The Travellers: Book I, While Weeping Lasts

By James R. Poyner

Somehow conveyed to the island of Fairlon, Chicagoan Jim Connors is brought before King Jochanan of Soglarn, ruler of one of the islands three realms. After Jim is condemned to a quick death the next day, he is taken to the dungeon, where he meets Princess Aurora of Nolan, who will only be released when her father yields his crown to King Jochanan. But Jim readily helps Aurora escape, King Jochanan initiates a pursuit that is bent on being lethal, while in the meantime, Jim is truly surprised to learn where he is. Find out why by reading The Travellers, While Weeping Lasts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463409562

James R. Poyner

Chicagoan James R. Poyner has spent much of his work life as an editorial assistant/proofreader. Through that venerable trade he has developed an excellent, self-critical inner ear that has much to do with his fluid prose. Now that his storytelling has finally caught up to his skill as a writercome of age, so to speakany reader of any age is certain to find Toy-Maker's Apprentice a wonderful treasure, a true keepsake. Otherwise, James R. Poyner is also the author of Scorpion, another story suitable for readers of all ages.

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The Travellers

Book I

WHILE WEEPING LASTS

James R. Poyner

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2011 by James R. Poyner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/16/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0958-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0957-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0956-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908613

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Forever-On

Chapter I

THE STORM

Chapter II

BEGINNINGS

Chapter III

NOT AS WARM

Chapter IV

THE TOMB OF THE LIVING

Chapter V

A DREADFUL CONNECTION

Chapter VI

UPON A DESERT

Chapter VII

HOPKIND’S LAMENT

Chapter VIII

THE MISGUIDED

Chapter IX

THE FLYING LADY

Chapter X

A HISTORY

Chapter XI

A MEAL SHARED

Chapter XII

THE QUEEN’S EAR

Chapter XIII

DREAMS

Chapter XIV

THE BRIDGE

Chapter XV

SEEING THE LAND

Chapter XVI

A BEAUTIFUL CITY

Chapter XVII

JOSH COLTRANE

Chapter XVIII

PLEASURES

Chapter XIX

A DANGEROUS FOOL

Chapter XX

AN AUDIENCE

Chapter XXI

REFLECTIONS

Chapter XXII

THE TOUR

Chapter XXIII

AMUSEMENT

Chapter XXIV

MOTIVATION

Chapter XXV

SHADES AND SHIVERS

Chapter XXVI

MORE SHADOWS

Chapter XXVII

A CROWD

Chapter XXVIII

THE LAST TEAR

INTRODUCTION

GARNERED FROM LENGTHY interviews with both of the Travellers, as well as from other sources—to include my own visit to Fairlon—this narrative attempts to present both the essence and the great catalog of their deeds, particularly those dealing with their efforts on that great island. Ever arm-in-arm, in spirit, if not physically, I suspect that the Travellers’ power comes from being linked, from being one. In that way, they bolster shared traits: courage, faith, and determination. Then, while, at first, her realism challenged his optimism, it is fair to say that each has learned from the other, so that she is now more optimistic, while he is now more realistic. I am also convinced that they are the embodiment of the axiom—Truth leads, Faith guides—and that both of them so promote those principles, that it is impossible to discern who is Faith and who is Truth. Further, while Aurora is fairly courageous in her own right, it is not hard to see where Jim’s utter lack of fear has had much to do with making him her hero, while that, in turn, has had much to do with opening her heart to him.

Then, while the Princess was clearly born into her role, there is ever a lingering question of whether or not Jim, the Sailor, was born into his. Even now, he doubts whether he was chosen to be what he became, but that is in keeping with his humble personality. Yet, would Nature have come into his dimension, and then help he and his boat with Her power, purely at random?

One thing is clear, though, Jim’s determination to honor the wants of his benefactor, meaning Nature, sets the table for all that happens—makes so much of it possible. Yet, each time I try to get him to admit that he might have been chosen, he merely grins, laughs at the notion that he might be some sort of Moses, and shrugs, before he allows that he is just one of the Travellers—not much more than a bolt, he notes with a knowing laugh. Still, rather than continue our debate, he then reminds me that it is for others to decide what that means.

At the same time, my own adventures, even those had with Maddy, pale significantly when held up against the great glow of theirs. Yet, through my own, which includes my noted visit to Fairlon, I gain a greater appreciation for theirs, while I leave it to another to bring my own to life. This narrative, therefore, merely relates the beginning of the Travellers’ adventures, if only because the end of their adventures is bound up in mine. I, however, think those efforts will never truly end—that that will not be allowed to happen. As for that conclusion, it is for another to relate, for I like to think I am just as humble as Jim. At least, I will never be the one to bring my own efforts to light.

