the prologue

here's the prologue to my original fantasy adventure book! one day, I'll market this book as "Six of Crows in the Shire", until then, it's just mine, and now a little bit yours. Enjoy!

Prologue: Tristan

My Mama and I had eyes of golden light, like the warm glow of an autumn sun.

My sister, however, took after our father, with her eyes full of soft stormy clouds, the kind that would be full and ferocious in early March.

But she was far from a storm cloud herself. A familiar type of sunshine spilled from within her. She sang half the words she spoke with a squeak and a giggle, picked vibrant wildflowers along paths to gift to strangers, hoarded books with words and ideas beyond her brain’s comprehension, and seemed to have a way with insects, rescuing even the ugliest of crawlers to safety in the grass.

And even though Sarabeth was just six years old, I swore to our Mama that despite the darkness in her eyes, her frequent hugs and cheek kisses possessed healing powers beyond the capacity of any medicine or magic.

“Sarabeth, come along!” Mama called out, a large woven basket in the soft crook of her arm, the sweets inside wrapped with crinkly brown paper. “Leave the poor snail be!”

“But Mama, they’ll get smooshed!” Sarabeth called out with a pitiful whine. She sat crouched beside the sidewalk. Her bare feet were flat to the ground in a squat, her rear-end getting wet from the dew in the grass, as she inspected her shelled friend that was attempting to slither across the heavy foot traffic. The snail left behind a sparkling trail, which likely caught Sarabeth’s attention in the first place; she especially noticed things that glittered and shined.

“Mama, we won’t get a good spot if she picks up every snail,” I sighed, tugging at her arm.

Before Sarabeth could protest her need to rescue anything that slithered, crawled, or flew, she was lifted high off the ground by Dad, who flung her into the sky and she erupted with giggles. He caught her gracefully in his hairy, plump arms, and placed her comfortably on his shoulders.

“Come along, little Dot,” he said affectionately, remarking on her numerous dark freckles that covered her head to toe, just like they did on Mama and me. He squatted to the pavement and gently plucked the snail from the path. The creature curled up neatly in its little home as he set it softly in the grass.

“Do snails live in their backpacks?” Sarabeth asked abruptly and brashly, as she rested her hands atop her father’s head, the tight golden curls that matched her own acting as a pillow for her chin.

“They sure do, Dot,” he replied, holding tight to Sarabeth’s bare feet that stuck out from the bottom of her trousers.

“I wish I lived out of my backpack,” I huffed under my breath, taking double steps to keep up with his long strides. “Then I would never have to study or scrub dishes.”

“I don’t!” Sarabeth shouted, “I can’t fit all my books or my bed in my backpack! And there’s not nearly enough room for all the snacks I would need!” She sounded frightened, as though she would be expected to pack up her belongings and need to choose between cheese and crackers or strawberries and whipped cream for the rest of her days.

“Of course, books, bed, and snacks,” Mama laughed from up ahead. “No one will ever think you aren’t my child.”

“You forgot bugs,” I replied, scrunching my face in disgust. How Sarabeth liked such icky creatures I would never understand.

“I don’t need to pack bugs!” Sarabeth retorted, as though I just made a fool of myself. “Bugs are everywhere in the world, right Papa?” Sarabeth tapped on his cheek, leaning over his face, letting her rambunctious and bouncing curls obstruct his view. Mama kept marching ahead, on a mission for the most idyllic picnic spot.

“Almost everywhere,” he replied with a laugh, blowing the curls out of his face. “I’m with Dot, I don’t want to ever live out of a backpack again.”

“Again?!” Sarabeth and I both wailed in shock.

“You lived out of a backpack?” Sarabeth asked, then gasped. “Were you a snail, Papa?!”

He chuckled, a low belly laugh and Sarabeth smiled.

“Sadly, I was never a snail,” Papa replied, the joy of Sarabeth’s silliness still lingering in his voice, “But if I ever become one, I would be very grateful for little girls like you who would rescue me.”

