Legend of the Dewberry Harvester

By Jan Ezelle

Legend of the Dewberry Harvester

What's more devastating for a little lad--who has just made a new discovery via Majesty Begetarian he can proudly introduce to his town, Dewberry, especially the idea that would rid his fear of having to face the Tick Trefoil beast ever again--only to find when he arrives home that evening, his family has locked him out?

Feeling no longer wanted, nine-year-old Brewnie is left no choice but to face the world alone beneath the feet of humanity. While in hiding, among treacherous plants and hungry predators, he learns of a scheme being plotted, one that could possibly destroy all the villages in the world--including Dewberry. His desperation to escape the danger of the woods leads him into the hands of a pirate queen who wants him sacrificed. In fear of losing his life, Brewnie desperately offers to reveal his secret which in turn lands him a merciful reward. It seems as if Brewnie has finally accepted this new life for himself until he receives startling news that leaves him no choice but to face his greatest fear--the beast of Tick Trefoil. The virtues of love, loyalty--and forgiveness--are tested as he realizes saving his own family means saving his whole world.

Legend of the Dewberry Harvester is a one-of-a-kind children's story that opens many chapters with narration via factual information from various resources. The fascinating educational slant is intertwined into the narrative, while the characters, although common insects, are each presented with a fresh and unique twist, as each one is full of life with signature traits that not only aid in the flow of the story but even charm adult readers as well.

<> Jan Ezelle, native of Mississippi, is a graduate of the Institute of Children's Literature: Writing for Children and Teenagers. She is also an artist, homemaker, and "Gran-Jan." She hopes to see her writing serve as an inspiration for both children and adults alike, especially those who feel they suffer some sort of disability. "No one should let obstacles--or fear--stand in the way of achieving their dreams," states Mrs. Ezelle, who is facing obstacles herself. "Rather than focus on what I couldn't do, I had to focus on what I could do."

"I would love to see this book in school libraries."--Lesley Jones, Readers' Favorite, 5-Stars

"Legend of the Dewberry Harvester has all the spice of life."--Chad McMahan, Mississippi State Senator, MS

"I could easily see this story being adapted into an animated movie or TV series. I was not sure if this should be meant for adults or for children as the book has elements that appeal to both."--George Shuman, Novelist, Newspaper Columnist, Educator, VT

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781098057756

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tick Trefoil

If you were to ask a biologist which of all the so-called animals, he considered to be closest to man in habits, he would probably say the ants.

Of all the world’s insects, the ants are probably the most remarkable when we consider their amazing habits and the ways in which these resemble our own.

…these beetle pets seem to be regarded by the ants.

—The Ant Realm, Ross E. Hutchins

Can’t do it—oh please! Brewnie said. Tears crept, and his little mouth quivered in a sense of impending doom. Please don’t make me go out there. Why can’t I stay inside like the others here?

The queen, who sat beneath her rubble-built throne, momentarily blinked her slanted, lilac-powdered blue eyes in concern for her tiny son. Then her full, bronze lips formed into a that’s-my-Brewnie smile.

Brewnie remembered she had eyed him that way earlier, when he had crept out of bed.

Oh, dear one, his mother said. You are the cutest—it must be that copper shade in your exoskeletal hood around your face. It certainly brings out more of the honey in your complexion—I just love those darling little freckles!

Stupid freckles, Brewnie thought, wiping his tears. His favorite stone, the beautiful purple—the amethyst—on his mother’s crown seemed to twinkle brighter each time she tilted her head.

Dear son, she said, smoothing out a snag from her plum-colored, velvet cloak that clung to her lap, according to our beliefs, you’re old enough to work for our kingdom now. She smiled. I should say, even your vocabulary appears somewhat more advanced than most nine-year-olds. Honey, the others are your siblings who are in the nursery and are not ready to work. When they reach your age, they too, will have chores.

Brewnie’s antennae flared at the sudden delicious-smelling honeysuckle blossom being transported down the hall by a few of the workers. His stomach began to growl in hunger as he lifted a finger. See, Mom? he said. There are some here that get to work inside—and they’re way older than me!

The queen rose from her cushioned Ox-eye daisy, its stiff, white petals hovering over her like a canopy. Brewnie, some of the older ones are children who were captured and brought here from evil kingdoms, she said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Adopted by our kingdom, those workers are ordered to stay in and take care of my babies who are not yet old enough to work. You’re not a child taken from another colony, son. You’re one of mine. Now, act like it.

