Copyright © 2015 by Kevin John Fitzgerald
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
I have borrowed the term “Lapine” from author Richard Adams. “Lapine” is a fictional language created by Adams for his 1972 novel Watership Down, where it is spoken by fictional rabbit characters. The language was again used in Adams’ 1996 sequel, Tales from Watership Down, and has appeared in both the film and television adaptations. The term “Lapine” originally comes from the French word for rabbit, lapin, and can also be used to describe rabbit society.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission.
Author Contact:
Kevin J. Fitzgerald
PHONE: (678) 863-6224
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EMAIL: [email protected]
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Kimberly Huther, proof-reader/copy editor
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Cover Design by:
Robert G. Wilson, Jr.
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EMAIL: [email protected]
PALADIN
Book One: The Evil
Within the Woods
Kevin J. Fitzgerald
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1 – “The Coming of the Fall”
CHAPTER 2 – “A Dangerous Choice”
CHAPTER 3 – “The Estaclah”
CHAPTER 4 – “Into the Night”
CHAPTER 5 – “The First Glimpse”
CHAPTER 6 – “A Desperate Flight”
CHAPTER 7 – “Fear in the Night”
CHAPTER 8 – “Found”
CHAPTER 9 – “What Happened in The Garden”
CHAPTER 10 – “A New Name”
CHAPTER 11 – “The Cage-Box”
CHAPTER 12 – “An Unexpected Visit”
CHAPTER 13 – “Up Into the Wilderness”
CHAPTER 14 – “An Unusual Conversation”
CHAPTER 15 – “A Day in the Life”
CHAPTER 16 – “Cragpow”
CHAPTER 17 – “A Lyons Roar”
CHAPTER 18 – “Separated”
CHAPTER 19 – “Trapped!”
CHAPTER 20 – “What Paladin Found”
CHAPTER 21 – “The Crash”
CHAPTER 22 – “Back in the Truck”
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
Texas, 1994—
Driving between Dallas and Atlanta, my pet rabbit Cadbury is riding beside me in a pet-taxi. As I cross a bridge spanning a river, the thought occurs to me: “If I have an accident and drive off this bridge, what happens to Cadbury?” Over the next several hours, my brain constructs a story around the idea of a rabbit trapped in a cage underwater with no way of escape.
The resulting story was Paladin.
I hand-wrote the original manuscript, working on it tirelessly while holed-up in an apartment closet. I got about three hundred pages into it before completely abandoning it. The story was just too huge; life got in the way, and the unfinished manuscript sat in a box – untouched – for several years.
Fast-forward to May 2002. I moved to Ireland out of a very fast-paced ministry environment. A single guy, I now found myself living in a country where I hardly knew anybody with a lot of free time on my hands. Cadbury died just a couple of months before (she’s still buried behind my mother’s house in Lawrenceville, GA). Immersed in the beautiful Irish countryside, I decided to dust-off Paladin and re-work the entire manuscript. The bones of the story were good, but the prose was painful (not that I’ve become an expert). I worked on it from time to time, jotting down ideas in notebooks or on napkins, whenever my increasingly busy schedule allowed. Ireland became a major influence on the setting of the story. It seemed everywhere I looked I drew fresh inspiration.
After twenty years, I finally typed the words “THE END” to this story on August 5th, 2014 (I know the date because I shot a video). The final manuscript ended up being a whopping 240,000 words. Being a first-time novelist, I knew my chances were slim-to-none of finding a publisher for such a lengthy piece (at least, not without a team of editors imposing a very rigid slash-and-burn policy). I trimmed it down, but decided to release the story in subsequent installments – like serials – simply because the epic nature of the work is exactly what I intended.