“C’mon!” I begged, pulling on her Papa’s hand as I dragged him through the crowd. “Mama will have already found a spot by now!”

Amongst a sea of people setting up their picnics in the vibrant green grass of the park, our Mama stood, having marked our claim of land for the evening. Mama was a stout and plump woman, her round face framed by the curls that sprung from her head like little springs and coils. She looked concerned, surveying the crowd as the sun had begun to sink behind the trees that cast a warm glow over her round and delicate features. She sighed with relief when she caught sight of her straggling family.

“Honey, you had me worried,” she had her hand over her chest which was sprinkled with the same dark freckles Sarabeth and I inherited.

“We were just behind you, sweet,” he replied, kissing Mama on the cheek and letting Sarabeth down to the grasses, the prickly blades tickling her bare toes. Our parents shook out the floral patchwork quilt, letting it billow to the ground. Sarabeth and I rolled and toppled on it, the quilt formed air pockets, and the two of us batted them down with our hands and bellies.

“Mama, how much longer until the music?” Sarabeth asked before Mama had had even a moment to rest her feet.

“We just got here, Sarabeth!” she laughed as she finally sat on a corner of the blanket, adjusting her soft, buttery-yellow summer dress. “The music will start when the sun goes all the way down, just as it always does.”

Papa unpacked our supper from the basket, a hard orange cheese lined with red wax, dark and juicy blackberries, slices upon slices of fresh red apples, and a sizable flaky pastry that Sarabeth had picked from the window at the shop herself. Papa always let her pick. He unwrapped the pastry from its crinkly brown paper and handed a large chunk of it to Sarabeth in a cloth napkin, crumbs stuck to her round cheeks as she devoured it, taking a moment after each bite with her eyes closed, gracious for its sweet butteriness.

Sarabeth and I watched the empty stage as we ate our picnic, anxiously awaiting the performers to begin. A group of musicians had begun to gather their instruments on the stage, tuning their strings and chatting together. The sparkly glint of the metal instruments caught Sarabeth’s attention, her eyes focused on the golden sheen of the saxophone. She watched, mesmerized as she ate. The hum of the crowd drowned out the sounds of the park. Even the sound of our parents talking opposite of us was muffled through the chatter.

“The sun is never gonna set,” Sarabeth sighed, brushing crumbs from her face in defeat. Patience was never her strong suit.

“We’ve only waited a few minutes,” I replied, shoving another bite of the pastry into my mouth.

“It’s felt like hours,” she whined, tossing herself back onto her quilt and looking up into the sky, the stars beginning to peek through the upstaging sunset.

I felt as though my heart stopped, the idea a reasonable possibility. If the sun was already setting, who would notice if I helped it along?

“I can do it,” I whispered, leaning in close to her.

Sarabeth shot up beside me, her eyes wide with anticipation. She nodded her head ferociously but kept her lips sealed shut. She was as young and naive as I was, but not foolish enough to spoil our fun with a loud outburst.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, allowing warmth to fill me up to my fingertips, then brought my hand up to my chest. I opened my eyes, letting an exhale of golden light part from my lips as it danced and glittered around Sarabeth’s face and sparkling eyes. She tracked the light, watching it gleam around her. I knew she was fighting the urge to catch it between her stout fingers, she had learned from years of trying they were unable to be caught. I waved my hand down, beckoning the sun to fall away, to fall asleep beneath the trees.

The glowing orange sunset that hung in the sky fell faster than the night of the winter solstice. It sank low behind the trees, and within moments, darkness blossomed in the sky. Stars began to take their place beside the moon that appeared seemingly instantaneously. I felt a jolt of pride. I had set the sun.

The musicians on the stage scrambled at the sudden realization of the darkness. They began their concert haphazardly, a brash sound of horns and wind instruments starting off-key before picking up the tempo to the crowd's excitement.

