Hanna. Don’t.” “What? Why not?” “Because. He’s at the end. Maybe he’ll finally do the right thing and tell me where my parents are.” Hanna saw desperate hope in her friend’s eyes. Surprise hit like a blow. “Wow.” “What?” “I never looked at it that way, from your perspective. I—” The sound of a car pulling into the school parking lot stopped her. It was a county car. Nathan. That he was here, now, meant not-good news. Mandy jerked around and followed her gaze. “I sincerely hope he just misses you.” Nathan got out and walked toward them. He looked tired. His clothes were rumpled, and the shadow of a beard darkened his jawline. Hanna bet he’d not been to sleep yet. “Good morning. I thought I’d find you two here,” he said as he approached. “What gives? You look like you’re the bearer of bad news.” Hanna tried to keep her tone light even as her stomach turned. He nodded, expression grim. “Afraid I am.” He looked away from Hanna, and his voice softened. “Mandy, we found a body last night. Another woman.” Nathan took a deep breath. “There is no easy way to say this. It was Edda.” “Huh?” Hanna felt as if all breath left her body. Auntie Edda? The pain she felt was real and ragged, but she held on to her emotions and watched the color drain from Mandy’s face. Reflexively, she reached out and gripped her friend’s elbow. “You’re sure?” Mandy asked, voice soft, unsteady. “As sure as I can be. I talked to her enough. I know her son is gone. Is there any other family I need to notify? News agencies were all over the scene. I don’t want any of her family to find out from a news broadcast.” Mandy shook her head. “Her husband passed a while ago. She spoke of a niece in another state, but how close they were, I’m not certain.” Her voice broke, and Hanna felt for her friend. Then Mandy seemed to brace herself and swallow the tears. “I know who did it.” She folded her arms, anger rapidly replacing grief. “I tried to warn her. It’s a guy she met online. Someone named Diego.”
~~~
Hanna was the town sheriff, duly elected, which was probably the strangest thing if you didn't get to know the town and who they might vote for. Because Hanna's father was in jail for murder... But Hanna was being born on the day that a fire destroyed a meth lab and people were killed, injured, and, ultimately, Joe had confessed to it all...
What was worse was that he had planned on one last batch to have sufficient funds--he wanted to get married and welcome his child into the world with a somewhat "clean" slate... That plan never had a chance...
To make matters worse for Hanna, she had fallen in love in high school with Jared, who had even asked her to get married... thing is, he wanted to take her out into the world--and all that jazz that young boys want to do. Hanna wanted to stay in her home town, a place that had accepted her, where she felt safe... welcomed in her church and in her community. Jared left...and broke her heart... It was obvious that she saw it as just another way she could be hurt by... men... She was just now getting to know another law officer and was at least willing to see how things might go... But it was obvious that his feelings were much stronger than Hanna's. Especially when Jared came back to town, when his father died....
By that time, the truth of the past started to unwind...
Women are disappearing, seemingly having met somebody on a dating site. There was a major fire in the area--her resources were called to that catastrophe. Hanna was being sued by a former employee who was shocked when she was actually voted in as sheriff... And his misogyny couldn't accept that she was able to fire him... And he became very vocal about it around town...
That was easy to do, because there was one man who decided he was meant to spread the news in his town, whether or not it was actually true wasn't relevant. After all, he had published a book... And apparently most people in town had read the book... It was the "real" story of what happened on the night when Hanna's father had murdered people and disfigured one of the sons of the most influential family in town. Rumors were out that he was beginning to write a book from the family whose two sons had been most affected by the murder night years ago...
And even more was to be faced by Hanna... Those who controlled the prison system, had developed a program to try to lower the numbers of people in the jails. One of the options was to allow those prisoners with good records but who were now near natural death, to go home... Home? They wanted Hanna to accept a man she had never met into her home? No Way! She thought she had forgiven him, in God's name...but...
