Sunscribe

By Kyle Tunnicliff

Dakaia's passion is to write and create, and nothing pleases him more than to sit upon his favoured rock by the stream and bring new stories to life. He never considered that one day he might actually be in a position to do exactly that.

His growth into manhood goes from ideal to bittersweet when Sunscripture m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neely Worldwide Publishing
• Release date: May 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635355383

Kyle Tunnicliff

Kyle Tunnicliff was born in 1985 and raised in Adelaide, South Australia. He is primarily focused on fantasy and sci-fi writing, enjoying the process of mapping out how alternate societies might live and interact. He also uses his writing and characters to explore moral boundaries and how a person's choices impact their growth and opportunities. "I believe that a book is something precious, something sacred. From the way the pages smell to the world that you get to see, hear, and experience inside of it, a book is a conduit and a treasure; an everlasting part of an individual that cannot be enjoyed any other way. If you've ever cuddled a book, you probably know what I mean." Kyle resides in Adelaide with his fiance Krystel, and his children, Rook and Quinn.

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SUNSCRIBE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright © 2016 by Kyle Tunnicliff

 Published By Neely Worldwide Publishing

ISBN-13: 978-1-63535-538-3(Digital)

ISBN-13: 978-1-63535-602-1 (Paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-63535-165-1 (Hardback)

The Library of Congress Control Number: 2016916818

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writingfrom the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by an means existing without written permission from the publisher, Neely Worldwide Publishing or its partnership company Neely Productions Inc.

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This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, the author or third party websites or their content.

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This book is dedicated to...

Rook - My hope

Quinn - My fire

Krystel -

Who sees me for all that I am and never looks away

Acknowledgements

With immense and lasting gratitude, I thank Brandon Sanderson, author of the Mistborn and Way Of Kings series, for his encouragement through his online lectures and talks. I have never met the man and probably never will, but the words he spoke on the other side of the world have led to the conception and completion of this book.

In a similar capacity, I thank Jenna Moreci, author of Eve The Awakening. Her videos and talks have spurred me through many stagnant phases of the writing process, and helped me to feel that I am not alone in my struggle to see this through to the end, and neither is anyone else.

I thank the members of the Reynella Writer’s Group; Bob, Sue, Helen, Vicki, Elizabeth, John, Pat, and many others, with a special thanks to Carol for her contribution to this book, all of whom make me smile at my work and realise that greater words are inside me than I know.

To many teachers, I send a silent thanks, most pertinently to Paul Simpson, who once said to me, Kyle, you are an odd fish. Never compromise. This advice remains special to me.

I must thank my family for their endless encouragement. My mother, Karen, has heard almost every notion or idea that has spouted from my mind, and never cast a wry look because of any of them. Her faith in my inevitable success is far stronger than my own, and I hope that I continue to make her proud.

The next people I must thank are Beverly and Tony Bilac. Much more than instructors and teachers, they are friends and parents of a kind that I have not found in anyone else. I have overcome many of my darkest moments to arrive at this point because of what they made of me, and I swear proudly by the goodness in their hearts.

Finally, I thank my soon to be wife, Krystel. She has held my hand through so much, and she will never let go. Of all the readers that will experience my story, I wish to impress her more than anyone else. It is her approval that I could never do without, such is the weight of her opinions in my heart.

After I write this I know that I will think back and wish that I had thanked more of the fabulous people in my life. Please accept my thanks, all of you who have made me the man I am.

Kyle Lewis Peter Tunnicliff.

Fading Light

I stand below you, sun, my life concluding. It has been significant and fulfilling. I am satisfied and humbled, and as I gaze blindly into you with these eyes so old, I relax my weary mind and ask the sunlight to steel me as I become aware of the closing darkness; the completion of the final page in my story.

Thank you my sun, my companion. Thank you for your gifts and your loyalty. It is not I that benefits the most from your ceaseless vigil, but everyone else - everyone without knowledge of this whole wondrous tale...

You bring light and life, you persist through all seasons and hold this world aloft. You are here to depend on and will remain always with all people, and I trust and celebrate that it is you who will carry on with the task of doing well unto this world.

