This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012 by Mark Caldwell Jones
Illustrations copyright © 2013 Founders Park Media, Inc.
Book Design by Founders Park Media, Inc.
Book Cover Art & Illustrations by Kitikhun Vongsayan
Series: Opal of the Ozarks: Book One
First Edition: October 2013
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.
Published in the United States by Samurai Seven Books, an imprint of Founders Park Media, Inc. http://fparkmediainc.com/
ISBN: 978-0-9910376-0-5 (sc) / 978-0-9910376-0-5 (ebook)
Table of Contents
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Warning
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part Two
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
Part Three
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
Part Four
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
.
.
.
.
Dedicated To
Diane and Larry Jones
Warning to Readers and Explorers
Please read this before you begin this woefully inaccurate tale. This book contains myths, fallacies, and fictions; it is a complete fabrication. In my opinion, it is an unnecessary waste of time. It’s certainly not sanctioned by any respectable organization in or out of the Veil. Most importantly, all people living, dead, or existing in some kind of magical stasis, who appear in this story, are fictional or used in a fictitious framework. All of this to say, you can’t trust a word of what you are about to read.
However, let me acknowledge that explorers with the right amount of curiosity and keen observational skills may find many of the locations in this book. I suggest that it would be an education to take a break from your otherwise boring life and hunt for these places. But be warned, due to the finicky nature of the Veil’s magic, some of these sites no longer survive or may have moved. Unreliable sources report that the White River, the Buffalo River, the Blue Spring, and Blanchard’s cave may exist. I’ve even heard rumors that a facsimile of a certain tree stands outside a popular museum and one of Pembrook’s chapels still gets visitors. Other locations like Liberty Creek have faded into obscurity. Even though it might be difficult to find all of these objects of wonder and their locations, one could do worse than getting lost in the Ozarks. Just make sure you avoid being eaten by the dangerous creatures that still roam those treacherous hills.
Professor Hans Fromm
Fallmoon Gap
.
.
And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.
—Roald Dahl
PROLOGUE
Of all the power stones I have encountered, this one seems to have the most magic. Its opalescent stone refracts all the colors of the visible spectrum. Likewise, it channels the Veil’s magic into a seemingly endless array of enchantments.
A devilish old limestone troll, under considerable pressure, finally gave me a key to its mysteries. He was taught the poem by a powerful lithomancer but had never repeated it until I tortured him.
While it does not give us complete insight, it does help one remember what magic is possible. It should be memorized like this:
White and so pale, the Quartz Crystal opens the Veil.
Red like raging fire, the Ruby burns with dark desire.
Orange as the sun, the Tiger-eye tells us when to run.
Yellow like gold, the Citrine makes one do what is told.
Green as the flower, the Emerald has Mother Nature’s power.
Blue as the sea, the Sapphire protects you and me.
Indigo like a dream, the Azurite paints a future scene.
Purple as lavender’s field, the Amethyst helps us heal.
Black like the night, the Opal is the alchemist’s delight.
— Elder Wattman Wormhold, “The Great Compendium of Veilian Magic & Other Curiosities”
She found the child in the heart of the cemetery. Inside the only stonework tomb, half hidden in the molasses black of the October night, the baby lay in a nest of ivory colored feathers woven together like a crown. Strange symbols were etched into the wooden lid of the sarcophagus and encircled the child. There was a little light from a crack of moonbeam, and from somewhere else too. As the child calmly looked up at Mae Dooley, she was illuminated by three swirling pools of blue light, two from the infant’s eyes and one from an eerie black opal resting at the center of the child’s chest on a silver chain. The stone looked alive, like a miniature black hole. It was awhirl with magic. The more Mae stared at it, the more frightened she became—not beca
use it was obviously bewitched, but because she could feel it clawing at her spirit.
She had been warned by Ms. Jane Willis to not let it “grab ahold of her mind.” However, the superstitious ways of that old woman had never persuaded Mae, so she had swept that warning away. Now she knew she had been very foolish. Mae forced herself to look away from the necklace and into the child’s eyes.
Sometimes when an Ozarker died, a crown of feathers was found inside their pillow. It was a sign of blessing. Now, here, was Mae’s blessing. The baby girl, honey-leather in color, lay in the holy nest waiting for a mother. She was alive, perfect, and prickled with goose bumps from the chill of the air.
