The Road to Light (The Path of Zaan Book 1) Read online

  To my mother, who encouraged me to be creative and be whatever I wanted to be.

  To my father, who taught me the value of hard work and integrity.

  And of course, to my wife Rachel, who showed me the inspiration I needed to believe and create. She also taught me it’s okay to keep my head in the clouds, but to keep my feet on the ground.

  Crimson Cro Productions

  This novel was published by Crimson Cro Productions

  Copyright © 2016 Hierarchy LLC

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by C.K. Rieke and Heather Brantman.

  Special thanks to Ian Horner for Design consultation.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please don’t pirate this book.

  ThePathOfZaan.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9980796-0-8

  First Edition: December 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Printing 2016

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Part I

  A Home

  in Fur-lol

  CHAPTER ONE

  ZAAN awoke to the sound of splitting, crackling thunder. He felt the grass between his toes as he stretched his body out to shake off his short sleep beneath the pear tree. It took him a minute to get his bearings as to where he was. He scanned the landscape and the horizon line, recognizing the tall oak tree that stood about the size of a mountain. It had probably been planted alone, by an Old God or something.

  After, he collected his scattered items: a knit blanket, a four-inch blade, a graphite pencil, five sheets of papyrus, and a jar of honey. He left the bread crumbs for the ants.

  He started at a slow pace, heading north. As the scattered droplets turned to a fervent downpour, his steps turned to long strides. His long legs ran faster as he watched a thin streak of lightning illuminate the sky before him. Thunder burst through the air with a loud boom, and he felt a sudden fear that he had slept too long out in the fields. As he ran faster through the deluge, he could see the smoke from small fires to his right, on the other side of a deep creek as wide as a horse and carriage.

  He stopped suddenly in his tracks and looked toward the worn, wooden bridge swaying with the wind. It would be another ten minutes at full sprint to reach it, but rushing rapids separated him from the other side of the ravine. His body jolted as a loud crash of thunder exploded nearby.

  He looked down at the roaring rapids, and at the bridge down the way, and back up to where the safety of his home was. His midnight-black hair whipped his brow in the gusting winds.

  “Never heard of anyone jumping this before,” he said as lightning struck in the distance behind him. “First time for everything, I guess. . .”

  Taking long strides backwards, he took a deep breath and began to run. His long legs took him faster than he had ever run before, and with a monumental leap he found himself floating above the rushing water far beneath him. With a faint gust of wind at his back, he felt the soft whisper of grass under his toes as he lunged forward with a quick, agile roll and continued running toward the warm lights in the distance.

  Zaan wasn’t surprised that no one was outside as he approached his small town of Fur-lol. Farmers celebrated the rain but feared a sudden lightning storm, and what could follow it.

  His nerves calmed as he drew closer to his home, and the lightning storm recessed to a light drizzle of rain. Smoke rose from most of the chimneys in town. He had always appreciated the view of his town at twilight; it was peaceful and serene. The smoke made him think of fingers streaking toward the heavens.

  His mother used to read him a book long ago, he forgot the name, about an animal that could ride smoke into the sky. He didn’t remember why it rode smoke into the sky, but he imagined it would be a magnificent sight. He did vaguely remember the animal looking like a cross between a tiger and a great elk. It was called a Tangier.

  Using a rusty skeleton key from his pocket, Zaan opened the hickory door to his home. Once inside he noticed how drenched he really was. Delicately he placed his hat and shirt upon the rack to the left of his front door to drip dry. He checked his reflection in the window by the hat rack, scratched at the stubble on his chin, and wiped his black, wet hair from his brow.

  Zaan Talabard looked around his home: sparse wicker furniture, an oval cherrywood table, and a granite fireplace with the pungent aroma of smoldering coals wafting from it. The open room was dimly lit from the overcast clouds seen in the windows. Arching rafters curved over him, and he had to duck his head slightly to walk under any one of them. His wet hair hung below his nose; and grazed his lips on a windy day. His eyes held a blue you might find in a deep ocean, with a bright shimmer of young enthusiasm. His hands were callused; he could use a knife for cooking, play a few stringed instruments, and had the finesse of fine calligraphy with a quill.

  He put on a dry shirt that was next to the wet one he’d just hung to dry, which spattered droplets on the ground laden with gray stones. The shirt was a nice cotton, made by one of his neighbors, and was torn at one elbow. His sopping shoes had already been left outside. How long was I asleep at the old vineyard meadow?

  One thing he was sure of: His dog Oscar was probably starving to death. Zaan went up to his bedroom, opened the door, and saw Oscar lying at the foot of the bed, on a pillow on the stone floor. The dog didn’t notice his master come into the room.

  Zaan called his name: “Oscar!” The dog made no response.

  “Oscar!” he said again, with more emphasis.

  Oscar jerked his head up to see what had made the sound. He looked around for a moment before focusing in on his master’s white eyes and teeth as Zaan smiled.

  “Hey, boy, you hungry?” Zaan asked.

