Angela Treat Lyon is a prolific and versatile artist who does drawings, paintings and sculpture. When I went to Angela’s site, I was struck by her art work especially the sculptures. I was also struck by her words and how they apply to all types of artists, including writers.
On her home page, Angela says when people asked her what her painting meant, she thought the person should allow the piece to speak for itself, not realizing that not everyone knows how to do that. A writer has to take that into consideration as well. An author wants a book to speak for itself, but a story means different things to different people depending on their past experiences and background.
For example, one person may relate to the characters camping in the wilderness like my characters, Fawn and Baymond, in Call of the Eagle. Other people may have never camped and be curious as it what the experience is like.
Angela said that a seasoned collector told her that people want an experience, to be drawn in as she was drawn in. “To be in your shoes as you create and bring this painting and sculpture into manifestation.” This is true for writers as well, the reader wants to be drawn into the story world, so they feel almost as if they are the character. In Call of the Wind as the reader you can experience what it’s like to ride on a sand tiger and feel the wind against your skin as you race across the desert.
This newsletter is another way I bring you into my author world, revealing how I create my stories, my characters and their adventures.
Angela, went on to say, “They (the viewers) want a shift of thinking that leads them from ordinary, everyday consciousness – a journey into the world created by the image or the sculpture – and out the other side with a new, wonderful perception.” This again applies to novels. The reader wants to be transported from their everyday world and journey into the story world where they are transported into a new exciting perception.
Angela goes on to say: “Art is about creating and transmitting new perceptions to you, the viewer. So that’s what I strive for: pieces that take you, the viewer, to another experience, another world, another realm, where you can enjoy rich, gem-like blasts of fantasy color, or rounded, voluptuous sculptural forms, and whimsical or powerful, poignant emotion.” Again this applies to authors as well. The writer takes the reader to another experience, another world or realm.
In my book, Call of the Wind, you can enjoy what it’s like to travel by spaceship to another planet where the people have green skin and gills, so they can swim without coming up for air. You can experience a world where the people are less technologically advanced, yet have skills we don’t have like communicating inwardly.
The fifth book in the exciting Star Rider, space opera series, Call of the Eagle, has just be published and is now available on Amazon as a print book.
Here is the first chapter:
1 White Sand Desert
Baymond awoke to the rustling sound of his father entering the tent.
“Time to get up,” Michio said. “The tribe’s breaking camp.”
Baymond sat up, fear hammering through him. Samrat soldiers would be searching for him and his parents and their only chance of survival was hiding among the Bajava tribal people. He rubbed his forehead, feeling thickheaded with fatigue after only four hours of sleep, but he knew it would pass once he got moving.
His mother yawned and looked at her watch. “Why are they breaking camp so early?”
Michio began rolling up his sleeping blanket. “They travel in the cooler part of the day and rest when the sun reaches its zenith. Baymond, we need to report for guard duty. Touch up your face paint before joining the other men.” Michio already resembled a Bajava warrior. He’d grown a beard, blue streaks shone in his dark hair, and a pattern of lines and dots were freshly painted on his forehead. He was dressed in the tribe’s traditional male clothing: a wide-sleeved shirt and light-colored pants.
Toemeka pulled a kaftan over her knit top and the close-fitting pants she’d slept in, then stuffed her blanket into her saddlebag. Her movements were quick, efficient and nervous. “I’ll keep guard with you.”
“Sorry, that’s not an option,” Michio said, opening the tent flap. “All the guards are men. We can’t do anything to cause suspicion. Only Einherjar and his wife Qara Boke know we’re from another planet. The rest of the tribe thinks I’m Einherjar’s brother from another tribe.” He left the tent.
“How long have you been traveling with the tribe?” Baymond asked his mother.
“We met Einherjar a few days ago through the Resistance. This will be our first day traveling with them. We have limited knowledge of their rules and traditions.” She pulled out several small jars and opened them.
Baymond dipped three fingers into the jar with cobalt blue dye and ran them through his black hair to add streaks. His normally short hair had grown long during the nearly six months he’d been in hiding. After adding the blue streaks to his hair and beard, he rubbed brown cream on his neck and the upper half of his face to darken it. “You and Dad both have deep tans. How long have you been on planet Saroka?”
“More than four months. We left home and made the long voyage to Saroka soon after Jake notified us that your G-4 Tornado fighter was hit by anti-aircraft shells and you were missing in action.” She started applying a pattern of red and white dots and lines on his forehead. It was strange to feel her tender touch and unconditional love as if he were still a child. He hadn’t seen her in almost two years. At sixteen, he’d lied about his age and joined the Coalition of Free Nations to become a fighter pilot.
She sat back and studied her work. “You won’t need brown face paint for long. You’ve always tanned easily. Why are you so pale?”
He rubbed brown paint on his hands. “I had to stay indoors so no one would discover where I was hiding.”
“Where were you hiding?”
“A young woman saw me parachute out of my fighter and her family hid me from Samrat Condor’s soldiers over the winter.”
Toemeka hugged him tightly. “I was afraid you were dead. There wasn’t any trace of your whereabouts until you were arrested and imprisoned.”
He felt her tremble as he hugged her back. “I’m all right now, Mom.”
“You must have been terrified, knowing you were about to be executed.”
“They thought I was a spy—I was out of uniform.”
“Being a prisoner of war wouldn’t have been a much better fate.”
“I spent the last four days in prison with a man named Norgrin.” Baymond pulled a small carved eagle out of his pocket and handed it to her. “He carved this for me using nothing but a small stone shard.”
His mother examined it. “It’s a beautiful carving.”
“Norgrin saw an eagle in his dream right before I was put in his cell. When he met me, he knew I was the eagle, the enlightened soul.”
“Interesting that he recognized you as the eagle from his dream.” She handed it back.
“He was a holy man and saw a vision.”
“I’m glad you had him as your cell mate. You’d better go join your father. I need to take down the tent.”
The tent was a primitive, handmade structure of cloth over wood poles. Nothing like the lightweight pop-up tents Baymond was used to. “Do you want some help?”
“No, the tribe considers it women’s work. You’d better go get your orders for the day.”
Baymond took a piece of meat jerky out of his saddlebag and began chewing it as he left the tent. It tasted gritty and probably had sand on it, but he was too hungry to throw it away. Outside, the sun was rising and the camp was already bursting with activity. The women were taking down the tents and packing the supplies. The children were carrying blankets over to the khevons. The sandy-colored beasts had large ears and a brown stripe down the center of their backs.
He looked in the other direction toward the desert. White sand stretched as far as he could see, with rolling dunes in the distance. It was devoid of life and eerily silent, contrasting with his memory of the woods near where he’d grown up that teemed with life.
Baymond’s gaze returned to camp. The guards were gathered around Einherjar, the tribal chief. He hurried over to them.
***
After taking down the tent, Toemeka tied it and their saddlebags onto the khevons. Michio and Baymond came over and thanked her, then mounted and rode off to patrol with the other men.