Mae felt thankful for the momentary shelter of the musty tomb. She had known this would be dangerous, but they—Mae and her husband, Rhodes Dooley—had not expected to be hunted all the way to Grigg’s Landing and the Spring Creek Cemetery.
When Ms. Willis told Mae that her prayers for a child would be answered, she didn’t imagine it would include the threat of death. The old woman had repeated the instructions many times: On the grave of slaves, her light will rise from the darkness. Find her at the crack of midnight, Hallows Eve.
As she picked up the baby, the necklace’s chain shifted but the stone did not. She reached out to take it from the little girl’s neck. The stone was lava-hot and she cried out in shock. It was fixed in place, as if it had seared through the child’s flesh and melted into her breastbone. For a moment her fear for the baby overcame the threat of pain, and with all her might, Mae tried to pry the stone away. The opal burned with such blistering heat that her longest fingernail cracked and her fingertips were seared numb. Unable to bear it, she released the stone and nearly fainted.
Soon after, the child seemed to come out of its transfixed state. She lost her serene gaze, her eye’s stopped glowing, and she began to cry. Only then did the stone stop swirling and slide down into the space where Mae’s arm cradled the child. Mae immediately recognized that the stone was cold and that it seemed safe. She swaddled the baby in her old kitchen apron, took up the necklace in a handkerchief, and tucked it into her old coat.
Rhodes appeared at the tomb’s entrance.
“We didn’t shake them, Mae. Damn girl, what have you got us into?” he sputtered, out of breath.
The man was drenched in sweat. He looked like he had been running the hills for hours. She rushed out of the tomb and followed him to the road.
“I hear them, Mae!” he said. “We have to go. I mean, you have to go. Now! I’ll make sure they don’t follow.”
She couldn’t speak. Fear spread over her like a fever. She nodded at her husband and kissed his cheek. Rhodes followed her down the cemetery path and broke off at the main trail.
“We have to change our plan,” he yelled. “It’s not safe to go back to the farm.”
“My sister’s house then?” Mae said, frantically looking back down the road.
Rhodes nodded in agreement. Looking at the child and the woman he loved, one lone spark of hope flared in his heart.
A family.
Finally, there in the middle of the dark road, stood a family of his own.
“I’ll meet you there.” Rhodes promised.
With that, the new family broke apart, and each of them scattered into the night.
Rhodes ran through the thicket of sawgrass. He had been running at top speed for over an hour. Fear pushed blood through him like a stoker shoveling coal into a furnace. His lungs burned and his mind clouded with panic. The faster he ran the closer his pursuers seemed to be.
To his left, an animal broke out of the shadows. It was smaller than a horse but too massive to be a dog. It slowed down and began pacing him. To his right, coming up fast, was a hooded rider bearing a torch. The torch crackled and flamed in an odd purple color. It was a woman and she called out to the monsters.
Rhodes didn’t slow down. He jumped over a fallen tree and headed toward a wooded area many yards ahead. The demon-lady did not pursue, instead she waved her torch, almost as if to salute, then hurled it into the air.
Rhodes sprinted toward the tree line. The torch hit the ground ten paces ahead and rolled through the brush into a pool of black pitch. A wall of purple flame exploded. The acrid smoke engulfed him. He skidded to a stop and spun to flee the opposite direction.
There in his way he saw a shocking beast, dreadful in its fury. It roared as it pawed the earth with its cloven hoof. It was man and not man. It was boar and not boar. Its charcoal-grey razor-fins swayed and heaved in the moonlight. Its mammoth snout was a web of hideous scars that stretched tight as the jaws snapped at him. The beast smelled of wet dog and death.
A similar monster closed in on Rhodes from the other side. Its snorts steamed the air and its auburn hide shook as if the monster was laughing. To his right, another stepped forward. This one had a midnight-black coat and one broken tusk. It circled close and growled through its gaping jaws. It lunged at Rhodes just as a lasso of thick rope spun through the air and landed perfectly around his neck. He was suddenly flat on his back and being pulled toward the wall of flame. He gasped for air and struggled to loosen the snare. The beasts tore at his flesh as he slid backward into the fire.
As Rhodes succumbed to death, he heard a man shouting, a man that sounded so much like him.
“Save the child, Mae,” the man screamed. “Save the child or we all die!”
PART ONE
It seems the people of Arcania endure even in the harshest of circumstances. They believe, no matter how much pain one carries, or how much hardship one has been through, there is always hope.
