Tyrl of the Tomah: A Fantasy Adventure

By Steve Wusterbarth

Years ago, Tyrl was taken from his place of birth and brought to a new land, far from the shameful memory of his father. As far as Tyrl knows, his father was a betrayer of the king. His failure led to the loss of the Great Jewel, particularly the Eye of the Hawk that had supplied the magic of the village defense. Without it, the village was lost, so Tyrl was rescued from the ensuing debauchery at the age of two.

Now twelve, Tyrl’s important Time of Transformation is upon him. If he comes through successfully, he will find his Life’s Purpose, but if he does not focus his mind and prepare correctly, he will go down the path of madness and death. He’s hopeful but haunted by the shadow of his ancestry. But there’s much more to his father’s story than he ever knew, and a close friend—and even maybe the king—could be to blame.

Raised as a fieldworker, Tyrl soon realizes his disgraced father was a man of power. With this new knowledge, he journeys to uncover a great evil. During his quest, he learns the truth about the past, which helps him in the present as he hopes to create a bright future. Tyrl will root out the evil that has besieged his land. The land will be transformed, and one young man will become a leader as people once again come together in peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532055058

Steve Wusterbarth

Steve Wusterbarth grew up in Bristol, Connecticut, and joined the army. He eventually moved to New Mexico, where he attended college, and settled in Texas where he currently teaches high school English and lives with his wife and a few pets.

Book preview

The Tomah Legend

T he Tomah have been revered in this land for time beyond memory. They have survived countless centuries upon the grassy plains; survived despite the vagaries of the land. Indeed, it is the Tomah’s stubbornness in surviving the harsh life of the open fields, alternatively hot and dry or cool and flooded as the vicissitudes of the world’s weather dictate. And yet, through all that, the Tomah retain a most docile demeanor toward humans. The humans of the plains, living their relatively simple life, see this demeanor as proof of the Tomah’s spiritual superiority and thus their deserving of reverence. Each year, in the middle of the hot season, as their crops move toward the cooling season of harvest, the people of the plains offer a sacrifice of sacred grasses, the kind used to weave into hats or tunics or shades for the windows of their huts, to the Tomah. The acceptance or refusal of this offering predicts the outcome of the growing crops. In time, the people of the plains have come to keeping the Tomah, individually, the ones who give themselves to petship, in their homes. It is said that keeping caring for the Tomah brings contentment to lives lived on the back and forth, up and down fortunes of the grassy plains, as well as the perseverance and fortitude to enjoy and withstand feast or famine. Of course, The Tomah must be caught first, and that is not easily done. One could learn a lot from the Tomah.

Wings Of Victory

T he cold mountain air pierced through the tattered rags that clung to their bodies. The skin raised itself in many tiny bumps, and the hairs stood out in rigid spikes. The stomachs rumbled, angrily, with hollow hunger. They stood in the clearing, surrounded by tall pines stretching like green spires to the sky. Defiant eyes gazed out from hollow, sunken sockets.

They didn’t move around much. Some shivered relentlessly, others hopped up and down on their toes trying to stimulate blood flow in a drastically futile attempt to generate warmth. They were waiting. They had been waiting, and time was beginning to draw close, far too close. Some of the shivers seemed to be more from nerves rather than the penetrating cold. The gray light of pre-sunrise dawn began to grow more prominent. A haggard man with a dirty brown beard gazed at the other five people gathered in the clearing, then glanced up to what could be seen of the disappearing night sky. The stars were beginning to disappear as the sky changed from inky black to a dull gray-blue. He looked at one of the others, a slightly younger man with sharper, clean-shaven features, sitting cross-legged on a large rock near the center of the clearing. When the bearded man spoke, they all knew what his words would be.

He’s getting late, Tyrell, he addressed the man on the rock.

The man on the rock gazed towards him almost dreamily. So he is, Morgan, so he is, he replied easily, and then returned to himself. The other four gazed at Tyrell.

It has to be before dawn, Tyrell, else you’ll anger the Great One, and all will be lost.

I understand the heaviness of it, Morgan. Yet, what am I to do? I can only wait.

’Twas you, Tyrell, that brought this. I say this for the Great One to hear. Perhaps, then, the rest of us will be granted mercy, and…

Mercy? shouted Tyrell. For a thief? For a gang of thieves? Ha! The Great One will show no leniency to you; you shall receive the same punishment as me if the deed is not accomplished.

Thieves? replied Morgan. I think not. We did not thieve anything. We only entered at your bequest. We thought we were your guests, not accomplices. And we did not participate in the murder. The others glared cold, hateful glances at Tyrell. He shrank minutely, yet perceptively.

The murder was necessary.

To you, Tyrell, for your own thieving intentions, not ours. You dragged us into this. That is why we have come to ensure the accomplishing of the deed. You, Tyrell, must appease the Great One.

Morgan finished speaking and the small, cold, ragged crowd grew silent. Presently, a rustling in the bushes commanded their attention. Tension mounted as the rustling grew nearer, and as the time for sunrise grew closer ever more steadily, a figure at last was spotted coming through the tall pines.

