Hi Friend,

It’s been four years, and I finally have a novel written.

Since this section is called “Share Your Truth,” I figured this would be the best place to present the first chapter in a manuscript that is about a boy from a village in the desert called Cascus.

Born without a father and raised by a hardworking mother, circumstances immediately force him to travel his war-torn country, and readers are given access to his thoughts about the world and the many characters that he discovers along his journey.

Enjoy 🙂

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Chapter 1 

Meno of Cascus 

Meno hooked the fattest frame slithering between his dirty fingers dripping with grain and worm, and he cast a new line, watching another silver shadow inspect a wiggling barb.  

 “That’s it,” he whispered as the fish circled the bait.  

After three rounds, his rod started to bend, and Meno pulled back with all his young force as its string turned the water’s ripples into an arrow. He quickly moved his grips down its leather-wrapped handle, his feet settling on a rock, when he heard a light cracking noise and then a curved snap. Two sticks suddenly flew into the air. He slipped and scraped against the river’s bank, a piece of rod soon landing beside him and his bucket filled with the toads he had caught earlier. He remained on his throbbing back for a few minutes before regathering his emptied satchel, and with a loud, irritated grunt he began limping toward the village since dusk was falling, and he had to be home by dark.  

Wiping the dirt off his bruised shoulders and arms, Meno passed the gypsy camp set up just outside the village walls: a small, temporary circle of tents and wagons only a few feet away, with scattered fires spitting smoke and embers at the setting sun. The tents housed families, stallions, and cows with perfectly shaped skulls, which meant they were of a pedigree that far surpassed the crossbred livestock the villagers owned. And though any keen herdsman would have eagerly rushed at the chance to upgrade to gypsy cattle, bad rumors had spread of the annoyance briefly occupying that plot of sand.  

The gypsies were known for telling frightening tales brought by their messenger hawks, smiling while delivering any unwelcomed news, and then laughing as if they would somehow be gone before tragedy struck. But as they snickered at the dangers received by a bird’s traveling talons, the villagers, in disgust of their new neighbors, kept them barred from crossing the main gate. Nevertheless, Meno ignored these stories. He carelessly watched a beautiful gypsy girl every evening on his walk home from hunting and fishing. Some days she fletched arrows, on this day she argued with an older woman over what appeared to be a basket of sheep’s wool. Yet, lovely as she was, he never dared enter the gypsy camp unless accompanied by a gypsy, and sadly he knew none.  

Meno gestured at the guard standing on the wooden watchtower and waited for the gate’s rusted teeth to creak open. He had finally reached the village, his home, Cascus. Once thriving, several raids had turned Cascus into a den of thieves, swindlers, and struggling families. It was these miserable inhabitants that prevented their village’s growth, for Cascus was near the only river in the desert, and the best hunters had made fortunes selling the pelts of thirsty game to wandering adventurers. Yet even the richest bowman, a coin purse bursting at the seam within his greedy grasp, hated the place that gave him his wealth. It smelled like animal droppings and copper, and music and laughter could always be heard coming from the local tavern filled with dueling men and scruffy spectators.  

Everything inside Cascus was either old, dirty, or stolen, and Meno disliked having to see it all after a long day of unsuccessful fishing. He kept to himself and avoided eye contact with the ones sitting on the tavern’s porch, scurrying up the path to his hut without second glances, where he stood frozen by its door. A minute passed, and he could already hear his mother’s voice before walking in.   

“Another night and you still haven’t brought any fish?” she yelled while furiously grabbing his bucket and placing it over a fire she had prepared earlier.  

Meno swiftly put his things away to avoid her from noticing that his rod was missing. But when he returned, she was still angry, a permanent set of lines deepening between her furrowed brows since they were barely surviving off the milk provided by their cow, Nadia, and his amateur hunting and fishing that usually left her with seasoned warts.  

Adding spices and herbs to give them flavor, his mother placed the cooked toads on the table.  

“Meno, I am tired. You leave all day and bring this for supper?” She held her plate beneath his nose. “I can’t remember the last time a fish entered my stomach.”  

