Through the Dark Wood

by Geno Allen

  ©2012 Geno Allen. All Rights reserved

  FOR

  My Father Gene Allen (1941 – 2003)

  Who believed I could do anything I set my mind to.

  You still inspire me, Pop.

  &

  My Mother Colleen Allen (1943 – 2012) Who saw the author in me.

  Thanks for the gift of Story, Mom-Lady.

  &

  My Daughter Shekinah Elena Hope Allen Who inspires me to be the best of men.

  You are a gift to your mom and me, Babygirl.

  &

  All the young people I’ve been privileged to call loved ones.

  I hope you know who you are.

  And I hope Zam’s story inspires you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  For

  Foreword

  One Last Note

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Strange Visitors

  Chapter Two: The River's Edge

  Chapter Three: The Dark of Darlandis

  Chapter Four: The Beginning of Strength

  Chapter Five: The Next Step

  Chapter Six: Into the Dark Wood

  Chapter Seven: Help Along the Road

  Chapter Eight: A Cloak Fit for a King

  Chapter Nine: The Lost Hills

  Chapter Ten: Seven Mirrors

  Chapter Eleven: The Great Bridge

  Chapter Twelve: Shackled

  Chapter Thirteen: A Meeting of Minds

  Chapter Fourteen: Raine

  Chapter Fifteen: Once More North

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Appendix A

  Appendix B

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  This novel has been a long time coming. Before I actually began writing it, I always wondered how other authors could possibly say, “There are so many people who’ve helped me in this endeavor….” I mean… it’s a book. You’re the author. You write it. Right?

  Well… I would have never guessed, but there are actually too many people to thank individually, but if you helped me in any way, please know your assistance in the fulfillment of this dream will always be appreciated.

  There are a handful of people I must thank individually—in no particular order (except one. You know, save the best for last): Harvey Stanbrough: your editorial advice was like writing boot camp. There were days I wanted to punch you and days I wanted to hug you…. In the end the hugs won out. Thank you. I’ve grown because of you.

  Ruth Valcarcel: you gave me confidence in an era when I had little. Although I doubt you ever thought I’d end up a writer, you were a gift from God to me. You’ll forever hold the favorite teacher award in my book. Literally! Thank you.

  Reece and Alicia Couette: your support was an absolute Godsend. I’m forever grateful for you both.

  Wenatchee Crew: you guys made me feel like an author before the world ever had a chance to tell me if I was or not. Thanks.

  Doug Rutherford: your friendship as I’ve walked this writing road has meant the world to me. Thanks for the help with the poems, thank you for your prayers, and thank you for “kicking my butte”. (By the by… you’re a better writer than me. I’m just waiting to see you get something into print so I can toot your horn.) Zachery Kraft: what can I say? Your art has captivated me and inspired me along this quest. Thank you, Friend, for catching the vision and taking this journey with me, and for putting up with my critique. I don’t feel worthy. The book would not be right without your input and artist’s touch. It’s an honor to work with you.

  Jenn and Ian Knauss: I can’t say enough. Thank you both… and thanks, Jenn, for letting Ian take the time he did for me. You two are family forever.

  Jake Garey & Nicholas Beaty: As the first young readers of this story, your input helped inspire me to a better book when all was said and done. Thanks, Gentlemen, for making me feel like an author early on.

  Tracy Lea Allen (My Beloved Wife): You are amazing! I never understood why authors said things like, “…and to my wife for putting up with….” Well, now I understand. Thank you for putting up with my rollercoaster moods and the struggles I had with timing and self confidence. You truly are the perfect wife, and now that I’ve said it here, it’s on the record for the world to see. Your love and respect move me to strength. Thank you… for everything you do, for believing in me, for inspiring me, for being a wonderful mother to our daughter, and most of all… for being my best friend and loving wife. I love you.

  ONE LAST NOTE BEFORE STARTING THE TALE

  Before you continue I'd like to ask you to do two things. One I hope will enhance your experience of the book, and the other may help ensure that more books in this series follow in a timely manner.