As for all of that, even though that conclusion brings Jim home to Chicago, the city of his birth, it is not the Chicago he knew… not by dozens of years!

With every sincerity,

Fitz Waltersmith, Wizard of Lincoln Park

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Forever-On

The Sea rolls forever-on, forever-on,

O’er a land forever-gone, forever-gone.

In days of old, before the Great Flood came,

Did this land upon the Sea earn its fame,

As the first great glory of humankind—

The first triumph of body, soul, and mind.

Then it ruled over all that there was.

Then this island sailed through the compass,

Bringing knowledge and trade to all it found,

Giving such thought, wisdom, and art profound

That humankind was forever changed.

Then the Sea rose up and rearranged

How it rolls forever-on, forever-on,

O’er this land forever-gone, forever-gone.

James R. Poyner

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Chapter I

THE STORM

JIM CONNORS WAS in it, all right! A lengthy, stormy ordeal in a boat and a fair cruise on an unusual ship had netted the husky, dark haired youth, snaring him in a great tangle of trouble, cruelly embracing him in a hold that threatened to become smothering. So far, though, all of it was just part of the adventure, just living on that fine edge between life and death. At least, for Jim, it was just that.

Sure, the transplanted native of Chicago would be the first to admit that just then he was up to his neck in a rushing flood of trouble, with the dark, swirling waters rising ever higher, his wading feet already starting to lose touch with the riverbed as the current drew him upward. It might have been enough to make most people throw in the towel; cast their three aces on the table in annoyed resignation; hurl their frustration and disappointment at the reaching hands of the would-be, gloating winner. Trouble is, Jim was the kind who needed to see that he was beaten. He always called to know for certain that the other player did indeed have four treys to beat his threesome of aces. Jim was the kind who only gave up when the grinning, proven victor was engulfing the sea of red, white, and blue chips with both arms, hauling in the catch. Then Jim would just shrug, nod in acceptance, and ready his ante for the next hand, because, after all, life goes on.

Of course, Jim Connors always did have a different take on things. Maybe that had something to do with all that happened. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe that was part of his birthright. Maybe that was why a few of his old associates had often wondered if there was a huge power plant hooked directly to the wires in his head, shooting him full of confidence—too full for his own good, the others reasoned. Jim would have laughed at the analogy, before suggesting that it was best to think that he just had a different outlook than most. He also would add that part of that meant a better and more accurate view of things, which might explain why he was able to quickly arrive at a serviceable plan for confronting any problem.

And while it was not really a flood of trouble swamping him just then, that was the analogy he arrived at, just before he told himself, Well, hey, who really minds getting wet? It just happens, right? Look, I get wet all over every time I take a shower, don’t I? If getting wet is all that happens, if it isn’t enough water to drown me, if I’m not otherwise threatened by the water, then so what? Really, it’s just the old bit about making a mountain out of a molehill. Why go to the trouble of climbing up or over such a blockage, when it’s easy enough to just step around it?

Right then, though, it looked like a pretty bad hand, but Jim was too much of an optimist to throw in his cards, even if he was given the chance. What good is folding without seeing your opponent’s hand? Are you just giving the other player your money, because you assume he or she can beat you? Might as well not play, at that point. No, in Jim’s book, his manual for life, you had to keep trying until you were clearly beat, until you saw that there were indeed four threes to beat your trio of aces.

Then, as he marched amid the quartet of brute guards and in the wake of their ever-scowling, bloodthirsty commander, Jim observed anew to himself, I’m just not the kind to quit, no matter what I’m holding. On the other hand, if I call, the other player might think I’m going to surprise him or her with a better hand. That means he or she could be the one compelled to fold, but only if I don’t. So I should always take the chance and see what happens—make the other player beat me! Where’s the harm in trying?

That time was really no different, even if it looked like circumstances were pretty bad. Jim knew by then that things were not right, both in the regal residence and its surrounding lands, and he further knew that he was just about the only one who was willing—and able—to take a shot at setting them right. He also was too much of a knight to turn away from folks in need, to abandon his quest. There was too much wrong in all that he had heard and seen for him to do anything but play out the string. Then, too, his malicious host had only condemned Jim, not nodded at his henchman to inflict the fatal stroke. Jim was still alive. That was enough of an opening. The fourth trey had yet to show up. No one was raking in the chips. There was still a jolt of power—of faith-driven determination and acceptance—surging through the wires attached to his noggin; there was still his wonderful conviction that things always worked themselves out for the better; there still was no reason to fold.

