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Storykeeper (Nine-Rivers Valley Book 1) Historical Fiction by Daniel A. Smith ➱ Book Sale Tour with Rafflecopter
Storykeeper
Nine-Rivers Valley Book 1
by Daniel A. Smith
Genre: Historical Fiction
"A stunning novel and a joy to read" Helen Hollick, Managing Editor - Historical Novel Society "Smith writes fluidly, and the society he depicts is intriguingly complex." - Kirkus Reviews "Steeped in immediacy and vivid detail." D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer - Midwest Book Review
The first recorded Europeans to cross the Mississippi River reached the western shore on June 18, 1541. Hernando De Soto and his army of three hundred and fifty conquistadors spent the next year and a half conquering the nations in the fertile flood plains of eastern Arkansas. Three surviving sixteenth-century journals written during the expedition detailed a complex array of twelve different nations. Each had separate beliefs, languages, and interconnected villages with capital towns comparable in size to European cities of the time. Through these densely populated sites, the Spanish carried a host of deadly old-world diseases, a powerful new religion, and war. No other Europeans ventured into this land until French explorers arrived one hundred and thirty years later. They found nothing of the people or the towns that the Spanish had so vividly described. For those lost nations, the only hope that their stories, their last remaining essence will ever be heard again lies with one unlikely Storykeeper.
~~~Editorial Reviews of Storykeeper, winner of Best Indie Book Award 2013
"'A man without a story is one without a past,' Smith writes, 'and a man without a past is one without wisdom.' By the time readers have wandered freely through the strange realm of the Storykeeper, they may well find those words more prophetic, and more powerful." - Kirkus Reviews
"Storykeeper is a complex read . . . With both perspective and time in flux, readers are carried along on a historical and cultural journey that, while compelling, requires attention to detail: not for those seeking light entertainment, it's a saga that demands - and deserves - careful reading and contemplation." D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer - Midwest Book Review
"I was not only entertained by this book, but educated about a period of history of which I knew nothing. I loved the chapter structure which has a rhythm of its own, all wrapped in an attractive and appropriate cover. I have no hesitation in recommending this book no matter where your historical interest may lie. I give it 5 stars!" Helen Hollick, Managing Editor - Historical Novel Society (Editor's Choice)
"Smith has created a wealth of history and culture that will make you weep. Creating words and phrases with a poetic sense, building a feel for Native American culture that feels so genuine and, yet, is eminently readable." Kathy Davie - Books, Movies, Reviews!
"I love this story, and I applaud Daniel A. Smith on his diligent research. Smith writes some strong characters in this gripping story. Every human emotion is engaged, and at times I felt like I was right there with Manaha and the tribes who fought against DeSoto. Superbly done. I'm sure I will be reading this book again." SK - The Jelly Bomb Review
"The book's images, enhanced by objective historical writing are portals into the distant past, sometimes humorous, often heartbreaking, but always illuminating." Fred Petrucelli - Log Cabin
Also by the author, a telling of the inspiration behind Storykeeper:
One summer weekend, my wife and I were enjoying one of our favorite pastimes, exploring the back roads of Arkansas. The state has such a diversity of landscapes and inspiring scenery, a day-drive is always an adventure. We happened to drive through an out-of-the-way community with a number of unusual spherically-shaped boulders or orbs (diameters ranging from 1 to 4.5 feet), prominently displayed in front of homes, businesses and even the local post office. These intriguing boulders piqued my curiosity and pulled me back to the mysterious area many times over the next few years. In the orb stones, I didn’t find the story I was searching for and needing to write, but I discovered a palatable mystic, an inquisitive urge and inspirations that influenced and contributed my historical novel, Storykeeper.
Orb Stones and Geoglyphs: A Writer's Journey
by Daniel A. Smith
Genre: NonFiction, Biography, Geology
A soulful mix of writing, geology, rock and roll, and ancient lost nations comes from the author of the award winning historical novel, Storykeeper. The thought-provoking account of a ten-year search for mystical orbs, mysterious earthworks, and forgotten history intends to inspire the storyteller in all of us to begin their own journey.