And then, Mama grabbed my arm with such ferocity that my heart sank to the depths of my stomach. Mama’s soft hand felt sterner than I had ever felt, Papa had already picked Sarabeth off the quilt and began packing.

“Papa, the music just started,” Sarabeth began, the cracks in her voice

“I know Dot, but we have to go,” Papa replied, pulling the quilt from the grassland, and shaking the crumbs from our picnic dinner into the air.

I looked up at Mama, her gaze over my head and her grip around my wrist so tight my skin turned pale at her touch.

“Mama,” I said softly, hoping for her to acknowledge me, but she pulled me along, keeping me taught beside her as she marched her way through the picnicking crowds. “Mama!” I shouted.

She pulled me close to her side and looked down, her eyes piercing golden and harsh, the softness of her face pulling into a pinch in anger. She did not need to say any words, for her look of disappointment and fear was enough to seal my lips.

Mama pulled us beyond the park with cut grasses and children’s swings and into its sister park, dense woods with trails that lead to mountain tops for hikers and adventurers. The path began paved, and then she led us off the trail, into the brush of prickly bushes and coarse pebbles underfoot.

Papa and Sarabeth followed close behind, and Papa set her down once we reached a small clearing, the darkness settling over us like an ominous shadow.

“Honey, nearly everyone there was drinking, likely no one noticed,” Papa started, Sarabeth clung to his leg, tears stained her cheeks and her eyes and nose were pink.

“I noticed,” Mama said, biting the inside of her cheek as she pointed to her freckled chest. Her eyes darted around at a rustle in the branches.

“Honey, it’s fine, no one saw,” Papa said, reaching out to console her. “We likely drew more attention to ourselves by leaving so abruptly.”

“Mama, I didn’t think-” I began, my throat getting tight with tears and embarrassment.

“You didn’t think! It was a senseless thing to do,” Mama said. “I was wrong, they aren’t ready.”

“Mama,” I said softly.

“What?” She asked, her eyes still shifting, her breaths deep and heavy.

“You’re hurting me,” I sighed in a whisper.

Mama looked down, taken aback at the tight grip she had kept on my wrist, and dropped her hand, a look of shame replacing the fear that had taken her at the concert.

“They’re only children,” Papa said, “it’s in their nature to make mistakes.”

“And it is our job to allow them to make mistakes safely, not put our lives in jeopardy,” Mama said, picking Sarabeth up and resting her on her hip. She used her thumb to dry Sarabeth’s speckled cheeks. “Normal children don’t have the power to make such dangerous mistakes.”

“Mama, I’m so sorry,” I said, a crack in my voice, holding back the tears to be brave for Sarabeth.

“Oh, darling, I know,” Mama crouched beside me, Sarabeth sniffling on her hip. Mama kissed my wrist where she had held me tightly. “I’m sorry too.”

A rustle in the branches startled us once again and Mama straightened her back. Papa shushed us gently with a finger pressed to his lips and set down our picnic basket on the forest floor. Sarabeth’s chest heaved with her hands clasped over her mouth in fear of making a sound. Mama pulled me behind her, allowing me to peek from behind her thick waist as she held Sarabeth tightly to her side.

Papa stepped forward, slowly approaching the rustling in the brush darkened by the night that I beckoned.

And without giving him more than a moment to react, a cloaked figure sprung from the brush and sent a shimmering object hurtling toward Papa’s chest. The cloaked figure was encased in darkness, a belt fastened tightly at their leg strapped in several shining steel knives.

Travelers.

I could recognize the dark cloaks and teardrop-shaped blades with my eyes closed.

Papa caught the blade in a ball of air pulled tight to his chest, his hands swirling the knife around as he pushed it forth, pinning the cloaked figure to the ground.

“Run!” Papa turned to us, and without hesitation, Mama grabbed my arm once again and pulled me so hard it took a moment for my heart to catch up to my body.

She pulled me along, having left the wicker picnic basket and quilted blanket on the forest floor, pushing the branches aside to make room for us.