  Oscar struggled to his paws, went up to Zaan’s feet, and smiled up at his owner. He rubbed his muzzle into Zaan’s shin.

  “Aw, good boy. Let’s go get you some dinner,” Zaan said.

  They sat together by the fireplace, Zaan at one of the two chairs at his small unkempt table. He laid some of the chicken and green vegetables from his plate to Oscar’s dish, and the dog slowly picked out which morsels he wanted.

  Zaan’s feet had finally dried. Stretching out his toes in the warmth of the fire, he leaned back in his chair. A smile crept across his face as he sipped some light red wine with lots of tannins and a hint of fig.

  He was asleep within half an hour in the chair by the warm fire, with his dog next to him. It wasn’t uncommon to not make it to his bed until halfway into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE sounds of horse neighs and the slow pounding of people’s feet on the dirt awoke Zaan. It was now Sunday, and as Zaan dropped his legs over the side of his bed, he was excited at the thought of seeing his parents.

  He carried Oscar down the stairs, fed him, and started some water in his copper kettle. Then the two of them went outside to relieve themselves.

  The sun was brilliantly warm for early September, albeit a bit damp from the rains. Autumn had arrived, and the trees had just started to show signs of color. The nearby smoke from the night prior was all but gone except for a few remnants, mai
nly from the bakery. The huge plume in the distance was from the castle of Auracity. It was a constant chimney; as normal to the people of Fur-lol as the moon at night.

  After returning to his steaming kettle, he poured and polished off more than a pint of lavender honey tea. A couple of biscuits later, it was time to get on his way.

  A few years ago, he would have taken Oscar with him, but now it would be more arduous than advantageous. Oscar’s claws were long and curled; his fur was matted from lying about. The dog was anything but purebred, and his gray muzzle started the cascade of colors down his coat —browns, blacks, reds and what even seemed like a shimmer of green in the right light. He was maybe part Labrador, Zaan had guessed.

  Oscar had the most innocent, vivid eyes a dog could possess. When Zaan had first seen him hobbling on the streets years prior, he’d thought Oscar looked more like a fox than a street dog. In the darkness he’d seen a slender, agile frame of black with piercing evergreen eyes staring straight at him. At first he was scared of the street dog, but it didn’t take long for them to become best friends.

  The old dog was now as sweet as a kitten to its mother. All he wanted to do was be at Zaan’s side. But to walk him on this length of a trek would put Zaan behind schedule. After all, he had much to prepare for the week.

  He locked his door and started off. Looking back he noticed how nice his house appeared. Not so much a house, but a two-story cylindrical dwelling that could be described as a hut made of wood with a solid roof. Two windows were on either side of his arching red door. Oscar was assuredly sleeping off the majority of the day. This comforted Zaan, and he continued walking.

  He made his way on the soft dirt and pointed himself in the direction of the upcoming cobblestone road.

  The trek to his parents’ house was about twenty minutes. Halfway there, he left the “town-side” part of Fur-lol, and the landscape opened back up into long pastures. The town was a small farming community of one hundred and twenty people, and it took only about half an hour to walk from one side to the other.

  Zaan Talabard came from a family lineage that had been in Fur-lol longer than most. His father Janos and mother Ingrette both grew up there, although they married years later than expected by their parents, mainly because of Janos’s wanderlust.

  Janos had taught Zaan the importance of hard work, but also the negative repercussions it brought with it. Janos worked his entire life, until recently, and his body showed signs of it: bad knees, a hip that gave him a hard limp, and a shoulder that couldn’t lift an arm over his head.

  He took every job he could in town, whenever possible, to give his family a good life. Because of this, he helped put Zaan through more schooling than almost anyone else in town, so Zaan wouldn’t have to endure the aching and knocking joints that he himself lived with day to day.

  Ingrette Talabard was brought up by parents working the grape fields. They crushed soft, sun-warmed grapes with their tan feet to produce some of the sweetest wine in all of Essill. Zaan couldn’t ask for a more loving or supportive mother; she insisted on giving him all that she could, whenever she could. She was encouraging of his schooling, and of his enthusiasm to become a productive adult.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER the calm remainder of his walk, he wiped the sweat away from his brow as he arrived at his parents’ home. He walked in; the door was unlocked.

  “Hi Mom, hi Dad,” he said. All of the windows were open. It felt fresh; a breeze rushed through the house. The yellow tints on the walls were complemented by the burgundy drapes framing the windows.

  “Hullo,” came from the kitchen.

  Janos Talabard sat at the kitchen table. On the table Zaan saw hot black coffee and an ashtray with light wisps of smoke floating from it. Janos laid down his book, took the pipe from his lips, blew out a plume of smoke, and smiled.

  “Hullo, Son. Your mother’s almost home. Come sit with me,” Janos said.

  Janos, while sitting, looked like a man who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders for his whole life and still reminisced about how heavy it was. He was not even sixty, but standing up had become laborious; with a muddled grunt he stood up to hug Zaan. They shared a quick embrace, accompanied with a couple of pats on the back, then they both sat.

