A.K. Frailey's Blog, page 4
November 1, 2024
Volunteer Service
Volunteer Service in My Road Goes Ever On has taught me fundamental life lessons. There is a reason why the words “community” and “service” go so well together. Communities don’t work too well without cheerful service. The amazing part?
To give is to gain.Glendale Cemetery has been quiet of late, and I like it that way. The year started in a rush with more burials than usual, but by the time our Memorial Weekend Fundraiser rolled around, things had calmed down. Luckily, we found a good mowing company to help make the place look neat and trimmed, while volunteers planted a new tree, replacing a dead one, and picked up the branches from spring storms.
The odd thing about my work as the secretary/treasurer of the cemetery is that I never know what will happen next. One day I might be searching the records for the proper site to bury a body, the next, I might be at the bank depositing a generous donation, while the next, I find myself paying bills, and then, suddenly, I’m asked to figure out where a long-lost relative was laid to rest thirty years ago. This year, we opened up a couple of new locations at the cemetery, so sales have been a part of my job description. Never expected that.
I only get stressed when there is a lot to do at once and not much time to get it all done, or when a hurting family is trying to make difficult decisions. It’s hard to see people suffering through loss, but I am so grateful for the many people who assist grieving families with quiet care. My respect for funeral directors, gravediggers, cemetery mowers, community volunteers, and the generous support of donors has renewed my faith in humankind. Despite tragic loss and death, the human spirit shines bright.
For the last couple of years, I have tutored GED students. One had cerebral palsy and overcame huge hurdles to pass three of the four tests to earn his GED. He is forging ahead with the math skills needed to conquer the final test and get the recognition he so richly deserves. Another student was in the practice test stage and working up the courage to take the final exams when health problems laid him low. I’m not worried. He’ll get there. He came to me insisting that he could not write and wasn’t fond of reading. After I assigned a chapter story each week, he met the challenge. He became a dedicated writer who brought a new thrilling episode each session. Watching his spirit grow through a new appreciation of the written word was a reward worth more than words can say. My third student came to me through the ESL program but was also working on her GED. Her spoken English is excellent, but her reading skills needed help. Along with the usual GED texts, I was able to steer her toward a few classic children’s books that she and her young daughter could read together. I’m hoping that beautiful literature will work the wonders in her life that it has in mine.
Acting as an Election Judge is always a bit of an adventure. With the way things have been going this year, I suspect that will be true on a whole new level. I don’t know what will happen with the candidates, but I know that the volunteers at the Fillmore Town Hall will be there, ready to assist, to make this election as positive an experience as humanly possible.
Getting older has meant growth and change. For one, I have a little more “free” time as my grown children head out into the big world. I still make family meals, clean whatever gets dirty, keep the house from falling to pieces, and attempt to keep our critters out of trouble, but the hands-on projects are less intense. Well, except for that brush-cutting fiasco this spring and painting the porches a lovely blue-gray this summer. Free time doesn’t mean “just me” time. Along the road of writing and home management, I have found happy satisfaction in volunteer service. It is not a virtue; it’s a gift.
To give is to gain. A. K. Frailey is the author of 20 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check outA. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I am completely in love with your writings…a great present for a soul. I found myself enchanted by the stories.” ~Edith N. Mendel Fréccia
“…bring fresh inspiration for the day on life, love, and overcoming obstacles with faith” ~CBM
“By providing several angles through which to gaze on Tolkien’s masterpiece, Frailey brings new color and life to Tolkien’s perennial classic.” ~Vogt
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/fruits-spirit-season-galatians-1388848/
The post Volunteer Service first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
October 18, 2024
A Reflections Story
A Reflections Story can offer insight, but we must beware of false images, distortions, and fragments of our true selves posturing as identity.
Elspeth Gillis leaned over the side of the kayak and tried to find her reflection in the tranquil water. But as the sun shone brightly overhead on the early October day, ripples of light nearly blinded her instead. A shiver ran over her spine. She sat back, careful not to unsettle the small craft she had borrowed from her cousin.
Dillion, a high-powered lawyer who lived in exalted circles, owned property beside a small lake in upper Wisconsin and kept an open invitation for her to come and visit “any time.” Since she had a three-day weekend, and his family was visiting in-laws in Chicago (so she wouldn’t be a bother), she sped home from work on Friday afternoon, wiggled into a comfy wool sweater over her warmest dress, packed a small bag, slipped the cabin key into her pocket, and drove five hours to her first get-away in years.
Saturday morning, she was standing on the front porch overlooking the lake with a strong cup of coffee in one hand and a cream cheese bagel in the other. She ought to have felt at peace. Happiness should have transported her to the heavenly spheres.
But memories haunted her. Unwelcome and embarrassing images stung her mind like a plague of wasps. If only I could get out on the lake, maybe they would leave me alone. The tranquil surface appeared solid, yet she knew as well as anyone that it harbored a secret world underneath. Still, the shimmering glory called to her, a tranquil vision offering escape, freedom, the peace she couldn’t find anywhere else.
The paddle lay angled at her side, ready to propel her back to shore. It hadn’t been hard to direct the agile kayak toward an island of tall, dead grasses and fluttering birds. Some teetered on stems, ignoring her, while others screamed at her intrusive presence. Autumn chill worked over her. She shivered again and tugged her heavy sweater tight around her middle. Sparking light shimmered all around her. There was no use looking for her reflection now. She wasn’t sure why she had even wanted to see it.
She knew what she looked like, of course – a petite woman with a long narrow face, brown hair, gray eyes, and almost always dressed in a long modest dress with heels. No heels today. Her thick hiking boots served much better on the rugged landscape, though she did miss the height that heels gave her. Why do I want to be tall, anyway?
She didn’t understand how others saw her. And why she was so often misunderstood. Am I walking around in a costume invisible to myself?
Memories galloped back, running over the fragile peace she had found in the middle of the tranquil lake.
How could I have been so stupid?
She shrugged. She knew perfectly well that since her parents had died, leaving her an only child with one cousin— a kind man but hardly a best friend she could share the intimate details of her life—she was lonely.
Doesn’t everyone get lonely? Can’t excuse a lack of common sense on loneliness. I was a fool and fell for a stupid lie.
Heat flooded her face as memories of her online romance surfaced. I was being so careful! His profile had lots of people – real people – on it. I asked so many questions. He even called me on the phone, and his voice was so warm.
Nausea threatened to do unfortunate things to her morning bagel. I wanted to believe him. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone at work.
Except Kristie, who gushed like a schoolgirl. The woman’s too-wide smile spoke of desperation, the same desperation she had felt inside. She wanted it to be true, too. Not just for me but for her. Maybe she would “land” her own guy someday.
She could have told Jennifer Solins, the no-nonsense science teacher, but Jennifer would have asked questions. Smart questions. Probing questions. Questions I couldn’t answer.
A light wind picked up, and ripples gathered strength, rolling across the lake. Elspeth considered the dark clouds amassing on the horizon and grabbed the paddle. I’ve been foolish enough for a lifetime. No use getting stuck in a storm in the middle of a lake.
Once back in the cabin, the kayak safely stowed in the shed, and wearing a fresh sweater, she made herself a hot cup of tea and was prepared to settle on the couch with a good book, but the rattle of the door latch turning locked her feet to the floor.
Dillon entered with a large black bag swung over one shoulder. His expression was as gloomy as anything she had ever seen at the bottom of a totem pole. She swallowed and waited, trying frantically to remember if she had texted that she was coming this weekend. I’ve been such a muddlehead!
Making eye contact, Dillon halted mid-step. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t know you were planning to be here today.” He offered a tight grin. “I thought I’d be alone.”
Prepared to launch herself into the bedroom, pack her bag, and be out the door in record speed, Elspeth started forward, apologies trailing after her. “It’s my fault. Sorry! I thought I sent word, but I can’t remember what I did lately. I’ll be out of here—”
“Stop!” Dillon stepped in the way, huffed a long breath, and dropped his bag on the floor. “There are two bedrooms, and you’re not unwelcome.” He tried a soft shoulder pat. “When I said I wanted to be alone, I didn’t mean you.” One hand waved toward the window, gesturing to the universe at large. “I mean work and family, and everyone who…” He snorted. “Never mind.” A glance around took in the quiet scene, the steam rising from the cup she had left on the end table and the book waiting on the couch. “Is that tea or cocoa? Because I could really use something hot and comforting.”
“It’s tea, but I can make some cocoa. The cupboards are well stocked.” She squinted in the dimming light as dark rain clouds marshaled their forces around the lake.
A shrug and he tried to explain his ignorance. “Hannah does the shopping. I never know what we have.”
A glance at the door and Elspeth perked her ears for approaching footsteps. “Is she coming?”
Dillion started for the open kitchen area. “No, she and the kids are staying with her mom and dad for the weekend and maybe a little longer…” He huffed again and swung the refrigerator door open. “I’ll make a gallon of hot cocoa and if you could scrounge up something to eat, I’d appreciate it. I drove from work, dropped Hannah and the kids off, and then headed here right after. I feel like I’ve been driving forever. My head is spinning.”
With the intention of making a grilled cheese and tuna sandwich for lunch still in her mind, Elspeth retrieved the ingredients, and they each began their culinary projects.
By the time heavy drops of rain splashed against the windows, she and her cousin were ensconced in the living room with hot drinks, sandwiches, and chips, and a warm fire flickering in the fireplace.
Elspeth knew better than to ask probing questions. She didn’t like them. It was a family trait Dillon shared. He’d talk when he was in the mood. After a filling lunch and stretching out on the couch, he was in the right frame of mind.
She might as well have been assigned an analyst’s position, sitting in the armchair beside the couch, listening to him list the annoyances at work, his wife’s obsession with details that left him cold, and his son’s incessant whining. He just needed a little break. He’d go back and deal with it all in a couple of days. “Once I’m refreshed, I’ll be as good as new.” He smiled as he looked over at her. Waiting.
My turn? Elspeth wasn’t used to sharing her life with anyone, and Dillon had never seemed interested. She looked out the window and commented on the storm.
Dillon just nodded. And waited.
What on earth? Finally, setting her cold cup on top of her empty plate, Elspeth braced herself for the ultimate embarrassment, confessing her foolishness. She began with the hardest part first. “Everyone thinks I am so sensible. I dress conservatively, show up at work on time every day, and do my job without drama—I’m the secretary of Restful Glen Cemetery, for Heaven’s sake. I am a very sensible person!”
Dillon sat up, his hands clasped, his face attentive. He really seemed interested.
“I got scammed.” She waved her hands in surrender. “An online romance that ended with him asking for money for some stupid thing that didn’t even make sense.” She glared at her cousin as if to clarify her position as the stupidest person on the planet. “I’m an idiot and ought to be shot.”
Dillon burst out laughing.
Elspeth’s mouth dropped open. If she was a violent person, she would have crossed the room and smacked him. Hard. Luckily, she was a pacifist at heart. But her hand twitched.
His hands up in a conciliatory gesture, Dillon had to work to regain control of himself. “I got scammed at work. That’s part of the reason I needed a break. A co-worker said it was a trustworthy site, and I could use it with perfect anonymity. I just wanted to find out some information on the side, without going through regular channels…Big bloody mistake!”
“Are you in trouble?”
“My boss wants my hide, and I may get fined by the company to teach me a lesson. But I don’t think I’ll lose my job. Though Hannah is so mad she said I really ought to. That’s why she went home, to complain to her parents about me and my bad judgment.”
“So, all that stuff you talked about earlier…?”
“Diversions. It never occurred to me that you ever made a mistake.” His eyebrows rose to surprising heights. “I thought you were perfect.” A smile ghosted over his face. “Thank God, you’re human. I need a human right now. One who understands and won’t yell at me.”
Elspeth gaze roamed to the window and the glazed glass where raindrops obscured the lake. It had been a tranquil surface and was now a frothing cauldron. No reflections now.