I have laid my darling down before you, the cycle of life completed; a body to the soil, a mind to the cosmos. I will soon lay here beside my love, under your endless warmth. Burn brightly, my sun. My pride and gratitude will rest soundly with you, for today and every day that will ever come.

Chapter 1

Light

Dakaia had an idea. He knew that every idea was not necessarily a good one, but he valued them like tiny, unassuming seeds which each may grow later into something magnificent.

He strolled along his regular path through the reeds and bowed saplings that grew down by the stream. The breeze loped around him and the sunlight hinted a day for great things. Sunny days were uncommon for the season, but not surprising. They broke the way for the impending green-growth season. The grasses which carpeted the valley swayed in blissful delight as they reached to the sun, unaware of the events of the larger world.

Dakaia’s writing satchel was slung over his shoulder and thumped a rhythm against his leg as he walked. The smell of the crisp and cool morning breeze always flared his imagination. He raised his face to a ray of sunlight which peeked through the leaves above.

He breathed in and his lips parted slightly to form a warm and contented smile as he exhaled. He thought a silent thanks to the world for being what it is. He rolled then relaxed his shoulders, perched himself on a familiar stone, and wiggled his rear into the comfortable slouch he often adopted with one leg resting upon the other. He then gently took out his most valued possessions, his paper, and graphite pencils.

A lover of hearing and writing stories since boyhood, Dakaia let the trickling of the stream whisper to him as he laid the paper flat upon a board on his knee, and wrote in his immaculate italicised script.

The maiden looked out from her tower window with the vast and wondrous countryside spreading out before her. She stood leaning on the sill, ignorant of all the beauty and possibility in the world below, for -

Whoah! Dakaia’s face snapped up with a start. A resonating boom filled the sky as gloomy clouds drew in overhead.

Today was looking so promising, he sighed.

His jaw muscles scrunched as he wrestled with the decision whether or not to continue. He chose as he always did, and lowered his eyes to his paper to continue his story.

- she longed for only one thing, one person, one love. A boy who she had watched from her loft, watched him grow as she grew herself, wondering at his endless adventures below, and she tried to imagine herself having fun alongside this wonderful and exciting young man.

Dakaia reread his prose and felt indifferent about it. He knew of the feelings that he wanted to evoke with his writing but he was not completely satisfied with the words he had chosen.

I can do better than this, I need to consider it longer before writing it down.

Casting a glance up at the greying sky, he pondered at his story and frowned a little. Through a chance parting of the clouds and leaves, a broad column of sunlight fell upon his lap. Dakaia raised his hand into the glow and turned it about, warming his fingers under the light. His thoughts wandered as they often did, ideas tumbled and warped as they were conceived, sculpted and put aside.

The beam of light was hidden by the leaves once more. The breeze grew and plucked at the corner of his papers.

One more paragraph... he thought.

On a brilliant, golden day, she made her way out to him and told him about the wonderful and uplifting things she felt when she looked at him. Once she had professed her love for him, she felt liberated.

Dakaia noticed a damp, dark spot on his trousers where a rain drop had landed, his sense of urgency increased.

Damn gloomy change... I write with light! he professed to no one in particular.

He returned to his paper and took the pencil to it.

She had become a new young woman,

As he wrote, a thin spot of sunlight fell across his fingertips, spreading to follow his movements as he swept, lined, and crossed his letters and words.

- created and guided by her own love. Committed only to the thrill of joining with the young man; to sowing the seeds of adventure and to riding the winds of life. Though she had never exposed herself to the boy or even spoken to him before now, her youthful hopes allowed her to believe that he held at least a sweet infatuation with her.

Now free from her isolation in her tower, she would follow him and do her utmost to be all that he needed, all that she could be for this unknown young man.

The young man - scarcely that - new to the bashful ebb and flow of budding love, was, of course, pleased and flattered. He did not know how to graciously handle this situation and he was blind to her fervour and devotion. Blind to her-

Dakaia shot upright from his slouch, breathing slightly faster than usual. The beam of light evaporated and disappeared behind leaf and cloud.