Once the caravan was ready to move on, Toemeka walked alongside Qara Boke. The elders and young rode in the wagons. The older children were in charge of the flock of neeree and of collecting the furry animal’s dung in baskets to use for fires. The neeree were funny-looking creatures with bushy tails that curled over their bodies and shaded their heads.
As she trudged along, Toemeka was glad she didn’t have a baby or toddler tied to her back like many of the women. She was still getting used to the heat and wasn’t looking forward to a day of walking across the sand in the sun. She adjusted her cloth head-covering so it covered her nose and mouth to keep from breathing in fine particles of sand.
After a while, an attractive young tribal woman joined them, introducing herself as Chrisshawna. Toemeka knew enough of the Deutzian language to hold a simple conversation. Chrisshawna was curious about Baymond and asked several questions about him, including if he had a wife.
When Chrisshawna wandered away to talk to some women her own age, Qara Boke stared thoughtfully after her. “Your son is handsome and strong, and Chrisshawna thinks he’s Einherjar’s nephew. You’ll have to warn him to stay away from her to avoid trouble. Bajava fathers are ferociously protective of their daughters, and young men don’t speak privately to girls of marriageable age without their father’s permission.”
Toemeka frowned uneasily “Thank you for warning me. Baymond’s used to men and women interacting freely. He’d think nothing of talking to one of the girls.” The last thing she wanted was trouble when Einherjar and Qara Boke had done so much for them. “Thank you for helping us.”
“It’s only right when your son came here to fight our common enemy.”
The morning grew hotter and hotter, and the tribe’s pace slowed. Sweat dripped down Toemeka’s forehead, and she felt it gather on her chest and back. “How much longer until we rest?” She stopped to take a drink from her water flask.
“We’ll stop soon. Your face is flushed. Walking is hard for people not used to the desert.”
The heat grew worse, and Toemeka felt like she was in an oven being roasted alive. She didn’t think she could go much further without rest.
Fortunately, Einherjar rode by on his khevon yelling, “We’ll break here.”
Toemeka helped set out the food and cut cheese made from the milk of the comical-looking neeree. After her morning trek, their bushy tails seemed to be sensible protection from the fierce sun. She placed the cheese on pottery plates, along with flatbread and dried fruit. While the meal was prepared, the men gathered in council, except for a few guards who rode the perimeter of the camp and scouted the desert.
When the council broke up, she brought plates over to Michio and Baymond.
Michio studied her. “You look exhausted.”
“Walking in this desert heat is draining. I’d prefer riding a sand tiger.”
Baymond finished chewing his cheese. “Maybe you could ride in one of the wagons.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not that old.”
He felt his face heat up. “I didn’t mean to imply you were, but you were up most of the night searching the desert for Dad.”
“I’ll lie down after I eat.”
Baymond yawned. “So will I. Can you stay and eat with us?”
“That’s not the custom here.” Toemeka returned to where Qara Boke was visiting with the other women. After washing down a piece of cheese with some water, she glanced around for a place to sleep and spotted a rock outcrop a short distance from camp that would provide some shade. Once she’d hiked to it, she lay down on the shady side.
Toemeka was just about to sleep when Michio yelled, “Toemeka, look out!” Instantly alert, she sat up. An enormous reptile was racing toward her. Terrified, she glanced around for something to defend herself with. Spotting a rock, she grabbed it and sprang to her feet. The lizard-like creature looked to be nine feet long and was approaching fast. She shouted at it and hurled the rock at its head. It bounced off its scales. The creature stood still, its round eyes watching her as it raised and lowered itself on its two front legs. Then it leapt at her.
A sharp crack reverberated in the air. The beast twisted in the air and fell to the ground. Still alive, it spun around and started toward Michio who had almost reached it. He fired his rifle at the creature’s head two more times. It thrashed back and forth on the sand for a few minutes, then lay still.
Toemeka pressed her hand against her breast, feeling her heart race. She stared at the reptile in horror, realizing how close she’d come to being torn to shreds. Rifle in hand, Michio hurried over to her and drew her into his arms.
Einherjar rode up on his khevon. “Did the zellar monster bite either of you?”
Michio glanced at her, and she shook her head. “No, we’re both all right,” he said.
“I should have warned you to stay in camp, Toemeka,” Einherjar said. “Zellar monsters are rare, but their bite is deadly. Its venom paralyzes its prey to make eating it easy.”
Baymond arrived a moment later. “You all right, Mother?”
“Yes, just shaken.” She stared at the zellar monster. It was unusual looking with a gray and white striped body and a long, thick blue tail.
“That thing must weigh eight-hundred pounds,” Baymond said, studying it.
Michio gave it a poke with his foot. “It probably weighs more than that.”
Qara, Chrisshawna and some other women hurried over.
Chrisshawna gaped at the creature. “That’s a big one.”
“The desert gods are merciful!” Qara Boke said. “Few survive an attack by a zellar monster. It’s fortunate your husband was watching out for you, Toemeka.”
“I’m very lucky.” Toemeka felt Michio’s arm tighten around her.
Chrisshawna pulled her knife out of its sheath at her waist. “The meat from a zellar monster is delicious. Baymond, can you and your dad help flip it onto its back so we can slice through its soft belly? The scales on its back are too hard to cut through.”
Einherjar dismounted and, with the aid of his khevon and a rope, the three men managed to flip the creature onto its back. Qara Boke sliced down the middle of its stomach then she and Chrisshawna started cutting it up. The other women wrapped the chunks of meat in pieces of leather.
Chrisshawna smiled at Baymond. “We’ll have a feast tonight.”
Baymond grinned back. “Sounds great. I can’t remember the last time I had a feast. Can I help cut up the meat?”
She laughed. “That’s women’s work.”
Toemeka uneasily watched the friendly exchange. “Baymond, will you walk back to camp with us?”
He looked away from the butchering of the zellar monster. “Sure, what’s up?” He headed back to camp with his parents. Once they were out of earshot of the others, Toemeka related the warning Qara Boke had given about talking to young women of marriageable age.
“What a stupid custom,” Baymond said.
Toemeka narrowed her eyes. “Stupid or not, you’ll follow it, okay?”
“Yeah sure. I don’t want to be forced to marry Chrisshawna no matter how beautiful she is.” He looked back at the girl under discussion.
His parents exchanged a concerned glance.
Once all the meat was packed up, the camp moved on. Baymond rode alongside his father, guarding the perimeter of the camp. He was more diligent now that he knew to look out for zellar monsters as well as enemy soldiers and bandits. Einherjar said bandits weren’t likely to attack a large, guarded camp, but they’d been known to ride in firing rifles, snatch what they wanted, and ride off again.
“How long will we travel with the tribe?” Baymond asked.
