The Lord and Lady of Meadowstead have murdered Jendar Longshear’s mother. Though the same fate awaits all in the village who reach middle age, the loss is no less devastating for Jendar and his brother Mathias.
As the eldest living family member (at the wizened age of 16) Jendar is thrust into the leadership of his household – and all that comes with it. He’ll need to accept and train new apprentices. He’ll be expected to run the family’s tailor shop. He’ll also need to keep his headstrong younger brother out of trouble.
Escape is impossible. Meadowstead – the only village on earth to survive the Great Sickness that ravaged the planet millennia ago – is all but a prison, surrounded by hostile wilderness and the night-shrouded lands of the alien Nobility.
The situation seems hopeless until the brothers receive a holographic cylinder from a mysterious nobleman, promising liberation for the villagers in exchange for help in overthrowing the Lord and Lady of Meadowstead.
The brothers take the noble up on his offer, and embark on an adventure that could see freedom for the village – or the brothers’ untimely deaths.
The Lord and Lady of Meadowstead have murdered Jendar Longshear’s mother. Though the same fate awaits all in the village who reach middle age, the loss is no less devastating for Jendar and his brother Mathias.
As the eldest living family member (at the wizened age of 16) Jendar is thrust into the leadership of his household – and all that comes with it. He’ll need to accept and train new apprentices. He’ll be expected to run the family’s tailor shop. He’ll also need to keep his headstrong younger brother out of trouble.
Escape is impossible. Meadowstead – the only village on earth to survive the Great Sickness that ravaged the planet millennia ago – is all but a prison, surrounded by hostile wilderness and the night-shrouded lands of the alien Nobility.
The situation seems hopeless until the brothers receive a holographic cylinder from a mysterious nobleman, promising liberation for the villagers in exchange for help in overthrowing the Lord and Lady of Meadowstead.
The brothers take the noble up on his offer, and embark on an adventure that could see freedom for the village – or the brothers’ untimely deaths.
The fog was lighter than usual for the time of year, hanging in thin wisps about the cluster of cottages that sat at the center of the valley. Gently sloping hills rose on all sides, covered in bright-green foliage. A dense wood loomed at the crest of the westernmost hill, shrouded in a fog far denser than that which hung over the valley. Far in the distance, beyond the woods, mountains rose up to meet the sky.
The homes at the base of the hills were sensible, clean dwellings fashioned almost entirely of wood. The walls were composed of huge logs, felled from the woods above, neatly lain atop one another and joined at the corners. The smooth wooden shingles of each roof were well oiled, without a trace of rot to be seen. At a glance, every building appeared to be identical, until one got closer in and noticed the little personal touches each resident had made. Several of the homes boasted well-kept flower gardens, while another displayed a detailed wooden carving of a bird, perched atop the front door’s lintel.
At one of the westernmost cottages, deep red curtains hung in the windows. They were the favorite possession of Mateya Longshear, Meadowstead’s best tailor. Though she’d made countless similar draperies for the other residents of the village, she’d taken extra time and care with her own. Not a stitch was crooked or out of place, and no matter the dampness in the air, they always hung voluminously. The detailed embroidery around their edges showed scenes of birds in flight, interspersed with roses, Mateya’s favorite flower.
Jendar Longshear glanced at them yet again as his eyes made another roving trek around the tiny, sparsely furnished room. The curtains looked almost out of place—elegance among simplicity. He glanced at the bare wood floors and up to the rafters of the ceiling above. He gazed out the bedroom door, into the cottage’s main living area. He looked everywhere but at the large bed that sat beneath the window, upon which a small form lay.
Looking would have been too painful. Seeing the face of his mother Mateya—her skin sickly gray, her mouth twisted in a grimace—wasn’t something he relished. He looked instead at his younger brother, Mathias, who knelt by their mother’s bedside, softly stroking her graying hair.
Those two are so much alike, thought Jendar. Though Mathias was a year younger than Jendar, he’d always been the stouter of the two young men, sporting his mother’s figure as well as wavy hair that was the same brownish shade their mother’s had been in earlier years. Mathias also had their mother’s broad, flat nose and her square jaw. She’d often laughed that she would have looked better as a man and had always nodded her head at Mathias, as if to prove it. Though not the most handsome man in the village, he looked good enough to be a favorite among some of the young women.