She turned back to her cousin and found her reflection there.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check outA. K Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“heartfelt, down-to-earth stories are filled with real-life experiences and emotions that you can almost feel like you are experiencing them as well as you read. She’s one of the best authors I’ve ever read.” ~Ron
“a masterful grouping of short stories reflecting on life, death, and everything in between.” ~Gina
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-woman-kayak-lake-8083918/
The post A Reflections Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
October 4, 2024
Literary Achievements
Literary Achievements in My Road Goes Ever On 2024 mark this as a productive, though not published, year. I completed twenty-four short stories, five non-fiction reflections, a poem, two novels, and one children’s book. Unfortunately, my efforts for publication in literary journals have not panned out, but my search for a literary agent wobbles forward.
Formally begun in 2023, my third novel in the Newearth universe, Newearth Progeny, takes on some challenging topics: motherhood, personal identity, bioethics, and the value of family.
Visions of motherhood entice Human Services Detective, Clare Erlandson, onto the road of advanced medical technology, offering her a baby without the usual complications. Her partner tries to warn her of a dangerous mistake but ends up teaching a cyborg and a caveman basic baby care. Two sons, given wildly different childhoods, set in motion a future many feared but no one could have predicted.Soon after finishing Progeny, I felt compelled to continue the journey with Newearth Relevance, completed in July.
On a mission to find meaning and a home for himself, Relevance, as Newearth’s first tribrid humanoid, founds LEAP Laboratories in partnership with an angry geneticist who harbors dystopian dreams. Together they populate the woodlands with sentient animals called Animans, but when their goals divide, Relevance finds himself trying to stop the very operation he brought into being. As the Animans suffer pain and loss, Relevance must face the same consequences that his creators experienced, forcing him to reconsider his own humanity.Next, a children’s book that has been developing in my mind for years finally took shape. Wise Home was born of my love for children’s literature and the healing power of our natural world. Children need stories – it is one of the best parts of their human heritage.
When family troubles mount, a little girl is sent to the home of her Great Aunt Wilda who shares boxes full of memories and teaches her how to garden and make delicious meals. When she explores the woodlands, even more wonderful discoveries bring the meaning of wisdom home.The year isn’t over, and my creative juices are still flowing. My plans include updating my OldEarth-Newearth Bible by organizing the information for more streamlined use, compiling my short stories for possible publication, and completing a new novel—a contemporary woman’s story, Fly, Sparrow, Fly.
As I perused literary journals and magazines this year, I noted a repeated call for “underserved voices.” After thinking long and hard about that noble intention, two ideas rose to the surface of my mind.
One—every good piece of literature, whether it be an old classic or a modern novel inevitably delves into the heart of the human experience. For it to ring true, the author must speak from honest experience, wrenching doubts, and heart-rending conflicts. Tolstoy wasn’t speaking merely as a Russian living in the eighteen hundreds, he reflected the human struggle to understand humanity. That’s why people from around the globe and in the modern era can read him and connect, find food for thought, and solace for wounded spirits. Underserved should not mean highlighting particular nationalities or lifestyles; it should embrace the human experience of all.
Two—Popular literary movements tend to promote didactic writing —writing intended to promote a particular cause. There’s a danger in such writing. It easily slides into propaganda. The “truth” that an author promotes is not owned by that author. It might not even be true! There’s no wisdom prize for being right and telling the world about it. The best, most lasting writing reflects not the author’s chosen creed but the human struggle to discover meaning, untangle virtue from vice, translate personal visions in the light of daytime realities, and a whole host of other conflicts honestly portrayed.
If we only promote authors who come from particular places and specific lifestyles or are advancing an individual cause, we risk hardening our hearts and closing our ears to unexpected beauty vibrantly portrayed.
Literary achievement depends not on sifting through the chaff of humanity to find the glittering golden child but on becoming present to the hidden soul who stands in our midst, whoever that may be.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 20 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check outA. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I don’t think the author had any idea her story would be so prophetic when she wrote this. Very interesting with lovable, real characters.” ~Jamie
“Woah! What a splendid novel… This book is fantastic sci-fi, featuring unique characters. Frailey definitely seems like a well-read individual who knows how to write.” ~Emily
“This book is nothing short of amazing. The first two books were amazing, but the author outdid herself this time.” ~Lauren Stanley
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/book-book-cover-book-template-8833644/
The post Literary Achievements first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 27, 2024
Translations at Their Best
Translations at Their Best are not mere records of written words, they comprehend the spirit of the work and bring it to life in a new language.
When my daughter started taking Spanish classes at Greenville University, she not only discovered a love for the language and a new aspect of her career development, but she also introduced me to a translating genius—Dr. Mauricio Nava, the Spanish professor at Greenville University in Greenville, Il. While getting to know him, I realized that his passion for language expression and understanding of the nuances of meaning set him apart from the average teacher or translator.
When I discussed my translation adventures as an author, Dr. Nava was kind enough to offer to translate part of the first novel in my OldEarth series to highlight my entire translation compilation. He did an excellent job! I am both grateful and awed by his abilities. Thank you, Dr. Nava!
So here are the first seven chapters of OldEarth Aram Encounter translated by Dr. Nava. If you are interested in reading more of my translated work, please feel free to check out my Translated Books Page
El Encuentro de Aram
en la Tierra Antigua
A. K. Frailey
Traducción de Dr. Nava
Capítulo I.
—WOODLAND—
La Tierra Más Allá
Aram tiritó a pesar del sudor que recorría su espalda. Unas gotas le salpicaron la cara al abrirse paso por el bosque empujando las enredaderas y el golpe de los retoños elásticos. El cansancio chupó sus últimas fuerzas. Con el dorso de su mano enlodada secó su frente.
La visión de una cálida hoguera y la carne de pierna de venado chisporroteando a la leña casi le paró el corazón. Sus exhaustas extremidades exigían descanso. Pero se limitó a negar con la cabeza. Todavía no -pronto.
Su pueblo se tambaleó estupefacto. Su huida parecía sin fin, su búsqueda fútil. El peligro acechaba en cada movimiento del oscuro bosque. Mientras su cuerpo musculoso caminaba a paso lento sobre el suelo lodoso invadido por raíces de la tardía época lluviosa, una nueva luz iluminó su mente. Todavía podía ver el pelaje leanonado y los ojos cristalinos de la bestia mientras arrancaba a su primera víctima que luchaba gritando. Cuando había escuchado los rugidos roncos bajo el brillo de la luna que proyectaba sombras disparejas de la bestia, se había quedado congelado al ver la talla del gran felino.
Había atacado en el crepúsculo cuando la luz bailaba con negrura. Su esposa, Namah, jorobada y taciturna, había estado dirigiendo los preparativos para la comida. Sus órdenes sonaban estridentes y abundantes -como de costumbre. Las otras mujeres obedecieron con obediencia típicamente silenciosa.
Él había echado un vistazo a Namah cuando el poderoso felino cayó sobre su víctima y, aunque sus ojos abiertos aterrorizados hacían juego con los suyos, ella le había aventado una pedrada a la criatura en retirada. A pesar su espina dorsal chueca, demostró fortaleza mental -no tan diferente a la del gato.
Incluso cuando ya le había disparado la lanza y otros se unieron a la acción entre la gritería de angustia y miedo, él sabía que era muy tarde. La noche era muy oscura y el gato demasiado mamut para cazar en el plomizo bosque.
Aram había conocido la juventud bien y la agonía se había apoderado de su corazón, pero su mente no respondía a su aflicción -solo al miedo. Si concedía a su clan tiempo para descansar, su angustia podría tornarse en locura. Si se seguía moviéndose, podrían escapar de ambos, la bestia y el terror.
Un niño chilló.
Pero estaban más allá del cansancio ya. Las tierras de sus ancestros quedaban tras de ellos lejos. Pronto se adentrarían en tierras desconocidas a su recuerdo. Siempre habías derivado la vida de árboles familiares, hecho cobijos apropiados, y haber hallado paz bajo sus ramas. Los bosques antiguos se entrelazaban hasta formar una foresta de inmedible profundidad. Pero sus viajes frenéticos los llevaron a tierras extranjeras.
“¿Conoces estos árboles?” Namah se recargó en un báculo cerca de su codo, abrumada por el peso de todo el bulto de tesoro terrenal que se había echado a la espalda. Ningún niño la había impedido agarrarlo. Casi doblegada, ella pujó y los dedos de sus pies chapotearon, ahogándose profundamente en el fango.
Aram echó un vistazo al adelgazante bosque. “Bueno, pues”. Giró su lanza de caoba, quitando un retoño del camino.
“¿Qué tan lejos hemos llegado?” La mirada desenfocada de Namah fingía un desinterés calmado, pero un lloriqueo cansado cauterizó sus palabras.
Las mujeres columpiaron a sus bebés chillando sobre sus hombros caídos, mientras los varones pujaban molestos, ajustando bultos en sacos harapientos. Un anciano gimió al inclinarse sobre el hombro delgado andrajoso de un niño. Una niña chilló, y una cachetada se oyó, testimonio de nervios y temperamentos agotados.
Aram gimió al considerar la luz extraña del bosque, la textura manchada de la corteza del árbol, y la advertencia de sus huesos.
“¿Acaso no es diferente la tierra aquí, Aram? Los árboles parecen estar más espaciados, y el terreno se ve llano. ¿En dónde están las colinas y los desfiladeros?” La mirada de Namah parpadeó a su esposo. Una ceja inquisitiva se arqueó.
Aram asintió. Él había conocido una tierra así -hace mucho. “Nos encontramos casi a la orilla del bosque. Ha sido una generación desde que mi pueblo pasó por aquí”.
Desde algún abismo olvidado, un recuerdo titiló a la vida. El abuelo de Aram había alguna vez contado la historia de una enrome bestia que atacó a los fatigados en la oscuridad nocturna. El cuento había parecido tan solo como una advertencia de un viejo con el fin de asustar a los jóvenes para que no se aventuraran en lo oscuro. Aram se volvió a tragar el miedo y cuadró los hombros.
Hace dos noches, la pesadilla regresó, y la bestia había atacado de nuevo. Los había seguido al acercarse a los límites de las tierras de su abuelo. Después que el gato atacó, se dirigieron a la frontera. Ahora tenían que aventurarse a lo desconocido.
“¿Tú sabes quien vive en la tierra más allá?” Naham jadeó recargándose en el tronco de un árbol maltrecho gris.
“No, crecí lejos de aquí. Hace mucho que murió mi padre, aunque algunos de los de su pueblo quizás vivan. Tenía un hermano – “Aram se rascó la barbilla, su estómago apretándose.
Namah reacomó su mochila.
“Él se aventuró a las tierras altas. Su clan incluía muchas mujeres y niños -por ello favorecía la seguridad que ofrecían las montañas. No lo he visto desde que era joven”.
“Y tu abuelo – ¿acaso no tenía hermanos?”
“Uno, pero se pelearon sobre algo secreto y se separaron. No tengo ningún deseo de conocer al hermano de mi abuelo ni a ninguno de su clan. No se les debe confiar. Nos haría bien mantener la distancia”.
Namah resopló. “De seguro, algunas de esas viejas diferencias se podrían dejar de lado en un momento como este. Quizás sepan de la bestia y nos podrían ayudar a derrotarla”.
Aram frunció el ceño. “¡No sabes nada de esto! No necesitamos ayuda. Bastará con nosotros mismos”.
Namah asintió en gesto de obediencia. Lanzó su mirada al sendero roto detrás de ellos y bajó la voz. “¿La bestia viajaría tan cerca de la orilla de bosque? ¿No temería estas extrañas tierras?” Su mirada fija examinó su cara al ponerse el sol.
Inclinando su cabeza de lado al considerar, Aram exhaló y levantó la mano. “Descansaremos aquí la noche”.
Se oyeron pujidos y suspiros mientras los bultos se deslizaban al piso y las rodillas se enterraban en reposo sobre la tierra.
