Sep 16 2006
Faster than I expected, too. I think I am irrevocably hooked on publishing.
Check it out here:
Heart to Heart: Meeting With God in the Lord’s Prayer
There’s no picture of the cover yet (still figuring out how to get that up), but you can see that below.
If you have read Heart to Heart or its predecessor, Lord, Teach Us to Pray (same content, whole different ball game), please consider leaving a review on the Amazon page! I appreciate it muchly!
Sep 16 2006
Taerith watched from the wings as Findal’s circus unfolded its strange and fascinating show. He had been with them now three days, and sat through twice as many performances. He knew now when to rush out with a bucket of water for the horses, which were transformed before an audience from cart-horses to dancers, with still other dancers upon their backs–Morris, who was as acrobatic on the back of a living thing as he was on the ground or in the air suspended from a rope or a wire, and Marta Grensloe, who had been a great beauty in her younger years and was still strong and good-looking enough to capture a crowd’s attention when she stood upon a horse’s back. Marta was out there now, her red hair done up intricately, looking too exotic for the good-natured matron Taerith knew her to be. Her little white mare was panting heavily, and Taerith scooped up the bucket of water from beside his feet and went out to meet them as they vacated the performing-ground in favour of Orlin, the small muscle-bound man who made quite a different use of horses–he was strong enough to lift one, and did so three times a week at least.
“You looked well out there,” Taerith said as Marta led the mare to the bucket. The woman looked nearly as hot and thirsty as the horse, but she did not have the option of plunging her head into a draught. Breathing heavily, Marta nodded and beamed at Taerith, giving the mare a good pat. Her blue eyes were proud.
“She’s a good little one,” Marta said. “One of the best. Oh, Zhenya, there you are… thank you.”
So saying, she took a cup of water from the boy who offered it. Taerith had hardly noticed Zhenya’s approach. The boy could move with uncanny silence, considering that everywhere he went he limped severely on a crutch. He was young; no more than fourteen; and probably tall for his age, though he was so bent over his crutch it was hard to tell. His hair was a dirty brown, and fell into his eyes; his clothes were worn, but Marta kept them patched. There was a peculiarly starved expression in the boy’s face, though his thinness seemed more a mark of his age than a proof of physical deprivation. Zhenya had no remarkable ability or weird physiognomy to make him of value to Findal’s troupe; but they kept him, pitied him, fed him. Zhenya repaid them by doing every chore he could manage. Since Taerith’s arrival the crippled boy had rarely been out of his shadow, though they rarely spoke to one another. Taerith liked him: he shared Zhenya’s hunger. Young man and growing boy both understood that life held meaning, and that it was waiting for them to find it; both were quietly searching.
The mare was finished, and Taerith took the bucket away even as a roar went up from the crowd. Orlin had lifted some impossible weight of iron, and continued to add to his load. Findal’s voice, endowed with astonishing volume and strength, drew the crowd’s attention and bade them marvel at every feat. When his band was performing Findal’s voice lost all of its breathlessness; he wheezed the rest of the time, it seemed, because it took him so long to get his breath back after a show.
Marta smoothed down her dress and pulled pins out of her hair as she stepped into the shadows of the tent where the animals waited when they were not in the center of attention. It was a smallish tent, but large enough to act as a stable; torn, patched, striped, and stuffy. It went everywhere with Findal and his people, and the multi-coloured light produced by the sun’s shining through it was already familiar to Taerith’s eyes.
The red stallion, tied to a stake in one end of the tent, perked its ears up as Marta approached. Normally she would have given it a lump of sugar, but she was too busy pulling her hair down.
“We’re doing Findal proudly,” she said, “finishing the season well. We will do a fine job before King Annar, though he will likely be too drunk to know it.”
“How did you win an audience in the king’s court?” Taerith asked.
Marta cast him a glance, her hair down now and cascading over her shoulder in red waves.
“Findal is a master at making friends,” she said. “He speaks so convincingly that everyone believes how great he is.”
“And how great we are,” said another voice, as a tall man entered the tent. He stooped and kissed Marta. “Findal never forgets his lovely rider, or the rest of us. You, now, Taerith–you’ll soon be one of his bragging points. You’re nearly one of us already.”
Taerith smiled. He liked Randal, Marta’s tall, sword-swallowing husband. Randal liked him also. After nearly six months of being an outcast, Taerith welcomed Randal’s words–”one of us.” He had no plans to stay with Findal, of course, and yet he couldn’t quite imagine leaving. In three days Marta and Randal, Zhenya, Orlin, and Morris, even the horses, had become the closest thing to family that he had. And Findal, as Randal said, had already taken Taerith as one of his own.
“There is something you can do,” Findal had said last night, “besides draw water, of that I am sure. We shall discover your talent and make you a part of us.”
“I have sometimes written poetry,” Taerith answered with a smile.