And then she talked to her best friend who had stood with her all her life. And, for the first time learned that her father supposedly murdered her parents and got rid of their bodies. She asked Hanna to agree to accept Joe into her home, so she could talk to him and see if he would tell her, finally, where their bodies were located so they, too, could be finally with their families... Hanna gave in and soon Joe was in a hospital bed, with 24-7 hospice care, in her guest bedroom...
Fortunately, the work of the sheriff didn't ever stop, so she was able to leave him there and proceed with her life... NOT...
This is an action-packed book in some ways; in others it is a book to contemplate about the primary issues we have--the difference between Truth and Lies... And what harm can be brought about through the use of lies to get what greed requires... This one became a personal favorite, for many reasons... But the main reason is the writer's ability to tell a much-needed story and still allow readers to participate in the issues displayed... Kudos!
Sample of the lovely pictures beginning each part and each chapter
I spread my hawk’s wings against the wind and I let them carry me high, until I’m soaring over the walls of St. Sebastian’s like an arrow shot from one of the boys’ bows, a fantastic shot ripping the sky. I circle around over the woods outside the walls until I can look down and see the little meadow where Tristan and I used to go, with the old broken windmill that was our place rising beyond it. I hesitate, but it’s so exhilarating to fly, I keep climbing until the windmill is just a speck below me, and my wings are so strong beneath me I know there’s nothing to keep me from reaching the vast vault of heaven. I speed upward, faster now, almost reaching my goal. Before I can, something calls me back. It’s a voice, urgent and pleading, and try as I might, I can’t resist it. The sun is brilliant overhead. It must be midday, and as I circle down it’s so hot and still in the meadow that no breeze stirs its dry weeds, not even the drone of insects disturbs the perfect silence of the scene below. I circle around again, letting myself glide lazily in the scorching light of noon. Something soft, a gentle breeze, ruffles my feathers soothingly, whispering, urging me to stay, begging me not to fly away again. But the meadow isn’t sleeping. It’s hushed, as though holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. My appearance is deceptive, too. I’m alert; nervous, eager. My keen eyes are searching, looking for someone, waiting for him to appear. As I look, something does enter the meadow, but isn’t a boy. It’s a stag, a great set of antlers held gracefully aloft on its magnificent head, taking a slow, tentative step forward out of the woods, and at first I’m surprised. Then slowly I realize it’s what I’ve been waiting for, all along. As it emerges from among the trees I swoop down and let a shrill, clear cry ring out through the empty sky, and at my call, the beast lifts its head to follow my flight, mesmerized. But as I pass over the windmill, the old structure transforms until its round form becomes the tower of a castle, and a flash of light from its heights blinds me, and I begin to fall. As I do, I see a lone archer, not on the tower as I’d imagined. He’s in the cover of the greenwood at the edge of the forest. I can’t see him clearly, his face is in shadow, but he’s wearing the distinctive garb of an archer of St. Sebastian’s. He’s a flash of black, and my cries become wild alarms of danger. He’s already nocked an arrow, and he’s aimed it straight at the stag. Without thinking, I tighten my fall into a dive. I mean to warn the stag, to drive it away to safety. It’s startled, but it can’t seem to move. It stays rooted in its spot, watching me speed toward it, distracted by my flight. Despite my sharp cries it doesn’t flee, and I see the archer rise and loose his arrow. The arrow finds its mark, but it doesn’t strike the deer. Instead I’m the one falling, faster and faster, an arrow through my heart, until I land hard in the dust, back within the walls of St. Sebastian’s.