Al estudiar el panorama, la mirada de Aram analizó la expansión. Los densos bosques de madera quedaban atrás; un espacio abierto reveló espacios abiertos de tierra desnuda cubierta solo por pastos altos que se mecían en la brisa.
Los ojos negros de Namah se achicaron.
Una voz cortó el silencio con fuerza abrupta. “¡Aram!” El hombre más grandulón del clan, Barak, se echó su manto de pieles más allá del hombro y su pecho de barril se infló como si estuviera a punto de efectuar un largo pronunciamiento. Su cabeza se ladeó como la de un ave de rapiña sobre su presa. Cuando se acercó al lado de Aram, cruzó los brazos. “Estamos cansados de huir. Las mujeres están más allá de sus fuerzas, y algunos de nosotros dudamos del rumbo que estás tomando”.
Con esfuerzo mínimo, los ojos de Aram voltearon al lado.
Aquellos miraron frunciendo el cejo con confusos.
Aram aplaudió para atraer la atención y dirigirse a la asamblea. “Esta noche encenderemos varias fogatas en vez de una. Hagan un gran círculo de llamas, y dormiremos dentro de su protección. Mañana viajaremos hacia las praderas sin arboledas. Tomando una zancada a un enorme y antiguo pino, Aram se desató la capa y la aventó sobre una cama de agujas de pino secas. Recargándose sobre el árbol y doblando sus manos a manera de almohada, cerró los ojos.
Namah analizó la gente incierta y se enmascaró con una sonrisa titubeante. Su voz se alzó en mando. “Busquen fajina y busquen agua fresca”.
Ella juntó sus ideas tal y como un ave juntaría varas para un nido. Con paciencia, ella mandaría -a su manera. Su mirada recorrió desde su marida a Barak. Una mirada se alzó desde sus adentros mientras que su corazón rebosó de emoción.
Capítulo II.
-LA NAVE MERCANTE INGOTI-
-LA TIERRA ANTIGUA-
El Curso de Intercepción
Ingoti- seres de enorme talla entre 1.83 a 2.13 metros de estatura, cuyo origen es el planeta Ingilium. Extremadamente pesados debido a su excesivo peso y cintura; también son rápidos y poderosos. Nunca se les ve despojados de su armadura tecno-orgánica, aunque sus rostros -tipicamente libre de máscaras- parecen humanas.
Como una nave desatrancada de su anclaje, una nave mercante ingoti se deslizó dentro la atmósfera terrestre…
Zuri, un mercader ingoti de renombre por sus negocios astutos, se preparó para la colisión, pero poco podía hacer para proteger a su copiloto.
Gem se agachó, cubriendo su cabeza con sus brazos, esperando que los arneses lo guardaran.
La diminuta nave aró un gran surco en la tierra pantanosa y se fue a estrellar en la ladera de una colina.
Al asentarse el polvo, Zuri parpadeó y volvió en sí. Estudió su armadura tecno-biomecánica. Viendo que estaba intacta, suspiró aliviado. Cojeando hasta la consola principal, revisó el estatus de la nave. Las luces de varios sistemas parpadeaban fuera de línea, pero el sistema de mantenimiento de vida se encontraba bien. Echando un vistazo al almacén de carga, midió las reparaciones necesarias en su mente y dio paso al frente.
Gem permanecía tirado inconsciente.
Encuclillas a su lado, Zuri hizo una revisión diagnóstica rápida de las señales del traje bio-vida de Gem. Con una risita, cacheteó ligeramente la mejilla áspera de Gem. “Levántate, tonto flojo. Ya vamos retrasados, y a los Crestas no se les conoce por su paciencia”.
Apoyándose sobre un hombro se levantó con un pujido. Gem sacudió la cabeza como un buey ingoti confundido. “Pensé que ya me había pelado. ¿Qué pasó?”
Zuri se puso de pie y se talló la espalda. “El repuesto de Mantenimiento Orbital que trajiste se fundió, y nos mandó en picada espiral a la atmósfera. Lo hubiera imaginado. Fue muy barato para ser de calidad”.
“Jo… Me la han de pagar; no te preocupes”. Gem se levantó y fue hacia la consola. “¿Cuánto tiempo hasta que podamos partir otra vez?”
Mirando al techo, Zuri se cruzó de brazos. “Solo tomará unas horas con los dos reparándola. Pero he oído de este planeta – ¿Y qué si nos damos una vuelta?”
Gem frunció el ceño. “He escuchado sobre los humanos también. Primitivos y –“
“No dije nada de humanos. Por la División, si quisiera ir al zoológico, visitaría el de Helm”. Se tocó la barbilla. “No, ¿cómo ves si vamos a mirar por ahí un poco? Podríamos encontrar recursos valiosos. Los inglum pagarían bien…”
Una sonrisa chueca se dibujó en el rostro de Gem.
~~~
Al caminar contrabajos en el bosque, Gem se secó sus sudosas cejas. “¿Cómo puede alguien vivir aquí? ¡No es apropiado para vivir!”
Zuri se encogió de hombros. “No es donde a mí me hubiera gustado aterrizar –“
Un gruñido ronco los paró en seco.
Voltearon lentamente. Zuri levantó su desintegrador a polvo y apuntó al acercarse una bestia cuadrúpeda de pelaje leaonado.
Gem tragó saliva. “¡Esa cosa es enorme!” Volteando hacia donde venían voces humanas, sonrió. “Ah, los está rastreando”. Señaló hacia un claro donde un grupo grande de humanos se habían ubicado para un descanso”.
Agazapándose, Zuri echó un vistazo entre las ramas, observando al gentío.
Hombres, mujeres, y niños se concentraron alrededor de una figura -musculosa, alta, con pelo largo y negro.
Echando una mirada a Gem, Zuri sacudió su cabeza. “Están prácticamente desnudos -sin ninguna armadura tecno. ¡Me asombra que hayan sobrevivido! Debe ser más brillantes de lo que parecen”.
Después de tomar un paso atrás, envió un rayo de bajo poder quemando el follaje cerca del gato acechante, espantándola de nuevo al interior del bosque.
Gem frunció el cejo. “¿Por qué hiciste eso? Avisando al planeta entero que estamos aquí, ¿no?”
Zuri apuntó el desintegrador a polvo a Gem. “¿Queda algo de ti -ahí adentro, quiero decir? Nosotros una vez estuvimos desnudos y sin esperanza. Si los Cresta no nos hubieran enseñado –“
“Ellos nos usaron en sus estudios. No fueron generosos”.
“¡Pero aprendimos de ellos! Eso es lo que cuenta”.
Gem fijó la vista en el desintegrador a polvo que Zuri empuñaba. “Así que, ¿cuál es el punto?”
Metiendo el arma en la funda de su armadura, Zuri se encogió de hombros.
“Solo les estoy dando un chance para vivir y aprender”. Echó un vistazo a la nave. “Es hora de irnos. Tengo suficiente data para recuperar el tiempo perdido”. Frunció el cejo mientras se quitaba unas ramas de la cara. “Los Cresta pagarán tanto por la mercancía como por la información”.
Gem marchó detrás. “¿Y el Supremo Comando Inglum? ¿Qué dirán?”
Zuri se dio la vuelta y, tocando el hombro de Gem, elevó sus ojos al cielo. “A diferencia de mis expectativas, anticipo el día en que los humanos y su primitivo planeta sean muy útiles. Estamos en curso de intercepción. De cualquier modo -la información siempre paga”.
Capítulo III.
—EL PASTIZAL—
El Velo De La Muerte
Onías empuñó su cuchillo de obsidiana y consideró la figura de madera en su puño. Suspiró.
“Si te duelen los ojos, métete y descansa. No necesitas sentarte aquí. Está más fresco bajo la sombra”.
Sentando con las piernas cruzadas, Onías echó un ojito a su esposa, Jonás, y sonrió por su tono maternal. Se limpió el sudor de la frente y puso a un lado su cuchillo. Parpadeando, echó un vistazo abajo a su trabajo. La figura de un muchacho tallada de un tronco torcido lo miraba con fijeza.
La madera le habló, recreando imágenes en su mente. Solo recientemente había comenzado a tallar pedazos de ramas rotas, sacándole la impresión de un rostro o un animal. Un escalofrío le recorrió el cuerpo. Sosteniendo su cabeza en su mano, vagamente se preguntó si le había regresado la fiebre.
Jonás jaló una pesada manta de piel de su vivienda de paja y lodo al sol donde la ató sobre un lazo colgado entre dos postes firmes -los mismos postes que Onías había clavado en la tierra hacía poco cuando todavía estaba saludable. Rítmicamente golpeando el suelo, levantaba columnas de polvo al brillo del sol, su cara relucía con el sudor.
El golpeteo firme, en tono con el zumbido suave de las abejas, encantaba a Onías. La fragancia a vida nueva y el remolino de insectos que respondían con éxtasis a todas las posibilidades de la creación ampliaron sus ojos al contemplar el vasto y ondulante pastizal. Disfrutaba el contraste el verdor de la hierba fresca en contraste a un azul profundo del cielo.
Recargándose contra el muro de arcilla de su vivienda, él admiró su villa organizada en semi círculo de chozas pequeñas de dos habitaciones. Un gran espacio ovalado dominó el centro donde el clan se reunía por las tardes para compartir historias y dirimir disputas. Siempre había disfrutado escuchar a sus hermanos de clan compartir sus esperanzas y temores. Apretó la quijada. Dentro de poco estaría débil al punto de no poder sentarse y cansado para importarle.
Echó un vistazo hacia el noreste a través de las montañas. Las nubes esponjosas se deslizaban por la expansión del horizonte vistiéndose del aspecto de grandes montañas. Eran solo cosas cambiantes esas nubes. Eran impostoras en el peor de los casos, y en el mejor una ilusión mortífera. Como neblina que se desvanece al toque, así de efímera era la vida del líder de un clan.
Los ojos de Onías siguieron a un pastor joven cuando arreaba a sus cabritos en una pastura cercana, ofreciendo una expansión abierta para que los animales se esparcieran a gusto plácidamente.
Jonás se cubrió del sol con la mano sobre sus cejas, mirando el paisaje, murmuró. “¿Adónde se habrán ido Jael y Tobía?”
Regresando a la figurilla de madera sobre el regazo, ésta le arrancó una sonrisa a Onías al contemplar la belleza producida por sus dedos. ¿Qué fue aquella magia que entró en sus manos, permitiéndole dar vida a un trozo de madera viejo? La figurilla parecía cobrar vida conforme le daba forma. Por salir de la mano de un hombre alto, la semblanza a un muchacho real con los brazos abiertos, lo sorprendió. ¿Qué deidad le había conferido tal talento? ¿Cómo se había podido convertir en un creador, aunque fuera de algo tan pequeño?
Empuñando el cuchillo, le temblaba la mano. Cerró los ojos y se tragó toda su amargura. ¿Quién tenía el poder -y el deseo- para destruirlo a él? Esta pregunta lo atormentaba aún más que las fiebres que arruinaban su cuerpo con más frecuencia. ¿Qué se hallaba más allá del velo de la muerte? En su vejez, su madre y en una época más tarde, su padre se había enfriado y sus alientos cesaron en el velo de la noche. ¿Adónde se habían ido sus cautivadores espíritus llenos de vitalidad?
Onías inclinó la cabeza contra la pared, contemplando la nada, con sus manos quietas. Un buitre volaba en círculos muy en lo alto, escudriñando las debilidades de los de abajo. Bajando la mirada, Onías miró de cerca a su esposa, pero entendía bien que no debía hacer preguntas imposibles, ya que ella solo lo miraría en la profundidad de sus ojos, haciéndole beber remedios amargos antes de mandarlo a la cama, como si fuera un niño. Cerró los ojos, dejando que el sol cálido penetrara en sus huesos helados.
Jonás palmeó con autoridad materna, “Dije -métete ahora. Es†ás fatigado y necesitas descanso”.