Findal had looked at him, frowned, snorted a little. “Something else, lad, something else. One cannot put poetry before a crowd.”
Taerith suspected that, were he to stay, he would become another Zhenya. And there were things he could do–he could form wood, and work a blacksmith’s forge, and be useful at fixing wheels and axles. He had nowhere else to go, and the idea of remaining grew more and more attractive by the hour.
They planned to move on that night, just after dusk. Findal’s troupe did not normally travel after dark, but they had stayed overlong in the villages where they had found a welcome, and if they did not move when they could they would miss the opportunity to perform before Annar. Findal counted on the king’s drunkenness and fool’s generosity to fatten the collective purse for the winter. Accordingly, when Morris had tied himself in knots and been tossed in the air by Orlin for the last time that night, the horses were hitched to the wagon and the small company moved out.
It was nearly midnight when they heard the sounds of a fight. Randal untied the stallion and rode out into the darkness while Marta waited with her lips tightly closed; he returned not ten minutes later, his dark eyes flashing. He reined up next to the board where Findal sat, on the front of the painted wagon. “Thieves,” he said. “They have attacked a group of travelers.”
“How goes the battle?” Findal asked.
“Badly,” Randal answered. “For they are outnumbered. But I tell you the thieves are reckless… easily overcome.”
Findal pursed his lips and looked down the road with deadly gleam. “Let us overcome them, then,” he said.
Randal wheeled his horse around, ready to gallop to the battle ahead of the others, but Taerith stopped him by calling his name. “Take me with you,” he called. Randal nodded, and Taerith leapt from the wagon onto the horse’s back behind the sword-swallower.
The stallion ran hard, and Taerith drew his sword as his blood began to pump. He was not afraid. He had never considered himself a great swordsman, but he compared himself to his brothers and sisters–and not one among the Romanys was a mean hand with weapons. Morever, in a fight Taerith was possessed of a deadly calm that made him hard to defeat, because he was never flustered, never distracted. He knew this about himself, and peered through the darkness to the whooping band of thieves, wishing he was already there to meet them.
His eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, as they had been riding in it for hours. He and Randal bore down upon the scene.
A lone carriage lay half on its side in the middle of the road, one of its front wheels snapped quite away from the axel. A horse was still harnessed to it; it strained at its load with frantic whinnies, but the carriage was caught in the deep ruts of the road and would not budge. It had evidently been the scene of a stand-off; the bodies of men lay strewn around it. Others, living still, were in the process of dragging a young woman out. She was not at all willing to go with them, and was doing her best to wrench herself from their grasp–but she was small, and fine, and they were great brutes.
Randal and Taerith rode up to the carriage without slowing, and hope lit in the girl’s face at the sight of them. “Help me!” she screamed. In the same instant Taerith had sprung from the stallion’s back, and with one twist of his sword he sent the foremost thief’s weapon flying away into the night. Another leapt toward him, weapon at hand, and Taerith beat him an instant. Another came, and Randal was there to meet him. Other thieves were also in the road, but they had no time to come against the invaders. Findal had arrived with Morris and Orlin, and all three shouted as they came like mad spirits of the night let loose.
The girl was left alone, and she sank against the side of the carriage and moaned. Taerith took hold of her arm and ran his hand gently down it, assuring himself that she was all right. “Are you hurt?” he asked. His voice was low and husky from the energy of the fight. She shook her head, her dark eyes avoiding him. The fight behind them drew a little closer, and Taerith all but pushed the girl back into the carriage. He followed her, and locked the door behind him, standing at the window with his sword drawn.
As the thieves did not immediately attempt to break the door down, Taerith turned his head back to his charge. She was a small woman, young, hardly more than a child, and very beautiful. Her hair was black as the night without, and her eyes shone like the stars. There were tears in her eyes, and they glistened as she fought to gain control of herself. She was not looking at him, though everything in her body language said that she knew he was there. If she could have become one with the carriage, she evidently would have.
“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice tremoured, but Taerith heard a feeble attempt at courage in the questioning. His heart went out to her.
“I am not another enemy,” he said, answering the question she had not asked. “My name is Taerith Romany.”
She looked up at him. Her eyes were large and dark, set in a fine, pale face. “Lilia,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it went to Taerith’s heart like one of the arrows his sister Ilara used to shoot.
“Taerith!” shouted a voice from without. “Taerith, lad, where are you?”
Taerith leaned against the carriage door and felt for the handle in the shadows beneath the window. He could feel the tension draining out him… tension he hadn’t even realized was there. Findal was calling for him. He pushed down on the latch and the door swung open.
“I’m here,” Taerith called, bending his head to step down from the tilted carriage. His eyes sought out Findal amist the wreckage in the road. The little man was holding a torch high, looking about at the groaning wounded who lay all around.
Findal turned to answer, but Taerith had already gone halfway back into the carriage. Lilia was still sitting in the corner, looking like a frightened lamb. Taerith held out his hand to her. “Come,” he said. “You are among friends now.”
