The Hollow (Dustsong: Len the Wanderer)

A preview of Chapter One of the original Len novella

Len pressed the last, round seed into its span-deep hole. With his digging blade, he scraped soil over the seed till it was buried under a little mound of earth. I’m sure glad I tripped over that funny-looking rock ere yesterday. The flat, slender length of stone had proven mighty useful for tending his growing things.

He stood for a look at the result of his afternoon’s labor. A dozen small mounds of earth snaked around a patch of feathery grass he’d found. Podding plants grew taller near the spiky, kernelled barley-grass. Afore long, the pods and kernels alike would make for good eating.

“What goes, Len? Can we help?”

We? Len turned to find his little brother sitting atop a spindly-legged beast. The creature’s giant horns, curled down to the sides of its head, resembled mouse ears.

“Why’re you riding a sheep?” Len asked.

“It’s not a sheep,” Sceg insisted. “It’s a bighorn.”

Len scoffed. “Father says it’s called a sheep. It’s just a regular old mountain sheep.”

“Father calls the critters whatever he wants. So can I!”

“Fine,” Len said. “But why are you riding on its back?”

“So I can fetch you for supper.”

“Wright almighty,” Len huffed. “You sure take your time getting to the main thing.”

“Sorry,” Sceg said. He clambered down from the sheep as it munched on meadow grass.

Len shrugged. “Let’s head back. I’m done here for today, anyhow. But you’d best keep that beast away from my garden.”

“I’ll try,” Sceg replied cheerily. He’s naught if he isn’t good-natured. That was what their mother said. “I’ll walk back so you aren’t on your lonesome. Bighorns are faster than you’d reckon.”

“Thanks,” Len said. He stashed his digging blade under the fibrous cord belting his tunic. Sceg scampered over the piled-stone wall Len had built around his new garden to discourage rabbits and deer. The sheep followed close on Sceg’s heels. All the critters seemed to like Sceg. Same as they like Father.

Len hadn’t considered sheep. Or goats. He would have to build the wall higher on the morrow. And he’d do the same for all his other gardens, in case Sceg and his latest companion discovered those, too.

A stiff breeze whistled through the tall oaks. It tousled the boys’ curly manes and set boughs a-waving. Meadow grasses fluttered and tickled Len’s ankles. The breath off Livyat’s fangs. That was what Father called the ever-present wind whenever a gust damaged their cottage roof.

“The air is too sweet for that,” Mother said, every time. “It must be the Wright giving us a whiff of the heaven-realm.” She says it a bit wistful-like. It also helped dry their clean clothes on the line.

Len looked past the sheep’s horns and Sceg’s head, and over billowy treetops, at the Fangs. Tree cover, scraggly forevergreens mostly, continued a ways upslope of the hollow where Len and his family dwelt. The jagged mountainside rose higher yet, to snowcapped summits draped in cloud.

He imagined Livyat, the colossal she-snake, lunging skyward with her maw wide open. In that instant, the Wright had rained rock upon the mother of serpents, trapping her and her fangs forever under untold layers of earth.

Is she still awake in there? Can she see us right now, wading through the meadow? Len shivered.

They walked into a swath of grass that swallowed Len to his waist and hid Sceg and his sheep nearly to their necks. Without warning, Sceg stopped short. “One day,” he said, “I’ll climb to the tip of the tallest Fang. Do you think I could see the Wright from up there?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Len replied. “You’d tucker out halfway to the top. Besides, the Wright wouldn’t want the likes of us to trouble him.”

Instead of being disappointed, Sceg took on a contemplative air. Like the light just afore dawn-break, Mother calls that look of his.

They continued homeward. Len kept a wary eye on their silhouettes, stretched and twisted like earth demons. If he’s the sunrise, I suppose I’m the sunset shadow.

The brothers let the sheep trail a few paces behind as they finished crossing the far meadow. They passed betwixt scattered stands of late-fruiting thorntrees. “I want to pick a few thornapples,” Len said.

“But the bighorn can’t follow us in,” Sceg protested. “The brush is too thick. Anyhow, I helped Father bring in a basketful this morning.”

