Hello, dear readers! I am super delighted to announce the final story in my new collection "31 Improbable Adventures - volume 2"
You can expect some kind of promo period (like free!) and then it will sit at .99 on Amazon. Here's the final entry in the collection, "Day of the Migrants".
You can expect some kind of promo period (like free!) and then it will sit at .99 on Amazon. Here's the final entry in the collection, "Day of the Migrants".
Day of the Migrants
The Elders felt the change on the wind and the people made ready for the migration. Tents were broken down, belongings packed and animals tied together into small flocks. It was an event that was unspoken and unwritten (the Sha'orl have no written language) but was carried out at the appointed time nonetheless. No one knew how the Elders could sense that it was time, but understood that when the Elders packed up and walked away, it was time to follow them.
Someday, the children would lead the Sha'orl on this same journey, but for now they ran and played and got in the way, dropping as many items as they carried on their low, arched backs. Heads down and bundles stacked high on every sloped shoulder, the people trudged across the blue sands and waving red grass, leaving the valley behind and putting the mountains ahead.
Mute, no one spoke. They stopped at nightfall, having caught up to the place where the Elders made camp, and listened to the stories they played. The sun was coming up, burning the valley and laying waste to the place they had called their home. They played songs of mourning in the dawn, their flutes and drums filling the air with somber tones that brought tears to many eyes. But in the sadness of loss, new life was promised. Any who could make it through the harsh journey would find the valley renewed and wiped clean, ready to be planted once again. It was a bitter hope, but it was hope just the same. The children would grow up hard and strong. Their shoulders would grow tall, their feet would grow tough, but they would grow up knowing how to survive.
Before the sun rose too high in the sky, the migrants moved on. They found shelter from the angry sun in the cool shade of the mountains, but still they pressed onward. In the heat of the long day, the Elders grew weary and slept, left behind as markers on the path. The stories they played on their drums would be remembered. They would not be forgotten.
When the sun finally sank in the sky, the people returned to their ancestral home in the valley. The ones who still lived brought new infants into the world and planted new fields. The children had grown up on the migration and now they were tired too. They watched their village grow and played the songs that the Elders had taught them.
In their joy, they felt sadness. Soon, they knew, the sun would rise in the sky once more and they would have to lead their people away. How short their time in this happy valley was! How brief, their moment in the glow of the moon. They were mute; they couldn’t possibly tell their children how very short their time was. They weren’t sure that the young ones could even understand.
At the first glint of light in the night sky, they knew it was time to move on. The migration had begun.
The Elders felt the change on the wind and the people made ready for the migration. Tents were broken down, belongings packed and animals tied together into small flocks. It was an event that was unspoken and unwritten (the Sha'orl have no written language) but was carried out at the appointed time nonetheless. No one knew how the Elders could sense that it was time, but understood that when the Elders packed up and walked away, it was time to follow them.
Someday, the children would lead the Sha'orl on this same journey, but for now they ran and played and got in the way, dropping as many items as they carried on their low, arched backs. Heads down and bundles stacked high on every sloped shoulder, the people trudged across the blue sands and waving red grass, leaving the valley behind and putting the mountains ahead.
Mute, no one spoke. They stopped at nightfall, having caught up to the place where the Elders made camp, and listened to the stories they played. The sun was coming up, burning the valley and laying waste to the place they had called their home. They played songs of mourning in the dawn, their flutes and drums filling the air with somber tones that brought tears to many eyes. But in the sadness of loss, new life was promised. Any who could make it through the harsh journey would find the valley renewed and wiped clean, ready to be planted once again. It was a bitter hope, but it was hope just the same. The children would grow up hard and strong. Their shoulders would grow tall, their feet would grow tough, but they would grow up knowing how to survive.
Before the sun rose too high in the sky, the migrants moved on. They found shelter from the angry sun in the cool shade of the mountains, but still they pressed onward. In the heat of the long day, the Elders grew weary and slept, left behind as markers on the path. The stories they played on their drums would be remembered. They would not be forgotten.
When the sun finally sank in the sky, the people returned to their ancestral home in the valley. The ones who still lived brought new infants into the world and planted new fields. The children had grown up on the migration and now they were tired too. They watched their village grow and played the songs that the Elders had taught them.
In their joy, they felt sadness. Soon, they knew, the sun would rise in the sky once more and they would have to lead their people away. How short their time in this happy valley was! How brief, their moment in the glow of the moon. They were mute; they couldn’t possibly tell their children how very short their time was. They weren’t sure that the young ones could even understand.
At the first glint of light in the night sky, they knew it was time to move on. The migration had begun.
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