by Ivory Autumn
Andrew
And the Quest of Orion’s Belt
Rise of the Fallen
Book One
Ivory Autumn
Kindle Edition
Copyright
Andrew and the Quest of Orion’s belt (Rise of the Fallen) Kindle Edition
© 2011 by Ivory Autumn. All rights reserved.
Illustrations by Ivory Autumn © 2011
Text and front cover image © Ivory Autumn 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The places and characters in it are the product of the author’s imagination.
Visit the author online at:http://www.wix.com/ivoryautumn/thequestoforionsbelt
FIRST EDITION
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
The Dark Ages
Twisker Proverb
Chapter One
Lime Juice Springs
Chapter Two
Hands Out
Chapter Three
Nookpot
Chapter Four
The Trolim
Chapter Five
Krot’s Garden
Chapter Six
Hangman’s Tree
Chapter Seven
Lizicks
Chapter Eight
Orion
Chapter Nine
Lightlim’s Flame
Chapter Ten
The Man-Made Forest
Chapter Eleven
Timing
Chapter Twelve
Lost
Chapter Thirteen
Foggy Illusion
Chapter Fourteen
The Foglocker’s Path
Chapter Fifteen
Breaking Bonds
Chapter Sixteen
The Dandelion Den
Chapter Seventeen
Twisker Ambush
Chapter Eighteen
The Dangerous Aroma of Gifts
Chapter Nineteen
Night-light Pass
Chapter Twenty
A Bad Dream
Chapter Twenty-one
Barnacles
Chapter Twenty-two
Coral
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gone
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rain
Chapter Twenty-five
Farewell Feast
Chapter Twenty-six
Departure
Epilogue
The Dark Time
Coming Soon!
Andrew
And the Quest of Orion’s Belt
Book Two
The Canvas War
By Ivory Autumn
Dedication
To all the silent heroes who tried and failed time and time again. To those unsung and forgotten who believed in victory while defeated. To those determined, unrelenting, passionate, persistent conquerors who rose above the fog and mist of doubt, and saw the light. To all those who have ever reached for the stars, and while reaching, became affixed as a light for other sojourners to see by. You have proven that one person can make a difference, by lighting up a dark world. Win or fail, your efforts and courage have inspired nations. You are champions of the human spirit!
Keep shining, when all else is dark.
~~~~
The Dark Ages
The wind is howling. The world is darkening. Most of the kingdoms of earth are conquered. Hope is a thing of the past. I don’t know where, when, or if this story will ever see the light of day.
I am cold…too cold. The pencil trembles in my hand. I don’t know what else to do but record the things that I have seen, and are now happening in this darkening time. So, (melancholy sigh) here I am, writing in my little nook, knowing that my small words could never do this story justice. No words could. Nor would I expect them to. All I expect is for someone, someday, to find them, if there is someone left after all this has happened, and perhaps, read, and remember what has happened. Then I will not feel like my writing, and the heroes that gave their lives for the cause was in vain. So, I will proceed then, with great care, to write the true story of the earliest and darkest of ages, as it really happened, bringing to light the true reason for the darkest of all ages in history. I only hope that some day those who read my writings may find them of some use. That such a dark history may never repeat itself again---that is, if there is a future.
Yours Sincerely, Ivory
P.S. Me, I, The Great, and fantastic Gogindy must add a note, that I am also helping Ivory with this task---even though she doesn’t know it. She thinks I exaggerate. She tries to hide what she is doing so I don’t take her project over. But I am not one to be fooled. I have slipped in a few drawings, and proverbs without her knowing. Ha, ha. Without them, this book would be very scary, and nobody would like it. Every book needs pictures, and wise words, or it would be just like any other boring textbook that people thumb through and forget. Twisker’s don’t like textbooks and we also don’t like to be forgotten. I might not get out of this alive. So, though I don’t approve of Ivory’s writing, I do approve of being remembered. Thus, I too, am apart of this work, even though it doesn’t seem like it.
Just know, that if you find anything interesting, or amusing in this book, it’s probably something I added. As for Ivory’s part in this book, I must warn you once again, to read HER words with GREAT CAUTION! She is nice most of the time. But the other half of the time, she is heartless, and her writing may sting you. Or worse. Perhaps your eyes will fall right out of your head and fall into a crack. Or maybe you will get a paper cut that will cause your fingers to all fall off, one by one. Hey! I’m just warning you. I don’t want to be blamed for anything that could happen to you while reading this book. Twiskers are always being blamed for such things. Now that I have dumped all the responsibility on you, read at your own risk. The story written on these pages may give you nightmares. Or hiccups. Or sneezes and a sniffily runny nose, or a rash in which you may break out with little green dots all over your face. Take note, that my very artsy drawings, sophisticated poems, and wise proverbs will be the only thing that you will find of any interest here.