  First, when you read the prologue, imagine a wizened, but strong, old Brittish guy. Not a Gandalf the gray. Not a Dumbledore. No great big flowing beard or pointy hat. Just a very old, very kind, decidedly strong, man with a warrior-poet's heart and the clothing to match. That will set the right tone.

  Second, when you're done with the book, let me know what you think of it... actually let me and the world know. Feel free to contact me via my blog GenoWrites.Blogspot.com and if you'd be so kind, review this story on Amazon.

  That helps an indie author a lot.

  That's all. Now set the wizened old Brittish voice in your head. And, as you move on to the prologue, I sincerely hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Geno

  PROLOGUE

  How do you begin a story about a boy like Zam? A man like Zam? Frankly once you’re my age all men seem as boys no matter their age. How old am I? Well... I dwell with the ancient ones, among whom few have gray hair, and I do. I am Graffeon, and I have written much of recorded history at the will of Elyon. That is how you’ve found this book in your hand now. Whether the ink has been dry for eons or you can still smell its pungent aroma, it is my truest hope that Zam’s tale will not simply entertain you, but aid you in understanding your own story.

  His story begins, I suppose, as most men’s do… at his birth. It was a dark time in the land of Cairemia. His first winter was a bitter one and his entire family died. He would have died as well, but Zam’s destiny lay along another path.

  Elyon sent the messenger Angeon to deliver Zam to a childless farmer—who should have raised him as a son. But, a few short years later the farmer’s own son was born and Zam became more or less a servant. He was moved from the family home to a shack bordering the fields where the sheep grazed, and there he served the family faithfully, never begrudging his place in the world. And… when Zam’s eighteenth year was approaching, the next chapter of Elyon’s plan began to take shape.

  It was spring….

  CHAPTER ONE: STRANGE VISITORS

  It was spring. The late afternoon sun played over the hills like water dancing, touching down here and there, leaving wide, shadowy gaps painted by the clouds, which retreated, then returned again, only to be broken by golden light raining down upon the grasses. The wind blew from the north, rustling the cloak of the young shepherd watching his master’s flock. The darkest shadow fell for only a moment before sunlight burst through, scattering the darkness, but the young shepherd felt something.

  He scanned the flock for any sign of trouble. There rarely was when he felt this way, but this time… something was different. A lamb was missing. Running to the edge of the hill, he found strange tracks circled around a small group of sheep. He frantically searched for signs of the missing lamb.

  He heard bleating in the distance. His heart pounded. His master would be angry if he lost a lamb to some wild creature.

  The clouds grew dar
ker and the light ceased to dance as the shepherd ran toward the sound. The farther he ran the more light was driven from his presence, until day was as night, and only one thin shaft of light fell… on the lamb. Wind ripped through the meadow. Trees creaked and bent. The shutters of the shepherd's distant dwelling clapped, and a broken branch from a nearby tree hurtled, too closely, past him. Yet all around the lamb the wind was calm. Within that shaft of light nothing moved.

  Low growls began to rise with the wind until a cacophony of creatures just out of sight deafened the shepherd. Paralyzed by fear, he stood in the dark, his gaze fixed on the lamb at the center of the hellish gale.

  A flitting shape beyond the light caught the shepherd's eye. A butterfly danced, unhindered by the nightmare, circling the lamb. The animal took no notice. The insect faded, replaced by a firefly, which continued the dance. The lamb cocked its head and followed its glow as it drifted into the dark.

  Shuffling in place, the lamb watched the flickering light as it passed again and again, drifting farther into the dark each time. Enamored of the firefly’s glow, it stepped partway out of the light and the shepherd screamed for the animal to stay, but no sound escaped his mouth.

  The naive creature stepped fully into the dark and the shaft of light faded. The firefly’s glow—now a malignant green—grew brighter, reflecting in the eyes of a hundred unearthly beasts, each drooling for this morsel that had wandered from safety.

