World of Dawn: Reveal

By Shawn Gale

The journey to find a way home continues for the boys and girls of Halton House. With Ambrose as their guide, they strike off on their next leg to seek help from the enigmatic Women of the North. At the same time, Glooscap of Sawnay, their travelling companion and now friend, is trying to find the cause of the poison tainting the Sawnay's mighty river Cootamain.

They soon find themselves in the Great Sands. Though the land may be different, they quickly realize the story of upheaval is the same. In the middle of the night, they are awoken by barks. They are led into the midst of a violent act, one in which they can't sit idly by and watch. Their decision to help propels them into a world more nightmare than reality, more death than life, and more questions than answers. To save a people from brutal slavery, the group must face their biggest test yet. Not only must they overcome their differences, but also tyranny in its most barbaric form.

With World of Dawn on the verge of irrevocable change, the group's priorities start to blur. Do they go home at the first chance? Or do they stay and help Glooscap and the Sawnay? The latter of which seems tied to the mysterious and all-powerful One Who Sees All. Finding their true selves may not be the easiest answer to their dilemma. And what's revealed makes finding a way home even more complicated.

Join them once again in the second installment of World of Dawn. A coming-of-age story in which a journey to find a way home becomes a quest to save a world.

"There's suspense on every page of this young adult adventure....Before they can find their way home from Gale's vividly imagined otherworld landscape there are relentless challenges they must face and overcome. The final pages of World of Dawn: Reveal still leave readers anxiously anticipating Book Three."

-Eileen Kernaghan, Sophie, in Shadow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543425451

Shawn Gale

Shawn Gale writes on Canada’s West Coast. He is a graduate of the Fraser Valley Writers School, where he earned a Master’s diploma. He graduated from Humber Colleges School for Writers with a Letter of Distinction. He completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing at Bircham International University. He was a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Creative Writing department from 2014-2017, where he earned two certificates in screenwriting. His stories have been published in anthologies and periodicals in the US and Canada. He is the author of the acclaimed, award-nominated story collection The Stories That Make Us. He is also the author of the critically-acclaimed YA fantasy series World of Dawn. He is a member of Burnaby Writers Society and The Writers’ Union of Canada https://www.writersunion.ca/member/shawn-gale.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Shawn Gale.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2017908132

ISBN:             Hardcover           978-1-5434-2521-5

                       Softcover             978-1-5434-2520-8

                       eBook                  978-1-5434-2545-1

All rights reserved. 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 copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 09/07/2018

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Contents

PROLOGUE

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.

– Hellen Keller

PROLOGUE

Eastern County, Massachusetts—1693

People scream in the village square. Those found guilty of heresy at the trials. The villagers are attempting to restore the Almighty Lord’s favor over the land and his flock. Elizabeth remains hidden in the root cellar under the floorboards of her aunt’s pantry. She has been for the last two nights, since she returned from the sacred grove where she and the others have been practicing their craft and performing rituals brought over from the Old World to honor the oldest god of all, Mother Earth. All of this was taught to Elizabeth by her mother before the consumption took her life three years past.

Heavy footsteps rush across the floorboards overhead, jarring dust loose atop Elizabeth’s crown of black curls. Her heart leaps. They are much too heavy to be her aunt’s. She scrambles over the earthen floor toward the front door. Through the cracks between the boards, she spots her aunt standing directly above. The woman who has been a mother to her is facing Mr. Christiansen, the mayor, whose unmistakable jowls swell over the collar of his frock coat like grotesque tumours.

Where is she, Mary? he says, his voice stern. Save us all anymore trouble.

Yes, tell us where she is! Be forgiven by the Almighty Lord for hiding a heretic from His divine judgement, says another voice, Mr. Lumley. At first, Elizabeth failed to notice him a few steps behind the mayor as well as the other men on either side of him: young Zachariah Dawson and an older man whose face is horribly scarred, the witch hunter who brought madness upon the village with his arrival two days past. Mr. Lumley has always been scarecrow thin, but seems even more so now, in a way that terrifies Elizabeth. His long chin is twisted, and with his hooked nose and protruding front teeth, he reminds her of the giant rats that sometimes scurry from the hay piles in the fields.

