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Peter James West, Epic Fantasy – Excerpt from The Chosen
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Peter James West, Epic Fantasy – Excerpt from The Chosen
Rowan strode through Nordell’s sun-baked meadow, enjoying a rare break from his work caring for the village’s sheep and goats. He missed them already – especially this year’s lambs with their skinny legs and warbling bleats.
The flocks were just visible as tiny cotton blobs grazing on the rich green grass that covered the upper slopes of the hills to the north. They would spend the day on Hayden’s Rise before returning to the village barn overnight to keep them safe from wolves. There was no need of course. Rowan had a special arrangement with the wolves.
Strolling through the long, dry grass, he whistled a half-remembered tune, trailing his hands through the tall brown stems around him.
The stems rustled against his breeches, crunching beneath his goatskin boots as a butterfly with burnt orange wings landed briefly on his shoulder before taking flight.
Sweat formed a thin sheen on Rowan’s forehead as his clean white tunic clung to his back.
The long hot summer had baked the ground dry, leaving the crops in the southern fields drier than they ought to be but the meadow didn’t seem to mind.
Rowan smiled. It was his naming day – eighteen years to the day since his mother had brought him into this world. His clean white tunic was a gift from his mother, worn by his cousin before him. Later they would perform the ceremonies and feast. Rowan wasn’t worried – well maybe a little. Would Millie make fun of him?
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, fluttering his tunic against his chest as the sweet scent of poppies and knapweed drifted across the waist high yellow grass around him.
Tight clusters of bright blue flowers huddled close to the ground while taller stems, topped with blooms of red and yellow bobbed in the fresh morning breeze as bees buzzed around them.
The most dazzling swathes of colour had faded to autumn browns but the hardier flowers would last another month or so before finally going to seed.
The sun mellowed as they moved into autumn but the days were still long and warm. It wouldn’t be long until harvest time.
Rowan knelt, searching for a late bloomer and found one nearby. Its leaves were withered, its stem bent sideways as though stepped upon. Its bud formed a narrow bulge at its tip, overshadowed by the plants around it. Its roots were shallow, exposed above the arid soil. What should have been vibrant green leaves were dry yellow tatters, clinging to its straw-like stem.
Reaching out with his mind, he tried to grasp the last remnants of life inside it. At first he thought he was too late – that it had already joined the dry dead stems around it – but then he felt a delicate pulse of life, a subtle energy deep inside it.
Sensing a few small drops of water deep underground, he shaped his thoughts around them, drawing them towards the plant’s dry roots.
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