A Green Altar

By Sophia Grace Sansone

A Green Altar is a literary fantasy novel aimed at both children and adults alike, that follows the adventures of young Oliver Green and his friend Tirin as they seek to end the war that plagues their world. A Green Altar focuses on themes regarding the value of childhood, the tragedy of growing up, and learning to face a world in which we find

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sophia Grace Sansone
• Release date: Mar 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088025093

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cover-image, Book copy

In sorrow for all the things we’ve lost, yet love for all that we’ve gained.

Copyright © 2022 Sophia Sansone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

To request permissions, contact the author at [e-mail]

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Cover art and illustrations by Sophia Sansone

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Contents

The Man in the Hole

The Road to a Friend’s Home

Eastward Bound

The Deep Dark Woods

The Man With The Map

A Long Way There, Further Back

The Crystal Axe

Where The Road Ends

The Land of The Dead

The Mountain Tall

The Might of Men

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The Man in the Hole

Oliver was far south from the Moren Front. This he knew. He was no longer in the wide open plain of mud and blood and screams and fallen soldiers and slain horses. This was a thick copse. Trees stretched upward as far as he could see. Birds flitted about above in the canopy. A thin layer of white snow covered the ground where branches of trees made way for it. Sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves above, leaving little golden flecks of lights to dance upon the loamy earth below. It was a peculiar place for Oliver to be, surrounded by the silence of the woods, when he, from the day he was born, had dwelled within in the walls of the cold, grey city of men, surrounded by war and death and incessant noise.

But the strangest thing to Oliver’s eyes was the house. Half buried in the dirt and carved into the side of a little shelf of earth, it looked almost similar to a very large fox hole-- if such burrows had doors and windows and were built from wood and brick. But the house, generally speaking, was very small. Not to say it was so small that a man couldn’t live in it, just small enough so that a man wouldn’t live in it. But at this point, Oliver cared little of the house’s size. He was too tired, too hungry, too dirty to pass by without inquiring of it. And so with this in mind, Oliver walked swiftly up to the oaken door— cradled between the soil of the ground and the row of slate shingles that hung rather closely above it, providing something of an overhang for rain and snow to keep itself off of the doorstep, with its colorfully woven doormat. And with a spur of hope, he set his hand upon the large brass door-knocker set in the mouth of the face of a large brass lion, and with a breath of decision, knocked. 

The reply was immediate: Who’s there? 

My name is Oliver

Oliver? Echoed the voice.

Oliver Green

I don’t know an Oliver Green! The voice replied. 

I promise I come in peace, Oliver pleaded, not knowing what else to say.

The door creaked open a bit and a small head peeked out for a fraction of a second before quickly retracting with something of a shout:

AH! A BOY! A HUMAN BOY! The voice screeched, followed by a series of tumbling and crashing— the kind that tends to accompany one falling backwards into a pile of clutter.

I am a man, insisted Oliver, My mum said so.

"You are not. You are still just a boy. And that is the only reason why I haven’t killed you already!" Replied the voice.

Killed me? Oliver said with a slight gasp, What have I done wrong?

Doesn’t matter! Now what do you want? Spit it out and be gone!

Directions… perhaps to a village? Oliver said with hesitation. He figured by now that he was not going to get much help from this strange man in a hole, who seemed quite certain that he was not a man at all.

A village? Heavens no!

Why not? Oliver cried.

Give you directions so you, the big strong man, can go plunder our small village and tear up our fields and slaughter our families? Not on my life!

Slaughter your families? Oliver replied with a bit of a laugh, You said it yourself. I’m just a boy.

Then what do you want? No human ever comes this far south without something they want!

No… no, I’ve been running.

Running? The man in the hole asked, Running from what? What does a child born of men have to run from?

Ourselves, I suppose— Others like us, who live in cities of stone and carry swords, Oliver replied thoughtfully.

Others like you? Human you mean?

The boy nodded.

Why are they chasing you? The voice replied with an edge of suspicion.

Oliver paused then after a moment of thought said slowly, Because I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing.

And what was that?

Fighting.

Fighting what?

Each other.

Nonsense. Fighting each other, the voice mused, Only a boy could have as vivid of an imagination as you.

No! I’m serious! Oliver insisted, almost pleading, They call it a war.

War? My father went to war.

So you understand then?