“All right,” Len relented. But he’d stop by tomorrow, for certain.

Clumps of pink and purple flowers welcomed them to the meadow nearest home. They moseyed past a family of sprightly deer some twenty paces off. When the lone yearling buck noticed them, he stopped and flaunted his improbably big antlers till the does and fawns had vanished into a nearby thicket.

“So, what name would you pick for a sprightly deer? A hairy hornbird?” Len teased. This earned a mock glare and playful shove from Sceg. The boys wrestled a bit while the sheep munched placidly on a sprig of purple flowers. Sceg managed to wriggle behind Len and wrap scrawny limbs around his neck and torso.

“Hey!” Len yelped. He tried not to sound as annoyed as he suddenly felt. “Let’s get on home now. I’m hungry enough to eat a crag-goat.”

“Me, too,” said Sceg betwixt heaving breaths in Len’s ear. “I’ll race you!” he cried as he leapt off Len’s back.

They ran flat-out into the open patch of bloodwoods on the far side of the meadow. With his longer stride, Len reached the woods first. Yet Sceg was lighter and surer of foot on the uneven, root-strewn ground betwixt the trees. By the time they spilled into a sunny glade, the brothers ran abreast.

A grey-daubed house of oaken poles and beams sat just across the way, in the middle of the glade. The cottage had a low roof, covered in bark shingles and thatch, and wide eaves. It looks like it’s wearing a funny sort of hat. Len and Sceg didn’t slow till they stood just outside the doorway, but the sheep joined them afore they’d caught a breath.

“You weren’t kidding,” Len wheezed. “That bighorn of yours is fast.”

Sceg grinned. “Wait here,” he told the critter. The sheep obliged by wandering over to their mother’s earthen outdoor oven and nestling beside it. Still warm. That meant fresh-baked cakes. The boys ducked through the doorway shoulder to shoulder.

Mother sat on her stool at their squat-legged kitchen table on the right-hand side of the front room. She wore her second-best summer tunic, the blue one, and had her tight-curled hair tied back. She was adding herbs to a bowl of what looked to be mashed roots. Assorted other vessels, and Mother’s cooking utensils, lay scattered across the table. Several small pots were filled with greens. But sure enough, a platter of cakes rested at her elbow.

“Almost ready boys. Wash up.”

Sceg obeyed, scurrying to the basin of water near the kitchen window. As soon as Mother’s attention returned to her supper preparations, Len slunk over to the opposite side of the front room. Father reclined on his favorite, worn fiber mat. It was decorated with all kinds of critters and plants the boys had painted in an array of colors.

Father almost always looked out of the sitting-room window this time of day and watched the sun set through the trees. His expression now was thoughtful, like Sceg’s sometimes. Len’s father and little brother resembled each other in many a way, down to their ruddy-brown toes.

“You’ve been roaming too far,” Mother commented from the kitchen. “What am I supposed to do if you cross paths with a wolf or a jackal out there on your lonesome?”

Be glad Sceg didn’t get eaten, too. Len plopped down on the plain mat of brown and yellow fibers he’d woven himself

“Easy, Lae,” Father drawled. “Len’s so shaggy, a wolf would probably mistake him for its cub.”

“Don’t humor him, Ghrem.”

Father gave Len a weighing look. “From now on, little wanderer, mind you let me or your mother know where you’re off to.” Len grunted at the gentle chastisement.

Sceg joined them. His mat was frayed from all the times Mother had tried to scrub the critter smells out of it. “Father, guess what? I’ve got a new pet!”

“What is it named?

“It’s called a bighorn. That’s its name.”

Father looked a question at Len, who mouthed “sheep” behind Sceg’s back and mimicked its curled horns with his fingers.

Father nodded and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I reckon that’s a fine name. Mayhap I should have thought of it myself.” Sceg beamed. Len rolled his eyes.

“Tell us about some of the beasts you’ve named,” Sceg pressed Father. “What was the funniest-looking one?”

Len scoffed. “You’re always wanting to talk about that stuff.”

