{"id":2,"date":"2012-09-02T23:13:32","date_gmt":"2012-09-03T06:13:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/?page_id=2"},"modified":"2013-05-01T08:40:06","modified_gmt":"2013-05-01T15:40:06","slug":"sample-page","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/?page_id=2","title":{"rendered":"The Book"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Barbara<\/a>

Click picture to go to Amazon to purchase e-book<\/p><\/div>\n

Indian arrowheads have been turning up in the fields since before Grampa\u2019s time, but no one imagined the secret that would reveal itself to Barbara.<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the summer of 1948, Barbara Reilly discovers something truly magical in the woods of her parents\u2019 upstate New York farm. Her stunning encounter compels her to defy the wishes of others, setting in motion events that invite a dark invasion to the wholesome family home.<\/p>\n

As danger descends, Barbara is the only one fully aware. What sort of power can a thirteen-year-old girl summon, to stand up to the threat? What help can she hope to muster, through her connection to another girl, from the distant past, who lived and struggled on the same land?<\/p>\n

BARBARA REILLY is a historical fantasy woven with mystery and courage.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Excerpt: Prologue + Chapter 1<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0Prologue: Long Ago<\/strong><\/p>\n

Gatoweh<\/em>, Autumn, 1779 by the Whiteman\u2019s calendar, midday by the sun\u2019s position, but twilight for the Iroquois people, dusk for a centuries-old way of life.<\/p>\n

A village stood, fourteen log-built houses beneath the crowns of giant oaks and elms, a village and its garden field in the midst of ancient forest. Along the winding avenue, and in the houses, people hurried without rest. Women toted baskets sagging low with cook-pots, clothes, and called to children, shrill, full-throated calls. Old men stooped in doorways fixing bundles, fumbling with cord. Boys heaved doeskin bags and strapped them to the backs of horses. And in the field, where corn leaves waved among the climbing beans across a green squash sea, a hundred busy hands swam, reaping what small portion could be saved of a harvest meant to last through coming winter. Uncertainty and fear filled each one\u2019s heart as all prepared to leave this forest, field, and these communal homes.<\/p>\n

At stream\u2019s edge, Nawa bent to dip her bucket. She bent like a bough about to break. Through long hair hanging loose she saw her shadow in the water, and the color of her dress, blue broadcloth, mingling with the waves. She was daughter of Oyanri and proud Kowanea. They had given her a body strong and fair, a body in which happiness once dwelled. Then, getting water was a simple task, a pleasure even, following the path where sunlight played, bringing the herons stitch-designed upon her moccasins to water, which herons love.<\/p>\n

But that was long ago, many helpless yesterdays, many red-rimmed moons ago, in a time more distant than a dream. Now the face that tilted down was feverish, etched with pain, and aged beyond its eighteen summers. The eyes, once sparkling like dew, were glazed. The hand that held the bucket trembled.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0Chapter 1: School’s Out<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cGoody,\u201d said Barbara, flipping her hair back and scanning the sky as though for rain. \u201cI love the falls.\u201d<\/p>\n

Halfway across the group, the motion of her head made Tommy Doeg\u2019s heart leap. It wasn\u2019t just the jaunty snap. It was her hair, honey-brown, shoulder length, straight with that slight curve at the bottom. And the way it swung.<\/p>\n

\u201cI like the falls, too,\u201d said Janice Yaple, sitting next to Barbara, and swallowed the last of her juice. \u201cWhat are you looking at?\u201d<\/p>\n

The seventh grade was finishing its 1948 school year on an outing at Taughannock State Park, with a picnic lunch sprawled on the grass, after games of tag and exploring the rocky shore of Cayuga Lake.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Barbara, bringing her eyes down and staring at Janice.<\/p>\n

It was better when girls were poison,<\/em> thought Tommy. And when they were invisible. <\/em>How had they gotten to be such bad news? Most of them, anyway. Except the ugly ones. Barbara was the worst. She was like one of those goddesses from Greek mythology. She was perfect.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Wakefield had just cleared her throat and announced, \u201cEveryone, please pack your things, and assemble by the drinking fountain. We will shortly begin the final portion of our field trip, our walk to Taughannock Falls.\u201d<\/p>\n

A low cheer had rippled over the fifty-eight students of the two homerooms. It didn\u2019t matter that the park was only a ten-minute ride from Trumansburg Central, and that most of them had been there umpteen times with their parents. The sun was out, never a given in the Finger Lakes in June, and ten glorious weeks of no school lay ahead.<\/p>\n

Tommy was in sad shape. There was no getting around it.<\/p>\n

What was it that attracted him so completely to Barbara? He had already decided to analyze it. Beyond her perfection. That wasn\u2019t an answer. He needed specifics. If there was to be any hope. Of rescue. From being doomed to eternal, pathetic weaklingdom.<\/p>\n