Jendar, on the other hand, took after their father. His hair was as vibrantly blond as it had been as when he was a boy, even though he was now sixteen years old. Lean and sinewy, he possessed his father’s sharp nose and piercing green eyes, as well as his height. As much as Mathias always liked to good-naturedly boast about his superior build, at least Jendar could always take satisfaction in the fact that he was taller.
“How is she?” he said softly.
Mathias grunted. “Not well. They took a lot from her this time. Too much.”
Jendar stepped forward and gently placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. The rough weave of Mathias’s brown woolen shirt—the type commonly worn by most of the villagers—tickled his palm. “You’ve been in here all morning. You should take a break.”
Mathias hesitated, then nodded, pushing himself to his feet and leaving the house.
Jendar knelt by his mother’s bedside, forcing himself to stare at what he didn’t want to see. Her features were sallow. She appeared wasted, deathly. He shuddered as he placed a hand on her back.
“I’m here,” he whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “Mathias went out for a bit, but he’ll be back.”
Like his brother, he reached out and stroked her hair. One of his fingertips brushed a rough spot on her neck, and he cringed, jerking his hand back involuntarily. He cursed himself silently for such a foolish reaction. He pushed his mother’s hair to the side and forced himself to look at what had provoked his revulsion. A single red puncture wound stood like an angry hill on her neck.
It still hasn’t healed. You know what that means.
A single tear slid down Jendar’s cheek and splashed against a floorboard.
Just like Father, he thought. Pretty soon it’ll just be Mathias and me.
He sat beside her for a while longer, listening to her quiet breathing. He stood only when Mathias came back inside.
“Still the same?” Mathias asked, though he almost certainly knew what the answer would be.
Jendar nodded as he stood and walked out into the cottage’s main chamber. “We have today. That’s probably it. You remember how fast Father went when he reached this point.” It wasn’t a question.
Mathias sat heavily on one of the sturdy benches beside the rough wooden table in the center of the room. “Just us,” he breathed. “It’ll be just us. First Father, now Mother.”
Jendar sat down next to him. “We both knew this time would come eventually.”
Mathias’s breath hitched, and he wiped at his eyes. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“And one day…one day…it’ll be our turn.” Mathias’s tears flowed freely, and he fought to speak through them. “One day…when we’re older…the lord and lady will finish us…and leave our children without their parents.”
Jendar put an arm around his brother’s shoulders and squeezed him tightly. “We’ll need to petition the lord and lady for marriage,” said Jendar. “And have children of our own. At least that way we’ll live a little longer.”
Jendar tried to speak confidently, to instill hope in his brother.
If only he knew how I really feel.
Mathias had a lustful eye for many of the young women of the village, and would regularly confide his desires to Jendar. Jendar would always smile and nod in agreement, though he never admitted that it was the young men of the village that interested him.
If the lord and lady knew…
He shuddered.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for marriage yet,” Mathias said tightly. “Who knows who they’d choose for me?”
“It might not be that bad,” said Jendar. “Mother and Father were always happy.”
Mathias sighed. “They were lucky. Plenty aren’t. They’ll probably match me up with ox-faced Juliana Woodwright. I swear that girl had a bull for a father.”
Jendar chuckled. “It won’t be so bad, no matter who they pick for you. Besides, it’s better than the alternative.”
Mathias grunted. “Only if we have children. If not…”
Jendar felt no need to finish his brother’s thought. Everyone knew what happened to the childless among their village.
“I need some air,” said Jendar. “Will you be all right?”
Mathias nodded then blew his nose into a handkerchief.
Outside the cottage, Jendar gazed idly at his surroundings. Nearly identical buildings marched off in the opposite direction, met in the center by an intersecting row of the same. To the north of the cottages lay the fields, to the south the workshops. Everything the villagers needed they produced themselves. Livestock for meat, grain for bread and vegetables for stew. No barter system existed among the villagers, nor did currency of any kind. Everyone was expected to work, and everyone got a fair ration of whatever they needed, whether clothes, food or tools. The village’s immense well provided an abundance of fresh water—more than enough to support the five hundred or so people who lived there. The only things the lord and lady provided were the occasional cart of iron ore, delivered twice yearly, and intermittent permission to log at the very edge of the western wood, on the Nobles’ side of the Line of Demarcation.
