The wilderlands, p.21
The Wilderlands, page 21
Sometimes I lost my footing, sometimes I caught a terrible smog in my lungs, but nothing that brought Death to me.
Death was occupied.
I whispered a wizard-cant taught to me long ago, and the Wastefolk slithering over stones and through the streets didn’t mind or mark me none.
Over spell-wrought rubble, down blast-made ruins and into the Wilderlands, I ran, raging toward the place I’d seen that lightning-like strike. Happenstance would have it that much of the death and burning the Wastefolk had wrought through the Wilderlands cut a clean trail.
There were no silver tips or laughing-cats to fight. I didn’t need to kill any wizards or best any gods or ghouls.
I didn’t need to give an arm or swallow my honor to get to you. The way was easy.
There, somewhere along that clean-cut trail, I found the spot—a heaven hewn crater—where I saw that beam fall. At the center of that spot, was you.
You were a suckling child in the make of Mamma Moon, laying newborn in the Wilderlands, in the wake of the Wastefolk, and in the arms of a Valforian once I plucked you up. You looked up at me with waiting eyes I couldn’t stomach to hate. Shaking like a winter-leaf, under the gaze of Mount Hush-bee, I found you.
Somehow, when I picked you up, I judged your weight right. Lifting you up wasn’t too easy or too hard. And you looked at me, pudgy and silent for a baby, and I worried for a breath that you were mute-made. Then I realized I didn’t care.
If you were mute-made, it would be hard for you to draw out coywolves or laughing-cats or silver tips.
I don’t know the will of the gods, child. With little exception, they are hateful, they are horrid, and they smite and spit at humans for simple sport. But you, I think, were one of their rare blessings. I say, your soul—twisted by the horrors and hardship of the world—was given a second chance ‘cause Mamma Moon or Grandma Dirt saw that you could get to better living with a soul like yours.
I say, my soul—warped by the hate and heartlessness of the world—got a second shot at loving something for the right reasons.
I don’t know the will of the gods, child, but the warmth of gods’ breath was still on you.
Valforians know that all you keep in any life after this one is your name and the names you knew and liked in life. They stay with you whether you’re flung high or fall low. They’re etched on your soul like cracks in clay.
“That’s who you are, isn’t it?” I whispered to you in the tongue I had not savored for far too long.
Tears slicked up my cheeks before splashing down onto yours.
And, toothless, you bit me—hard. But you did not draw blood and that is how I knew for certain who I held.
I smiled wide and white as winter-root. I’d finally found you.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and was warmed to find I meant it.
Acknowledgements
I imagine it’s possible to write a book in less than ten years. I’ve yet to confirm that, but I imagine it’s possible.
Thankfully, creating The Wilderlands was a less involved decade than some of my other projects. I wrote a version of the opening chapter in 2013—after reading Moby Dick—before quickly realizing I did not have the skills I needed to do this particular story justice. It wasn’t until about five years later—after an English degree that introduced me to Beowulf, and independently reading Something Wicked This Way Comes—that I felt like I might be able to string together something close to what I’d imagined.
Therefore thanks, first and foremost, go to my grandmother who gifted me that copy of Something Wicked.
I also want to thank Eli for reading a good chunk of this book back in 2018 and then reading it again in 2023 and providing maybe the single best idea for revision I received. I want to equally thank Hannah (for being an ardent fan) as well as Casey (who somehow read this book in just a day) and Kaity (who claims the second and third best ideas I received for final revision).
Thanks as well to Zephin for reading a rather rough early version. I should also thank my mother for her attempts to read even earlier versions and supporting me (though I have a powerful sense that this, perhaps, will not be her favorite book of mine.)
I also want to show appreciation to Marianne, Oscar, Billie, Virginia, Fred, and Jan for reading the first chapter of this, despite it being well outside of their typical genre, and giving earnest feedback.
A massive thanks to Rae for voicing the audiobook and being very patient as I went through that process for the first time.
Thanks as well to Alyssa and Leon for their artistic enthusiasm and Drake, for his general enthusiasm. Much appreciation to the booksellers at Beaverdale Books for brightening my day without fail every time I encounter them.
High thanks go to the cover artist, Sabrina, who powered through the project during a particularly rough set of months. Wendy as well for making sure the inside and outside of this book looks beautiful across formats. Aimée for providing solid feedback and edits during a time where I was terrified of handing this book over to a complete stranger. And Kelsey, for stellar work making an unplanned final pass for edits as the publication date loomed.
Thank you as well, reader, for finding your way here.
R.E. BELLESMITH is the author of “The Wilderlands,” his stand-alone adult fantasy novel, and “Light Keeper Chronicle: The Unspoken Prophecy,” the first entry in his YA/Middle-grade Fantasy series. Born in Michigan, he now lives in Iowa where he’s probably writing (or sleeping) at this very moment. He has never known the song of tricksy Valforian steel or been called to Wilder-wandering. Find more from him at rebellesmith.com.
R.E. Bellesmith, The Wilderlands
