Sample the story
A Beginning
This is not the beginning of everything. That would take a lot more telling. It is not even the beginning of our story about Ellie, Daniel, Jack and Valerie. But it is a beginning, a beginning of things going all wrong. The Land of Wysdon was very different by the time they got there.
So, listen.
Ramar sat on the edge of the well’s stone wall. It was his favorite place to hide on the nights of town feasts. Tucked away in darkness, just off the main square, Ramar couldn’t be seen, but he could see everything. Torches and lanterns lit the square, so the tables and benches, and the big arm-chairs specially arranged at the head table for the elders and their famous guest were as clear as they’d be at noon. Best of all, he could hear the songs of the women and the funny stories that one man after another told as they rose in order of their ages.
Next week, Ramar would turn twelve, and then he would take his place at the feast. He would give the first speech. Ramar knew he couldn’t make people laugh the way Ovich did. Ovich had turned twelve two weeks ago, so he would speak right after Ramar, at every town feast for the rest of their lives. If Ramar didn’t figure something out soon, Ovich would put him to shame forever.
That’s why tonight was so important. Tonight, the renowned story-teller, Bar-ell, was visiting. If Ramar could just learn a trick or two from the way the bard told his stories, he might measure up, even to Ovich.
And now, the time had come. The great poet rose from his place at the head table. His gaze ran over the upraised faces around him, a kindly smile warming each heart as it passed. Then, his eyes stopped. They fixed themselves on the place where Ramar hid.
But no one can see me here, Ramar’s brain protested.
The bard’s smile greeted Ramar. It welcomed him.
Bar-ell’s deep voice sang out, in five rich notes, “Doooooo. Not. Beeeeee. Afraid.”
The crowd sat still, hardly breathing, waiting for what would come next. The song filled Ramar with hope. It seemed to be aimed just at him. He stood straight. His chest rose.
Suddenly, a terrible noise, half scream and half giggle, split the silence. All the faces turned toward Main Street to see what had made the frightful shriek. The feasters leapt to their feet. Chair legs screeched across stone. Benches crashed down. The horrible sound grew louder and louder until a hundred hideous voices filled the night.
The bravest of the men pushed forward, as if to defend the others, though this was a Chittering village, and Chitterings carried no weapons. They had never needed to fight, you see.
Ramar jumped to his feet atop the well.
Out of the darkness across the square poured a hundred huge epicyons, a kind of jackals, but much bigger and stronger and more ferocious, with voices like hyenas.
It felt like a dream, a nightmare. For jackals are solitary hunters–ugly, lonely scavengers. They were seldom seen in packs, and never before on the streets of town. A lighted square, or a crowd, should have been enough to scare them away.
Now, though, they trotted right up to the front row of men, slobbering and flashing pointed teeth, taunting the Chitterings with their gruesome giggles.
One of the Chittering men stepped forward, nearly onto the lead jackal’s paw. He waved his arms, and shouted, “Scat! Get away!”
A new cascade of shrieking giggles, louder than before, and even more grisly, was hurled at the brave Chittering, causing him to fall back.
The leader of the jackal pack stood on his hind legs. He towered over the Chitterings before him.
The other jackals stopped their fearsome yowls.
“Now, listen here, you cringing creatures. Cattar has come. He bids you to wait on him at the place you call the Great King’s Hill. Come at noon on Midsummer’s Eve, your chieftain and your spokesmen. Cattar would have the Two Hills and all the land around them for his own.”
Great gasps came from the crowd, not only because no one, ever, had heard an animal speak, but also because in all the Land of Wysdon none dared set foot on the Great King’s Hill. Ancient law forbade it.
“But…” the leading Chittering began.
He was stopped in his protest, though, by the loudest, longest hiss anyone ever heard.
“Sssssssssssssssss,” it went on and on.
And then, the whole seething mob of jackals ended it by bawling, “…SSSSSSILENCE!”
Their leader spoke again.
“Cattar did not give us the gift of speech so that,” and here he looked around at the Chitterings and gave his awful giggle. “Just so that you could interrupt us. Cattar the Powerful orders you to send your spokesmen. That is all.” The way he howled “all” was so terrifying that every Chittering, including Ramar, jumped back.
The pack of jackals exploded in their hysterical screams once again, but that had no effect on Ramar this time. For Ramar had jumped backwards onto nothing. He was falling. Down and down he went, until he landed in the chill water of the well with an echoing splash.
Now, Chitterings swim very well. They have webbed hands and feet, you see, something like a frog’s, only they’re not green, and their fingers are longer than a frog’s, sticking out from the webbing from the second joint. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t as scary for a Chittering boy to fall into a well as it would be for you or me. It was.
Ramar began to shout, “Help! Help me! Please help!” All the while he treaded water with feet and hands. No one could hear Ramar, though, with the howling and giggling and screeching going on. In that instant, shivering took him. It might have been the cold water, but more likely it came from the panic that rose in his chest. He realized the well was so deep a person would have to strand right over it to hear him, even if the jackals were gone. That didn’t stop him, though. He cried out again and again, but no one came.
If the jackals were still there, he couldn’t tell. All he could hear was his own breathing, his own yells, and water lapping against the walls. Ramar moved to the side. He tried to climb, but the stone was slippery, and he found nothing to hold onto. He called for help again, as loudly as he could, but still, no one answered. The cold of the water made his teeth chatter.
He stayed that way for a long time, treading water, shivering, calling out now and then, and thinking. He tried not to think too much of those fearsome jackals or the water taking him. Instead, he thought of his parents at the feast. His father had stood in that first row of men, but Ramar had lost sight of his mother. Where were they now? Would they miss him when they got home? Would they come looking for him?
Guilt took hold of him. He was supposed to have stayed with his little sister, but it was so boring, sitting there while she slept. And Bar-ell had never come to their village before. He might not come again. If Ramar lost this chance to hear the bard, could he ever hope to avoid being shamed by Ovich? Leaving his sister had been wrong, though. And look what had come of it.
Ramar was getting colder. His arms and legs became tired and stiff. He tried floating on his back, but he couldn’t stay up without kicking a little, and using his arms a lot. If only he could be at home watching his sister now.
Ramar gave another shout, but only his echo answered.
People would come for water in the morning. That was certain. Could he tread water until then?
He had to think about other things. His speech. He had worked on it so many times. Maybe he could get people to laugh if he talked about falling into the well. That might do it! But just now Ramar could think of nothing funny about falling into a well. And what did making speeches matter, anyway, if he never could climb out of this pit?
Think of other things. Lana. Her wild ways and deep gazes captured his heart. Did she know? Had she even noticed him? She made him so shy, he had never talked to her, and now, maybe he never would. If he didn’t escape, he would never see her again. Another regret.
And then, high above, he heard that same, short song from hours and hours ago.
“Dooooooo. Not. Beeeeeeee. Afraid.
The golden age is past. Division plagues the Land, wizard against wizard. The elves flee the Shining City. The rightful queen languishes in prison. Her usurper would change the Land forever. Strange lights are seen at the stroke of midnight, and they come from Cattar’s castle. Can a knight errant save the Land? Find out in 2026.
Rosamere out of the redwoods