Yes, make it simple, says the mayor. Give her to us.

Simple? says Mary and scoffs.

Yes, simple, says Mr. Lumley.

The mayor turns to the men, jowls quivering in the candlelight.

Yes, simple, he echoes.

The men all nod vigorously in agreement. Mr. Lumley says, Beg your pardon, mayor, but I believe the Almighty favors simple too.

The men hastily agree. Elizabeth’s heart quickens.

"The only simple here on this night is your minds, says Mary. There are no heretics in this village, William Lumley, no more than you are Lucifer himself swaddled in the flesh of a man—but then by the way you carry on, one would think that could very well be a possibility."

Elizabeth has the mark. Mr. Kurtz here knows of these things, says Mr. Lumley, waving a hand at the scarred man.

Her aunt boldly steps forward. The mark? What nonsense. She points an accusing finger at Zachariah Dawson. And you, Zachariah, oh yes—you! I know all about you. You and Thomas … if these men knew of your romping transgressions you yourself might be burned at the stake along with those innocents.

"Heretics, yells Mr. Lumley. Forsaken by the Almighty Lord. If we do not put a stop to their diabolical ways He will forsake his flock. Mark my words. He speaks as if he is a priest delivering a fiery sermon to a church full of parishioners. We will all end up like the heathen savages roaming the Americas, half-naked Devil worshippers—no crops, no mercy from Heaven, abandoned to Satan’s minions in the depths of hell."

A gasp runs through the others, and they nod their heads like stupid ducks. Except for the scarred man who remains eerily silent, unmoving.

Mr. Lumley carries on, That is right. The burning and killing by the French and their Indian allies is a harbinger, a warning to the people of New England—this witchery afoot will no longer be tolerated. Salem’s hanging their witches. Though that won’t suffice in our village. We must scorch every bit of it from the land like those vermin that carried the Black Death. Burn them all back to the hellfire whence they came.

A warning we will not fail to heed again, says Zachariah, shaking his head.

Where is she, Mary? says the mayor, squint-eyed. Give the little witch up.

A shriek erupts from the square of the village, followed by a loud, drawn-out moan. Angry, violent cheers ring out as though the villagers are relishing another heinous murder. And Elizabeth wonders who they are now burning at the stake: Ms. Kipling? Ms. Bingley? There were only four left. Two of whom are not even involved with their coven. All the others have remained hidden in the grove.

You need to stop this madness! says Mary, fury in her voice.

The men grow silent, and then Mr. Lumley speaks: Perhaps the Lord can be appeased in other ways? His sinister tone makes Elizabeth cringe.

Perhaps he can, Mr. Lumley, says the mayor, grinning menacingly. The Lord is known for His … understanding in these matters. He turns to the other men, who catch his grin like a flu.

What say you, Mr. Kurtz?

The scarred man steps forward and Elizabeth wonders again from whence he came. Burn the witch’s co-conspirators, he says in a German accent. Rid this nest of devilry for eternity.

Mr. Lumley strides toward Mary. She backs up until she bumps into a low table, knocking off a porcelain bowl that falls to the floor and shatters into little pieces. Mary turns to flee, but his hand snatches her wrist. Yes, the Lord is gracious in His understanding of such matters.

The men snicker while Mary yanks and twists her arm in a vain attempt to break free. Zachariah and Mr. Kurtz join in to grab her arms. Then the three men drag her across the floor and out the door. Their boots thump on the stoop, down the stairs, and then are gone.

Elizabeth scrambles to the trapdoor in the floorboards. She warily pushes it up, hoping to lessen the creak of the hinges; the mat used to conceal it slides away.

In their zeal of murder, they left the front door wide open. A breeze blows into the house carrying a tangy smell, like roasting pork. It assails her senses. She gags and nearly purges when she makes the connection to the screams rending the village square.

