Watcher

By Audra Middleton

An orphan girl seeks the oblivion of the forest while darkness lures the Chosen Son of prophecy, yet they find each other, and their budding love could destroy the very world Goran, the tormented prophet, is trying to save.

 

War threatens to destroy the world of Anthelion unless the holy man, Goran, can solve his prophecy riddle. For every clue he finds, another obstacle surfaces. An orphan girl, Watcher, becomes his responsibility. As if parenthood itself isn't daunting enough, she keeps a bear for a pet and transforms into her forest surroundings to avoid socialization. Hope momentarily emerges when Goran finds Benaiah, the Chosen Son of the prophecy. Only he soon discovers Benaiah is a social pariah on the verge of embracing darkness.  When Benaiah and Watcher unexpectedly meet, the two outsiders find in each other a sense of belonging they've never known.  Now their emerging love promises to bring about the very war Goran is struggling to prevent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jan 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927454923

Book preview

BURST Presents

Watcher

By

Audra Middleton

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

BURST

www.burstbooks.ca

A Division of Champagne Books

Copyright 2012 by Audra Middleton

ISBN 1978927454923

January 2013

Cover Art by Petra K.

Produced in Canada

Champagne Book Group

#2 19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To my family and friends, especially: Mary, the thinker, Erin, the encourager, and Angie, the advisor. Acknowledgements: Thank you to my friends at thenextbigwriter.com for all of your invaluable advice and suggestions.

One

Goran’s Calling

Goran inhaled sharply as he awoke from his dream, heart pumping, stomach roiling, thoughts scrambled. He’d ignored the dream the first couple of times, dismissing it as nonsense, a result of too many spicy peppers before bed. But this was its third appearance in as many weeks. He sat up and lit the candle next to his bed, trying to make sense of it all. He felt heavy, lethargic. Nothing stirred aside from the gentle flickering of the candle next to him, its soft light doing more to cast gloomy shadows than to illuminate the room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, the bent and twisted creatures surrounding him once again took their true shape as simple furnishings assembled from gnarled pieces of fallen trees.

It was too deep in the night to get up, but he knew he would get no more sleep. The same dream three times. A jolt of panic ran through him as he rose from his warm bed. It meant something, and it was sure to be something requiring change, risk, and growth on his part. He groaned inwardly at the prospect.

Change. Why now? He was nearly seventy, still young for one of the Sacred, but too old to be expected to make any drastic changes. He could feel the acid boiling in his stomach as he considered the possibilities. Most changes he could handle, but one he could not bear. His temperature seemed to rise despite the chill of the night, perspiration trickling slowly along his hairline, dripping down the back of his neck. He stood at his bedroom window and stared out at the gently rustling evergreens surrounding his home, their full, prickly branches waving at him in the moonlight. He began praying for mercy.

Anything but a change in calling. Surely it would not be anything as radical as that, he muttered over a cup of stale tea, trying to comfort himself. "Maybe a little change would be good for me. Perhaps I should take on another class, a new subject."

Goran had long considered teaching his calling and could not imagine himself in a different vocation. He felt at home in the classroom and found teaching those on the verge of coming-of-age both challenging and rewarding. His students were impossible to please, but they were old enough to understand the subject matter and they seemed to appreciate his satirical wit. It was Goran’s contentment with his job that made him wait until the dream’s third emergence before discussing it with his mentor.

A dream that repeats is never just a product of your stomach content, Iman warned him. It is a prophecy.

Goran shook his head. I cannot have the gift of prophecy. I already have a gift.

Goran inherited a nominal amount of telepathy from his Alderin grandfather already, and it was exceedingly rare for someone to possess more than one gift.

Perhaps your gifts are intertwined. Perhaps you will need your grandfather’s abilities to help fulfill the prophecy. However unusual, the fact is—you have been called.

Goran looked at his mentor reluctantly. Iman was well into his second century, and it showed. Dark, wrinkled face with a small bit of gray fuzzy hair, he looked a tad like a raisin that has just begun to mold. But his mind was sharp as ever, and Goran knew he was right about being called.