“A few weeks. Once we reach the Hawyan Mountains, we’ll leave them and cross the mountains alone. On the other side is a coastal village that’s in unoccupied territory. Once there, we’ll contact Jake and he’ll fly us—” The rest of his words were drowned out by the roar of engines. Baymond apprehensively gazed upward. The inhabitants of planet Saroka didn’t have any aircraft, so it could only be an enemy. Soon a Talon fighter appeared overhead, flying low. Baymond clenched his jaw, recognizing it as one of the spaceships he’d fought in aerial battles on the missions he’d flown. A patrol ship had landed near the caravan the day before and searched the camp. The soldiers hadn’t recognized him in his tribal disguise, but he couldn’t count on the same thing happening today.
The fighter slowed, circled around and flew over them a second time. Baymond knew it carried enough firepower to destroy the entire tribe in minutes.
“Stay centered and control your thoughts,” Michio said, startling him. “They probably have a sorcerer on board powerful enough to detect anything unusual.”
Baymond immediately put up an inner shield of light and took a calming breath, grateful for his father’s presence. Michio was the spiritual leader of the Secret Teachings and served as an inner and outer teacher and guide to his followers. Most of the time Baymond just thought of him as his father, but in moments like this Master Michio’s heightened awareness, serenity and love enabled Baymond to find his own inner stillness.
Together father and son watched the ship, relaxed, but ready to take action if needed.
When it finally flew off, Baymond sighed with relief, thankful he and his parents weren’t alone in the vast desert with no place to hide.
***
That evening, the desert air became pleasantly cool. After setting up camp, Einherjar and Qara Boke invited Michio, Toemeka, and Baymond to join them for an evening feast of zellar monster meat, cactus pads and flowers, and flatbread. Several families were already gathered around a large fire when they arrived.
Around camp, other groups were doing the same thing. Apparently, Baymond thought, families ate together for celebrations.
Chrisshawna handed him a piece of raw zellar monster meat on a skewer. “This is the best part. It’s the inner piece of the tail.”
Baymond thanked her then squatted by the fire and held the meat over some coals, wondering what the meat would taste like. The wind shifted and he breathed in the burnt grass smell of the neeree dung smoke.
Other tribal members held out their skewers competing for the same spot of red coals. The smell of meat cooking made Baymond’s stomach rumble. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good meal. Food had grown short at Rissa’s and in prison the gruel and watery soup had left him perpetually hungry. One time his soup had an eyeball floating in it.
He turned his stick in the fire so the meat would be browned equally on all sides. It was taking too long to cook so he put it directly over the flames. It quickly became charcoal on the outside and he moved it back to the coals.
The wind blew smoke into his face, making his eyes water. He squeezed them shut, opening them again when the wind shifted.
Finally the meat looked and smelled done and he stepped away from the fire. He was so hungry by now that he didn’t care what it tasted like. He blew on the meat to cool it off and took a bite. It painfully burnt his tongue. He blew on it some more, then took another bite and chewed it slowly, analyzing the meat’s flavor. It was sharp and slightly fishy with a firm and chewy texture.
He looked up and saw Chrisshawna watching him across the fire. She smiled. “Good?”
He nodded, unable to reply with his mouth full.
“Have another piece.” She came over to him and held out a piece of raw meat. He put it on his skewer and held it over the coals, snacking on a cactus flower as it cooked.
Qara Boke wiped meat juice off her chin. “I love zellar monster meat. Thanks for killing it, Michio.”
Michio looked warmly at Toemeka. “I didn’t kill it for its meat.”
“The White Sand Desert is full of creatures,” Einherjar said. “As well as zellar monsters, there are poisonous insects and snakes, but none of them are as dangerous as the Talon soldiers.”
Baymond was sorry the tribal chief had brought up soldiers. He wanted to enjoy the evening and relax, but now tension was tight in his chest.
He heard the pounding of drums, then the lighter notes of flutes and stringed instruments joined in. Baymond turned toward the music floating on the air.
Einherjar rose. “A celebration wouldn’t be complete without music. Come.” He led the way to where a group of musicians had gathered.
Baymond listened, entranced. He missed playing his flute and asked the flautist if he could borrow the instrument. The man handed him the flute. As he began to play, everything faded away and he felt transported to a different world.
When he finished, he noticed Chrisshawna and others from the tribe had gathered around to hear him play. He handed the instrument back to its owner and thanked him.
Chrisshawna drew close. “That was amazing.”
“It’s a fine instrument,” Baymond said, still feeling the joy of having played it.
He continued listening to the music, absorbed in its sound when he noticed that a man with a distinctive blue beard was staring at him and Chrisshawna with a stern scowl.
Was the man Chrisshawna’s father?
He left her side and walked over to where his parents stood.
Toemeka smiled at him. “I loved hearing you play the flute.” She put her hand over her mouth as she began to yawn.
“It’s getting late,” Michio said. “Let’s go to bed.”
As they headed to their tent, a feeling of peacefulness settled over Baymond. He looked across the vast desert and at the expansive starlit sky above.
“It’s beautiful here,” his mother said as they all stopped to enjoy the view.
“Yes, it is,” Baymond said. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you both for rescuing me.” It concerned him that his parent’s lives were endangered because they’d come to planet Saroka to rescue him. Yet they both looked strong and fit; capable of surviving in this war-torn world. They’d seemed old to him when he was sixteen. Now he’d revised his thinking, in their mid-forties they were in the prime of life. They’d flown across the galaxy, found him, and successfully sprung him out of prison.
“Jake helped us find you,” Michio said. “He’s been searching for you ever since your ship crashed landed on Saroka. News of you didn’t surface until you were arrested.”
Baymond nodded, he wasn’t surprised Jake was hunting for him. He was a family friend and a skilled senior pilot who’d been training fighter pilots at the space station when he’d been shot down. “It’s really good to see both of you again. I’ve been lonely at times so far from home, family, and friends.” A lump formed in Baymond’s throat. He wanted to know about Fawn but was hesitant to ask. News that she was married would be hard to hear, but perhaps uncertainty was worse. “I’ve been wondering how . . . you know, how Princess Fawniteen is doing?”
“We’ve been gone almost as long as you’ve been missing in action,” his father replied. “We’ve had little contact with home.”
“Mother said the twins are staying at the Marsindi Palace,” he said, wondering about his younger siblings, Desha and Keegin. They’d be sixteen now and must miss their parents.
“We thought they’d enjoy the company of Fawn and her siblings,” his father said.
“Aren’t Queen Koriann and Prince Erling worried that one of their sons will fall in love with Desha?” Baymond bit his lip. “Sorry, that just slipped out. Did you know that Prince Erling offered to break off Fawn’s engagement to Prince Radcliff, so she and I could marry, but she told him not to?”
“Only because she was concerned about causing trouble between our country and the prince’s,” Mother said. “Your father and I went to see her soon after we found out you were missing in action, because Erling was worried about her. She’d shut herself up in her room and didn’t eat or sleep for days. She was recovering when she received your necklace and letter. That convinced her you knew you were going to die and she broke down a second time.”
“She was doing better when we left,” Father said.