Jendar’s gaze traveled north, up the gentle slope that led to the fields and beyond. It settled on the crest of the northernmost hill, where an unnatural darkness clung to the hilltop like a brooding storm cloud. It was always dark up there, even when the sun was bright and hot. Deep within the gloom, he could just make out the outlines of a black fortress. He’d never gotten close enough to get a good look at the structure, and he’d never met anyone else who had either.
When people journeyed too far north of the fields, they tended to disappear.
He looked to the south and saw the same thing mirrored on the opposite hilltop: darkness and a massive black building.
The lord and lady didn’t venture out often. To Jendar’s knowledge, the only time they did was to feed. Though he could count on one hand the times he had seen either of them, they weren’t easy to forget. They looked eerily similar, even though they were of the opposite sex. Their skin was pale and waxy, and their noses were sharp, almost beak like, jutting severely above their overfull, rose-colored lips. Though they were strange to behold, it was their eyes that made Jendar cringe; pale and yellow, they glowed dimly in the darkness, and featured prominently in his nightmares.
Very little was known about them, except that they were immortal and terrifyingly powerful. It was said they had lived in their castles—the lady in hers, the lord in his—since the beginning of time, surviving even the Great Sickness that had ravaged the countryside in olden times. Most people spoke of them as gods.
Though Jendar wasn’t entirely convinced of their godliness (they had to eat just like everyone else, and what kind of god needed food?) he knew one thing surrounding their lore was true: there had been a cataclysm some time long ago, and though many people had died, the lord and lady had somehow survived. Indeed, Jendar firmly believed the reason the western woods were so strenuously forbidden, and so often prowled by the Nobles’ slavering thralls, was to keep the people in the village from knowing just how vast their civilization had once been.
This revelation had come to him as a boy, when his parents’ insistence that he must never, under any circumstances, venture into the western woods had filled him with such curiosity that he had disobeyed them at his first opportunity. His first two visits to the woods had been brief; several of the Nobles’ malforms had been foraging nearby on both occasions, forcing him to quietly and hastily retreat.
The third time, however, he’d gotten lucky. None of the creatures were prowling the woods that day, at least not near where he had journeyed. He had managed to get a good way in before the sinking sun had forced him back the way he had come. Each time he visited the woods, he journeyed a bit farther. The malforms had only spotted him twice, occasions that Jendar remembered vividly. Fortunately for him, the ones that had attempted to run him down had been great lumbering brutes, ill-suited to moving quickly through the woods. Both times, Jendar had arrived back at the village breathless and terrified, vowing never again to venture too far in.
But his curiosity always seemed to get the better of his common sense, and back he’d go, pushing his journeys ever farther. Jendar had learned to be cautious, to listen, and to move with stealth. He had spotted the malforms on many more occasions, but they never saw him again.
One day, after sneaking away from the village especially early, he had managed to push all the way through to the other side. That was a day he’d never forget.
The woods had begun to thin out gradually some time before disappearing completely, lush foliage slowly giving way to scraggly brush and stunted, half-dead trees. The farther along he crept, the less alive the landscape appeared. Although the slope of the land began to rise, he pressed on, sweating from the effort of climbing up the steepening hill. Dirt cascaded down behind him with every step, with no roots of any kind to hold it in place. He looked back the way he had come and saw the woods standing proudly at the edge of the festering earth around him, seeming to shun the barren rock on which he stood. Jendar went back to his climb, mounting the last ridge before the hill’s apex.
Immediately, he noticed the shapes.
Squat, dull gray and half the height of a man, they thrust up through the soil like cairns in seemingly every direction. Slowly he approached one, placing his hand on it, feeling its perfect smoothness beneath his fingertips.
Metal. This is some kind of metal.
Jendar rubbed at the shape, clearing away layers of grime, and was shocked at how much it shone.
Not a trace of rust anywhere.
The best iron rusted easily if left out in the rain for just a single night, but the metal before him seemed perfect, as if it had just come from the forge.
He gazed at the other shapes for a while longer, counting them.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
They were everywhere, in every direction, all the way up to the top of the hill. He continued the climb, slower this time, counting each new shape as it came into sight.
As he reached the top of the hill, and his eyes fell upon the valley below, his concentration shattered. All thoughts of counting the shapes fled, and for a moment, his lungs couldn’t get enough air.