Tallándose los ojos, Onías se encogió hacia adelante. Era inútil discutir. Ella tenía razón. No importaba que su alma sintiera escalofríos al contemplar la entrada oscura de su vivienda. Incorporándose con dificultad, tomó su cuchillo y la figurilla de muchacho, y se fue cojeando hasta la entrada. La sombra fresca lo llamaba, pero él deseaba la calidez solar. Se detuvo en el umbral. Su corazón latía. ¿Adónde iría a parar cuando su cuerpo se enfriara? Dudó dando un paso atrás.
Jonás se apresuró hasta él. “¿Te ha regresado la jaqueca?”
Dibujó una sonrisa forzada. “No, estoy bien”. Por impulso la tomó de la mano. “Pero tengo una pregunta”. Señaló una esquina junto a la vivienda.
“¿Oh?” Su mirada fina flaqueó. Asintió; lo asistió hasta la sombra acogedora, y se sentó a su lado. “¿Qué es eso?” El tono de su voz sugería una alegría ensayada.
Mirando la puesta del sol, Onías frunció las cejas ante la luz cegadora. “¿Qué vas a hacer cuando me vaya? ¿Quién te ayudará con los chicos?” Él pausó y miró para el otro lado, la mirada cayendo a tierra. “Obed es un buen hombre”.
Mirando con los ojos muy abiertos, Jonás se volvió al otro lado. “Onías -no”.
Al recorrer sus dedos sobre la espalda, Onías estiró las piernas. Era agotador ver qué tan flacas eran. Por eso se sentía tan fatigado; ya se hallaba en camino a la muerte. “Estaba pensando que, siendo Obed tan gentil con nosotros, y que está aquí tan seguido, que después que me vaya –“
Jonás le apretó las manos, reclinando la cabeza sobre su hombro. “¡No! No hables de esto. Solo descansa. Espera y ve. Nadie conoce el futuro. Vive cada día. No me pidas que piense sobre… ¡No puedo!”
Él alisó el cabello de ella, largo, castaño con la palma de su mano. Sus ojos divagaron hacia las nubes, perdiéndose en el horizonte. Sus párpados cayeron, y suspiró.
De repente, unas pisadas se detuvieron frente a ellos.
Onías miró arriba.
Jonás se levantó de un salto.
Ante ellos, permanecía de pie un hombre rechoncho de barba cerrada y cabellera despeinada castaña, destrenzada que bajaba por la espalda. Todo él era un bloque sólido, incluso sus trenzas. Sus piernas permanecían separadas para soportar el peso del corpulento. Pantalones de cuero, y una túnica áspera sin mangas adornaban el cuerpo. Los músculos brillaban al sol. Parecía tan sólido como para que ningún ventarrón lo volara, a pesar de mecerse innaturalmente con pronunciados jaloneos. Su boca desalentadora formaba una línea severa, aunque un deleite destellaba de sus ojos.
Jonás tragó saliva. “¿Sí, Eoban?”
La voz profunda del grandulón rugió. “¿Supongo que éstos son tuyos?”
La mirada de Jonás bajó del rostro poderoso hacia a la base de la túnica ondeante de Eoban, quien con dificultad, pudo exponer los muslos de dos pequeñines.
Los chicos pataleaban vigorosamente tratando en vano de zafarse. Sus quejidos amortiguados contrastaban con los momentos de silencio cuando tomaban respiros.
Jonás echó una risotada. Se incorporó, levantando los brazos para recoger a los niños. “¿Qué han estado haciendo los dos, quisiera saber? ¿En dónde los encontraste, Eoban?”
“No importa”. Las cejas de Eoban se alzaron a niveles peligrosos. “Por ahí en la orilla del lago. Regresaba de un viaje del norte cuando decidí hacer una parada, pero para mi sorpresa, no hallé pesca sino a dos chicos que les van a salir aletas. Fueron afortunados que pasaba por ahí”. Sin mayor ceremonia, los dejó caer al piso de tierra, dejando ellos escapar quejidos.
El más alto de ellos le alzó el puño a Eoban. “Estamos bien. Sabíamos lo que hacíamos”.
Jonás frunció el cejo en advertencia. “Jael”.
“Y no necesitaba levantarnos así, cuando llegamos a la aldea. Hemos venido y dicho -sin su pinchazo”.
Su copia en miniatura, Tobía, frunció la mirada tan amenazante como su hermano mayor.
La mano firme de Jonás cortó el aire dando la orden. Sus cejas negras se arquearon. “Les advertí a los dos la última vez que se fueron por ahí. Tú, Jael, eres el responsable de tu hermanito. Él es muy chico para irse tan lejos”.
Jael se sonrojó, recargando el brazo sobre el hombro del hermanito. “Es más rápido y fuerte de lo que crees”.
Tobía irradió.
Las sombras mudas vespertinas cayeron de lado al juntarse las nubes.
Jonás agitó el dedo contra los pequeños. “Se irán a la cama sin cenar. Eso les enseñará para que piensen antes de irse de vagos por ahí. Son suertudos que Eoban pasaba por ahí”. Alzó la mirada. “¿Cuántas veces ha ocurrido esto, Eoban?”
Ambos vaguitos echaban miradas a su madre y a Eoban, frotándose para estimular la circulación de la sangre en sus cuerpos.
Eoban forzó el entrecejo desaprobando. “Tres veces, Jonás. Los he atrapado tres veces. Solo las deidades conocen cuántas veces se han ido de vagos”.
“Tres veces son demasiadas veces. He sido muy indulgente”.
“¡Pero Eoban viaja!”, Jael chilló. “Va al norte para comerciar y se entera de las cosas en tierras lejanas. Va adonde se le da la gana”. Sus ojos destellaron con resentimiento.
Onías se levantó y posó las manos sobre el hombro de cada uno de sus hijos. “Tu madre es sabia. Ella ha visto a bestias salvajes atacar a los viajeros fatigados y a seres queridos padecer enfermedades y muerte. Hagan lo que dice. Váyanse ahora”, les dijo, sacudiéndoles el pelo con cariño.
Con los hombros caídos, los chicos se metieron a la casa sin ninguna prisa.
Onías se volvió a Eoban. “Gracias, amigo. Siempre eres tan gentil con nosotros. ¿Cómo sobreviviría esta aldea si no estuvieras aquí para rescatar a nuestros hijos de sus travesuras?
Se encogió de hombros, dando un suspiro, con falsa humildad.
Desde tiempos inmemorables, vagamos y sobrevivimos, y ahora hemos encontrado paz, nuestros jóvenes quieren viajar a tierras extranjeras”. La mirada fija de Onías remontó hacia el creciente nubarrón. “¿Qué se nos va?”
Eoban se cruzó de brazos, meciéndose sobre los talones. “Un muchacho no es tan diferente a la semilla de un gran árbol. Ambos deben ir a un lugar propio y empujar todo lo que les estorbe mientras se estiran hacia el sol. Están vivos y creciendo. En alguna ocasión el ser atrevidos les será útil”.
Jonás entró a la vivienda para echar un vistazo.
Eoban bajó la voz, acercándose a Onías. “Yo sé que no quieres escuchar esto, pero sería bueno contar con más exploradores que intercambien y escuchen las noticias del mundo. Beneficiaría el prepararnos para lo que sea. Además, me parece recordar una época cuando te gustaba explorar lejos”.
Jonás pegó la carcajada al acercarse junto a su esposo, apapachando su brazo.
Eoban se enderezó. “Es verdad; el clan depende mucho de mí”. Despidió su preocupación con un ademán. “Todavía puedo aguantarlo, pero debes entrenar a tus muchachos para que me reemplacen cuando me ponga viejo y requiera de descanso. Bastaría con tres o cuatro hijos”.
A Onías le dio risita al ver a Jonás sacudir la cabeza.
Eoban se abrió paso por la villa, luego se volvió y llamó. “Dile a los chicos que tengo cerdo asado para la cena, y me lo tendré que comer yo solo porque no pueden venir a ayudarme”. Dio la vuelta y desapareció detrás de una vivienda.
Los labios de Jonás dibujaron una sonrisa suave. “¿Lo ves? Nunca se sabe quién nos está cuidando. Veremos lo que trae el futuro”.
Onías alzó los ojos hacia las nubes que se juntaban. Pronto la negra noche las cobijaría. Solo en la memoria las estrellas centelleantes y una luna creciente hablan de una luz distante e invisible.
Capítulo IV.
—EL RÍO—
—El Encuentro de Aram en la Antigua Tierra—
Ishtar sabía que, si se oscurecía más, se pasaría del lugar de aterrizaje. Tenían que remar más rápido. La noche se aproximaba. Su misión, así como tres canoas llenas con los guerreros de su padre dependían de él para que hiciera su parte. El agua -todavía fría por la nieve derritiéndose en su descenso de las montañas allende- contrastaba con el vapor subiendo del cuerpo trabajado.
Se acordó de las instrucciones de su padre y la mirada disciplinante de su mamá. Era muy joven para la tarea, según su mamá, aunque ambos sabían que no era estrictamente verdad. Otros hombres de su edad salían en misiones relámpago, y hasta ahora, solo una había sido exitosa.
Con una sacudida, se propuso concentrar en la costa para encontrar el sitio exacto donde él y su padre, Neb, se habían conocido hacía unos meses.
Durante un largo viaje de cacería en la estación seca cuando las noches eran frías, su padre había visto señas de un poblado al sur. Después de investigar, Neb sonrió en su forma habitual. Ahí ante su mirada codiciosa, un pueblo desaparecía (¿). Los habitantes parecían ser fuertes, si bien no amantes de la guerra.
Ishtar reconoció el brillo en los ojos de su padre. Sus atrevidos soldados llevarían a cabo un ataque sorpresa para capturar prisioneros y llevarse un botín de herramientas a gusto. El corazón codicioso de Neb se había regocijado.
Mientras que el remo rebanaba el agua oscura, Ishtar acomodó la quijada. Conocía su deber y lo que su padre le exigía. Neb seguía con una fuerza mayor. Él envió a Ishtar a espiar la tierra de antemano, y a asegurarse que todo estuviera bien. Ishtar prepararía un reporte tan pronto como su padre aterrizara.
Cada guerrero había sido criado desde temprana edad para ser su mayor orgullo y logro el ser lo más terrible y aguerrido en la batalla. Algunos esclavos incluso adquirían su libertad mediante hazañas a favor del clan Río.
Ishtar sabía que el número de esclavos que traían a casa determinaría el éxito del asalto. Requerían de hombres y mujeres saludables. En caso de fallar, enfrentaría un castigo.
Ishtar recordó el castigo impuesto a Elam cuando éste falló la última misión. Cerró los ojos. Neb era bueno con aquellos que le servían bien, pero duro con quienes fallaban. La imagen todavía lo perseguía en las noches. Podía visualizar la mirada risueña de Elam cuando jugaban de niños en el agua. Imaginaba la mirada juvenil rebosante de orgullo de un hombre joven de cuerpo bronceado, pelo negro y grueso, y la barba inicial que le brotaba del rostro. Pensó que no podía causar daño a nadie. Luego vino el día de la batalla cuando Elam había guiado a sus hombres en dirección equivocada. Al terminar la escaramuza, los ojos de Elam se inundaron de vergüenza y angustia.
Pero los ojos de Neb se endurecieron como los de un felino acechante, nocturno, rojos y flamantes como el fuego, empero fríos y despiadados.
Elam falleció poco después a causa de ese sistema de justicia rígido. Ishtar no seguía los razonamientos de Neb. Solo conocía el aspecto y los sonidos de un hombre moribundo atormentado.
Ishtar sacudió la cabeza para disipar las telarañas de la duda. Su padre no siempre había sido tan duro. Él había cambiado como un árbol descuidado con enredaderas que le provocan la pérdida de su forma. Fu después de haber roto con el gran clan. Cruzaron vastas planicies y finalmente llegaron hasta las ansiadas tierras ribereñas.
Capítulo V.