Baymond sighed deeply. “It would be best if she forgot me. I take it she isn’t married yet, if she’s still at the Marsindi palace.” He squatted and picked up a handful of warm sand, letting it run through his fingers. Fawn was like the sand, he thought. She’d slipped through his fingers even though he’d tried to hold her close.
“Not that we know of,” Toemeka said, “but King Anthrop is in poor health and his last wish is to see his son married. It wouldn’t surprise me if Fawn consents to marry before her eighteenth birthday out of love for the old king.”
“I guess it wouldn’t really matter if she marries a few months early.”
“Have you come to terms with her engagement?” Michio asked.
Baymond stood back up, heavyhearted with resignation. “More or less.”
He could feel his mother’s eyes on him and knew she understood he was still healing.
“We’d better go to bed,” Michio said. “The tribe will move on early tomorrow morning, and we’re all short of sleep.”
They hiked to the tent in silence.
***
Eight days later, Baymond was riding with Einherjar and two other scouts when they spotted the small oasis the tribe was headed toward. When they rode into the shade cast by some tall desert trees, Baymond immediately sensed something was wrong. As he drew near the watering hole, the smell of rotting meat hit his nostrils, then he spotted the carcasses of several small animals in the grass. His khevon tried to gallop to the small pond for a drink, but Baymond held him back.
Einherjar and the two scouts dismounted and examined the dead animals and the water hole. “It’s been poisoned,” Einherjar said. “We’ll have to travel on to the next watering hole.”
“Who would have poisoned a precious source of water?” Baymond asked.
“Bandits wanting to steal our trade goods,” Einherjar said. “They’ll expect any traveler to go from here to the next closest watering hole where they’re probably waiting to attack. We’ll continue to the mountains instead. I think we can make it before our water runs out, if we ration it.”
He looked at the scouts. “Travel to the two nearest watering holes so we can find out where the bandits lay in wait.”
After the scouts left, Einherjar said to Baymond, “You and your parents need to separate from the tribe tonight. Have your parents call the sand tigers. If you travel at night and in the cool part of the day, you can make it to the Hawyan Mountains in about three days. There’s no point in involving you with our tribe’s troubles.”
“We should stay to help defend your people.”
“You and your parents are three more people using up our precious water supply, and you’re a danger to our entire tribe if the Samrat soldiers come back and discover you among us. Only the grace of the desert gods has kept them from recognizing you when they searched our camp.”
“We owe you so much. It doesn’t feel right to abandon your tribe in its time of need.”
“My people know how to disappear into the desert and our bodies are different from yours. We can exist on little water for a long period of time. You can’t. Don’t worry about us. My people were living in the desert long before you were born and will continue to live here after you turn to dust.
“The Samrat air troops are a much more serious danger than bandits,” Einherjar continued. “We are dependent on the Coalition air fleet to drive them off and save our planet.”
Einherjar and Baymond rode back to the cavern and shared the news about the poisoned waterhole with the other men. Afterwards, Baymond found his mother and relayed Einherjar’s instructions.
“Michio’s still out scouting,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him on his khevon. “When he returns to the caravan, we’ll call the sand tigers and prepare to leave tonight.”
Baymond dismounted. “Don’t you think we should stay and help the tribe?”
“Einherjar’s been generous to us, but now he needs to focus on the needs of his people.”
Baymond looked around at the women and children and wasn’t convinced the tribe didn’t need their help fighting the bandits. Yet Einherjar was right: if the Samrat soldiers found him among them, the whole tribe would be killed.
His mother touched his arm. “I’ll go talk to Einherjar and ask him what route we should take to the mountains. I’m worried we’ll be vulnerable to aircraft searching for us once we leave the tribe and are alone in the desert. Perhaps he knows of some caves, rock outcrops, or other places we can hide.”
She left and Baymond started walking his khevon over to the herd. Chrisshawna appeared and started walking beside him.
He tensed, wishing she wouldn’t keep seeking him out. He’d found out from Einherjar that the man with the blue beard was her father. His name was Seaden and he was known for having a quick temper.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Why aren’t we going to the oasis?”
He turned toward her, noticing how pretty she looked in her flowing desert clothing. “The watering hole was poisoned.”
“Don’t look at me!” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone to see us talking.”
He looked away. “Einherjar suspects bandits poisoned it. He sent scouts out to see where they are so the tribe can avoid them.”
“Bandits! By the goddesses of the golden sands, I hope they don’t find us. They’ve attacked other bands and stolen young women as well as all their goods.”
Baymond couldn’t help but glance at her again and their eyes met. He wondered what it would be like to marry Chrisshawna and live in the desert. The nomadic way of life offered a great deal of freedom.
The scuff of a heel sounded behind him and a rough hand grabbed his upper arm, wheeling him around so that he faced Seaden. The man’s eyes blazed and his face was blotched red with anger. “How dare you talk to my daughter without my permission! Do you think you can get away with it because you’re Einherjar’s nephew?
Recently, a friend read my novel Call of the Wind and said she didn’t know why it was called a space opera. I explained what the term meant and told her Star Wars, Star Trek, and Dune were space operas. I thought some of you might also be wondering what the term means.
Here is what I found online. A Space Opera takes place in spacefaring civilization set in another time and often in another galaxy. It has epic characters, a big universe, empires, and political conflict. It has space battles, a love story, princesses, strong handsome heroes and beautiful, feisty heroines, and powerful villains. Technology is secondary to the story compared to hard science fiction. Adventure is secondary to war compared to military science fiction.
The term space opera started out with negative connotations like soap opera, but as the genre became more popular the term lost its derogatory meaning. One of the books that helped space operas become accepted was Dune. A new version of the movie Dune was released recently, and I happily watched it on my plane flight to St. John in January.
The movie inspired me to reread Frank Herbert’s novel Dune. The book brought science fiction into recognition as an important genre in the same way as J. R. R. Tolkien’s Hobbit brought fantasy into recognition. Dune came out in 1965 and by 1970 it had sold 10 million copies. It has been made into two movies and a TV series.
At the end of the novel, Frank’s son Brian Herbert wrote an Afterword. In it, he says that as a child the characters in Dune competed with him for his father’s affections. Frank Herbert spent more time with Paul Atreides (the fifteen-year-old main character) than he did with his son Brian. It took 9 years for Frank to research and write the book, including four years of research.
Frank Herber didn’t have an easy time getting it published. His agent submitted it to twenty different publishers. It was finally picked up by Chilton Books, known for their auto repair books. It was rejected partly because it is 215,000 words—most books at the time were a quarter to a third that length. It’s also a complex novel with many new words. Initial sales were slow but it won the Nebula and Hugo awards for best novel of the year and sales started rising.
Frank Herbert continued the series with five more books. Brian Herbert finished the sixth book in the series after his father died.
So science fiction writers have a lot to thank Frank Herbert for in bringing sci-fi out of the ghetto of literature.
This week I went to the Van Gogh exhibition that’s currently in large major cities across the United States. It’s designed to give the viewer the feeling of stepping into the paintings by using virtual projection technology.