Tentatively she reached out and laid her slender fingers across his. He smiled, and led her into the open night. She looked furtively from side to side as she descended the broken step. Findal looked at them and smiled kindly.
“Don’t be afraid, child,” he said in his usual breathless tone. He nodded at Taerith with a fatherly crinkle about his eyes. “This is a good lad who’s protecting you. You can trust him. Lean on him all you need to!”
He hardly needed to speak the words. Since she had taken his hand, Lilia had drawn closer to Taerith by the moment, and now was almost fainting on his arm. He held her up, and looked worriedly at Findal. “She needs to rest, Findal,” Taerith said.
“Of course,” Findal said. “Seat the child down. Any place is as good as another.”
Nodding, Taerith looked over the site. There–Orlin had thrown a heap of debris into a pile, and it made a sort of natural throne. Taerith led Lilia to it and helped her to sit, chafing her hands anxiously. Zhenya appeared at his elbow with a drink of water, which Taerith gratefully took and offered to the girl. Zhenya’s eyes met his when he turned to take the cup, and they were deep with concern.
“She’ll be all right,” Taerith said. “She’s had a bad scare.”
Behind them, Marta knelt down beside a wounded man and poked at him. A groan answered her, and she stood with her mouth grimly set. “We’ll not move on tonight, Findal,” she said.
“Most of these men are hurt, and we can’t load them all into the wagons.”
Findal was making his own rounds through the wounded, with Randal close behind him. Taerith watched them for a moment, and nearly called out to tell Randal that the man he was giving water was one of the bandits–an enemy. He closed his mouth before the words escaped him. The realization suddenly dawned on him that it did not matter one whit to Findal and his strange band of outcasts whose side the men were on. They were all wounded, they were all men. There would be no lines of distinction. And why should it not be so?
Lilia had by this time begun to recover her wits, and as Findal once again approached, she looked up at him with an expression of gratitude so touching that it made the old man falter in his steps.
“Well now, child,” he said. “Tell Findal where you’re going.”
Lilia’s eyes flickered down, to her hands, which Taerith still held–kneeling before her, he offered whatever strength he could. “To King Annar’s wedding feast,” she said.
Findal beamed. “And it is so!” he said. “Deus smiles down on us, for we are going to the same
way. You shall travel with us.”
“I–” she began to say, and then stopped herself. She smiled at him. The smile had all the radiance of a midsummer moon, and Findal melted at the sight of it. “I would be glad to,” she said. “Thank you.”
She looked down at Taerith then, and her smile grew somehow sweeter. “And thank you,” she said. She cast her eyes down with a low laugh. “I suppose I can take my own hands back now.”
Taerith released her fingers instantly, and stood. Marta, who had paused to witness the scene, raised an eyebrow at him and said an enigmatic, “Uh-huh.”
“Come, wife,” said Randal, stepping and taking Marta’s arm. “There is work to be done tonight.”
Findal and his people fanned out into the crowd, and Taerith followed them half-reluctantly. Lilia remained seated, overseeing them like a dream of the night endowed with all the graces of fancy. Taerith knelt down beside a wounded man and tried to draw the man’s eyes to his face.
“Can you see me?” Taerith asked.
The man groaned, but he nodded.
“Good,” Taerith said. He looked up at Marta’s call. “Bring them here,” she was saying. “We’ll treat them here, by the fire.”
Taerith slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders and legs, and with a grunt, he lifted him up and carried him through the wreckage on the road. A small fire was already blazing, testiment to Zhenya’s brilliance for the menial. The crippled boy looked up as Taerith approached.
“Bring him water, Zhenya, and wash his wounds,” Taerith said. “You see where he is hurt.” He drew back a ragged piece of the man’s shirt as he spoke, exposing a deep gash in the shoulder. Zhenya fell immediately to obedience, and moments later Marta was there, soothing the man and administering some medicine of her own design. Taerith assisted the men in bringing the others to the fire, and then stood back, at a loss for what to do next. It was Randal who sent him back to the place his heart was hovering over.
“Marta will handle the wounds,” Randal said, his deep voice falling quietly. “The girl should not be alone. She has been frightened. Go.”
Taerith looked up at the tall sword-swallower, and wordlessly assented to the command. He turned to the place where Lilia sat, watching the proceedings and hugging her arm.
His heart leapt strangely as he approached her, and grew somehow as she looked up and greeted him with her eyes. He wondered suddenly why he had not gone back to her sooner. The night lay before them, and he did not intend to leave her again.
* * *
Copyright 2006 by Rachel Starr Thomson. Do not reproduce without written permission of the author.
Enjoying the story? Download the whole thing as an e-book from Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/82687
Sep 15 2006
Rachel Starr Thomson’s powerful devotional Heart to Heart: Meeting With God in the Lord’s Prayer is now available for purchase from Little Dozen Press!
