After half an hour she came to a creek. She knew they would bring dogs to track her. She crossed the creek and circled back a few metres up. She deliberately pissed to leave a strong scent. She waded down to the point where she had first crossed and made another loop down the creek where she pissed again. She created two more false trails to confuse the dogs and waded down the creek, criss-crossing as she made her way. It was late afternoon when the terrain became rockier and steeper. She slowed her pace and searched the area carefully until she found a protected gully where she could light a fire unseen. She lit two fires and settled in-between to fend off the cold. When she was comfortable she pulled out one of her books and read late into the night by firelight. She had no fear of starving. She could find food, live off bugs, insects and small critters if she needed to. What she craved were puzzles. She recalled something Brother Francis had said about books being kept in a thing called a library and the only library she knew was back in Princeton. She was torn. She wanted to run away from people, but the only place she knew to find books were in cities, and they were filled with people.
She woke in the night, shaking. The nightmares had returned. A coyote howled in the distance. She pulled a shawl from her satchel and wrapped it around her shoulders. She looked up at a clear night sky alive with shimmering stars. Brother Francis had told her a story about people he called astronomers who had studied the sky. They had learned to measure how far away, how big and how bright the stars were. He told her stories about spirit people who had once travelled to the moon and other planets, all by understanding the magic of numbers. Her mind was ignited with wonder. If they could work out how to do it, so could she. It was then she understood it was all about energy and numbers. Everything was scintillation and vibration, even her body and her mind. She shuddered with a sudden thrill. She felt gloriously alive. The stories her grandmother told her came flooding back. The world had turned its back on the spirits and they had become angry and the world had turned to chaos.
“You are special,” her grandmother had whispered one night. “You will understand. The sky spirits will talk to you. You must listen.”
She looked back up at the night sky. It was alive with vibration, each point of light singing it’s own song of numbers.
She would listen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A great deal of appreciation must go to Chris C Stewart who has provided technical, critical and emotional support from the outset. www.administrivia.com.au
And thanks to Luza at 99designs for her wonderful cover art.
About the Author
Ray Harris was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1955. He first trained as teacher, but when he saw how the system treated children, especially gifted children (little was understood at the time) he decided it wasn’t for him. He became involved in community TV and gained a place at the prestigious Australian Film and Television School. He has a Degree in Fine Arts - Cinematography and went on the become head of the camera department at Network Films, which specialised in film SPFX. Unfortunately the Australian film industry goes through cycles of booms and busts. Since then he has worked several jobs and studied Indian philosophy, comparative mythology and developmental psychology. In 2002 he was invited to give the keynote speech at the Society for Research into Adult Development conference held at Pace University, NY. He has written several articles on current affairs. These can be found at his website www.novelactivist.com
His first novel is called Navaratri; his second is called Wild Child.
This is the first volume of a proposed trilogy. The second will be called The Golden City.
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