The Trees That Whisper Hope

By Salaheddine Wazzan

A philosophical short-story about a boy that lives in a village where all the men of God are corrupt and over-zealous. The story revolves around revelations regarding life's most difficult and unanswered questions from the eyes of seven talking trees that are each backed-up by a philosophical ideology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salaheddine Wazzan
• Release date: Sep 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370376964

Salaheddine Wazzan

Nationality: Lebanese Born: 14-9-2000 Stark lover, Tolkien addict. That's it -_-

Book preview

The Trees That Whispered Hope

With time, the world blinded itself with zealousness, and a shroud of darkness covered the land, but the child sundered the veil of darkness with a sun of his own, it's light unending

Synopsis:

In Applewick; a little and humble village situated in good and cozy Holnes; two children: Horus and Aza, are sent to fetch apples from the orchard when they stumble upon the magical Adamfall forest. In those woods, they soon find out that there are great and talking trees that have been slumbering for a long time, and have been awoken from their sleep upon the arrival of the two children. Horus finds out that he is indeed a prophet, and is given the chance to ask them five questions that will help him better understand life and thus spread his message better. This is the story of a child-prophet, and his journey through the land in spreading his word.

Volume One: The Golden Sun

Table of Contents:

Chapter 1: Little Beginnings

Chapter 2: The Orchard

Chapter 3: Trouble ahead

Chapter 4: The Five

Chapter 5: Truth Speaking

Chapter 6: The Whispers of Hope

Chapter 7: Genesis

Chapter 1: Little Beginnings

824 L.V, of the first era

A bustling village Applewick was, as any and all other hamlets in the beautiful valleys of Holnes; and today was no different a day than all the others, as the sun shined on its content and happy residents, with the gentle and cool breeze of the northern summers keeping them away from being victims of their sweat in a day's work. The sky was clear and sapphire, a mirrored sea of great tranquility, and the sun's light shined upon all that was below it, both brilliantly and powerfully.

The village had only a handful of houses, all looking identical to one another. They were two stories high, with white paint to cover the color of twigs and daub that were used to build it, the poorest material that one could chose for constructing a house, but this was a village after all; they were not a noble or a classy people, only low-born and serfs among their ranks. The houses all were shivering as though a ghost had passed here earlier to the day, a result of poor craftsmanship. However, quickly was the sight of poorly built houses remedied by the vibrant and joyful colors that were always a welcoming sight for foreigners and villagers alike; with their signature paint: Darkdye, being applied to the framework of their houses, they gave away a brown yet rather dark shade of brown tint that seemed rare to find one of such pristineness; the paint was pure and mixed with only the ingredients to perfect it. Even the houses that seemed run-down and old were vibrantly colored, and often decorated with numerous pots of copious flowers, handpicked from the local garden. But what really made this village one to remember was not the lovely cots, nor their paint, but the heartwarming folk that lived there.

It was midday, and the villagers were all up and about, each giving himself to his own work fully; dedicating a day's worth to his profession. And as they all worked to benefit one another, their sounds operated like the musicians in an orchestra, weaving together finely a symphonic melody of a typical day in the countryside. The smith gave away a vivacious rhythm every time his hammer struck the anvil, as did the merchant who cried as loud and as often as he could spare his voice; goading those around him to purchase his fine wares. There was also the chanter in the center of the village, within the towering and newly-built cobblestone church, chanting a song in the name of almighty God, Yarsis. Yet the houses on the edges of the town seemed rather quiet today, perhaps it was because the children were all attending class beneath a blossoming tree in the fields near to their settlement.

Johannes the priest sat on a wooden and round stool that he brings with him every morning from the church to place beneath the tree, but as for the rest of the bits and pieces such as the straw carpet and the books; the jar of water and the bowl of fruits, those were fetched by his two personal and beautiful assistants, the nuns Isolde and Guinevere. Both were fair ladies, faithful and full of hope. Such characteristics have become a rare gift in these times of war and sorrow, but their hearts will shower under a rain of bliss in God's great kingdom, should he be merciful enough as to grant them safe passage.

The children all sat on the carpet as opposed to the ground, though the farmer boys were used to the dirt and mud; it mattered not to them. There were all sorts of people gathered round the priest, from the smith's boy to the herbalist's daughter; the merchant's twin sons and the tavern owner's lass; yet those were consistently outshined by two very bright siblings, whose natures were worlds and lands apart. Aza and Horus were the children of a brave man and his wife, born and bred in this peaceful and otherwise isolated village, they have become accustomed to the countryside and it's unforgiving beauty; a harsh place to live in, empty and desolate, but so filled with beauty that they fell in love with Applewick from the day they were born. On one hand, all the other children wore tattered shirts and muddied trousers and some did not bother to wear one to hide their bare torsos; such was the fate that befell the serfs of Holnes, for even their lords were not so rich in clothing and houses; whereas Aza and Horus wore a red and green shirt respectively, complimented by blue pants and little brown shoes that they were sure to clean within the hour that they were about to sleep in.

Aza was taller than most girls for her age, and ten years was how much she had lived on this good earth. She had a cheerful face, pale as snow, with crimson lips and colored cheeks; little and round hazel eyes that was common throughout the great and illustrious continent of Lorenia; she had also small hands to compliment her tiny feet, both untouched by the hard life of a commoner, used well when she sat with her mother, aiding her in knitting woolen shirts to be worn in the cold days of frosty winter. Aza was kindhearted to say the least, putting a smile on the faces of all those that she passed by. She was all the purity and innocence found within child, and I intend to have you read the sentence once more. She was all the innocence found within youth, and so cursed with the inability to use reason and rationalism; instead opting to follow those that gave her instructions, with blindness she accepted, regardless of whomsoever might they be. She always told herself to do unto others as you would have others do unto you, and so befriended all the villagers and helped them merrily in their daily