Were the words glowing just now?

Dakaia closed his eyes tightly and rubbed them. He could still faintly see the golden glowing words as he opened his eyes to look at his paper. The words were there as he had written them, now cast in graphite - not the bright glowing lettering that had shocked him a moment before.

Something gently touched his cheek.

Whah! he shouted.

He recoiled and fell back off his stone into the dampening grass. His daze passed and a patter of raindrops began to tickle his face.

Oh, that must have been what touched me.

Relieved but not completely at ease, he quickly slid his papers into his satchel which he then secreted away under his shirt to shield it from the rain.

His trot back home was a hasty affair, complete with the typical dirt stains on his knees from tripping up the sloped riverbank. He arrived back to the windmill home with the hope that Odram had the kettle pot over the fire, ready to steep a brew of hot reedstock tea.

*          *          *

I...

The simple thought came and was truncated by her sudden awareness of the world. She knew love and longing before sunlight entered her eyes. She slowly opened them and beheld her origin and her meaning for being. A boy she saw sitting with a pencil in hand, surrounded by a shaft of sunlight. He was her light bringer, liberating her from the nether. Warm recognition filled her mind.

He is... my love!

She watched him as he stared past her, like he was looking straight through her! She stepped toward him.

Cold, she thought, as her unclad feet sent new, yet somehow familiar sensations of coldness to her from the damp grass beside the stream.

How do I know this place? Where did I come from? her own voice in her mind sounded completely new yet somehow familiar and comforting to hear.

Dakaia, she said quietly. Dakaia, she said again, liking the sound of her voice. Once more she mouthed the name silently.

She approached the young man, expecting a welcome, but he did not respond. She reached her hand out toward him, yet he remained unseeing and unaware of her. She gingerly touched his cheek with her fingertips, but jerked back as he reacted with surprise. She tripped on a loose branch and toppled as the boy also overbalanced and fell from his perch.

She stood up, wincing as she saw a few stones stick briefly to her palms and elbows, then fall away.

Pain, the thought came.

I’m feeling this for the first time, how do I know what            it is?

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. She watched as Dakaia collected himself and his belongings.

Doesn’t he-? She did not complete her thought because even the suggestion of it caused her anguish. She followed quickly as Dakaia moved off up the path and onward to a large stone building with a spinning top. She sped to catch up with him, though her bare feet were slipping on the moist grass. She neared him and reached out again. Her fingers neared his shoulder but missed him by a hair. There was a lurch, a thump, and a groan as he slipped on the wet grass, inadvertently evading her outstretched hand. Dakaia clambered up a hill and hurried off toward the house.

The young woman strode quickly to catch up to him. Hey! she said called to him.

Dakaia continued toward the door. He opened it, looked in and paused briefly. She slowed and prepared to greet him again as she reached him.

Wait! she called to him, but in another moment, he was inside the home with the door banging loudly closed behind him.

Cold, she thought as the rain began to patter on her fair skin.

Cold...

Odram took tall a canister from the shelf above the fireplace. He peered into it, shaking it gently to jostle its contents and allow the stiff aroma of the reeds to meet his keen old nose.

Too early for the strong stuff, he muttered.

Replacing the canister he brought down another and repeated his jostling. He sniffed it deeply.

There’s the treat, long and sweet!

He took two reeds out and replaced the canister. Holding the reeds between his hands he began to crunch and gnaw at the reeds to crack them and release the pungent smell and expose the fur-like fluff which clung to the inner walls of the reeds. Odram sputtered and spat out a few furry clumps and tossed the reeds haphazardly into the pot as Dakaia watched his antics from the doorway.

"Pop could you please use the cracking hammer?"

Why would I do that, boy? Leaving splinters all over the floor and flattening the furs… You know the spit seasons the reed and gives it a woody twist!

It gives your brain a woody twist...

Hmm? Odram grunted.

Well, you could always start the bloody fire and brew it yourself.

I’ll make do, thanks.

Dakaia put his satchel on the hardwood table and sat facing the fire, leaving Odram’s preferred spot free, which faced the room’s doorway and window.