Meno looked down and quietly ate his food. 

“Meno, speak,” she said.   

“I’m sorry,” he replied.   

“Sorry isn’t going to get us a real meal. Perhaps your friend Emir can give you lessons on fishing.”  

Meno clenched his fists beneath the table and stared at his mother with a spurious smile. She knew how to get under his skin; she knew bringing him up would cause tension.  

“Maybe I will,” Meno said.  

“Maybe you should,” his mother replied. “Go clean up and get ready for bed. I will wash the dishes tonight.”  

“Thank you, mother.”  

This will pass, Meno thought, watching her clean the plates with an attitude he simply considered another moment of temporary rage. So many days were spent in this sway that he knew when her short-lived anger was invented rather than genuine, and he accepted her fury—like an unruly leaf watered by a rainstorm’s tantrum—in every moment of life, from morning to night, from milking breakfast to skinning dinner. To expect his mother to pacify herself would be like asking a choleric gypsy to stop telling scary stories, a task only a fool would take.  

“Mother,” Meno said before leaving the table, “do you know why the gypsies talk about beheadings and crosses?”  

“What do you mean?”  

“Emir says the gypsies are leaving in two days. Their hawks say there’s an army of—” 

“The hawks say this and the gypsies say that, what do the toads say?”  

They silently stared at the half-eaten plates and then burst into an unexpected laughter.  

“To be fair,” his mother wiped her eyes, “the gypsies are not all crazy. Just leave their prophecies for their people, and we will stay with ours.” 

Meno nodded, still smiling from her joke.  

“Now go wash up before bed. I won’t ask again.”  

Meno bathed in the water from their shower bucket and scrubbed his body until his filth fell on the dirt floor. The breezy night hurried him, and within seconds he was snuggled in a cot of wool and hay, sleepily gazing at the sky through holes in the thatched roof, each star making his eyes heavier than before. Maybe rest will bring fish, he thought as he drifted into a sea of dreams.  

* * * 

The sun was not fully out yet, but Meno could see his mother from the small window emptying Nadia into a canteen. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, and packed his gear for the day’s hunt. When he walked out the door, he heard his name. 

“Meno, come here,” his mother called from behind the hut.  

“Yes, mother?”  

“You will sell this at the gypsy camp today,” she handed him the canteen of warm milk, “and don’t you dare wander. I know how those gypsy merchants haggle and claim to carry stones that turn things into gold. Understood?”  

“But will I be allowed inside?” Meno asked as he carefully put the canteen in his satchel.  

She breathed deep and yanked onto Nadia’s udder, now filling a personal cup. “The gypsies leave tomorrow night and say they will trade with Cascus. I’m sure at least one will pay for the goatskin and fresh milk.”  

“They leave because of the messenger hawks. Mother, we must go with them.”  

 “And what, live with gypsies? You treat this home like they treat theirs, without respect, always ready to leave when things get uncomfortable.” She stood. “We aren’t going anywhere, especially because of some birds.” 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “I only want us to be safe.” 

Her sharp ridges sheathed at her son’s worry. “You aren’t old enough to know how to keep me safe. There will be a time when I will ask you for advice, but when you’re a man, not a boy.”  

Hearing this made his heart sink. He hadn’t told her why he chose to learn archery despite her thinking that he wanted to be a hunter. Inside him, lurking within an abyss of insecurities and guilts regarding times he had no control over, times when his father was alive and there to protect, was a young man that wished to stand tall and defend her with honor if need be. He wanted to shield her for the only difference between him and a beggar was the blessing of sacrifice. His mother ensured he had a roof over his head, prepared food, and guidance from a straying path. Yet in spite of all her maternal attributes, her wrong wisdom was threefold: one, he would catch a fish, not as a fisherman but as a bare-handed savage; two, he, too, would eventually flee this decaying place like a gypsy; and three, he would become a leader one day, a man that no one in the village…the region had ever seen. He only needed time to prove all three correct, and fortunately he had already proven to himself that he was more than patient.