Bestselling author Michael Phillips says of Heart to Heart that “It’s not merely a job well done, though it is that, it is truly a significant contribution to the devotional literature on the Lord’s Prayer. I thought it was one of the best things on the Lord’s Prayer I have read–not a study or an exposition, but a true devotional experience based on Jesus’ prayer.”
Rachel Starr Thomson is a homeschool graduate and author whose devotional writings have grown out of a rich experience as one of God’s people. Through ezines, blogs, and articles, her writings have encouraged and challenged readers all over the world. At the core of Heart to Heart is the understanding that Jesus did not teach us to pray a magic formula, but a prayer full of insight into the Father that will draw us into deeper relationship with Him. It is ideal reading for individual quiet times or for study groups.
Heart to Heart is available for $13.95 plus shipping from the publisher at publisher@littledozen.com, OR order from Amazon or BarnesandNoble.com!
Orders of ten or more books qualify for a discount. Email for more details.
“How many times have you prayed “The Lord’s Prayer” without giving it much thought? Sadly, I know I’ve been guilty of sometimes just repeating the well-known words in church along with everyone else. After reading through Heart to Heart: Meeting with God in the Lord’s Prayer, I will never again view this simple but powerful prayer in the same light. In this lovely little volume, Rachel Starr Thomson shares from her heart the lessons she has gleaned through studying and praying the Lord’s Prayer. You will be touched, inspired, and encouraged through her poignant personal reflections, compelling analogies, and challenging words of wisdom.” – Crystal Paine, of www.BiblicalWomanhood.com
“Phrase by phrase, sometimes word by word, the author moves through the Lord’s prayer, meditating on the meanings, the significance, the relationship between God and believer in Christ as revealed in this short but powerful prayer. The book begins in the Garden of Eden, touches on the lives of familiar figures in the Bible, and calls us to make an honest evaluation of our own lives and walk with God.
“I must admit that this is a book I’ve had to read during that quiet early-morning time while the children are asleep. More than once I’ve been moved to tears in the reading. But I’ve also taken away from the reading rich morsels of food for thought to chew on, and these have sparked discussion later in the day. When I finished the book, I put it on our eldest daughter’s reading pile for her devotional time, and I look forward to hearing her insights.
“This is a book I’ll return to, the next time life gets over-busy and my prayers seem dry and profitless. Heart to Heart is something like a drink of cool, refreshing water in a parched and thirsty land.” – Jean Hall, reviewer, Eclectic Homeschool Online (www.eho.org)
Sep 14 2006
I know this is late for a 9/11 Memorial Post… but considering the subject matter, I think that’s appropriate. My friend Joseph Derbyshire sent this to me in an email he’d written up after a discussion over Scrabble of the effects of 9/11 on our lives. I thought I’d share it with you.
...Our view of the world changed shortly after 9am that day. Afterwards, as the Pentagon burned, the Towers collapsed, allflights in North America were suspended, and the US closed itsland border crossings, we realized the scope of this change. And it awoke something in us. For several days afterward, wewere polite to strangers, we spoke to distant friends and family on the phone, we remembered our manners as we let driverschange lanes in front of us. People spoke openly in the mediaof how their faith sustained them as they waited for rescue orworked long hours to rescue others. For a brief moment, weweren't self-centred, busily scurrying from appointment toappointment but we were focused on others. We were in mourning. We condemned the attacks. We called those who plotted andcarried out these plots terrorists. We admired the firemen,police, paramedics, rescue workers, construction workers whohelped pull out any survivors and removed the rubble to searchfor human remains. Good was recognized and evil was despised. Five years later, we are starting to forget. As the civil-liberties ofimprisoned terrorists become a greater concern than national securityagainst future terrorist attacks. As the media censors those originaldisturbing images and displaces those voices of righteous indignationwith revised misgivings of self-guilt, questioned presumptions andhand-wringing. As fringe conspiracy theories become mainstream. As open professions of faith make others uncomfortable. As we getback to our busy, self-centred lives. As I watched the ceremonies on television this morning, it was difficultfor network commentators to refrain from speaking during the momentsof silence. Or keep from breaking to commercial. Or break away toregularly scheduled programming at 10am. Lest we forget.
Sep 13 2006
But nothing covered up is
Which shall not be uncovered,
Nor hidden
Which shall not be known;
Wherefore whatever in the darkness ye said,
In the light shall be heard;
And what in the ear ye spoke in chambers,
Shall be proclaimed upon housetops.
(Luke 12:2-3, The Englishman’s Greek New Testament)
If in life you do anything differently than other people–if you hold to higher standards, or pursue unusual interests, or dare to walk the road less-traveled–you have probably felt the peculiar tension that comes of sharing an hour or more with someone whose opinions about your way of life differ from yours. Sometimes such interaction is positive; sometimes it is a powder keg, with all sorts of dangerous contingencies should it explode.