"Highly recommended for a wide audience." Donovan's Literary Services - Midwest Book Review
"More an adventure tale than a chronicle of schooling." Big Al - Books and Pals
That evening, she gathered with the others around the square-ground west of the plaza. In the warm months, the sunken clay-packed clearing, enclosed by four open-front sheds, served as the village council site. It once was a place of stories and words of wisdom. The sacred fire still burned in the center, but no one told stories anymore.
Now they gathered with a common face of despair to watch the flames consume wood like so many flickering memories. Her own memories, stirred by last night’s dream, forced her to look upon her people differently.
Manaha gathered her courage and stepped from under the thick thatched roof of the Blue Lodge. She pulled the woven scarf she always wore even tighter and marched to the center of the grounds with her arms hanging as if both were the same.
Stepping inside the fire-circle, she turned toward the White Lodge. “I wish to speak to the village.” She did not wait for a reply. “I must tell a dream that came to me last night.”
Voices of protest from the Red Lodge clamored above the murmurs of general disapproval. Ta-kawa of the Cougar clan, the best hunter of the village, shouted the loudest. “Go back to your place, woman! You have no right to speak before the village fire.”
“I must tell my dream,” she said.
“No. You cannot speak here.” Ta-kawa stood tall and proud of every war scar. “Tell your dream to an elder if you must.”
“Hold your tongue, warrior!” Hazaar commanded. The honored elder slowly rose from his position at the center of the White Lodge. Sad eyes, set deep in his taut, weathered face, drifted from lodge to lodge.
“She will tell her dream,” he said. “If it has meaning, it will be for each listener to regard or cast away, on their own.”
After both men sat down, Manaha breathed deeply and spoke out in a strong voice. She told of a great peaceful valley, where she found death, annihilation, and a brown bear. She stammered as she relived the pain of losing her arm. And she repeated what the Great Brown Bear told her: “Become the storyteller your people need, and you shall have your arm back.”
~~~
Manaha bowed her head. She could feel every eye staring at the arm hanging at her side. Murmurs swelled all about.
“There are no more brown bears,” Ta-kawa shouted above all the others. “Your dream means nothing here.” Manaha closed her eyes to her surroundings. After a moment, she bent over, cupped her hand, and extended her good arm to Mother Earth. Raising it to her face, she blew into her palm. Then in a sweeping circle, she cast the power of the dream to those gathered about. A second sweep circled slower, and the third silenced the last voice.
She spoke. “Grandfather told me long ago, ‘a man without a story is one without a past, and a man without a past is one without wisdom.’ If we do not teach the children as our elders taught us, all that has gone before will be lost.”
“Teach the past?” Ta-kawa shouted. “The past should be forgotten and with it any talk of the strangers. The deaths and the defeat of the ancestors have no honor here.”
“Listen, Ta-kawa. Listen all of you,” Hazaar said. “I believe the dream is a warning.”
They all turned to look at Hazaar. The elder held out his arms and opened both hands. “This was a family in Nine-Rivers Valley.” Wiggling his fingers, he said, “Brothers, mothers, sisters, children—this is a family before the strangers.”
Hazaar sadly studied each of his flexing fingers then slowly closed both fists one finger at a time except for the last one, wrinkled and bent. He held it up and turned it in front of his face. “When they left,” he said, “this is all that remained of that family.”
He walked the circle, pointing at each of the four sheds. “We are all that remain. Our ancestors were from different nations, but together we are the last people of Nine-Rivers Valley.
We cannot hold the gifts of our ancestors. We have lost them. We cannot visit their graves; there were none. We cannot speak their names because we have forgotten them. Stories are all we have.”
Excerpt Procession
A rhythm of deep drones began to grow. The crowd grew silent. The ranks on the north end opened. Wise-ones, elders, warriors and all who had gathered bowed their heads and eyes, except for one.