I wake with a start, as I jerk in bed at the illusion of falling, and a twinge of pain in my shoulder makes me twitch against the straw mattress under me. My eyes are closed and my head feels hot and hazy, as though I’m still lost in the strangely familiar dream, and somewhere deep in my mind a cry of danger is still echoing. There’s something I need to remember, something important, but I can’t think straight. I can’t seem to remember who or where I am, but that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s something about the dream. Somehow, I know I’ve seen the dream before and that it has something to tell me, something I desperately need to know. Something is whispering through my memory, urging me to stay, urging me to stay asleep until I can remember it. Maddeningly, the effort of trying to catch it back drives the dream further away. I put my hand up to my face to shield my eyes from a bright light that’s filtering through my closed eyelids. My fingers find the rough ridges of scars on my face, and I do remember something. I’m Marieke Verbeke, kicked by a mule at eleven years old, the ugly, scarred girl who dressed as a boy to become a squire named Marek at St. Sebastian’s. The dream is real, too. At least, there was an arrow. I was shot through the heart on the walls of Sir Brecelyn’s tower, when I stepped in front of an arrow speeding toward my father, and I died in his arms. No. I shake my head, trying to clear it. That’s not right. It wasn’t my father with me on the tower, it was Tristan. Tristan! The name flashes out in my memory, and the dazzling brightness surrounding me resolves itself into sharp rays of light that stab through the spaces between my fingers. Against my closed lids, I see his form again outlined by those shafts of light just as he was when I first saw him on the garden wall. It was Tristan whose arms were around me, Tristan whispering to me, begging me not to go. I see him again as clearly as if he were still holding me, as if the mattress pressing on my cheek were his cheek on mine, with that one lock of hair hanging down over his eyes, his usual mischievous grin replaced by the shock of grief. It was the perfect ending to my strange story with him: I died the hero, the boy who saved him, who’d served him well as his squire. It was the fulfillment of the vow I pledged to St. Sebastian to allow me to stay at the guild, my vow to see Tristan through his first year of trials without ever letting him know I was really a girl, or die trying. I finally outdid all the boys, I made a grand gesture that outdid even Tristan himself. It was the only good way my story could end. It was glorious. But my heart constricts painfully at the loss of him. Slowly, I open my eyes and look around me. All I can see is blinding white. I put my hand down to hover over my chest, to find the arrow gone. It’s as I thought. I’m whole again, and there’s only one place this can be. Despite my sins, my sacrifice and my vow must have brought me here. I should be grateful, and I am, really. But all I can think is, the place is empty. I’m alone, and Tristan isn’t here. At the thought, I feel another sharp jab of pain. Only this time, the pain is entirely real. It’s out of place. If this is paradise, I should be beyond earthly pain. Confused, I bring my hand down to the source of my discomfort, to find a bandage wrapped not over my heart, but tightly around my left shoulder. So the arrow didn’t pierce my heart. I’m not dead. My perfect ending wasn’t the end! I guess I don’t know how to go down in glory, after all. I should be wretched, finding that the saint didn’t actually help me find a way to leave St. Sebastian’s; I’m right back where I was before I climbed the tower, caught between wanting to stay and needing to leave, with no good options. I should be in despair, since there will never be as neat an ending with Tristan, and I now have no idea how it can end. Whatever happens from here, it’s going to be messy. I should be heartbroken. But I’m not. I’m alive, and I’ve never been gladder of anything. There’s nothing like dying to make you desperate to live, no matter what. And even if it means bringing down the walls of St. Sebastian’s around me, I know I’ll seek out Tristan again. That part of the dream was real, too. I’d rather fall from heaven in a heap in the dust back inside St. Sebastian’s than never see Tristan again. But I’m not at St. Sebastian’s now, and I still can’t seem to remember everything that’s happened. Where can I be? I blink my eyes and turn on my mattress, trying to see around me. There’s no sign of Tristan anywhere, and I feel panic rising in my chest. I’ve got to find him, I’ve got to get back to him, and to the others. It’s the only thought that makes any sense, and I can’t shake the feeling of danger that lingers from my vivid dream. I try to rise enough to figure out where I am, to figure out what’s happened. The wound on my shoulder is aching and the binding is tight, but I manage to raise my head enough to see that I’m in a small, spare room