So it was with interest I saw that Jesus, when He was speaking to a crowd, was invited to dine with a Pharisee–and that He accepted. To eat with someone is to make yourself vulnerable to them: you set yourself on intimacy for a period of time.
Trouble reared its head quickly enough. As they sat down to dinner, the Pharisee marveled–out loud, perhaps–that Jesus had not observed the ritual of washing before dinner. Expectations flared to ugly prominence: the Pharisee knew that Jesus was a religious teacher and miracle-worker, therefore, he ascribed to Him a whole set of outward behaviours which, in the opinion of the religious leaders, bespoke righteousness.
In His response, Jesus did not exactly pull any punches. Did the Pharisee think Him unclean because He had failed to cleanse His hands? He was a fool… a hidden tomb… a man upon whom woe would soon come. “Did not he that made that which is without make that which is within also?” Jesus asked.
Why then do you concern yourself with cleaning the outside when your heart is still filthy?
“But woe unto you, Pharisees! for ye tithe mint and rue and all manner of herbs, and pass over judgment and the love of God: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone. Woe unto you, Pharisees! for ye love the uppermost seats in the synagogues, and greetings in the markets. Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are as graves which appear not, and the men that walk over them are not aware of them.”
The dinner had sharp consequences. Not only the Pharisee, but many other influential men who were present took high offense at Jesus’ words. From then on, Luke records, they “lay wait for him,” deliberately provoking Him again and again; seeking for some word they could use to destroy Him.
But Jesus had more to say: this time to His disciples. The Pharisees were men who walked a different road, ostensibly following after God. Jesus’ disciples were also choosing an unusual road, and were susceptible to the same traps that had taken the religious leaders.
Jesus gathered His disciples around Him and said, “Beware ye of the leaven of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy. For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops. And I say unto you my friends, Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do. But I will forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear him, which after he hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, Fear him.”
Leaven was an old picture of sin: it is the little thing that ruins the whole. Hypocrisy had ruined the Pharisees, and Jesus warned His disciples not to let it enter into their lives.
It is a warning just as pertinent to us, today: everyone who chooses to walk an unusual road will be vulnerable to the snare of hypocrisy.
Just what is hypocrisy? Put simply, hypocrisy is the loss of the heart.
Look at the example Jesus used in the house of the Pharisees. The law commanded Israel to tithe their income, and the Pharisees did this–scrupulously. In fact, they tithed even the tiniest parts of their income: spices. This outward ritual had become extremely important to them. They measured their own spirituality by it, and by things like washing their hands before meals. But somewhere they had lost the heart of the law. They “passed over judgment and the love of God.” They did not care for the poor with the rest of their riches, nor did they love God at all. Rather, they loved the accolades of men, and the smug sense of their own righteousness.
They had lost heart; every true thing in them had died; and they remained as white-washed tombs. This is the snare of hypocrisy. Attending only to the outward, they could never become pure. Attending only to the expectations of men, they could never see God.
What causes hypocrisy?
Hypocrisy is chiefly born of response to others. In some cases, as Jesus pointed out when He accused the Pharisees of “loving the uppermost seat, and greetings in the market,” it comes of desiring man’s respect. We love to be looked up to; others tell us we are holy, and we partially believe them. And so we begin to tune our behaviour in order to draw a certain sound that will make others take note.
Hypocrisy is often born of judgement. We may not start out as judgemental people: if we are living differently, we will need to defend our behaviour, to examine it, to solidify our convictions and seek God wholly. The tragedy comes when our convictions turn into condemnations: when we turn our eyes from God to men. Before long our lives are all about our convictions; the whole point of living is to uphold an outward standard. The heart is lost, and before long we no longer love mercy, or judgement, or God Himself–we love only our shiny outer shells.
Finally, hypocrisy is born of fear. We often view hypocrisy as characterized by speaking one thing and doing another; sometimes it is a matter of holding silent and letting our actions proclaim false allegiances. Jesus’ boldness–His absolute lack of hypocrisy–in the Pharisee’s house brought Him into serious trouble. Thus, He urged His disciples not to fear those whose power is only temporal, but to live their lives in relation to Him who is eternal. If we truly live what is in our hearts we may face persecution, but it is not worth backing out.
In any case, Jesus tells us, nothing is truly hidden. We may think we are keeping ourselves safe, but what we have spoken in the ear will be proclaimed on the housetops one day. We may think, conversely, that we are keeping up a beautiful image: but the sham will be uncovered. A terrifying prospect for those whose lives are marked by inconsistency.
If I would not be a hypocrite, I must keep my heart alive. I must seek God, and love Him, and confess my sins: walk in the light, as He is in the light. When my walk comes out of my heart, I will live a consistent life–not a perfect one, not one without failures and sins–but one that is ultimately consistent with my love for God. I will fear God, and learn to fear man less with every day.