Uncle Tecco pushed my head down but not before my vision filled with all the honor and wealth surrounding the eighteenth mico, King of all Upper and Lower Towns of the Casqui Nation. I had admired and watched him speak from the summit of the Temple Mound during many ceremonies, but I had never been in the close presences of King Issqui.
On four strong shoulders, King Issqui floated above the mass of bent heads. He sat perched on a carved throne under a canopy of fine woven red cloth floating in the breeze of two large fans of white birch bark. The deep, rich tones from a pearl-wrapped cypress flute led the royal procession. Three warriors painted white and clutching shiny copper-tipped lances marched on each side of the throne. At the center of the assembled circle the flute playing stopped. The royal bearers steadied the throne on stout poles forked at the top.
King Issqui stood and spoke. “Hear me, the honorable, the wise and the brave joined here as one. I come to walk with you as just another man following the same path of duty. Together, let us meet the Strangers.”
The bearers lowered the throne. King Issqui stepped to the ground as Uncle Tecco spun me around. Everyone turned toward the east. Out front, the three commanders called the formation of warriors and peacemakers forward. And so, began the grand procession of the Casqui Nation to meet the one Saswanna called the “Son of the Sun.”
The scouts ran to the front as the bearers struggled at the rear with baskets and litters overflowing with gifts. The march moved slowly. Many feet pounded the dry earth to a choking dust. In the hot months, I normally wore very little. The hat and shirt I had put on earlier with great pride had become an irritation that I wished I could remove.
We passed the edge of Casqui territory where it dropped off into the swamplands, farther than I had ever gone. Trees with trunks thicker than the reach of six men blocked most of the sunlight, except where it shimmered off the dark swamp waters in the distance. The lowlands and its swamps were a natural defense that separated Casqui from its neighbors and enemies.
Two scouts ran in from the southeast. The warrior chiefs signaled and the grand march stopped. A bellowing cloud of dust raced toward us.
“Men of Casqui,” King Issqui shouted from the center of the formation, “do not betray your people. Stand proud, stand strong, but stand in peace.”
The formation opened to allow King Issqui through the ranks. He walked past the three warrior chiefs with the four wise-ones following. I stayed close to Tecco Tassetti. On orders, bearers hurried to the front and began laying out the many fine gifts on either side of the king.
Odd shapes led the rolling dust. Thirty or forty of these figures galloped toward us like a stampede of buffalo, but not buffalo or any known animal. Each moved with such grace and certainty that from afar it appeared as one creature.
At a point where no arrows could reach, they stopped. When the dust settled, I could make out men—strange men—sitting atop beasts the size of a bull elk, but with a long neck and a noble head without horns. Each man and beast sparkled as their shiny cloaks rippled.
One of the beasts reared and danced on two legs. Its rider shouted commands, and two raced back to where they had come from. Those that remained fell into a single line across the road. Each one pulled a gleaming sword of silver from a sheath at his side and held it across his chest as they marched forward.
King Issqui turned and shouted, “Men of Casqui, regard the unknown, but do not fear it.”
I straightened my back and squared my shoulders like those around me. The strangers halted. Stance to stance, men of different worlds waited with hardly a movement as an odd sound of rumbling, pounding, screeching, and clanging grew ever louder.
Where the road enters the forest, four flags of three colors, black, white and blue, appeared against the trees. More men of metal carried the flags, followed by another hundred beast-riders, and two hundred or more men on foot carrying weapons known and weapons never seen before. Three or four hundred gaunt and bound slaves trudged at the rear. Out front, three giant fierce dogs circled a great prancing black beast carrying the greatest of all the riders.
The King of Casqui called for his throne. He mounted it as the strangers moved closer. The one on the black beast waved his hand, and the advance stopped. Their dust washed over Issqui.
The strangers had thick beards, wore hats of metal, and too many garments for the heat. But the beasts on which some rode held my greatest wonder. Beautiful and frightening, yet they carried their master where and whenever commanded.
King Issqui ordered his throne bearers forward. Between the line of beast-riders and the Casqui procession, he dismounted alone. The king of all Casqui faced the direction of the rising sun and made a long, slow bow, kneeling in silent prayer. When he stood, he turned in the direction of the setting sun and made another long bow, but remained humbled on the ground only a short time. Turning to the strangers, he made a sweeping bow, but bent only his back, not his knees.
