Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian III - by Jeanne Roland - Personal Favorite 2025 - Melodrama at its Finest!

Forgive my move from totally medieval... I so enjoyed the lyre music that I wanted to also hear songs with which I was acquainted...LOL

Upon finishing Masters late last night, my first and immediate thought was to begin my review of this book with some thoughts on Melodrama. I had already read, somewhere, that Roland loved melodrama, so I knew exactly what to expect--or thought I did... You know... Think Soap Operas... At least that is what they used to call them. Those daily portions of an ongoing story that are fed to, mostly women, all over the world... My mother, my cousin...you get the idea...there were always fans who would stop everything each day to watch "my story..." LOL Seriously? Truthfully, I rarely watched unless I was forced to, by being at somebody's house visiting and would have to stop all activities, at least until The Guiding Light or whatever, was over...

But the storyline wasn't necessarily the issue... As an avid reader of books on all things, I got used to a finale--a climatic completion, most of the time totally satisfactory, even if I wasn't a fan of the book itself. A writer had written a good story, which may or may not have met my personal preferences. I acknowledged that and would evaluate the book on merit as opposed to opinion... Now, as my posting to the right says, I include not only my merit review but my personal opinion... and I normally purchase all of the books I now review.

As you have seen, I read straight through this trilogy, often losing sleep to finish and move on, needing to know what was coming... Until I came to Masters... The ending did not satisfy... BUT, I started searching and learned that the author is writing a fourth book--I am sure she realized that she could not leave her fans hanging... GUARDS is the next book!!!! Not yet published, but I am thrilled and hope that my personal desires will be ultimately met before the series ends... LOL 

This latest book is the most melodramatic of those now published! Roland has unbelievable timing in writing her stories... She ensures that at the end of the book, the reader both immediately wants to read more of the story, but, also, provides a great cliffhanger that excites and titillates the reader to look for answers that have been left hanging, at least in my mind... LOL Thus, I'll be looking for the next book due out in February if everything goes right!

Hey! Everybody! I'm now an honorary Guild Member! Me! A Girl! LOL I'll be getting the first chapter of Guards to read!

Now on to Masters!

 

A light snow must have fallen sometime earlier in the night, unnoticed by us all in our preoccupation with the evening’s more dire events, and before me now stands a perfect circle of white bathed in the light of a full moon. I’ve only seen a moon like the one that’s out tonight once before, on the night I led the squires on an outing to the convent of St. Genevieve to ask for a kiss. A witching moon the boys called it then, and I guess they were right; at least, with the icy foliage and the snow-strewn ground gleaming in the moonlight the place is so transformed from what it was during the day that I hardly recognize it. Now it’s an inviolate druid’s circle or the forbidding haunt of a faery queen, and I suppose it should be beautiful. But this place can never be anything but ugly to me, and if anyone had told me when I stumbled blindly away from here this morning that I’d ever come back willingly, or that it would now seem to me to be a place where things made sense, I’d have said he was crazy. I pluck up my courage and pick my way across the open ground, lifting each foot high and placing it down deliberately again as I go. A nervous tick has started pulsing away erratically against my wrists and behind my temples at being back here again, but when I pause to lean the bow in my hand against my leg and adjust the shooting bracer carefully on my arm, I’m not stalling. It’s just my usual routine, before taking any shot. When I’ve got the bracer positioned, I pick up my bow again. It’s a long clean, line, and holding its smooth wood feels good. It feels right. It’s something I understand, something that makes sense. I make sense, when it’s in my hand. I’m a boy again, Tristan’s squire Marek and an archer of St. Sebastian, the boy I want to be. It’s about the only thing that’s made any sense today, and right now I need to do something that makes sense, something I can know exactly how I’m supposed to feel about it. I slide an arrow out from the quiver slung across my shoulder, and roll it between my fingers. It’s one I made myself, and I don’t think I’m bragging when I say it’s as beautiful as any work of art. I’m good with my hands and I never do anything but my best work on Tristan’s equipment, and a squire always shoots with his master’s arrows. It’s a little thing, but it feels good, too, moving in my hand. I watch the thin red whipping swirl through the feathers of the fletching as I twirl the arrow, and the red bands around the shaft that are Tristan’s mark blur until they could be a smear of blood. With a deep breath, I slip the nock of the arrow onto the bowstring. Then I step to the place where Tristan fell, an unmarked arrow in his side. I know the exact spot where it happened, on the day of that fateful hunt here so long ago. I recognized it right away this morning, didn’t I, when Remy and I came out of the woods across it, by some extraordinary chance? A lucky chance for me, as it turns out, although I felt anything but lucky, then. Now even with it covered in snow I couldn’t miss it. Not after the wretched scene that followed our discovery, when all the boys spilled into the clearing behind us, to find me with a broken arrow clutched in my hand. A fresh wave of frustration and rage washes over me, although after all that’s happened since, I’m no longer sure who or what it is I’m so angry at. Myself, maybe. How could I have been running thoughtlessly through the woods to Tristan’s rival, bent on betraying Tristan, and myself? I was about to throw away everything I’d worked so long and hard to achieve for the both of us, and why? Because I’d let the girl in me be seduced. And how easily he did it! Just by letting a hawk land on my hand. At the thought of how I felt standing in Brecelyn’s field as that bird of his swooped down toward me, a flush of shame floods my cheeks. Who am I kidding? I know exactly who it is I’m really furious at. I give myself a shake. I didn’t come here to think about this morning. I came here to forget all about it. It’s time to take aim and focus on what it is I really want. So I force my mind further back, to the day Tristan was shot, and I lift my bow slowly. As I do I sight across the clearing, along the path the arrow that struck Tristan must have come in its flight. My eyes search out the hiding place where his shooter would have been concealed, waiting for his prey, and I find it easily: a fallen log, with the tall stump of a tree rising next to it, its arms outstretched. It’s not hard to imagine it’s the boy who must have stood beside it then — an archer in St. Sebastian’s garb, dressed all in black, without a spot of color to relieve the midnight of his costume. I bend my bow, and as I rise into my shot, I focus all my concentration on that stump, just as though it really were that treacherous boy, that day. As I do, in my mind I picture Tristan’s enemy and mine as he would have looked then: tall and strong, his head held high, the huge yew bow in his powerful hands trained on Tristan. He throws back his broad shoulders, and those incredible arms of his eagerly stretch his bow, straining it to the breaking point for the kill. There’s a murderous scowl blazing on his handsome face; his thick, black hair falls in a wave across his brow, his dark eyes flash with fire; his mouth curls into a triumphant sneer, as his breath comes out hot and fast through parted lips that … uh … his lips … warm, hungry lips, pressing mine … “Oh, damn it all!” 

