Chrysalis: The Butterfly Fields is now available
on Amazon.com in e-book format. The paperback can be purchased at
createspace.com, an Amazon company. The
Butterfly Fields is book one in the Chrysalis trilogy.
Read the prologue here:
Darkness shrouds the encampment where Máire sits by the fire
that burns with the flames of the ancient days. Wrapped in a wool blanket, she
beckons the clan to gather around, “Come, come and sit about the fire that I
may tell you the tale of Wishing Woman and Dances with the Butterflies. It is
the tale of the fiercest battle ever fought within these Lowlands we call home,
never to be forgotten.”
Máire’s visage bears the passage of time and her body aches with the age of its years. Her now white hair pulled tightly in the traditional twisted knot at the nape of her neck. Even in her aged state, she is the favorite among the children. It is she who tells the legends and lore of the family, the clan, and the tribe.
Huddled together the clan folk take their places upon the logs, their faces aglow in the light of the crackling fire, anxious to hear this tale of which they had not yet been told. “Oh, do tell, Máire, do tell us of Wishing Woman and Dances with the Butterflies!” a cheery faced young maid exclaims as she sidles up next to the old storyteller.
When the listeners are settled, Máire leans in close to the fire as though to watch the story play out before her very eyes as she speaks. Máire takes a deep breath, resting heavy against the cheery faced maid beside her as she falls deep into remembrance of the story. “In the years after the great clan wars, the McCormick Clan reigned all the Lowlands as far as the eye could see from the great manor known as Bainsford. The ruins lie just there beyond the hill,” she starts, her boney finger pointing off into the distance. “Within the great walls of Bainsford lived the two sisters. It was they who brought the war between He Who Created All Things and He who Rules the Land of Eternal Flames upon the lands,” Her gray eyes smile in the firelight as she looks from one to the other to ensure each is attentive to the details of the tale she is about to begin in earnest.
“It is said that long ago, on the northern most edge of the canyons, carved by the Great River, where the sun strikes the sky in a glorious display of burnt oranges and deep sapphires lay the village of Johnsport. It was a village filled with quarrels between the original people, the Daoine Réalta, and the interlopers from the land across the great sea to the east; our people, the na hÉireann, men of science and discovery. The na hÉireann held fast to their belief in He Who Created All Things, yet partook in the sciences of creation; an abomination according to the Daoine Réalta.
The Daoine Réalta, translated to the common language as Star People, came upon these lands millenniums ago with no accounting for the means of their arrival. In appearance, they were a simple folk following the traditions, culture, and beliefs of the ancient days. Yet, deep within the keep of their fortress they kept a secret. It was a secret so valuable, so ancient, even they themselves were unable to lay eyes upon it…lest the guardians lay them low.
As the story goes, a stone’s throw downstream of Johnsport, amongst the mighty oak, silver ash, and cottonwood trees, where the gentle breeze brushes the tall bristles of wheat grass, intermingled with the occasional petals of tiger lilies, crocuses, and wild roses, were freedom, safety, and sanity…The Butterfly Fields.”
Máire’s visage bears the passage of time and her body aches with the age of its years. Her now white hair pulled tightly in the traditional twisted knot at the nape of her neck. Even in her aged state, she is the favorite among the children. It is she who tells the legends and lore of the family, the clan, and the tribe.
Huddled together the clan folk take their places upon the logs, their faces aglow in the light of the crackling fire, anxious to hear this tale of which they had not yet been told. “Oh, do tell, Máire, do tell us of Wishing Woman and Dances with the Butterflies!” a cheery faced young maid exclaims as she sidles up next to the old storyteller.
When the listeners are settled, Máire leans in close to the fire as though to watch the story play out before her very eyes as she speaks. Máire takes a deep breath, resting heavy against the cheery faced maid beside her as she falls deep into remembrance of the story. “In the years after the great clan wars, the McCormick Clan reigned all the Lowlands as far as the eye could see from the great manor known as Bainsford. The ruins lie just there beyond the hill,” she starts, her boney finger pointing off into the distance. “Within the great walls of Bainsford lived the two sisters. It was they who brought the war between He Who Created All Things and He who Rules the Land of Eternal Flames upon the lands,” Her gray eyes smile in the firelight as she looks from one to the other to ensure each is attentive to the details of the tale she is about to begin in earnest.
“It is said that long ago, on the northern most edge of the canyons, carved by the Great River, where the sun strikes the sky in a glorious display of burnt oranges and deep sapphires lay the village of Johnsport. It was a village filled with quarrels between the original people, the Daoine Réalta, and the interlopers from the land across the great sea to the east; our people, the na hÉireann, men of science and discovery. The na hÉireann held fast to their belief in He Who Created All Things, yet partook in the sciences of creation; an abomination according to the Daoine Réalta.
The Daoine Réalta, translated to the common language as Star People, came upon these lands millenniums ago with no accounting for the means of their arrival. In appearance, they were a simple folk following the traditions, culture, and beliefs of the ancient days. Yet, deep within the keep of their fortress they kept a secret. It was a secret so valuable, so ancient, even they themselves were unable to lay eyes upon it…lest the guardians lay them low.
As the story goes, a stone’s throw downstream of Johnsport, amongst the mighty oak, silver ash, and cottonwood trees, where the gentle breeze brushes the tall bristles of wheat grass, intermingled with the occasional petals of tiger lilies, crocuses, and wild roses, were freedom, safety, and sanity…The Butterfly Fields.”
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