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Category: E.G.Kardos Book Excerpt

Take a sneak peak at a chapter from one of my five books. My  books range from a literary novel, a fantasy series and a book of short stories.

  • Mentors in Young Adult Fantasy 

    E.G. Kardos

    Mentors are crucial in storytelling, especially in the genre of fantasy. Aside from the “hero” in the story, the mentor is my favorite character. A good villain, for me, comes in third. The mentor and the protagonist’s relationship is special, and that is one reason I chose to share the following excerpt of The Elixir: Journey On. The Elixir is Book III of The Elias Chronicles.

    Mentors Carry a Heavy Burden

    Good mentors do many things: they guide the protagonist through an evolutionary process by providing experience and knowledge and encourage resourcefulness and independent thinking. They support our hero in any way they can. Wisdom, a characteristic overlooked in the “real” world, is cherished in the fantasy world. Sometimes mentors merely encourage and show they care

    All Mentors Posess the Power of Empowerment

    Mentors empower the hero to make decisions, and sometimes it may be the wrong choice, but our hero learns from mistakes, and mentors know this.

    Ultimately, our hero achieves personal growth even if they can’t save the world—this time.

    Some Mentors of Note

    Think of Gandalf and Frodo: Dumbledore and Harry; Aslan and Peter, Lucy, Susan, and Edmund; and in each of the three books of The Elias Chronicles, Zoltan and Elias.

    I’m sure you have a few mentors in mind as well.

    “The black moment is the moment when the real message of transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light”

    Joseph Campbell

    In The Elias Chronicles, a reader can start with any book as each is a stand-alone story. Saying that, I think to appreciate Elias’ journey and his development, I’d start with the first book, The Amulet: Journey to Sirok, and then read the second and third in order, The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok and The Elixir: Journey On. In each you will find the mentor, Zoltan and the hero, Elias as well as many other colorful characters that will help guide or thwart Elias from his quest.

    Enjoy the excerpt…and let me know what you think. Who are your favorite mentors?

    5

    Climb The Stem

    Weary from his encounter with the Sea Serpent, Elias stretched out squarely in the middle of the boat’s deck. His thoughts wandered at best, but without notice, they pulled him back to some frightening moments. He, however, felt gratified for untangling the scary event and helping a mom. Images of her huge bony head that disagreed with her graceful cylindrical body were imprinted in his mind. Worst of all was her shriek, and he winced as he brought it to mind. What did it all mean? The serpent—the journal—his exile? Of all places, why was he here? While wondering where land could be hiding, the faces of his friends and family overpowered all his thoughts. All he could think was, will he ever see them again?

                Restless, he fiddled with a thick, coarse rope coiled to one side as he looked to the sky. Drained by his rocky voyage, he remained listless on his back as he, biding time, picked up the dagger and examined it closely. Squinting, he focused on every scratch or nuance on the cold metal blade. He delicately touched the tip of his index finger on the tiny point, and as he did, he mouthed the sound ‘ow’ while his nose twisted up on one side. Still on his back, he grabbed the hilt with two hands, and with outstretched arms, he pointed it to the blur of the heavens, ruminating about his first night on Sirok. That’s when he plucked a powerful sword from a secret vault told to him by Nattymama. The sword, he mused, saved his life on a couple of occasions when he skillfully severed the heads of the Sarkany—the three-headed, shape-shifting dragon. “Existo verus ut vestri,” he whispered, followed by, “Be true to yourself. Think of that…that was written on the blade itself, and I didn’t even know it at the time…can’t complain, as it served me well, but this oversized pen knife has done right by me too.”

                WHOOSH. At that moment, jarring him from his comfort, he heard a gigantic splash only twenty paces or so from the bow of the boat. The wave it made jostled the little craft as he jumped to his feet. With a wrinkled brow and his jaw hanging low, he peered from side to side. Keeping one eye on the white-capped waves, he reached back to grab his dagger. Bubbles jetted to the surface of the choppy water, and he waited to see if anything would pop up. Only a second later, bobbing before him, the back of a man’s head emerged, gasping uncontrollably for air. Ardently treading water, he turned, and Elias saw who thrashed about before him. He could barely believe his eyes.

                “ZOLTAN. Is that really you?”

                Zoltan, now exhausted but surprisingly calm, answered Elias. “It is I,” he gasped. “…and I came so very close to landing on the dry planks… of your vessel…right beside you.” Water splashed a few times in his face.

                “…but…but I can’t believe it,” Elias said, reacting in amazement.

                “Not to be rude, my boy, but I’m not interested in conversing at this point. Be a good man and put down your weapon to throw me a line to welcome me aboard.”           

                “Oh yeah…sorry.” With a cold slap, Elias was brought back to reality as he hurriedly tied one end of the rope to an iron ring attached to the floorboards of the deck and tossed the bulk of the looped hemp to Zoltan. He wrapped it around his arms, and like a vice, he held on securely with both hands. With somewhat of a struggle, like reeling in a blue marlin, Elias was able to tow Zoltan up and over the edge of the side of the boat. He delivered him safely to the dry deck of the lifeboat. Both Zoltan and Elias collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

                “Zoltan, are you alright? What are you doing here? Why is…”

                “Not all at once,” Zoltan said, pulling himself up to a seated position, clearing his throat between words and poking his pinky finger in one ear. “I’ve come chasing you, Elias. I sent you here…do you have a blanket in there?” he asked, pointing to the large wooden box.

                Elias froze. “Wait, what? You sent me here?” His jaw jutted forward, and he scowled at his guest.

                Zoltan kindly smiled and exhaled. He shrugged his shoulders and joined his hands together in a prayerful fashion.

                “I knew it. I don’t know why I reacted so surprised. I knew something was up, especially since I found my dagger here, but…why?” Elias said, folding his arms against his chest.

                “My good boy, I could see no other way. You have the gift, the donum…now the blanket, if you will.” Zoltan stretched out his shivering hands.

                “The donum…the DONUM…this gift is a curse! What else…what else can you tell me?” Elias retrieved a moldy moth-eaten blanket from the box and gently wrapped it around Zoltan’s shoulders.

                “If you settle yourself down one iota, I will tell you—you temperamental artists are something else,” he kindheartedly said under his breath.

                Elias’ shoulders sank, and he let out a sigh as he sat next to the old man.   

    “I detected something sinister as the smoke of the kingdom wafted our way,” Zoltan said with an easy monotone. Now for a cup of coffee. Do you have one?”

                “What? Coffee? Are you serious? We’re on a banged-up boat in the middle of nowhere. What are you thinking?”

                “I see your point,” Zoltan said as he placed his hands one over the other and quickly clapped his upper hand to his lower, at which time a hot pot of steaming coffee and two mugs hovered before them.       

                “Awesome, Zoltan. You’ll have to teach me that one,” Elias said as he briefly forgot about his frustration with his new and unasked-for adventure.

                “Oh, you will learn how and quite a bit more. Now pour the

    coffee, and let’s talk,” said Zoltan as a soft, salty breeze gave him a slight stir.

                Elias poured the coffee and looked with admiration at his old friend. “So what can you tell me?”

                Using both hands to sip from the mug, Zoltan said, “I can tell you very little at this point. I have a morsel of information to share, but not much. Believe me when I say I know very little.”

                Short-fused, Elias blurted out, “A morsel. A morsel! You send me here, and YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHY?” You know I was just attacked by a sea serpent and…”

                “Good for you, Elias,” Zoltan interjected gleefully, cutting Elias off mid-sentence. “You must have fared quite well as I do not see any hideous blemishes on you, and I don’t see the serpent anywhere,” Zoltan added while looking out to the vast gray rolling waves.            

