The Hollow (Song of Len the Wanderer, 2024 edition, Snippet 1)
A lighter kind of story fragment from the Dustsong Cycle
I’m sure glad I tripped over this funny-looking rock the other day. Len was kneeling in the dirt and digging a hole with the long, flat piece of stone. It came to a point on one end, not as sharp as a knife. The other end was smooth enough he could wrap his hand tight around it tight without drawing blood. It was a useful tool for all kinds of things, like gardening.
I reckon there’s nothing better in all the earthly realm than digging in a garden. Len pressed a fat, round seed into the hole he had made. He used his digging stone to scrape dirt over the seed.
At last, he stood and admired his work. It had taken all afternoon to find just the right plot of ground, build a low stone wall around it, and prepare the soil for planting. These pod plants, and the tall, feathery grass nearby, would make good eating.
“What goes, Len? Can we help?”
We? Len turned to look at his little brother. Sceg sat atop a skinny-legged beast with giant, curly horns.
“Why’re you riding a sheep?” Len asked.
“It’s not a sheep,” Sceg insisted. “It’s a bighorn.”
Len gave a short, mean laugh. “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 climbed 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 cheerfully. He’s nothing 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 stone under the rope that held his britches up. Sceg scampered over the wall of rocks Len had piled around his new garden to keep rabbits and deer away. The sheep followed close behind Sceg. All the critters seemed to like Len’s brother. Same as they like Father.
Len hadn’t thought about sheep getting into the garden. Or goats. Tomorrow he would have to build the wall higher. And he’d do the same for all his other gardens scattered about the hollow where they lived. Sceg and his new friend would probably find those, too.
A strong breeze whistled through the tall oaks. It blew through the boys’ curly hair and set tree limbs a-waving. Meadow grasses fluttered and tickled Len’s ankles. The breath off Livyat’s fangs. That was what Father called the wind whenever a gust damaged their cottage roof.
“The air is too sweet to be the monster’s breath,” Mother said, every time. “It must be the Wright giving us a whiff of the heaven-realm.” She says it in a wishful way. The wind also helped Mother dry their clean laundry on the clothesline.
Len looked past the sheep’s horns and Sceg’s head, and over rippling treetops, at the Fangs. Scraggly forevergreen trees continued a ways above the hollow. The jagged mountainside rose higher still. At the top were snowcapped peaks under a blanket of clouds.
He imagined the moment long ago when Livyat, the colossal she-snake, lunged into the sky with her jaws wide open. In that moment, the Wright had rained rock down on the Mother of Serpents. Now she was trapped forever beneath the earth. Her fangs—the mountains—were all that remained visible of the monster above the surface.
Is she still awake in there? Can she see us right now, wading through the meadow? Len shivered.
They walked into grass so high that it swallowed Len to his waist. It covered Sceg and his sheep nearly to their necks. Len’s brother stopped suddenly. “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 wore a thoughtful expression. Like the light just before dawn breaks. That’s what Mother calls his pondering look.
They continued toward home, a few steps ahead of the sheep. Len kept a watchful eye on their shadows. The sun sat so low in the sky, it stretched and twisted their shapes to look like demons. If he’s the sunrise, I suppose I’m the sunset shadow.
The brothers finished crossing the meadow and passed between clusters of thorntrees. It was late in the season, yet small red fruits dotted the tree branches. “I want to pick a few thornapples,” Len said.
“But the bighorn can’t follow us in,” Sceg protested. “The bushes around the trees grow too close together. Anyhow, I helped Father bring in a basketful of thornapples this morning.”
“All right,” Len said. But he’d stop by the thorntrees tomorrow, for sure.
Clumps of pink and purple flowers welcomed them to the next meadow. They walked lazily past a family of tiny elf-deer some twenty steps away. One was a year-old buck. When it noticed them, the buck stopped and showed off its antlers till the other deer had vanished into a nearby clump of trees and undergrowth.
“So, what name would you pick for an elf-deer? A hairy hornbird?” Len teased. This earned him a pretend glare and playful shove from Sceg. The boys wrestled a bit while the sheep munched calmly on some purple flowers. Sceg wriggled behind Len and wrapped scrawny arms around his neck and chest.
“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 between heavy breaths in Len’s ear. “I’ll race you!” he cried as he leapt off Len’s back.
They ran full-speed into the open patch of bloodwood trees on the other side of the meadow. With his longer legs, Len reached the woods first. Sceg’s feet moved more quickly over the bumpy ground and tree roots between the trees. By the time they left the woods and saw their house across a sunny clearing, the boys ran side by side.
Their house was a cottage made of oak trees and mud. It had a low roof covered in bark and dried grass. It looks like it’s wearing a funny sort of hat. Len and Sceg didn’t slow down till they stood just outside the doorway. The sheep joined them before they could catch their breath.
“You weren’t kidding,” Len wheezed. “That bighorn of yours is fast.”
Sceg grinned. “Wait here,” he told the critter. The sheep wandered over to their mother’s outdoor oven and lay down next to it. The oven is still warm. That meant fresh-baked cakes waited for the boys inside! Len ducked through the doorway at the exact same time as Sceg.
Sword & Saturday Author Note [January 20, 2024]
I realize there’s a distinct lack of swords or warriors in this snippet. Heck, there aren’t even grown-ups. I promise, this low-fantasy storyline—The Song of Len the Wanderer, from my Dustsong Cycle— features a (flaming) sword, anti-heroes, barbarians, and so forth. It simply felt most considerate to y’all to start at the beginning. Especially since my whole Vaporous Realms story-world begins here.
Note from the Author [Original]
Adapting the first half of Dustsong, Chapter One, for this new Legends Songs series was admittedly an underwhelming task. I feel like I’m easing myself into the challenge of writing a lighter read for those who prefer that (some of the time, at least). Of all my Vaporous Realms writings thus far, the opening thousand words of Len’s novella was already the best suited for a younger audience—understandably, since it’s the only thing I’ve written that features children as main characters. I’ll have a rude awakening when I get to Chapter Two.
I hope you enjoy this, whether by yourself or to read aloud to younger folk.
Enjoy 2023 while it lasts, y’all. Thank you for reading—and see you in 2024!
I just revised the first few paragraphs. Learning to write for middle-grade+ is taking some practice!