A minute or so later, Odram clanked the tray down with the reedstock tea. He poured the clay coloured brew into a gnarled-handled mug. Dakaia did the same with a mug of his own.

What’s the day been like to you, Dak? asked Odram with the raise of an eyebrow.

"Just writing... Well I was but..." Dakaia looked out at the rain on the window with an irritated expression. Odram nodded understanding.

No reason you can’t write in here, Dak.

I know, he sighed. It’s just not the same in here. I like the breeze down there, the stream and the- Dakaia trailed off.

What, Dak?

And the sun, he finished.

Dakaia looked down at the tea in his hands.

I think I’ll go into town today, Odram. I’d like a new pencil.

I suppose you’ll be wanting my Ledger for this purchase then? Yours is probably a bit scant after that sheaf of paper you brought home last moon.

Dakaia smiled sidelong and raised his eyebrows. Actually, if you could just sign over a little credit I’ll use my own.

Odram let out a resigned breath and made light of the arrangement that Dakaia sought.

All right then, but I’ll make you a shopping list, he said with a glance and a grin.

Dakaia wilted and sighed theatrically at his adoptive grandfather.

Odram shook his head and scratched at his snowy beard. Then with his shaky, aged hand, he managed to write a list in the beautifully styled script that had held Dakaia in awe since Odram had first taught him to read.

*          *          *

Marlew was not a bustling and busy township, though it seemed so in contrast to the humble and widely spread log and stone dwellings surrounding it. Gravel crunched under the feet of the customers who crossed the wide roads from stall to stall, shaded by the ancient trees that towered over the town in a scattered deployment. The great trees rivalled the buildings in number but were mightily greater of posture. Fishermen arranged themselves in doddering lines from one end of town to the other, their baits and rods bobbing along in time with the silky surface of the Flayed-Arrow River.

The spruiking stall workers called out the nature of their wares as often as they barked cordial insults to rival stalls across the roadway.

Why good morning, Sir! A man like you would know a quality loaf when he saw it, this’ll be the best lunch you’ve tasted in a lifetime!

No, don’t get it from him! He grinds rats’ bones to fluff his buns up!

I hope you choke on a rat! the first baker shouted back at his competitor.

The shoppers were as much customers as they were victims on some occasions. Especially the locals. Goods and favours were much more valued than coins this far away from the governing city of Bridge. Marlew did not have the frequency of business to keep regulated currency in its coffers.

Dakaia strolled placidly into the town centre. Nothing struck him as noticeably different from his last visit, so he made his way straight past the familiar goods sellers on the main street. As he walked, he reached into his satchel and pulled out his Barter-Ledger to inspect it.

I still owe Walli an hour of labour for that bun last time I came... he sighed.

Dakaia rubbed his knee, still sore from his fall by the stream. He then turned purposefully into the smaller crafter’s terrace, thus avoiding the need to fill that particular Ledger obligation this moment.

The side terrace hosted most of the minor specialty stores, with many vendors choosing to share stalls to expose their wares to a wider variety of customers. As Dakaia strolled down the street, he looked ahead to a sort of commotion in the bend, the corner where the curve of the street caused it to turn and run parallel to the main roadway. He placed himself on the opposite side of the road and almost side-stepped as he kept his eyes fixed on the milling people around what he could now discern as the jeweller’s shop. Must be some extravagant new stone, Dakaia thought. He expected it to be some rare specimen or enormous jewel of note. Rebani, the jeweller was one of the few traders with any coin on hand.

He never seems to make all that much profit from his spectacular items, considered Dakaia.

Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t swindled enough money to uproot his shop and move somewhere more lucrative. Either that or he’s a fraud and only dares to sell imitation stones at moderate prices, he mused.

Not to mention the cost of that wine that seems to be always arriving in great supply…

Dakaia continued down the street and entered the stationer’s small shop. He inhaled deeply and enjoyed the woody scent that inhabited this place. He loved the meticulously arranged wares along the small shelves which bordered a walkway up to the counter. Like other times, his eyes wandered to an enclosed area off to the left of the store.