  The shepherd’s breath caught in his chest and all light vanished. Standing there amidst the storm, deep in the abysmal darkness, he heard the violence that befell the lamb—horrid rending, frantic bleating, and then—

  In this, his moment of terror, standing helpless in the depths of the dark, a thin shaft of light fell, slowly expanding, growing, shrouding him with light. The wind stopped whipping. The growls fell silent. His fears began to ebb. He took a deep breath. Outside the light was a deep and evil darkness and the shepherd knew it. His heart sank, yet the light brought some comfort.

  Just then, a butterfly flitted by outside the light, and terror gripped the shepherd. He looked away. None of this can be real.

  He looked back, and there before him was the firefly. He shuddered, nearly stumbling out of the light. The insect's glow was captivating, tempting him to follow. A chill tore through him as he felt himself wanting to move, being drawn unwillingly toward its evil intent.

  The shepherd was uneasy in the cramped confines of the light. Against his will he began to move. He shut his eyes tight, vowing to himself he would not do as the lamb had done. Fear raged inside him and the world became liquid around him. Dread and the echoes of the lamb's demise drowned him in a catastrophic noise.

  Then, amid the symphony of chaos, a voice whispered, drowning all other sound. It whispered his name.

  “Zam.”

  The shepherd opened his eyes and found himself standing on the low hill by his dwelling. The sun lit the meadow and all was well with his flock. He stood there a moment, shaken by the vision, slowly realizing that’s what it must have been.

  A stranger appeared from just over the hill, walking toward him, wearing a smile of friendship. He was quite old, but also decidedly strong—more than six feet tall and clad as a warrior, though something in his countenance was more fit to a poet. Zam couldn't place it, but he felt somehow he knew the man.

  The stranger's voice rang out clear and strong, tinged with the wizened depth of his years. “I thought I would be too late, possibly come in on a fight, when I heard all the growling, but as I should have expected, Elyon had other plans.”

  Zam was bewildered, unsure whether his mind was still playing tricks or whether this man truly approached.

  The man repeated, “I said I thought I’d be too late….”

  Zam had yet to come to himself, so the man moved on.

  “Never mind that. Are you all right, Lad?”

  Reconciling the reality of the moment, Zam asked hesitantly, “Did you say… growling?”

  A different sort of smile crossed the stranger’s face, the sort that follows one who is not letting on all they know. “Did I? Hmm. Odd.” And with that he changed the subject. “Are you Zam Windwater?”

  Frustration and curiosity mingled in Zam’s reply. “I am. Who wants to know?” but a sudden recollection of his position in life brought a quick revision. “I apologize. I mean to say, yes, I am Zam Windwater. And I am at the service of Master…?”

  The pleasant old stranger smiled again. “Messenger.”

  Zam’s brow furrowed at the off kilter name. “Master Messenger?”

  “No, no.” The stranger laughed. “Messenger Graffeon. I don’t use the title Master. It doesn’t suit my position. I would run the risk of getting puffed up and looking down on people, when I’m already taller than most. No. I need look no farther down on any person than the distance from my eyes to their heart... eh... head. Yes.”

  “Ah….” Zam’s bewilderment seemed only to grow as Graffeon talked to him. Although he felt more at ease as the moments passed, something about the stranger engendered a sense of... of something. He was a character, smiling pleasantly at the young shepherd.

  At last Zam returned to his usual polite and welcoming self. “Well, Messenger Graffeon, the sun is nearly down and there are no other dwellings but mine and my master’s for many miles upon the road. If my master’s is not your destination, you are welcome to stay the night. It's a humble servant’s shack, but I do keep it clean.”

  Graffeon bowed slightly. “Your master’s dwelling is not my destination, and I gladly accept.” A sheep bleated in the distance.

  Zam turned to the flock, “It has been an odd day indeed.” He looked back to Graffeon. “I need to gather the sheep and pen them in for the night. If you’ve traveled far, you may want to begin your rest. I won’t be long.”