Yeah, either shoot me in the head and get it over with, right off—or learn to live with the consequences, he concluded to himself and glanced back over his shoulder, in the direction of his chief adversary; back toward the Great Hall in the modernistic Palace of Soglarn, white elegance masking red horror; back toward the den of lechery, darkened by the malice and violent lust of its master.

*     *     *

to some, THAT walk through the Palace en route to his cell, amid the foursome of brutish guards led by the grim, murderous Colonel, might have been a last, dreadful journey. It might have been a slow mournful parade to a ready gravesite. Then, on passing through a formidable iron door, the route took them down a long file of steps into the very bowels of the netherworld, into King Jochanan’s dimly lit Tomb of the Living, into a gloom reeking with the stench of the dying. Could one get much closer to Hell and still be alive, still not taste the flames?

That darkness and its associated murkiness, enshrouding the lost sailor with its foreboding shadows and tormenting dreads, might have been oppressive. The sentence of a quick death the next evening, when he had his youth, might have been depressing. The hanging, human horror, in the sprawling, dimly lit, second-floor room, might have crushed his optimism forever. The quartet of mountain-size guards, sternly watching the break-proof iron door that sealed the steps to the dungeon, might have spoiled the last ounce of hope he had for escaping the place. Yet, thanks to his faith, the author of his brand of determination—flashing with the brilliant white of lightning—Jim was not put off by any of it, nor even, by the staggering combination of all of that plus all the other dreads, misgivings, and misfortunes he had experienced up to that point.

Even when they finished descending the long, crumbling flight of concrete steps and stepped into the raggedly-lit cell room, which was as dreary and unwelcome a sight as anyone could imagine—or want—even then, Jim was not put off. At most, he allowed that the place was aptly named, and that he was about to be enclosed in what was meant to be his reserved crypt. Yet, he still could not buy the idea that this was the end of the line. He just could not see it that way, which was why he was ready to call his captor’s bluff—ready to play his own hand—ready to learn why he had been brought there! No, not just the there of the dungeon! There had a much broader sense. Readily, it applied to the mysterious island that, more than once, had showed a great desire to be the site of his tomb, to crush him in Earth’s final embrace.

Yet, as they reached the anteroom, Jim looked toward the run of cells, gave a start, and fairly gaped at what he saw.

*     *     *

THE GULL AND the storm were the first signs of what was to come. They were the peculiar beginning that led Jim into the great adventure of his life, the singular episode on which all the others were built. They were the first grabbing ripples from the huge swirling stem; the first clues that his old life, his prior existence, was over. The white bird and the black tempest were the dire omens of what was to come, signposts pointing the way to Jim’s proposed meeting with King Jochanan’s executioner.

Otherwise, it all began innocently enough. Jim had borrowed his sister’s old boat, the deep-hulled dinghy that had a modest sail to augment its oars, and so, he went to fish and to think about what he wanted to do with his life. He was no longer under orders to march for his country, and like Helen, he was now an orphan, living well away from Chicago, where both had been born, and where the fatal strokes had been applied to their three loved ones. Marriage had brought her there, while their uncle’s imminent move to California meant that only Helen and Rob’s place kept Jim from being homeless.

Then the seabird had come along, interrupting Jim’s thoughtfulness. In fact, it seemed that he had done little more than drop his line in the water when the gull swooped down, and with a contentious, complaining squawk, plucked the rod from the lad’s hands. Then, to make sure Jim understood the gull’s edict—no fishing—the seabird dropped the pole well beyond his reach. Yet, before Jim could give any real thought to going after his pole, thunder boomed behind him, and he looked to see the looming, growing threat advancing out of the west. It was more ominous than any storm he had ever seen. Lightning raged anew and was followed by a still closer roar. With a powerful swiftness, as if driven by more than wind, the fury came upon him. After only a few minutes, the black cloud mass had consumed the boat and Jim, along with much of the daylight. Only the bird was allowed to escape, but then, the gull did not belong in that fateful embrace… nor was it wanted! It was also in its place.