Always so much space behind those curtains. I wonder what he stores back there, he remarked to himself.

Good day, young master Dakaia.

Hello, Zokou.

Dakaia stopped to examine the entrance to the curtained off section of the shop.

I still want to find out what it is that you keep back there.

Specialty stock, Zokou said, - the same flat reply as always.

Dakaia and Zokou looked at each other for a moment longer, Zokou’s face betraying nothing, yet his eyes hinting at secrets dwelling within. It was Dakaia that broke the pause.

I’d like to look at the writing pencils, please.

Zokou resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the boy. At once he surmised that this may turn from a smooth sale into another extensive product testing session.

Which would you like to start with, the soft cores or the long lasting range?

Soft, he shrugged.

Dakaia spent near to a full hour making his selection.

I’d like these two please.

He gently pushed a very hard cored pencil and a medium towards the patient shopkeeper.

Very good, will you be paying by coin or Ledger today?

Ledger, answered Dakaia with some slight dismay.

Neither he nor Odram had much in the way of coin.

What are you prepared to barter?

Dakaia considered it.

An hour of work, he said with a sure nod

Five. Zokou rebuked calmly.

Dakaia, of course, counter-offered.

Two.

A long silence passed.

Three? he queried with a grin.

Five, and you can choose another pencil, offered Zokou.

Dakaia looked at him, then shuffled his feet. He really could use another pencil after all.

Okay, five. I’ll have the extra hard tip too.

Zokou rolled his eyes. Hard cored pencils were the hardest to craft because the cores were so brittle. They occasionally broke upon insertion into the shaft.

Very well, said Zokou.

The stationer then scribbled matching payment notes into their Ledgers.

I shall need you to watch over the store tomorrow, I have an errand to run.

Wait, I never signed it for tomorrow! pouted Dakaia.

You’ll do it if you want to leave with those pencils.

Dakaia grumbled then signed his agreement.

Be sure to arrive before midday, young man. I trust you remember the store pricings from last time you worked?

Dakaia nodded with a moan. See you tomorrow, Zokou.

Be well! Zokou waved cheerily.

 Dakaia turned and headed toward the door.

Oh, and Dakaia?

Yes? Dakaia turned back to face the stationer.

 Zokou hesitated a moment, Who is... then he shook his head, Never mind. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow then, agreed Dakaia.

Zokou looked on with an expression of puzzlement as Dakaia walked out into the terrace, straight past the near-naked young woman staring at him through the window.

The young woman padded quietly along the edges of the town roads, eyes intent on Dakaia.

My feet feel...gravel...mud. I don’t like it.

Her face screwed slightly as she spied the caked mess on her feet. The mud almost covered her pallid skin up to the end of the coarse fabric cloak she had improvised from the covering of an apple cart – an exercise during which she had discovered that she had a taste for the red fruits.

She looked at the townsfolk as they regarded her. They bore mixed expressions but nearly all looked perplexed. Was she really so unusual? She began to examine herself and did not need to look far. Her cloak which was feeble at keeping her remotely warm, also barely resembled clothing of any sort.

I look awful. she thought.

That must be why Dakaia hasn’t noticed me.

She made note of which way Dakaia was heading, then hurried off towards a store full of clothing to do some more of something which she thought of as ‘Applegrabbing’.

The tailor’s shop was enclosed, dry, and mercifully warm. She wandered around, looking at the many colours and styles, occasionally reaching out to touch the fabric or hold a sleeve against her arm as she saw the other patrons doing. One such patron looked her up and down, and with utter disgust strode out of the store into the street. She looked to her sides and saw that she was now alone.

Now! she whispered to herself. This Applegrab was a good idea, she thought, hurriedly throwing the apple-cover cloak to the floor and slipping a long sleeved blue gown over her head.

Never having dressed before, she got the underlying petticoat stuck over her head and bumped her back against a polished mirror behind her.

Ooh! a tiny shout erupted as she felt the frigid surface on her bare back. She wriggled this way and that, trying to shake the garment down over her shoulders.