  Again the messenger bowed then turned and walked toward Zam’s home to await the kind young shepherd. Zam Windwater was about to receive quite a message.

  When Zam entered his dwelling, Graffeon already had a fire going to heat the humble living space. Its glow lit the room. Two small chairs, a table, and low reclining cushions—obviously where Zam slept—were all that filled the room. The messenger was already seated at the table.

  As Zam looked about, it seemed to him more restful and pleasant than it had in many years. Curiosity arose regarding his new acquaintance as he began heating some food for them to share. “It isn’t much. I didn’t know I’d have a guest.”

  Graffeon smiled. “Anything will be fine. Were I not staying here this evening I would not eat at all.”

  Zam thought that odd, but continued his preparations. Tentatively, he said, “Messenger Graffeon, a man in your profession must have traveled much in life.”

  “Oh yes. I have traveled… perhaps even more than you would imagine. And you may simply call me Graffeon if it pleases you.”

  Zam nodded. “Graffeon.” He was still somewhat unsure regarding the strange old messenger.

  Graffeon smiled at his awkwardness. “As I say, I’ve been many places and weathered more than one individual’s share of nights in the middle of nowhere.”

  Zam listened while he cooked, and Graffeon spoke of faraway lands. Places such as Cree, Kireoth, Turthan—none of which Zam had ever heard of—and of other places Zam would not even try to pronounce. He spoke of kings and queens he had met, noblemen and warlords, and a great battle he had once been forced to fight his way through to deliver a message. He also spoke of mysterious creatures he’d encountered during his travels. Zam had never heard of anything like them, nor of the wars and few of the places, but he was impressed nonetheless.

  Setting the food on the table, he sat in the rough-made chair opposite the stranger. They continued to talk as they ate, and Zam was amazed. “You seem quite the warrior and a worthy messenger… aside from being a most excellent storyteller.”

  Graffeon bowed his head humbly. “My thanks.”

  As they finished the meal, Zam a
sked. “Are you traveling far this time? That is... to deliver your message?”

  “Well, I was in Tarnanis when I received this charge, and I am very near to completing it.” There was that not-letting-on-all-he-knows smile again.

  Zam was intrigued. “Tarnanis? I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it. Though I’m certain I have not heard of a great many places that exist.” Zam smiled, just a bit sheepishly.

  “But you do wish to hear of them.” Graffeon’s tone had changed.

  Zam looked up. The words had gripped his heart.

  Seeing the look in Zam’s eyes, Graffeon continued, “Places like Tarnanis, Gershas, Artolis—and you wish to experience them I’d wager. It’s in your countenance, Zam. You wish to travel.”

  Zam couldn’t contain his exuberance. “I would love to travel!” he caught himself, a bit embarrassed. “Ah… yes, I would. The farthest I have ever been from my master’s land was to Sandrey. And though that trip is a treasured memory, Sandrey is only a small village, not far to the east, where my master’s brother lives. It was many years ago, when I was a child. I was actually befriended there by a traveler and a girl my age—Terrice—but they passed to the east, and I returned home never to travel again. I know there is much to see and learn and experience beyond this land, beyond tending sheep….”

  “Adventure.”

  “I do love tending them….” Zam sighed, his mind catching up to Graffeon's statement. “Yes. Adventure. But keeping the sheep safe does make me feel as though…” An emotion he had never voiced before rose to the surface, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. “As though I... am worth something....”

  Graffeon’s smile changed once more, this time to one of understanding and sympathy, as he pulled a tattered book from his belt and laid it on the table, its leather binding worn from many years of use. “Worth, young Master Windwater, is truly an intriguing thing. Take this book for example. It is obviously old. It has seen much use and more weather than a sea captain. Of all my belongings it would acquire me the least money if sold. It is the least likely thing anyone would ever desire to take from me.” He rested his hand on it and said with deep reverence, “Yet, it is my most treasured possession.”