In the lobby was a sign above a very large box of oil paint tubes that asks the question, “What is success?” Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. He wasn’t able to support himself and depended on money from his brother until his death at 37. He probably felt like a failure. Most of his 860 oil paintings were in the last two years of his life. Now his paintings go for millions of dollars and he’s considered one of the greatest artists of our times.
He wasn’t materially successful during his lifetime, but he must have felt a great inner desire to paint the world around him.
In Elizabeth Gilbert’s book about writing, Big Magic Creative Living Beyond Fear, she talks about the human desire to create or make things. She said writing (art or music etc.) isn’t a career but a vocation—a calling or mission. A career provides for us financially, a vocation may or may not.
She goes on to say you don’t have to be a genius to create. You don’t have to be the best. Everyone can and does create in some way. We shouldn’t compare ourselves with others or compete with others. Yet, sometimes we even compete with ourselves—our own past. Achievements and it keeps us from continuing to create.
Gilbert became famous, after rich, after Eat, Pray, Love was published and later made into a movie. She said she’d write regardless if she had to support herself with a job. Her idea of creatively is that it is a gift, a joy and magic.
To her it doesn’t matter if it’s successful financially. Creativity has value in and of itself.
What does success mean to you? Do you agree with Gilbert? Do you enjoy doing creative things like writing, painting, gardening, cooking, and/or singing? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
This is some of the best figure skating you’ll ever see< Kamila Valieva
I’ve been thinking about courage lately and want to share two stories about aspects of courage.
The first one is about a talented fifteen-year-old Beijing Olympic figure skater, Kamilla Valieva from Russia. She broke records with her amazing figure skating. I went to YouTube to see her performance. Instead, I came across news reporters discussing how in the final competition, she’d fallen and stumbled several times, losing her chance at getting a medal. The reporter speculated she’d been thrown off by the pressure of the Olympics and by a ongoing doping investigation. After listening to the reporters, I viewed her free style skate routine and I saw something else. I saw a young woman who fell on the ice in front of the world and had the courage, fortitude and strength to get back up and skate the rest of her routine. She leaped into the air and spun around defying gravity and showed the world she was exceptional though her heart was breaking.
The next story about courage is from Top Gun, an old Tom Cruise movie I watched recently. Maverick, a cocky naval fighter pilot, wanted to win the top position at flight school. At one point in the movie, his fighter got caught in the backwash from another F-14 and he lost control of it. He and his RIO, his best friend Goose, ejected out of the fighter. Goose crashed into the canopy and was killed. Devastated by Goose’s death, Maverick considered dropping out of flight school. Instead, he found the courage to get back into the game and ended up saving another pilot when they are attacked by Russian MiGs.
We all have the go through experiences where we fail at something and want to give up. It’s not usually as dramatic as not getting a gold metal at the Olympics or crashing your F-14 fighter, but we all have the experience of metaphorically falling. We all struggle at times and have to find the courage to get back up and keep skating.
When Oprah Winfrey she was a child, she memorized the poem called Invictus by William Ernest Henley to recite in church. Invictus means unconquerable soul. She didn’t fully understand the poem, but she posted the last two lines on her bedroom wall.
I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
Those lines inspired her to have a courageous life.
As a writer, I find it takes courage to step out in front of the world to share my stories, but it also makes my life more meaningful and fulfilling.
The following is a blog post by Michael Manning. After reading about my Uncle Bart’s experience as a pilot in WW 2, he sent me this amazing story I wanted to share with you.
Thanks for the memoir of the B17. I really enjoyed reading it and it brought back vivid memories of my last lifetime. In 1941 at the age of 20, I left Cambridge University where I had studied mathematics.
My name was William and I joined the Royal Air Force and entered the flight training program.
The next year, I received a commission with the rank of Captain and I began to fly one-man fighter planes over Germany and occupied France.
At the same time, my younger brother, George (nicknamed “Stretch” at 6 foot 5 inches), a factory worker in London, left his employment and, like me, joined the Royal Air Force. He trained to become a Gunnery Sargent, flying in B17 bombers like the one you described.
George and I would often go on bombing runs over occupied France and Germany.
My main job was to provide cover for the B17s, although I ended up getting into dog fights on a regular basis. George/Stretch and I were very close, but he was jealous of my education and my rank of Captain. This has carried over to this lifetime where George, now my younger brother, Garry (still very tall), has been jealous of my university degree because he dropped out of high school. Thanks to the Mahanta, (my spiritual guide) that old wound was finally healed (I became very ill and unable to work for long periods of time whereas Garry has never missed a day of work in his life and eventually got his GED diploma.)
Back in Great Britain, I flew 17 missions protecting B17s and getting into dog fights. George was often in the B17 crews that I was assigned to protect.
On my 17th run, late in 1943 during a massive battle over Germany, I was assigned to protect the B17 with George in its crew.
I was hit hard on my left wing and it burst into flames. The left side of my body was badly burned and the left wing was eventually torn apart.
I was spinning out of control toward the ground. My last words were, “I love you little brother.”
Then, my plane hit the ground and burst into flames. I was instantly out of my body, enveloped in pure white light, and surrounded by the sound of HU.
Thanks for the memories, Heidi!
Michael Manning, author of Bringing Spirituality Down to Earth
In my October Newsletter, I wrote about story ideas and where they came from. In Call of the Wind the idea of a pilot being shot down in enemy territory was inspired by my Uncle Bart’s experience in WW II. He was the co-pilot of a B-17 that was hit by flak over Germany and made a crash landing in Holland. Here is the entire account of the story taken from a newspaper article, a piece he wrote about the experience after he returned home, and a piece written in 1990 when he went to Vollenhove, Holland for a 45th year reunion with the crewmen and the underground resistance.
The arrow in the photo below points out the man who is Lt. John Bart Calkins.
Bart Calking and his crew in Holland after the war ended.
Here is Lt. John Bart Calkin’s story:
“On January 28, 1945, on our 21st bombing mission, I was co-pilot for a B-17 with a ten-man crew. We had just released our bombs on the target in Koln (Cologne), Germany, when our aircraft “Sleepy Lagoon” was damaged by 88 millimeter antiaircraft shells (flak). The ball turret gunner was injured, and the propellers of two the left engines were severely damaged—one engine was on fire. Because of this we were unable to feather the engines to reduce drag. We put the aircraft into a steep slip to the right and managed to extinguish the flames. The Sleepy Lagoon was steadily losing altitude at the rate of about 800 feet per minute.
“We followed the bomber groups northwest out of Germany into Holland for about an hour and twenty minutes. No heaters were functioning in the cockpit and the pilot’s side window was frozen shut. Luckily, I forced the right window open and searched for a minute or two for a landing site—found a beautiful meadow and headed straight in. The pilot followed me through on the controls, and we made a smooth crash, belly landing in a moderate snowstorm in the Dutch town of Steenijk, Holland, which was in enemy-held territory. We hadn’t bailed out because of the wounded gunner.