                Collecting his thoughts, Elias knew his frayed nerves would lead him somewhere he’d rather keep to himself and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry Zoltan…I’m tired and so… alone.” Elias looked down at his hands, sniffed a few times, and then rubbed his nose. He looked out to the sea as a breeze caught his floppy hair and tousled it in a few directions. “Like I was abandoned until you showed up. I just don’t know what to make of all this. It’s time for me to go home and do what I want to do. I earned it, after all. That’s why I traveled to find you in the first place—to find out who I am and do what I love. And traveling to the Under World to find you and all I did there. I’ve done enough—I’ve earned it.”

                “You earned it? Yes, I can see your point. First of all, thank you as you saved me from the clutches of Ordak, and you are quite humble as you set the oppressed folks of the kingdom free. But my good boy, I am sorry to say that, now, those things matter not, at least not for the short run.”

                “Huh? I feel my life is out of control.”

                “Elias, life is full of the unexpected, but we seem to forget that and think life SHOULD be full of the ‘expected,’ Zoltan said in a very calm but exacting tone. “You are in the middle of, shall I say, a twist and, for that matter, a turn—and perhaps another twist. I must say you are who you are whether you like it or not, and you should think of it as a privilege to be you and grab hold of every moment of your life. It is up to you to make the most of it. Let me pour you another cup of coffee.” 

                “Okay, okay, but I don’t like it, and I’m not talking about the coffee,” Elias said, sitting back and looking at the sea. It was now quiet as the endless waves that relentlessly wrapped themselves around the boat seemed like a warm embrace as they continued to lap lower against the sides. It was still. 

                “I know you are unhappy with me, and you have every right to be so, but in the end, you will understand. You will. Trust me.”

                Ignoring Zoltan’s words, Elias asked, “So tell me, how is everyone—Kelsa?”

                “She is just fine. I managed to redirect both her and Cimbora safely to a place where you will see them soon. Don’t ask me why, as I had to act quickly when Ordak was breathing down our necks—before our dear friends, the Bee People, whisked him away. Oh, that was such a special moment just hearing the hum.” They both laughed and sipped from their cups.

                “I think I know the moment—yeah, the exact moment. He almost picked up on what you were doing. I could tell you were doing something, but I had no clue,” said Elias. 

                “To tell you the truth, I was not so sure myself.” Zoltan winked.

                “And the others?” Elias asked abruptly, changing the subject.

                “Nattymama and your family are fine. Oh yes, and before I forget, you must understand that time counts differently there versus here. It may seem like only a minute to some but an eternity to others, but this will all be clearer to you later.”

                “You haven’t even told me where I’m going.”   

                “Oh yes. In a moment,” Zoltan replied with a light chuckle. “As far as the others, Lantos and Gaspar are back in their homes, I presume, and Akota is being celebrated by the Seraph people and the former Inhabitants of The Kingdom of Gold. And by the way, passing the ring to him has made all the difference for his people. You have shared the donum, and you have yet to realize your brilliance in doing so.” 

                Elias smiled, but he quickly looked down at the splintering planks below. Zoltan felt his angst and wanted to comfort him.

                “Oh yes, you may long for them and feel you are missing out—but you are not truly missing out as you are where you are supposed to be—that’s the difference. Elias, do not pine for what was or what you think is, nor reach for what you think might be. It is today that matters as we may, most assuredly, count the days we have lived, but we cannot even attempt to count the days ahead of us. Life does, indeed, have a starting point for all, but the endpoint is a mystery. But I dare say, life has a habit of going on whether we like it or not—even if we are in it or not,” said Zoltan.

                Elias said nothing but looked fondly at Zoltan, then turned and stared at the horizon. As he nodded, a wide smile came across his face as Zoltan sipped from the mug. At that moment, a sparkling aqua and sapphire-colored dragonfly landed on Elias’ knuckle. Without moving his head, he gazed down at the quiet and majestic creature.

                “We must be near land,” Elias’ eyes lit up as he kept still and looked intently at the dragonfly.

                “Elias, I believe you are correct. That little fellow reminds me of a story I was once told. A story that others have passed down over many years and, as time so masterfully can do, has gobbled up the author’s name. Would you like to hear a story?” 

                Elias faced Zoltan and looked into his eyes. He couldn’t help Zoltan’s allure as he looked into the recesses of his pupils. The eyes that have seen a thousand years. The eyes that have looked deep inside of him. Elias nodded and smiled.

                “A time not so long ago, there was a pond like any other pond—perhaps like the ones around your home or mine. Do you know the kind

    of pond I speak of?”

                “Sure, Zoltan, go on.”

                “Okay then… in the muddy water under the lily pads, there lived a little neighborhood of water bugs—cute little things. This tiny community lived a simple and predictable life in the murky water. Little concerned them, for the most part, so they were happy creatures. As it is with any community, sadness would come at peculiar times. On occasion, and without warning, a water bug would journey up the stem of a lily pad. To an onlooker in the water bug community, this was not a good sign.”

                “So the water bug crawled up the stem of a water lily—how is that sad?” asked Elias.

                “Well, Elias, all the water bugs knew was that when they saw one of their own make the climb, their friend or family member would never be seen again.” Zoltan paused and looked away.

                “That’s not much of a story. So the water bug climbed up the stem, and a hungry bird ate it. Great story, Zoltan,” Elias said, shaking his head.

                “Elias, my boy, that is not the end of the story—far from it. Would you allow me to proceed?”

                Elias nodded. “Sorry.”

                “Okay then. The water bugs knew they would never see their friend again. They, like you, thought the worst. They thought their friend was dead. 

    As it so happened one day, and with no warning to his family or friends, the littlest of water bugs felt an overpowering yearning to journey up that stem. However, he was determined to return to the community and tell his family and friends what he found on the other side. They pleaded with him not to go, but he did anyway. He began to climb the stem. When he reached the surface of the water, he journeyed out of the water onto a lily pad. Because of his climb, he was very tired, and the sun felt good. So the little water bug decided he must close his weary eyes and sleep. 

                During his nap, he changed. When he woke, he had turned into a beautiful aqua and sapphire dragonfly with graceful wings and a slender body created for flying. Therefore, that’s exactly what he did. He soared high above and looked at all below him. He skirted downward and skimmed the surface of the water. He saw new worlds in all its beauty. His perspective was new and fresh—one he thought never existed before that fateful day. 

                One day, while resting on the arm of a boy, he thought of his friends and family and how they must think he was now dead. It reminded him that he desperately wanted to tell them otherwise and share with them the joy he had found. He hovered over the surface of the water where his family and friends lived, and he could barely make out the little community below. The water was murky that day. He attempted to fly through the surface of the water, but when he tried to reemerge into the water, he could not. He tried and tried and tried to break the surface of the water to no avail. He could see the water bugs below as they continued their simple life. He wanted to explain how he was alive and how wonderful life really was. He wanted to talk about the fulfillment he felt.             

                Attempt after attempt, he thought differently about telling them and began to understand he was now in the place where he should be. He hoped that their time would come and they, too, would realize that they have wings and one day they would join him. With one last look, he knew what he had to do, and he took to flight, never to allow the past to hold him back. He knew he had to taste the wonders of what today brings.”

                 “So, I’m the dragonfly?” Elias smugly asked.

                “You? Maybe the both of us—our friends, too, perchance. But the story, albeit simple, tells more. Think about it.”

                “I see where it is about living and becoming, but it is also about death. Right?”

                “Oh, Elias, it is for you to grapple with—let us speak of it no more.”

                A huge smooth swell, the size of a modest house, mildly rolled under the lifeboat, placing them high above. As soon as they were at the pinnacle, they descended to a level where all they could see around them was a wall of water. As they evened out, the clouds vanished, and the placid wave slowly moved further away. Many smaller ones rapidly made their presence known as they slapped the boat in all directions. Elias and Zoltan held tight to the sides of the craft until all was calm.

                “What was that all about?” Elias said.

                “My boy, look over your shoulder, and you will see.”