  “You are getting taller, or I am getting shorter?” Janos paused and ran his fingers through his coarse beard. “How are you, Zaan?” he asked.

  “I’m good, thanks, Dad. How are you?”

  “Great, never better. Ended up being a nice storm yesterday. Put these old bones right to sleep. The horses put up quite a stir, but your mom calmed them down. You know how good she is with animals,” Janos said.

  Zaan looked out the window at the stabled horses drinking and splashing water around out of the troughs. “Yeah, lucky it was just a nice storm,” he said, giving a sigh of relief.

  Janos looked over at his son with a curious eye.

  “I may have, I mean . . . been out in the storm,” he said.

  “Zaan, my boy, the Aterax is not forgiving. You need to be more careful.”

  “But it wasn’t the Aterax. It was just a normal storm.”

  “Yes, but you never know when it’s going to appear, Son. It’s an anomaly, just because of that reason. I have traveled the world and seen what it can do. Lightning storms that turn the sky completely white, with sudden hurricane-force winds. It has destroyed entire villages, families,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll be more careful. I accidentally fell asleep out under the pear tree. I’ll try to be more aware. But . . . it has been over a year since the Aterax acted up, and it usually doesn’t come this far inland.”

  “Hmph.” Janos lit his pipe and took a long drag. “Are you coming over next Sunday, Son? We were gonna roast a chicken. It’s your sister’s birthday.”

  “Sure, I’d almost forgotten it was her birthday . . . How long has it been?” Zaan asked somberly.

  “Four years,” Janos said.

  “Hullo! Is my baby boy here?” a voice rang as the front door opened and closed. “Come help me with some things, would ya?” Zaan walked over; Janos stayed at the table.

  “Hi, Mom,” Zaan said as he went over and put both arms around her. It was a strong embrace, and his mother held it longer than a normal hug. She ran her fingernails along his back and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

  She held him out in front of her. “Look at you, so handsome,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Now grab the remaining lot from the cart, would you?”

  Ingrette Talabard was much more youthful and limber than her husband. She was of tan complexion, with bright white-and-blond hair. Her skin was taut from years under the sun. She was slim and wore vibrantly colored dresses and earrings. Her eyes were dull blue that showed gentle understanding with a boldness of love, but there was a slight glimmer of pain in them.

  Zaan went outside to the cart, patted Bruno on the face, and held a bucket of water up to him. Bruno was an ass in more ways than one. Ingrette was the only one who hadn’t almost gotten a hoof in the hip from startling him. In the cart were some fruits and vegetables, day-old bread, sausage, coffee, and milk. Hmm, no chocolate, Zaan thought to himself. She almost always brought home chocolate from the village.

  He brought the things in and put them on the counter. Ingrette went to work right away at putting things in their proper places.

  “Sit down, Zaan. Are you hungry? I’m going to make you some eggs,” she said hurriedly. “Oh! Look, you tracked mud into the house! Go put your shoes by the door. I’ll clean them off.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t notice,” Zaan said apologetically.

  Janos gently puffed from his pipe. The smell of roasted vanilla wafted through the air as the smoke danced in the light of the window above the sink. Ingrette went to wipe up the little mud tracked in from Zaan’s boots, then began cracking eggs.

  Janos blew a great plume of smoke in the direction
of the open window. “How is life treating you, Son?”

  “Good. Trying to stay busy, but honestly I’m getting kinda bored. What I really want to do is . . . go on adventures like you did,” he said.

  Janos had been around these parts since well before Fur-lol was even considered a town. There were shopkeepers, a single tavern, and one smithy, but there were mainly farmers, vineyards, and people raising livestock. His father and his father before him brought up swine. They raised them, bred them, culled them, sold them, loved them, and ate them. At the age of seventeen Janos left home—the first of his family to do so in generations.

  He hitched rides all the way to the Elden Sea—over two hundred miles away—and worked as a ship hand for over five years outside the castle of Dillengrad. He sailed all the way up to the north of Essill and made quite a name for himself. He bragged that he singlehandedly fished a twenty-foot eelshark from the arctic Rion Sea. Zaan loved hearing these stories from his father and always dreamed of being in them.

  Ingrette looked back over at the table where Zaan and his father sat. With a concerned look she placed the scrambled eggs on a plate and put them in front of Zaan as she sat down to join them. She folded her arms in front of her. “Do you really mean that? You really want to leave home? You know that when your father tells his stories, he doesn’t tell all the bad stuff he went through. He makes it sound like a fairy tale.”

  Janos smiled as he took another puff off his pipe.

  “I know, Mom, but I’ve graduated, and I have these . . . dreams, of being out there. I don’t know what I’d do, necessarily. It’s . . .”

  “It’s dangerous is what it is,” she said.

  “The boy’s just curious, and like his dad.” Janos smirked as he winked at Zaan.

  “Well, let’s not talk about this at the table right now,” she said. “Are you coming over next week? It’s Emilisa’s birthday.”