With an exasperated cry I squeeze my eyes shut and let my arrow fly, sending it with shaking arms in a perfect shot, straight for his eye. The arrow strikes the stump with a loud thwack. It’s a very satisfying sound. To me, it sounds like finality. Okay, maybe it’s an empty gesture. But I do feel better. A little. “Gads, Marek! What a remarkable shot!” a languid voice suddenly exclaims behind me, and I jump about two feet straight into the air. I clutch my chest and stagger backward, more from shock than from fear. I’d know that impeccably accented voice anywhere. It’s Gilles, and I’m caught. I can’t believe it! I’ve managed to make a complete fool of myself on the exact same spot, twice in one day. My eyes fly open, and I whirl around. Sure enough, an elegant boy is lounging up against a tree a few feet behind me, dressed to the nines despite the hour and casually examining the fingernails of one hand in the moonlight. “But whatever do you have against stumps?” he drawls, amused. “Why, you’ve positively emasculated the poor thing!” I look back over my shoulder, to see with dismay that he’s right. My arrow is sticking out of the stump. But it’s much, much lower down on it than where anyone could picture a boy’s eye to be.,,

~~~

The hierarchy of the Guild is mandatory, filled with painful penalties on just about anything that the Masters disapprove... Using the term master begins at the lowest level. Squires refer to their Masters, the Journeys... Journeys refer to those who have become Masters, as such... But, there is only one Head Master at a time... We see even more of this cruel man as we start reading the latest book in this extraordinary and fascinating series!

When I don’t rise to his bait, Gilles doesn’t take it amiss. Needing no audience, he simply returns to his earlier theme and starts waxing lyrical about lovers again in a most grating fashion. When he starts to sing an old love ballad that echoes crazily around the hollow room I move away, not wanting to let Gilles suspect how much all his talk of lovers is getting under my skin. For some reason, I find myself gravitating over to one of the alcoves, to the place where I dragged Tristan to tend to his wound here after the hunt; to the place where I pulled the arrow out of Tristan’s body that Taran shot into him.

~~~

“In a clearing in the forest there stands a willow tree,” Charles croons, and I don’t like the song already. But I tell myself with Gilles suggesting it, it could be worse. It could be about a stump. “Beneath its bending branches you used to wait for me,” Charles warbles on. “But your heart is as fickle as clouds that ride the skies, for oh my faithless lady, you believed all their lies! Why did you give ear to idle rumors, slurs that I was fancy free? Or trust in the opinions of others over your own experience of me? How often have I proved noble, more than worthy of esteem? Oh, why didn’t you remember: things aren’t always what they seem?” My head swivels around and I look sharply over at Gilles; it’s obvious now where he got this line of his. But he’s not looking at me, and I don’t think he asked for the song to tease me. And as Charles begins the next stanza, I have to wonder why he did. Despite cutting his hair (and some of his affectations), Gilles is still a wands man. So maybe it’s as simple as that. But I doubt it. I feel myself blushing in the dark, and I look furtively around the garden to see if anyone is looking at me, embarrassed by the thought that the reproachful words of the song could somehow be meant for me. Of course, no one else is thinking about me in connection with the song. It’s a love song after all, and their heads are full of thoughts of the trials, or of their own amours. So I suppose, given the way he feels about me, it’s only natural that the one boy who is staring at me intently from across the little patch of grass is Remy. I can’t tell if the moonlight is making him romantic, or if he’s thinking about what happened between us in Brecelyn’s clearing, when we found Taran’s broken arrow and he begged me not to tell. But I bet he knows I kept that promise about as well as I’ve kept my promises to his master, and with the moon casting long, distorting shadows across his face he looks older than usual, and more serious. Hard, even, and a stray thought pops into my head, that it’s odd Remy’s never held my low opinion of his master against me. In the strange light that’s making everything look so different, it suddenly strikes me as incredible. Where another boy would hate me for it, instead Remy loves me. It must be the alcohol confusing me, since soon Armand nudges Remy and the two of them start whispering about something together, to all appearances quite happily. But as Charles’s rich tones fill the garden, I can hardly bear to hear any more of the song, or to think about what Remy’s master must be making of it, and it takes all my willpower to keep myself from looking directly over at him. "St. Sebastian’s is our family, and a merry band were we, until I found you with another, with my own guild brother — Tell me, was that kiss just to punish me?" Before Charles can finish the line, Taran’s already on his feet. He’s gotten up even more swiftly than he did from table, and just like then he turns heel and without a word to anyone he disappears into the darkness of the portico, no doubt heading inside to bed. Nobody much seems to notice; abrupt departures are nothing unusual for him, and the boys are too spellbound by the magic of the evening to pay any mind to him. Even Remy doesn’t seem to mark it, since Armand is now pestering him with some nonsense about ghosts, and the two of them are quietly arguing about it. Nobody, that is, but me. As soon as Taran is on his feet, in the same instant I’ve sprung up, too, almost as though we were connected by an invisible string. And without a thought for what he or anyone else might think about it, in a flash I dash recklessly across the garden, and I run after him. I catch up with Taran behind the vines, and as Charles is belting out the last lines of the wretched song, I’m pulling Taran back frantically by his sleeve. “When all my trials are over, dig my grave beneath that tree, with a wand as my marker, inscribed for all to see: No one ever loved her more, or did more for her than me." Taran turns to peer down at me in the dark, and as the words of the song hover in the air between us, we stand there in the portico, so frozen for a moment that again I think we could be statues in a niche, hidden from the view of the others in the garden only by a thin veil of leaves. “Taran,” I stammer breathlessly, “Taran, I … oh, Taran, I don’t, I don’t … I, oh, Taran.” And then I’m in his arms, and I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me, most violently. I don’t know how I got there — if I grabbed him, or he grabbed me. I don’t really care, since his arms are tight around me and I’m swimming in moonlight, up through the clinging vines that are sweet with scent and trembling right along with me. The blood in my veins is liquid fire and it’s moonbeams, and as I drink Taran in as deeply as I longed to do that day in the archives, his kiss is moonlight, too, and it’s fire and I’m drowning in it. As abruptly as it started, it’s over. Out in the garden the boys’ voices raise in laughter at some joke or other, and at the sudden sound my eyes fly open...