Her aunt struggles against the three men as they move farther and farther from the cottage. With lit torch in hand, the mayor triumphantly leads the way. Over the thatched rooftops, the flames in the square soar, leap, and lick at the night sky as if fire and brimstone have been unleashed. Embers burst in every direction as the victim’s screams fade off until all that remains is the crowd’s bloodthirsty shouts and cheers. Lucifer has possessed the people of her village, and his name is Mr. Kurtz.

Suddenly, Mary breaks free from her captors to dash toward the open door. The pack of wolves swiftly chase. Mary makes it to the stairs only to fall under the weight of the pursuing Mr. Lumley. Elizabeth and her aunt lock eyes. Mary senses her desire to give herself to the men. She shakes her head and gives a no with her lips. The other men pounce on her. For the first time, Elizabeth sees clearly the scarred face of Mr. Kurtz: disfigured by burns, marbled with blue and purple ridges, with only holes where his ears should be.

As they drag Mary by the hair toward the village square, she curses and swats at them, kicking her feet. Elizabeth can no longer bear to watch, so she lowers the trapdoor. She sits there momentarily frozen, her thoughts and feelings a tempest. Tears well up in her eyes until they begin to run down her cheeks, more and more. She scrambles over the earthen floor to the rear of the cottage, opens the root cellar door, and rushes up the stairs into the unforgiving night. The awful smell of burnt hair and flesh hangs like heavy woodsmoke.

Another scream rends the village, and she cannot push aside the knowledge that it is now her aunt’s turn at the stake. Sobbing, she flees from the only place that she has ever called home, knowing that it will never be such again. She runs. She bolts through the forest along the deer trail leading to the grove, uncaring of the branches scratching her face and neck and tearing at her woolen dress.

There is nothing left for her in the village, nothing left for her in this world. There is nothing left for the others either. She knows what they will do. They will travel to a place where Mr. Christiansen, Mr. Lumley, Zachariah Dawson, and that frightening Mr. Kurtz will never find them, a place where they will be safe for eternity.

1

World of Dawn—2017?

We’d done all we needed to do, said all we needed to say. Since the news from Sawnay of Poowasan’s death, Ambrose’s sanctuary had lost something—its comfort and tranquility and more.

We rode north into the fiery sun, as uncertain about our future as when we’d first arrived on our new world, confused and worried for not only Conroy but the Sawnay too. Those people who we’d known only a short time, yet who had shown us such kindness and hospitality.

It seemed the closer we got to our goal, the farther away we actually became. A strange paradox my mind couldn’t untangle at the time. There had been a two days’ ride to Ambrose’s, a safe and easy solution to our dire, complex problem. And now again we were journeying four days north to speak with a group shrouded in mystery: Women of the North.

The Black Swamp was much the same as it was south of Ambrose’s. The humidity was stifling, and dark swampy pools reached throughout like tendrils. There were stunted trees covered in purple moss and lush ferns laced with blood red veins. Once in a while a splash let us know we weren’t alone. Made by what, I couldn’t say?

Amongst the party, the mood was glum and sombre. Glooscap hadn’t spoken much, and Chana and Maroona had spent hours alone in the far corner of Ambrose’s property mourning the death of their adopted father. Although out of sight, their weeping prayers were heard.

Before we’d left, the rest of us had spoken about the prospects of going back to get Conroy, but even as we discussed it we all knew there would be no turning back, at least not at this point. We’d come too far, didn’t grasp enough yet about the way home. And after all, it had been Conroy’s wish that we carry on, without him if need be. I’d made that vow, and it was one I planned to honor.

Though the news about Poowasan’s death had been shocking and upsetting to us all, I didn’t really know him. I didn’t share friendship and blood ancestry with him and those other Sawnay who’d died. Still, my heart wept for my companions, because I knew loss intimately. I knew what it was like to be abandoned by my father, robbed of my mother, both at crucial times in my life.

And Ambrose, he never said anything more about it after reading the note, his moist eyes brimming with tears. Instead he’d busied himself by preparing supplies. But I knew he grieved at the loss of his friend. And later that evening, he’d been a solitary figure smoking his pipe under the moony light cast by the Three Brothers, like some old wizard from another time and place. He carried on with his lone vigil until early morning. Maybe he’d been praying, too, like the twins, or maybe just remembering times with Poowasan. Sort of like how I got sometimes when lost in memories of my father and mother. Even the thunder horses seemed saddened, as though they could sense the stormy thoughts and feelings emanating from the group.