I write about hypocrisy because I, like the Pharisees and like Jesus’ fledgling disciples, am so susceptible to it. God has called me to forge out a life that is different from others, that stands in contrast with so much in our culture. And the danger is ever-present that I will fixate on the various responses of men, and somewhere the heart will be lost. I don’t date, I don’t drink, I don’t watch TV; I strive to make good use of my gifts; I look, talk, and act differently than most girls my age.
There are days when I wake up and realize that I have been tithing the smallest parts of my life, and passing over mercy, over judgement–over love.
God’s blessings on you, my whole-hearted companions; may you overcome your fears in Him, and press on in love for the God who bought you.
* * *
The story and verses in this article are found in Luke 11:37-54 and 12:1-5.
Sep 12 2006
Angel in the Woods having gone to the editing pile, may I direct anyone with the time and inclination to read another work-in-progress to this blog, where I have posted the prologue and first chapter of Taerith, my contribution to the nine-author project known as The Romany Epistles.
Sep 12 2006
It was raining in the fields. Cold rain. Taerith stretched out his arms and raised his head, letting the rain hit his face and run down the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth and gulped convulsively as the liquid trickled into his throat. It was good of the sky, he thought, to give him water. He had been at work with the other men, harvesting late corn, but the rain had put an end to the work for now. The fields were nearly bare anyway. Water puddled around his boots–held together now with string and patches–and turned the trampled furrows to mud.
There were a few other men left in the field; they drifted away now. They were migrants… men on the road, who hired themselves out to the landlords to work the fields and bring in the last of the harvest. Taerith kept to himself; most of the others kept to themselves; they laboured side by side but did not know one another’s names.
The work was finished. Taerith lowered his head and looked impassively at those who were leaving, then turned away and trudged back toward the road. This was not like other days, which had ended only to be born anew in the morning, once more to consist of labour in the fields. Work was really over now; the changing of the seasons was destroying his livelihood. He would go to the small nobleman to whom the land belonged and collect his pay.
When he had begun his travels, six months ago, he had hoped to find a new home, or a band of men to whom he could join himself. It had been a futile dream. Even those who banded together excluded him. Why, Taerith didn’t know–he seemed to have something written across his forehead; the word–Banished–branded him.
But now winter was coming. He could not continue on alone much longer.
He paid his visit to the landlord and collected the last of his wages. Behind the haze of rainclouds, the sun was setting as Taerith took again to the road. He walked for miles through the darkening damp, until he found a small shelter, erected on a little hilltop not far from the road. Here he built himself a fire, wrapped himself in his cloak, and fell asleep.
He was awakened early in the morning by the clatter of wheels and the clop of hooves, and the sound of a wheezy voice muttering near his ear. He woke with a start and gained his knees in an instant, reaching for his sword–it was missing. Through the longish hair that fell into his eyes, Taerith looked across the fire into the face of a strange little man who seemed to have sprung up out of the sunrise. Grey, wizened hair floated around the little man’s temples; his eyes twinkled, matched by the glittering of a gold earring that flared in the meagre morning light. He sat cross-legged with a grey blanket across his knees.
Taerith’s hand searched the ground for his sword, and the little man chuckled–a breathless chuckle. He whisked the grey blanket aside and held up Taerith’s sword, still in its scabbard–still attached to his belt, which was no longer around its master’s waist.
“Looking for this?” the man asked.
Taerith froze, his muscles tense and his eyes watchful. The little man did not look like a threat, but he certainly held the upper hand… and the nearby sound of voices indicated that he had friends in the road. Unarmed and sleeping was no way to meet with bandits.
“Calm yerself, man,” the stranger chuckled. “I’m no thief.”
Taerith found his tongue, and spoke slowly. He was always careful to measure out his words. “I don’t remember giving you my sword.”
The little man hefted the sword. “Catch,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re any more a threat than I am–but I like to be sure, before I give a man his arms back.” He tossed it, and Taerith reached out and caught it out of the air.
“Thank you,” he said, buckling it back on to his waist. “Would you mind telling me who you are?”
The little man drew a breath and rested his hands on his knees; he seemed to puff up like a swelling cloud. “My name is Findal,” he said. “I am a man of the road.”
“As am I,” said Taerith, “though I would prefer not to be. My name is Taerith Romany.” He held out his hand, and they shook across the fire.
“And what is wrong with the road?” Findal asked. “It has always treated me right well.”
“It is likely to be cold in the winter,” Taerith said, casting a glance on the lightening sky.
“True enough,” Findal said. He narrowed his eyes and peered more closely at Taerith. “You have nowhere to go, then?”
“No,” Taerith said.
Findal pursed his lips. “Well,” he said. “Well. I will ask you no more, as you are evidently a man of few words. Will you break fast with us?”
Taerith stood, stretching his legs. His grey cloak fell around him. He reached down to help the little man up, and when he had done so, he saw that the man barely came up to his chest. “I can see no harm in that,” he said.