All of those from the Sacred Order were called to serve. Most were called to aid their own people in a variety of ways, in the land of Cascadan, tucked away in the central peaks of the Holy Mountains. The rest were called to serve in the five kingdoms that surrounded the sacred territory. Prophets, preachers, and charity workers from Cascadan were obligated to fulfill their calling away from home, helping to keep the five kingdoms of Anthelion on the right path. It was often perilous.

"Where do I go? How do I even begin? The dream is vague.

I shall wander aimlessly like a guppy in the ocean," Goran complained.

"If He gave us all the answers, we would not truly be sentient beings now, would we? But I’m afraid the vagueness of the dream indicates a long road ahead of you; be patient, vigilant. And remember, His infinite wisdom, His perfect timing, His divine love."

Goran left Iman in his den full of books and maps falling asleep while sitting up in his oversized chair. He envied his teacher; it had been weeks since he himself had gotten any truly restful sleep. He made his way to his favorite forest path, and hoped an afternoon of prayer and meditation would clear his head of the anxiety growing within him. It was, as he feared: a prophecy, a change in calling, and an undoubtedly heavy burden. He inhaled the crisp air, fragrant with evergreen, and tried to relax his tense frame. He listened carefully to the repetitious chirps and clicks of the local insects, and was reminded again of his dream.

It always began the same way: He walked at an unnaturally slow pace through a foreign forest of deciduous trees; willow, birch, and oak. Their spindly frames and leafy boughs were unfamiliar to him, nothing like the tall, needle-laden fir and pine that surrounded his homeland. He was anxious, searching for something; he knew not what. There came a strong breeze rushing in his ears like current-driven waters, briefly drowning out all other noise. Then he heard it, small and distant at first: the sound of a chickadee’s song. It was a simple, repetitious chirping. Chick-a-dee, dee, dee. Chick-a-dee, dee, dee. It was not until Goran saw the bird that the song changed. Unite the King’s Flower with the Chosen Son, or evil has won, won, won! the tiny bird sang, cocking his head so as to fix his eye upon Goran. He turned to leave, but nearly stumbled over something in his path. He looked down into the inanimate eyes of a young man, a fallen soldier. His body was broken, bloodied, riddled with flies. Goran turned to look away, only to see another just like him. Everywhere he looked: corpses, flies, blood.

Goran shuddered as he tried to wipe away the gruesome images and focus instead on the bird’s song. He sighed. It was maddeningly vague. He did not care for the ambiguous; he preferred definitive answers. A bird as a messenger, a chickadee, which meant pay attention. His attention was had at this point. What was the King’s Flower? A person, perhaps a princess. There were five kings, endless possibilities there. Willow trees. Why were the woods different from those around Cascadan? Perhaps he should start studying the forests of the five kingdoms: a simple, non-confrontational task. He could not ignore his new calling, but he could at least ease himself into it. He felt his anxiety lift from him. He had a safe place to begin.

~ * ~

Goran spent the next two years quietly studying the woodlands of the eastern kingdoms, introducing himself briefly to each court as he traveled. He presented himself, subtly tried to gather information, but did not yet mention the prophecy. He needed more clues, he needed to know whom he could trust.

The two Alderin kingdoms of the West were not a priority for Goran. For one thing, the Alderins had been at war with each other for nearly a thousand years and the holy man was not looking forward to getting involved. Not only was he hoping to avoid entering a warring region, but he also knew from his studies the Alderin forests were almost exclusively white alder and birch, nothing like the forest of his prophetic dream.

His exploration of the kingdoms of Last Hope and Sunland proved fruitless. He had no reason to believe any of the ladies he met at court were a king’s flower, and what forests these lands had were full of evergreens, much like the forest of his homeland. All that remained for him to search in the East was the kingdom of Forest End. There the woods contained many deciduous trees, very reminiscent of his dream. He knew he was close as he traveled this realm, and he began to search more diligently.