                Elias turned, and a good five or six sea miles before them was an iridescent glow the size of a small island of purples, blues, and red. It twinkled in the bright sunlight. Like the waves, the oddity seemed to be covering something as its hues swayed and fluttered to greens, yellows, and orange. It was a magnificent sight.

                “Wow! I’ve never seen anything like it before,” said Elias.

                “Nor I…nor I.”

                “What do you think it is, Zoltan?”

                “There’s nothing like a good mystery than one that is about to unfold in front of our very eyes. Let’s wait and see.”

                As they got closer to the spectacle, they noticed that around the edges of the colors and lights seemed to unravel. Specs, as they thought, were drifting away, and as they did, the two saw rocks, trees, and a mountain.

                “Zoltan, they’re dragonflies. Millions of dragonflies.”

                “So they are. Very interesting,” Zoltan said, leaning toward Elias. “There is something I must tell you.”

    I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. Let me know what you think below.

    You may also enjoy: The Fantasy Trilogy: Saving the World One Book at a Time; Be True to Yourself: The Amulet: Journey to Sirok; “A Hero Ventures Forth…” Life May Be Imitating Art; Why Fantasy is a Good Read

    About E.G. Kardos

    I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write.  Here’s more about me and my books.

    Latest Posts

    Most Viewed Posts

    All Posts

    Please notify me when you publish a new blog post.

  • The Fantasy Trilogy: Saving the World One Book at a Time

    ,

    E.G. Kardos

    Writing a fantasy trilogy can be tricky. Writers and readers of fantasy think through many questions. Here are a few: does the reader have to start with the first book to make sense of the second and the third? Should I write the series so, if a reader chooses, they could start with the second, or even the third book before the first one? As a fantasy trilogy, should all the stories be clearly connected…a continuation…or just the hero’s next quest?

    These are valid questions for a writer –and a reader. In my fantasy trilogy, The Elias Chronicles , a reader can start with any book as each is a stand-alone story. Saying that, I think to appreciate Elias’ journey and his development, I’d start with the first book, The Amulet: Journey to Sirok, and then read the second and third in order, The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok and The Elixir: Journey On.

    As a fantasy trilogy, each book is connected as the stories follow the one before. Saying that, I include just enough of the previous storyline so the reader can easily get into the story and begin to connect with the main character, Elias.

    What’s this Fantasy Trilogy About?

    Without giving away any spoilers, in The Amulet, Elias learns all about himself by way of a journey he must take to truly understand who he is.

    In The Rings he realizes a friend is in danger but before he can find him, Elias must harness the powers he uncovered in the first story to not only save his friend, but he learns he must alos save a community that has been ravaged by false promises.

    In Book III, The Elixir, Elias has been called to protect the elixir that if it lands in the wrong hands could bring destruction to the planet. What is the elixir?

    As each book is truly a stand-alone story, Elias goes from self, to community to saving the world and….

    …after all, it is fantasy…but aren’t we all trying to save the world in our own way?

    This story best described by this quote by  Joseph Campbell.

    “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.”

    Please read Chapter 1 of The Rings: Journey Beneath Sirok. Enjoy!

    “…Elias is a character we can all connect with, as he has a good soul and always strives to do right… things like choosing kindness and good over evil…the storyline is a bit unpredictable, which is a welcome relief from a lot of fantasy writing out there right now…I would recommend this book to people who like fantasy stories with lots of fun characters and cool settings…”  

    ThisKidReviewsBooks.com

    1

    From the Crevasses

    The moment had changed time and space forever. The serpent no longer slithered inside, but for now, Elias knew how it had lived and died. 

                Alone, he stood atop the mountain of Sirok. His crusade had been long, but it was now over. As he stood tall, he savored his sweet victory for only a moment as it was time to return to what was familiar. It was time to move on, but he knew his experience with the serpent was now a part of him forever. 

                With only the sounds of a breeze that kicked up the sand where he stood, he looked at the dark and infinite early morning sky. Ribbons of faint light picked up the colors of the Earth and began to fan out. It was like a magnificent painting. The shades of night tinted the light of the morning and then pulled apart so that the darkness faded softly out of sight. 

    He bowed his head and slipped the amulet back around his neck. He knew all too well what it meant when he felt it against his chest. Smiling, he had thought of the exact time he had realized its worth—when it had saved him. 

    Elias scanned the area and let out a sigh. He saw the dragon’s sword on the ground, partly covered by debris, and

    then he grabbed its grip. He looked it over. Suddenly, the wind whipped up, and it forced him to look away. That’s when he saw his sword. Unlike the other blade, his sword stood upright and pierced the Earth. He gripped the hilt and pulled it from the ground. He held it high and looked at the long metal and thought about the force it commanded. These twin swords that once had unleashed an incredible power were nothing more than two cold steel blades. He sealed them away in the compartment at the base of the arch just as his grandmother had instructed him when he prepared for his journey.

                With the toe of his boot, he poked at the dying embers of the campfire. He scooped up the sandy soil of Sirok, covered the coals, and stomped out the edges of the fire. Still feeling the surge of confidence that came with his victory, he felt grateful the fight was over. Elias knew it was time to go home.    

    As he sucked in a heavy breath, he began to descend the crooked path on the rough terrain to journey home. His faithful dog, Cimbora, was at his side just as he had been during his adventure. Elias no longer feared the Sarkany, the evil dragon, as his fears he would find now lay elsewhere. He hoped never to return to this mountain. Elias’ head was full of thoughts of his family. He had left them many weeks ago when he felt he had no choice. His Papa had made it clear to him that there was no place for artists on a farm. Elias’ grandmother, Nattymama, had prepared him to search for the sorcerer, Zoltan, to help him uncover a peace that he would find only in his heart.    

    No sooner had Elias turned and walked away; than the ground trembled. Elias stopped. He looked back, and he saw nothing, but still, he paused. Something was there. He just knew it. He looked around but saw nothing unusual. He turned and continued his descent on his path toward the village. Cimbora, however, stood frozen about fifteen steps behind Elias. He stared at the smoldering campfire. He jerked his head, and then he trotted to catch up with Elias. He stopped once or twice and turned to look behind him. Cimbora sniffed the air. Before long, they were far enough down the mountain and could no longer see the camp.

                The crevasses in the ancient stones that surrounded the campfire tore open and made each gash deeper and longer. A cold wind whipped from them and swept over the dying embers. Too cold to be of this Earth, more wind streamed out from the rock fissures at the top of Sirok, where Elias had been just moments before. The wind spun itself, caught dirt and grit, and pulled in the cinders from the almost-dead fire. 

                The wind now lofted gently around the warm coals as the charm was now in play. Once again, the embers sparked into a flame. The flame hesitated briefly, but it flickered in reds and

    blues as the wind all but diminished. 

                The flame became a fire, and the fire became an inferno.

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    I hope you want to read more…

    You may enjoy these posts: Be True to Yourself: The Amulet: Journey to Sirok, “A Hero Ventures Forth…” Life May Be Imitating Art, Why Fantasy is a Good Read

    About E.G. Kardos

    I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write.  Here’s more about me and my books.

    Latest Posts

    Most Viewed Posts

    All Posts

    Please notify me when you publish a new blog post.

  • Be True to Yourself: The Amulet: Journey to Sirok

    E.G. Kardos

    Be true to yourself. It is only when we follow our hearts that we may truly know who we are and how we should live our lives. As Socrates said, “know thyself”. It’s not so much about having a dream as we all have them. But those dreams may be misguided.

    But by listening to our hearts, it can make all the difference.

    The Amulet: Journey to Sirok is Book I of the trilogy, The Elias Chronicles. I wrote this with young AND older readers in mind. Rich in symbolism and life themes that resonate with all ages, I wanted to share a story about the heart. When I received the following testimonial, I was deeply touched as this is what I set out to do.