It’s fitting the story began with me holing-up in a Texas closet, because I finished it while holed-up in a closet in Braselton, Georgia—this time, a married man with two small children (and a third on the way). I wrote Paladin not so much as a writer, but as a story-teller—as someone telling a story. My childhood is replete with memories of mother putting me to bed at night while reading me adventure tales. Paladin was written in that same spirit and style. I’m sure I’ve broken all kinds of literary ‘rules.’ But – as CS Lewis once said – “I write the books I should have liked to read. That’s always been my reason for writing. People won’t write the books I want, so I have to do it for myself.” Is it smug to say that I approached Paladin with the same mindset? Or is it more accurate to say I was influenced by someone whose craft and style I admire very much? The way a guitarist might emulate Keith Richards or Jimmy Page in his playing style; or the way a young director might honor Kubrick or Spielberg with their films.
I wrote this story for me—and for the children I believed I would one day have. I wanted a story to share with them that incorporated all my beliefs, values, worldview, and love for adventure.
Is Paladin a children’s book? Good question. Personally, I don’t know. I suppose one could ask the same thing about The Lord of the Rings or Watership Down. CS Lewis also said: “A children’s story which is enjoyed only by children is a bad children’s story.” I believe there is something in all of us that longs for stories: fairies and magic, fantasy and adventure. I’ve also always been fascinated by the idea that perhaps one day – long ago in our distant past – animals might have possessed the capacity for speech. As a Disney/Pixar representative once said of Finding Nemo: “These are human stories, but they use animals to tell the tale.”
Paladin is the same.
This first installment introduces the world of Paladin and the rest of the chendrith. It doesn’t present a conclusion, it presents a cliffhanger. It leaves you waiting for the next installment (the good news is, you won’t have to wait that long! Book 2 is set for release in early 2016). There are plenty more adventures of Paladin and his cohorts waiting to come. In fact, I shouldn’t wonder if a great deal more will be discovered along the way as I put the finishing touches on these initial few.
For now, I invite you into their world—the world of Paladin.
And I hope you enjoy the adventure.
—Kevin J. Fitzgerald
Braselton, GA. 2015
For Mandy-Gail:
My beautiful daughter and baby-love.
You’ve taught me so much about stories & dreaming. May this serve to
remind you there are things far greater than ourselves in this world.
You can do anything.
CHAPTER 1
“The Coming of the Fall”
It was the fall.
Cool days.
Failing warmth, wani
ng light, dulling color.
Days when the sun went down early, and night came on quick. Unlike so many times of the past when the season approached slowly, this fall came suddenly, as if through a single event. Warm breezes of the preceding summer blew cold. Leaves that had seemed to hang permanent upon branches loosed and fell to the damp earth below. It was as if this fall had not come; it was as if this fall had happened.
On this particular day, the sweet, golden lips of the sun met the blurred cheek of the horizon in a gentle kiss. Evening stole across the field. It was that dreamy sort of time when – in the light of escaping day – all the mountains and fields and lakes were dusted in the finest gold. The world held its breath.
This is a story about a rabbit—a story that takes place not that long ago, and not too far from where you live. Stories are happening all around us, you see; everyday, in fact. Outside our window, or across the street; perhaps down a small side-trail that veers from the familiar one we walk, but one down which we ourselves have never turned. We simply must look for them. Even we ourselves are involved in some kind of story, one that is still being written, and each new day is like the authoring of a new page, with chapters and adventures waiting to unfold.
This particular rabbit lived in a deserted warenne in the median strip of Route 29, otherwise known as the Coolmine Road. The rabbit lived with his ma and da, and they were the only ones here any longer. Long ago, it had been a thriving warenne called Tanglewood. In those days, a flourishing community of rabbits had thrived; multiplying, telling their stories, rearing their young ‘uns, foraging wherever they faired. That was before the elahs had come and cut the ‘black strips’ through the surrounding fields—one not too far to the east, and another not too far to the west. When that happened, Watershine, the Teinche of Tanglewood, summoned an estaclah – a closed council – and proposed the Great Move, or the Exodus as it came to be known. Most of Tanglewood rallied around Watershine. He was a tremendous leader, the wisest of all Teinche, one who had proven his quality time and time again as being truly concerned with the safety and well-being of the warenne. And so – like that – Tanglewood was moving.