Poowasan was like a father to Glooscap, said Ambrose, from the saddle of his palomino, Bray. He’d come up beside me, the leather aroma of his saddle on the breeze, pack mule right on his tail. He was right. The way in which Glooscap and Poowasan had interacted was like father and son. Ten horse lengths in front of us Glooscap rode his big black stallion, erect and vigilant, with Tooney scampering along at his side, his goofy tongue lolling out.

Glooscap’s father had been chief of the Sawnay before Poowasan, said Ambrose.

He never said anything to me, I said. But then he doesn’t say a whole lot.

Such is his character. When the poison started to run in Cootamain, his father led the first party north in search of the cause, but never returned.

Chana and Maroona’s father went missing too, I said.

Along with a dozen others over the last two years. Ambrose was silent a moment, then said, There are more than a few fathers who’ve gone missing.

What’s that mean? I said sharply. I’d never told him about my father—I was certain of it.

Exactly what I said, said Ambrose.

How’d you know my father went missing? I said louder than I’d intended.

He gave me a funny look. I didn’t.

I studied him for a second and then turned back to the others, wondering if any had heard our exchange. Chana and Maroona, Tabby and Anna, all rode together talking quietly, and behind them Simon and Colby,

And last night you said my name, my entire name—Tanner Paul Kurtz, I said. How’d you know it all?

He took off his hat and looked inside. One of the others.

Which one?

Ambrose swiped a hand through his hair, put his hat back on. There was a lot of humdrum … perhaps one of the girls.

My face flushed, embarrassed for being so sensitive and jumping to conclusions.

When we gonna stop to eat? said Colby, appearing on my right side, his mottled tan and white stallion chuffing.

Sighing, Ambrose reached into his coat to remove a gold pocket watch that I’d seen a few times. We’ve only been on the trail for two hours. At least another five before we break.

Five hours, man. Whatcha talking ’bout? This ain’t the Wild West. We ain’t no cowboys or Yankee Doodles.

Oh come on, go ahead and tell him what it really is—you just want to stuff your face again with those muffins, said Simon, who’d ridden up beside Ambrose, making us four abreast. Been talking about them since we left.

A bee the size of a hummingbird buzzed in front of our horses. Great, another big-ass bug, probably try to sting my brain, said Colby.

Probably do some good, I said, not being able to help myself.

Everyone chuckled lightly, even Colby.

Ambrose lifted his finger. The bee landed. The honey they produce is exceptional, far superior to anything on Earth.

Colby shook his head, sucked his teeth. Yeah, what’s that got to do with the price of Nikes in China?

The muffins! said Ambrose. Their honey is a perfect substitute for sugar.

How did you do that with the bee? said Simon, mystified. Ambrose studied the bee a moment, and then slowly raised his arm to send the insect launching into the air. We all watched silently as it weaved through swampy canopy to become a speck and meld with the blue sky.

Anything is possible here with an open mind, said Ambrose, smiling mischievously, a glimmer in his eye.

I know you just didn’t say that mumbo-jumbo, said Colby. Man, you sounding like one of those late-night TV self-help gurus. Simon, did the man just say what I think he said?

You mean—anything is possible with an open mind? said Simon.

He’s getting all Obi-Wan-Kenobi on us, said Colby.

Obi-Wan-Kenobi? said Ambrose, puzzled.

Yeah, a Jedi Knight, Luke Skywalker’s mentor in Star Wars, I said. One of the best stories ever. A real quest.

Sort of like what we’re on right now, said Simon.

I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I guessed in a way we were, on a quest of sorts. But then heroes went on quests, not lost kids—really lost kids—trying to find their way home. No, ours was more like a desperate search.

Let him finish talking his mumbo-jumbo, said Colby. He got my ear now.

Ambrose cleared his throat. Our hearts and minds have the power to manifest potentials in the world around us.