So with that same terrible suddenness, Nature’s trumpets thundered in the iron-gray sky. Again and again they sounded, singing the tale of each lightning flash—the hammer of Heaven beating on the anvil of Earth. Soon, the crescendo of the on-rushing waves filled the great expanse with a rising and falling bellow that was accompanied by the hiss and drum of foaming waves rhythmically crashing against the old boat’s hull. Adding to that eerie symphony, the sail twanged its lines and rattled its canvas, while the rain pattered on the wood and canvas in varying tempos. Most would never appreciate such music, but Jim really did not mind it. It went with the awful majesty of a storm at sea… and what a foretoken it was!

That he was already drenched from the rain and spray made it still more ironic to reflect that only a short while before he had been trying to peacefully fish off the coast of South Carolina. Just taking it easy while thinking things over until dinner, and then it would have been time to watch the ball game with Helen and Rob Johnson, his sister and brother-in-law. The Cubs were at Atlanta, he recalled. Then, maybe later, they would get on the horn and talk to Spencer Connors, their California-bound uncle, and then they would find out how things were in the Windy City. Otherwise, Helen and Rob were Atlanta Braves fans, except when the Chicago Cubs were the other team.

Now, though, ending that contemplation and more, the great black storm, on powerful wings, had swept over Jim, bringing strong winds that made it impossible to turn toward shore. Now, the concern was no longer grounded in getting back to Helen and Rob. Now, it had become what should be every person’s prime directive—surviving. Toward that end, Jim, just then, could see doing no more than riding out the storm, while also clinging to the resolve that he ultimately would walk away from the boat.

Yet, there had never really been an opportunity for him to turn back. Sometimes you are not allowed to turn aside from the path that leads to your destiny. Fate can be pretty tenacious when She has something in mind for you. Not knowing that, Jim still figured it was best to let the storm take him where it would, and to put his trust in the Maker, while the dark-haired youth employed his strength and his reason to keep his life. Reason told him to maintain a good hold on the line and tiller, while his strength firmed up that grip of both, and then his heart, the third part, steadily believed that all would be well—believed that he had found the best solution for overcoming the current dilemma.

So it was that Jim and the old boat rode out to sea—always sailing farther east, always meeting greater waves, always finding stronger winds—roll on, forever-on! All too soon, or so it seemed, the deep-hulled boat rushed down the back of the first house-size wave. Salt spray broke over the bow and stung the young man’s face before they swung up toward the crest of the next one. That he and the boat climbed and fell at an acute angle made the ride all the more maddening, and so, he further tightened his hold of the cord and rudder, sensing that it would be fatal to let go of either. For Jim, that was his role in battling the storm. It was the best he could do to try and maintain control of the situation. The strongest card he could play.

Before long, they had climbed and fallen from at least a dozen such waves, and each time, just when it seemed the steep angle would make the boat flip on its back, the craft would dip down to the horizontal, hang at the crest for a moment, and then plummet down the backside. For most, no roller coaster ride could be more terrifying. Perhaps, that was so for the simplest of reasons—this ride could end, not by simply walking away, but because Death had claimed another chip! Jim guessed that, like a vulture, the black rider on the pale green horse, hovered nearby, ready to swoop in at the last moment.

Yet, again, Jim was not like most. During that ride, he never experienced a moment of terror. That was because he had something powerful to fall back on. That is, his faith—the third part—kept him thinking that he would indeed simply walk away from that boat ride, and that he would go on, his life bettered by the experience. It may be that, as a result, he had no fear of death, or was that great quality something that had long been present in the lad? Even what happened next did not really shake that faith, or perhaps, all that occurred somehow strengthened it, made him even more immune to the sharp concern that so often troubles others.

It began as the boat hung on the crest of the twelfth great wave. Jim’s eyes widened with just an inkling of concern as he focused on the next breaker. Already it was curling into an angry white fist, primed to smash anything wooden… or made of meager flesh! Still, he hung onto line and rudder with a firmer grasp and let it come to him—let it play its cards. Wham—the broiling curl hit as one three fell. Crack—went something wooden and near at hand, spilling another trey. Hiss—they knifed through the wall of water and came out on its far side, mildly inundated, but unharmed, as a third three landed face up on the table. Was the fourth three one of the two down-cards, would it show on the next up card, or be dealt facedown as the last card? Did his opponent grimace, because he would be obliged to start the betting and thus be unable to make a raise, or because he did not have the fourth three?

Yet, Jim still felt that he had the better hand. He had survived that hit. The Maker had answered. The lad’s faith was boosted. He had done the right thing by not giving up. He would raise to show that there was more to the two aces he had showing, that the third bullet was in the hole, and he would call when his foe raised his raise.