Even when everything they love is swept away in one grand loss, they leave room for the new.
It is their courage to continue that makes the sap, that fills all the roots, feeding every heart in these Ozark Mountains—they carry an extraordinary portion of what we Veilians call magic.
— Cornelius Rambrey, “A Journal of Travels into the Veilian Nexus called Arcania”
Attack of the Hoods
1
Fifteen years later
Opal Summerfield fired two small stones in quick succession from her slingshot. One hit Percy Elkins in the nose; the other smacked the ear of Pitt Elkins. Pitt squealed in pain and dropped Opal’s stringer of trout, which he had been threatening to steal.
“Get her you idiot!” Percy yelled at his whimpering brother.
The chase was on.
Opal fled into the forest. The Elkins brothers ran right behind her yelling and cursing. Opal just laughed.
That should teach them. You don’t mess with me—especially today!
She leapt over pine roots and puddles of muddy water. She ran a wide arc away from the White River. She made her way off the trail, and as the gap between her and the boys grew, she gradually turned and headed back to where the chase had begun.
Opal knew that if they caught her, they would beat her to within an inch of her life, but she was not leaving those fish. Today was her birthday and she had worked all morning carefully landing a dozen of them. Opal thought of the trout as a gift, a perfect birthday dinner. Fish fried up in bacon fat, cornmeal hush puppies, and sun tea with sugar and peach juice. And, if Bree felt generous, one of her sticky sorghum and molasses birthday cakes dusted with cinnamon.
She could hear the roar of the water to the north and headed back toward the river. The whole Ozark Mountain wilderness that surrounded her town, Grigg’s Landing, was magical, but Cotter’s Bridge was Opal’s favorite spot. The river flowed more slowly here and schools of fish holed up to rest after the daunting journey around Firefly Notch a half-mile upstream. The water was clear as glass this time of year, and Opal loved fishing from the center of the bridge. She could watch the rainbow trout dart across the rocky river bottom as she dreamed about what might be beyond the mountains.
The bridge came back into view as she ran under a large white fringetree. Without breaking pace, she tore off half a limb with its dangle of ivory flowers.
She waved the whole bunch before her like a flag. Pitt Elkins would see it and think she was surrendering, but that was ridiculous. His older brother, Percy, knew better—Opal Summerfield never gave an inch to anyone.
To say the least, Opal was not a typical citizen of Grigg’s Landing. She stood out, no matter where she was or whom she was with. She was a lanky, lean-muscled, fifteen-year-old black girl with soft but attractive features. Her hair was a generous mound, curled and fine, like chocolate cotton spun into a wild mess. Her eyes were blue as a cloudless sky. This made Opal a spectacle among both the white folks and the black folks of the town. She also had a habit of speaking her mind, which drew just as much attention as her eyes.
She was a happy, beautiful young woman whose joy was only dimmed by the stormy cloud of her secret loss. She had no mother or father, and she had no idea where she was really from, but that was a secret she shared only with Bree and Hud Summerfield, her adoptive parents.
Kerr Elkins was a respected man and the sheriff of Grigg’s Landing. His sons were another story. Pitt and Percy Elkins were some of the worst petty criminals that Grigg’s Landing had ever known. Pitt was a dumb, pudgy sidekick to his sadistic, lean, scarecrow-like brother. Of the two, Percy was the bull goose. He led the pair into all kinds of trouble. He loved taunting Opal because she fought back, and that gave him license to be even more vicious.
“Come on boys, you want me, come get me,” she yelled behind her as she ran.
Opal raced down the hill back toward the trail. She was trying to draw them to the old oak tree fifty yards in front of her. A beehive shaped like a gray balloon hung prominently from one of the branches. She sprinted under it, and with another quick motion she batted the whole thing off the tree in the direction of her pursuers. The boys started screeching as the mad buzz of bees filled the air.
“Look out,” yelled Pitt.
Opal didn’t turn back; she just hoped it slowed the boys down. She made her final sprint toward her stringer of fish, which was tied to the railing of the bridge. She was completely out of breath as she hauled up her catch and untied the knot.
She looked up and saw Percy and Pitt right at the edge of the bridge. The old hive hadn’t spooked them like she’d hoped. Opal turned to run the other way, but tripped and fell flat on her face. The stringer of fish skidded out of reach and flopped right over the bridge and into the water.
Opal Summerfield and The Battle of Fallmoon Gap Page 1