Goran began to enjoy his mission, wandering among the trees each day in prayer and meditation. He was becoming a bit of a gardener as well, learning to appreciate the region’s abundant variety of plant life. He grew so comfortable in his task, finding Willowbrook Wood disappointed him. He recognized it instantly, and the reality of it caused his stomach to churn so violently that he nearly doubled over. It hit him, laying eyes upon the forest of his dream: the prophecy was real. He needed to stop wandering and find the King’s Flower and the Chosen Son before evil prevailed. The significance of the matter was made clear to him because after finding Willowbrook Wood he began to have the nightmare more often. Each time it became longer, more horrific as the bird continued to show him visions of the evil to come if its song was not heeded.

The holy man began to believe he would go mad from the visions and the impossibility of his task, until the day he met Watcher. It was early spring. There was still a chill in the air at night, but by midday the sun brought warmth and new growth. That day, Goran walked along the brook that flowed through the willows and birch, trying to shake the disturbing images of his latest dream. He recently sent word to the king of this realm requesting counsel, and felt he could allow himself a leisurely stroll as he awaited a response. The scent of cool water and lilac mingled in the breeze, bringing a rare smile to Goran’s face until he found himself stopped in his tracks, nearly tripping over a large root.

Goran had been walking along this path for three weeks, mulling over his most recent correspondences, studying the scenery, looking for clues that correlated with his dream. He did not remember having to step over anything before. He stepped closer to the large oak that towered over the brook next to him, its outstretched branches casting elongated shadows across the bank. Throwing the hem of his gray caftan over his arm, he knelt next to the root, examining it more closely. The root looked natural enough, rough and twisted as any other.

Where did you come from? he asked it, gently placing his dark brown hand upon it.

Within a few moments the root no longer felt rough and firm, but soft and smooth, like skin. There, where the new root had been was a little girl, no more than two, wearing nothing but a look of terror on her face. Goran jumped back with a start, causing him to land on his rear, feet in the air. The child giggled despite her fear. Goran picked himself up quietly, carefully pulling twigs and leaves out of the tight black curls that crowned his head.

Well, now that you see I am harmless, let me introduce myself. I am called Goran, and I come from the Holy Mountains. You come from Willowbrook? he asked her, pointing toward the village.

She stared at him, unblinking, with large brown eyes. He marveled at her for a moment, in awe of such a strange and powerful gift being held by someone so small. Gifts of transformation were rare. In the eastern realms, gifts tended to be task-related, helping define a person’s role in society: a person born with a talent for baking would likely make a living from it in their adulthood; someone who was good with plants would probably become a farmer or a gardener. Those rare few who were granted unusual, powerful gifts—they would often become the heroes and villains about whom legends were told.

Goran unwrapped his lunch and shared it with the girl. She snatched a muffin from his hand and ate it greedily, leading him to believe she had been away from home for more than a day.

What is your name, child?

She ignored him, clumsily wiped the crumbs from her face, and snuck an apple from his lap. When she finished devouring the fruit, Goran took the linen he carried his lunch in and wrapped it gently around her.

Why don’t we find your mother?

The words barely left his mouth before she took off, running and hopping alongside the stream, waiting now and then for the old man to catch up. She ventured nearer to the village as she traveled, but always stayed within the woods that bordered the town. He watched as she paused and lightly ran her hands through a patch of grass that had gone to seed. She giggled as the tips tickled her palms, and then scurried off again before Goran could reach her. He began to get frustrated with the little sprite as they passed the houses and shops and reached the far outskirts of the village.

Where are you taking me, little one? Don’t you think you ought to get home? Won’t your mother be worried?

Cautiously, she stepped out of the trees and quietly made her way through the tall weeds and grass that surrounded the woods. Noticing Goran still lagged behind, she briefly chased after a dragonfly that had lighted on a nearby stalk of grass. Once he nearly reached her, she skipped silently toward an undersized, weatherworn fence, and began tapping the posts as she walked alongside it. Goran struggled to catch his breath and watched her stop at a post with a knothole.

She peeked in briefly. Mama, she whispered, pointing to the other side of the fence.

She then nimbly climbed up and over the barrier, dropping without a sound on the other side. He was about to make the awkward crossing himself, when he caught a glimpse of what lay beyond the fence. She had brought him to a cemetery.

