Young Writers Society

Soooo I haven't been on here for forever, but I'm working on a novel and I would love if you all could offer some feedback! General comments, content comments, critiques, or whatever would be very helpful! (I haven't edited for grammar, so I apologize for several misspelled words. Please enjoy!)

Author's Note 

Many of the names in the novel have meanings behind them. (That helps me find names to use too!) The origin of each name also has a meaning, as certain places and towns are inspired by countries or civilizations on Earth. Here is a “cheat sheet” of names and their meanings.

Chap. 1 

Characters:

Bri (Brinxlee’s nickname) - Gaelic/Irish - “high, noble, exalted” or “strong”

Kaye - English- “keeper of the keys”

Ashling (Kaye) - Irish- “dream”

Hannah - Hebrew- “grace”

Elayn - Greek - “sun ray”

Places:

Meredain - (variant of Meridian) - “great prosperity”

Eileen - Celtic - “beautiful bird”

Barra - A Scottish island

Alburn - English - “noble warrior”

Beckenham - (pronounced bek-en-ham) - An English town

Dursley - An English town

Chapter One

I never liked the word "hero". The stereotypical man in shining armor saving a helpless town from utter destruction by a rampant beast was an image that seemed distant and foreign. Of course, I never did believe that real heroes actually existed, particularly where I live. However, life has a way of drastically turning things around, a fact that I discovered much sooner than expected. But I suppose I should introduce myself first, as you've only just opened this book and are probably curious as to why I'm telling you these things. My name is Brinxlee Kaye, and this is my tale of loss, love, adventure, and most of all, Evil vs. Good.

Even when I was a young, imaginative book reader, I could never see myself as a "force for good", a phrase so elaborately modeled by legends of great warriors and valiant fighters for justice. I wasn't brave or courageous. My greatest fear was the nosy seamstress who always stopped me to ask when I would grow up and learn to do real work, instead of filling my mind with "fanciful ideas and useless passages" from my treasured books. As I was an only child, people expected that I was a disappointment to my parents because of my passions and pursuits. I was often treated poorly by others, but I never tried to fight back. My father worried that I was too complacent or compassionate, but my mother disagreed with him. She always loved to quote, "Compassion can never have barriers or restraints, no matter the circumstances." However, I am forced to agree with my father that I was far too gentle and naive for the world in which I lived.

Toughness was a necessity to combat the mockery my family and I faced, all because of my grandfather. He was known as a great warrior in our land, but his fame was short-lived after news of his betrayal of King Leroy, the ruling monarch of our country, reached our town. He had gone off to fight in the great war against the Stuarts, a strong clan that threatened and attacked the royal family and Court of Elders, despite a peace treaty. During a crucial battle for a major city, my grandfather was stationed as a rear guard. Just as his group prepared to attack the enemy's rear flank, he drew his sword and began attacking his fellow soldiers, murderering over a dozen unsuspecting men in cold blood. The remainder of his scattered comrades were quickly overwhelmed and slaughtered by waiting enemy forces. My traitorous grandfather ran to the Stuarts' chief, expecting to collect his reward, but only received an arrow in the heart. Neither side mourned for his death, however. Even after this many years, my family still bore the disgrace of the Kaye family legacy. The name Ashling Kaye drew contemptful looks from well over half the townfolk. Those that didn't hate us pitied us and many tried to convince my mother and me to leave. I heard the same story over and over again in quiet whispers that spread like wild fire across town. The Kayes were known as an untrustworthy family. I grew to detest the busy town streets and instead sought solitude in the forests or beaches when I could take time away.

My feet stomped across the rough wood floor of our small home as I rushed to the window, just in time to see a bright flash of color disappear off the windowsill. A bird winged its way into the clear blue sky, covering the sun for a brief moment, then fading away across the rich green landscape.

"Brinxlee, come and help me with this soup." a familiar female voice called. I paused for a moment, then quietly crept back into the main room. My aunt, Hannah, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at me with stern blue eyes.