Taran’s nowhere to be seen. I’m still sitting out in the garden, with my head on Tristan’s shoulder and my back up against the base of the tree. It was just the moon playing tricks on me, and I dreamed the whole thing. I straighten up, and I wipe away the drool that’s been puddling from the corner of my mouth onto Tristan’s shoulder self-consciously. I’m burning in the dark, as disoriented as if my feet had been suddenly pulled out from under me and all the breath knocked out of me; I’m only vaguely aware of Tristan now drawling amusedly over my head, “It’s dashed ungrammatical, too, isn’t it? It really should be ‘no one did more for her than I,” and as the boys all laugh again, I struggle back to reality: I’ve been slumped out here under a tree drunkenly slavering over Taran, while he’s surely back in his room, lying face-down on his cot with his face buried in that sea-foam green veil of my sister’s. But I don’t let it upset me unduly. I really don’t. On a night like this, anyone can slip. I am a little drunk, and no one can control what he thinks in his sleep. Besides, I’ve already admitted to myself that I’m in love with him. The full moon comes around only once a month; by morning it will be gone, and with it all its cruel fantasies. So I force myself to settle back into enjoying what’s left of the evening, and I think I manage it pretty admirably, although some of its charm has understandably palled for me. What stays with me the longest isn’t the humiliation of it, or even annoyance at myself that I haven’t really managed to forget about that almost-kiss of Taran’s, since it’s not hard to figure out what inspired the dream. It’s the chastising words of Gilles’s song. And it’s that the feeling I had in my dream that there was something I was desperate to tell Taran is still lingering — only now that I’m awake, I’m no longer sure exactly what it is. With the competitions starting up again in earnest, I know I’ll never really have a chance to thank Taran for saving me on the tower, or find a way to tell him that I no longer think quite so badly of him. But I have a niggling feeling that whatever my dream-self was about to say to Taran there under the vines was something more than either of those things. Gilles interrupts my meditations not much later, by giving me another meaningful prod with the toe of his boot. When he proceeds to drawl down at me sourly, “A lovers’ moon, indeed! What a pity, Marek, it’s turned out all along just to be Aristide’s,” all I can do is agree. And with that, I’m more than ready to go in. I cast one last baleful look up at the brilliant moon. It’s so huge and bright, it could be the eye of our Saint himself, keeping tabs on me. So I lift my arms in that motion that’s like I’m aiming to shoot down the moon, and as I follow my master inside to get some much-needed sleep, I grumble to myself, “If you had to give me a test, Sebastian, did it have to be such a hard one?”

~~~

A couple of things I need to point out for possible readers. These books in the series cannot be considered free-standing. Consider this, Marek is the main character. We are privy to all of her thoughts, her dreams, her tantrums, her planning and her love mates--whether or not she wants them... That results in Marek's thoughts going back and forth often and sometimes from book to book. One in particular is that one day she loves a boy; the next she gets so mad that she hates him, doesn't trust him...and so on... To me, this writing made my reading more compelling. I was totally lost within Marek's life from the first words in Book 1. Fortunately I have a good memory so a change of heart on her part which contradicted what was said in the last book, was just another characteristic of this main character... But, sometimes, I just wanted to slap her face and give her a chance to talk to somebody--like me--LOL But she had nobody with whom she could share ALL of her innermost thoughts... What a cruel life punishment that resulted purely from her father being murdered!

I've always been a fan of drama, mystery, romantic suspense. This book has all of that. But, in my opinion, 90% of the melodrama in these books was brought about by Marek, actually created by Marek, or bitterly responded to by Marek... That's a lot of burden to throw at a 16-year-old girl... Sometimes I loved her; other times I was frustrated with her inability to, like one Journey said, keep her mouth shut; but most of all I admired her resilience at every turn that was forced upon her by others! And, I could appreciate her often turning to Sebastian, her Patron Saint, to help her through what she was doing...To me, God's role in our lives is what keeps us...moving...forward.  Kudos, especially, for Marek, to author Jeanne Roland! 

Head Master Guillaume has left the Guild to travel to another town. There is immediate speculation as to why and what he is actually doing. But when he comes back, several of the journey and squires are excited to see that at least one past master, with a skilled background, comes with him, together with two of those journeys who were cut due to low scores during the competitions, and have been brought back to take on different roles. Charles who was our lyre player in earlier books and Jerome whose eyesight had prevented him from moving upward. Each of them will be assuming different roles as the Guild works to both finish reconstruction after the plague/riots as well as to expand the programs of the Guild. Crossbows, another idea generated by Merek will become a new skill to be taught!

Upon Master G's return, he announced one major decision. All of the rankings from the last competition would be eliminated. Journeys were stunned. Squires automatically began to think about how they could guide their Journey forward... But, for Marek, she had already accepted that she had allegiance of some sort to two different Journeys. One of who had been top winner last year. Now, she knew she had to place her Journey, Tristan, first in all ways...

Thoughts flitter across my mind as I consider what was happening back then. Was Marek (or somebody like her) the first to propose that, instead of competitions for each other, that teams could be created to work together, to challenge each other... In any event, last year she had initiated what was called Squires Club and it had been so successful that Master G decided to break into that activity... As we now know, Master G is also an authoritarian dictator. Even though Squires Club was a success and had provided an excellent exhibition at last year's event, Marek had never asked for permission to even form such a club! She Must Pay! It is doubtful to me that even Master G did not know what he had done when he had this year placed Taran as the trainer of this group--no more unsanctioned leadership of a club of squires! The Squires, especially, as well as we readers, will be privy to the ongoing arguments between Taran and Marek as he slowly took over control, often disagreeing with Marek in front of the other squires...

Still, Marek thought through what had happened and decided that Master G had not stopped the squires working as a team. So, she was now able to start thinking about what could be done as the Journeys started their do-over and beginning again to establish a new ranking for those remaining journeymen... She chose Gilles, the journey who was top at most of his competition activities, to team up with Tristan who was lower in ranking. Her proposal to them was that each could help the other train for whichever type of skill that was needed for the three different types. While they agreed to try her idea, nothing prepared Marek or the entire Guild for what these two actually did...

Gilles is an aristocrat with lots of money and chose flamboyant clothes, jewelry and type of language that reflected best of his personality. Tristan had, long ago, given reign of his illegitimate background, to adopt a somewhat insolent attitude where he chose sarcasm as his main type of communication to those with whom he was not close... Gilles and Tristan began to spend much more time together than ever before. They began to practice together and saw the potential... Then, based upon their respective personalities, they decided that the only way to really understand the other's skills, was to become that other one! Yes, Tristan soon had taken on the persona of Gilles and vice versa! Everybody thought it was hilarious...except maybe the Masters...

But, we also find just what kind of man Gilles really is, when he creates a false celebration for his squire that was absolutely revolting... I hope the next book rectifies this piece of betrayal...

Still practice for the "Firsts" competition, once the theme was announced, moved forward smoothly... Which, of course, allowed our author to slide in several new catastrophes for Marek to deal with! One of which could possibly lead to her death by revelation that she was a girl... Yes, The Guild would kill any woman who violated the sanctity of the Male Guild... 

And, second, the attack of Tristan, which prevented him from being on time for the exhibition portion of the competitions!

This book thus became much more melodramatic than, in my opinion, either of the first books... The switch of Gilles and Tristan was hilarious... The two scenes for Marek, especially, and Tristan are hair-raising... By the end of this book, readers will be thinking of Marek as a true HEROINE!

But the ending, I think, is what led Roland, to write another book. She knew that readers would not be willing to stop...and...accept... This story was NOT OVER! I--We Want More!

I've asked the author/publisher  whether I can share the first chapter here... So, keep watching for info on Guards: The Archers of Saint Sebastian IV!

GABixlerReviews

Will Marek ever Become the Woman She Must Be to Love?

The Secret Pianist: Sisters. Traitors. Spies. An Historical Novel by Andie Newton

 

Both men leaned in, only to back away in shock after reading about the Monsigny performance and their special guest of honor. Smith took his glasses off. “Date and time of Hitler’s whereabouts.” “My God, sir. This is proof we can’t stop now!” Guy smiled broadly. “We have to call the Air Ministry, get a flight in the diary.” Smith shook his head. “Afraid not.” 

Prologue - Somewhere over France 

The pilot had been trained to fly his RAF Whitley over enemy territory at night, memorizing the bends of the French coastline, the railways, and the location of the villages, while trying to avoid German emplacements. He was prepared for almost everything that night except for a change in the weather. Thick clouds blanketed the moon, dangerously concealing the cliffs along the shore and threatening not only the crew’s lives but the fifty special agents he was ordered to drop over Belgium. It didn’t take long before the pilot had flown off course, lost above enemy territory with only a vague idea of where they were when anti-aircraft fire popped against the fuselage. Tink, tink, tink, tink… As the pilot struggled to keep his crew alive and the aircraft steady in the air, he got annoyed with himself for even flying at all. Why was he taking such risks for pigeons? Pigeons indeed. He’d had quite the discussion with his supervisor about the birds before he’d taken off from the airfield at Newmarket. Nobody at the Air Ministry thought messenger pigeons would win the war. Nobody. He’d heard the few pigeons that survived previous missions had flown back with hand-drawn cartoons and personal messages to family, but no hard, usable intelligence. Definitely not information that was worth his life or his crew’s, he’d decided. He shouted to one of the crewmen in the back. “Dump the cargo!” “But we don’t know where we are, sir!” he answered. “We’re turning around,” the pilot said, hands white as chalk gripping the yoke, “and I’m not taking those birds back up again! Dump the bloody things!” A barrage of enemy bullets punched holes in the wing. “Now!” he barked. The crewman pushed the pigeons out of the plane as the enemy fired—all fifty of them, individually packaged in tiny bird boxes with parachutes like agents of war. “Rest in peace, you poor little buggers,” he said as they spiraled toward their doom. 