The swaying of clothing racks and flapping sleeves caught the tailor’s attention. He prepared himself to ask about the mystery customer’s opinion of the royal blue fabric. He prepared his bartering speech and also his cordial compliments. He took a deep breath, turning into the aisle with the struggling customer.

He was a professional; prepared to charm, impress, and do whatever was necessary to make the sale. He was, however, not prepared to turn the corner and see a muddy pair of naked legs - and more - underneath an ample chest, apparently trying to spasm its way into a dress far too small for it.

Er-herm, the tailor coughed.

The young woman froze. Slowly she turned to face the tailor. Her comically squashed nose behind the fabric furthered the tailor’s surprise.

Um, yes? she replied.

Perhaps you might like some assistance with the fitting... and discerning the collar from the sleeve…

With a slight shock, she felt a pair of hands grip firmly about her waist, prompting her to turn and move towards the back of the shop.

The fitting stalls are this way, miss. I appreciate the additional business you have brought to my door, however, I’d rather my customers came in to admire my clothing, not to admire the lack of it.

The tailor deftly whipped the dress off the young woman’s head and pulled a heavy curtain across the rail before she had the chance to acknowledge that her latest new-familiar feeling was embarrassment.

Wait there, miss, the polite voice commanded.

She was very grateful for the potbelly heater that the tailor kept nearby, presumably a courtesy for customers during the naked stages between dressing. A gentle swish and a thump accompanied a lighter blue dress being flopped down over the railing.

This dress is sleeveless, miss. Far easier to manage for those with... less skill for fitting. The buttons go at the front.

She heard hard shoes tapping away smartly on the wooden floor as the tailor hurried back to the bustle of the shopfront. The fabric was not as shiny as her first choice but radiated a few discreet dazzles in the scant sunlight. It felt soft and the colour was lovely. It was blue like the small clustered berries she had seen in the fruit stalls, but lighter in colour when looked at in full spread.

She looked down at the dark flaky mud on her feet and legs, and thought better of putting the dress on top of the muck. She peeked out from behind the curtain and spied her apple cart rags on the floor out in the main section of the shop, too far away to quickly run out and snatch up. She closed the curtain, then eyed it speculatively. Quickly she began rubbing her legs and feet down with the heavy taupe fabric. Awkwardly hopping, leaning and grunting to reach her feet, she wrestled with the material which ended a handspan above the floor. Her legs were still distastefully browned, but she was satisfied that leaving the curtain in such a horrid state would not cause as much offense as darting naked through the store would have done.

How goes it, miss? asked the tailor through the curtain.

"I’m doing fine. Won’t this be too cold to wear outside?

A moment later, another blue garment toppled over the curtain rail.

"This should suit you, miss. I have also taken the liberty of estimating your boot size. You should see the cobbler afterwards, but this rudimentary pair is well made and will keep your feet dry.

Thank you, she said sweetly, beginning to feel looked after.

She heard the hard shoes tapping away again, then peeked out to see the tailor’s proffered shoes on the floor. She slid them under the curtain with her foot.

After many awkward minutes, she had passably managed the process of dressing. A satisfied and quirky little chuckle came forth as she gently spun on her toes, letting the fabric flare out at the bottom. The shoes made her grimace in discomfort, but she was grateful to have some kind of barrier between her feet and the stony mud outside.

She made her way toward the door, smiling innocently to the tailor as she walked by.

Erherm, the tailor coughed strongly.

Did I put it on wrong? she asked.

On the subject of presentation, miss, you wear the dress well, however your hair is quite unkempt. A more urgent subject though, is the method by which you intend to pay for your garments.

I thought I could Applegrab them? she said through cherry-sweet lips.

The tailor flushed. Even with her lack of practical experience with people, she understood immediately by                 his reaction that ‘Applegrabbing’ was not an appreciated euphemism, or indeed a normal activity.

She blushed and stood innocently with one foot up on toe, knees together.

How do I pay?

I do not usually accept coin, so you can trade by goods or by Ledger.

The only thing that she had was her grimy apple cart rag - and she had already kicked that under a clothing rack on her way out.