He watched her rise to a standing position. Unfolding to her tall, thin height. Rangy, and coltish. That\u2019s how the guy in that cowboy movie had described a girl like her. <\/em>With a \u2026 body \u2026<\/em> He coughed. Like hers. <\/em>Not boney, though. A well-fed colt. A body beginning to show a woman\u2019s figure. Yow.<\/em><\/p>\n

She took a few steps, then stooped and untied her shoelace. She removed her shoe and shook out \u2026 a pebble. Uh!<\/em> Her white-stockinged foot looked impossibly smooth and shapely. An angel\u2019s. And her face in profile, rose-lipped, rimmed in light, with the delicate upturned nose \u2026 Uh!<\/em> Where were her wings?<\/p>\n

Baseball.<\/em> Joe DiMaggio. Anything. Chicago White Sox \u2026 white socks. Ohhh. <\/em>Bad. Stop looking. Look away. Oh no, she saw you.<\/em><\/p>\n

Tommy felt his face burn. He hurried to the drinking fountain bursting in sweat.<\/p>\n

The combined classes crossed the road as a column of twos, with Mrs. Wakefield at the head and Mrs. Thornton behind, and the drivers guarding for motorists but not accompanying the group onto the three-quarter mile Gorge Trail.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t this just feel like an Indian place?\u201d said Barbara when they\u2019d entered the canyon, into woods fragrant with pine and alive with birds chirping.<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose,\u201d said Janice, gazing up the slope to the left, and then to the right where the bright stream rushed. \u201cExcept for that guy down there with the paint easel.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t you imagine us walking along and an Indian stepping out of those bushes right there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne Indian against two homerooms?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot against.\u201d Barbara\u2019s nose crinkled. \u201cShe\u2019d be friendly. And just us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean we\u2019d be way back in time?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, us today. But a real old-time Indian.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d rather see Elizabeth Taylor. On her horse. Like she was in National Velvet<\/em>. And Mickey Rooney, even though he\u2019s old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreatest picture ever,\u201d Barbara agreed, then glanced upward, as if expecting to spot something between the treetops.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d said Janice.<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh? Nothing I guess.\u201d They kept walking. \u201cGot any gum?\u201d<\/p>\n

Janice took out a pack and doled them each a piece.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo when did your dad say you could get a horse?\u201d said Barbara, chewing.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I get older. As always.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSame here,\u201d said Barbara.<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably when I\u2019m an adult,\u201d said Janice.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. I keep reminding Dad that Grampa and him worked horses. All he says is it\u2019s the last thing we need right now. Even though I\u2019d be the one taking care of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I know, let\u2019s start a club,\u201d said Janice. \u201cHorseless Riders of Trumansburg, New York.\u201d<\/p>\n

Barbara laughed. \u201cHorseless Underprivileged<\/em> Riders. HURT for short.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d giggled Janice. \u201cWe\u2019ll shame them into getting horses for us.\u201d<\/p>\n

Behind the two girls, Tommy\u2019s friend Paul reached over and waved his hand over Tommy\u2019s glazed eyes, as though testing him for hypnosis. \u201cThey\u2019re dangerous,\u201d he said in a ghoulish whisper. \u201cThey\u2019ll ruin your mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyway,\u201d Barbara said, shaking her wrist, \u201cwith my charm bracelet, we\u2019ll be safe from trouble, even if it\u2019s Mickey Rooney.\u201d The metal and celluloid figurines rattled, among them a lion, a star, a pony, an Indian head with feather bonnet, and a pair of owls perched on a laying down crescent moon.<\/p>\n

Janice chuckled. \u201cI can\u2019t believe Mrs. Wakefield let you wear it to school today.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe it will protect me from excessive haying, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me about it. I\u2019m driving rake again this year. Full time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe, too,\u201d said Barbara.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook,\u201d said Janice, pointing. A man with a camera knelt in front of a woman posed on the trunk of a fallen tree by the stream. \u201cYou should have brought your brother\u2019s Kodak.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou kidding?\u201d said Barbara. \u201cJohn would never let me. He<\/em> doesn\u2019t even use it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tommy had guessed right on the horse connection. But Indians? Charms? Farming? Not his subjects at all. But that only made her more interesting, didn\u2019t it? The same way he was never going to shop for brassieres, had utterly no use for them, but found them curious.<\/p>\n

So, yeah, intriguing in every way, she was. All of her. Her very her-ness. Besides being too beautiful. Excessive<\/em>, to use the word she\u2019d said about haying. She was too everything. Too \u2026 different. From him.<\/p>\n