with whitewashed stone walls. There’s no decoration at all in the room and it’s furnished only with a small chair, table, and the cot on which I’m lying, but there’s an exterior window and the shutters are thrown open, and light is pouring in. Everything in the room is white, even the simple shift nightdress I’m wearing. It feels so strange to have my legs free, after so many months dressed in boys’ breeches. I could be a little girl again, asleep in my room in my father’s house. But the thought doesn’t comfort me. Instead, it brings me around sharply, and I finally feel awake. With a sense of alarm, I let my hand slide down from the bandage on my shoulder, to find exactly what I expected. Bare flesh below. The binding around my breasts is gone. Wherever I am, I’m a girl again. This is something I can’t be at all glad about. Suddenly a gaunt face leans over to peer down at me with a serious expression. It’s the face of an old man, and he seems to come out of nowhere, to materialize suddenly over my cot. For a moment, I think maybe I was wrong and I am dead after all, and I take a sharp inhalation of breath in my shock at meeting my maker so unexpectedly and when I’m so unprepared. I even have a moment’s guilt at the thought that what I’m thinking about at this supreme moment of judgment is boys. Then I recognize the face. “Abelard! Are you here, too?” I cry in relief, my senses still muddled. “Where would I be, but here at Vendon?” the old monk says, smiling down at me. Of course. I remember saying something about bringing my body to the abbey, to the monks here who are my friends. Only I thought they would bury me, not heal me. I guess I’m lucky that some of the brothers still practice medicine, though the church strictly speaking doesn’t encourage it anymore. I’m certainly not going to complain. “Did I startle you, Marieke? If so, it serves you right!” Abelard says, not unkindly. “Why, the shock you gave us! Imagine our surprise, when a rather unbelievable young man turns up on our doorstep with the body of a dead boy in his arms, and it turns out not to be a boy at all, but our very own Marieke, and alive, after all this time!”
“An unbelievable young man?” I repeat. Leave it to me to focus on the wrong thing. “Very handsome he was, and dressed like an archer, from St. Sebastian’s! In quite a state, too. Needless to say, nothing like it had ever happened here before. The Prior was very put out.” “Oh, Abelard! That young man! You didn’t tell him who I was, did you? You didn’t tell him I was a girl?” It’s bad enough that my perfect ending with Tristan is spoiled, but if he’s found out I’m a girl, everything is ruined. If he’s found out, I can’t go back to him. Or to St. Sebastian’s. Maybe that’s even why he isn’t here now. “He seemed to know already.” This brings me up short. I’m still dizzy, and my brain isn’t functioning properly; how could Tristan have already known? When did he find out? If he knew I was a girl, why didn’t he say anything? There’s something I’m not remembering, but I can’t think what it is. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s wrong, somehow. Tristan didn’t know, I’m sure. But Abelard is continuing: “And anyway, it soon became pretty clear.” I look up at Abelard in alarm, to see him blush. To my horror, I know exactly what he means. “Oh, don’t tell me he helped undress me!” “It seemed right at the time,” Abelard concedes sheepishly, as I fall back against the mattress, defeated. There’s no question, then. “You know, Marieke,” Abelard explains, “we’re all monks, so it seemed more fitting, and after all,” he pauses and gives me what I would think was a sly look if it was from anyone else, “from the way he was acting, we did rather think you two were, well …” he breaks off inquiringly, then seeing my expression, he adds: “I guess we were wrong.” We sit in silence for a moment, as my head throbs and I try to understand what’s happened. “I’m sorry, Marieke. Seeing to your wound, that was the important thing. And it wasn’t slight. Nobody was thinking of anything else, I can assure you. Luckily, he got you here in time.” Father Abelard reaches down and takes my hand gently in his, but I try to roll over to face the wall. I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m tired. There’ll be time, later, to hear it all. All I can think of now is: it’s all over, if Tristan knows. And if he helped undress me, he must surely know. I’d promised Tristan that there would be no more lies between us, not important ones, anyway, and now he’s found out my secret when I couldn’t explain, when I couldn’t defend myself. He must think I’ve betrayed him, that I’ve made a fool of him. Why couldn’t I just have died? “Really, I’ve never seen anyone like him,” Abelard muses, but I don’t want to hear it, until he says something that changes everything. “Yes, a most remarkable young man. Built like an ox.” And suddenly I really do remember everything. Of course! It wasn’t Tristan who brought me here. It was his half-brother Taran. I remember him, all right. The thought