    ABOUT The Elias Chronicles:

    In the spirit of C.S. Lewis, the fantasy is never about the fantastical; it’s about deeply human and moral concerns: identity, voice, virtue, family, and conflict. A joyous, satisfying, life-affirming read!”

    Dr. William R. Muth, Editorial Advisory Board: Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy

    Below, I am sharing the first seven pages of The Amulet: Journey to Sirok. I hope you enjoy it and join Elias on the rest of his journey. You will find it is YOUR journey too!

    PROLOGUE

    Legend of Sirok

    When the serpent is slithering inside, you will know it, but only with the gift you will understand how it lives and how it dies.” That’s where she always began.  

    Like many women before her, Nattymama passed the legend down to  all who would listen. There were those, of course, who would hear but  would not heed her words. Good fortune, however, came to most who  listened. 

    On the spring equinox at the precise time that winter turned to  spring, Nattymama dusted off a tattered, yellowed scroll and read aloud  to the children in the center of the village. Her account began where the  castle now lay in ruins just to the north of the village on a small rocky  mountain.  

    She told her tale as if it happened only yesterday—or for that matter,  she told it as if it might just happen again. 

    Her story was known to many as The Legend of Sirok. 

    As a young boy, Elias sat front and center and listened to Nattymama,  his grandmother, who brought to life the events that she traced back a  thousand years. He hung on to her every word and getting through the  scary passages took all the courage he could muster. Keeping one eye closed  during some scenes, he patiently waited for his favorite parts. He couldn’t  get enough of the battle that played out in his head or the amazing way  the story ended. For many years to come, he would hear her voice in his  head telling the story just as if he was listening to her for the first time.  Oftentimes he thought of what the legend truly meant. He had all but  committed the ending to memory. 

    “…centuries ago, a lightning bolt hurtled upward from the center of the  Castle of Sirok. The beam split the clear sky. It was then that the thunder  rumbled like a stampede of a thousand water buffalos as bloated clouds,  the color of dried ox blood, gobbled up the open sky. All was dark— 

    motionless. One moment passed and then another, but on the third tick  of a clock, sheets of rain began to pelt the kingdom. This storm was like  no other as something mystical must have been in each and every drop.  

    “Hours passed and  the  rain subsided. Within moments it was certain  that the downpour had washed away what contaminated the gilded  kingdom. Not long after the rainstorm, curls of black smoke billowed  from somewhere near the core of Sirok where huge flames casted an eerie  glow on the naked kingdom.  

    “Still masked by smoke, the sun  eventually  shone through misshapen  holes in the black blanket of clouds above. With little warning, what  was left of the suffocating smoke all but vanished allowing more threads  of light to reveal the stone structures high on the mountaintop. Without  so much as a smoldering ember, Sirok was reborn. Unlike its old, garish  facade, it now stood in simplicity and beauty. 

    “A bird sang followed by another. The water was clean, and the air was  fresh. The buildings were bright, and the roads led freely in and out. The  people saw each other in a new way. The people smiled.

    “Filled with joy, the warrior mounted a horse and rode down the rocky  path that few dared to travel. At the foot of the mountain, a hundred or  so villagers looked on with blank stares. They said little as they witnessed  such chaos that only minutes earlier turned the kingdom into something  new—something altogether different from what had stood before. 

    “Galloping down the rocky path, the villagers focused on the mysterious  young man. The only sounds one could hear were the pounding of the  hooves drubbing on the rocky soil. Thump, thump, thump! The warrior,  who they discovered was a mere boy, raced up to where the villagers  gathered. He yanked on the reins much to the displeasure of his faithful  steed and spoke to the crowd. 

    ‘“What the evil one seized, the people of the kingdom have reclaimed.  With this newfound will, we are now free and have washed our hands of  our needless guilt. We have nothing to fear as we now know who we are.’”

    Nattymama continued, “The villagers standing before the warrior were  a field of statues who said nothing, much to the young warrior’s surprise.  He spoke again. 

    “‘Don’t you see? Our misguided ways in Sirok had become a way of life.  We believed in the wrong things. We lived behind a veil, but it is a new  day for us—and you— as we are the victors.’ 

    “‘So where is he? The evil one?’ a man shouted from the crowd. 

    “‘He is victim of his own undoing and sealed his fate in the eternal fire  of his own making,’ said the warrior. ‘Our resolve is golden. We are the  victors,’ said the boy warrior. 

    “‘An old woman shouted. ‘But what on earth will become of those poor  souls who lived in the Kingdom of Sirok?’ 

    ‘“Oh, dear woman, you do not understand me. They are free. Free! Their  very spirit will make them whole. Sirok will never be the same again; all  those who come to know Sirok, to really know it, will be forever changed.  Sirok is at our very core.’

    “The warrior looked down to his finger that bore a ring that sparkled in  the morning light. He thought of the boy who gave up one treasure for  another and he lifted his chin with confidence and raised his open palm  to the crowd. 

    “He gazed out to the souls who stood in silence and abruptly tugged on  the reins. The stallion reared back on its hind legs and then galloped at top  speed up the rocky mountain.”

    Chapter 1

    Elias

    Like a breeze sifts through the morning mist, his brush strokes barely  touched the canvas. The bristles of his well-worn brush were thin as  many had been lost on previous paintings. This made no difference as his  paintbrush was an extension of his fingers. With his right hand, he dabbed  a speck of magenta and with his left, reddish-brown. 

    With a wisp of a stroke his imagination erupted as he envisioned a  coiled snake on the other side of a fallen tree. Not far away from the rotting  trunk, he created another tale of gypsies who plodded down the narrow  trails below the hill. He was bringing meaning to a deep forest as it was  taking shape on the scuffed-up canvas. His images were fresh as he blended  what he saw in front of him with what he could see in his mind’s eye. It all  lived in that moment and began a life of its own on the flat surface.  

    Elias tilted his head from side to side and inhaled the pure mountain  air as he measured his progress. Looking away at the rolling Mátra  Mountain range, he could smell and taste a mix of deciduous beech and birch trees that sat on a draft coming from the east. One day I’ll catch this  scent in a painting…yeah, I need to figure that out, he thought. 

    When he had arrived a few hours earlier, the sky was a deep blue with  only the faintest veil of clouds on the horizon that played with the smooth  and rolling mountain crests. The heavens were now a smear of amber as the  spectrum of colors gradually cloaked the sky. This moment was altogether  different as he noticed the new colors sharpen above.  

    Perched high upon a cliff, he was alone as he swapped a blank canvas  for what was becoming a kaleidoscope of the Hungarian landscape. This  was his haven. He entwined himself with the beauty and love of nature.  This was nothing new. From a young age, Elias knew what stirred his heart. 

    He made his own canvases by stretching remnants of an abandoned  gypsy tent over a frame he made from a discarded wooden crate.  Nattymama, who was an herbalist, mixed and blended his paints using her  own recipe. His brushes were horsehair affixed to slender but sturdy sprigs  from a nearby cypress tree. Elias used old forgotten wooden dowels and  hinges he found and made them into a sturdy easel. This was all he needed. 

    Elias’ long brown hair grazed his shoulders. His light brown eyes  were striking and ominous to some but opened a gateway to a peace from  deep within him. Lean and average height, he could be pensive and appear brooding at times. Although he was private and a little shy, Elias seldom  kept his thoughts to himself if others pushed, teased, or tested him in any  manner. Like his paintings, he was an original. He was an old soul who  was true to his feelings. He, became frustrated from time to time because  others didn’t take their time to even try to understand him. 

    Pausing for a moment, he surveyed the vast and beautiful terrain, and  he wondered what he could find if he went deep inside the forest well  beyond the trees and rocks that were in plain view. He loved what he  painted and allowed his imagination to fill in the blanks, but he wanted to  know and experience more.  