Humphrey approaches! the group shouted in scattered unison. Their countenances changed, relaxing, as they glanced at each other with looks of excited apprehension, anticipation, and wonder.

Finally, Humphrey emerged. He was dressed in the same rags as the group, and his pale body shivered in the gray dawn’s cold. A faint mist floated above his bald head. He was carrying a contraption built of long branches and the large, broad leaves of the Sacred Tree. He scurried quickly across the clearing to the waiting group, and placed the contraption at the foot of Tyrell’s rock.

Hurry, Morgan, said a group member fearfully. The time approaches.

Yes. We will commence. Tyrell? Morgan said quickly in reply. Tyrell stood up on the rock, his arms outstretched to either side, his feet together.

Commence, he said.

O, Great One! boomed Morgan, look upon thy subject, Tyrell, who has committed great offenses. He has deceived his friends into joining his plunder; he has plundered the Great Jewel, Eye of the Hawk, from the Sacred Temple, Your Honored Shrine, Your Hallowed Hall, and he has murdered Your Bishop to achieve this dastardly deed. We find him guilty of Great Sacrilege, us, his friends. We throw him to You in the Great Deed; You must decide his fate. Our priest, Humphrey, supplies the Wings of Victory or Peril. Should Victory prevail, preserve our Tyrell and grant him the Great Jewel. Else…? Morgan trailed off, finished, and lowered his eyes to the ground, reverently. The group mimicked him, excluding Tyrell.

Tyrell gathered the wings in his arms, clumsily clutching the long branches, trying to hold the broad leaves of the Sacred Tree off the ground. He checked the sky and hurried through the group, disappearing into the surrounding pines. The group, all silent, ran after him. Shortly, they came to the precipice of a tall, sheer cliff that ran down the mountainside, a huge expanse of colored rock. Tyrell began hurriedly assembling the wings. Humphrey spoke.

O, Great One, consider my construction in Your judgment. As Morgan has pronounced the Charge of Crime, watch over him ‘til Landfall as he protects Your Eye of the Hawk, the Great Jewel. May Victory prevail, he called as he held his hands in supplication to the sky. The group mimicked his gesture.

Morgan strode over to Tyrell and placed the wings on his back. Tyrell crossed the leather straps on his chest according to the Sacred Writ, and Morgan tied them in back. Tyrell turned to face Morgan as the first orange finger of dawn jabbed over the distant horizon.

On the ground, Tyrell stated simply.

May Victory prevail, replied Morgan, slapping Tyrell hard on the back. Morgan moved away. Tyrell turned and stood upon the edge.

O, Great One, he shouted, I leap from Cliffsedge! He leaped, and as he moved away from the mountainside on his fashioned wings, he cried, Judge me! He could feel the apprehensive stares of the group burning upon his back as he floated out, the Wings supporting his weight. He had leapt before full dawn and he felt sure that judgment would be in his favor. The wings were supporting him. He was not hurtling toward Landfall. Victory would prevail!

Then, as the cold air bit at him while he rode its waves, he could feel the straps as they loosened ever so slightly. He glanced at his chest. As he stared in helpless horror, the leather relaxed, the straps fell away, and the rush of air separated the wings from him. With an anguished, unbelieving scream, Tyrell began the long, quick descent through the cold morning air to Landfall.

Back on Cliffsedge, the group hung their heads.

The judgment is Peril, Humphrey stated perfunctorily. So be it. Eye of the Hawk must be returned to the Sacred Temple and the Bishop given over to the Great One. Let us go, Morgan. Morgan? Morgan?

Humphrey and the group looked all about them, but Morgan was nowhere to be seen.

Alone Time

T he moon rose beautifully. It cast its silver-white glow down the softly rolling hills. Waves of charcoal, grey, and black fluttered through the stark light as the grass of the hills danced in the cooling night breeze. The Tomah were huddled asleep in their burrows, having survived another day with equal fortitude.

Tyrl walked slowly through the green blades. The breeze played lightly with his hair, sandy brown with flecks of black, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were dark blue, looking aimlessly at the hills of grass. His slight frame was wiry with stamina, built from his years working the farm fields. His nose jutted out from his face, seemingly supported by two large upper front teeth set within a mouth which had the ability to look serious yet also ready to break into a amused grin.

This was his Alone Time. A time for him to manage his thoughts, to collect the scraps of his life in preparation for the yet-to-come: his Transformation and the time beyond Transformation. It was imperative that his mind focus correctly, else his Transformation take him on an errant path, possibly unto madness and death.

How long had he been in this land? Years among the rolling hills of green grass, not far from his birth home near Cliffsedge. The walk had been long then as he had been much smaller – two? – when brought to Uncle Byrell to be raised by family on the plains. Most of the trip had been washed from memory, overshadowed by the blight of his soul – his father’s betrayal and untimely death. The loss of the family’s closest friend, Morgan, and the loss of the Great Jewel had been most detrimental to the family and the village, particularly the Eye of the Hawk that had supplied the magic of the village’s defense. Indeed, now, the very sanctity of that once religious village had fallen unto ruin, to a plague, and become a place of vice and debauchery.

