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.
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