of him brings on another sharp jab of pain. It isn’t aching, or longing. It stings, like a slap in the face. “In fact, he’s been here every day since then …” “What?!” I cry in alarm. “How long have I been here?” “Five days.” At that, I struggle to get up. Five days, lying on this cot? I have to get up, to get back. I have to find Tristan. “Marieke!” Abelard says firmly, putting out a hand to push me gently back onto the cot. “You’ve had a serious wound. You can’t go anywhere yet. You were delirious for three days!” “Delirious?” I say stupidly, my head swimming, as I fall back heavily under his hand. “Did I, uh, say anything I shouldn’t have?” “Don’t you always?” a blunt voice answers from somewhere behind Father Abelard. I’m not good at recognizing voices, but I’d know that voice anywhere. Sure enough, Taran’s standing at the threshold, looking in. When I see him, I cry out in surprise, and despite myself my voice sounds much more eager than I intend. At the sound of my voice, he also takes a quick step forward, his face lit with what I might think was an eager expression, too, if I didn’t know him better. But I’m scowling now, and when Taran sees it, the look fades and is replaced by his usual masklike countenance. Despite the throbbing in my head, the sound of Taran’s voice and that sarcastic tone of his have brought everything rushing back. I’ve suddenly remembered begging Tristan to let Taran take me down from the tower, and asking him to bring me to the Vendon Abbey. In particular, I’ve remembered just how little Taran seemed to care that I was dying. How glad he looked, in fact. “Ah, son. I see you’re back again,” Abelard says, turning to greet Taran with a smile. “Just can’t stay away, eh? And this time, you’ll be pleased to find the patient finally doing well. Didn’t I tell you we’d have her back in good shape in no time?” “So, you’re awake,” Taran says, taking another step into the room, but not approaching the cot. “Sorry to disappoint you!” I snap. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” he says, frowning, but not coming any closer. “Don’t pretend you’re not disappointed I’m still alive! I saw the look on your face, on the tower. You couldn’t wait for me to die! I should have been more thoughtful, and died quickly! I’m so sorry to have taken up so much of your precious time, since I’m sure you had other, more pressing matters you wanted to attend to!” I’m pretty pleased with myself at remembering this taunt. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. At some point during this exchange, Father Abelard’s quietly slipped from the chair next to me, but I confess, I hardly notice him go out of the room. I’m too focused on Taran. He’s leaning up against the far wall, and after an initial angry look crosses his face, he listens to my outburst with his usual impassive demeanor. “Are you quite finished?” he says flatly. “For the love of St. Peter! I knew you weren’t dying.” When I give him a disbelieving look, he continues sarcastically, “The others all seem to believe anything you tell them. You’re a boy. You’re dying. They’d probably have believed you if you’d told them you were St. Sebastian himself! If you’d really been dying, if that arrow had really gone through your heart, you’d have been dead almost instantly. There wouldn’t have been time for all that drivel you and Tristan were spewing at each other.” I open my mouth to make a snide retort, but I can’t think of one. He’s right. I, of all people, should have known it. After all, it took my own father only minutes to die of just such a wound. But the memory of Taran’s face as he watched me die still hurts. I’m still angry about it, so I cry out indignantly, “A likely story! If you knew I wasn’t dying, why didn’t you say so?” He raises his eyebrows, and I think I see a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And let them all take off your tunic right there, and inspect your wound? Besides,” he continues, in a voice that sounds much less amused, “it would have been a pity to cut short your touching scene with DuBois. It was all very moving. The ‘arrows won’t kill me’ bit was particularly inspired.” “And all too true, apparently.” It’s all I can manage. “So it would seem.” I turn my head to face the wall to hide my confusion. Everything he’s saying is true. If he hadn’t played along and pretended to think I was dying, I would have been discovered as a girl right then and there. But I’m still furious with him. I can picture his face when our eyes met on the tower, and I can feel again the squeeze of pain I felt when I saw how little he cared that I was slipping away. I can’t shake the feeling. It’s as though I’ve carried that image with me to the grave. “I was wounded! How could you be so sure I wouldn’t die?” “I, for one, had good reason to know just how much padding you wrap around your chest.” “Surely that binding alone couldn’t have stopped the arrow,” I say, forgetting my anger for a minute, wondering just how I did manage to survive an arrow at point-blank range. “No. Not alone.