"I've told you a hundred times to stir this pot! I swear, you listen less and less every day." The dress draped around her generous frame swished against the table as she turned, vigorously scrubbing at a spot on the worn wooden surface. Her grumbling was cut short by a hacking cough from the other room. She glanced up at me, her eyes growing softer as she gnawed on her lip.

"Go and see to your father. I'll take care of this soup." I walked into the other room, quietly closing the door behind me. My father was staring blankly off into the distance, his tired eyes bleary from another long day. His chest heaved up and down as his lungs struggled for air, getting weaker and weaker every day. He had been like this for almost seven months now, a man weary of the pain he lived every single day.

However, he had one dream that kept him going day to day. This dream was the same as mine: to see the world outside our small town. I had only been past the walls twice, and only a couple miles out at that. I dreamed of seeing the world that I had imagined in the books I read, and I longed to escape from the tires of social life. Most of all, however, I wanted to get away from all the idiotic matches that Mrs. Fawn Wilkins tried to arrange. As the town matchmaker, she made me her project, perhaps out of pity. As of yet, I hadn't even found a single boy in the whole town that didn't sport the same empty-headed ignorance as the majority of our town. None of them wanted to be around me anyway. I was a dreamer, and all too absorbed in my books and duties to pay attention to anyone. Besides, the Kaye family name was enough to drive most boys off. My father always said I was too smart for all of them anyway, but he has a tendency to stretch the truth. Or, at least, he used to. His mind was growing more muddled as the days went by. He hardly talked to anyone, not even Hannah, his only sister, who has taken care of him since this disease took over his body.

No local doctors knew exactly what was wrong with my father, except that he had some kind of lung infection, and he refused to spend the exorbitant amount of money needed for help. We had very little money, and even then the chance that we'd find a doctor that could help him was rather slim. Regardless of his serious condition, it was always hard not to laugh when my father and Hannah argued about this issue. She was a stubborn woman, but in this matter, he always won. He refused to sacrifice our tiny amount of money, only to prolong his agony.

Hannah's presence in the house gave me comfort, although she was nothing like my mother. If only you could have met my mother... She was always quiet and thoughtful, but she was the wisest person I knew. If she did speak, it was only to gently correct or advise. I only ever heard her raise her voice once, and that was when she found out I had been keeping a pet snake in our home. She never argued with my father, but only "discussed" things. Her greatest loves were my father, me, and the little children of our town. All I ever wanted to do was to be like my mother, but right after my eleventh birthday, my mother grew very sick. She was always a strong woman, but as the days went by, it became obvious that she wasn't going to live much longer. I spent most of those days by the sea, writhing in anguish inwardly, but I never cried. I only sat with my chin set in what I figured to be a tough expression, stifling the sobs that threatened to burst out. I would be strong, just like my mother. Then the day came.

My father was out collecting vegetables for our supper when my mother started to cry. I quickly ran to her, asking her what was wrong. Her tears stopped and she smiled, lifting her trembling hand to touch my face.

"My beautiful girl... I'm never going to see you grow up. I love you." My mouth opened, but I couldn't speak.

"Just promise me one thing." she whispered hoarsely.

"Anything..." I finally blurted out, my young mind racing.

"Never give up on people. Always show compassion to them, even when... when they don't deserve it." Her eyes drifted across the room to where a large leather-bound sketchbook lay, which my parents had given to me on my tenth birthday.

"Promise me that you'll always take care of that book. It... it means more than you know." She smiled once more, staring up into my face. I saw a flicker of light in her eyes.

"I love..." Her eyes closed, that last word dying on her lips.

"Momma?? Momma!" I screamed. My father's swift footsteps pounded on the floor behind me. I buried my face in the scratchy blanket, murmuring over and over.

"I promise, Momma. I promise..." My father burst into the room, stopping cold at the sight of my mother. He silently knelt next to me, one hand around my shoulders, and took her hand, holding it to his face.

"This... this is how she would have wanted to go..." he stammered out. I rose quickly, and ran out the door, unable to look back.