—WOODLAND—
El Sol Naciente
Aram despertó al ruido de un murmuro discordante. Se enderezó, restregándose los ojos, y emergió de su tienda improvisada. Una vez levantado, revisó el panorama ante él. No tan lejos, Namah señaló en la distancia. Otros gruñeron a su alrededor, y ella negó con la cabeza vigorosamente.
Despabilándose, Aram se levantó. Un recuerdo efímero de su pesadilla lo congeló en el lugar. El felino monstruoso lo había atacado por la espalda, hundiéndole los dientes. Aun podía sentir los dientes fríos, filosos del felino y un olor húmedo a animal salvaje. Estremeciéndose, se talló los brazos. Echando un vistazo, se convenció que el felino no merodeaba por ahí. Entonces miró a la muchedumbre. El descontento del clan no era tan fiero, pero peligroso, sin embargo.
“Las planicies están ante nosotros, y no tenemos refugio ahí. Necesitamos retroceder hacia tierras que entendamos”. Barak, ceño fruncido en la frente, agitó los brazos al repetir la misma cantaleta una y otra vez, sin que nadie lo escuchara.
Aram casi sintió simpatía por él.
“Temes a las tierras llanas demasiado”. Namah siseó su desprecio con efectividad. Miró a Aram una última vez, y quiso tantearlo una última vez antes de retroceder. “¿A qué le temes, Barak, a las aves o al pastizal?”
Unas risitas se escucharon entre la gente.
Barak sacudió sus brazos flojos, como queriéndoles dar un mejor uso. “No conocemos esas tierras ni la gente que habita allá. Los clanes de los guerreros nos esclavizarán y nos matarán si no tenemos cuidado. Estamos exhaustos y sin protección. Debemos regresar a una tierra en donde estemos a salvo”.
Capítulo VI.
—EL CLAN RÍO—
Los Gritos De Batalla
El cuerpo de Ishtar dolía por dormir, pero las imágenes danzaban por sus ojos turbados. Su padre había esperado para atacar. Cuando las aldeas dormían, atacaron. Neb les había ordenado matar a tantos ancianos como fuera posible, y matar a todo joven que se resistiera. “Dejen a las mujeres y los niños como esclavos”.
Eran guerreros hábiles. La obediencia ciega era la norma. Poco antes del ataque, habían bailado ante una fogata rugiente, y cantado al unísono de los gritos de guerra de Neb. Habían bebido a satisfacción, y su sangre corría caliente con el deseo de encarar su fuerza con la del enemigo. Cuando se apresuraron hacia el campamento silencioso, sus gritos hicieron eco por la vasta expansión. Los chillidos de las mujeres y niños aterrorizados y las protestas de los débiles ancianos hirvieron en un tumulto de locura.
Ishtar había escuchado recuentos vívidos de ataques antes, pero nada se comparaba con la realidad aterradora de atravesar a un anciano indefenso con una lanza. Las mujeres y los niños llorando eran arrastrados de sus hogares, mientras que padres y hermanos luchaban en vano por defenderlos. Sus sentidos aumentaban el horror. Sin embargo, se sentía como si fuera un mero espectador, incluso al comprometer su cuchillo y lanza en acción. Nadie cuestionaba su habilidad de matar. La sangre escurría de sus manos, e incluso manchaba sus pies desnudos.
Al calentarse frente a la fogata, repasaba el ataque en su mente. Lo perseguía el recuerdo de ojos pidiendo piedad. Pero ya le habían advertido que esto podría pasar. Otros guerreros habían regresado con los ojos rojos de llorar, y los labios apretados. Pero una vez que se habían repartido los esclavos y las herramientas, la villa regresó a sus rutinas cotidianas. Inclusive los esclavos parecían resignados a su destino, sin añoranza de regresar a sus aldeas derruidas o a su pueblo desalentado.
Mas Ishtar no podía cerrar sus ojos en paz, ni ignorar las imágenes de las miradas aterradas de los aldeanos al darse cuenta de que la muerte era inevitable. Incluso las miradas cristalinas invisibles de aquellos impotentes se levantaron y hablaron como ninguna palabra lo haría. Los niños eran los que hablan más fuerte -aunque sus labios solo temblaban. Una ola de poderosas preguntas se levantó en la mente de Ishtar. Fallando, las lanzó lejos.
Forzó la mirada tratando de atravesar la negra noche.
Ninguna estrella brillaba. Incluso la luna se ocultó de la vista. Las nubes debieron haber encubierto las luces distantes que les habían auxiliado en su campaña asesina.
El rostro de un anciano al que había conocido en sus primeros años flotaba ante sus ojos. Un sirviente gentil sin familia cuidaba a los niños. Ishtar se sentaban con el anciano, y comía sobras de carne seca y nueces de su bolsa. Él contó historias de un Dios Creador que formó las tierras con su mano poderosa y escarbó los lagos y los ríos. Mandó lluvias y tormentas, levantaba la gran bola de fuego cada mañana para contar con el día, y la arrastraba bajo el horizonte para que pudiéramos descansar en la frescura de la noche. Cada historia entretenía a Ishtar y alimentaba el manantial de su ser.
“Ah, mi viejo amigo, ¿en dónde estás? Ojalá me pudiera sentar junto a ti y escuchar tus historias una vez más”.
Cubriéndose la boca con sus manos en un miedo paralizante, se irguió. Sintió un escalofrío en su rostro mientras un frío recorrió su espalda. Al ver el sueño ligero de los otros guerreros, apagó un quejido y se acostó. Una piedra se le encajó en la espalda. Se dio la vuelta, moviendo la puerta, la arrojó a un lado.
La cabeza de Ned asomó por el otro lado del círculo durmiente. Sus ojos de gato buscaron para luego reposar sobre su hijo.
Ishtar se paralizó. Podía sentir la mirada quemante de su padre. Aguardó. Lentamente la silueta de Neb se asentó. Todo era silencio. Ishtar cerró los ojos por la centésima vez.
En su mente, una mujer con ojos color cielo apareció a la mitad del día. Su piel brillaba como cobre pulido, y su cabellera negra brillaba como la tierra a la orilla de un río. Levantó una mano como para amonestar, sus ojos turbados. “¿Por qué sigues a tu madre hacia el mal?”.
La garganta de Ishtar se apretó. El dolor se arremolinó desde detrás de sus ojos. “los inocentes claman”.
El corazón de Ishtar latía tanto que parecía explotar de su pecho.
“Se te responsabilizará por cada acto que has hecho esta noche”.
Y como si el piso bajo sus pies cediera, Ishtar agarró su túnica, tratando de equilibrarse.
“Pero no desesperes, porque aún los culpables de gran maldad pueden cambiar de sendero”. La mujer se esfumó en la negra noche.
La mirada de Ishtar viajó por el campamento silencioso. Exhaló larga y lentamente. Cerró los ojos. Alguien sacudió bruscamente su brazo. Su padre permanecía de pie sobre él.
Neb miró de cerca en la oscuridad. “¡Despierta! ¡Debilucho como muchacha!” Su voz irrumpió como ramas secas.
“Sí, padre” Ishtar se apretó el estómago. “Comí demasiado después de tanta emoción”. Sonrió forzadamente para cubrir su confusión.
Neb miró de cerca la asamblea durmiente, ofreciendo una mueca. “Vuelve a dormir. Hay trabajo en la mañana”.
Ishtar se volteó de lado, y escuchó los pasos de su padre alejarse. ¿Maldad? Ishtar meditó en la palabra desde varios ángulos. ¿Cómo era concebible que todo lo que se le había inculcado estuviera equivocado? Las preguntas lo invadieron. ¡Quizás era el principio de la locura! Las lágrimas hicieron arder sus ojos parpadeantes. Se forzó a permanecer quieto.
¿Adónde podría ir? ¿A quién pedir ayuda? “Ay, ayúdame, viejo amigo. Que alguien me ayude”. Apretó sus ojos, así como sus puños.
Una visión del viejo se levantó frente a él, su voz tan gentil como siempre. “La maldad no es la fuerza más grande del universo”.
El terrible tumulto en la cabeza de Ishtar amainó y una lágrima solitaria rodó sobre su rostro.
Capítulo VII.
—EL PASTIZAL—
CARRERA CONTRA EL VIENTO
Obed se sentó sobre una piedra blanca y lisa a la orilla de la corriente. El agua burbujeante seguía su cauce sobre piedrillas blancas, formando un camino que la encauzaba desde las colinas del norte a cierta distancia, tierra desconocida en el distante sur. Su mirada recorría ligeramente el agua cristalina.
Una brisa fresca irrumpió por la planicie y agitó el lánguido pastizal. Sopló en su pelo, que había escapado un teñido de cuero. Talló su corta barba castaña, que hacía juego con su pelo fluido.
Al empuñar una raíz chueca, la estudió. Unos cerdos y cabras comían estas raíces, causándoles enfermedad y muerte tiempo después. No parecía enfermarlos luego, luego, sino solo después de una prolongada dieta.
Hace unos días mientras visitaba a Onías, Jonás había traído una comida. En ella se hallaba un platillo con estas mismas raíces, cocidas y hechas puré. Cuando preguntó sobre ellas, Jonás le dijo que las acababa de descubrir. A Onías le encantó, aunque no a los niños. Pero Jonás estaba desilusionada porque no le había quedado como a su mamá, y no sabía tan bien como ella recordaba.
¿Acaso podría ser esta raíz la causa de la enfermedad de Onías? Si tenía razón, podía salvarle la vida.
De pronto, el cuerpo delgado moreno de Jael se vio. Corrió con los brazos abiertos como si quisiera atrapar al viento. El niño, al ver a Obed, gritó “OOOBBED” al viento.
Obed levantó la vista al vasto cielo azul, como si le quisiera pedir al cielo su abundante que compartiera su paciencia.
“Obed, ¿adivina qué? Sé que no sabes. ¡Es asombroso!” Jael se soltó platicando mientras tomaba la mano de Obed. “¿Te acuerdas del cabrito enfermo que encontramos? Bien, pues mejoró, y lo curé yo mismo. No me mires así. Sabes que digo la verdad. ¿Te acuerdas que no comía, y que dijiste que moriría? Pues, pensé en la porquería del búho que una vez me mostraste, y cómo los búhos deben escupir para que puedan comer otra vez. Me dije a mí mismo que quizás el cabrito tenía algo adentro que necesitaba expulsar. Así que fui por esa hierba que te hace crecer -la que me prohibiste tocar. Se la di al cabrito. No la quería comer, pero lo obligué porque pensé que moriría si no se la daba. Bueno, vomitó y luego se echó, y cerró los ojos. Pensé que estaba muerto. Pero cuando lo llevé a la pastura, comenzó a comer de nuevo como los otros. Lo curé, ¿verdad?” Sus ojos oscuros imploraban a Obed.
Obed pasó los dedos de la mano por la cabellera espesa del niño, una sonrisa sobre sus labios. “Sí, claro. Eres muy listo, y has hecho más bien de lo que crees, Jael”.
El niño relumbró, jaloneando la mano de Obed. “Vamos, le diremos a todos. Todos se alegrarán de que salvé a un cabrito, ¿verdad?”
“Seguro que sí”. Obed dejó que Jael lo bajara de la tibia roca. Echó una última mirada al agua bulliciosa, luego dejó que la mano de Jael mientras que el chico corría a contra viento sobre el pastizal ondulante rumbo a casa.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother.
Make the most of life’s journey.
For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
OldEarth Aram Encounter English
OldEarth Aram Encounter Spanish
OldEarth Aram Encounter Italian
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/translation-keyboard-computer-7774314/
The post Translations at Their Best first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 20, 2024
A Character Short Story
A Character Short Story offers insight into why a character acts the way he does and highlights the circumstances that shape the emotional landscape of a story. In this short story, the character Andy Wei from the novel Fly, Sparrow, Fly doesn’t fully understand the consequences of his actions, but despite better options, he chooses his path and changes his life forever.