You use the word too lightly. War is not a squabble between men but something entirely worse. War is the death of entire nations, it is an orphaner of children, and a widower of wives.

Exactly!

Nations of men fighting nations of men? The man in the hole said with an air of confusion. 

Yes, and I’ve run away.

The man in the hole (who was decidedly not a man at all)  paused, thinking. The small door crept open slowly. There in the threshold of the door stood the owner of the voice, he was proportionally smaller than any man Oliver had ever seen, though squatter also. He had rounded features and observant beady eyes that peered through the pair of small spectacles that rested on his knobby nose. He wore a strange red cap that seemed to come to a point at the end, despite its general floppiness and lack of form. He wore a white blouse and a green vest over it, each piece adorned carefully with embroidery, though the threads were old and fraying. He had a thick white beard and the hair of his eyebrows and the little of his hair that could be seen from beneath the cap was the same platinum color. His features were aged, tired perhaps, but not old— not yet.

Why don’t you come in for a spell and tell me of your man wars, the man in the hole offered, his voice softening as he decided the young child was not much of a threat to him. 

Oliver eagerly nodded and entered through the small door. Being a rather small boy, Oliver fit comfortably in the little house, despite its gross lack of height. For the house’s owner, fully grown, was hardly three inches taller than young Oliver who, even for a young boy, had spindly proportions.

Would you care for some stew? The man offered.

Oliver nodded with zeal, for the only things he had eaten over the past seven days were a handful of wild blackberries, some wild mushrooms, and with much disgust, a few insects.

The man brought Oliver a piece of bread and dish which he filled from a silvery pot that cooked over an open fire. Potatoes, chestnuts, strips of meat, a large assortment of mushrooms, thick with cream, and piled with a variety of new and familiar vegetables.

The man watched Oliver as he ate, eyeing him curiously. 

Thank you, Oliver said genuinely, looking up at the small man once the hunger had abated.

It was a friend’s pleasure.

Oliver smiled, What is your name?

My name is Tyriinmothas Estaphas Geryuvick, though most call me Tirin.

I’m glad to have met you, Tirin.

And I, you. Visitors of your kind are a most unusual occurrence.

Of my kind?

Humans, I mean— Men.

Are you not a man? Oliver asked, confused by his statement.

Tirin gave a hearty laugh, No, no, I’m not a man.

What are you then?

I am a worf.

A worf? What a funny name, Oliver said with a bit of a laugh.

A man? What a funny name that is.

It is a noble name.

Perhaps.

Oliver took to finishing the last bits in his bowl and the crust of the bread. And Tirin took to studying the boy as he ate. And upon the hit of realization he exclaimed, You could not be past eight years old!

I’m nine and a half!

And you say you were in war?

Every man past eight years old must serve his country.

But you are just a boy! The worf exclaimed, What good can you do for your country by getting yourself slaughtered!

Oliver took a lick of offense, We can help clean wounds and carry supplies and when we are nine and a half we can fight too!

And so you fought?

I did. And then I ran.

Tirin looked at him, and tilted his head curiously, Why did you run?

Oliver looked down to his feet, It was awful. The war I mean. I think I did a terrible thing, leaving my mum and running off. She’s probably awfully worried.

We all do terrible things. Though I reckon she’ll be all right when you return home. We should get you going back there, yeah?

I don’t know if I can go back. If I do they’ll kill me for running off.

Who will kill you?

Oliver shrugged, I don’t know, that’s just what they tell us in school. Don’t run off during battle or they’ll do off with us.

Tirin frowned, Then what shall you do?

I don’t know.

A moment of silence passed.

Why do men do terrible things? Oliver asked, voice drawing near a whisper.

I do not know.

The two sat in silence for moments, awaiting an answer to come to their tongues.When no such enlightenment came, Oliver spoke up.

How can I stop the fighting? Oliver asked the worf.

How can you, a young boy born of man, stop a war? Said the worf with a bit of a chuckle.

Yes, that is what I asked, Oliver replied earnestly.

Seeing Oliver’s dead seriousness, the worf took to thought, I suppose it lies within the motive.

The motive?

Yes, tell me about this war.