But, he was digressing. The village was not his concern. He had left early, before the corruption, and had hardly entered at all these past ten years – ah, ten years – that’s how long, he remembered now, that he had lived upon these rolling, beautiful plains with these kind, simple folk, and in such close contact with the ever wonderful Tomah. He admired their peacefulness supported by their fortitude. They withstood the vagaries of life on the plain, but they did not have to deal with humanity’s hurtful attitudes toward each other.

His mind seemed to always keep finding its way back to his father’s treachery and the loss of Morgan and the Eye of the Hawk. He looked upon the silver-white moon and wondered if he would ever get out from under the shadow of his ancestry, which haunted him at the fringes of his life, and of which he knew only snippets and fragments, having been removed from them at such an early age. It was enough to keep him out of the village and to himself, but not enough for him to skip the rite of passage signified by the Time of Transformation. He must undergo the ritual in order to find his Life’s Purpose. The priests and holy persons insisted upon it, whether one was accepted by society or not.

It was Verika who had searched him out. She seemed to know the exact day of his dawning, the beginning of his twelfth year of life. The age when the Time of Transformation was undergone, for good or bad. If he came through, he would find his Life’s Purpose, but if he did not focus his mind and prepare himself correctly, he could go down the path of madness and death. He stopped his walking legs and gazed at the holes that led to the homes of the Tomah. He pondered their furry little forms, thought about them curled into a ball, asleep, yet ever alert. If he could only capture one as a pet, it would provide such good fortune for his life.

Verika was a holy one. She studied with the priests and knew their rituals. She had an immense knowledge, and her hand upon his Time of Transformation was comforting to him. He quieted his mind and found a soft place to lay in the grass. He leaned back and rested full on the grass, looking up at the stars. A streak ran a short distance across the sky. He wondered briefly what could lie out there, but as there was no way of reaching the stars in the blackness above, he decided not to focus on folly, but to relax his mind, enjoy the view, enjoy the grass, wondering what his Life’s Purpose would be, and trying hard to maintain the thoughts of his ancestry within the outer fringes of his mind.

The night passed slowly and quickly. It took forever, yet was over too soon. As the sun rose over the horizon, Tyrl stirred himself from his vacant concentration. He stood upon the grassy field and looked at the Tomah as they emerged from their holes to see the sun. He gazed at them, enjoying their frolicking play with each other, their greetings of kisses with each other, their soft brown fur and sharp black eyes. They glanced upon him serenely and continued about their day.

Tyrl set off in the direction of the grassy field in which he would begin his Time of Transformation. He felt ready, as much as he could, anyway. He walked slowly, with determination, feeling the grass and the earth beneath his feet. A hawk flew overhead several times as he walked from his Alone Time in the rolling plains to his transformation place in the grassy field designated by Verika. When he reached it, the sun was directly overhead.

Welcome, Verika said as he entered the field. She was waiting for him, as though she knew exactly what time he would be arriving. She stopped him from walking with just the slightest pressure of her hand upon his chest. He stopped and looked at her. She did not return his gaze, but waved her hand over him from head to toe in slow circles, her eyes concentrating upon the spot being encircled. She was meticulous, and the sun continued its path across the sky. He was aware of the Tomah looking on him from the grass around him. Verika spoke not a single word as she performed the ritual. He began to be lulled by the warmth of the day and the soft sounds of nature.

Come to the fire, she said suddenly, causing him to jerk slightly. They walked together to a small fire pit in which a dying fire struggled not to go out completely, yet smoke rose upward from it. Breathe the smoke, she instructed him, but do not eat anything. You must fast before the transformation else danger lurks for you.

Tyrl leaned forward and breathed in the smell of the burning wood. Verika walked a short distance away from him and watched him until night had fallen upon the field. Along with the night, clouds had crept in, keeping the stars from shining and bringing with them the heavy, unmistakable smell of rain.

She returned to him and said, The moon is blocked tonight. I do not know what this bodes, but keep your mind focused on your transformation. Tyrl nodded to her, knowing that he was not allowed to speak until he returned from his Time of Transformation.

Verika gazed keenly at him for a moment, and then said simply, Now you must go.

As the rain began to splatter on him and the grassy field, Tyrl turned and ran off, away from Verika, away from the field, and toward his Time of Transformation.

The Time Of Transformation

T he rains fell heavily throughout the night, illuminated sporadically by flashes of lightning, the rippling noise of the falling drops accentuated by the rolling thunder. Tyrl found semi-shelter below some bushes and huddled in for the long, wet night. As the dawn approached, the rain slowly changed from a heavy downpour to a steady fall, to a gentle mist that then progressed slowly into a thick, grey fog.

The fog was mirrored in his mind. A greyness blackened out certain thoughts and memories. As the sun arose and began