~~~

The story begins in 1944 and the German soldiers have invaded France. As is known, war brings nothing but misery for the citizens in a country--no matter which country it is... We meet the main characters--three sisters who have lost much and have been forced to become seamstresses in a little shop which barely provides for their needs... But it is now night and Gaby has heard noises in the house and hurried downstairs to discover what is happening. It was known widely that the German soldiers would often visit homes, taking anything and everything they wanted. But why had they picked this house? Perhaps they knew there were no men? She shivered at the possible ramifications...

When she discovered that it was only Martine, her sister, she felt both relief and disgust. Martine was just coming from the basement, she was dirty and was hesitant to explain what she was doing. She had to ask, "are you hiding a boy." which could really cause problems. But, no, that was not the case. Even as they stood there looking at each other, an outside noise made them stand rigidly, counting steps, trying to determine how many there were... Two were talking to their neighbor, who was a bossy, nosy French woman, and two were heading to their home...

Both of the sisters now worried, would they search the basement which, of course, had something to hide, even though Gaby didn't know what... And, of course, a search soon began, moving about, one plunking on the piano which Gaby greatly resented. But it was she who thought fast enough, telling them don't forget to check the closet, maybe they needed a coat? Interested in buying one? Explaining that they were seamstresses who used the old coats for patching others which were damaged and could not be replaced due to the rations...

But it was that late visit that was to begin confusion and turmoil for the women who now was seen as being able to provide something that, indeed, a German leader needed... He wanted her to teach his step-daughter how to play the piano!

It was wartime, and while everybody hated the invaders, there were those who were French who either willingly or not were forced to connect in some way with the invading troops. Good French refused. But if somebody was forced into it, they were seen as Bad French... Which could lead to problems in getting the rations that were due them. That was already a problem for the sisters who had, as a firm agreement by the three, chose to share rations with a mother who needed help given her son's health.

Gaby had tried to refuse to teach the little girl, but the Commandant knew of this arrangement and threatened to take it away if Gaby refused his request.

And what was in the basement? Why, it was a pigeon, a carrier pigeon in fact; and it had been thrown out of the plane, but saved by Martine... Of course, Simone's, a sister who was now home from sneaking out to meet her beau, plan was to eat him! But Martine knew that the pigeon was used to spy and was thinking about how to help that happen! And soon that pigeon was flying back to its home...

Bombing had occurred and Martine realized that it had hit where the map that had been attached to the pigeon had designated! The sisters pledged together, they would work with the pigeons whenever they came across one--or went out and captured those locked in by their neighbors--they would become spies!

A loss by Gaby had earlier forced her to reject her schooling, her future in music...But now Gaby was also forced to go to the home of the Commandant where she would teach... If she was seen going into his house, she would forever after be called a bad French...But even there, Gaby was caught in secrets when she realized that the little girl had already been taught in her former life, but is afraid to reveal that...

And as Gaby taught, they would in secret allow the little girl to play what she wanted--hiding when the Commandant was in the house, bound by running scales or picking out the notes one by one...

But now, Gaby was also seeking possible secrets that could be sent out via the pigeons...The sisters had been able to hide a small radio and waited for a message. Beethoven's 5th was the signal!

And among all that, a man fell in love--in love with a woman who had created such a beautiful piece of music that he could not help but fall deeply in love... For Gaby had once created the masterpiece and the music was now being used to prove her identity... and before the book ended, they were to meet! What a beautiful additional plot to the book! And, how I wished that there was really a creation on piano that was later named and published... Sadly, only the love it produced was to remain...

People's lives change during wartime. Not because they want to have them changed, but because, sometimes, those who seek power or those who are greedy or violent... bring it about...

It is impossible to read The Secret Pianist without thinking about what is happening across the world today. Hitler's leadership of the country was quite familiar to what we are watching each day... Putin for instance, a president of Russia who seeks power over more territory and decides to invade Ukraine...

Iran's Hamas attacks a music festival in Israel, but, is really unprepared for fighting against the power of Israel. However, the Prime Minister of Israel, who was already being pressured to vacate his position due to his desire for power, a willingness and seemingly desire for violence, no matter who may be killed... is going beyond what is necessary...

In the United States, under a former president who chose to use violence to stay in office also reflects how war can affect an entire country... when his followers attacked the nation's Capitol to try to stop finalization of the election!