Come on, man, said Colby, shaking his head in disbelief. Everyone knows magic ain’t real.

Ambrose is right, said Anna from behind us. But it’s not magic.

Colby sighed and rolled his head. Oh, here we go. Miss Know-it-all, know-it-all except herself.

It’s not magic, it’s science. You know, like E equals MC squared? She rode up on his left.

A what? Colby looked on blankly like he did when he was unsure.

Duh, Albert Einstein? probed Anna. You know the Theory of Relativity, grandaddy of quantum physics, the most famous scientist in the history of womankind?

‘Womankind?’ I said.

Yeah, why not? Guys always say mankind, why can’t I say womankind?

Oh, you mean the old white dude with crazy hair? said Colby. Like we really thinking ’bout him on the block downtown Detroit.

Everything is made up of complex chains of atoms—the trees over there, our horses—and atoms are energy, said Anna. We live in one big energy field. An ocean of energy. Our thoughts and feelings are energy, and they influence the field like a splash in water. She said it confidently, as she did whenever she was absolutely sure of herself.

Man—bullshit! said Colby. That’s some hocus-pocus, and you know it.

It’s not B.S. she said, giving him a duh face, it’s quantum science.

Oh, yeah, then how come you didn’t influence that landslide before it creamed us and ripped Carol out the van and we all ended up on this crazy planet? Weirdo! He nudged his stallion forward and we all watched silently as he trotted up beside Glooscap.

He didn’t seem to care a whole lot about Carol when we were searching the debris, whispered Simon.

Come on, you didn’t need eagle eyes to see she wasn’t there, said Tabby. It was the first time I’d heard her stick up for Colby, in that same way she did for her sister.

I think it’s been harder for him, I said, scratching Starla’s ear. Carol’s death, I mean.

Harder? You think it’s been any easier for us? said Anna. She scoffed and turned the mare around.

That’s not what I meant, I said. I mean, he was closer to her than any of us were, that’s all.

She ignored me as she trotted toward the twins.

I hadn’t really thought about it that much, so focused on the crazy events that we’d been going through since we arrived. My Uncle Hanker said that happens when a person is living in survival mode. And he ought to know better than most. When he was serving with the Army Rangers in Afghanistan, the Blackhawk chopper he was aboard crashed on a mountain in Taliban territory. He and a buddy—the only survivors, both in rough shape—had to hump it out of there. He said he didn’t think about the five men who’d died in the crash, whose blood he’d been covered in. Some of them he’d known for years. There was no time to be angry or sad or vengeful. No time to cry or yell or curse God or the Taliban, because it would’ve slowed them down and then they would’ve been dead too. He’d been purely focused on making it home to his family in one piece. Which he had, sort of.

That tour changed him—his pain and memories haunted him. And as a result of that change, he’d lost pretty much everything—his family, his home, his job—and took me on a bank robbing spree. Twelve banks across three states. Him in Leavenworth now, and me here, wherever here was.

A pang of guilt went off deep inside me then, for not asking Colby how he was feeling about Carol’s death. After all, he’d been close to her, closer than Simon and I had been. She’d been fresh out of university with a Criminology degree from some university in Wisconsin, driven and enthusiastic and optimistic to make a difference in the world. She saw Halton House as a good place to start. She and Colby had taken a special liking to each other. She put in extra effort to help him as best she could—phone calls to Detroit, walks to the general store, trips to town so he could buy new clothes (all he’d arrived in were youth detention sweats). At the time, I figured she felt sorry for him, pouting like he always did. But now on second thought, there was something else there. What it was, I couldn’t say for sure.

He’s hurting more than the rest of you, said Ambrose. But I think this is an old kind of hurt.

I’ll go talk to him, said Tabby, riding ahead.

I turned to Simon. He shrugged his shoulders as if he had no idea what the problem was with Colby. Maybe Ambrose was right. Maybe Colby hurt more than the rest of us. Maybe he hurt so badly he always felt like I felt on those days when I hated myself for those banks I’d robbed, the people I’d terrified; hated the world for how unfairly it had treated me and my family; and hated life for continuously dumping on