    The forest looked dark, dense, and cold, but that was just an assumption  or a guess—he wanted to know for sure. He had never traveled the paths  within. Papa cautioned him about the dangers, telling him he could enter at his own risk, but it would be far better to leave the forest alone as there  was much to do right around home. 

    At ease with his own thoughts and feelings, Elias was happy and  fulfilled, but he had a darker side too. An inner voice gnawed at him,  reminding him that he was different from the others in his family and  those in and around the village. What he felt, he shared with only a few, so  he expressed himself in his artwork. As he pieced together in his mind who  he thought he was and wanted to be, it was clear what caused the special  beat in his heart and what created personal joy deep within him. 

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    Elias’s home and family farm were close to where he liked to paint.  They lived about three kilometers from a small village. With four large  rooms and a loft, Papa built their house of white stucco and a thatched  roof. Various supporting buildings, including a small barn and a few sheds,  completed their home.  

    Inside their house, the walls were pure white. Large exposed and rough  beams separated the living area from the loft, where the children slept.  The furnishings were colorful, like his palette, as were the meticulously  crafted quilts and wall hangings Mama and other women in the family  had embroidered. They delicately stitched them with intricate detail over  many generations. One of Elias’ paintings hung over the hearth at Mama’s  insistence. It was a warm yet functional home. 

    They grew wheat. Livestock on the farm included a cow, a few oxen,  some sheep, chickens, and a rooster. Mama and Papa were raising three  boys and two girls, and Elias was the second oldest boy at fifteen. 

    Wiping her pale face with floury fingers, Mama stood on tiptoes to  reach a bowl from a cupboard. Grabbing the bowl with one hand and  tucking it… 

    I hope you want to read more. The trilogy awaits!

    You may enjoy these posts too: The Hero’s Journey, “A Hero Ventures Forth…”, Why Fantasy is a Good Read, From A Struggling Reader to Writing Fantasy, and The Time We Have.

    About E.G. Kardos

    I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write.  Here’s more about me and my books.

    Latest Posts

    Most Viewed Posts

    Most Viewed Posts

    All Posts

    Please notify me when you publish a new blog post.

  • Self Discovery Books – an Excerpt from Cutting of Harp Strings

    E.G. Kardos

    We’ve all met new people and wondered what might happen next. Will we become friends, or will we remain acquaintances? We may not think about it at the moment, but we have all meet people who will mean nothing to us, or worse, they may become our enemy; that’s life. Like in “real life” self-discovery books explore much more than the character’s relationship with “self” but their relationship with others and society.

    I love the chapter I’m sharing below. It’s when Eli meets Aiden. Even when I re-read it, I pick up something new.

    Like the characters we meet and journey with them, many times we just don’t have any idea where a relationship is going until it organically unfolds. There have been times that I wished I could check my proverbial crystal ball. Sometimes I have thought “why now” or “why this person”?

    We carry baggage to every introduction of every new person we meet and so do they. In good fiction, so do the characters we come to love.

    Fate?

    Is it fate? I mean who we meet and who we don’t? If we showed up early, late, or not at all what may have we missed out on without even knowing it?

    If you’re like me you’ve asked more than once, “what if?”. Do people enter our lives for a reason? Is all this fate?

    If you enjoy books that explore the complexities of relationships and the journey of self-discovery, Cutting of Harp Strings should be your next read. Well, at least I hope you to read the excerpt I included below.

    First, a little about the story…

    Eli’s life is in limbo. He’s searching for a sense of peace but can’t seem to find it. That all changes when he returns many years later to the place where he first met Aiden. 

    Back those many years ago, Eli and Aiden were polar opposites, but despite their differences, a rare friendship blossoms. A friendship that neither had ever experienced before—or since. Caught off guard, their relationship deepens but like a gut punch, a promise that Aiden made to himself changes everything. Eli is left to pick up the pieces. 

    In Cutting of Harp Strings Eli artfully weaves together a narrative of friendship, living in the moment, and love. 

    Self-Discovery Books

    It’s a story of self-discovery and will take you on an emotional rollercoaster of joy, heartbreak, and ultimately, utter bliss that, I think, is sure to stay with you long after turning the last page. 

    Why?

    Readers have told me that the story is full of engaging characters and has an evocative and visual plot. They have shared with me that Cutting of Harp Strings is an unforgettable coming-of-age self discovery book that leaves them reflecting on the beauty of true friendship and the power of love. 

    I’m happy with that…so please read….and let me know what you think.

    TWO

    August 1973

    I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I was sure that Father Meinrad told me this room number. Double-checking, I pulled out of my pocket a small crumpled-up piece of paper where I had written the room number.

    “Yep,” I said, aloud.

     Turning the knob, I didn’t know what to expect or whom I would find. With hesitation, I wrapped my head around the unwieldy oak door to take a look. No one was there. Creeping in, I dropped my duffel bag and knapsack on the bare tile floor and took a deep breath. Thinking I was intruding, I just then considered going down to the TV room to wait a while but, with a rare moment of certainty, I thought otherwise. After all, this was my room too.

    In both oversized windows were two enormous box fans buzzing and gusting winds in different directions. I turned them down one notch and began looking around but disturbing nothing. I began to size up this guy, after all, I would be living with him in this space for the next two school terms. Tacked up on the wall behind his dresser were pictures from magazines of sports stars. I saw Jerry West and Wilt Chamberlain among the collage. Tucked partly behind his mirror was a recent news clipping of Mark Spitz highlighting his seventh Olympic gold medal. Fluttering to one side was an obscure obituary of someone named Sir Francis Chichester who at sixty-five, I found by scanning the clipping, sailed around the world alone in his ketch called Gipsy Moth IV. 

    “Hmmm. How odd,” I mumbled to myself.

    I didn’t want to disturb anything, but I wanted to know everything. On his stereo was a new album. “Aerosmith—Dream On…he can’t be too bad—maybe.” 

    Mountains of books were everywhere except the bookcase in this twelve-by-something room. Zen, art history, and architectural design,

    you name it, he had books for all his interests. Unusual bookmarks poked out from the pages. Spoons, Popsicle sticks, and a sock accounted for a few. A tee-shirt, gym shorts, and an assortment of tennis shoes were scattered and strewn about. His knotted school necktie hung from a lamp, and his blue blazer and khaki pants draped from an ancient gray radiator under the windows—I could only wonder what he kept in his closet.

    At first glance, the cell, as the monks called them, was a whirlwind of chaotic prep school life, but I sensed there was a kind of order to things. It was an order that, perhaps, only the caretaker might know the code. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Maybe I would care some other day. 

    On a stack of books on his desk, was his journal. Peeking behind me at the door and then back at the notebook, I laid my hand on its cover. Flipping it open, a sinking feeling came over me and closed it with a slap. Peering back at the door, I shook my head letting out a puff of air. Beginning to act a bit like a voyeur made me feel strange and didn’t like the feeling. Even so, I was intrigued with him and speculated if we would get along. If what he collects, and what he reads, and how he keeps his space was any indication, it would seem this year would be dreadfully long. 

    Among the mayhem, much to my surprise, he had both beds impeccably made, so I had no clues as to which bunk was his. Feeling like a stranger heightened my anxiety. Wasn’t so sure I wanted to deal with a new way of living, considering I would be spending this year working my ass off to get into Georgetown next fall. Maybe weird, but not knowing where I would lay my head tonight was bothersome. Sleeping was important. With confidence, I chose one and sat down. I slowly leaned back on my elbows just thinking about this hiccup in my life.

    BAM!

    Without warning, the door flew open nearly blowing off the hinges. I sprang forward. My uneasiness escalated and my heart raced faster than Spitz’s Olympic record times. Like the hinges on the door, I sensed things were not going to be secure the way I was used to, like it or not. I didn’t know why, but my gut told me that I had better take my steps cautiously.