The next thing I knew, I was kneeling at the sea shore, and finally my will gave in. I sobbed brokenly, my tears mixing with the salty water. I don't know how long it was till my father came and found me, wrapping his strong arms around my small frame. That was the only place I felt safe. I wish I knew then how much I would miss those strong arms, which now were so limp and frail. Now all I can do is remember. I was crushed that day. The same thoughts that filled my mind that day still invade my thoughts now.

I grab my sketchbook and several custom-made charcoal drawing sticks, walking outside to escape the constant arguing back and forth between my father and aunt, and head down through the town buildings to one of the best overlooks.

While some of the people in my town can be unbearable at times, our town is often full of travelers who come to Meradain simply for the view. Our town is surrounded by lucious forests, and overlooks the Merada ocean, after which it is named. On a clear day, one can see three distant islands, hives of trade and commerce. Eileen is the largest island. Barra, which lies to the right of Eileen, is the second largest. The third island, named Alburn after a great ancient war hero, was considered the most beautiful of all three islands. Ironically, those islands are popular gathering places for pirates of all sorts. However, the islands thrive regardless. Although the pirates of my land are thieves, they are nothing like what you may think. These pirates are extremely educated. In fact, literature and education are practically their sole joys, aside from the usual killing and plundering. One famous sea captain had over 1,700 books on his ship. According to records, he had a man flogged for attempting to steal a book. Another pirate was a scholar who couldn't afford enough books to read, and so took up a life of pirating to steal more. I always loved reading and listening to pirate stories. My mother taught me to read at a very early age., and both my parents said I was more well-read than even Count Tremain's three daughters, which wasn't saying much, as they were all empty-headed and completely absorbed with themselves.

I read everything I could get my hands on, borrowing almost every book in town. However, most of our neighbors disapproved of this fascination and warned my parents not to let me daydream too far. Our town was always busy, and everyone that was able worked dawn to dusk. No one took time for frivolous things like reading. My mother was the only other person I knew that read like I did. She and I sat down every evening in our main room and read for an hour or so, sometimes longer. Once she was gone, I couldn't bear to read in that room again. If I did find some time to read, I always snuck down to the water front, where the sound of the gentle waves washed away the dull pain of loss. Even six years later, the bitter agony remained the same.

I finally reach the overlook and plop down on a large boulder, my loosened hair blowing in the wind. I open the leather-bound book, which was full of sketches of all sorts of things and places. The latest was a drawing of the ocean from this overlook, which I hadn't finished. My aunt swears I've drawn the ocean from every possible angle, but the cool blues and gentle waves that cover the ocean keep drawing me back. I begin the unfinished sketch again, starting to sketch the rocks as my brain wandered.

My mother's words had never left my mind, and for the last several days, I had been pondering my promise. I will never give up. Now, I knew, at least partially, what that meant. Never give up on my dreams, or my father's dream. We wanted to see the world. However, my father would never see it for himself. He just could never do it physically. But as for me... The charcoal dropped from my fingers as an idea struck me. (My mother always used to call my ideas lightning bolts, as they were very bright, but often dangerous and sometimes started fires. That last part was inspired by a particular event, but I won't go into that). I knew exactly what I had to do. I would go out and explore the lands around my town, drawing them for my father.

A smile crept across my face. I would only be gone for a week or two, at the most. I knew there would be a caravan stopping in our town this evening. Wherever it went first, I would go along with it. I snap my book closed and jam the charcoal in my belt pouch. I carefully scaled down the rocks, then broke into a run back towards home. I slowed down as I entered town, trying to not draw judgemental looks regarding my "frivolous nature". Peter Ruddy, one of the two bakers in our town, was busy sweeping dirt and metal shavings off the bakery steps, grumbling about never allowing the blacksmith inside the bakery again. A group of girls walked by, and I rolled my eyes at their incessant giggling. I heard occasional loud snorts from the group as well, and knew immediately that Prici, daughter of the Count's treasurer, was in the group. She stopped her snorting when she spotted me, elbowing her way out of the gaggle.

"Will you look at that? It's Bri-bri!" She snorted in laughter again, eyeing me haughtily.

"Shouldn't you be taking care of your dear old daddy? Or were you too busy reading?" she teased, her nose crinkling into her pudgy face. The rest of the girls giggled along with the joke. I forced a smile.