“Local Dutch farmers heard the engines of our aircraft and immediately ran over the Sleepy Lagoon to assist us. They told us to run in a southerly direction, because the Germans were coming to capture us. There was a nearby German outpost, although we did not realize how close the Germans were at the time. One couple took our wounded ball-turret gunner, Sgt. Cappiello, and top turret gunner, Sgt. Zinner to the local doctor. We heard later that they were captured the next day.
“Sgt. Phelps and Sgt. Senchuk decided to travel together, the remaining six of us stayed together. We could not travel on roads or cross bridges over the canals because of the German sentries. It was snowing hard and the snow covered our tracks. We really ran hard. Once we had to hide in some bushed and watch the Germans go by.
“We came to a shallow lake which had frozen over. Crossing the lake we fell through a couple of times and became cold and wet.
“We managed to cover approximately twelve miles before we hid in the hayloft of a barn after midnight. The next morning we were so cold and hungry we knew we had to contact the underground—now or never. We had been in tough spots before, but this was about the toughest.
“The toggleier, Sgt. Keith Haight, and I contacted a farmer who was outside in a field beside his house. He wife gave us a pot of hot porridge and he told us to stay hidden in the barn till dusk and a member of the underground would guide us to other quarters.
“The next night, the commander of the local underground came to see us and tell us our options. We decided to change into civilian clothes even though the Germans might try to prove that we were spies. The underground also furnished us with pistols and, having made our decision to stay free men, we were ready to shoot it out with any German who might get in our way. They hid us in a canal boat for a few hours. We later learned, four hours after we left the Germans found the boat.
“The Dutch took us to another boat in a canal. But it was so cold it was decided we should be moved to houses in the village. We moved only at night and behind underground patrols. The patrols were in advance of every move and we crossed roads and open places on prearranged signals.
“The commander had his men take us to three different homes in the nearby communities. We usually moved singly with one underground man as a guide. As I was heading for the village, I was forced to hide in a snow bank while a German patrol went by.
“The gestapo was continuing the search for us, going through every house they suspected. The pilot, Lt. Jackson, and I stayed in the same room in the same house for three weeks. Every day we watched from the window as the German patrols came by. You could have spit on them from the window. The man we stayed with was a carpenter. He and his wife had a six-year-old girl that they sent up north so she wouldn’t talk about us. Her mother washed our clothes and prepared our meals. She was a brave woman who would have been killed if we were found in her home.
“Two of the gunners in another house had quite an experience. The Germans searched the place and the gunners hid in a false ceiling all the time they were there. They could hear the German’s talking. The two gunners finally dressed as girls and rode bicycles south. When they left their disguises they were spotted by the Germans and machine-gunned as they crossed a field. Still they got away. The rest of us stayed together.
“The Gestapo captured the leader of the underground and his wife, and the Germans were searching all the houses in the village looking for us, so it was decided we should be moved again. We went back to a canal boat in the lowland lake region.
“We camouflaged the boat with bushes on the side and roof of the cabin. Sgt. Haight and Sgt. Kelly were moved to the boat the same night. The Dutch provided us with two British Sten guns and a pistol. Lt. Lucas came out four weeks later. Eventually, we had five members of our crew, two Russian escapees and usually two or three underground men on this rather crowded canal boat. We slept head to feet in two crowded sections of the boat.
“Dried peat was used for fuel in a pot-belled stove. Our main meal consisted of potatoes, black bread and some milk and was cooked after dark. Occasionally they brought us cheese and whipping cream. It was delicious. The Dutch resistance rowed out at night gave us the same scarce food they were eating and we were so hungry it was wonderful. The Russians got fat on the black bread and potatoes.
“We stayed on the boat eight weeks. The two Russian sergeants had escaped from a German prison camp. We called them Little Rollo and Big Stoop. We all played cards and argued capitalism and communism.
“We left the boat in April and rowed across the lake and ran right into two hundred Germans coming down the highway. We hid in a ditch, and although it was cold and uncomfortable, we sweated as the Germans went by.
“After they passed, the underground patrol went out ahead of us and we retreated to a cow barn. We could hear the rumble of the battle twenty miles up ahead. After an hour in the barn, we went to a house in the village because the Germans were retreating down the roads ahead of the advancing 1st Canadian Army.
“After two days in the village, we took off again and ran into a Canadian patrol about eight miles away. We were then sent to Canadian Headquarters at Nijmegen, Holland.
“All of our crewmen survived the war and eventually made it back to the United States.
“I can’t say too much for the members of the Dutch underground. The Dutch boys, young men, who were supposed to be working in Germany, had a lot of nerve. One of them who helped us had escaped from Berlin. They too only move at night. Without their help I wouldn’t be alive.”
In WW II the German’s abducted 12 million European people and used them for forced labor in Germany. These Dutch boys avoided the abduction and joined the resistance.
Here is another account Uncle Bart wrote in December 1990 for the 45th year celebration of the local Vollenhove, Holland resistance.
“On April 22, 1945 ,the Canadian light artillery units were moving north into the areas near our hidden boat. In the morning, we left the boat went with some resistance members to the local town hall. In the town hall there were several men and women who had collaborated with the Germans. They cropped the girls’ hair short and the men were handcuffed. There were only a few traitors but the Dutch people weren’t going to put up with them so they were jailed until their trials took place.
“The local resistance commander was killed in a shootout with the Germans the day after we met the Canadians and headed south for the American army units in Brussels, Belguim. Later several of the underground member were sent to the Dutch East Indies in the Dutch army. One was killed and another was wounded overseas.
“When we returned to Holland in May of 1990, every former member of the underground, that was physically able to be there, was present for the anniversary of the liberation of all the western European countries from the tyranny of Nazi Germany. This included the local movement that had operated in the area from 1940 to 1945.
“Keith Haight and I had at the honor of unveiling the monument in the park in front of the city hall. After the ceremony we had a silent march of about two hundred people through the town of Vollenhove to the local cemetery to lay flowers on the graves of fourteen allied crew members that were buried there during the war. They ended with an impressive speech by one of the resistance members about fighting for a country’s freedom from tyranny.
“After the May 8th celebration, the Dutch people toured with us to various cities, museum, castles, and the palace and gardens of Het Oude Loo.
“Our visit to Holland was very memorable and emotional experience. As one underground member said, ‘You were over here fighting our common enemy and we wanted to help you when you were shot down.’”
If you’d like to learn more about B-17s, here is an excerpt from an article put out by the Hill Aerospace Museum in Utah.
“Inside the B-17. The first thing you’ll notice when peeking inside a B-17 is that it was built for combat, not comfort. Crews of 10—a pilot and copilot, bombardier, navigator, radio operator and five gunners—occupied the small cabin for six to eight hours per mission. The main cabin was barely tall enough for the crew to stand up straight. Flying at altitudes above 27,000 feet meant it got very cold in the aircraft, often below freezing temperatures. Outlets in the sides of the aircraft allowed the crew to plug in electric suits to stay warm. The crew also required oxygen above 15,000 feet and oxygen tanks were located throughout the aircraft.”