That was it.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d hit on it. She was of another species. From outer space. And he without his ray gun. Ha.<\/em><\/p>\n

No, he was on to something. There was scientific principle behind this, wasn\u2019t there? Which one? Magnetism. The fact that positive and negative charges attract. Meaning that polar opposites are drawn to each other, inevitably. Great.<\/em> He was doomed, by physics.<\/p>\n

At the first bend in the gorge the level path broke clear of the trees, revealing the extent of nature\u2019s work there. Walls of crumbly, sun-bleached rock vaulted up on both sides, capped by blockier stone bluffs, split-faced and creviced, and crowned with a mantle of evergreens that seemed to scrape the sky.<\/p>\n

Faces tilted up and gawked.<\/p>\n

Someone murmured, \u201cI wonder if anyone\u2019s ever fallen from there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Another piped, \u201cMaybe we\u2019ll see an eagle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m pretty sure eagles do live here,\u201d said Barbara, gazing upward and around, until her eyes met the noon sun shafting between the cliffs, and squeezed shut.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Wakefield dropped back into the column to conduct one last teaching, a walking geology lesson. \u201cTen thousand years ago,\u201d she began, \u201cafter Cayuga lake was scooped out by glaciers, this stream, filled with melting ice, flowed all the way up there, on top. Who can tell me, by what force of nature the stone was worn away to create this gorge? Sally?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cErosion, Mrs. Wakefield.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVery good. How many of you already figured, then, that the many tons of debris washed from here are what formed the point of land where we just enjoyed our lunch? Three?\u201d<\/p>\n

Ahead the canyon walls stretched even higher.<\/p>\n

Look at her moving,<\/em> thought Tommy. Uh! <\/em>Those curvy shoulders. That graceful back. This is the longest I\u2019ve ever gotten to walk behind her. I am so lucky.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cLook there,\u201d said Mrs. Wakefield, \u201cWe can nicely observe the strata, the layers of limestone and sandstone and shale. These are sedimentary rock types, formed from sand and mud, along with plant and animal particles, from an inland sea that covered this entire area millions of years before the glaciers.\u201d<\/p>\n

She\u2019s more mysterious when I can\u2019t see her face. I wonder what it\u2019s like being that amazing. I wonder what she\u2019s thinking.<\/em><\/p>\n

Barbara reached over her shoulder and scratched. As her arm swung down, the charm bracelet fell off. She stooped to grab it, then glanced back to see who might be bearing down on her. For an instant her eyes locked with Tommy\u2019s.<\/p>\n

Ah,<\/em> the cornflower blue of hers. The color of his favorite crayon. Forget that. The prettiest color for a girl\u2019s eyes God ever made. He\u2019d never seen into them directly. Not with them looking back. They were magical.<\/p>\n

Janice halted in that moment, too, forcing Tommy to pass between them or be trampled himself. Now he was ahead, marching with Paul, looking at the back of two thick-necked Joes from his own homeroom.<\/p>\n

Drat.<\/em> He wasn\u2019t in touch with her anymore. He couldn\u2019t try to read her. He couldn\u2019t drink her in. Just like the rest of this dratted year.<\/em> Two classes, and he\u2019d been plunked in the other, not hers.<\/p>\n

\u201cWeird,\u201d said Barbara, re-snapping the clasp on her bracelet.<\/p>\n

Weird? She means me,<\/em> thought Tommy. I almost stepped on her. The look she gave me. Phooey. <\/em>No mystery what she\u2019s thinking now. What a dolt he is.<\/em> I\u2019ve been a nothing to her all year, and on the last day I graduate to dolt. And that\u2019s how it will end. I can\u2019t stand it. I want to die.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou will learn about this in eighth grade,\u201d Mrs. Wakefield continued. \u201cHow sediments compress into stone by their own great weight, over eons.\u201d<\/p>\n

I won\u2019t learn it in eighth grade because I won\u2019t be here. I\u2019m leaving. This is my last day in your stupid school.<\/em><\/p>\n

My last chance to say something.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cSee how the softer sandstone and shale degrade more quickly, flake away, causing the limestone above it to break off in chunks, continuing the process of erosion even today? Isn\u2019t geology fascinating?\u201d<\/p>\n

This time there was no response from the class, because the class itself was flaking away and breaking off in chunks. They\u2019d entered a band of hemlocks that had trails going down to the stream, and the lure had become too great.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Wakefield raised her whistle to her lips, then relented. She waved off the remainder with a not-quite smile, and called after them, \u201cStay out of the water.\u201d Mrs. Thornton, huffing up the path, added a phlegmatic, \u201cPlay safely.\u201d Both teachers sank onto a nearby bench.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s run this trail,\u201d said Paul.<\/p>\n