Andie Newton, however, succeeds in centering in on just those who wish to stop the violence and are willing to work behind the scenes to make it happen. Many are doing that today. But Newton's novel, while difficult to read, knowing that people are being killed, starved, and more too horrible to mention, and there are so many mere citizens of a country affected, is a wonderful way to enter into history to see just how, exactly, ideas such as carrier pigeons, can be conceived which are able to stop and, hopefully, prevent a longer war than necessary. Her story is wonderfully developed within a devastating framework. The characters are wonderfully drawn, especially those who are participating as Spies (very hard to determine who is good and bad French) or as Traitors... And, of course, for me, using music as a central role throughout the book deserves Kudos for excellence by the author!

This historical novel has no actual scenes of violence. I can recommend it highly for those who, especially these days, want to learn more about how things can occur behind the scenes. The three sisters are delightful in their different personalities, yet who, through a difficult period, chose to maintain a sisters' promise to not act unless they all agreed. A difficult thing that rarely occurs, but which had to be accepted during such a time of devastation. Again, conceptually, this writer presented us with a novel that has much to share and much to think about! It is highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Joy-Ann Reid Presents Historical Novel Medgar & Myrlie: Medgar Evers and the Love Story That Awakened America! Part 3

 

Myrlie had many times weighed whether she could stay at home with Medgar. She was often afraid--but it wasn't from her wonderful, loving husband, it was from those who hated her and all Black people there in Mississippi, where Medgar had brought her after they were married. He wanted to be in Mississippi and hopefully help ALL people in the State. He knew that it was those even in the state congress, the governor's office, the mayor's office, the police that instigated all of the efforts to prevent integration...

Medgar had wanted to continue on in the University of Mississippi. But they, too, were prepared and sent his application back that he needed a "white" man's recommendation... Medgar had known many white men as he served our country and, perhaps, could have used one or two of them. But he knew that it wasn't a need for another reference. It was because he was Black. In fact, he and Myrlie had lived in the only Black neighborhood around. He had to stop thinking about a higher education. He needed to work and provide for his family. He took the job with the NAACP when it was offered. The primary function was to travel around the state and work with the Black people in the state to enroll them to vote... All was to be nonviolent...until Medgar and students in the state grew antsy... Do you know that word, it is informal for agitated, anxious, jumpy. I like this little word... I would be antsy if I couldn't go to my local movie theatre to see a movie I had heard about. I'd get antsy if I didn't feel like cooking and wanted to take my children to a local restaurant to get a quick meal.

You know the feeling, don't you? Imagine now, that your children were sent to a substandard school where they used second-hand textbooks...that didn't even talk about the history of your ancestors...  slavery... Yeah, just like politicians are trying to do right now...

On the other hand, the republicans who are trying to work for America are frustrated because of those who Hate Only for Political Power. And, of course, it is not fun to be threatened just because you wanted to do your job...

Now, let's go back to the south where Mississippi held court with 12 white men on anything. Black people were not allowed to be represented... Indeed, they were facing threats from not only the government but their lynch crew. the KKK. ALL Black people knew exactly what was going on--just like all of America who cares knows what is going on right now. And, if they didn't know before, than January 6th was the turning point for many...

Medgar had often told Myrlie that she was stronger than she realized. She didn't understand how that could be until Medgar was murdered, and she had seen him try to crawl toward her as he died in front of her and two of her children. You might say Myrlie grew up that day. But it was through shedding the millions of tears that she had within her... Anybody can imagine that she was screaming inside, yet trying to keep her children from the scene--from their realizing what had just been done by one man... with a gun... By the way, Mrylie kept pressing and, finally, after two acquittals, the man was convicted for her husband's murder...

Mrylie began to receive requests for speaking all over the nation. After all...She was the first widow of a civil rights leader who had been assassinated! As she began sharing, her confidence grew, her words grew stronger, more direct, and more powerful. She was speaking the truth to hundreds of thousands across the nation who listened...

And when she was joined by the wife of Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King, she welcomed the comfort that these two women could bring to her, knowing that they knew exactly what pain and distress they were all facing. Each would share memories from when they were living as a wife of such a significant leader who faced danger every day... For instance, Myrlie remembered and shared about Medgar talking about when he was very young and all of the children would play together, not thinking about their differences... and then, suddenly, Medgar told her of a day when one of his white friends was standing with a group of young white men...

“He called me ‘nigger,’” Medgar said. “The split had come. The lines were drawn, Blacks on one side, white on the other. I guess at that moment, I realized my status in Mississippi.”14

And the three women all cried together, feeling that same pain... Marian Davis, the first Black person I had ever met and who became my best friend through junior and senior high school, once gave me my first lesson as well... The three of us--Carolyn, Marian and I had gone over to a spudnut show before school. We had all selected our treat and went outside to stand and eat. I had gotten a sputnut with white icing I remember. I can't remember what Carolyn got. But I remember that Marian had gotten a brownie with chocolate icing. Then Marian turned to me and asked if I wanted a bite... I laughed and said "no that's ok..." Then she said what I will never forget... "It's ok, you can take the first bite..." Even today, as I write, my heart melts and tears come to my eyes. She had taught me my first lesson about the races. She knew her status even when I didn't know mine... My respect for Black people began that day when Marian Davis taught me of loving her neighbor as her self...with a twist of irony that I knew she never intended--it was how she had been taught...

How I wish that the twisted minds within our nation had not been incited... again...

Ok, I wanted to end today's post of a high note. Myrlie did discover that Medgar was right... She became a very successful woman, she married again to a man who knew that her first husband was the love of her life, but he loved her enough to want to work to provide her and the children a new home and life... Continuing to Medgar's work in civil rights, and seeing how President Kennedy did finally take action... (Was he murdered also for that act? Makes you wonder about the timing doesn't it...)

Later, we see Myrlie achieving her one dream from her life... She loved the piano classical music as I do...and, that dream had been filled. Participating in a concert at Carnegie Hall! I couldn't find videos back that far, but did find Alicia Keys who would be proud to represent Myrlie and her audience... don't you think?

But Myrlie loved all music so I hope you enjoy these:

The title of a song came to me as I was writing... Then as I listened to it, I remembered one time when I heard Joy sharing that she was a Christian...she fumbled to answer whatever was being discussed. I found it ironic, perhaps even a God Incident, that this song came to mind... For surely I believe that Joy-Ann Reid was led to write this book at this particular time... God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. Folks, this book needs to be talked about, shared, and praised... Even in tragedies--even with all the lies, God's Love, His Truth will come through... I believe this book is just one way He's working to win over hate and violence in the world... Support those who speak Truth, Speak Love, Speak Jesus...

God Bless Us All

Gabby

The Scribe by Antonio Garrido - Another Epic Historical Novel Achievement! Out Today!

Year of Our Lord 799
  Citadel of Wurzburg, Franconia

And the Devil Came to stay...

Theresa and Gorgias were on the way to work, when they had been attacked and Gorgias hurt. Theresa has worked on it a little but they quickly took him to the surgeon...

