The Green Ember (The Green Ember #1)

by S.D. Smith

Picket knew he had a chance right now to get past his resentment of Smalls. He had done it before, inside Seven Mounds, when he had managed to forget his resentment during the crisis of their escape. Danger still hovered around them; enemies were everywhere. Why not just apologize to Smalls, to everyone, and move on? But he couldn’t do it. It would feel too much like surrendering ground he felt entitled to. To give it up would cost him too much.

“My place beside you, my blood for yours, till the Green Ember rises, or the end of the world.”

she thought of Smalls, then of Emma, of the whole upside-down world and its million broken hearts. She wasn’t sure exactly what they meant by the Mended Wood, but she began to long for it. She began to believe, somehow, that she always had been longing for it.

“Shouldn’t everyone fight for the Great Wood—for King Jupiter’s cause?” “Sure we should,” Mrs. Weaver said. “In a sense. Some must bear arms and that is their calling. But this,” she motioned back to the mountain behind her, “this is a place dedicated to the reasons why some must fight. Here we anticipate the Mended Wood, the Great Wood healed. Those painters are seeing what is not yet but we hope will be. They are really seeing, but it’s a different kind of sight. They anticipate the Mended Wood. So do all in this community, in our various ways. “We sing about it. We paint it. We make crutches and soups and have gardens and weddings and babies. This is a place out of time. A window into the past and the future world. We are heralds, you see, my dear, saying what will surely come. And we prepare with all our might, to be ready when once again we are free.”

She hesitated. “I want answers, but I’m afraid of what those answers might be.” “This is from wisdom, child,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Growing up is terribly wonderful. But often it’s also wonderfully terrible. Ha, a riddle of words amounting to nothing. A stuttering cleverism that falls as short as my feeble steps. But this is true. A teacher could become rich if he ever perfected the art of helping mature students unlearn many awful things. Enjoy your innocence, my dear. Even if it only lasts the day.”

Her smile was real, but a labyrinth lay behind it.

Rabbits like me and you will die vainly trying to defend the last little corner of light in the world.” He looked out over the village green, at the many rabbits working and talking and eating and laughing. “I’ve been a soldier all my life, Picket. I’ve been with many at the end. We’re alone here, and the stories are all wrong. Nothing ends well. We’re going to lose, Picket. The stories are all wrong.”

The Green Ember burns; the seed of the New World smolders. Healing is on the horizon, but a fire comes first. Bear the flame.