The valley was immense—five or six times the size of the relatively tiny impression in which the village of Meadowstead sat. The hills on the far horizon were visible only as small humps, rolling off into the distance. It wasn’t the valley’s size, however, that made Jendar’s eyes widen and his muscles go slack.
The valley was full of things.
The dull metal humps had been a mere foreshadowing of what the valley held. Massive objects of the same metallic sheen as the shapes he’d seen stood in perfect rows, side by side, flanking wide, jet-black strips that crisscrossed the entire valley floor.
The objects varied widely in size and shape. Some were short and wide, with fluidic, twisting lines that befuddled Jendar’s perceptions. Others were impossibly tall, impeccably straight, reaching so high they were nearly at the same level as where he stood at the very highest point at the edge of the valley. Each one was unique, and all seemed so artfully delicate as to crumble at the slightest touch, yet bold and strong enough to survive an inferno.
Their majesty was marred by the silence that pervaded the valley like the pause before a scream, and the haze of dust and filth that choked every corner of the valley floor lay heavily upon them. The gleaming objects, however, were mesmerizing in their unparalleled craftsmanship; breathtaking in size; and utterly dumfounding in their sheer number, yet there was a sadness to them, a sense of loneliness made more profound by the heavy silence of the place, and the lack of any living thing.
No birds. No animals. No plant life. Nothing here moves. Not even a breath of wind.
As Jendar stared and the silence of the place began to grow oppressive, he was suddenly struck with a revelation that made his legs give out. His backside hit the ground hard, but he barely noticed.
A village. I’m looking at a village.
Though the construction was completely foreign and on a scale that was practically unimaginable, there was no mistaking the layout. What Jendar saw could only be some kind of immense village, built to a scale that defied comprehension. The black swaths that spanned the valley floor and met each other at evenly spaced right angles could only be roads, while the titanic shapes jutting upward beside them like hogbeast spines bore the unmistakable hallmark of buildings.
The more he stared, the more he began to notice details that he hadn’t seen right away. The roads, though straight and true, were littered with debris. The buildings, though breathtaking, bore unmistakable signs of age. In fact, some of what he’d originally taken for squat, jagged structures were in fact buildings that had toppled at some point. One such stubby, forlorn shape sat at the foot of a perfectly linear patch of destruction that spanned nearly the entire valley floor. The remnants of the part of the building that had fallen lay in eternal repose among the shattered remains of its crushed fellows.
Jendar couldn’t imagine how old this village must be. In his mind, anything constructed from a metal that scoffed at the elements should have the power to exist forever. The state of some of the buildings, however, seemed to suggest otherwise.
After gazing incredulously for a while longer, he wondered who had built this village. Immediately his thoughts went to the lord and lady. Surely this must have been their handiwork, created long ago for some unknown purpose. No man or woman would have been capable of conceiving a village of such massive proportions.
It wasn’t until months later, when Jendar had worked up the courage to explore the ruins, that he realized the massive expanse had once been the dwelling place of humans. As he cautiously picked his way through one of the abandoned buildings, he came upon a room that was stacked floor to ceiling with artwork. Paintings and sculptures of astounding workmanship crammed the room from end to end, preserved in clear cases of varying shapes and sizes. Every piece of art depicted humans in one fashion or another, from grisly scenes of epic battles to beautiful renderings of mothers and children.
In all of it, Jendar saw not a single depiction of anyone who looked like the lord or lady.
As the years went on and his explorations of the ruins grew bolder and more prolonged, he discovered hidden caches of strange and wondrous artifacts, inventions from a forgotten time that put the best work of his fellow villagers to shame. Many of the items he found no longer functioned, but once in a great while, he stumbled upon something that did.
Unbeknownst to anyone but his brother Mathias—whom he had finally taken into his confidence after Mathias had pinned his arms behind his back and demanded to know where he had snuck off to so often—Jendar had managed to gradually smuggle a number of artifacts into their home. They lay concealed under a loose floorboard, behind the ladder to the loft where he and Mathias slept.
Initially, Mathias hadn’t approved of Jendar’s exploits and had insisted he never make the trip again. What if the Great Sickness still lurked among the ruins? Even worse, what if the Nobles found out? Everyone knew they had the uncanny ability to know exactly what went on in the village. Surely, they knew about Jendar’s visits to the forbidden wood and were waiting for an appropriate time to punish him. Mathias was shocked to learn that Jendar had been making his trips into the ancient village for a little more than a year and hadn’t been punished yet.