It's the same every day, he said without lifting his eyes from the wound. Yesterday someone found old Marta on the low road with her guts cut open. And two days ago, they found Siderico the cooper at the gate to his animal pen with his head bashed in. And for what? To stead God knows what from him? The poor wretch couldn't even feed his children. Zeno seemed to know his trade well. He stitched flesh and sutured veins with the dexterity of a seamstress, spitting on the knife to keep it clean. He finished with the arm and moved on to the rest of the wounds...

Will he recover? Theresa butted in.

He might. Though, of course, he might not. The man roared with laughter, then rummaged in his sack until he found a vial containing a dark liquid. Theresa thought it might be some kind of tonic, but the physician uncorked it and took a long draft...

Theresa;s father was coming round. She ran to the side to stop him from sitting up, but Gorgias would not listen to reason. As he moved, he grunted and winced with pain. After he managed to sit up, he briefly rested before opening his. With his health arm, he nervously kept looking around as though something was missing. His irritation growing, he tipped the contents of the bag onto the floor. Quills and styluses scattered across the pavement. Who took it? Where is it? he cried.

Where is what? Korne asked.

Gorgias stared at him with a wild look, but he bit his tongue and turned his head. He rifled through the instruments again and then turned the bag on its head. When he was sure nothing was left in it, he walked over to a nearby chair, slumping into it. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer for his soul.

~~~

The Scribe

By Antonio Garrido

Translated by Simon Brani

I met this author through The Corpse Reader. That fantastic book already brought over 200 individuals from across the world to Book Readers Heaven, but if you haven't read my review yet, check it out! Each of these are so unique in their story line that I can't compare the two. So I'll just say I loved them both! You know, when I say that about a historical novel, which is not my favorite genre, and it is also well over 600 pages, well, you should acknowledge I'm not joking! This author sends his books to us from his home in Spain, where The Corpse Reader was the recipient of the Zaragoza International Price for best Historical novel published there.

Gorgias had been commissioned with a very important job to translate a parchment on behalf of Charlemagne.
It had been stolen when they were attacked!

Theresa was a very fortunate woman for those living at that time. She had been taught to not only read and write, but to do most of what her father's trade was. She was working at a local shop and was due to take an exam the very morning that they had been robbed. Now instead of several witnesses, Korne, her boss was able to administer the test...

Let's just say that Theresa was in the same boat as women throughout history. The men were jealous and afraid of her being able to handle their jobs, so her boss was now going to make sure that she didn't pass the exam! He started what ultimately resulted in his shop being totally burned down and one of his sons killed. Of course he blamed Theresa. She had managed to escape but a young street girl had been there that day and she was also killed; everybody thought Theresa had died...

Theresa knows that she must leave her home town, alone and the story splits at that point to follow her in her travels. At the same time her father, not only has lost the document he was to work on, but his injuries prevent him from working at all. He starts to make excuses, trying to figure out what to do. Ultimately he is imprisoned; forced to work within the home of the local official, deep in the center part where nobody knows he is. Between mourning for the loss of his beloved daughter and being taken from his wife, with little food, he sinks into poorer and poorer health.

Here you have your test, he said, and he opened the latticework lid that protected the pool. "Make ready the skin and you will earn the qualification you so crave.
Theresa's lips tightened. Scraping and preparing the skins was not a task befitting a craftsman, but if that was what Korne wanted, she would not disappoint him. She walked over to the edge of the pool and observed the layer of blood and fat floating on its surface. Taking a space, she pushed the remains left by the caustics to one side and fished around for the skin that she would work on. But after several attempts, she still could not fin one. She turned with a look of puzzlement on her face, demanding an explanation.
It's in there Korne, Korne indicated toward the deepest pool.
Theresa walked over to the pool that received the skins just as they had been torn from the animals. Carefully, she took off her boots. Then she gathered up her skirt and stepped into the water, holding her breath.
Scraps of skin and clots of blood floated in the bath, intermingling with the filth of the maceration pool. under the attentive gaze of the crowd, she lowered herself until the liquid reached her stomach. The cold made her groan.
She waited a moment before taking another deep breath and letting herself sink into the depths of the pool. For a blink of an eye she disappeared underwater, but she quickly emerged with her head veiled in grease. Spitting, she wiped the filth from her face. Then she plunged further into the center of the bath, pushing away the floating detritus. The lime stung her skin under her clothes and the ice number her bones. Under her bare feel she could feel a bed of slime. And she groped the surface like a blind woman looking for a rail to cling to. But she kept going, feeling her way forward as the water lapped against her chin.
Suddenly she bumped into something under the water, and her heart missed a beat. When she managed to calm herself down, she felt the object with her foot to try to identify it. For a moment she thought about giving up, but she remembered her father and everyone who had believed in her. She filled her lungs with air and submerged as her hands touched the object. Its sticky feel made her want to retch, but she suppressed her revulsion and continued to run her hands over the thing until she found a string of beads that felt like little shingles. She felt along the line and after a moment of uncertainty, she realized with horror she was grasping a row of teeth. She almost opened her eyes in fright and would have been blinded forever by the lime, but she kept control of herself. She let go of the jawbone and went up for air, gasping, her face flushed red as the Devil's. As she coughed and spluttered vomiting water, the remains of a putrid and deformed cow's head bobbed up in front of her...

~~~

Theresa on the other hand, has found her way to a distant town and fortunately connected with a man who needs both her skills of reading and writing. For quite some time, she is happy there... But that was after she had been saved along the road and fallen in love with a man whose family she knew...

Sure, you can keep track of the missing parchment--actually Theresa had taken her father's pouch when she left home but didn't know the document was hidden in it... She later raises all sorts of issues about what it really is...

Alcuin was the monk for whom she started to work. I doubt it was intended by the author, but I found this character somewhat like Sherlock Holmes as he got lost in the mystery of this or that. It seemed he was involved in all the intrigues that were happening and the man who she loved told her not to trust him. Indeed, readers will see and hear some questionable things, but like Holmes, Alcuin is all about solving the mystery, planning through the actions that must happen so that something else will happen. I admit that, even recognizing what he was doing, didn't always help to be sure that good was going to win!

In addition to Alcuin, I enjoyed all the characters, including a bar maid that welcomed Theresa into her home, as well as the first family that had found her...

Working the way through this maze will take time, especially if you allow yourself to get to know each of those who got involved. Theresa and her father were committed to each other, but if it hadn't been for others, they would not have survived at this time of high tensions and little food. In the end, however, it is Garrido's meticulous attention to detail that pulls his readers into the stories. Myself, I'd like to have given Krone, Theresa's first boss, a kick or two where it...hurts!