He returned to his throne. His bearers raised him above all others, even the strangers on their great beasts. From behind the front ranks of the pale strangers, three red men stepped out. All three bowed to our king. One announced that they were interpreters in the service of their great lord, Hernando de Soto.
Excerpt Cave
“This is no place to hide,” I mumbled.
He began clearing away the dead branches that lay at the base of the cliff.
“Grandfather, what are you doing?” Confusion twisted inside me as I looked down on him. “You expect us to hide in the brushes, old man?” I asked.
He ignored my disrespect and said with no emotion, “I will go in first. You follow.” Pushing all our bundles in front of him, he crawled into a crack in the earth.
Left behind with no time for doubt, I followed. The small opening forced me to crawl on my belly. An earthy smell filled the blackness in front of me. I tried to turn around, but it was too tight.
“Do not be afraid, Nanza.”
I could almost reach his heels, but his voice seemed far away.
“This is the entrance to a great cave that reaches into the heart of the mountain. Nothing ever found me when I hid here.”
His words gave me a vague sense of direction, but little assurance.
“Not much farther and you will be able to stand.”
The tunnel shrank as the darkness closed in on me.
“Will there be light?” I wanted to know before I crawled any deeper.
“In time, your eyes will adapt,” he said and scrambled out of my reach.
I stopped. In front and to either side, I could see nothing but black. Behind me, the opening glowed in soft sunlight. I had started backing toward it when something grabbed my arm. Dragged from the light and stood upright in complete blackness, I could see no more with my eyes open than I could with them closed.
Darkness spoke without form or substance in a hushed voice. “Do not be afraid.”
Once I was certain the voice belonged to Grandfather, I reached until I grabbed him.
“Nanza stay here. Do not move until I get a fire started.” He pulled free of my grasp. “You will feel better once we have some light.”
At that moment, I wanted more than a fire. I needed something familiar to hold.
“Stay where you are.” The words came from everywhere and nowhere.
I squatted down until I found the crack through which I had been pulled. The light at the other end had turned orange. The outside would soon grow dark, but it would be nowhere close to the dark nothingness of the underworld. From the thick dust around me, I picked up a small rock and rolled it in my fingers, hoping for something familiar. I dropped it when a crash of tumbling boulders echoed from across the unknown.
“Grandfath ...” I started to yell but stopped myself. My own voice sounded strange in this world. I called out again but in a whisper, “Grandfather, are you hurt? Where are you?”
“Nanza, speak softly in the underworld,” he said in a low, stern voice. “I am close. We will have a fire soon.”
Leaning and straining, I began to see the outline of his movements. I was hopeful that my vision was returning but frightened by what I witnessed. Unnatural shapes and forms loomed all around. Some seemed to float and glow.
“I have found my torch. It will not be long now,” Grandfather whispered.
I hated the cave. At that moment, had the burden of destiny been within my power, I would have preferred to be captured or even killed by the intruders rather than be left alone in that darkness.
Somewhere across the unnatural night, water trickled. Grandfather’s constant fumbling spoiled its comforting rhythm. Sparks of a fear I had never known lit up my mind. Why has he brought me into this horrible place?
A loud crack shattered my thoughts. A flash of light froze an image of him hunched over his flint and a pile of kindling on the floor of a vast room.
A second flash and then another, like a lightning storm on a dark night, the world appeared and disappeared. However, what appeared looked nothing like the world I knew. Burned into my memory are those flashes of the underworld. Moments before, I had struggled to see anything; now, I saw more than I ever wanted to. I closed my eyes and jerked with each new crack of the flint.
When the last echo faded, darkness returned, except for the faint glow that Grandfather held in his hand. The small ball lit up his wrinkled face as he gently blew into it. He laid the burning kindling onto a bundle of pitch-soaked cane, then raised the torch high. Its light pulled me in and warmed my spirit.