\u201cNah, go on, I ate too much,\u201d said Tommy.<\/p>\n

Around the next curve the main waterfall inched into view. There Taughannock Stream, the whole small river of it, fell from a second, higher canyon, into the bowl-shaped amphitheater at the end of the main gorge. Two hundred feet down it crashed into the plunge pool, drenching the walls with spray, before forcing its way out through the jumbled boulders and gushing under the plank bridge that led to the observation point, where it slicked the ground and filled the air with fine rain. Each step nearer increased its roar until it howled like a hurricane.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not going over,\u201d said Janice. \u201cI don\u2019t feel like getting wet.\u201d She sat down on the bench at the head of the bridge and folded her hands. \u201cGo on. Shoo. I\u2019m fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Barbara crossed. But instead of proceeding left to the lookout, she turned downstream and descended to the water\u2019s edge. She stood on a stone shelf that slanted into the water, and from there she studied the top of the falls, where the stream hinged over the precipice. Her eyes followed the curtain of water dropping, then flowing out toward her. She searched the water in the dark under the bridge, and into the sun, to the shoreline lapping her feet. Then her gaze returned to the top of the falls.<\/p>\n

Tommy also turned right after leaving the bridge. Pretending interest in a huge sycamore that had a hollow in its trunk big enough to crawl into, he ambled past Barbara behind her, to where it was anchored in the shale at the base of the cliff.<\/p>\n

Then, with her facing the falls, he turned toward her, feeling safe to look upon her, that is, to regard the falls with her deliciously silhouetted form in the foreground.<\/p>\n

School was over. He would never see her again. His father got the college teaching position. His mom was already packing for the move to Massachusetts. They\u2019d only been here a year. New York had been a mistake, it felt like. All except maybe for this.<\/p>\n

The whole time he hadn\u2019t had the courage to speak to her. Now he wanted badly to say, \u201cHello.\u201d Or, \u201cGoodbye.\u201d Or, something. But he just stood there with his hands in his pockets and his mouth glued shut. Feeling terrible and stuck. And wondering why it was so God-awful pitiful being thirteen.<\/p>\n

Now the thunder of Taughannock Falls was joined by the whoops of boys. Seven of them burst from the pines, their faces streaked with mud, most stripped to the waist, their shirts tucked into their belts, flapping like loincloths. They waved stick spears and driftwood war clubs, and raced over the bridge like a pack of Iroquois braves, shouting, \u201cWoo-hoo, school\u2019s out!\u201d and, \u201cScalp the teacher! Scalp the teacher!\u201d At the far end of the lookout, they jumped up and down and howled at the falls until they were soaked. Then they dashed back over and rambled down to the stream, where they jostled each other, stabbed the water, and laughed.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Wakefield and Mrs. Thornton were nowhere to be seen.<\/p>\n

In the same moment Tommy stepped forward and tried to speak, the warriors spied Barbara.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook! Indian princess of enemy tribe. Indian princess, enemy tribe. Woo-hoooo!\u201d They flung their spears and clubs across the stream. Sticks skittered over the flat rock around her. She barely seemed to notice. She was focused on the stream. Stones began to fly at her, plooshing the water and clattering against the cliff base. As she stooped to pick something up, one hit her. She jerked back, clutching her shoulder.<\/p>\n

She collided with Tommy. They both fell, his head clunking the rock slab they were on. He felt her slide between his legs, watched her skirt ravel up and her feet go in the water.<\/p>\n

A riptide of laughter erupted across the stream even as a thrill shot through Tommy.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, they\u2019re going to make out.\u201d<\/p>\n

A stone struck Tommy in the side. He felt his face wrench in anger. He snatched the stone and reared back to hurl it. Then he saw Barbara struggling to climb the loose shale. He dropped the stone and grabbed her.<\/p>\n

Her arm felt warm and firm and completely wonderful as he pulled her. Other than during their collapse just now, it was the first time he had ever touched a girl. He guided her behind a boulder. Crouched they heard the tweet of a teacher\u2019s whistle.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoys!\u201d came Mrs. Wakefield\u2019s voice. \u201cThat will be enough!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you all right?\u201d said Tommy huskily.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think so.\u201d said Barbara, gasping. \u201cHi, you\u2019re Tommy, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

He gulped and nodded. \u201cYou\u2019re Barbara.\u201d<\/p>\n

She smiled. Her eyes sparkled.<\/p>\n

They both glanced down to see what she was holding. A long white feather.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Indian arrowheads have been turning up in the fields since before Grampa\u2019s time, but no one imagined the secret that would reveal itself to Barbara. In the summer of 1948, Barbara Reilly discovers something truly magical in the woods of … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2"}],"version-history":[{"count":23,"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":354,"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2\/revisions\/354"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/carlgrimsman.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}