Book of Days: A Novel (2 page)

To Royce Cameron who was there "where it all began," brainstormed on the original idea, and walked every step of this novel with me.

To Andy Meisenheimer, for being instrumental in shaping the plot and pushing me to go deeper with the story, then deeper still.

To my editor Julee Schwarzburg for being brilliant and a joy to work with.

To my prayer team for warring for me in the heavens: Allen Arnold, Twila Belk, Nancy Biffle, Jamie Carie, Jeff Conwell, Ron and Tina DeMiglio, Mary DeMuth, Eric and Jennifer Fry, Randy Ingermanson, Susan Hill, Keith Horner, Ronie Kendig, Tosca Lee, Bob Lord, Dineen Miller, Cec Murphey, Don and Heidi Myers, Glen Peterson, Peter Prinos, Steve Price, Cynthia Ruchti, Jim Rubstello, Darci Rubart, Taylor Rubart, Micah Rubart, Pat Rubart, Jim Rubstello, Jeff Scorziell, Mick Silva, Jeff Stucky, Carla Williams, and Jim Vaux.

To my wife Darci and sons Taylor and Micah, for their constant support, encouragement, and unwavering love.

To my mom for loving me like only a mother can.

To my dad. I love you. What a day it will be when I see you again.

To the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit for your grace, mercy, and letting me live my dream.

All my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.

Psalm 139:16

PROLOGUE

Summer 1853

A stone slammed into the side of Hassun's head, sending him to his knees. Pain exploded like lightning and streaked down his back as he slumped forward onto his hands. Careless. His moccasins must have left a trail. Foolish. How could he have let that happen?

Have to move!
His assailant's next attack would most likely be to his ribs.

Hassun spun to his left, sending up a thin curtain of dust from the ledge overlooking the cliff, and caught the man's dark leather moccasin as it flashed toward his face.

Hassun twisted his attacker's leg and the man sprawled on the ground, his head inches from striking a rock.

Not close enough.

The man leaped to his feet, stepped back five paces, and snatched a bow and a pine shaft with a brilliant black arrowhead off the ground. By the time Hassun staggered to his feet and shook his head, the man had nocked the arrow.

"Nukpana? Why?"

"You are surprised?"

"You were my friend."

"I am still your friend and ever will be." Nukpana drew back slightly on the bowstring, the arrow pointed at Hassun's chest, and laughed. "Do not worry, I am not going to kill you. I could have done that easily with a larger rock a moment ago." He released the pressure on the bowstring and stroked the arrow's white feathers. "You never could hide your tracks. I only need to know where the Stories are and I will leave you."

Hassun should have seen it. The rage two summers past when he was chosen guardian instead of Nukpana, then the false praise for having been given the honor. Being badgered almost daily ever since in a half-joking, half-serious manner about the location.

"And if I do not tell you where they are?"

"I will see how much pain you can endure before you die. But know before you join our ancestors, you will tell me."

"The Stories are not for your eyes."

"But they are for yours?"

"I am not the one who made that choice."

"And who is?" Nukpana pierced the tip of his forefinger with the point of the arrowhead and a drop of blood seeped out.

"You know."

"But those who chose you are gone, and the understanding now only remains with you."

Hassun nodded, his long black braids hanging over his muscled shoulders.

"What if something happens to you? Another must retain the knowledge."

"That is not for any man alone to decide. You know this also."

"Think, Hassun. We could use its power for so much good. Together. You and I. Blood brothers since our youth. We could wield the insights and foretelling it offers to—"

"No. That is not its purpose."

"If you will not tell, then give me the stone." Nukpana spread his feet wider, one in front of the other, renocked the arrow and drew it back.

"I cannot. Even if you do not yet know how to decipher the markings, it would be the same as telling you." Hassun massaged the small stone that hung from his neck on a thin leather cord under his buckskin shirt. "You know this."

"Enough. Give me the stone." Nukpana drew the bowstring back further, his first two fingers turning a deep red where the string bit into them.

Hassun stared into Nukpana's eyes as he lifted the stone from around his neck and let it hang from his upturned palm.

"Yes, throw it to me and there will be peace between us."

"No." Hassun wrapped the cord around the stone and closed his fist around it.

"One more chance. Tell me where the Stories are or give me the stone. Either one and you will live. Now."

Hassun closed his eyes. "For You, I choose." He opened his eyes and gauged the distance between Nukpana and the edge of the cliff. Three paces, maybe four. The distance might be short enough. Nukpana would not shoot to kill, only to maim. "As I have told you already, it is not possible."