But it wasn’t the only thing you had strapped around your chest.” He points to the table by my bed, and when I turned to look, I see my St. Sebastian’s medal, dented and twisted, lying next to me. So the arrow hit the medal. I was right all along: St. Sebastian isn’t subtle. It’s the oldest trick in the book. St. Sebastian isn’t done with me, after all. “You had that medal pushed down between the layers of that blasted binding you wear. The arrow pushed it hard against the padding on your chest. The force of the blow seems to have knocked the senses out of you, and it certainly gave you a nasty bruise.” He falters for a moment when I drop my eyes, and I know we’re both thinking about just how he knows this. When a blush starts to creep up my neck, he continues hurriedly, “The point slid up and into your shoulder, too. You’ve got a pretty big cut just below the armpit on that side. I imagine it did feel like you were dying. With that arrow stuck tight in place by your bindings, it looked like it, too. And for some reason, you also seemed rather eager to believe it.” “What about the others? What did you tell them?” I ask, ignoring the question his last words imply. “Nothing. They all think you’re dead.” “By the Saint! It’s been five days! Why haven’t you told them I’m alive?” I cry, struggling to get into a sitting position, ready to fly out the door and find Tristan. Five days! It’s not just the thought of what Tristan must be feeling, believing me dead, that propels me. It’s also the irrational thought that maybe he’s already forgotten me, that every minute is taking me further away from him, and that he’s going on without me. But when I sit up the room spins, and I have to grip the edge of the cot to stay upright.
“It’s all rather tricky, isn’t it?’ Taran is saying, frowning down at me. “Here, you’re a girl named Marieke. Until you’re healed, it’s better nobody knows where you are, isn’t it? It wouldn’t do to have half the guild trying to get in here.” He pauses, and then continues in a different tone. “That’s not the only reason,” he says slowly. “I thought it was up to you to decide. I rather got the impression you were planning to leave. Now you can, with no questions asked. You’re free and clear. You can be a girl again.” “Ugh! You should have just let me die!” I cry disingenuously, putting a hand to my temple. “You weren’t dying.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I speak again, I’m talking to myself as much as to Taran. “Why on earth would I want to be a girl again? What is there for me as a girl, anyway?” “Father Abelard could find you a position.” “What could I do?” I say bitterly. “Be a scullery maid? Work in a field? Even a brothel wouldn’t take me.” I open my eyes and glare at him. “How can I do any of that, after being at St. Sebastian’s? Would you want to go work in a kitchen?” “I’m not a girl.” “What does that matter?” I cry. “Why should I want to be a drudge, because of my sex? I’m a terrible cook, but I’m a damned good squire! I don’t want to knit. I want to shoot!” I know I must look ridiculous. Out of my squire’s clothes I’m finding it hard to play the part of the boy convincingly, but Taran also seems to be finding it hard to treat me with his usual contempt now that I’m dressed like a girl. Probably that ingrained notion of treating women with courtesy is too much even for him to overcome fully. I think he doesn’t know how to treat me now. He’s never been good with girls. Somehow, we both seem different, away from the guild. “Besides,” I add defiantly, “If what you’re saying is true, the saint saved me! That must mean he wants me to complete my vow, all of it, to see Tristan through to the very end. I’ve got to get back! Back to St. Sebastian’s!” “That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?” Taran says, his voice flat. “It’s about DuBois.” I can’t answer. I really don’t know. I do want to get back to Tristan. I’m desperate to get back to him, in fact. But I don’t think that’s all of it, anymore. “Has it occurred to you,” he says slowly, “that if this is a message from St. Sebastian, maybe what it means is that he’s giving you a second chance? He’s giving you a chance to end things differently, a chance to try being a girl again? Don’t you owe it to the saint, owe it to yourself, to give it a try? Don’t you think it would be the best — the best for him, for you, and for the guild?”