“Good,” the man said. He nodded, his eyes fixed on Taerith with obvious curiosity. True to his word, he asked no more questions. “Good,” he said again.
The little man turned away from the fire. Following him, Taerith looked down the hill into the road, where he could now see the little company that had come upon him. There were several wagons in the road, pulled by merry looking little horses, and one magnificent stallion was tied up behind one of them. This particular wagon was larger than the others, and enclosed; there were fantastic characters painted on the side in fading colours, and strange wild faces… and a unicorn. The other wagons were entirely ordinary: two closed, one open and filled with bales of covered hay. They had all stopped in the middle of the road and a small company milled around them.
Taerith was aware that they fell silent as he approached behind Findal, and as he stepped between the wagons into the makeshift camp, the strangers stopped what they were doing and stared. He tried not to stare back, and found that his easiest recourse was to cast his eyes on the dull brown earth. The strangers were not entirely easy to treat with indifference. They were dressed in strange, ill-fitting, weirdly sewn clothes; and the frames on which the clothes fit had a share of weirdness in themselves. Taerith could not help feeling that he had fallen in with something not quite human.
Findal hailed them all loudly, and with good, wheezy cheer. “Look alive, you all!” he said. “I’ve brought us a breakfast companion. There, Morris… bring us a little more firewood.” As he spoke he sat down by the fire, and beckoned for Taerith to do the same.
An extraordinarily thin, wiry man dressed in dingy red stepped away from one of the enclosed wagons with his arms full of firewood. He stepped lightly, as though there were eggshells beneath his feet, with an odd grace that Taerith found unnerving. The fellow threw the wood on the fire and then stepped forward and offered his hand. Taerith took it… it was smooth, and made him think somehow of a snake. “Morris Syve,” he said. His voice was as thin as his body. He bowed his head slightly in greeting, and then retired to the fireside. He sat on the ground, threw one leg around his neck until the foot rested on the ground, and leaned on the misplaced limb. He continued to stare. Taerith averted his eyes, and watched as a short man with muscles so great they seemed ready to pop from every inch of his skin seated himself by the fire.
Taerith looked at Findal now, and the little man answered before the question could be asked.
“We are performers,” he said. “Showmen. No stranger than many… more honest than most.”
“I will eat and drink with honest men, wherever I find them,” Taerith answered.
“Good fellow,” Findal said. He pointed at Taerith with the blackened end of a stick he’d been using to stir the fire. “You could use a good eating, and a drink, from the looks of you,” he said.
“Where are you going, and where have you been? You need not hide anything from Findal… nor yet from his merry band.”
The eyes fixed on Taerith from across the fire hardly seemed merry, yet he liked Findal, and felt that he could trust these people. In any case, he had nothing to hide. “I am come from the east,” he said. “I have been traveling these six months, working in the fields as a harvester. I fear that work has closed its doors to me. As to where I am going, I hardly know. I follow the road.”
“Then I’ll tell you where you’re going,” Findal said. With his stick he dug something tightly wrapped from the embers of the fire, and set it out to cool. “You’re going into country where men and women like a good show, but will not pay too handsomely for it. It is not good land, not bad. A day more and you will be under the jurisdiction of Annar, king of these parts. He manages his estates well enough, and his people do not starve. He is in a good mood these days, as he is about to be married. So, we are going to perform for him, in hopes that love will make him generous.”
Taerith took the food that Findal offered him–some sort of tuber, cooked nearly to mash–and tossed it from hand to hand. It was still hot. “He is a good man, then?” he asked.
“He’s like his land… not good, not bad.”
Morris spoke from across the fire. “We are grateful he is not his brother.”
“Yes, yes,” Findal wheezed. “Borden… now there’s a bad piece of work, and no mistaking. Not one to give an honest man so much as a penny, not if he can stand on his head and whistle cheerily at the same time; not if he can teach a bear to dance.”
“He lacks imagination?” Taerith asked, smiling a little at Findal’s censure.
“He lacks anything that makes a man worthy,” Findal answered. “I met him once, in court.” He shook his head. “A bad piece of work.”
“How far is the king’s castle from here?” Taerith asked, as he unwrapped his breakfast and took a bite.
“Not two days,” Findal said. “But we shall take three to reach it. We have an engagement in a nearer town. Will you accompany us there?”
Taerith looked up in surprise. He did not answer immediately, but looked around the camp a little more. Some way off from the fire he saw a woman step out of a wagon and call something to a boy who sat near her; the stallion who followed the wagons whinnied. Findal, waiting in expectation with his stick poised half in the air, had eyes neither unkindly nor unwise. All in all, it was a more pleasant prospect than continuing down the road alone. He looked back down at Findal. “I will,” he said.