Ledger, she said uncertainly.

Very well.

The tailor looked expectantly at her. She came over and leaned on the counter.

What do I need to do?

The tailor sighed, You’re not local are you? You do look quite pale and that shocking hair stands out like a flame on a matchstick. He ran his hand through his short styled hair.

Put your ledger book on the counter so I can mark it.

I don’t have a Ledger, she said softly as she shuffled her feet.

You’re from quite a far land indeed, I see... Where do you come from?

I’m not sure. Um, down by the stream.

The tailor raised a dark eyebrow.

I...see. Well then, I’ll start one for you. We trade services and contracted goods in Marlew because we don’t get much trade in sanctioned currencies.

The tailor reached under the counter and produced a small book, held closed with a piece of string. Untying it and showing the young woman a random page in the centre, he took a writing pencil and handed it to her. She took it keenly with a small grin, holding it clumsily, still acclimatising to how some objects felt in her hands.

This is where you write the shop’s name or the owner.

He indicated the line at the top of the page with the tip of his pencil.

In our case, you write ‘Olvin’.

The tap of a foot and a deliberate cough broke their concentration. The young woman looked behind her to see a portly older lady rolling her eyes.

I’ll be right with you m’lady, said Olvin with practiced professional deference. A few other customers nearby were more curious rather than inconvenienced.

Now, Olvin said, turning to the front page.

All of your details go here. First, what is your name?

I don’t know, the girl said in a meek tone.

The teapot shaped lady behind her let out another snide little noise. Olvin ignored her and carried on.

You have no name?

Oh, I have one, I just don’t know what it is yet! She smiled and batted her heavily lashed green eyes.

Young lady, I’ve catered to you very well, please do me the courtesy of giving frank details.

The girl found herself shuffling about again, suddenly feeling out of place in the beautiful dress.

I’m sorry, she said, He hasn’t written or said my name yet, so I don’t know what it is.

Olvin grew flushed again.

No name, no place of origin and no Ledger. You have but a moment to make sense of yourself lest I call you out as a swindler! He eyed her harshly.

Where are you going to go after we finish here?

Now it was she who grew flushed, she’d stayed far too long and surely her handsome young man might have left by now.

Oh, Dakaia, she said to herself, a barely audible whisper.

Aha! Olvin erupted. "Dakaia! No wonder you’re so aloof, young lady! He’s not always got two feet on the ground himself! Are you a sister, cousin, friend?

Her face grew red, she felt something like embarrassment again, although this was somehow a sweeter brand of it.

Olvin smiled.

I’ll make a note on his page to fix the payment up. Just let him know that he’ll be here for at least three days’ work for what I’ve sold you.

The nameless young woman beamed.

Thank you, Olvin!

She started toward the door and moved backwards, but before completing her turn she stepped fully on the teapot lady’s ample foot.

Ouch! the lady shrieked.

The two women looked at each other for a long moment.

Aren’t you going to say sorry? she barked.

"But I’m not sorry," she replied.

Without another word, she walked out onto the street, leaving a thoroughly vexed woman and a handful of amused patrons in Olvin’s expert care.

Chapter 2

Discovery

Dakaia slogged his way home with the occasional moan, protesting against the heavy sack of items he carried over his shoulder. He noticed an ache growing in his left shoulder and slung the sack over to his right. He tossed complaints at no one in particular and remarked that once he left his home and went travelling for writing inspiration, trips like this would be unnecessary.

An onlooker may have mistaken Dakaia for having some form of malady, jabbering away to himself. An attentive listener would recognise, however, that he was also pitching new ideas to himself and sounding out words that he was not sure how to spell.

 Yes! he yelled and stopped walking to focus on his daydream, I’d better write that one down as soon as I get home.

His pace quickened at that and the ache was no longer a consideration. The path leading up to his windmill home came into reach, and he turned keenly, foregoing his usual grunts of complaint about the incline. Soon he heard the rattle and creak of the windmill’s blades, welcoming his homecoming like a large dog running circles on the wooden floor inside the home.