Eventually he had convinced Mathias to go with him. Ever since, the two of them had made each journey together, smuggling back what they could. Each time that they beheld the ruins of the magnificent village, they reminded themselves of the danger involved in traveling there. Though Jendar and Mathias hadn’t yet suffered any form of reprisal for their actions, they had seen others subjected to punishments for similar offenses.
Just last season, Rett Woodcutter had loudly boasted that he and his sons had killed a malform in the woods after logging a good distance beyond the Line of Demarcation. The weathered gallows that stood in the middle of town did nothing to dissuade him. He’d always been a proud man; perhaps his pride had given him the illusion that the Nobles were somehow incapable of punishing him.
The next day Rett found himself upon those very gallows, noose around his neck, before the entire town. When the malforms had finished canvassing Meadowstead’s homes and workhouses to ensure that everyone was present, his offense had been declared before the assembled townsfolk.
The crier, as he was known, was a malform who stood mostly upright and had alarmingly human features. His gnarled arms and legs were much straighter than most, and his teeth were square, not sharp. Still, he was unmistakably monstrous. The creature was as grossly muscular as the rest of his kind, and his patchy scalp leaped with lice. A severe overbite made him drool almost constantly, and his speech, though comprehensible, was hopelessly slurred. Unlike the other malforms, he wore what passed for clothing—a ragged, stained set of gray trousers and a frayed vest, open at the chest.
Once the offense had been made known, another malform, brutish and more typical of the race, had placed a sack over Rett’s head, ignoring his cries for mercy. It walked to the side of the gallows where a lever jutted upward from the floorboards, and pulled it almost casually. The trapdoor beneath Rett’s feet had fallen open, and Rett had plunged downward, until the noose abruptly stopped his descent. To this day, Jendar could still hear the sound his neck breaking.
He and Mathias were both well aware of the risks involved in traveling to the ruins and had long ago vowed never to share their journeys with anyone, not even their parents.
I wouldn’t even chance telling old Bershon about this, he thought now, as he gazed at the two dark, foreboding castles.
A stoop-shouldered oak of a man, Bershon Oresmith, at forty-five years of age, was old enough to be nearing the end of his days. He was widely regarded as somewhat of a recluse and a bit of an eccentric, and since he and his apprentices were only required to work the forge twice a year when the ore carts were delivered, he had a great deal of idle time on his hands. He spent much of this time either drinking or targeting rats and blackjays with his sling and bag of stones, items he never seemed to be without. Though he’d gone after vermin for as long as Jendar could remember, the drinking hadn’t started until Bershon had lost his two young sons, Josha and Verdan, in the fire that had consumed the original forge. No one in the village ever commented on the man’s drinking, and as strange as he was, people appreciated him not only for the fact that he made all the village’s iron tools but also because he was most likely the reason the village had virtually no rats.
Though he avoided most of the other villagers, he had always been close with Jendar’s family, and had been a confidant of Jendar’s since he was a boy. He was slow to judge and always lent a sympathetic ear. Whenever Jendar broke something or otherwise violated his parents’ rules, Bershon always had been there to help soften the blow. The man had been a friend of Jendar’s father, Olef; they’d been close since before Jendar was born, and Bershon had taken it especially hard when the lord and lady had decided that Olef had lived long enough. Bershon had been there the day they’d lit Olef’s pyre and had visited the family twice already since Mateya had fallen ill.
Soon it’ll probably be Bershon’s time too, Jendar thought. The lord and lady don’t often allow people to grow as old has he has.
He felt a pang at the thought of losing him. He’d always been like an uncle to Jendar and Mathias and always had a joke at the ready for Mateya. His wife, Bella, had been just like him—stout of body and mind, with a quick wit and a pleasant, rosy face.
The Nobles had taken her two years ago.
Jendar kicked at the dirt and turned back to the door. The wind must have shifted, as he could just make out the ripe scent of the eastern bog in the air. Inside, a freshly kindled fire greeted him. Mathias had ignited some tinder and was gradually adding larger logs.
“Can’t say I’m really all that hungry,” Jendar said, as he plopped down on the wooden bench.
“I’m not either,” said Mathias, his voice strained. “But we need to eat.”