At just six foot, Andy Wei stood eye-to-eye with most of his college freshman classmates, and when he and three friends gathered at a local lakeside on a cool September evening, his charming personality combined with his natural good looks set the stage for a prosperous start to the next stage of his academic career.
Bringing to bear all the confidence of a guy with an indulgent mother and a proud, successful father, he happily paid for enough beer to keep him and his companions well-lubricated into the wee hours of the night. As he set the heavy cooler on the wooden picnic table, he looked around at the other guys, all with empty hands, and snorted. Somebody had better have brought snacks.
Josh, a heavy-set, copper-skinned, nineteen-year-old who struggled to get to his classes on time, swished a beer out of the cooler’s icy depths, plunked down, and crossed his thick legs on the grassy embankment facing the lake. He grinned as Andy returned to his car, dragged a green and blue striped blanket from the trunk, and tossed it haphazardly on the ground. Josh raised one eyebrow. “What do you carry an old blanket around for? Got a girl to cuddle with on date nights?”
Andy grabbed a beer from the cooler, twisted it open, and took a healthy swig. Then he kicked part of the blanket straight and stretched out on it. “Habit. My mom put it in there, saying I might need it if the car ever broke down on a winter night.”
Leif, a tall man even by Scandinavian standards, with a thin, uncertain voice, snatched a beer, kicked off his shoes, and found a spot on the blanket with plenty of distance to respect personal space. A beer dangled between his fingers though he didn’t seem inclined to pop the top just yet. “Cool mom. Though overprotective like most of them.”
Roy, the shortest guy among them with the whitest blond hair Andy had ever seen, returned to his car, rummaged around the back seat and finally pulled out a bulging plastic sack. He tossed it onto the picnic table where it spilled its guts beside the cooler. Bags of chips, pretzels, and beef sticks in red and orange wrapping sprawled across the worn surface in helpless acceptance of their material fate.
Andy had no desire to comment on the “coolness” or “overprotective” nature of his mother. He knew perfectly well that his mom, Nia, spent the majority of the day obsessed with clothing, body lotions, hair care products, and what her nail designer thought of recent social media drama. She probably only tossed the blanket into the trunk of his car because his aunt Rhona had suggested it, and she wanted him to think she came up with the idea herself. He shrugged through a mental head shake. There were a lot of things he didn’t want to think about, and his parents were near the top of the list – but not at the tip-top.
A few moments of silence as the sun melted into the edge of the lake, creating a golden shimmering glow, and allowing a memory to surface. Andy’s English class wasn’t supposed to be hard. He had signed up for it with the express purpose of blowing off as many classes as he could while still keeping an acceptable GPA. But this literature teacher – fool woman – actually wanted to cover Old English to “set the linguistic stage” for the transitional stages to modern English.
He had taken one look at the gibberish she had displayed on the screen and felt his stomach tighten into sickening knots. His dad, Zhang, being full-blooded Chinese, took pride in being smarter than average, though Andy knew that it wasn’t so much mental acuity as a cultural demand. His dad’s parents had come over from mainland China, worked immensely hard, gave Zhang the best available education, and pushed him into a business career, where he flourished and became one of the highest-paid district managers of automotive sales, covering four states. Zhang was smart, but it was his savvy salesmanship that won him clients and built his business.
A hot flush worked over Andy as older memories surfaced: an autumn day in grade school when he was asked to read in front of the class. He had tried to pronounce the words on the page, but they were a jumble of strange letters, some he could swear he had never seen before.
His grandma had helped to match the letter shape with the sounds on flashcards, but when it came to standing up in front of people, the letters seemed to have shifted and reformed in unrecognizable ways. He blurted out what he thought the words might be, but his classmates had laughed, the teacher had frowned, and he found himself in the principal’s room by the end of the week.
It took years for the diagnosis of dyslexia to be confirmed, but his dad refused to believe it. No one in his family had brain trouble!
His mom shielded him as much as she could. She kept their secret well-guarded and hired tutors to coach him so he could get through school. With patience and enough practice, he managed to get excellent scores and keep the pride in his father’s eyes shining bright.
Andy rolled the beer in his hands and stared at where the sun had been.
Josh climbed to his feet, snatched up a bag of chips, ripped it open, and then started munching.
Leif stretched out his arm. “Toss me something.”
Josh threw him the pretzel bag.
Playing the bratty kid, Roy’s voice rose in a whinny falsetto. “Gimme my spicy sticks!”
Josh three him three, smacking him on the arm and legs.
They all laughed.
Once they were all comfortable again, chewing, sipping, and munching, passing around the bags occasionally, Josh pointed a meaty finger at Andy. “What’s with the Old English stuff?” He scratched his face absently. “Might as well have been Greek the way it sounded.”
Andy glanced around, trying to read their faces in the falling light.
Leif shrugged. “It’s not too difficult really. You just have to accept that it is a different language but comes from the same roots—the same way Romance languages come from Latin. If you know the basics of Latin, you can kind of see the pattern.”
Josh shook his head. “Heck, man, I already know Spanish, Quechua, and English! Why does she have to throw another language at me?”
Fear sizzled through Andy. Three languages? The guy knows three! He studied Josh’s faint outline, his fear turning to disgust. It’s so not fair. How come that specimen of humanity gets to speak three languages and I just barely mastered one? He could hear his dad’s voice in his head. “You’ve got my bloodline, boy! We are the smartest people on the planet. Don’t forget that. You represent the best of the best.”
It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask his dad why he had married his mom, the woman his grandparents had described as a “stupid egg” behind her back, but he knew the kind of fury that would unleash, so he had refrained.
His grandparents had tried to teach him Chinese, but he never caught on. Not when American television, schools, and friends kept getting in the way. Besides, they prattled so fast, he couldn’t make head or tail of what they were saying. His ignorance of Chinese didn’t bother him in the least. Not until his little sister, Syn started to pick up words and actually began conversing with his grandparents.
He put a stop to that pretty quick. Called her Chinese Brain to show her that he knew she was just trying to show off. Since the fifteen-year-old girl was naturally shy and self-effacing, his teasing had the desired effect.
The problem was, when he went home last week and happened to leave his Old English assignment on the kitchen table, Syn looked through it and started sounding it out. Worse yet, she seemed to understand it!
He’d never wanted to kill anyone before that moment, but right then, he knew that if pushed hard enough, he could. Without looking up or picking out a face to engage, Andy let his question rise in the brooding darkness. “You ever want to kill someone, see them dead at your feet?”
An owl hooted from the tree line on the far side of the lake. Another answered it.
Their heads up, eyes glinting, the other boys remained silent, staring at him.
Finally, Andy cleared his throat and tried to reclaim his regular-guy personality. “You know, like Hamlet or one of the anti-hero guys from the movies?” He tried to shrug away the shadows. “I just wondered if a normal person could be pushed into it, because, well, circumstances made him do something he wouldn’t ordinarily.”
Lief’s voice wavered as he sat up and wrapped his arms around his legs. “We all have free will. But circumstances change us, give us certain options. Like the guy who has to steal to feed his starving family. He’s not naturally a thief, but he has to do something, and he doesn’t see any other way.”
Josh nodded, climbed to his feet, and got another beer, leaving the crushed empty beside the cooler. “In my opinion, we’re all fallen. No one can be good all the time. It’s not just a matter of circumstance. Sometimes we just get in a bad mood, and we do something mean, or we let selfishness get the better of us. We choose it because, really, if we were honest with ourselves, we want to be bad more than we want to be good. Just part of being human, I guess.”
Roy had laid flat on his back with his hands under his head. He stared at the sky as shimmering stars twinkled into a brilliant array overhead. “My grandad used to say that we are all set in a mold, predestined toward a certain fate, and nothing we do can change that. But after my mom got cancer a couple of years back, she got into a big argument with him. Maybe she had no say in the cancer, but she sure as heck could decide how she would handle it. She wouldn’t let it ruin what life she had left.” His voice cracked. “She’s the best person I know.”
Silence lingered through several moments, as a cool breeze rose, sending ripples across the lake.
A shiver ran down Andy’s arms, and he swallowed the last of his beer and reached for another. Whether he had a choice or not, the image of his little sister’s face as she sounded out the Old English words still sent a bitter shaft through his heart. Perhaps I don’t want her dead. But I can’t be around her, that’s for sure. Aunt Rhona will take care of the brainchild; I’ll take care of myself.
With that resolved in his mind, he dared his friends to a nighttime swim across the lake. It might be risky, but he didn’t care. He nodded at Josh as he stripped off his shirt and long pants, shivering in the sudden chill. The guy was right, sometimes bad seemed better than good.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I am always drawn in by her remarkable talent for writing, her varied and intriguing characters, and especially her stories of human life that make me think, ponder, smile, and become inspired.” ~Jim S
“The collection creates an evocative set of life scenarios that explore good intentions, real-world situations, and acts of quiet love, desperation, and redemption.” ~California Bookwatch
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-lake-peaceful-bench-7760487/
The post A Character Short Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
September 6, 2024
Autumn! My Favorite Season
Autumn! My Favorite Season. After the heat of summer, I look forward to sharp breezes, and earthy colors blazing across the land. The season teaches and nourishes my spirit.
As a kid, raking leaves in my backyard in Milwaukee and piling them into grand mounds – then jumping in – remains one of my best memories. When my husband and I moved to rural Illinois, I raked prodigiously, trying to gather all the leaves from our vast backyard, thinking that such an old, familiar habit must be the right thing to do. The kids loved jumping in the leaf piles, so my exertions seemed justified. Until the year I was so advanced in pregnancy that it was impossible to stretch much less rake leaves. At that point, I resigned myself to clearing away a mess of old leaves the following season.
In the spring I discovered, to my great surprise, that the old leaves were gone. Natural forces had worked a miracle of collaboration that I had little imagined possible, turning the old leaves into rich soil and feeding the land. The longer I lived in the countryside, taking my children out for nature walks, sitting on the back porch and enjoying the sport of birds and insects, attempting my many versions of a garden, I have learned the same lesson repeatedly – nature doesn’t make junk. God’s created world takes care of itself in a slow, cyclical, recreation process.
These days, my problem is packaging. Thank goodness we have a recycling center near our home where I can drop off old cans and worn-out tech gadgets. Glass and plastic remain a challenge. I wish I could toss them into the compost heap near the garden. That magical process has fueled some gigantic zucchini, tomato, pepper, and cucumber plants over the years.
I’ve become so guilt-ridden over unrecyclable, non-compostable, non-reusable glass and plastic packaging that I have started to pay for higher-priced items if they are packaged in recyclable material. Thank goodness the oats container is still made of cardboard! I get giddy over paper. Well aware that milk has a shorter shelf life if not packaged properly, I would still take my chances on a recyclable package than the containers that fill my trash every week.
In the same way that I had to reconsider my leaf-raking habit, I review my buying habits to reflect more thoughtful living. Making meals from frozen garden produce, eating less meat, planning simpler menus, and buying less stuff has awarded me a peace of mind and heart I hadn’t thought possible. Growing up with the adage that every meal had to be magazine worthy, that products (healthy, beauty, utility) made life better and easier, reminds me of how a world of instant technology seems to have quadrupled the red tape in our modern systems. How many email addresses, passwords, and PINs must I memorize before I go mad in my advanced society? More stuff and instant dunners have not made me happier or healthier.
My kids have long since grown out of jumping into leaf piles, but we still enjoy the beauty of autumn foliage. The joy of the season remains despite a change of routine. I have no desire to climb on a bandwagon and beat the drums of personal or collective guilt. There are plenty of things I can do more thoughtfully each day. Packaging annoys me because it reminds me of the little things in life that make a big difference. It’s easier to stick with a comfortable routine, even if it doesn’t make sense. But easier isn’t always better.