    He was dripping with sweat and wearing cutoff jeans and black Chuck Taylor sneakers. Without uttering a word, but with a glance, he shot past me to one of the fans to cool himself.  As they were before, he cranked up both fans to their highest setting. With his side and back toward me and with his hands on his hips, I had to notice his chiseled definition. Through the skewed windowpane and the flickering fan blades, strange patterns made by the sun played on his torso. He didn’t seem real. He was about my height of six feet, and that was where the similarities ended. His brown hair was thick with a luster and accents of the summer sun. Seemingly molded with a sculptor’s plan, he had a natural outline of long lashes that framed his blue eyes. I later learned the girls at our sister school loved his eyes and thought he was so adorable. His jaw and cheekbones rolled together in absolute harmony. If there was ever a classic nose, it was his. He, of course, had an even tan. As we all have flaws, his were not visible—that’s enough to piss off anyone. 

    Rolling his head in fluid rotation, his actions shifted from his self-focus to that of me. As he guided his neck from side to side, he said something that I could not make out. 

    “What did you say? The fans are too loud, I – didn’t – hear – you,” I said drawing out each word and cupping my ear with my hand. 

    In a single motion, he switched off one fan and turned toward me. Poking fun, he said, “My – name – is – Aiden. You’re late. The semester started ten days ago. I thought the place was all mine until Father Meinrad stopped me five minutes ago. What a bombshell.” He shook his head.

    His choice of words aggravated me, and I responded the way I felt. “Oh, yeah, I’m Eli, and sorry if I’m spoiling your little plans, but are you always an ass?”

    “Geez, hold on. Get a grip. I didn’t mean anything by it. I figured it was just too good to be true—that’s all. If you want to know the truth, I was hoping they’d move someone in here.” He totally switched gears and looked at me with a smile. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. Let’s start over—hey roomie. I’m Aiden.”

    I couldn’t change my mood that fast and muttered with disinterest something like. “Yeah, yeah—hi I’m Eli, whatever.”

    “Okay, that’s a lot better wouldn’t you say?” Aiden asked.

    “Yeah, I’m all for fresh starts anyway. I’m here, aren’t I? So, if I may ask, what happened to your last roommate?” I asked with raised eyebrows.

    “Absolutely, you may ask. Go ahead and ask,” he said crossing his arms.

    “All right already,” I let out a sigh.

    “Okay, okay, just trying to add some levity.”

    “Uh-huh,” I said rolling my eyes.

    “So, anyway, my last roommate was this guy named Brody. He’s still around. He flunked a few classes, and the monks didn’t like that. He went ballistic, but that didn’t have anything to do with his grades because he hates me anyway. He’s got issues and he made me the reason.”

    “Oh really—issues?”

    “Yeah—issues.  I’m over all that and don’t care one way or another,” he said with a flicker of a smile. “Hey, I hope you get good grades—and don’t have issues. I don’t want you, the monks, or your mom or dad coming after me.” 

    Aiden began to tidy the room and nonchalantly said, “Looks like I did take over the place, but I just didn’t figure on a new kid coming in…anyway, what’s mine is yours. Yep, I know how hard it is to be thrown into strange situations.”

    “Don’t worry about it. So, tell me more about Brody.”

    “Huh? Nothing more to tell.” He stiffened up and looked away, so I knew he wasn’t going to budge. He changed the subject. “So, Eli, what’s your story? I mean, why are you just getting here now?”

    “My mom, well, my mom passed away a few years back…”

    “Oh man—didn’t have any idea. Sorry for the crack about irate moms and dads.”

    “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, Dad had this thought that to better prepare me for college, I needed to spend my senior year away from home. Literally a week ago we, I mean he, settled on St. Augustine’s. In the last year, he’s hardly been at home, so I think that’s the real reason. 

    “Cool. It’s all good. You’re here now.”

    “Dad says I should be away from distractions. He presumes coming here would help me, you know, with the Fathers watching out for me. He says it would give me an edge getting into college. Yep, he thinks this is my ticket to Georgetown.”

    “Well, it sounds like he’s got it all figured out,” Aiden said.

    “Yeah, well, you don’t know my whole situation.”

    “Oh?”

    “They appointed him ambassador to Belgium, and he is going to spend a lot of time out of the country. When he is here, he’s going to be pretty busy—even busier than before. He decided that it would be best if I went to a school like this one. I always wanted to be a lawyer—like him. So, if this place helps me to get into Georgetown, then this is a good place for me to be.”

    “Yeah, a boarding school,” Aiden interrupted. “But old Father Meinrad may have put you in the wrong room. I mean, I’m a distraction and I know it. I look for distractions. Like, distraction is my middle name. To me, that’s a good thing. Anyway—you’re here now.”

    There was a long and awkward silence. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt myself tense up starting with my toes shooting upward. 

    “Well, I’m not planning to be around much on the weekends. We’re

    only a couple of hours from D.C. so I plan to go home on the weekends when Dad’s there.”

    “Hmmm. I think you’ll be here most weekends…anyway,” Aiden said. “There are some cool things to do around here. Lots to explore…and the Shenandoah River is pretty excellent this time of year. That’s where I just came from.” 

    “No—no. Thanks, but I’m not here for that. I’m here to get my diploma and move on.”

    “Yeah, yeah yeah—I hear ya. You’re not some kind of a dork, are you? If we’re going to live together, we may as well try to hang out and have a good time. There will be plenty of time for studying. Didn’t mean to scare you with all that distraction talk.”

    I was getting aggravated, and a sigh seeped out. “Hey Aiden, I just don’t need all this right now. Okay?”

    “Yeah, man. I hear you. I gave you your first distraction,” Aiden said sarcastically. “You should know, Eli, the Robes might not say it, but they want us to have some distractions. Saturdays are made for distractions. That’s the way they want it. That’s the way we want it too. We don’t see them, and they don’t see us. Today is Saturday and I’m making the most out of it.” 

    Aiden was more interested in thinking of other things and offered his own perspective. “You may never want to go home on the weekends—or ever.”

    “Oh really?”

    “Let me tell you…Saturdays…it’s our day. Everyone needs a day off. Even the Robes.” 

    “You keep saying Robes, what’s a Robe?”

    “They’re a who not a what. They’re the good Fathers, you know, the monks—the guys wearing black robes who run this place.” 

    “Yeah, yeah, I got it. But you don’t call them that to their face, do you? I mean you say, Father, right?” 

    “Eli, yes call them Father—for a smart dude, you may be a bit slow on the uptake. The kids here have called them Robes forever, you know, behind their backs. Sometimes they overhear us, and they really

    hate it. So, watch out when you use the word because some of them have a fierce backhand slap.”

    “Oh, okay. Thanks for the tip,” I said facing my palms out his way and shaking my head.

     “Anyway, what I was trying to say was that the coaches, who are not Robes, rotate to keep track of us on the weekends. It’s like one coach per class and we have seventy or so in each class so it’s loose, very loose. I spend time running in the woods. It’s much better than on the track or on campus somewhere. It’s just better.”

    I didn’t think he would ever shut up. When he did, I wasn’t sure what to do, but at least now, I knew the slang for priests. Yep, I didn’t think this arrangement was going to work out. 

     “Well, that sounds great and all, but I think I’ll pass. I’ve never been much for hiking or exploring, so count me out.” 

    “Once I get you off-campus, you’ll see.”

    “No, I don’t think so. Don’t think it’s going to happen. Being close to the dorm is fine by me, and anyway I think I’ll be spending time in the library getting ready for college.”

    “Sounds like your dad, I mean you have a plan, but I don’t know… the Robes won’t just let you study all the time. I’m telling you.”

    Aiden seemed to have an answer for everything, so I thought I should change the subject. “Well, I’m going to try out for the basketball team.”

    “Cool. All right. We do have something in common. Yeah, b-ball—cool.”