Then, as they finished riding over the next wave, he saw the eddy. Was it the fourth three? It looked large enough to swallow a 300-foot freighter, booms and all. Already, the old boat was caught in its whirling pull, slowly circling towards its vast, deep stem. Greedily, Death was stretching His open hand toward Jim; ominous and dark like the storm itself, reaching, and ready to grasp, ready to claim the pot. Yet, even then, the youth refused to give up. Even then, he failed to see his stormy cruise ending in that vortex; failed to see the funnel as the trey that beat his three aces; failed to concede. He was not dead yet. He had yet to fold. Death’s smile began to falter. The dealer prepared to deal the sixth round.

Otherwise, it was with that leap of faith that Jim felt something indescribable close around him. It was a presence that brought peace and calm to him, despite the raging tempest without. It was an emanation of everlasting joy, brushing across his person like fine silk. Then the winding motion carried the boat against the raging zephyr.

Suddenly, there was a yawning snap. Jim glanced up. The mast and sail were rapidly dropping toward him, rushing toward his pate. Transferring the line to the same hand that held the tiller, his other hand jumped up to stave off the mast’s attack of his head. Something, a voice, in the presence murmured to Jim that She was ever pleased that he had become such a good problem-solver… and that he was so courageous! Such a combination, along with his steadfast faith, could be used elsewhere.

Will thou accept the challenge? Will thou be a chosen knight? the presence, in a voice filled with serenity, silently asked.

Take me where you will, he answered, accepting the inherent risk, the ready challenge of the unknown.

With that, as if in answer to his reply, and with the suddenness of lightning and from beyond the falling canvas, there came a lightning-like glow—brilliant and blinding—that seemed to emerge out of nowhere—out of nowhere—as it engulfed the boat and Jim. Like that, he and the boat were taken. Like that, the more incredible part of his adventurous journey began. Like that, his life was forever changed—his old life washed away, engulfed by the eddy.

And then, the darkness came.

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Chapter II

BEGINNINGS

IT WAS A day of beginnings, a fair myriad of onsets. Indeed, Life’s palette was dotted with a great many hues, ranging from an array of lively pinks to several somber, splotches of burrowing black. Within that spectrum, there were numerous yellows, whites, greens, browns, reds, even purples and oranges, varied, much like the season at hand, for it was Spring.

Visible through the compass—the horizontal disk that encircles each viewer—blossoms were at their peak. A vast multitude of pretty pastels and fair fragrances—enchanting to the eye, enthralling to the nose—ornamented the vernal scene. Lodged in the leaving hardwoods, or the minty tangle of evergreens, birds were singing about their new homes, while beginning to curtail that day’s slate of frequent trips to feed their ever-hungry young, for Evening’s soft shadows were starting to encroach, Her brief, daily reign beginning. In still another time-honored tradition, the other animals were introducing their newborns to the world—nurturing the Future in the Present with the ways of the Past—the cycle of life. So another fragrant evening of high Spring was falling on the northern slopes of the Hydronacks. It was a time of new life, a season filled with the joyful promise of those many beginnings, just then softened by day’s last light, by the onset of Evening, which should have enchanted the moment even more for the Royal Lass quietly observing all of that.

Yet, such a time is a poor season for the furtherance of human vanity, but when, dear reader, is vanity ever in season? When are we ever truly honored by arrogance or by another’s want for more? Neither really furthers the peace and harmony that most of us prefer; neither could be called humane. Of course, the arrogant are the ones who think self-importance is always in season, and if such a person is endowed with a streak of cruelty, even a measure of power, then it is very easy for those affected by such cruelty and vanity to find no joy in any of the seasons, much less the vernal one. Spring, like Dawn, is about promise—the promise of what might be; the promise inherent in beginnings; the promise that arises not long after the tears of the night have dried. Yet, if a people suffer under the darkness of a cruel tyrant, how can they know much, if any, promise? Where is their peace?

Thus, we begin in the season of birth. It was ever meant to be so, just like much of what is to follow. Yet, as you will discover, we begin at this point for still other reasons, as well. So sip your tea, caress the cat curled on your lap, and read on.