A really fabulous, and yukky, look at how parchments were first handled and used for paper. Historians, don't miss this one! Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

Biography

A native of Spain, a former educator, and an industrial engineer, Antonio Garrido has received acclaim for the darkly compelling storytelling and nuanced historical details that shape his novels. Each is a reflection of the author's years of research into cultural, social, legal, and political aspects of ancient life. Garrido's The Corpse Reader, a fictionalized account of the early life of Song Cí, the Chinese founding father of forensic science, received the Zaragoza International Prize (Premio Internacional de Novela Histórica Ciudad de Zaragoza) for best historical novel published in Spain. His work has been translated into eighteen languages, and The Scribe is his second publication in English. Garrido finds his inspiration when he writes in his studio at the Cullera bay, watching the deep blueness of the Mediterranean Sea.

Welcome Jan Marquart, Author of Voices from the Land!

Voices from the Land...

is a historical novel that tells the story of a small group of people and their incomparable ability to form a new town in the Southwest after President Lincoln freed the slaves in 1860. The story exposes the vicious hate of a lawless land juxtaposed against the generous compassion of the American people to attend to one another’s wounds. Despite the violence and mayhem in this vulnerable town, the indefatigable spirit of its inhabitants assures their survival.

Jan Marquart is a licensed Clinical Social Worker who specializes in family counseling.  She has a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from the University of California/ Santa Cruz and a master’s degree in Social Work from San Jose State University. A member of the New Mexico Book Association, National Writers Union, and the National Association of Social Workers, Jan has authored eight books, two booklets, and numerous articles for newspapers and journals. Visit with the author at www.awareliving.net

Jan shares...


In 2005, I moved to Lamy, NM and bought an adobe home that sat on five acres. I had become sick from mold and chemical poisoning and needed a place away from people in order to heal--a clean and natural environment away from toxins. The area was quite beautiful everywhere I looked.  In one direction I could see the Santa Fe Mountains and in another direction I could see the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Walking around the hundred-year-old pinon and juniper trees, this property exuded such a strong energy that it felt as if the trees were speaking. In all the places I’ve ever lived, this land was not only a completely different experience, but I could feel myself connecting to the oneness of the planet that I’ve heard others speak about in the past. I felt myself starting to heal and the stillness in the land allowed me to go deeper within than I’d ever thought possible.

The next year, I was explaining to an intuitive the feelings I had living amidst such high-energy land and trees, and how I thought this was what I needed for my healing. He then proceeded to tell me to sit near the trees with pen and paper because spirits living there wanted me to record their stories. I didn’t know what to think. This instruction frightened me and I don’t frighten easily when it comes to spirits, but letting spirits enter my writing was another matter.

One hot fall day in October 2008, when I was looking for something interesting to write, I decided to take the intuitive up on the task. I traipsed out to the section of hundred year old pinon and juniper trees at the end of my property with a camping chair, pen, journal and a cup of hot tea. In the Introduction to Voices From the Land, I explain the details about how the stories came through me, the energy that kept me in place even though I wanted to go into the house and the unique characters that kept moving through me until I wrote everything they needed to say. Eleven days later, I had 97 pages of stories. Together these stories made up Voices From the Land which speaks to a small town in the mid-west in 1860. These voices opened my heart. They speak to the hardships during times of great strife in our country. They tell about how people pulled together and how they had a belief in something bigger to keep them going until they conquered their needs for survival.

When I asked four friends and neighbors to review the manuscript, not one of them would return it. Each described the power the voices had in giving them inspiration and direction and they felt they had become close to the power of the voices so much so that they had to keep the manuscript. One of my friends felt so strongly about Voices that she offered to write the foreword for the book and encouraged me to get it published. I hear from many who read it that it has shifted their thinking and I just love that.

HOW THE PREACHER

CAME TO TOWN

(Excerpt)

I was born in the small town of Ohio. My father was a guide for pioneer travelers. When I was five, my mother and grandparents headed out to live farther west because my mother was hoping to see my father more often. My mother and grandmother landed out west where I was raised. All of fifty people set up their homes in this town, which is near a small wooded area close to a river and with enough land around that everyone could have a piece. I must say it was a tough survival to live out on the plains when I was a small child, but it was quite an amazing thing to have grown up there. Luckily, my father led them out west. My father was a fearless man. You couldn't keep him in one place for too long.

Story goes he met my mother at some kind of dance party. He told her he was too wild for any woman. No woman could confine him to one house, one town, even one part of the country, he said. My mother had fallen in love with him, so she had decided he could do what he wanted as long as he came back to her when his job was completed. She said she was fine with that, and he agreed.

But my mother wasn’t going to live out in the wild country alone. When she decided to live in this small town, she did so for two reasons: my father seemed to be in that neck of the woods more and her parents agreed to move with her. My grandparents were against all this, but being strong believers in the Lord, they told themselves that there must be a reason why their daughter had fallen in love with this man. Because of that line of thinking, they couldn't let their little girl, whom they loved more than anything in the world, live alone with her husband on the trails most of the year.

They all hoped more than anything that my father would settle down. But no man settles down because of love when something bigger inside him wants to keep him on the move. Luckily, my father had befriended many Indian from different tribes, which meant that he had friends along his passages. He learned their languages and customs. He spent time finding the right gifts for the various Indian tribes he passed on his trips. That was how he kept himself and his customers alive. One time, as one of the Indians ran toward my father to greet him, an unsuspecting customer got frightened, raced toward the Indian, and began shooting. Luckily, my father was close enough to his customer that he was able to hit the man in the head with his own rifle to distract him from shooting the Indian, who was my father’s friend. The Indian asked my father in his own language why his friend was shooting at him. My father could only say, “Stupid white man,” because he couldn't find the words fast enough to explain that the man’s fear had overtaken him after he saw the Indian racing toward him.

My father left the stunned customer sitting on his horse holding his bloody head while my father and the Indian shook hands and, in a small matter of time, caught up with all that had gone on since the last time they had seen each other. My father brought the Indian a finely made wool blanket as a gift and for the Indian’s wife, a crocheted scarf made by my grandmother.

My father had told his customer about his good relations with the Indians, but there is no figuring out what a man will do when he’s scared for his life and has a gun close by. That’s how my father made his money. Then, when he came home, he and I would sit around a fire, and from the day I was born, I heard about his wild adventures that usually kept him away for as little time as a few months to as long as a couple years.

My mother cried upon hearing the stories that my father thought would fascinate her, because she hated thinking of him facing death so many times. She feared the Indians as much as she did his encounters with bears, the weather, and his lack of food or water. Once he had been bitten by a snake. It wasn't a rattler, and although he was fine, his leg was swollen for quite a long time.

One time my father was crossing the plains and heard the pounding beat of a stampede. He quickly climbed some rocks, pulling his horse behind him. His horse, alarmed by the stampede, wanted to run to and fro, and as my father yanked on the harness, my father’s foot lodged in between two rocks, pinning his leg in place. He let go of his horse, fearful that if he tried to pull the harness harder he would break his leg but even more fearful that his horse would be lost from him and he’d die out on the rocks by himself. He had been alone on that trip because he was scouting an easier way to bring a caravan of wagon trains to California. Everyone wanted to go to California. It was as if everyone came down with a fever, thinking that California held a new and easier life free from struggles.