Dancing above Grandfather’s head, the flames chased darkness into hiding at the far edges of its reach. In the torchlight, what I had imagined as floating demons became glistening rocks, like giant icicles hanging from the ceiling and growing from the floor. Behind each one, the darkness peeked out at each flickering chance. I pressed close to Grandfather, and he put his arm around me, something he had not done for a long time. I felt content but not secure.
What are you passionate about these days?
Music - I’m passionate about music, especially live music. My occupation has afforded me the opportunity to listen to hundreds of entertainers and bands perform live. When live music begins, what would otherwise be a random collection of people become a community. For an hour or two they all share a common joy and lasting memories. The value of live music has been continuously reinforced over thousands of years though all cultures.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
I like to drive out into the country and listen to music usually jazz, when I have had a stressful day even though it’s almost always dark when I get off from work.
How to find time to write as a parent?
I need to be away, by myself to write and be productive. I prefer to be outdoors or as close as I can. I began my first book by writing on weekends when rest of the family was sleeping-in. I would get up before dawn, drive country roads until I found an isolated, inspiring spot and then start writing in the car or if weather permitted out in the woods. As the story became more demanding, I began getting up on weekdays around 3am and writing until the rest of the family began to stir.
Describe yourself in 5 words or less!
Hard worker, slow but persistent
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
I started with no experience or training to consider myself a writer. When I published my first book, I had no sense of how Storykeeper would be received. Then I started getting reviews from readers in England, Canada and across the US. When the reviewers referred to me as a “writer,” complimented my style or included a quote from my book then I felt like I was indeed a writer.
As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
My spirit animal would be the Turtle. In the second chapter of my first book, I wrote a short story, called The Great Turtle and the White Bird. I eventually edited it out of the book and published it separately. From that time till now, I have had many turtle encounters at varied places but mostly in my backyard. I have at least 6 shells from turtles that came into my yard to die, mostly box turtles but two were snapping turtles, that crawled a ¼ miles from a near-by lake to my yard to leave their shells.
A couple of times in the last few years I discovered a female turtle digging a hole to bury her eggs. I have even seen a recently-hatched turtle smaller than the palm of my hand. The most amazing turtle sighting I was privileged to witness was of a male and much larger female involved the slow, drawn-out mating ritual of the common box turtle. All that and more just in my backyard seems to indicate that turtles are here for me.
Daniel grew up in Arkansas. In his youth, he began working for his father riding in a Studebaker pick-up truck around the state, servicing refrigeration units in tourist courts and small country stores. Years later, Daniel traveled some of those same back roads for his own business, installing sound systems. For the first time, he began to notice the surprising number of ancient earthworks that covered the state.
He realized that like most everyone else, he had no idea who built them, when, or why. What began as an observation grew to a driving curiosity to research historical documents and the state's vast archeological findings. The untold stories and lost history all around him inspired Daniel's debut novel, Storykeeper.
Smith began his artistic career as a professional audio engineer. For over thirty-five years, he crossed the country, providing sound engineering services for all types of events from outdoor music festivals, concerts, and political rallies to lectures. A parcel list of celebrities Smith worked with includes numerous dignitaries such as Presidents: Ronald Reagan, George H. Bush, William Jefferson Clinton, and George W. Bush, also Bob Hope, Colin Powell, Paul Harvey, Martha Stewart, and Dr. Ruth, and a wide variety of entertainers, including, Kris Kristofferson, Alice Cooper, Dolly Parton, Steve Martin, Allman Brothers Band, Jimmy Buffet, Barbara Mandrell, Ray Charles, Reba McEntire, Dizzy Gillespie, Iron Butterfly, Dave Brubeck Quartet and Willie Nelson.
Thank you for sharing your guest post, bio and book details, I have enjoyed reading about you and your work and I am looking forward to reading Storykeeper, it sounds like an excellent read
Thank you for sharing your guest post, bio and book details, I have enjoyed reading about you and your work and I am looking forward to reading Storykeeper, it sounds like an excellent read
ReplyDeleteThis sounds like a great story.
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