    Somehow, we managed a moment of quiet. Thank God. Aiden leaped backward onto a bed. He landed squarely in the middle of the mattress while clasping his hands behind his head. Finally, I got my answer and now knew which bed was mine. So, I began to collect my

    duffel and knapsack, threw them on my bed, and unzipped all the compartments. Out of the corner of my right eye, I could tell he was interested in what I was doing. Using my body to shield my belongings, not that I had anything to hide, I unpacked. Just wasn’t ready to offer the same courtesy Aiden had extended to me earlier. 

    Seeing all I needed to see, I decided that this arrangement was awful and was ready to talk to Father Meinrad. He told me earlier in the day that if I didn’t think my roommate would work out, switching rooms was not a problem. He said that several students were without a roommate. A guy named Luis, I remembered him telling me, who lived right down the hall didn’t have one. Yep, Father and I needed to talk.

    After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Aiden lost interest in what I was doing and blurted out, “Okay, didn’t mean any harm. Sorry to intrude.” 

    He bolted up from his bed, yanked off his worn sneakers, and peeled off his shorts. He grabbed a towel hanging from a closet doorknob, sniffed it, and he left the same way he entered. He headed down the long hall to the bathroom for a shower. Just in time, as I was ready to punch someone.

    …this is the end of Chapter TWO. Enjoy Cutting of Harp Strings from the beginning.

    So, what do you think? Let me know in the commments section below. Check out this review on Seven Sisters Blog.

    You may be interested in these posts too: Love is a Strange Thing or Coming -of-Age or Bildungsroman or Both?

    About E.G. Kardos

    I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write.  Here’s more about me and my books.

    Latest Posts

    Most Viewed Posts

    All Posts

    Please notify me when you publish a new blog post.

  • Eddie Zen: a Zen Master Next Door

    Read an excerpt…

    E.G. Kardos

    Without seeking it, profound spiritual growth can arise in the most unexpected places—from a child’s reaction, a stranger who enters our lives, or even our neighbor; thus, the Zen master next door.

    Zen stories and philosophies transcend all spiritual belief systems. Our belief systems are quite similar; however, some individuals don’t always recognize this. I’m not sure why. However, because of these similarities, connections, and integration of philosophies we share, I decided to write about them. I wrote short stories called parables for enlightened everyday living. Each story focusing on seventeen significant philosophies that capture Zen in our everyday lives and are present in most belief systems. You may see yourself or someone you know in these parables. I hope so.

    During the publishing process, Daniel Pink, author of A Whole New World and many other books, said:

    “What an inspiring way to learn about our very soul, The modern parables in Zen Master Next Door are captivating and left me wanting more.”

    I can’t review my own book so I will leave that up to others, but I certainly enjoyed writing it. Here’s one Zen story from Zen Master Next Door (3rd and latest edition).

    Enjoy!

    EDDIE ZEN

    The energy of the mind is the essence of life.

    Aristotle

    Listen to the voice of nature, for it holds treasures for you.

    Huron—Native American

    When knowledge becomes tattered, wisdom springs.

    Eddie Zen

                Start with the truth.  At least that is what he told Judd, his neighbor of nearly a decade.

                “Answers to questions most important to humanity always lie within us.  Come on, certainly you’ve heard that before,” Eddie said with a frothy tone.  He started conversations this way, bypassing any normal greeting.

                On a warm breeze that filtered through the trees in Eddie’s front yard, arrived the rich fragrance of juniper from Judd’s garden next door.  Eddie’s yard, now speckled with boxes, chairs, tables and bookcases, was once a pristine postage stamp-sized lot but now resembled a yard sale without the swarms of bargain hunters. 

                Judd dropped by on a lark, not knowing that his elderly neighbor was moving that very day.  But that was common practice for both men.  Judd was unaware of much around him, while Eddie was unpredictable at best. 

                Replying to the older man, Judd nodded his head.  “What’s going on here?  Where are you going?”

                “I’m moving on…just moving on.  But don’t worry about that, because I’m trying to give you something to think about.  Think about it, the answers you search for come from wisdom that’s passed down through the ages.  I repeat, in case you aren’t catching on, it’s about wisdom—w-i-s-d-o-m.” 

                Giving in as he usually did, Judd said, “All right already— so where does it come from?  This wisdom.” 

                “Good question,” Eddie said, drawing in a slow breath while scratching his day old stubble.  “It started with our first ancestors and flowed

    on year after year, decade after decade and century after…well you get my point,” he said squinting as he looked to the gray, hazy sky, thick with summer’s humidity.  “Anyway, although this wisdom has been fermented like a good chardonnay many times over for many years, it is now tucked away.  Seldom does modern man give it much weight.” 

                Eddie sat down on a dusty, wooded trunk and yanked off his horn-rimmed glasses.  He held them up, and he peered through the lenses, and put them back on.  Taking a long, deliberate breath, he continued.  “Today we rely more on science at one end of the spectrum or blind faith at the other.  Wisdom is overlooked and seldom part of our decision-making.  Don’t you think?”  Judd obliged nodding his head.

                As the movers in the house packed Eddie’s belongings, it dawned on Judd that he was always drawn to Eddie’s musings and now seeing him leave the neighborhood, an instant sense of emptiness plopped in his abdomen.  With downcast eyes, Judd told him that he wished he had taken the time to get to know him—really know him. 

                Eddie was a rather imposing but gentle man.  Standing a hair over six feet tall, he was slender and looked like a man ten years his junior.  He always donned frayed oxford shirts that draped on his torso like bed linens on a grandmother’s clothesline.  His silver hair was thick for a man of any age, impeccably combed and parted to the side with the straightest of parts. 

                With an easy smile and radiant disposition, Eddie unwittingly drew Judd to him and always did.  Despite his incessant ramblings, Judd knew Eddie was a singular sort.  A ready smile punctuated Eddie’s discourse.

                “Ah, you know me well enough.  Don’t worry about that.  Get to know yourself!  Get to know others and learn from them.  Get to know the guy next door.  This is what I’m talking about,” he told Judd, springing from his seat and walking to a lopsided pyramid of boxes. 

                He began fumbling through a crumbling, corrugated container.  For a moment, Eddie said nothing.  He looked perplexed as he shuffled papers in the container.  Losing his concentration from moment to moment, he paused as he examined an ancient fountain pen and a softball-sized sphere of rubber bands.

                “Are you looking for something?”  Judd asked.

                “Yes.  Why, what does it look like I’m doing?” he said with a sigh.  “It’s in here somewhere.  I want to give you something I started and I insist you finish it.  What I’m looking for will show you what I mean.”

                Eddie continued to rummage through boxes.  As he did, dust emanated from each box flap, filling the immediate area with a ripe tang. 

                Eddie stopped for a moment, looking up without his signature gleam and paused.  “You’ve always been kind to me and listened as I’ve spouted off at the first moment you’ve gotten home from work.  You have been kind enough to speak with me while you’re out in the yard.  Even at last year’s Fourth of July block party, I pulled you away from the beer cooler to throw you a thought, and you were there with a catcher’s mitt to snare it.  Whatever I threw out there, you were willing to give it the kind of attention I was looking for.”  He smiled and nodded as if proud of a son.

                Judd, always neatly dressed and clean-shaven, was in his late thirties, had a muscular physique and short-cropped blonde curls with steely blue eyes.  His usual look was a golf shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops. 

                Married to Ashley for nine years, they had two children.  Rarely taking time to think beneath the facade of many issues, Judd spent time taking care of his young family with little time for introspection.  He wasn’t so different from most folks.  Eddie knew this.

                Judd could not imagine what he was hunting for, and as Eddie rifled through dusty boxes, he suddenly felt empty-handed, wanting to reciprocate.  He thought of nothing of worth that he could conjure up to give the old man.  This worried him.  Judd told him that. 

                Preoccupied while looking through his belongings, Eddie gently gestured to him, waving his hands in the air while saying, “You’ve given me plenty.  But, I guess you don’t realize that, now do you?” 