Every day my father was gone, my mother prayed for his safety. My grandmother and grandfather would light a candle, and before we had our stew and bread, they would ask the Lord for his protection and well-being and would ask that whatever trials and tribulations he had to face that the Lord would help him.

I knew their prayers were important, and I bowed my head and prayed too, although mostly I just listened. Sometimes it was too sad because my heart never got used to his absence even though I didn't see him too much until I got older. But I’ll get to that.

So my days were spent with my mother, preparing every minute for his unexpected return, and my grandparents did what they could to take care of us and keep my mother believing in the power of the Lord, because they said the Lord’s power would keep everything blessed.

I never knew quite how to take such a way of thinking. Should I feel calm because the Lord was going to keep my father safe or should I worry because the Lord could make things go even worst if he wanted?

I wanted hope and I wanted peace that my father was safe so we could be happy, but despite all their praying, they seemed to worry constantly.

My grandparents were getting frail even though they tried to keep helping my mother. My father had chopped enough firewood before he left, but sometimes, our food would start to run out, and we had to cut down on how much we used. A stagecoach came through town every spring bringing food, rice, potatoes, and other supplies we needed for the year. We learned to manage, and I know my grandparents missed Ohio and the people they knew there.

My mother wouldn’t hear of any complaints because she said she had enough on her mind with worrying about my father and all, so we had to cope with our fears alone. My grandfather told me to give my fears and complaints to the Lord. I tried to do that, but I didn't know how.

Once I asked who told them about the Lord. How did they learn about him? I didn't understand how they could believe in something they couldn't see.My grandmother had more patience to explain this to me than either my mother or my grandfather.

“Can you see the wind?” she asked.

“No,” I’d say, “but I can see the stuff the wind blows.”

“Can you see hope?” she asked.

“No, but I can see things you hope for,” I told her in return.

My grandfather got annoyed with me. “Don’t question the presence of the Lord, boy,” he said, scolding me. “You never know when you’ll need the Lord to be with you.” My mother and grandmother nodded.

I still didn’t understand. “You’re old enough now to believe,” said my grandfather. His way of talking to you let you know that you had no other choice but to do what he said just because he said it, even though there was no reason for it.

I could hear my mother beating our wool rug that she and grandmother had thrown over the fence my father built just before he left. A colt was born last week, and Mama showed me how to help until Jeremiah Samuel came down the road to help. I have never seen a colt actually being born before. Usually I got to see the colt the next day. But this time, I saw it being born. I was leaning down, helping the horse we called Lily, when I looked up to see my grandmother.

“Thank the Lord,” she said.

The colt tried to stand right away. My knees became just as wobbly after watching such an event, and for a minute, the colt got to its feet faster than I did to mine. My heart felt so warm watching this new life stand and breathe. I looked at Grandmother. My face still showed the sense of wonder coming up from my heart.

“If that doesn’t make you believe in the Lord, boy, I don’t know what will. The creation of life only looks like our doing,” she said, shaking her head with humility.

As soon as she was sure the colt was okay, she left to attend my grandfather, who was sitting on our small porch shivering. It was early fall and not as cold as he made out to be. It was in that moment that I realized how sick Grandfather was. Each night, Grandfather ate in bed because he got too sick to sit at the table. Mama and I could hear Grandmother and Grandfather praying together before he fell asleep. Sometimes I’d have to head down to the creek for some fresh water because his fever was getting worst and Mama didn't know what to do.

Some of the families came to help, but none of them was a doc, so they only knew to put a cold rag on his head and feed him broth from some of the bones left over from their dinner. He couldn't keep any food in his stomach, so we watched him get thinner until one Saturday morning, the last week of November, we buried him out under an oak tree. An Indian friend of my father’s came to check on us and told Grandmother that Grandfather should be buried near the tree so the tree’s spirit could keep his spirit strong. At first, the Indian told us to burn the body so his soul could be sent to be with the Great Spirit, but we were horrified to think of Grandfather on fire. One night, I awoke screaming until Mama and Grandmother assured me they would not set grandfather on fire.

Mama and Grandmother sat me down before dinner. “You’re the man now. We need you to help more around here,” my grandmother said.

I wanted to please her because I knew she knew the Lord was powerful, and I thought I needed him as my friend. Grandmother believed more than anyone that the Lord was good, and yet, I still wasn't sure how there could be a Lord if he took Grandfather when we needed him so much.

“You can’t question the Lord,” my grandmother told me. “I keep telling you the good Lord has his reasons.”

My mother never spoke her mind about the Lord, but Grandmother spoke of him daily. After my father asked him to, the Indian who visited us—we called Wind Eagle—said he talked to the Lord too, but he called it the Great Spirit. It made me more confused than ever. I think I was twelve by then, although Mama said she was sorry she lost count of the years. In her worry for my father, she had forgotten to count. Mama and  Grandmother knew how to read because they had been taught, and read the Bible every night before going to sleep. Then they would pray for Father, for food, and for good health, and then would give thanks for another day of surviving with blessings.

Grandmother said that just because the Lord took someone you loved didn't mean he was mad at you. At Grandfather’s funeral, everyone said a prayer aloud for Grandfather. Some took no time at all. Others took forever. I was restless, but Mama told me that it was okay, that I should really learn about the Lord through everyone’s faith, and that the Lord did right by Grandfather, taking him when he did because Grandfather didn't like getting sick and not being able to carry his weight.

I cried when Grandmother spoke of how much she was going to miss her husband, who so loved his family, and of how he gave of himself to let his family know how much he loved them. The Indian, Wind Eagle, made a huge wooden cross for Grandfather’s grave, knowing that a cross was what Grandmother wanted. He put a string of beads around it and added an eagle feather, saying that the eagle feather would allow his spirit to be free now.

I asked Mama if the Great Spirit was the same as the Lord, and she said yes. She said that it was a different name, that’s all, and then began cutting up some potatoes to add to the buffalo meat Wind Eagle had brought us as a gift. I wanted Father to come home, but Mama always got tears in her eyes when Father was mentioned, so I kept my feelings to myself. Thank goodness Grandmother was in good health because I couldn't help Mama with all the chores myself...

Wind Eagle brought us buffalo meat every time his tribe killed one. For that we were all grateful. It was a cold winter, and I think Father should have been home by now. One night, after they thought I was asleep, I heard Mother and Grandmother talking about how they had expected Father by now. They were sad that he hadn't gotten to say good-bye to Grandfather, but what could they do?

In the snow, I’d visit the river and watch the water flow downstream while wondering where it came from. The bears were nowhere to be seen once it got cold. For that I was grateful because I could get water without fearing for my life...