"Is it worth your life?"

Hassun drew in a deep breath and whispered, "Yes."

"So be it."

Nukpana drew back fully on the bow at the moment Hassun lunged forward and sprinted toward his friend, little puffs of dust rising from where his feet dug into the ledge above the cliff.

Nukpana's fingers loosed the arrow and time slowed.

As Hassun hurtled toward the arrowhead streaking toward him, he hurled the stone over the edge of the cliff.

Nukpana's head snapped to the left to follow the arc of the stone against the blue sky, shock splashed across his sun-browned skin. "No!"

The arrow entered Hassun's chest just above his heart, making him stagger, the darkness of unconsciousness rushing into his mind. No, he wouldn't give in.

Two paces to go. Yes. He would make it.

Nukpana turned back the moment Hassun slammed into the bigger man, driving him back, then over the edge of the cliff.

Sound vanished as Hassun wrapped his arms around his friend and the forest floor spread out below him.

"I have protected that which was entrusted to me. Now I come."

CHAPTER 1

Cameron Vaux stepped into his dad's room and tried to push the regrets into a dark corner of his mind. They'd never go on the backpacking trip he'd planned for his dad's fiftieth birthday. Never take the sailing trip from Seattle to Alaska. The cruise around Italy would be a grand intention never fulfilled.

The what-should-have-beens had vanished.

Just like his dad's mind.

It had been a year since his dad knew who Cameron was. The doctors said the grains of sand still in the top of the hourglass were few, which made the call he'd received that morning from one of the nurses surprising.

"Your dad is more coherent than we've seen him in a long time. He keeps saying, 'I need to see him now. Right away. I must tell him.' But when we ask who 'him' is, he says he doesn't know. We're guessing it's you."

Cameron stood just inside the door, stared at the back of his dad's graying head, and watched him study the business section of the paper as he'd done his whole life. Pouring over the stock charts to see who was up and who was crashing. Ready to steer Cameron's economic choices down the straight and financially rewarding. His house and his healthy IRA were due to his father's fiscal acuity and passion to share what he'd learned with Cameron.

He sighed. There would be no more lessons on navigating the investment waters.

"Hey, Dad, how are you?" Cameron eased over to the windows and pulled open the beige curtains. Early May sunshine filtered through the emerald leaves on the maple tree outside and filled the room.

His dad sat next to the window in his dark blue leather chair, feet propped up and covered with the Washington Huskies slippers Cameron bought him last Christmas.

"Well, I'm still alive. It's so good to have you here." His dad adjusted his glasses and squinted. "Now tell me again who you are . . . ?"

"It's me, Cameron. Your son. You asked for me?" He couldn't help hoping the tumblers inside his dad's mind had magically clicked back into place, and he could have one last conversation where his dad knew him.
Please?

His dad set aside the business section he'd probably read twenty times already that day and stuck out his hand. "Put 'er in the vise, pal."

Cameron took his dad's hand and cried out in mock pain. "Ahh, wow, you haven't lost your strength, Dad."

His dad smiled, a hint of water in his eyes.

"You know, sometimes I look in the mirror and say, 'Hey, you old buzzard, what are you still doing here?'" His dad's eyes lit up and he laughed like stones skipping on a pond.

"You're not old." Forty-nine was not old. Certainly not old enough to have a disease that made Swiss cheese of his dad's memories.

"We'll be home before dinner at this pace." His dad nodded. "Yep, we're making good time."

The familiar sadness tried to rise from Cameron's heart and smother his mind, but he blocked it. He didn't need the emotion. He didn't need tears right now. There had been enough of those over the past six years to fill Puget Sound.

"The nurses said you needed to see me."

"Well, it is so very good to see you."

"They said you needed to tell me something, Dad."

His father lifted his glass of orange juice and toasted Cameron. "Have I told you how proud I am of you?"

Cameron smiled, closed his eyes, and let the words sink in. His dad used to say those words ten times an hour two years back, but the frequency had dwindled to almost nothing. It was a gift to hear the phrase again.

Cameron glanced at the pictures on the walls. Of family. Of friends. Of his mom and dad playing tennis when they were first married. Cameron picked up a photo sitting on the coffee table of his mom and dad swimming across the Smith River in the redwoods and drew his finger across the surface of the glass.

"I miss her so much."

"Who?"