"But, Mom, don’t you remember—Widow? It was almost difficult for Brewnie to let out that name. The memory of Widow made him tremble all over. The aqua in his eyes grew large, and the tears began again. Mom, just look at what the beast did to me, he said, his elbows and knees lifted toward her, showing the scrapes and scratches that had scabbed over. Don’t you even care what happens to me?"

Honey, you know I do, his mother said, taking his little hands into hers. The aromatic spices of the throne’s burnt oak, sweetgum, and Carolina jessamine coming off her robe steeped into Brewnie’s nostrils as she peered warmly into his eyes. You must stay away from Tick Trefoil, she said. Always stay with your group. Together, you can conquer obstacles that come your way.

Her expression softened. "Brewnie, I realize you’re different from the others. I knew it when you came into the world. Honey, you must get over your fears and do your duty now. I expect you to fulfill your role as a Harvester, a leader that I hope you will become for our village one day. Son, it’s how things are done here in the south. Now spring is near, and we need food stored. Much of it needs to be prepared in the bins below for winter. So you will help bring in the harvest, dear one. Now remember, you must be back at Dewberry before dark or—"

Pardon me, Your Majesty! said a leader, who barged in. I have terrible news. The Witches of Grubswik have struck again—a few of our soldiers have been attacked!

No! Oh, please, no—not again! the queen said, fingers to her forehead. Perhaps she had squeezed too hard. Was that a tear in her eye? How many have we lost this time, Elber?

Not sure exactly, the harvester’s raspy voice replied. "But I’d say… let’s see… a… whole lot."

Never mind, Elber, a hint of impatience in the queen’s voice. I’ll go see myself. Wait here, Brewnie. We’ll be right back.

Git on outa here, Rover, Brewnie said to his rove-beetle dog as he hurried up his mother’s Ox-eye. I can’t play now. He leaned back. Oh, I wish I wasn’t such a fraidy gnat! How I wish I was brave!

Brewnie’s mind drifted back to his first day out. Not even the cheery repetitive tirra-lirra that sounded from the sparrow atop the soil had distracted him from what he remembered. He had not forgotten the look on the workers’ faces when he had returned to the kingdom without any seeds. Chills ran up his spine as he thought about that day.

The harvester’s white rubber boots had touched the sandy Tick Trefoil for the first time. Brewnie knew the forest, located not far from Dewberry, had gotten its name because of the giant, white pointed-leaf Tick Trefoil flowers. And somewhere beyond the shaded patch, an eerie twinkle caught the harvester’s eye. Whatever it was, its bright red color glistened brightly from behind a dead branch on the ground.

Wow, Brewnie said to himself. "It’s magic."

The ant had not seen the durable, woven fibers that were strung about. He eased forward, just to get a closer look.

Poof!

Hey, where did it go? Brewnie said, eyeing the area around him. "See, I knew it was magic! Wha—hey, let go of me!"

Warm breath brushed the back of the harvester’s neck when a voice said, Nosy little thing, aren’t you? And wicked laughter erupted.

Brewnie fought to free himself. Before he could utter a sound, he found he had been shoved to the ground. He rolled on to his back. A creature with a shapely body stood upright over him. The train of her black gown draped over his feet. Two hands rested on her curvy hips, while her other four arms behind her, each in long slick black sleeves, waved wildly about. The ant realized then that the glow—the red hourglass-shaped mark—must have been what he had seen earlier. The ominous mark shimmered radiantly from the monster’s bosom to her abdomen, its glare so bright, it caused Brewnie to sling his hands to his eyes.

Mrs. Widow here! the spider announced, flinging off her long black cape from her shoulders. Then her dark-painted eyes blazed down at Brewnie in a look of delight. And I’m hungry! The creature then slipped a diamond off her long chalky forefinger and lifted it to her scarlet lips.

An awful crunch sounded.

Oh my! She bit right smack into that diamond! The ant gasped. His eyes widened in horror as he noticed a bit of red had surfaced. Doesn’t she even know that she bit herself too?

Ha! What have I done? Mrs. Widow said, her voice sounding as if she’d felt nothing as she observed the blood oozing down her finger. Then she eyed Brewnie, a wry grin coming over her. Ver-r-r-y pleased, she said. The sharper my fangs, my dear, the better to pierce you with!