Below and some twenty miles to the north, Drone, southernmost city of Nolan and the provincial capital of Lan Drone, was lighting the many shrouded lamps of its streets, one by one, the gas-fed glows coming on in growing numbers, like stars appearing in the firmament as Night settles on His throne. These homely stars of Drone were, of course, guiding beacons to the homeward bound, or to those seeking an inn for the night. In not a few of the city’s homes, hot dinners were already sating the hearty appetites of workers, schoolchildren, and the like, while inns were doing the same for weary travellers. It was the beginning of day’s end. After that meal in those houses, there would be a relaxing moment or two with a book, with a stroll, with a hobby, with a game of mental skill, or with some other form of amusement. Any or all of those would follow, and then, it would be time for bed with the delicious night air of Spring washing over the sleepers. There could be no better medicine for the weary than a good night’s slumber! There was in that a fair reward for a day’s labor—home, nourishment, and bed. What more should be wanted, what better fountainhead for human industry?

Then, as the Princess well knew, those people would wake with the cock’s crow, with the coming of Dawn. The promise of a new day would be upon them, their innate industry would smile at that, and so, they would return to work, school, or the road in short order, and they would know again the joy that comes with the morning. For them, life would go on, through its cycles and its seasons, and they would find abundant treasure in the love of their families, while returning home, whether from a day’s work or a journey, would remind them of that wealth.

What more should any of us, whether Prince or peon, want?

*     *     *

HOW THAT REMINDED auburn Aurora, First Princess of Nolan, our erstwhile observer, that she was far-removed from knowing such wealth, from finding such fulfillment, from belonging to such a family, and so, the lass sighed as she imagined such an idyllic evening, brokered by such a life. How she wished that her life was more ordinary. How she would dearly love to trade hers for one that featured a devoted, loving husband to hold in her heart and a gaggle of ever-happy children, tugging at her skirts. Such a life would have spared her much agony—more than she could have imagined at that moment on that Spring evening—more than could be produced by a poor marriage—for it was a moment just before her real troubles began—one of the last moments. Sometimes, we fail to anticipate trouble, simply because we never have enough warning of its approach; sometimes, intangibles arise too fast; sometimes, Fate seems most unfair, even cruel. But then, there are those who are stouthearted and nimble-minded.

Having no idea of the destiny that awaited her, Aurora sighed anew at the persistent specter of her present life and its poor circumstances, much of which revolved around the great need her parents had perceived for her to be married. That her father, King Hermes, had recently—if still reluctantly—joined Queen Rosesharon in expecting Aurora to agree to a marriage befitting her title by year’s end seemed to have sealed the Royal Lass’s providence. It was a fate that was made still more dreadful by the sense that she really did not belong.

Yet, was it fair for her to suppose that she really belonged in an ordinary life, especially given the adventurous fires that burned within her? The many hints offered by her uncle-like mentor, Josh Coltrane, tended to promote the premise that something extraordinary would happen to her, and that somehow appealed more to her inner person—it was somehow more in keeping—more adventurous. Even Aurora’s father was inclined to agree with Josh, which until recently had been reason enough for King Hermes to be less insistent about Aurora’s marital prospects.

Well, perhaps, I could send Father and Mother a note asking for another year, Aurora proposed to herself. That would give me more than enough time to tour the entire island, which might be enough to sate my need for adventure. How I would love to see Treeton and its encompassing forest! I would also enjoy travelling through the Spillways. Why, perhaps, I could help Peter Tonshew hunt the Great Bear. A last great adventure before I am forced to give my hand—and my life—to some boorish noble lad!

The pretty, longhaired lass sighed once more over her poor prospects, before she again savored the minty fresh air of the Summer Palace. Then she looked from the north to the east—toward the dark eaves of the Great Woods and the coming night; toward a light plume of smoke that marked a logging camp; and toward the nearby Drone River that whispered to her as it wound its way down the north face of Mount Cross. Still more trees marched upward, stopping a few hundred feet below the rugged wall of the mountain’s vast crater. Indeed, a fair mixture of rustling evergreens, blossoming fruit trees, and budding hardwoods girthed the one-time Summer retreat of King Hermes, which had been their year-round residence until Aurora was almost six.

Aurora loved being there again. It was her birthplace, both in life and as a mountaineer. Readily, she relished both the idea of visiting the Summer Palace, and the idea of spending several months there while, as her father and Josh Coltrane had urged, she learned the Legend, a valued old scroll that foretold a series of events. Episodes that would either change the island and the lives of its inhabitants forever, or that would smash them into so much dust in a great catastrophe. The writing had long since been copied, so as to better preserve it for future generations of royalty, scholars, clerics, and others to learn and understand. Otherwise, the Princess was to spend the rest of Spring—it was early 5th Month—and all of Summer there, or through 9th Month, while she used a few hours per day and her older brother Benjamin’s aged textbook to study all that the Legend had prophesied. She had managed to