If you do choose to go against my advice and read this story, I advise you to hold on to something solid, preferably the hand of someone strong and brave, just so the storygrabbers don’t catch you and lock you away in this book. That would be most unpleasant. I know. I was trapped inside a storybook once. But it ended happy, so I came out all right in the end. As for this book, I can promise no such ending.
~~~~
Twisker Proverb
Written In The Second Reckoning Of The Dandelion Den.
Stars are the lampposts to heaven, and a map for the lost on earth. They were the first guardians. Givers of light. They kept no light for themselves. For that which is kept to oneself is soon gone.
All gave, except for one Star. The Fallen. It is him you must beware of. The Hoarder of light. For he is never satisfied.
~~~~
Chapter One
Lime Juice Springs
“If you eat bees as a steady diet, it makes your hearing better. Don’t you know, bees are an excellent source of wax? I think I can hear something already. A humming sound. Yes, humming. What did I tell you? Bees are made up of mostly wax and honey. The honey sweetens your personality, and the wax lubricates your ears---or so says the ancient sage---brush.”
Andrew glared at the talking weed. As if he needed his hearing improved so he could hear more needless nonsense. The weed continued mumbling unimportant words that really didn’t need t
o be said. “Please, man child, make the world a better place by ridding the world of at least one bee. And while you’re at it, you could also pull out some of these nasty flowers that have been blocking my view.”
“Shut up!” Andrew cried, throwing a rock at the gabby weed, causing the weed to let out a nasty scream. After a small pause, the spindly weed kept jabbering as before. It had its weedy fingers wrapped around an old boot, pinning it to the ground like it was afraid the boot would some day pick itself up and walk away. “Com’on, eat a bee. Just grab one and swallow it. What could it hurt?” Its small, weedy voice was annoying and intrusive---not something an artist enjoyed listening to while trying to paint.
“PLEASSSEEE!” the weed pleaded. “Bees are so buggy. I’m tired of them floating around my face all day! Eat one!” Andrew smirked, turned away from the pleading weed, and stared at the canvas, analyzing the depths of its blankness. The canvas was a dull-yellow white, like a pale, sickly child in the full light of sun.
The canvas seemed to cry out to him, begging him for just a small hint of color. Andrew dabbed his soft paintbrush into a deep green hue and brushed it across the canvas.
The canvas was not appeased.
“More!” it seemed to cry, like a child in need of the basic necessities.
Andrew pursed his lips, diverted his gaze away from the blank canvas, and stared at the vast plains of hollyhocks that grew in never-ending fields in Hollyhock Hollow.
Andrew furrowed his brow and concentrated hard on appeasing the pleading canvas. The more color he gave it, the more it demanded. The more detail provided, the more it wanted. The more precise his hand, the more it urged him to perfection. Gradually, the pale sickly canvas blushed with excitement, as a health, depth, and color came to it.
First, Andrew painted the background a blackish green. Next, he painted the stems, leaves and flowers of the hollyhocks, then a bird with an orange and yellow belly perched on one of the hollyhock’s stems.
He stopped painting, stepped back from the canvas and inspected his work with a critical eye.
“More!” the canvas commanded. “More!”
Andrew sighed tiredly and went back to work, working until the painting glowed with feeling and color. He stopped again, dusted off a ladybug that had landed in his hair, frowned and shook his head. The canvas was still wanting. He stroked the paintbrush across the canvas until its demanding voice was entirely hushed, and totally silent. He let out a satisfied sigh, glad that the canvas had at last stopped its demanding cries.
He was finished.
A loud roar of approval startled him. He turned around in surprise, feeling embarrassed, as his neighbor, Mr. Frandle, clapped heartily, admiring his painting. Mrs. Smithers, a very smallish sort of woman standing behind Mr. Frandle, did not look so pleased. She frowned and gazed at his artwork like it was an open wound dripping with gangrene.
“Good work!” Mr. Frandle said, patting Andrew on the back, almost knocking him over. “You are an asset to the community.”
“An asset?” Mrs. Smithers repeated. She was a funny-looking woman, with big eyes and a small nose. She had a perpetual look of surprise on her face because her eyebrows had forgotten where to grow and had sprouted under her nose and on her chin, giving her a thin layer of fuzz all over her lower face. She was a small woman, only three feet tall, but her tall tales made up for her shortness. “I'd hardly go so far as to say something like that. He's an unearthly, strange lad. One that ought to be locked up, that's what!”
“Just listen to yourself,” Mr. Frandle retorted. “You act as if he just broke into your house.”
