Young Writers Society

Attached is the first part of a bunch of parts of the first book of three books that I hope I can write someday, but I probably won't. Don't worry. The writing isn't like the first sentence.

I rated it PG because later on in the story, it does get violent and tiny bit scary. If you're really interested, e-mail me, and I can send you a map of the Land of Ray and some name and phrase translations.

Without further ado:

Of the Lands of Ray and Hammer, Segment 1, "The Choice Is Made":

“In the early times of Ray and Hammer, the lands were filled with many wonderful things – fishes, birds, and four-footed beasts. But the Creator of the lands, Allmektig, had formed a pair of creatures above all the others. These creatures could converse and think with Him. The creatures were called humans, Allmektig's most precious and loved possession. It has even been said that these creatures were so loved by Him that He would even give His own life for them.

“Now, the first man and woman loved Allmektig greatly, but a naughty one from a foreign land was bent on changing that. He sought to make the man and the woman fall away from Allmektig. The mischievous one knew that Allmektig could not have fellowship or joy with any human who did evil and failed to repent and return back into Allmektig's grace, and so he set out for the home of the happy couple. Allmektig knew of the rascally one's plan and prepared the man's body for confrontation with the fiend. Eventually, the wicked one arrived at the wonderful home of the man and woman. He tried to trick them, but when the woman's husband heard the evil one speak unfitting things, he wrestled the corrupting serpent and threw him out of their home. After Allmektig saw that the man had won, He told the guilty one to go back to the foreign land from whence he had come. Again, the man, the woman, and the lands of Ray and Hammer were safe.”

“Oh, Mither Ly, pleath tell uth more!” begged a small, lisping tot.

“Yes, yes!” echoed the children around the first spokesman.

“Children, it's late. I've told you enough for now,” the old man kindly stated, pointing a finger over their scrubby heads, “See, your parents come.”

The children craned their heads around, hearing the quiet chatter of their mothers. Some children began to rise, heading toward the approaching women. Others attempted to get another story out of Lydighet, but his scowl of disapproval soon dispersed the rest.

Lydighet was a meek man. Closing fast on sixty-seven, he quiet, fulfilling life. He rarely left the vicinity of the small village, save to go to his own home. Silvery hair streaked his crown, upper lip, and chin. However feeble his five-and-a-half foot, stick-like frame led you to believe, his stringy arms of sinewy and gnarled hands could swing an ax and wield a needle as if five decades had forgotten to tour this old man. Whenever help was given him, he always ensuring they were thanked in some way. Other than looking after the scattered, pint-sized ones of the cozy village, he also functioned as the local physician. He always wore the same clothing, consisting of ankle-high moccasins, dark gray, coarse breeches, and a light-brown, woolen shirt. In inclement weather, he could be seen about in a head-to-toe, oilskin poncho. On days when old man Mr. Time made him feel ill fit for the day, the practical man took an extra few seconds in the morning to remember his a oak, quarterstaff-sized, walking stick. His outlook on life was calm, calculated but not dismissive. He cared about things. But of all the noble characteristics he possessed, none set him apart more than his curious trust of Allmektig.

When a village meeting had convened that day, the great storyteller had as usual been given the care of the young ones. Although particularly concerned about the issue of the meeting, he happily took care of the children. No one could cared for the urchins as well as he did, let alone tell a half-way decent story. Young married couples could remember his stories better than they could remember meeting each other for the first time.

The just adjourned meeting had been over the issue of the Glorious One, a rumored mysterious being of great wonder and power. Word of the Glorious One had come little over a month earlier from a group of well-dressed, jeweled travelers. In the short time they passed through, they spoke unceasingly of the Glorious One's magnificent benevolence and virtue. Soon after the travelers had departed, Barsk Trassig, a prominent but cranky farmer who over the past few months had become more of the latter, convoked the village. Having convinced most of the villagers that the strange travelers spoke truth, they sent a certain man, Lurt, to investigate. It was Lurt, returning from the Glorious One's city several days ago with mules laden with packs overflowing with gifts and precious items, together with Barsk who had convened the meeting of Lydighet's anxiety. Lurt had said that the gifts were from the Glorious One himself. The Glorious One yearned for them all to come and join him in his great city. Would they embrace the Glorious One or continue to hold themselves aloof? Lurt insisted they comply, speaking enthusiastically and continually of the awesome things in store for them. Even as the ecstatic man spoke of these things, Lydighet had become increasingly uncomfortable. Somehow, Lurt had been changed.

Lydighet sat, watching as the women gathered their children and headed toward their homes. He waited for the village's verdict. Jenta, a widow and mother of three, would soon come with their decision.

Lydighet saw the Jenta's form break out from the crush of bodies at the building's doorway.

“Evening, Jenta,” he said, cordially, “How was the meeting?”

“It went well. . . .” Jenta replied, trailing off.

“Jenta?” Lydighet nudged.

“Ly, everyone's decided to leave for the Glorious One's city. Well, almost everyone. The Usikkers have refused to come.”

Lydighet's gaze seemed to drill into the ground. Good for them, thought Lydighet privately.

“I know you don't want to come,” Jenta spoke, reaching out to clasp his right arm below the elbow, “but you're so precious to everyone in this town. Why are you so stubborn?”

Lydighet looked up, “If I'm so precious, maybe I should stay with the remaining family for support.”

Jenta released her grip, dropping her arm to her side.

Lydighet continued, “Remember those travelers? They were not natural. There wasn't even a slight presence of Allmektig in them. Life was dim in their eyes. An aura of death surrounded them. Even now, after just two days, I have seen Lurt become more and more like them!”

“Oh, Ly, you're so paranoid!” said the vehement Jenta, “All powerful, omnipotent Allmektig hasn't done anything for us in the past decade or more! I can't believe you still fall for those old tales! They're nothing but garbage. Think about the children! This town – its inhabitants – are shrouded with – with rags and dirt!”

“We're still alive, and I'm content,” Lydighet stated, “We don't need all the things we think we need.”

Dismissing Lydighet's remark, Jenta went on, “Did you not see what Lurt brought? We've never heard of, let alone seen, some of those things! He can't even describe everything he saw in the great city!”

She turned away, a tear trying to escape, “It doesn't matter. We're going anyway. You have 'til tonight to change your mind.”

Head bowed, she walked away.

Couldn't she see? Lydighet thought, Why did she ask about me? She knew I wouldn't go along with their resolution. They can go, but I cannot. Their choice is their own and no one else's. Give us strength, Allmektig. I will trust You. Tomorrow, I shall talk with the Usikkers after the rest leave. Lydighet turned, leaning on his staff slightly, and began trudging to his home near the eastern edge of the rustic village. It was late. He needed his sleep.