I turned back to look, as did Sarabeth who looked over Mama’s shoulder, as Papa followed us close behind, shielding us with gusts of air he birthed from his hands, sending more cloaked figures flying into the bushes and brambles as they chased us.

I caught Papa’s glance for a moment, the gray clouds of his eyes met mine, and he smiled and nodded as if to tell me everything was okay. And for a moment, I believed him. I knew that Papa could create storms in his chest and send them in any direction he chose.

He was ferocious.

And then he stumbled and fell to the ground, a glint of silver protruding from his shoulder blades, a cloaked figure a shadow behind him.

“Papa!” Sarabeth screamed, reaching out to him. Mama clamped her hand across Sarabeth’s mouth to shush her and pulled us behind a large boulder, concealing us from the travelers.

She crouched, setting Sarabeth down to the ground and I heaved quietly, trying to catch my breath from having had to keep up with Mama while running.

Without addressing Sarabeth, Mama turned to look at me, the sharpness in her golden eyes sending terror through me.

I knew what she was going to ask of me.

“No, Mama, I can’t,” I started, my heart racing at the thought of it.

“You must promise me you will,” Mama said.

“But Mama-” My throat felt tight, and before I could acknowledge the knot in my chest, the tears began well up in my eyes.

“It is your job as siblings to protect one another. Tristan, you must do this to keep Sarabeth safe,” Mama put on a brave face, but I could feel the wild emotions behind the calm she presented.

Mama was scared.

“Darling, look here, look at me,” Mama tiled Sarabeth’s chin up to meet her gaze. The warmth of her golden eyes sent a soothing assurance through Sarabeth’s bones. “What did I tell you to always remember when things get scary?”

“That I am ferocious,” Sarabeth sniffled.

“That’s right, darling, and what else?”

“That I am kind.”

“Good girl. You must be kind and ferocious. Do you promise to always be both? To never be so kind you forget to be ferocious?”

“Yes, Mama, I promise,” Sarabeth replied softly.

Mama paused and squeezed our hands. I had never seen Mama cry, but tonight her golden eyes looked glossy and full.

“I love you both,” Mama pained a smile, then turned her back and held her hands above her head, walking towards the direction of the cloaked travelers that lived in the shadows.

“Wait, Mama!” Sarabeth called out, scrambling after her. I grabbed the back of Sarabeth’s sweater and pulled her to the ground, her legs and arms wriggling as she tried to escape to Mama. “Tris! Stop it!”

“Hush, Sara, please” I begged, forcing her to stand in front of me as I kneeled in front of her, the twigs and pebbles on the ground poking at my kneecaps. I held Sarabeth’s wrists in my hands, tightly, as Mama had done to me.

“Stop it!” Sarabeth wriggled beneath my grip, tears streaming down her face. “Stop!”

“Please don’t make this more difficult!” I said firmly, putting her arms tightly at her side. “Stay still.”

I let go of one of her wrists, letting my fingers pull golden light from within me and sending it dancing around Sarabeth’s head. The sparkles began to sink into her temples, and the fear within Sarabeth’s eyes began to fade, and her eyelids began to flutter.

“Papa got hurt,” Sarabeth said softly, “and Mama left us.”

My chest felt heavy with the tears I couldn’t shed. “I know.”

My hands began to shake fiercely, pulling the magic from within Sarabeth. Her eyes were hardly open now, her body swaying where she stood. I bit my cheek to keep my tears within.

“What are you doing?” Sarabeth asked, her voice sounding sleepier by the moment.

“Mama asked me to borrow something.”

“Borrow what?”

“Something in your head. I’ll hold onto it tight, and you can have it back. Just like when we share books.”

“Will you give it back tomorrow?”

I averted my gaze from Sarabeth, then waved my hand as I had beckoned the sun to fall.

Sarabeth’s eyes closed. She sat against the boulder.

“One day you’ll get it back. Until then, you’ll be safe.”

And then I ran.