"Sorry, Pricy, but I have important stuff going..."

"Don't you dare call me that! I HATE that name!" She screeched, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. It was always easy to tell when she was angry by the large vein sticking out on her forehead, which matched the red tint of her face.

"You should be grateful that I don't tell my father on you! He'd get you and your family kicked out of town!" She stopped mid-stream, looking over my shoulder.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing. I instinctively turned around, but saw nothing except the baker. I turned around to ask her what she was looking at when I felt something catch my foot. Losing my balance, I fell to the cobblestone street, my face landing straight into a mud puddle. Pricilla's snow-white shoes tip-toed away from me. She covered her mouth with one hand mockingly.

"Oops, my bad. Oh, my father's waiting on me. See you later, Bri-bri. I'm sure your auntie won't mind you tracking mud into that ugly house of yours. It would be an improvement." Then her face faded back to its normal pale shade as she smirked, flouncing back to her gaggle. No doubt they were going to go spend as much money as they could pry out of their parents' pockets. I slowly got up and bit back the retort I longed to yell after them, instead wiping off the mud from my face and heading towards my sole sanctuary: home.

The house was empty when I arrived. Hannah had taken Father out on a walk, as evidenced by a scribbled note.

"That should give me some time." I murmured happily. I washed my face and changed out of my muddied dress. My bags seemed to pack on their own accord as I bustled through my room and our cellar, collecting supplies for the journey. I chose a simple garb: a simple brown shirt and knee-length skirt (which I had sewn myself), dark brown buckled boots, and a dark cloak overtop of it all. I also wore a belt, in which was shoved an old dagger, the only weapon I knew how to use. I braided my hair loosely, letting it fall onto my shoulders. Finally, all my luggage, two bags and a satchel, sat near the door. I sat silently on the floor with paper in front of me, pencil in hand, trying to formulate words. My mind should have been warning me of the dangers of this quest, but I was too excited to think about that. I started scribbling a short letter.

"My dear Aunt and Father:

I am going on a short trip. I will be back in a week" I scribbled that out. "I will be back in two or three weeks. Please do not worry about me. I'll be travelling with a caravan and I took enough food for about a week. I know I will be able to find more. Aunt Hannah, please take care of Father, and Father" I paused again, biting my lip. "I am doing this for you. I promise to bring back as many sketches and drawings of the land as I can. I know there is beauty out there, and I want to find it for you. I promise to be careful. Please take care of yourself and don't worry about me. If anything happens, I will come back as soon as possible.

With all my love. Brinxlee"

The note gently ruffled in the breeze from the door as I gathered my baggage. I took one last look around our small home, fighting back the emotions that washed over me.

"It's only a couple weeks..." I reassured myself. "What could possibly go wrong?"

I never have believed much in jinxing, but I know that the last words that passed my lips in my home were the downfall of my journey. Of course, I didn't realize that as I began my travels. I met up with a caravan at dawn. Its first destination was a town called Oak, which in my opinion was not a very clever name, as the town is known for its overlook of the Valley of Oaks, which in and of itself is just a valley filled with oak trees. However, many people travel from great distances to see this lush valley and the river that runs through it. Beyond the valley was the town of Beckenham, which was not quite as beautiful as Oak, but still a choice place to visit. The caravan company was a pleasant lot, consisting mainly of merchants and a few families going to visit relatives.

As our four-day journey began, I was given the responsibility of watching three goats and seven sheep, along with a very talkative but friendly woman named Elayn. She was journeying to Beckenham to visit her son, his wife, and their two-month old twins, whom she never seemed to stop talking about. It was obvious that she loved her son and daughter-in-law, although she often complained about their moving so far away.

The caravan stopped for the night just as we entered into a forest. My traveling partner and I joined another small group for supper. As the stew was cooking over a fire, I began walking towards the edge of the woods. As I looked into the distance, I could see the sun beginning to set over the gentle grassy hills, gracing the ground with its last rays. I never had felt so peaceful in my life. The worry I had about this journey seemed to melt away, replaced with growing courage. I felt brave and ambitious, not as nervous as I was starting out this journey. My thoughts were interrupted by the call to supper. Even as we ate, however, my mind still was off in another place: the Valley of Oaks.