This autumn, I only have one child left in our Frailey Family Homeschool, and she’s too grown up to jump in a pile of leaves. Instead, I’ll stroll across the land and admire the beauty of autumn as it whispers the wonders of restraint, simplicity, and recyclable packaging.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“I loved reading Ann’s wise, hope-giving thoughts about life and love. Truly, life is the art of overcoming obstacles and becoming stronger to live a fuller life. Beautiful work!” ~Ksenia
“…bring fresh inspiration for the day on life, love, and overcoming obstacles with faith” ~CBM
“I was really challenged and uplifted by this book.” ~Baumgardner
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/photos/autumn-leaves-border-frame-foliage-1649362/
The post Autumn! My Favorite Season first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
August 23, 2024
A Main Character Story
A Main Character Story offers me insight to understand motivations and write honestly about the people depicted in my literary fiction.
Derm’s full name was Dermid, which means “without envy” in some ancient language he didn’t know, and he supposed he lived up to his name pretty well, but he sure hated being told what to do.
He plunked down on a wooden bench outside the Oldtown US Post Office with a mural of Abraham Lincoln’s face staring at him from the west wall of The People’s Savings & Loan just across Main Street.
There was nothing for it but to wait for Braden, his oldest friend in the world, to show up and pass along the sewing circle’s newest decree. How that highly sensitive man had navigated through life for seventy years, managed the largest grain bin operation in the county, and stayed married to the town’s greatest busybody was a mystery beyond all comprehension.
At sixty-one, Derm wasn’t much different from when he was sixteen, or six, for that matter. Life just happened, and he made the best of each situation as it came along. If there was ever a case where he might admit to feelings of envy, it would be when a benevolent citizen corralled him into a good deed. Then envy would rear its monstrous head, and he’d wish he were a cold, careless man who—with a dictatorial expression and a steady hand—could direct someone else to accomplish the do-good t
Unlocking the mysteries of math and chemistry to bewildered students online and puttering around his woodshop in peace was his idea of clear-eyed decency. Heavyset with a bit of a belly, he preferred to move slow and stay calm. He’d act nice when he felt like it. He hated being asked.
His family had roots going back generations in Oldtown, so he knew the place well. With eleven thousand people, the town board liked to advertise that they had a “Farm Town Feel with City Advantages.”
Perfectly ridiculous.
Nearly all the big farm families had passed away generations ago. He stared at a stately mansion just off Main Street on Walnut Road, which had been converted into a modern apartment building. Garish yellow steps on the east and west sides led to tiny porches on each of the three floors. Bare, dirty windows, one with prickly cactus plants crowding the pane, depressed his spirits. Whatever happened to frilly curtains and flowers?
Land bought by huge corporations — even if a family man ran the day-to-day operation — was big business, feeding an international market. The memory of encountering a mammoth tractor on a narrow rural road last spring, his compact Ford Focus nearly tipping over an embankment, was enough to make him break out in an anxious sweat. Wonder if I could just stay home through harvest season…
An unshaven guy in a torn jacket, wearing oversized jeans, toting a sack filled with foodstuff and a pair of worn sneakers under his arm, stepped from the Do unto Others Food Pantry & Clothes Closet, jogged across the street, and leaped onto the sidewalk in front of Derm. Why the heck can’t he get a job and earn his keep like—
The guy tripped and started to fall.
Propelled from his comfortable seat, Dermid reached out and caught his arm.
Fear widened the stranger’s eyes.
Anguish twisted inside Derm. He plucked the dropped shoes off the sidewalk and handed them back. “You okay?”
The man, only a kid really, nodded in silence; a flush worked up his cheeks. He dropped his gaze and shoved the shoes back under his arm.
There’s a story there, something bad. Or sad. Probably both.
City people had moved in, bringing their troubles with them. Drugs and unemployment mostly. Lots of broken families with kids running wild. An image of sister-in-law’s family rose in his mind. Odd people, he would never understand, no matter how hard he tried.
He watched the young guy hurry away, heading toward Mike’s Repair Shop, until his view was blocked by a tall thin figure.
Braden ambled down the street with waves of gazes and hellos breaking in his wake the way a late summer breeze sent leaves fluttering. Everyone knew Braden. Everyone liked Braden. He was not only rich as Midas, but he was as kind as St. Teresa. Often as not, he’d be found in the food pantry stuffing vegetable cans and boxes of rice and beans into waiting bags. Without embarrassing commentary, he’d notice that a person’s shoes were worn, so with uncanny accuracy, he’d snatch the correct size from a back shelf and stuff them in along with the baby carrots.
Dermid shook his head even as a smile spread across his face. He didn’t consider himself an emotional man, in fact, he took pride in his Scottish reserve. But when it came to Braden, it was impossible not to love the guy.
The far-away look in Braden’s eyes drifted along as he made his way to the post office.
Feeling silly, Dermid offered a polite salute, in the hope that his friend wouldn’t walk by, completely forgetting their appointment.
As if waking from a dream, Braden’s gaze focused, and he directed determined steps right to Dermid. “Good morning, my friend!”
Fresh anxiety washed over Dermid. Braden was using his extra cheerful tone, the one he always used when about to impart momentous news: the acquisition of a new grain company, a new deal with foreign investors, or his wife’s latest project. Please, let him have bought half of China! Not Ada’s newest scheme.
“So, so, so!” Braden flopped down on the bench next to Derm like a scarecrow taking a breather from demanding crows. His gaze swept over Dermid and then sprinted across the street and fixed on Old Abe’s face. “You are the man I’ve been looking for.”
Dermid tried to speak but his throat had suddenly gone quite dry.
“Ada’s gone and had one of her brainstorms. One of her best!”
Unable to control himself, Dermid folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs. His troubled niece, Syn, had told him that his body language screamed at her, and she could always tell when he was going to deny an earnest plea. Which he did most of the time, he had to admit. He tried to brace himself, frantically considering ways to head his friend’s request off at the pass. “Well, that’s nice. I wish I had time to be—”
“She’s nominated you as President of Restful Glen!”
Attempting to wrap his mind around being president of anything while an image of the town cemetery rose in his mind, Dermid found himself too perplexed to speak. He gurgled a bit, but that hardly helped matters.
Braden leaned back and stretched; his arms embraced the back of the bench, a man with a leisurely moment to explain the glory of life’s opportunities to his good friend.
Dermid couldn’t help but squirm. He didn’t want responsibility! Not even for dead people. Gosh, golly, how did Ada come up with these things? He stared at his friend, very aware that his eyes had narrowed considerably, and if Braden had dared to engage in eye contact, he would know immediately what Dermid thought of Ada’s idea.
But Braden was much too smart for that. He kept his head tilted up, his chin practically pointing at Old Abe in some kind of salute to the Great American Spirit—Hard Work! Honesty! Responsibility!
I am not falling for it. I am not doing any fool thing like—
Braden spoke softly but managed to run right over Dermid’s private battlefield. “Ten thousand five hundred twenty-four people have been buried in our cemetery, and families trust our community to see to the repose of their loved ones. It’s a sacred trust. You know the story of Tobit who risked his life to bury the dead, whereby his son was aided by the angel Raphael? It’s a beautiful example of virtue being its own reward.”
Finally, Braden let his gaze drop, and it landed hard on Dermid. “Our ancestors deserve respect even in death. They remind us of the past and warn us against a dangerous future. If we forget them and refuse to serve our community, what will be our reward?”
Dang blast it! I knew he’d come up with something I couldn’t refute. Not logically. Not even emotionally. Dermid’s shoulders sank along with his spirit. Good deeds were such a hard burden to carry. Mute, Dermid merely stared at his new work boots.
With a grand pat on the back, Aden accepted the silence as compliance and rose to his feet. “I know you, Derm. You’ve got a heart of gold buried under rich topsoil.”
Derm looked up and met his friend’s smiling face. He almost smiled but muttered a complaint instead. “I haven’t the foggiest notion on how to run a cemetery.”
Braden laughed. “No worries there, my friend. Ada is the treasurer, and her friend, Elspeth, takes all the notes and keeps track of things. They do most of the daily stuff. Someone just needs to run the meetings, suggest improvements, and be the caring face people come to when they’re looking to bury a loved one or find the final resting place of a long-lost relative.”
Oh, is that all? Rising to his full height of five’ ten”, Dermid towered a good four inches over the town nabob, and sucked in a deep breath, ready to slap down the crazy offer with every ounce of dignity he could muster. But as he stared into his friend’s eyes, behind the bold pretense of Old Testament Nobility, a plea for understanding glimmered in their depths. Two thoughts crashed in Derm’s mind simultaneously, demolishing the words on his lips. Ada can’t be easy to live with. I always admired Tobit.
Somehow, in the split-second hesitation, the battle was won, and both men knew it.
Braden’s smile rose to his eyes and beamed all over Oldtown Main Street. “There’s a meeting on the first Monday of the month at 6:00 pm in the Quilt & Sew Shop back room. You don’t need to bring anything. Elspeth will have the agenda all written out, and she’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
I bet she will. As his friend began to make his way down the street, Dermid nodded, fully aware that he had been defeated from the get-go. His only comfort was getting home to his wife and telling Rhona all about it. His heart lighter, he grinned at the thought. Rhona, the love of his life, would dearly sympathize as he described this early morning foray into the messy reality of town life.
He’d sit at their polished kitchen table while she washed the last of the garden vegetables in the sink. And they’d talk it over, considering all the pros and cons, figuring out ways to make the whole thing manageable. She might even make him an apple pie to ease his pain. As Braden strolled down the quiet street, Dermid started for home. Perhaps virtue would have its own reward.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check outA. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“One of the strengths of the collection is the author’s ability to create an entire world in just a few pages, leaving the reader wanting more. The stories are compact and move at a brisk pace, yet are filled with drama and excitement.” ~Gina Mitchell
“The collection creates an evocative set of life scenarios that explore good intentions, real-world situations, and acts of quiet love, desperation, and redemption.” ~California Bookwatch
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-autumn-village-8529089/
The post A Main Character Story first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
August 2, 2024
Human Connections Novels
Human Connections Novels help to bridge our interpersonal lives. Whether we are related by blood, love, or circumstances, the lessons we learn shape our world.
What do the following three sentences have in common?
Clare, wearing a long nightshirt, stood in her living room before an antique bookshelf, holding a family photo of herself as a baby in her mother’s arms… Relevance studied storm clouds as big as motherships progress across the somber sky, dropping rain showers as they went…The spring I turned eight was wet and stormy…They are the first lines in recently completed work. In the first novel, Newearth Progeny, Clare Erlandson discovers that motherhood means a whole lot more than she imagined possible. In the second novel, Newearth Relevance, her son learns what family really looks like. And in the third – a children’s story – Wise Home, a little girl discovers that wisdom isn’t for adults only.
Though there’s still work to do on each project, I feel a blessed sense of completion. These stories have been developing in my mind and pounding on my heart for a long time. It’s a joy to finally birth them onto the page. Where they go from here is still a mystery but one I am willing to accept for now.
As I focused my energy on writing this summer, I contemplated how my various books, stories, reflections, and poems connect. While weeding the garden, explaining the benefits of not overdoing things to the zucchini plants, I realized that they (my books, not the zucchini) exist in the same universe. In a unique way, they all belong in a world where animals have something important to say, and humanity needs to listen to an inner voice that often gets drowned out in our technically advanced society.
Mapping the books’ connections was tricky, but here is a start.
A map of the family lineage in the OldEarth Encounter series clearly shows how the families are tied together. DNA spoke even before we had Ancestry.com.
The first three books in the OldEarth world involved Aram, Ishtar, and Neb. Georgios arrived on the scene in the first century AD, and Melchior continued the family lineage in the fifth century.
The family line carried through ancient history right into the modern world in the lifeblood of Anne Smith in Last of Her Kind. Though Anne’s direct lineage ceases, the Newearth world picks up with Kendra – a direct descendant of Doctor Mitchell and Clare – a blood relation to Mr. Erlandson, the principal who tried to help Anne during her crisis pregnancy.
The next Newearth novels continue with the same characters, so their connections are clear.
