The Gift - The Chronicles of Tucker Littlefield
by Tegon Maus GENRE: Fantasy Action / Adventure
Tucker Littlefield is a liar, a thief, a con-man. In an attempt to take advantage of a party thrown by the King, he becomes involved in the kidnapping of the King’s niece, Elizabeth. Injured, he is saved by a shaman who turns Tucker into a Soul Bearer who is enslaved by its power, compelled to devour the souls of the dead. "I am Tucker Littlefield. Know all that I say now is true-spoken.”
The trees had grown closer together their shade deepened and travel between them more difficult. I trotted next to Enon. His stride, an easy gate for him, was so enormous I had to make every effort to keep up.
At long last Enon stopped at the edge of a small opening in the trees. He held his hand over his head and gestured silently.
I had been so busy keeping up with him, I hadn't noticed the others had spread out to the point they were no longer visible, all except Bowen and Enon himself. He gestured for my silence as a light breeze filtered through the trees. I settled onto the ground next to Bowen and waited, happy for the lull.
With a faint rustle of leaves he and the dog trotted away from us. The sound of a strange voice drifted from a short distance away.
Someone was talking to the dog. I sank lower, trying to burrow under the leaves at the base of a large tree. Bowen moved closer to me, hiding me with his body. I wanted to look and edged my way up to peek over his shoulder.
There, not more than fifty feet away, was a half-naked man. He was shorter than a Jonda but larger than me. From the back of his head grew a long tuft of black hair, braided with leather its full length. His head was shaved with this lone exception. It laid as a single entity across his back, cut square at the bottom of his hunched shoulders. He turned briefly toward us, I was shocked. His face was a dull, ruddy red and stood as stark contrast to the gray tone that covered the remainder of his body. Square, primitive, with a single brow and a protruding jaw his face was like no other I have ever seen. His body and arms were as muscled as any Jonda, only squatter, more compact standing on short powerful legs. He was covered only by a loincloth laced at the hip. It seemed unnatural he would be wearing anything at all.
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else... devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn't friendly, I just wasn't "people orientated". Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can't remember what it was about... something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years chasing other dreams before I got back to writing.
It wasn't a deliberate conscious thought it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. "Be as detailed as you can," we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it's making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn't be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of "it could happen" very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.