Two

A Weed Planted

Their love began wild and sweet, like the blackberries Ann used to gobble up as a child. They could not get enough of each other from the moment they met, when he was hired on at her father’s dairy. She gave him a tour of the farm, which ended in the hayloft. They made an attractive couple, Ann with her green eyes and long dark curls and Efrem with his muscular build and infectious smile. They soon married and started a family. But as with many romances that begin in a blaze of passion, Ann and Efrem’s soon turned to ashes.

Less than four years after they married, Ann found herself and her three-year-old child kicked out on the street, miles from family, with nothing but the day’s wardrobe and Benaiah’s toy boat. His father had lovingly carved it for him for his second birthday, before he discovered the full nature Benaiah’s innate gift.

Initially, the couple thought their son simply had the unusual gift of reliving memories with his touch. Although strange, it seemed harmless enough. They were careful not to be recalling inappropriate memories when they held him, and eventually made a habit of wearing gloves around him. It was not until he began to speak that the enormity of his gift became apparent. Ann fought the urge to blame her child for their misfortune. Benaiah could not help it if he could hear the thoughts of others. It was not his fault his father did not trust her.

She thought her husband a fool. When and where, exactly, would I have met and mated with an Alderin?

Benaiah looked up at his mother. What’s an Alderin?

He heard his father ranting at his mother about her Alderin lover for several days, and wondered what it was that could possibly make him so angry.

Alderins are like you, Ben, in that they all have the gift of telepathy. Unlike you, however, they are white as bone from head to toe, well, except for their deep blue eyes.

Could we see one? Benaiah asked, eyes wide and curious.

No, child. That’s just it. They rarely leave their homeland. They live in the Land of the White Alders on the western side of the mountains. And if they did cross the mountains, they would not head for Verdant Valley, an insignificant farming village in the southern kingdom of Forest End. That is why your father is a fool. Come, we have a long walk to Auntie Marta’s.

Ben did his best to keep up with his mother, but it was difficult to stay focused on the forest path when there was so much to see and explore around him. Daylight cast shadows of leaves that danced around in the breeze. Insects buzzed and clicked about his head. The air smelled of earth and moss and pine. His trepidation about leaving home diminished quickly as he chased frogs, dipped his boat in puddles, and stomped little footprints in the muddy soil.

The best part about the journey though, by far, was that the farther they traveled away from the village, the quieter his mind became. The thoughts of others were so loud and distracting for him his mother had often wondered if he was hard of hearing. He frequently did not respond to people when they spoke to him, and he rarely spoke himself. As he got older and began to converse more freely, it became clear there was more going on in his head than what should have been.

~ * ~

You need to wear shoes more, Mama, he’d announced one day. Papa doesn’t like your feet.

This, of course, set off a mild altercation between his parents, which quickly escalated as Ben had announced out loud their vexations for each other as they came to mind.

Why would Papa think you’re a horse, Mama?

Ann scowled. What do you mean?

That’s what a nag is, right? An old horse? Ben asked.

Ann did not answer, but marched haughtily over to the mantel where Efrem kept his favorite pipe. Making sure her husband was watching, she snatched the pipe, stomped over to the wood stove that rumbled nicely with a roaring fire, and promptly tossed it into the flames. Efrem jumped up and frantically tried to fish the charred pipe from the fire.

Have you completely lost your mind, woman?

Shame on you, complaining to your little boy about his mother, she said.

Efrem looked at her sideways. You have gone mad.

Papa thinks you’ve gotten thick in the middle, Ben interrupted, causing his mother to glare at his father and complain angrily to herself. Mama is thinking that’s better than having grown lazy in bed.

~ * ~

When the yelling was over, the couple finally recognized Ben was not repeating anything either of them had spoken. And thus began his father’s angry thoughts of mistrust that soon sent them on their journey. A journey which caused Ben’s mind to clear for the first time, so he no longer scowled from the constant ache in his skull. Before long the only thoughts in his head were his own, and those of his mother, which were growing increasingly agitated.

"Benaiah, I will not ask you again, please keep up. We must get there