My short story collections, It Might Have Been and Other Stories and One Day at a Time and Other Stories are set in our contemporary world, which would have been right before Last of Her Kind. The Adventures of Tally-Ho would fit there, too.
Homestead is an offshoot, an alternate future of Last of Her Kind but would fall into that same era of human history.
Encounter and other Science Fiction Stories & Novella and my poetry collection, Hope’s Embrace, belong in the Newearth Universe, reflecting the post-contemporary world and the transition from a human-dominated planet to a place where humans are in the minority and alien races hold an uneasy alliance.
Of course, I can’t honestly fit The Road Goes Ever On – A Christian Journey Through The Lord of the Rings and my two My Road books into the OldEarth or Newearth universes, except to allude to the honest reality of a woman trying her best to make sense of a bewildering world.
It seems clear to me, in reflection of my efforts to join various storylines, that connecting the dots between our human experiences throughout history and within family and community groups isn’t always possible. Perhaps it is better this way. The mystery of our connectivity, hidden DNA lineage, generational families, and shared cultures and societies allows our imaginations to fill in the dots.
The human race is intimately joined in ways we have yet to discover—with or without DNA tests—leading from a shadowed past to an unforeseen future.
The best thing about facing each new day is seeing where it will take us. Rise and shine; it’s time to pick up a good book and enjoy the journey.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8.
Make the most of life’s journey.
For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Amazon Author Page
“The history is fascinating, the characters are uniquely intriguing, the plot is very rich, and the events are fascinating.” ~OnlineBookClub
“Highly imaginative and intelligently executed, Last of Her Kind is a spellbinding science fiction that is rich in imagery, rippling with conflict, and peppered with deeply moving scenes.” ~Cristina Prescott, The Book Commentary
“As usual, Ann Frailey doesn’t disappoint. Her heartfelt, down-to-earth stories are filled with real-life experiences and emotions that you can almost feel like you are experiencing them as well as you read. She’s one of the best authors I’ve ever read.” ~Ron
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out
For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out
A. K. Frailey’s Translated Books
Photo https://pixabay.com/illustrations/ai-generated-stars-human-x-ray-8710889/
The post Human Connections Novels first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
May 3, 2024
Puppies, Gardens, and Books
Puppies, Gardens, and Books make for a full life. Adopting new puppies was not on my to-do list, though gardening and books are always a happy part of summer. Despite getting older, my overall health has improved, thanks to a saner schedule and a slower pace. Mixing active work with quiet time has been a solution long needed but too often ignored. Modern society pushes a hyperactive existence, which makes me wonder why. What does excessive business prove? Nature in its most innocent forms allows me to focus on the good and the beautiful without an attempt to earn anything. Profit and pups don’t mix well. Gardens may produce, but they respond to slow, steady care best. Books to inform me about the real world or escape into a startling universe offer a fresh perspective to enlarge both mind and soul.
We have yet to name our two newest family puppies, though a vote is on, and, at some point, we’ll all agree. The process of including divergent voices can be complicated. There was a moment when a dictatorship and a firm decree started to look good. But easier isn’t always better. It’s hard to allow for different opinions, especially when they do not align with my own. Many of our cats have been bequeathed with names I could never remember. However, listening to unique, personal voices and appreciating their victories makes for a better world. The puppies don’t appear to have any opinions about their names; they are happy with cuddles, plenty of food, and chew toys to attack. Feeding, clean-up, training, and daily care will be shared, with me taking the slack when the situation calls for it. Animals, in their innocent need to be loved, offer one of life’s greatest joys. Their response to devotion is devotion. Though we may not agree on names yet, these puppies have lovely spirits, and, on that, we all agree.
Heavy rainstorms and a few freezing nights forced me to wait until late April to plant my seedlings outside. I was rather proud of my efforts. Well-till soil, a few planting tubs and boxes, and even an assortment of tomato and vine cages made the garden bed look nearly professional. Unfortunately, some early seedlings didn’t make it through the transition. I swallowed my pride and humbly paid for a few good-sized plants, in order to have something to harvest before winter sets in. Still, when I stand in the yard and survey the burgeoning little plants, watch the myriads of songbirds swoop from their houses–which I have strategically placed all over the yard out of cat-paw reach–consider the flowering bushes I planted year after year, and appreciate the sheer variety of life buzzing, flying, wriggling, swaying, stretching and growing all over, I am filled with wonder and gratitude. The joy of a garden is not just in the tomatoes and peppers that will be made into spicy salsa in the autumn but in a grand and glorious reality beyond myself. I may tend to plants, but I cannot make them thrive. In that mystery of growth, leading to healthy fruit, I find a wealth of peace, trusting God’s abundant vitality.
I have been reading several biographies that clued me into the hearts, minds, and chosen behaviors of several people involved in the Star Trek television show and movies. I loved the show as a child and always imagined that being in such a production offered high levels of grace. Instead, I was surprised at how troubled lives and insensitive choices were a large part of such an influential force in the world. It reminded me of the DNA that each human being inherits from his or her parents. My husband and I used to say that we hoped our kids got the best of both of us, not the worst of each of us. Yet, in truth, as I look back over our lineage, I see a mix of inherited traits and chosen willfulness. And so it was with the creation of Star Trek. The positive human vision shared by so many was not always reflected in the lives of those who participated in its creation, but it did offer something good to think about and reach toward. Each reader and viewer inherits the Star Trek vision of possibilities but how those are implemented is left to us.
Puppies, gardens, and books are only a few of life’s great treasures and this summer they continue to teach me the value of listening to various voices, focusing on what is beautiful, being at peace with the mystery of trust, and marveling at the good that comes from our mixed inheritance.
Now, it’s time to play…
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out A. K. Frailey Amazon Author Page
The post Puppies, Gardens, and Books first appeared on The Writings of A. K. Frailey.
April 5, 2024
Real Life Matters
Real Life Matters since lessons well learned may inform future fiction, offering hope to us all.
My daughter helped to coordinate a special meeting called “Things You Auto Know” for her commuters group last week. It went well. She and the group members learned the basics of changing a tire, oil changes, and other car matters that we all “auto” know. Plus the play on words tickled my funny bone. In much the same reality zone, I had to focus on real-world issues this month, which has made me a better person. At least, I hope so. The value of fiction is not in the distraction from reality but rather as it enhances our perception of reality. If real life doesn’t matter, then fiction merely delays inevitable doom.
This month began with a consultation with an oral surgeon and ended with my youngest son getting his wisdom teeth removed. All my other kids had to have their wisdom teeth removed, so it was an expected ordeal. What was unexpected was the advancement in technology, cutting the surgery time down to mere minutes, and new pain medicine to alleviate the swelling afterward. Lucky kid number seven had a much easier time than the older kids who had to endure longer surgeries and much more difficult recoveries. Being a helpless mom who can only take a kid to and from an appointment, pay the bill, and pray for healing, can take a toll on a person. But it’s encouraging to know that advancements are being made in a fundamental life issue. Dental tribulations have haunted the human race undoubtedly from the beginning of time. Thank goodness talented, dedicated people have improved that part of the human experience for all of us.
I have continued to tutor my GED students, and I am mighty impressed with their sustained enthusiasm. Matt, my student in a wheelchair, will take his Math exam later this week. If he passes, he will finally realize his dream of obtaining his GED. Matt has had to overcome so many challenges up to this point that it would feel like a crime if he were not recognized for his extraordinary abilities. He manages to navigate his classes and material through several online portals, reads complicated math problems over the phone–despite being nearly blind–and works the problems in his head. His wheelchair stopped working last week, so he was unable to make it to formal classes, but he continued studying on his own and with me over the phone. In one tutoring session, while sitting on a new wheelchair that did not fit as well, he almost slipped onto the floor and had to call for help since he could not save himself. Imagining the stress of being so physically dependent made me realize how extraordinary his spirit is. Depression and anxiety would rule me if I were as constrained and helpless. Not Matt. He keeps trying. And he even manages to laugh at life’s challenges. I may be tutoring him in math, but he is tutoring me in a positive life spirit.
I acted as an election judge for the recent election and enjoyed myself. I didn’t expect much of a turn-out, but 103 Fillmorians came out and voted. That showed serious dedication to the “Republic for which we stand.” Interestingly, all five of the election judges got along like good friends. It would have been hard to know what party each person aligned with since our commonalities outweighed our differences. As mothers, friends, and community members, concern for others took pride of place as a primary motivator. Though I sometimes worry that our political system has gone off the reality rails, I am supported by my faith in good human beings doing honest work well together.
Grandma’s dog had puppies last week. Eleven of them! One died early and poor grandma felt so bad. The rest of us wondered how an 80+ woman would manage the two adult dogs she already had, two cats, and now a passel of active puppies. But as my girls ooh’d and ah’d over the pups, I sat at grandma’s kitchen table, and we chatted about family, life, and world events. The mama dog came out and asked me for a pat, which I gladly gave. She deserved encouragement for being such a wonderful mama to all those needy and greedy little pups. Then grandma realized that mama dog, Cinnamon, might want to go outside. So she walked her to the door, talking to her the whole way, and let her out. I stared at Grandma’s face when she sat down. Tired? Certainly. But such love and devotion in her eyes. Once again, I realize the deep value of our animals. They are not merely background characters where humans take center stage. Their innate dignity resides in their part to play, created by the Master of us all. Despite challenges, limitations, and spiritual differences, the animal world reflects the abundance of God’s creative nature. It would be a shame not to love that.
The seedlings I started weeks ago have finally spouted and are stretching toward the south window. I turned over the garden bed, but it’s still too early to plant anything outside. Likely we’ll still get another frost. Patience is key. Most years I get in a hurry and plant too soon, only to lose my baby plants to deadly cold. This year I am focusing on turning the soil, making a good bed for the plants when the weather is just right. My personal desires must allow for forces beyond my control, which is a lesson in humility. One that I’d benefit from learning.
The chicks will come soon, so I had to clean the chicken house. Messy, messy! I must have displaced generations of spiders, multitudes of wasp nests, and annoyed more than a few mice. But it had to be done. One of the hardest parts of life is choosing one thing over another. Frankly, in the grand scheme of things, spiders, wasps, and mice will make new homes in the grand outdoors while the chicks have limited options. And chickens provide winter food for the family. We live in a hard reality. Actions mean consequences. Not acting has consequences too. No getting out of it. Either I manage the chicken house for chickens, or the spiders and mice take it for their own.
I have sent in quite a few stories and essays to literary journals and, so far, have received a 100% rejection rate. The constant rejection wore on my spirits like a ghost of ill will riding on my shoulder. But real life informs good fiction. For what it’s worth, the hope of talented specialists to improve medical conditions, the spirited optimism of a student, a passel of pups, and the grandma who loves them, growing seedlings straining toward the sun even when the ground isn’t ready yet, and moving the unworthy out of the way for the necessary, are the lessons that may yet show up in future fiction pieces, no matter the rejection rate. After all, real life matters.
A. K. Frailey is the author of 18 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother of 8. Make the most of life’s journey. For novels, short stories, poems, and non-fiction inspirational books, check out https://www.amazon.com/author/akfrailey
My Road Goes Ever On, Spiritual Being, Human Journey
“I loved reading Ann’s wise, hope-giving thoughts about life and love. Truly, life is the art of overcoming obstacles and becoming stronger to live a fuller life. Beautiful work!” ~Ksenia
“The history is fascinating, the characters are uniquely intriguing, the plot is very rich, and the events are fascinating.” ~OnlineBookClub
“With a spectacular story of Justine Santana, a human-Android hybrid, this book also reveals some exciting insights about the future—Robots and Artificial Intelligence.” ~Adiba
For a complete list of books by A. K. Frailey, book trailers, and reviews, check out A. K. Frailey’s Books Page For translated versions of A. K. Frailey’s Books, check out A. K. Frailey’s Translated BooksPhoto https://pixabay.com/photos/puppies-litter-hanovarian-dogs-hs-4557299/
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