Part 1 (1/2)
Book of Days_ A Novel.
by James L. Rubart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
I thought Book of Days Book of Days would be the novel I saw in bookstores first. All the major publishers had pa.s.sed on would be the novel I saw in bookstores first. All the major publishers had pa.s.sed on Rooms Rooms (in the fall of '08) so I put it on the shelf and started working on (in the fall of '08) so I put it on the shelf and started working on Book of Days. Book of Days. But B&H reconsidered, But B&H reconsidered, Rooms Rooms came out first, and I'm grateful. came out first, and I'm grateful.
Book of Days was inspired by my dad's illness, and it feels right that it should come out after he's gone to be with Jesus and the chapter of his life on Earth is over. was inspired by my dad's illness, and it feels right that it should come out after he's gone to be with Jesus and the chapter of his life on Earth is over.
Again I'm thankful to all those who helped take Book of Days Book of Days from a scattered idea to a completed novel: from a scattered idea to a completed novel: To Jaime Wright-Sundsmo for lending her time and extensive expertise to make my climbing scenes accurate (and for telling me it was okay to stretch the authenticity in places where I needed to).
To John Olson for telling me I had to flip my original vision of Book of Days Book of Days and make Cameron my protagonist. (He was right.) and make Cameron my protagonist. (He was right.) To my readers of my first draft: Debbi Anderson, Jamie Carie, Ron DeMiglio, Jennifer Fry, Ronie Kendig, Bob Lord, Pat Rubart, Jim Rubstello, Tina Sander, Ruth Voetmann, and Katie Vorreiter. Your stellar critique and comments smoothed out many rough edges.
To my incredible team at B&H Fiction, you're awesome! Special thanks to Kim Stanford for being so great at doing the final polish, Diana Lawrence for my outstanding covers, Karen Ball for her vision, and Julie Gwinn for her wisdom and bucket loads of talent.
To Royce Cameron who was there ”where it all began,” brainstormed on the original idea, and walked every step of this novel with me.
To Andy Meisenheimer, for being instrumental in shaping the plot and pus.h.i.+ng me to go deeper with the story, then deeper still.
To my editor Julee Schwarzburg for being brilliant and a joy to work with.
To my prayer team for warring for me in the heavens: Allen Arnold, Twila Belk, Nancy Biffle, Jamie Carie, Jeff Conwell, Ron and Tina DeMiglio, Mary DeMuth, Eric and Jennifer Fry, Randy Ingermanson, Susan Hill, Keith Horner, Ronie Kendig, Tosca Lee, Bob Lord, Dineen Miller, Cec Murphey, Don and Heidi Myers, Glen Peterson, Peter Prinos, Steve Price, Cynthia Ruchti, Jim Rubstello, Darci Rubart, Taylor Rubart, Micah Rubart, Pat Rubart, Jim Rubstello, Jeff Scorziell, Mick Silva, Jeff Stucky, Carla Williams, and Jim Vaux.
To my wife Darci and sons Taylor and Micah, for their constant support, encouragement, and unwavering love.
To my mom for loving me like only a mother can.
To my dad. I love you. What a day it will be when I see you again.
To the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for your grace, mercy, and letting me live my dream.
All my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.
Psalm 139:16
PROLOGUE.
Summer 1853 A stone slammed into the side of Ha.s.sun's head, sending him to his knees. Pain exploded like lightning and streaked down his back as he slumped forward onto his hands. Careless. His moccasins must have left a trail. Foolish. How could he have let that happen?
Have to move! His a.s.sailant's next attack would most likely be to his ribs. His a.s.sailant's next attack would most likely be to his ribs.
Ha.s.sun spun to his left, sending up a thin curtain of dust from the ledge overlooking the cliff, and caught the man's dark leather moccasin as it flashed toward his face.
Ha.s.sun twisted his attacker's leg and the man sprawled on the ground, his head inches from striking a rock.
Not close enough.
The man leaped to his feet, stepped back five paces, and s.n.a.t.c.hed a bow and a pine shaft with a brilliant black arrowhead off the ground. By the time Ha.s.sun staggered to his feet and shook his head, the man had nocked the arrow.
”Nukpana? Why?”
”You are surprised?”
”You were my friend.”
”I am still your friend and ever will be.” Nukpana drew back slightly on the bowstring, the arrow pointed at Ha.s.sun's chest, and laughed. ”Do not worry, I am not going to kill you. I could have done that easily with a larger rock a moment ago.” He released the pressure on the bowstring and stroked the arrow's white feathers. ”You never could hide your tracks. I only need to know where the Stories are and I will leave you.”
Ha.s.sun should have seen it. The rage two summers past when he was chosen guardian instead of Nukpana, then the false praise for having been given the honor. Being badgered almost daily ever since in a half-joking, half-serious manner about the location.
”And if I do not tell you where they are?”
”I will see how much pain you can endure before you die. But know before you join our ancestors, you will tell me.”
”The Stories are not for your eyes.”
”But they are for yours?”
”I am not the one who made that choice.”
”And who is?” Nukpana pierced the tip of his forefinger with the point of the arrowhead and a drop of blood seeped out.
”You know.”
”But those who chose you are gone, and the understanding now only remains with you.”
Ha.s.sun nodded, his long black braids hanging over his muscled shoulders.
”What if something happens to you? Another must retain the knowledge.”
”That is not for any man alone to decide. You know this also.”
”Think, Ha.s.sun. We could use its power for so much good. Together. You and I. Blood brothers since our youth. We could wield the insights and foretelling it offers to-”
”No. That is not its purpose.”
”If you will not tell, then give me the stone.” Nukpana spread his feet wider, one in front of the other, renocked the arrow and drew it back.
”I cannot. Even if you do not yet know how to decipher the markings, it would be the same as telling you.” Ha.s.sun ma.s.saged the small stone that hung from his neck on a thin leather cord under his buckskin s.h.i.+rt. ”You know this.”
”Enough. Give me the stone.” Nukpana drew the bowstring back further, his first two fingers turning a deep red where the string bit into them.