~~~
Marek/Marieke was saved by her St. Sebastian medal, now twisted and bent, along with her bindings around her chest...She is now in the Abbey with Father Abelard in attendance as she wakes for the first time after 5 days... She was slowly remembering when Father Abelard mentioned the young man who had brought her to the Abbey. At first, she panicked, thinking it had been Tristan, her Journey for whom she was a squire. But, instead, as she remembered, she had asked Taran to bring her to the Abbey for burial, but he had gotten her there so quickly that they were able to save her. Thankfully, they were of those who had decided to continue the use of medicinal help even though the church was now against it...
And there, readers, you will meet the two individuals, Marieke and Taran, who will be with you throughout the entire series, as one of the most frustrating, extraordinary, and yet, heartbreaking lust/love plots that I personally had ever read...
What do I care if your face is ugly or beautiful? What’s it to me? What does it matter that it’s always wearing a scowl, or gaping to say something intensely irritating, or that I can’t bear to see it one more minute, looking up at him? It’s the face I see when I close my eyes, it’s the one I want to see when I open them, it’s the one I’m always looking for, the one I can’t forget. I want to slap it, kiss it, throttle it, hold it in my hands and never let it go. It’s the only one I feel anything about. It’s the one I feel everything about. What’s it to me? It’s yours.
Personally I had no problem believing what this poem which was written in a secret contest was meant to portray... But then, I've watched the plot thicken already and am quite clear in my assumption. By the last book, if I'm wrong, I will be very disappointed! LOL
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Let's step back and talk about the relationship between a squire and his Journey... They are with each other constantly and in all ways working toward the instructional development of the Journey, especially as they arrive at competition times... Tristant is an openly friend man, once he had found his new squire, Marek... Marek in turn, along with Tristan, was for the first time in her life, surrounded by beautiful boys, often in various states of dress. Marek found she was responding. Tristan was so beautiful and, frankly, sexy... But as their relationship had developed and he started calling her his little brother, Marek found her emotional relationship had become predominant--Tristant was more like a brother or, a younger replacement for her beloved father... most of the time...
Not so with Taran... Their eyes would meet and connect... There were times of friendship developing... But now, Taran was the only boy in the Guild that knew she was a girl! Mostly by the realization that Marek was not going to die, but needed medical attention--his having to remove her clothes, rather than having Father Abelard forced to do it... There is at least one other incident when Marek thought she was totally alone to bathe in a nearby pond, only to have Taran watching her... In fact, he would often be around where she would catch him... There was no doubt that her thoughts about Taran were not for a family member... And, readers will know how he feels as well...
But it got complicated... Taran was betrothed into a marriage alliance about which he had no control. Well, readers will be privy to all those private moments where the two were loving or hating... Because no way around it, Tristan and Taran were enemies... Half-Brothers... Worse, their father impregnated both his wife and a lover at the same time and bragged about it to everybody...with no shame! The shame was there, however, for both Taran and Tristan... And while Tristan received financial support for the Guild, Tristan had no real standing in the world in which his father lived--the aristocracy... And, when he met his brother's betrothed, he did not know of that arrangement...Nor did he plan to fall deeply in life with Taran's intended...