It has been going on for ages. Years upon years upon years. Men, women, and children, all day, all night on the Moren front. Bones of a man, dead a hundred years make our pathways for the horses who carry the bones of living men soon to die. We prepare from the moment we are born to serve our country. Though I suppose I do not know what that means— to serve one’s country. What after all, is a country but a group of people? And of the people, are they not like every other man on the muddy fields of death? When we are slaughtering each other what separates us from them? We are no more noble than the others and the others are no more noble than us.

The worf listened intently, Go on.

Each side seeks something called ‘the Mother Tree’ ; they say it grows up onto the peak of Mount Meere but no one has really been up into the mountains as no man can get close to the base without being caught up in the battle, and I reckon those who did make it to the peak would be cut down on their way home before they had a chance to tell the tale.

Why would they fight for a tree?

It is said to give its captor unlimited power, that its bark is made of silver and its fruit of gold, and that it has leave that will make the herds grow bigger, and fatter than any grass or grain. That it drips a stream of water that can make a man unkillable, and that the man who possesses it will always have a banquet before him, and servants to tend him, he will have more of everything, surplus of everything.

Tirin considered this, I reckon then if every man is fighting over a simple tree, you could stop the war by simply chopping it down, no?

We shouldn’t chop it down! The tree is a gift to the world! If the fighting could stop, couldn’t we all share in its generosity?

Perhaps, but will the fighting ever stop if the tree continues to exist? Tirin inquired.

Perhaps not, but what if all of us could simply share the tree? Perhaps I could claim it and use its powers to bring peace onto the land! With a lord to finally keep the tree, there would be no argument over who was to get what! Oliver exclaimed, getting excited by the thought.

No you must never do that! The worf exclaimed, suddenly looking angered.

Why not? Oliver asked, confused by the rapid change in the worf’s demeanor.

When given unlimited power no man, not even a young boy like you, can stay noble for long. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Give a man power and greed will quickly take his heart. For power will destroy the heart of a man, then kill him and yet all along the way he will not fight it.

But what about a worf? A wise one like you? If men are so corruptible, couldn’t you take the tree and fix it all?

A worf will turn to a man and then to a monster when given absolute power— any creature will. Worfs, anctics, marites, heren, even the hicman, we are all the same.

The hicman? Oliver asked in disbelief, Why of all of those names —aside from worfs— that is the only I recognize! How could a people known for their great wisdom ever be corrupted?

By power, Oliver, power then greed then corruption.

Oliver considered this, You really think so?

I reckon if it wasn’t true and men did not have it so engrained in their nature to covet, this war wouldn’t have begun in the first place. If every living being who walked the planet was untouchable by corruption I reckon there wouldn’t be a single problem in our world, yet such is not the case, and not even the smallest mouse can’t escape from its greedy nature.

Oliver nodded, I suppose then all I have left to do is destroy the tree.

If you wish to stop the war, the worf said slowly, I reckon so. Though you are still just a child. If no man in all these years has never done so, why should you find success?

The boy shook his head, I don’t know. But what I do know is that I have to go. I cannot sit by and watch the world suffer all for the sake of that horrid war. If I am to take a risk, this is the one I choose to take with my life. If I am to fight, this is what I will be fighting.

The worf frowned, I suppose I cannot stop you from doing what you will.

Oliver stood up dutifully and approached the door, Then that is what I shall do. Thank you Tirin, thank you— for everything.

It was a friend’s pleasure, The worf said, with a touch of sadness, already fearing much for the boy and his admirable, though perhaps dangerous sureness.

Oliver stood at the door, his hand upon its handle, thinking. A moment of uncertainty passed and Oliver spun around with great fervor to face the worf, Oh Tirin! Please, please come with me!

Tirin smiled with a sigh, I was hoping you would ask as much. If I cannot stop you, at least I should come with you.

You’ll come?

Tirin nodded, My father and his father before him all left at some points in their lives to serve a noble cause, I’d say I owe it to the world to leave home for one as well, and I’d say cutting down that tree would be far nobler than hunting mushrooms and doing whatever else eats away at my time these days. And it seems I’ve been wanting something of an adventure and here it seems one has come to my door. I reckon I’d be defying the fates if I declined. I ought to allow myself some spontaneity. And again, how could I let you go alone, child? You don’t even know the road to town! Tirin replied with a laugh.

Oliver smiled exuberantly, Thank you, Tirin! Thank you, thank you!

Tirin smiled and leaned back in his chair, It’s a friend’s pleasure.

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The Road to a Friend’s Home