She glared at Andrew like he was a toady with a wart. “Who knows, he probably has. Besides, he’s a liar. The boy’s no good.”
“Of course the boy is good. Why are you being so cantankerous? He hasn’t done anything to you.”
Mrs. Smithers huffed, and pointed a bent finger at Andrew. “Hasn’t done anything to me? I can’t believe you’re defending him. He’s done plenty, and you know it. He’s downright dangerous.”
“Oh, yes, painting is very dangerous.”
Mrs. Smithers pinched her lips into a tight line and yanked the painting from Andrew, smearing the wet paint and obliterating the beautiful picture. Utterly disgusted, she tossed the canvas aside and wiped her paint-covered hands on her apron. “Mr. Frandle, don’t look at me like that, and don’t turn your deaf ear to me. I’ve seen the things that boy can do, the things he can grow. There’s a reason why his farm is the richest and most prosperous in our community. I’ve lived here all my life and have seen nothing like it in all of the history of the Hollow. I’m sure evil will come of his dealings with the plants. Just you wait. It won’t be long until something very bad happens because of this boy.”
Mr. Frandle raised his voice louder than he was used to speaking, specially when talking to a woman. “Mrs. Smithers, now why’d ya go and ruin his painting? If you weren’t a woman, I’d slap you. Just leave the boy alone!”
“Perhaps it is he that should leave. The town council won’t ignore this boy’s strange behavior much longer. The boy doesn’t even look like us. For dear sakes, look at his pointy ears. He could be a wizard for all we know.”
“He’s just a boy.”
“All the more reason to get rid of him while he’s still young.”
“You’re getting all stirred up over nothing.”
“Do you call it nothing when I see Andrew and his father planting grain one day, and harvesting it the next? Do you call it nothing when you see him plant my neighbors weed-choked flowerbed that has never grown anything, and then before my very eyes flowers blossom? Do you call it nothing when the grass grows greener wherever he stands? Just watch the grass and toadstools form round him as he walks.”
Mr. Frandle let out a loud laugh. “Sounds like you’re jealous. Perhaps you should water your grass more, then maybe it wouldn’t look so brown.”
“Jealous? No. The boy has made my farm un-farmable, all because he dislikes me---because I expelled him from school.”
Mr. Frandle shook his head and frowned. “I’m sure he has more valid reasons for disliking you. I heard you beat him something fierce.”
“Oh, the boy got off easy. What he did was unforgivable.”
“And what was that?”
She raised her non-existent brows, and her eyes grew big. “He filled his desk full of dirt and planted seeds in it. It wasn’t a minute later that a huge flowering tree shot up from the desk, and filled the room, bursting out the windows, and breaking a hole in the roof.”
“Mrs. Smithers, you were quite drunk that day. Everyone knows that. What you say happened was entirely impossible.”
“Not impossible! Other children saw it.”
“Perhaps if the tree was still in the room when you brought the entire town there, maybe we would have believed you. All we saw was a mussed-up classroom with a hole in the roof and a few broken windows. Heard you darn well beat that boy, trying to get him to confess. But he never did, cuz it never happened. Mrs. Frandle, you’re the one who is endangering the whole community. Drinking, and what not, when you should be teaching our kids. You should have gotten expelled.”
Mrs. Smithers scowled. She grasped Andrew, digging her claws into his shoulders, and pushed him towards Mr. Frandle. “You have no idea, what this boy is capable of. No idea at all. Don’t let him touch you with his hands! None of the kids do. Why, you ask? Because he may very well turn you into a tree. Yes, a tree, or a cactus or a shrub. This boy is one of the most conniving, stupid boys in my class, yes---stupid. He never paid attention in class. Instead of reading, he’d stare out the window at the trees. Instead of learning his lessons, he drew pictures of flowers, planted grass in children’s ears, and filled the rain gutters with flowers.
Mr. Frandle threw up his hands and covered his ears. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Silence, woman, before I do something we’ll both regret!”
Mrs. Smithers screeched, “You’
re only defending him because his father brings good business to your mill.”
“I’m defending him because he’s my friend!” Mr. Frandle huffed, placing a strong arm around Andrew’s shoulders, and moving him away from Mrs. Smithers. “Here, Andrew lets go. Let’s leave Mrs. Smithers to her devices.” He nodded curtly to the sour woman, picked up the smeared canvas and led Andrew away from the brawling woman.
“Darn woman’s crazy,” he said. “Sorry she mussed up your painting.”
“It’s fine. The painting wasn’t all that good anyway,” Andrew murmured, but his fallen countenance told the opposite. The truth was, if Mr. Frandle hadn’t been there, Andrew probably would have called a vine to tie the woman’s mouth shut. He wasn’t one for letting people push him around like that.