“Well,” Sceg said, a bit huffy for once, “what would you talk about?”

Len considered. He hated being put on the spot, so he asked the first question that popped into his head. “Does the Wright have growing things, and critters, up where he lives? In the sky-realm?”

Father blinked in surprise. “Well, now,” he replied slowly. “That’s quite a thing to ask. I can’t say I rightly know. But if the Wright ever invites you up there, how about you find out for yourself. And let me know.”

“Okay,” Len said, disappointed. That wasn’t really an answer.

Father turned his attention back to Sceg. “But as for the strangest critter I ever named, I may recall…”

Len left them talking and slunk over to the kitchen side of the house. Mother had already tidied the mess on the table into something resembling supper. She was setting a crock of thornapple paste beside the platter of cakes and noticed his interest.

“Wash,” she ordered. This time he heeded her, afore swiping a cake and perching on his stool to the side of the table. He took a bite and took his time chewing. Without the thornapple dressing, the cake was bland, but that let him better appreciate its soft, slightly crumbly texture.

“You’ve got a storm brewing in that head of yours,” Mother said, matter of fact. “What’s the trouble?”

“Sceg and Father are always going on about the critters.” That didn’t feel like the whole of his woes, but it was part.

“What would you rather talk about?”

Len tried not to be cross that she’d repeated Sceg’s exact question. Instead, he gazed out the kitchen window. “Other places I’ve never been,” he said. “Like the low country. And green things. Different kinds of trees and shrubs and such.” I reckon I’d find all kinds of interesting stuff growing outside our hollow.

“Your father knows plenty about plants and trees,” his mother suggested.

“No,” Len said hurriedly. “I don’t mean gathering things the way he does. I want to grow them in one spot, in gardens, so I can look at them and pick them for eating whenever I please.”

What’s that odd look on her face? He asked her as much.

She replied in a quiet tone, with a half-hearted smile. “I know a place you’d have liked, that’s all.”

Len decided to change the subject. “I want to know more about the Wright, too. Does he ever come visit our realm?”

Now Mother’s face was downright troubled. I’m sorry I asked. But he munched the last bite of his cake in patient silence.

Right as he swallowed, she answered. “He used to. But folks made mistakes—” Her voice caught. “So now he doesn’t come back.” She sat back on her stool and called the others. “Supper’s ready!”

Crumbs had stuck in Len’s throat. He grabbed a chipped cup off the table and stood to fetch one of the waterskins hanging on the wall. “I’m not going to make mistakes,” he declared after filling his cup and gulping a swig.

Mother almost responded but settled for exchanging a look with Father as he strode to the wash basin. What’s that about?

Sceg stepped away from the basin and shook the water off his hands. With a mischievous grin and a chortle, he told Len, “Your face is a mistake.”

Afore either of the grown folk could object, Len had flung his empty cup onto the table and was chasing his brother around the kitchen.

“Take it outside!” Father shouted.

Squealing like a squeaker-pig, Sceg bolted out the doorway. Len was right on his heels.

“And then wash up again!” Mother yelled after the boys.

Len tackled his brother five paces from the cottage. They lay all a-tangle and laughing in the gathering gloam. The sheep observed from the shadows, without comment. All things considered, life was good under the sun and the Fangs.

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A Note from the Author

When folks with experience advise authors to step away from their manuscript—especially their first manuscript—for a spell after first writing it, they know what they’re talking about. It’s a happy thing to return to Len’s story after all these months, with a refreshed imagination and a keener eye for what’s important.

The biggest favor I aim to do my readers in adapting Len’s story from serial to novella is telling his story in chronological sequence. That begins with this prologue chapter and a peek at Len’s earliest years. You can understand most people a lot better if you know where they came from, after all, and Len is no exception.

I know many of you are holding out for the novella release, but I promised to offer subscribers a glimpse of what’s coming. Some of the novella chapters are brand-new, like this one, while others are revisions or rewrites of snippets from the 2022 edition of Len’s Song.

I hope you enjoyed this little prelude. Check out this post to download and read the full novella for free!