Jendar left Mathias to his task and checked Mateya again. Though she hadn’t moved an inch, her chest gently rose and fell.
For a moment, Jendar wildly entertained the hope that his mother would pull through, that the Nobles’ excessive feeding hadn’t overwhelmed her. Perhaps, if she recovered enough, they could make the journey to the ancient village together. Maybe, if they ran far enough, the lord and lady wouldn’t find them. They could live among the ruins, together, safe from the predations of their overlords.
Then what? said a voice in the back of his mind. Where would you farm? How would you take cattle through the woods undetected? What if the malforms found you? Or the Nobles themselves?
“We could run farther,” he whispered to himself. “Beyond the ruins. Take enough supplies to get us through. We could keep running, until…until…”
“What did you say?”
Mathias turned to look at Jendar. “Nothing. Just muttering to myself. Thinking about how crazy it would be to just take Mother through the woods, to the ancient village, where the lord and lady can’t find her.”
Mathias paused, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t think that’s crazy at all,” he said slowly. “I think it just might work. We could take turns carrying her on our backs. We could bring food, water. They’d never find us there. The ancient village is too big for them to search the entire place.”
Jendar shook his head. “No, Mathias. It would never work.”
“Why not?” Mathias shot back. “Think about it! We could bring seed. We could farm beside the ancient village, where there’s open land. We could steal a few calves from the pasture, start our own herd, and…”
“Mathias.”
“…we could dig a well. Start a new village, a new life. Maybe we could even take some of the others with us! I’d bet my prized shears that Mathilda Thatcher would go. That girl is the most beautiful in the village, and we could get married—”
“Mathias!”
Mathias stopped midsentence.
“It would never work,” Jendar said. “Think about what you’re saying. Do you know how much we’d need to bring? How many cattle for milk and meat? And what about tools? Shovels for digging the well. Ploughs for the fields. Hammers and nails to build fences for the cattle and saws to cut timber. Do you really think we’d carry all that through the woods without someone—or something—noticing? Besides, if we went missing, the Nobles would find out.”
Mathias shrugged. “But how would they know what happened to us? For all anyone would know, we fell into the bog. It’s happened before.”
“To an entire family, at the same time? With two or three cows and a host of supplies missing? Think about what you’re saying. No one would believe that. They would know we ran away.”
Mathias opened his mouth, as if to argue. Then his shoulders slumped. “There’s really no way, is there?”
Jendar moved to where Mathias stood and embraced him. His brother hugged him back.
“It’ll be all right, Mathias. We pulled through when they took Father. We’ll pull through again.”
Mathias said nothing in reply.
“Why don’t we get dinner started?” Jendar asked. “You’re right—we need to eat.”
In the village of Meadowstead, everyone knows that once they're in their middle years, they're going to die. Eventually, their body will no longer be able to provide the Nobels who rule over them, and the Lord and Lady will essentially mark them for death. When the day comes for Jendar and Mathias to put their own mother onto the funeral pyre, they're devastated. But more than that; they're angry. And not just at the senseless death of their mother. Life in Meadowstead is set to strict regulations. They can only marry whom they're told, can only work in the trades they're told and must never, ever leave the village and valley. When Jendar and Mathias do leave the village and discover the ancient ruins of a vast city, they slowly realise they've been bred like lambs to the slaughter; nothing more than livestock for the blood thirsty Nobels. As they chance upon a message left for them by an unknown Nobel, the chance for them to end the Lord and Lady's cruel rule is within grasp.
Meadowstead is pretty much a novel of two halves. The first half is the background of life in the village, all told from Jendar's perspective. It's quite slow, with a frustrating amount of erroneous detail. When the brothers' mother passes away, Hollin's repeats the information about standard mourning period in the village several times, as well as the use of the black sash or ribbon. The narration is somewhat plodding, seeming to try to find it's way through the intricacies of village life as though sleepwalking. The brothers' awe of the discovery of the ancient city is likewise stinted - never seeming to fully convey the depth of their wonder, while at the same time over-describing it.
That said, once Meadowstead reaches the second part - 'David's Story', the book seems to change its pace. Maybe it's because it's from first person point of view, or maybe the fact that this part spans millennia, but the story flows better. It's much more fluent, with the emotions of David simmering away, with just the right amount of seasoning. It becomes a much more enjoyable novel from that point onward.
S. A.