* * *
Four nights had passed since Borden, heir to his brother’s lands, had slept. His soul was not easy at the best of times, but now he saw clouds on the horizon of his carefully planned future years. He was determined to stand on the castle parapet and stare them down, until they shrank and shrivelled and dissipated before the force of his gaze.
The sun was sinking low over the fields that surrounded the castle. The falling darkness suited his mood. He made no move to go inside, down to human society, to the celebrations his brother was already holding. He was an old fool, Annar, drinking and blushing as though he were a young man in love, and not an old king waiting for a girl he had never met, who loved him no more than he loved her.
Borden watched for the convoy. It would come, with a carriage in its midst, bearing her who threatened everything. It would come, beneath the clouds. If he could have shattered it with a look, Borden would have. His eyes were always forceful; now, after days of brooding and nights without sleep, they seemed like the eyes of some old god, capable of turning an enemy to stone.
Yes, they would come soon. The bride and her retinue. And there would be more drinking, more foolish revelry, and then marriage. And a son would come to displace the brother who should have possessed the throne long ago.
The clouds were black indeed.
“My lord Borden.” The voice was at his elbow, a thin, wavering voice. Borden turned on it, and his eyes burned into the stooped servant who waited nervously for him.
“What is it?” Borden asked, when the man’s nerves had nearly reached a breaking point.
“The king calls for you,” the servant said.
“The king,” Borden muttered, and turned away. “I do not come at the beck and call of my brother.”
The servant cleared his throat. “Please, sir,” he said, “he requests…”
Borden wheeled around again. “What care I what he says?” he roared. “What is my brother? Tell me that, slave, and speak truth! What is my brother?”
“He is the king,” the servant stuttered.
Borden caught the man’s shirt sleeve, and spun him around toward the steps. He resisted the urge to kick the old fellow all the way down, instead releasing him with a shove. The man stumbled down the first few stone steps toward the courtyard, and was caught by the strong arms of a girl who stood, half-veiled in the shadows of the wall. Borden saw it, and bristled with anger.
She appeared to think it over for a moment, and took in his brawny arms and broad shoulders; the iron cast of the face hidden behind his thick black beard.
“You could,” she assented.
“What would you do if my brother tried it?” He half expected the answer, and wanted to hear it.
Her voice was low but she answered. “I would break his arm.”
The smile broke free. He laughed. “You will not do well when a queen reigns in this house; you have too much spirit. Women can never abide to be eclipsed by one another.”
“No more than brothers,” the girl said. But now her voice had grown quiet; most of the fire had gone out of it.
“What is your name?” Borden demanded.
“Mirian,” the girl answered.
Borden turned and looked out on the now-shrouded fields. “You may leave,” he said. He waited for her to reply, to thank him for dismissing her, but she did not. When next he turned his head, Mirian had left.
The slave girl and all her powers of diversion gone, Borden fell again to thoughts of the future sweeping over the roads toward him. Every trace of a smile left his face as he meditated on the place his brother had now twice stolen from him. The weak should not rule over the strong. Borden was strong. The moon rose higher, and the still-heir of the kingdom sank down on his precarious position and quietly lost himself in obsession.
* * *
Copyright 2006 by Rachel Starr Thomson. Do not reproduce without written permission of the author.
Enjoying the story? Download the whole thing as an e-book from Smashwords:http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/82687
Sep 11 2006
Thank goodness for blogging… clears the brain before starting the day’s long stint of marking papers, editing manuscripts, and writing novels.
The proof for Heart to Heart came today! It’s beautiful. My sisters designed the cover and formatted the inside, and it looks great. It’s smaller than the old version, thicker, quite a bit more “bookish.” And it feels great to have that Michael Phillips quote on the front cover.
Unfortunately there were a couple of typos I could NOT ignore (located smack dab in the Table of Contents), so the book is going into slight revision before I make it available. Take heart, though, I tell myself; ’twill be over soon, and the real work (selling books) begin.
Sep 08 2006
The proof has been shipped from the printer!
It’s getting so close to D-Day I can hardly stand it. Can hardly wait until the learning curve straightens for a moment and the book is on the market.
Sep 08 2006
This is the first time I’ve posted a tag here… but I like this one so much I just had to do it. I’d seen it around and was hoping someone would tag me so I could do it–I’m too lazy to tag myself. Thanks, Britt ;).
1. One book that changed your life: Pretty well everyone has said “The Bible,” so, though that’s true for me, too, I’ll use a different one here: A Daughter’s Devotion, by George MacDonald. 2. One book that you’ve read more than once: The Jungle Books by Rudyard Kipling. 3. One book you ’d want on a desert island: The Bible. 4. One book that made you laugh: Out loud? The Mating Season by P.G. Wodehouse. Actually, just about anything by P.G. Wodehouse. 5. One book that made you cry: Mrs. Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman 6. One book that you wish had been written: A detailed, modern-journal style account of the apostle Paul’s life and travels. Also, the story of my Opa’s family in Russia and his life here in Canada.
