Open Lands

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a potential beginning for a novel. I hav'nt currently written more, but if people like this piece, then I will continue.

The summary for the novel would be:

Edward Wild is a runaway. He was nursed by wolves after his parents were killed by Indians. Then Indians found him and took him to the town where he grew up. Now he has been wrongly accused of murder and is on the run. Rejected by the Indians for being a white skin and having to avoid his own people, Edward is forced into what would be a lonely life if it weren’t for the wolf he meets. This is a tale of sorrow, loss, rejection and love that cannot be.

Submitted: September 18, 2012

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Submitted: September 18, 2012

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Open Lands

 

Beside the wide shallow river the trees bent forward, brooding at the water as it wondered in its track, at the edge sluggish as though reluctant to leave that quiet shady place, but in the middle of the stream the water ran swift and strong over the stony bed, chattering with the soft wind that sighed in the verdant branches above. Reeds rustled at the edge between the gnarled tree trunks and below the thick roots that spread and drove into the deep soft earth. North of the river rose an earth bank and at the top of this towered a rocky crag, dark and hard in that soft expansive landscape, but not intrusive, for it formed a shield for that place from the colder winds and harsher weathers. To the south the land opened into a vast plain of tall grasses, lush in the summer warmth after the rains, seed heads trembling on every blade and rattling softly as the wind brushed their tips against one another. A wide bar of warmth fell between the two lines of branches and moved playfully on the water, teasing the reflections and shadows until it was impossible to say which were which. Finer beams fell through the leafy canopy near the banks and danced on the water below as though enticing it to move even less swiftly and linger to enjoy the peace of the shady bank beneath the shelter of that great rocky mass with all its odd shapes and patient steadiness, unchanging.

All was peace. All was still. The lap of the slow water on something wooden being the only slightly sharper sound in the listlessly moving air, but even this was rhythmic and soothing, familiar, particularly to the ears of the sleeper who lay between the bowls of two large willows on the southern bank. Dark hair fell round a gentle looking face, darkened by many years under the hot sun and weathered by the wind and rain. A deep brown shirt, loos at the neck and a heavy grey green cloak thrown over from the waist down, one sandaled foot showing. One arm was bent and the long fingers were closed about a silver clasp on the neck of the cloak. The other arm was thrown wide, the shirt sleeve pulled up to the elbow, revealing a new scar, pale on the tanned skin of the forearm. Beside the sleeper lay a brown sack with a rope bound round its mouth, its contents shapeless and indecipherable. Below, at the edge of the river and tied to a sapling that grew there was a kind of boat, dug out from a log, with a pointed low prow and stern, its rounded hull rocking as the water slapped at its side. The long paddle was lying in the bottom of the boat with a coil of rope beside it. In the branches above, a large bird unfurled its wings and effortlessly glided away over the rock. Below a breeze rose and tussled the rippling water. A loose leaf fluttered in the breeze for a moment before falling onto the prow of the primitive vessel, and again all was still.

 


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