Terror filled Brewnie. He quickly dug his heels into the ground and accelerated backward on his elbows as saliva—white, frothy saliva—seeped from the widow’s mouth. It dripped from her chin like that of a mad dog. The creature’s metal high heels split brushwood twigs in two as she drew nearer the ant. As her arms flounced about, Brewnie couldn’t help but recognize the many other rings that sparkled like tiny white stars on her long fingers. Beads of perspiration collected on his forehead—for the ant realized the diamonds symbolized the deaths of her former husbands!

The black widow plunged to her knees and sidled alongside Brewnie. Adrenaline coursed through the harvester’s veins, giving him the strength to flip over and hop on to his feet. Before he could utter a cry, the creature grabbed his ankle and yanked him back down.

On his back once again, Brewnie’s eyes widened at the sight of the spider’s prickly fangs that were almost upon him. He could hear his own heart flip-flopping in terror, as he fought harder to push her away. He finally let out a strangled cry. Oh my, what are you going to do?

I’m about to venomize you, the black widow answered, easing alongside him, some of her arms trying to pin him down.

No! Please stop! cried Brewnie, who continued to wrestle. Ma’am, I thought you go after your own kind—your husbands!

The widow suddenly bolted upright, a puzzled look coming over her. "Wha—who says? Honey, I hunger for anything that will keep me beautiful, she said, her lengthy, monstrous black fingernails to her chalk-like face. Why, any bloody nutrient will do. As if you didn’t know, I must maintain my beauty—yes, just so others like you will creep my way!"

And the spider threw her head back and let out her fanatical I-am-powerful-and-no-one-can-ever-defeat-me laugh.

Brewnie leapt to his feet. His legs took him at a speed he never knew he had.

Wha—hey, I’m not finished with you, Mrs. Widow called after him. I have plans for you, my dear. Ha-ahhh! I’ll have you strung up at Buclatubba! Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a! Just you wait and see!

Yes, Widow’s devilish laughter had rung out with a shrill that pervaded the entire Tick Trefoil forest that morning, a sound the harvester knew he would never forget for as long as he lived.

Hands crept up from behind, and Brewnie gasped.

Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to startle you, his mother said, patting him lovingly. Now, your group is waiting. Be a brave lad for me and do your work. Stay with Elber. Listen to our dear veteran who will teach you everything you need to know.

Chapter 2

The Learning Expedition

While King Solomon in the Bible stated that ants have no leaders or overseers to supervise their work, there do appear to be certain individuals in a colony who are always the first to begin work on a project. These have been called work starters and perhaps are old, experienced veterans. Here we have individuals who may, in a sense, be regarded as leaders.

Unlike most other insects, ants seem to have considerable ability to learn.

…when these ants go on hunting expeditions their rove beetle pets go along.

—The Ant Realm, Ross E. Hutchins

Left… right… left, Elber drawled to his two hundred followers, their strapped white boots close-drilling a nice beat across the North Carolina dust.

Brewnie tittered at Rover, his rove-beetle dog that sniffed and snorted hurriedly about the trails.

We don’t need beeswax! the leader sang, his voice becoming raspier at each note. I say seeds will clear our thorax!

The followers chuckled. We prefer delicious centipedes to fill our digestive tracts! they sang back.

Yuk, guys! Brewnie said, his antennae flattened in disgust. "We’re not flesh-eaters—we’re the harvesters. Aren’t we? He then hurried over to Elber. What’s a thorax?"

The lanky work-starter about-faced and took a standstill, his dull gray eyes now upon the youngest worker. Did I hear you rightly? Why, it’s that red shell you have there—your midsection, Brewnie! Elber said in exasperation. "We ants have three body parts: the head, thorax, and abdomen. It’s good we keep ourselves in good shape, just so we’ll have the strength to tackle anything—I mean, anything. Now, any more questions before we line back up?"

Brewnie shook his head, antennae flopping to and fro.

Elber adjusted his floppy hat, pushed his mini specs up his nose, cleared his throat, and then proceeded with his drill once again. The harvester crew humorously goose-stepped around this time, all the while Brewnie gazed up at pithy broom sedges that hovered over them. His eyes widened at their giant, hefty leaves which rustled like flags slapping the wind. As the flaxen stalks supported a row of broom straw leaves, other blades of barnyard grass dangled underneath. The April sunbeam warmed the high crab grasses, where a few leaf blades had split from their trunks and