But some had stayed behind; Sivic and his doe – Jola – being two of them. Not out of rebellion or disrespect for Watershine, but for no other reason than this place had become – to them and a few others – that mysterious place that can only be defined in a simple word: home. One night, before the warenne was set to move, Watershine called Sivic out for a ramble. He tried to convince him once more to come with the others. The two bucks – friends from so long ago, and cohorts in so many escapades – had paused, looking over, and sniffing suspiciously at, one of the then-fresh dirt swathes that cut through the once unscarred field. The first sign the elahs were preparing to do… SOMETHING.
“I see nothing but tragedy ahead,” Watershine whispered. He scanned the horizon, as if looking for something elusive, as though his words might summon forth some kind of bogey which he set himself to greet. “This place is no longer fit for rabbits.”
Sivic felt the not-uncomfortable weight of the moment. A moment paralyzed from the tension of so much to say on the one hand, and – on the other – perhaps so little. His nose worked methodically. “It’s our home,” he whispered in humble reply, looking out at where the black strip would eventually come to be.
Watershine did not respond. The two fell silent, as friends will often do when parting. Sivic was impressed with the Teinche’s personal concern for him and his doe. “We shall never find another Teinche such as you,” Sivic confessed as they made their way back to Tanglewood. The two bucks walked together, stopping every now and then to enjoy a bit of clover, content to delay the inevitable for as long as they could. Finally, they parted. Before they did, they pressed their noses together, as was common to their kind. Then Sivic watched Watershine hop slowly away, his great frame looking old, but still hale, against the fading sun. The large gap where a piece of Watershine’s flesh had been ripped from one ear (one of many scars the leader bore) was silhouetted briefly against the bright backdrop. It seemed to beckon all who looked upon him to inquire of the many great tales he could tell. A moment later Watershine was gone, swallowed up by the horizon.
That was long ago.
Since then, Sivic had not seen any of the others from Tanglewood. Not until recently. He and Jola had their first litter of kittens, the youngest of which came ambling through the nettles now as the sun sank into the far earth. The young ‘un was still small, but very alert. He stopped and rose on his hind legs, his forepaws dangling. He sniffed the air, ears raised high. He scratched rapidly a moment behind his ear, and then stretched one of his hind legs out in front of him. He began by licking the toes, and then proceeded to lick the entire leg furiously. When he felt the process was quite done, he relaxed, looking around again, and drinking in the fine evening air. He lowered himself, his eyes half-closed, and nose working in a happy rhythm.
Life here was not bad. Had the rabbits of Tanglewood tried to stay, Watershine’s prophecy would have proven true. There was no longer room here for an entire warenne. The two black strips had cut down dramatically on the amount of space there was here – perhaps not to survive – but certainly to thrive. But this young ‘un found a certain kind of innocent, adolescent enjoyment about where they were. He and his family still lived in the old runs of Tanglewood—and Tanglewood, you must know, had been a very large warenne indeed. He would often pass the days exploring the huge skeletal underground structure, smelling the familiar, well-ingrained smell of rabbit, imagining himself to be some great Teinche, ready to lead his warenne into battle against whatever enemy suited him that day. The mere size of the place provided more than enough protection for just the one family of rabbits.
In a strange sort of way, it was because of the black strips that Tanglewood – in its final form – even existed. The median strip along Route 29 was quite wide, with a narrow band of trees running down the middle. This strip of trees was broken only by the crumbling and moss-covered ruins of some centuries-old stone cottage, the remains of which jutted up from the earth, and looked – not like something that had once stood above the ground – but instead, like something that was trapped below the surface and desperately sought to escape. Within these trees, in and around the remains of the cottage itself, the main burrows of Tanglewood wound amidst a dense pile of discarded brush, wood, and other scraps. This dense pile of debris had come to exist during the first stages of construction of Route 29.