                Before Judd could utter a syllable and from calm to excitement and without warning, Eddie blurted, “Ah, yes.  Eureka!  Here it is!”

                Before rescuing the gift from the box, Eddie peered down at the prize.  There was a glow about his eyes.  He took a breath and pulled it up and out.  As if it was a gold brick, he handed Judd a ream of yellowed paper, tattered and dog-eared at many of the edges.  Tinged with a scent of mildew, what Eddie held, Judd knew, must be significant.  As Eddie flipped through and peered at many of the pages, Judd saw that what he was handing him was a collection of handwritten stories.

                Taken by the gesture, Judd asked, “Why are you giving these to me?  I mean, this looks like a lifetime of work.  You ought to keep it.”  At best, he was bewildered. 

                Eddie put his hands in his pockets and, leaning forward on his toes, explained, “I don’t need them where I’m going.  Besides, my hands can no longer tolerate holding a pen for very long.  Perhaps you can read them and put them to good use in some way.  Maybe it will get you off your duff and get you to write something too.  You know it is in you.  It’s a gift…by the way, they’re parables.” 

                Overheated from his search, Eddie sat in a recliner under a maple tree in his front yard, waiting to be loaded onto the moving van.  He looked up intently at the massive tree boughs, as his thoughts accompanied the expression of resolve on his face.  He motioned to Judd to pull up a kitchen chair from the mountain of boxes on the other side of the slate walkway, and to join him. 

                In the fashion of Socrates dispensing philosophies under an olive tree, Eddie began to expound.  “When we read stories, you know, it is natural for us to pull personal meaning from them.  This in itself is a good thing.  Don’t you think?  Writers like it when this happens.  As I like to think, it may lead to introspection—I like that word.  But at the very least stories help us think.  Are you with me?”

                Judd was a trifle confused.  “So what is it all about?  I mean, you always tell me that the answers are inside of each of us.  I bet that’s all here.  The answers you have found in you?”

                With his long, thin finger pointing to his own chest, Eddie answered.  “Precisely.  I did say that, but it doesn’t mean I know all the answers.  In complexity, there is simplicity.  In simplicity, there is complexity.  Answers are not always the result of equations or any logical order—if so, we would unfetter all the mysteries, be superhumans, and not, well, just humans.  There is nothing perfect about any one of us.  I however, think that stories, not just mine, are like beautiful sunflowers.  They hold beliefs and values that somehow creep and root themselves into most civilizations.  Like a tall sunflower staring us in the face we sometimes still ask—so where’s this flower?”

                The workers were moving his life’s possessions with such disturbing ease.  “This move shouldn’t be this easy and this fast,”Judd thought.  Eddie saluted the movers as they filed by him.  Except for Eddie’s recliner, all of his belongings that once covered his yard were securely in the truck. 

                In spite of the commotion around him, Judd began to think of all the times he and Eddie had talked and he was only now beginning to connect the dots like the excuses Eddie made by walking over to Judd’s house, ringing the doorbell to borrow a dictionary.  “Eddie needs a dictionary?  How come I didn’t think that was odd,” Judd scolded himself.  He thought of the times that Eddie would show up with a beer in hand when Judd cooked burgers on the grill, or wanted to borrow a snow shovel in May.  These were times that Eddie had something to say.  Sometimes Judd listened and other times he was preoccupied.  “I wish I had listened all those times,” Judd thought.

                Eddie continued, “We’re all the same.  The mores and ways of life are probed and pondered today just as they were by those who resided at Stonehenge or by the ancient Greeks, or the Bushmen of Africa or the contemporaries of Confucius, or the greeter at Wal-Mart or the neighbor over the fence, or me or you.  Did I leave out anyone?  These truths are worthy of another look, don’t you think?  Perhaps two or three more looks.  That’s all I’m saying.”

                As Judd looked away for a moment and turned back to answer, Eddie seemed to have vanished.  Scanning the yard, Judd noticed that Eddie was slowly climbing the front steps of his home to determine the progress of the workers.  Judd stayed, enjoying the warmth of Eddie’s lingering presence.  Although it was getting close to noon and hotter than ever, he was content as he imagined what the old man was all about.  He began flipping through the ragged paper and found himself easing back into the recliner.  He thumbed through the musty pages, reading snippets of different stories and passages.  He found himself mesmerized. 

                Judd, put the bundle of papers on his lap, took a breath, got up, and began to search for Eddie.  More questions swirled in his head. 

                Eddie walked to the rear of the house, orchestrating the movers.  Judd caught up with him and followed.

                After a moment, Eddie pulled himself away from the mundane and in awkward silence, walked to the main staircase six feet from his opened front door.  He sat down on the eighth step.  He crossed his legs at his bony ankles and placed his graceful hands to the back of his head.  Sunbeams shot through the door.  He watched the workers as they swiftly moved in and out of his house.

                Eddie’s home was empty.  He stood and then moved with a lightened gait, as if a burden melted away.  He walked outside and down the brick stoop one last time. 

                Judd picked up his pace to join him in the front of the house.  The movers were busy repositioning the recliner in the recesses of the truck.  It was done.  With a yank of a canvas strap, the back door of the truck slammed shut.  Just like that, his belongings were stowed away, never to return. 

                Eddie shouted, “Remember to deliver the furniture and boxes that are marked in red and send the rest on to the Salvation Army.”  The men nodded and Eddie waved them on.  He turned back to Judd.

                “My parables, if you can call them that, are an attempt to show that there is meaning in all the ordinary things we do.  Life lessons can be learned wherever we are, whether in a bustling city, on a farm in America’s heartland, or in a suburban neighborhood.  There is much we can learn from the taxi driver, the stock broker, the dairy farmer and the neighborhood hairdresser…oh yeah, I learned a thing or two from her over the years,” he said smugly.  He sighed, placing his hand on Judd’s shoulder.  “In a way, they teach us who we are.  Wisdom is not only right in front of us—it is within us.  The truth that evades us lies within.  It always has.”

                The moment fell silent.  Eddie turned to look at his house one more time.  He faced Judd and with a toothy smile he said, “I’m ready.”

                A moment later, he walked to his car and got in.  Still smiling, he waved to Judd.  Judd reciprocated.

                “I’ll visit,” Judd said.

                “No you won’t.  You don’t know where I’m headed.  Do me one better.”

                “What’s that?”

                “Look inside and add the next chapter.”

                With that, Eddie drove away, not waiting for his neighbor’s response.  Judd’s mind was empty and he said nothing.  In solitude, he was motionless.  But when Eddie was out of sight, his mind was now replete, and silently bade him a farewell with a promise.

                “Goodbye Eddie.  I will.”

    The Kingdom of God is within you.

    Jesus

    Be a lamp to yourself.  Be your own confidence.  Hold to the truth within yourself, as to the only truth.

    The Buddha

    In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.  Our life is a long and arduous quest after the Truth.

    Gandhi

    Seek not good from without; seek it within yourself, or you will never find it.

    Epictetus—second century

    Ask questions from your heart and you will be answered from the heart.

    Omaha—Native American

    *****

    Sometimes it takes storytelling to convince any spiritual being what he or she should already know.  Truth comes from within. Simple?  Maybe, but truth leads to wisdom, which is the tenuous center amid science and faith.  What is truth?  Who is truth?  We must pause to discern how truth is real and part of our daily lives.  But it is not enough to know oneself.  As truth lies beneath our bones, so it lies beneath our neighbor’s bones as well.  Simple? 

    *****

    Want to read more parables of enlightened everyday living? Here’s the book.

    What did you think of Eddie Zen? Let me know in the comments below.

    About E.G. Kardos

    I am a fiction writer and the author of five books. My writing draws inspiration from the beauty surrounding us all—both in nature and in each other. Spirituality, friendship, love, and our connection to the universe inspire me to write.  Here’s more about me and my books.

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