Fiction

Some folks have commented directly to me that it’s tough to make comments about the novel. If you want to send me mail directly, that’s fine too—send it to billva@betav.com. If you want to post public comments, I have tried to make it easier by changing the security settings so that it encourages you to use TypeKey authentication. This means you can use a variety of means to validate that you’re a person and not a SPAM robot including using an existing Gmail, Facebook or other credentials that does not invade your privacy.

I’ve outlined the steps below:

• When you’re ready to make a comment you need to sign in. Click on the Sign In link as shown in Figure 1 below. This link is shown at the bottom of each page. Yes, you’ll have to scroll to the end of a chapter to see it.

Figure 1: The Sign in to comment link.

• Next, you’ll get a dialog where you can choose the method to authenticate yourself. I suggest choosing TypeKey. You’ll see why in a minute…
• 

• Once you select TypeKey, click on the “Sign in or register with TypeKey” link. We’re almost there…

• Next, use the drop-down list to select the type of authentication to use. Notice that virtually every type of social or common email host is available including Yahoo!, AOL, Facebook and Gmail. Simply choose your favorite authentication type and follow the instructions provided.

• Once you’re signed in you’re returned to the blog’s comments page.

Thanks for helping.

WR Vaughn

Here is Chapter two of my novel. I really encourage you to make whatever comments you can. Yes, you have to sign in, but this prevents the blog from being unmercifully spammed by those who prey on the web. Thanks for understanding.

This work is copyright © 2009 by William R. Vaughn. All rights are reserved. Please do not reprint this content without written consent of the author.

Chapter 2: The Seldith

In a quiet, cool forested valley where few have gone before, gossamer treads of smoke drift up from a tiny smokestack poking out of a home smaller than a shoebox. Gently dispersing into the lacy mists so common in this undisturbed valley, the smoke is drawn away unnoticed by the breeze. If you were to stand nearby, you might hear boughs overhead creaking as the mid-morning wind tosses last fall’s leaves and fir cones across a nearby meadow. You might see a fawn picking its way through the brush looking for its mother, or be distracted by the grating caw of a raven or the plaintive cry of a mockingbird warning of your presence. What you won’t hear is anything to give away the presence of a village of forest elves who carefully (and some say magically) camouflage their homes among the roots of ancient fir, cedar and spruce that thrive here raking life out of the clouds long before man arrived to cut them down.

Few have caught a glimpse of these secretive creatures barely five inches tall who live, work and love in tiny dwellings scattered here and there on the forest floor. Over the years they have been called many things, but they call themselves seldith. Yes, some have been mistaken for leprechauns, but their own recorded history long precedes the legends of tiny Irishmen hoarding gold.

Areden’s modest home, where his wife Rachel anxiously awaits his return, is nestled under a great fir tree almost toppled to the forest floor by a powerful storm some years ago. The massive trunk rests its aging crown on its neighbors’ boughs like an old man leaning against his doorway watching his grandchildren play in the yard. It would have continued its descent to the forest floor long ago if not for the benevolence of its own progeny’s outstretched branches. Even before it’s ultimately felled by the pull of gravity and heavy winter snows, a new sapling has found root and poked a narrow shaft up out of the roots as it reaches up and grasps for shafts of filtered sunshine.

Areden tries to shelter himself from the cold wind by pulling his trembling legs up against his body. Disappearing against the gnarled roots of a towering red cedar two hundred times his height, the five-inch forest elf has no choice but to endure the biting cold that has already chewed its way through several layers of coarse woolen clothing and deep into his bones. The tips of his pointed ears have wilted like the frosted spring buds on the wildflowers in the meadow before him. Shivering again, he draws his cloak up around his neck to keep the stabbing pain from cutting any deeper. White wisps of breath that escape from his pointed nose are the only sign that he is alive but that works in his favor—his life depends on remaining quiet and still and ever alert.

Once upon a time there was an elf who stood no taller than a big mushroom. He, along with the others in his clan lived a simple existence in the forests all around us using magic and wile to hide from all those who would prey on them and steal their secrets. The story I’m about to tell here is about Hisbil, the son of the clan’s owl wrangler. Over the next year or so I’ll post a new chapter each week of The Owl Wrangler.

WR Vaughn