My mother moved into assisted living and recently sold her house. My siblings and I had the challenge of clearing out forty years of stuff and dividing up what was valuable.
Some of the things that needed dividing were some rare, old books sets. One was a compete collection of Shakespeare in three large volumes with beautiful engraved illustrations. Most everything was distributed during my siblings last trip to Minnesota, but two sets of books still remain on my porch. Rather than taking them in to sell at a rare book store, I decided to examine them. One was a series of 23 books by Bulwer published in 1891 and 1892 in Boston.
Who was Bulwer? I looked him up and discovered that Edward Bulwer-Lytton was a British author and politician who lived from 1803 to 1873. He was a prolific, successful writer who wrote in a variety of genres including mystery, romance and science fiction. He also wrote poetry and plays.
He married Rosina Bulwer Lytton (who was also a writer), but the marriage broke down and they were legally separated. He took away their children and when she denounced him, during a political campaign he put her in an insane asylum. This provoked a public outcry and she was released shortly afterwards. (In those days husbands or male relatives were allowed to put women in insane asylums for voicing strong opinions.)
One of Bulwer’s most popular books was Last Days of Pompeii, a historical fiction novel about a young couple in the doomed Roman city before and during the volcanic eruption. It was made into two different movies and a TV series.
In 1871 he wrote The Coming Race, a science fiction novel. It was the last book he wrote and was published under a pen name. The work was published years before other better known science fiction authors such as Arthur Conan Doyle (best known for Sherlock Holmes), and Edger Rice Burroughs (best known for Tarzan and his Venus series) and HG Wells ( best known for The War of the Worlds and The Time Machine).
Charles Dickins, a friend of Bulwer, was enamored by The Coming Race. Dickins also rewrote the end of Great Expectations to make it a happier ending at Bulwer’s suggestion.
The Coming Race was about a man who, when exploring a deep chasm discovers a world of advanced people who live in the center of earth. This race of people had developed psychic power for manipulating a force call “vril”.
Bulwer coined some phrases like: “The pen is mightier than the sword” ( Richelieu) “The great unwashed” (Paul Clifford), “pursuit of the almighty dollar.” (The Coming Race)
He’s also know for opening his novel, Paul Clifford, with the phrase: “It was a dark and stormy night.” It’s considered a bad way to open a novel and was used repeatedly in Snoopy cartoons where Snoopy is sitting on his dog house typing the beginning of his novel and begins it with “It was a dark and stormy night”. There is even an annual contest called Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest—wretched writers welcome. The instructions are to write an “Atrocious opening sentence to a hypothetical bad novel”.
The whole opening paragraph reads: “It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”
The phrase had actually been around for many years before Bulwer used it but the damage had been done and the phrase linked Bulwer’s name to bad writing.
Bulwer was very popular in his day, but currently isn’t read much. Some even state he wasn’t a good writer. He did, however, take up social issues like Dickins and was very popular during his life. Bulwer was also significant in the development of science fiction as a genre.
After learning all this about Bulwer, I decide to read one of his books. I’m currently enjoying The Caxtons: A Family Picture (1849). The book was instantly popular in Britain and sold 35,000 copies in the United States in three years. Interestingly, though the book has been in my family 131 years, it’s never been read as I discovered when I found some of the pages have never been separated, meaning cut apart since the book was published in1891.
The writing reminds me a somewhat of Dickens with its long paragraphs and sentences, and style of writing popular in that period of history. So far I find it rather charming though not a page turner. Regardless, it just goes to show that treasures can be found among old family things.
The sound of steel-against-steel rang in the cavern as two Borithon swords crashed together. The last rays of sundown sliced over the rock wall, shining on Michio Kimes. He moved agilely away, watching his footing on the uneven ground as his blond sparring partner, Prince Erling Fenian, slashed his sword at him. Michio was now in the shadows and Erling stood in the shaft of light with a confident smile on his well-formed features.
Michio watched for Erling’s next move, tension building in his arms and shoulders. He’d never fought with a Borithon sword before and was having trouble getting used to the weapon’s unusual qualities. It vibrated in his hand and seemed to have a life of its own. It repelled or attracted the other Borithon sword in an unpredictable manner.
Erling leapt onto a boulder and Michio came after him, slashing the sword in a wide arc. Erling barely managed to deflect the blade. Michio relentlessly struck again and Erling swept up his sword, meeting Michio’s blade in midair. The two swords locked, causing a flash of light to shoot out. Pulling back, Michio lunged, feinted, then thrust again, while struggling to keep his balance on the uneven terrain.
No longer smiling, Erling countered in a circular parry, turning aside Michio’s blade in an equally aggressive move and retaliating with forceful blows. The spirited battle continued with neither man getting the upper hand. They were too well-matched in size, strength and ability.
Michio began to tire from the energetic encounter, but he didn’t dare let down his guard.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he watched Erling.
Erling’s blue eyes flickered and Michio knew he was going to release the second blade on his sword. In one fluid motion, Michio leapt aside and pressed a button on his own sword.
The two blades split apart, opening at a forty-five-degree angle joined at the hilt; it was as if the weapon was a pair of shears. Michio swung the lethal sword at his adversary, meeting Erling’s double blades with his own. His arm shook from the force of the impact.
Erling drew back his sword. Michio paused, watching for Erling’s next move. Fighting with two blades was difficult and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Two blades came slashing at him again. This time he hit one of Erling’s blades head on—the other blade sliced into his jacket.
Michio moved above his discomfort with the unfamiliar weapon and fought with renewed vigor, instinctively sensing Erling’s next maneuver. Michio’s sword flashed out in a fluid, smooth rhythm and his body moved gracefully in total harmonious control.
Erling’s thrusts were less certain, his arm unsteady. Michio forced him to back up as he struck repeatedly.
“Stop at once!” a woman’s voice exclaimed, breaking Michio’s concentration.
He glanced toward the door of the virtual reality workout room, relaxing his grip on the sword. Erling leapt forward and slid his blades between Michio’s, one over and one under, then gave a quick twist. The sword flew out of Michio’s hand.
“Effective maneuver,” Michio said, realizing he shouldn’t have taken his attention off the match for even a moment. He knew how good Erling was from their days of fighting together in the revolt that won Jaipar’s freedom.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” demanded Queen Koriann, the youthful ruler of Jaipar. Captain Zachary, head of the royal guards, followed her into the room and hit the control button on the wall. Images of canyons disappeared from screens around the room and the setting sun and clouds disappeared from the ceiling. Boulders sank back into the floor.
“Sparring, love,” Erling replied, grinning impishly at his wife of several months. “We need to keep up our skills.”
“Sparring! Without epee masks or energy shields for protection?”
“It’s better to practice without them,” Michio said, turning off his weapon. “It makes for greater concentration when there’s real danger.”
“You’re worse than Erling!” Koriann’s eyes flashed.