Eventually, people slowly drifted to their cots and I sat alone, staring at pieces of the dimly lit sky through the trees. I knew in my heart that this journey was going to be the fulfillment of my dreams, and my father's too. I only wished he were here with me, offering the same advice he gave me years ago: "Live out your dreams, no matter how scared you may be." My eyes slowly closed as I drifted off to sleep, my mind filled with images of a beautiful valley, lush in color and depth. My hand strayed protectively over my satchel, which held the tools I would need to capture that beauty, and particualarly, the sketchbook that Mama had made me promise to protect. I longed to see that valley for myself, and I simply knew that nothing would stand in my way.

The next three days passed by in a blur. My legs grew stronger from all the walking, but my ears were sore from listening to the incessant chatter of Elayn. I learned about her two pet pigs, her favorite cooking tips, the nasty neighbor boy who always threw rocks into her garden, and of course, her son, daughter-in-law, and their beautiful twins. Granted, her talk did distract me from the animal smells, but I was relieved when we trudged over the crest of a hill and saw the looming town of Oak in front of us. For the first time, I felt accomplisment. I had come this far by myself. I knew I would make my father proud.

Dusk was falling as we neared the town, and faint glimmers of light began to pop up like fireflies, moving along with their owners who were traversing the streets towards their homes. While the caravan dispersed its load, I gathered my belongings and walked along the streets. The houses there had very distinct features from many of the buildings in my home. Many of them boasted a variety of colors in the design, which vastly differed from the monotoneous colors of Meredain. I could tell there was a tavarn in town by a number of drunken men stumbling about in the streets, even though the night was only just beginning. Thankfully, the tavern was on the other side of town and would not be disrupting my night's rest. When I arrived back to the caravan, I found Elayn had already secured a room for us for the night. I fell asleep quickly, the image of the valley still burnt into my mind.

The next morning passed as quickly as I could make it. I gulped down a portion of the generous breakfast provided by the innkeeper and, with my satchel on my shoulder, hurried through town towards the Valley of Oaks. Some of the other caravaners had the same idea as mine, and there were already several headed towards the overlook. I rushed ahead of them, my eyes shining as bright as a little child. My pace slowed as I came within view of the valley. Audible gasps sounded behind me as others came in view of the wonderous sight. The great oaks that filled the deep valley looked like mere twigs in the long expanse, and the wide river like a trickle of water. Rich green had painted the valley for the summer, accented by the clear blue river and small portions of brightly colored flowers. I can't put into words the smell that rose from that valley. Everything smelled fresh and new, bursting with life.

I plopped down with my sketchbook, starting to draw the gorgeous sight. I had barely started drawing the scene when an image tore my mind away from my work: a flower-adorned casket with my mother laying within. Her face was so beautiful that day, seemingly devoid of the sickness that had stolen her away only a day before. Even after these years have passed, I never forgot her face. I run my fingers over the pages of my sketchbook. Besides that image, this book was one of the few memories I had left. My mother would often pick up the sketchbook to look at what I had drawn, her soft hands gently turning page after page. Without thinking, I start flipping through the pages. I finally stop between two of the sketches, where a page had been torn out. The missing page was a drawing of a sunset over our hometown of Meridain. It was the one sketch I'd never shown to my mother.

I closed my eyes again and saw a detail that I had often forgotten in that image: a solemn young girl standing next to the casket, laying a crumpled page on her mother's chest. She wanted to make sure her momma saw that sunset. That girl kept that sketchbook close to her heart, quite literally at times, all for her mother.

I snap out of the thought as a few people start murmuring behind me. My eyes scanned across the valley, trying to regain my thoughts and take in the view again. As I looked to the right, however, something didn't seem right. Just beyond the far rim of the valley, there were two unusual colors rising from the ground. Red and black. It didn't take long for me to realize what they were, especially with the yells and screams from the people just come to the overlook. Fire and smoke. The great town across the valley, Beckenham, was ablaze.