In fact, despite this being a Guild based upon a Saint of the Catholic Church, there was always two vices--drinking and sexual exploits on the minds of the boys...and...men... at that time. One minor point, though, I assumed since the Abbey made wine for sale... My guess is that water had already been discovered to be dangerous to actually drink during these times... Thus the wine... often to excess... But that didn't explain the dozens of sexual encounters (briefly described, most of the time)...
In any event, as Marek moved closer to being fully healed and able to leave the Abbey, she wound up being taken to the local convent... I could be wrong, but I don't think Marek lasted there more than a day! LOL I empathized with her... Soon she was on her way back to all of her friends at Saint Sebastian's! Returning to her routine duties, once all of the Journeys and Squires had welcomed her back "from the dead!"
Soon, however, she was to learn that a certain visitor to the Guild was a man whose voice sounded very much like the man who had killed her father... Soon, a prime reason for coming to Sebastian's was to learn more about her father--both his early life and who had killed him. Now the investigation would become a priority when this man was to host a visit of the School members to his home... and will continue on through the books. More and more was coming out that an execution of, possibly the prince was to occur... during the scheduled competition. More of the conspiracy that Marieke had heard from the men who killed her father, was being rumored and spreading...
At the same time, assumed to be a rumor as well, a plague was spreading...from Rome to France. Soon a cultish religious group, the “Flagellants,” were marching through town, blood dripping from some as they attempted to ward off the plague's coming... If you don't know about this group, check it out...I'm not going into detail...
Those at St. Sebastian's believed that they would be safe--be saved by their patron saint... It depends upon how you look at it... The Guild was within a walled area... Yet, when the plague, indeed, arrived, all of the community members were in danger and deaths started immediately... And, finally, those community members decided that if the Guild was not going to help people outside, then they would move inside those walls!
Everybody within the Guild took turns guarding the walls, but that soon was not enough... The Guild's Master contacted a friend who owned a castle and the entire residents of the Guild moved there for the duration. When they finally returned, great damage had been done. The only thing that had not been destroyed was the painting of Saint Sebastian but one arrow had been shot into one of his eyes... Everybody began to work to rebuild, but finally more men were brought in and the journeys and squires once again began to daily practice to prepare for the mandatory money-making trials which would be used to not only entertain, but select those Journeys who would be moving forward if they won...
Marek is such a treat for readers, especially for women... Even as one of the smallest "boys" in service, her knowledge and basic intuition has made her influential in many ways. She begins to help in the shop, putting forth the arrows faster than anybody else. She supports her Journey, even when he goes off on tangents and conducts himself as less than a Journeyman should... She interacts with all the squires on a personal basis, willing to help others and even starts to train them--although her initiative is frowned upon by the Head Master...
And, as the second book ends, even with all the turmoil she has gone through, Marieke admits, at least to herself, that she's in love with Taran...
Historical lovers...this series is for you. A personal note: one review I read commented that the language used was too modern... While this may be true, for me, it was perfect. I avoid fantasies, for instance, where names and language is "created" to fit their concept of what their fantasy requires... I find these books tedious and with little opportunity to fall into the story as opposed to having to be learning the language as we read... Roland uses all the technical language correctly. That, to me, is most important. And, the complexity and melodrama that she presents to us requires close attention to detail. I, for one, was glad I didn't also have to contend with some strange medieval words/phrases... Her characters are all delightful and effectively presented as individuals with a deep love for the Guild and others with whom they dwell... The only very small problem I found was that, in typing the manuscripts, two words were often transposed (these would never be found by spellcheck or grammarcheck) A Content Editor or proofreader must read the content to discover these...Small blips which do not detract from the storyline...
Look for Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian coming next...
The lyre player returns... I've not been able to find any songs with words from the book but there several in the book, which I will share at least one... clearly to supplement the story...
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