Michio straightened, annoyed at being taken to task by a woman almost ten years his junior. “Sparring isn’t for fun. Knowing how to use a Borithon sword may save our lives someday.”
“They’re too dangerous to spar with! Erling nearly died from a poisoned blade just six months ago. I understand target practice with blasters or hand-to-hand combat training. But fencing with ritualistic swords used only in Haklute, a country we occupy, is an unnecessary skill!”
“A warrior has to master an assortment of skills,” Zac said. “You know that. It was drilled into you since childhood.”
The queen glared at him. “Erling’s a ruler now. He doesn’t have to keep up the skills of a warrior.”
“Don’t blame Zac,” Erling said. “It wasn’t his idea. He’s just returned from visiting your former sweetheart, King Zanton.” A teasing grin spread across his face.
“That treacherous snake was never my sweetheart!” She returned her attention to Zac. “How was your visit? How’s Zanton taking being a token ruler of an occupied country?”
“Not well. He’s furious about the new ordinances. He’s accustomed to power and could pose a serious threat to us. I’ve already advised Prince Erling to imprison him.”
Erling’s expression turned grave. “When I was trapped on his spaceship, I gave my word that he could still rule Haklute. If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have let me and my pilots live. A man’s reputation is built on his word and I won’t go back on mine. Besides he’s been stripped of power and the Haklute government is now controlled by our military.”
“He’ll cause trouble,” Zac said. “The Haklute people believe their monarchs are chosen by God. It won’t take much to trigger an uprising. King Zanton hates you and will stop at nothing to kill you. He’s a threat as long as he lives.”
Koriann’s eyes widened with concern.
“He’s impotent,” Erling said. “But you’re right; he should be watched closely. At any rate, it was thoughtful of him to give us these Borithon swords.”
“Zanton gave you those?!” Koriann exclaimed.
“Sure did,” Erling said, breaking into a smile again.
“He probably hopes you’ll kill each other with them and you almost obliged him. I assume you had the sense to be sure there wasn’t poison on the blades.”
“One of my most trusted men cleaned the blades,” Zac said.
Koriann frowned. “Your sleeve’s singed, Michio. Some residue must still be on the blades. Did the sword cut into your skin?”
Zac rushed over to Michio, his face pale. “Don’t touch the poison. I swear the blades were clean. I supervised it myself.”
Michio looked down at his jacket, his stomach turning when he saw the singed sleeve. He hadn’t felt any pain, but a warrior learns to ignore pain during battle. Concerned, he pulled off the jacket. How could he have been so careless? Even a slight wound from a poisoned blade could be fatal. Koriann was right to reprimand him. He was a married man, soon to be a father. He had more than himself to think about.
Michio pulled back his shirtsleeve and was relieved to see the sword hadn’t cut into his arm. He was careful not to touch the poison as he handed Zac his jacket.
“I’ll have the residue on the jacket and swords analyzed. This will be investigated.”
Michio felt on edge. Had someone put poison on the sword blades after they were cleaned in an attempt to assassinate Prince Erling?
“Bring me the results as soon as you have them,” Erling said. He shook Michio’s hand. “Thanks for the match. It was a good workout. That was a great move when you anticipated my releasing the second blade and released yours. How did you know that’s what I planned to do?”
“By watching your eyes.”
“Think of your wife, Michio,” Koriann said, still sounding annoyed. “Toemeka needs you to be supportive of her—not take unnecessary risks.”
“Toemeka would understand,” Erling said. “You should see the way she and I worked out when we were Coalition partners. We never bothered with energy shields. She’s an excellent fencer. Challenge her to a match sometime, Mich. She’ll give you a good workout.”
Michio slid his sword into its sheath, glad that his wife no longer served as a Coalition field operative. No one wanted their spouse to have a job where they had to carry a suicide pill when sent out on a mission. Being reminded of her past brought the interplanetary war to mind. It had only been nine months since Jaipar overthrew its tyrant, General Bhandar—a minion of Samrat Condor—and regained its freedom. More recently, Samrat Condor had completely taken over planet Alandra where the Coalition Headquarters was located. The remaining Coalition operatives were spread across the galaxy, stationed at secret bases.
Michio’s thoughts shifted back to the present moment and Erling’s comment, realizing Erling saw Toemeka much differently than he did. “Toemeka’s about to become a mother. She doesn’t need to keep up her skills.”
“Actually, that’s why I hunted you down,” Koriann said. “Toemeka’s in labor. She couldn’t reach you on your communicator, so she called me.”
A rush of nervous energy flooded through Michio. “I turned off my communicator before sparring. I didn’t want the distraction.”
He tapped the face of his watch communicator and said, “Call home.” On the third ring Toemeka answered and her lovely face appeared on the screen.
“Koriann just told me you’re in labor,” he said. His voice revealed his concern and he took a deep breath. He didn’t want Toemeka to pick up on his emotions; he needed to be calm for her.
“It’s nothing to worry about. I’m still in the early stage.”
He winced, realizing she’d picked up on his uneasiness. “I’ll come right home.”
“There’s no rush. I feel great—excited.”
“Should I bring Dr. Tenzing?”
“No, it’s too soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Her image disappeared from the screen.
“How’s she doing?” Erling asked.
“Do you want us there?” Koriann added before Michio could answer. “We’re the closest she has to family.”
“She’s fine and doesn’t want everyone sitting around for hours, waiting for the baby to arrive.” Michio raked a hand through his hair. “I’m about to become a father.”
The eBook of Star Rider and Bonds of Love is available for preorder on Amazon.
We’re all story tellers. Story telling has been a way of passing down lessons about the past and sharing experiences since mankind began. Collecting stories from our ancestors can be a great way to learn about our parents and other older relatives.
This winter I was recording some of my mother’s stories and there was one in particular I thought you’d enjoy. I call it: Don’t Ask for Skates for Christmas. When my mother was young the depression hit. Her father sold magazines and suddenly many people didn’t have the extra money needed to buy something that wasn’t a basic necessity. Christmas was coming and my mother’s older brother told her not to ask for skates because it would make their mother feel bad because she couldn’t afford to buy them. Skates are an especially expensive gift because children’s feet are still growing, they need a new pair every year.
I asked Mother whether she ever got skates. Yes, eventually she did. She went on to tell me that one winter her mother told her to stay off the ice because it was too soft. Being a child, she didn’t listen and she went skating on the frozen lake with some friends. Everything was going well until the ice cracked and she fell in. Her friends rushed over to help her and several more fell in.
Some older children placed long branches on the ice and tried to pull the younger kids out.
A few ended up getting in the freezing cold water to help the younger ones out. It wasn’t deep and the older ones could touch the bottom. I asked Mother if the children had called for help. “No”, she replied. “They didn’t want their parents to know they were skating when they weren’t supposed to be.”
After all the children were safely back on solid ground, they went to the closest house where they were given blankets and hot chocolate. So all ended well.
Do you have some good stories from your parents or your own childhood you’d like to share? I’d love to hear them.
Recent Comments