Odram, I’m back! he called as he entered, disposing of his burden unceremoniously on the sturdy main table. He paused briefly, listening for a reply. When none came, he took the spiralling stairs two at a time up to his room. It was by far the largest room, consisting of two levels and a tiny third loft, where he had chosen to put his bed. His bed was under a small window through which he would look out over the world below and enjoy the characters and adventures that he saw in his mind, stories which were unwritten yet fully furnished by his imagination.

Dakaia remembered the day that Odram had decided to give up his master bedroom very well. Odram’s knees had been giving out in his advancing years and the stairs were arduous, especially in the frequent morning chill which assaulted any pair of legs on the staircase. The cheery revelation that Odram offered - "You can move the furniture, young one. Don’t worry, it’s all downhill!" - did not inspire Dakaia to make the move with any urgency, but he was glad that he had eventually done it.

He entered his high room whilst waving his arms in large circles to loosen the muscles after his trek. Over by a small window, opposite the door, were his modest shelves and writing desk where he stored his impressive array of writings. He pulled back the creaky chair in a more dignified way than he did most other things, and sat.

Under his writing surface, he kept a small drawer with blank papers. He reached under and retrieved a single sheet. Placing it squarely on the desk, slightly to the right of centre, he reached over and took a stubby pencil from his pot. Damn, he said with slight dismay, remembering the new pencils that were in the sack down the stairs; those long and winding stairs, and all the way at the bottom... He sighed and resigned himself to using the dwindling pencil.

He lit a candle at each of the two top corners of the desk and drew a circle to test the pencil’s point. The silvery circle glowed briefly. Dakaia sat deadly still and looked at it as the light faded to become the dark mark that he had expected to make.

Must have been the candle light, he said to himself.

He did it again and watched the silvery streak blaze into life behind the tip.

What? he shouted and bolted upright, sending the chair to bounce a few times along the floor.

Keep it down, boy! shouted Odram from below, evidently roused from his napping.

Dakaia swallowed, breathing fast with surprise. He blew out his candles carelessly, causing a few blobs of wax to patter over the desk. Still clutching the pencil, he took a new sheet of paper from his drawer and wrote again.

My name is Dakaia.

The words glowed the same as before and followed his pencil strokes as they dulled to grey.

What is happening? Why is it happening?

He scribbled harshly several times on the paper, the glow followed his pencil lines stroke for stroke. He tried another word.

Pencil.

Then a sentence.

The words I write are glowing. This is strange indeed.

Dakaia was pale with shock but still held his writing idea in his mind, if only by a thread. He decided to write quickly to get it on paper before the idea fled, then began his prose in earnest.

Thunder boomed and rain pounded,

Before he could finish, a spectacular booming rent the quiet, and a thunderous downpour crashed down on the roof above him. Dakaia, still standing, fumbled behind himself to steady himself with the chair, Whah!

He yelled as his hand darted about for the chair but only found empty space. The chair crunched and splinters skittered off along the floor as he fell onto it. He could barely notice the breathlessness and throbbing pain in his ribs as he sat staring wide-eyed out of the small window. The sudden rain was almost blinding. In a scramble, he grasped the pencil and wrote largely on the page.

Stop!

The words glowed but nothing happened.

Stop now!

He made to write again, but his shaking hand caused the stubby pencil tip to crunch and the shaft snapped in the middle. This pulled him a little closer to his senses. Dakaia had never snapped a pencil in his life; he valued their potential too much.

Taking up the minuscule tip of the pencil, an idea occurred to him. He recovered his beginning, incomplete sentence and completed it.

- but then it stopped just as abruptly, and everything became as it was, like in the moments before the downpour.

Before the words had ceased glowing, the sky brightened outside the window and the rain fell to a sprinkle, leaving only a few stray droplets quivering in the breeze on the windowsill.

The rain had blown in through the window and many of his writing papers on the top shelf had been soaked.

My stories, he sighed sadly, tenderly cupping some of the blurred and dripping papers which hung like drying clothes from the shelf. He folded the hanging papers up onto the shelf and stepped back. He took a deep breath, expecting some feeling of calm to return, but his panic