A few years back, the first trucks arrived, clearing out trees and brush as they came. Finding the ruins of the cottage a rather convenient and hidden-from-view spot, the workers dumped all the scraps and rubble of the initial cutting inside. As is often the case when man sets about building something, permissions had to be granted, papers had to be signed, meetings had to be held, and the whole proposition of Route 29 was shelved for months. It had been during this time gap that a group of rabbits (Watershine’s parents being two of them) had been led to the dense pile of brush within the ruins of the stone cottage by a great Teinche named Greenflinch. Two of his scouts had discovered the place while out on patrol and brought word to him. This had been during the bleak days of the fabled “Rhainmor Dispersions” (now only very briefly spoken of in other tales) when great bands of rabbits had been scattered far and wide – and many had been lost (mostly through mixamotosis) – looking for suitable locations to establish warennes. Upon seeing the location himself, Greenflinch had led his milpas – or “brothers” – to this place, and, over the next couple of years, the rubbish pile became overgrown with brush, vines became interwoven, and the name “Tanglewood” was born. When the elahs inevitably resumed work on Route 29, no one suggested removing the once-highly-prioritized pile of wood and rubble from the middle of the median strip, claiming that it now looked “natural”.
Inside, Tanglewood was an absolute marvel, and would take far too long to describe in detail. The stone remains of the cottage se
rved as an inner perimeter where the rabbits retreated during times of severe cold or wet. The ancient stone provided a wonderful kind of insulation. To retreat here also provided tremendous security if some predator was loose and spotted lurking outside the warenne. Within the heart of the remains of the cottage was a deep impression in the earth. A wide chamber was left around this to serve as a common area for the rabbits. Here, they gathered for their councils (this dip in the earth was where the original cottage dwellers had kindled their fires, and so the purposes the rabbits used it for was not much different than what the elahs had used it for centuries earlier—a place of gathering and fellowship). Running around the outside base of the stone wall of the cottage was a single, great passage—the main artery of the warenne. Branching off from this in every direction were all manner of lesser important burrows, most of which led to individual quarters. The two main entrances to the warenne were located on either end of the original cottage site, where the line of trees ran right up to the stone walls. There were also all manner of more secretive entrances and exits, as well as numerous passages that wove up into the woody roof structure of the warenne itself, leading to various lookout points. High overhead, the branches of the trees had grown together into a wonderful shady canopy. Below the main level of the warenne, several lower runs had been hollowed out, and served primarily as storerooms. It was truly a magnificent place. From where Tanglewood was nestled in the median, the ground sloped slightly upward in either direction toward the black strips. All around, the grass was high and thick, perfect for the rabbits to graze upon and hide in.
The young rabbit we started talking about just moments ago now tore a piece of the tall grass and nibbled it, lazily. His eyes closed with satisfaction.
A great sound caught his attention. He dropped to the ground, eyes wide. He swayed back and forth, trying to place the unusual sound. It came from the direction of the west black strip, off to his right; a lurching, laborious sound that echoed in the waning light of evening. This young ‘un was cursed with what his ma and da often thought of as a near-incurable sense of curiosity. Slowly, inevitably, sticking close to the ground, he crept through the grass and up the gentle slope toward the black strip. Typically, he stayed away from the black strips. “You may go as far as you like to the north, or to the south,” Sivic would say, “but stay away from the black strips; one to the east, and one to the west.” There were other times – usually late at night after Jola had gone to bed – when just the young ‘un and his da would be out for a ramble under the stars. On those occasions, his da would speak in a wholly different tone; slower, dreamier. “Life is different for you than it was for me, young ‘un. I was born in a thriving warenne in far-off fields, away from the things of the elahs. But, you . . . you have been born here in the middle of a road. A time will soon come when you must decide which side of the road to end up on.” Then his da would look away into the night – as if seeing something the young ‘un could not (or perhaps listening?). He would whisper: “In a way, we all must.”
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