The Seventh Day (33 page)

I am never alone, and how joyfully Jonjan and I live. He can make his vehicle fly, and I fly with him, for we have become the new searchers, and there is much to find. Each season we discover new growth in the Morgan garden, and far down the mountain we have found evidence of Pa's town, which is rubble, with a chimney here and there, but many strange plants growing over them. Carefully we dig the immature plants from the earth and plant them in our valley or in the next.

We have flown over land once claimed by blacrap. It only survives in small patches now, and in our own rock-walled enclosure; my people find it a useful thing when controlled. During harvesting, we spread a roof across the enclosure and, without light, the black weed's hands fold over and wrap its head as if it sleeps. It does not spit. Many eat the fruit of it, which is removed by slashing the head of the weed, that to me is more like a fat belly, full of its young. I will not eat the black melon-shaped things, though it is said they are strangely sweet.

The juice from the head and pulpy hands is of immense value. When boiled it gives a thick scum of wax which we use for lights and other things; its long fibres we weave with flax or wool from the sheep. The residue from the boiling of the weed's leaf is not wasted; it makes an adhesive, necessary in the construction of the large nets strung high from the trees. Many hands are working now on new nets; we hope to roof the valley of the sheep, then settle it – when the central trees grow tall enough. I had wondered at this practice until Jonjan and I flew over the woven sky and through it saw no sigh of habitation, no garden valley.

My work here is with the children, with the teaching of reading and writing skills. There was much to be done before we could make a beginning to it, for we had little paper and no pens. There is much paper now, and pens, and we have fine ink made from soot and the blacrap weed, as with the ink for my printing machine.

I read daily to the children, so they will come to understand the magic of words and thus want to make their own. I read from Aaron Morgan's journal, from the Book of Moni and even from the ancients' Bible. This morning I read the page which tells how God created woman from the rib of man. How the children laughed at these words.

‘So, tell me what is written on this subject in the Book of Moni?' I asked.

‘That man tried to improve on nature and he failed.' Such a chorus of voices. So many come now to learn, the small and the tall.

‘And in our valley, how do we create both man and woman?'

‘In love, and in equality,' they chorused, then a lone voice added: ‘In the bed.' It was one of Sern's large-eyed boys, who are all full of talk.

‘Roden, imp of the long tongue, you may show us your skill and write your words for me,' I said to him. And he did, with more ease than I may have written them at his age: In bed, in lov and in eek wallaty.

What fine words are these. What a fine world is this, my home – and too long missed. What fine people are these, my people, and lost to me too long.

Seated on Granny's rocking chair at the mouth of my cave, my fingers content in mixing colours for my painting, I watch the late sun push aside a rain cloud.

And Lord, how very pleased is God with our ways, for He has taken to His sky with His own paintbrush and made a great arc across it, in greens and pinks, in golds and violet hues.

Such beauty!

I call to my Honey Dew, who is playing with her brothers nearby, and she runs swiftly to tell the others of this sight. They come then, one by one, two by two, both adult and child, and they walk into the end of day to look with awe upon God's art work.

My brush catches them thus, sheltered beneath the work of His hand.

I think this will be my finest painting when it is done.

(Excerpt from the New World Bible)

In the city there was much warring and great calamity and for seven years only the black weed in the fields and the rats in the cesspits thrived.

 

Then it came to pass that the sun left the sky, and for forty days rain come forth from the black heavens and it flooded all of the earth and the fields and the cesspits and it washed them clean.

 

And in the fields outside of the city the black Godsent weed rotted and its stench was vile.

 

Then the great winds blew wild. And they swept in from the oceans and they cleansed the stench from all of the earth.

 

And the sun returned and it warmed the earth. And over all of the graveyards of all of the known world the dandelion spread its golden carpet of life.

 

And it came to pass that a strange cloud was seen in the northern sky. And it was such as man had not seen before, for it was neither black nor grey, nor white, but of the purest gold.

 

And it moved slowly until it covered up the sun.

 

And there were those who bowed down before it, and those who hid their faces from it. And there were those who wept, for there had been too much death and destruction in this place.

 

Then a wide gash opened in the cloud and through it God's face appeared. And he yawned widely. Then he said unto the gathering: ‘Ah. It is the eighth day. So, what have you learned while I have been resting, my children?

Joy Dettman

Mallawindy

Ann Burton was born on a river bank the night her father tried to burn their house down.

 

Six years later her sister Liza disappears while they are staying at their uncle's property. What Ann sees that day robs her of her memory and her speech.

 

A stroke of unexpected humanity releases Ann from her world of silence, and she escapes her anguished childhood, finding love and a new life away from Mallawindy.

 

But there is no escape from the Burton family and its dark secrets. Ann must return to Mallawindy and confront the past if she is ever to be set free.

 

‘We ride the crests and troughs of the Burtons' 30-year history with open mouths and saucer eyes . . . Dettman is an adept storyteller'

THE AGE

 

‘A highly competent and confident debut novel'

SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

 

‘A compelling story, well told . . . it holds promise of further enthralling fiction from its author'

CANBERRA TIMES

 

‘A stunning debut; a rich and engrossing read; a tale of page-turning suspense and mystery; a postmortem of family ties; all this and more,
Mallawindy
will grab you hook, line and sinker'

QUEENSLAND TIMES

Joy Dettman

Jacaranda Blue

From the best-selling author of
Mallawindy
comes a tale of dark secrets, shameful lies and unexpected salvation.

 

For forty-four years Stella Templeton has been a dutiful daughter and a good citizen, living in Maidenville, population 2,800, a town where nothing happens. Until one hot summer afternoon . . .

 

An ugly act has lifted the respectable skirts of Maidenville and mystery starts to surround the daughter of the local minister. Then the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old boy adds to the neighbourhood's confusion. Does something sinister lurk behind the neatly trimmed hedges and white picket fences that divide this sleepy town?

 

No one comes close to knowing the horrifying truth – but after forty-four years of self denial and duty, Stella Templeton is finally beginning to blossom.

Joy Dettman

Goose Girl

Sally De Rooze is almost thirty. She has survived the accident that killed her father and brothers. Her mother never forgave her for that. But she survived her mother too. Surviving is what she does best.

 

Farmer Ross Bertram, who offers her his acres and safety, is the answer for a while. Until he starts pushing for a wedding. Sally wants . . . wants more. Wants to know great love. Wants to find herself. One year. That's what she wants. One year of freedom in the big, bad city.

 

Her survival skills are tested in the urban sprawl and she discovers more about herself than she had ever dared to imagine.

 

From the bestselling author of
Mallawindy
and
Jacaranda Blue
, comes a moving story about being set free.

 

‘ . . . a can't-put-it down story'

NW

 

‘
Goose Girl
is not just a story to read about – it's one to think about'

THE EXAMINER

 

‘Dettman knows how to tell a story'

THE SUNDAY AGE

Joy Dettman

Yesterday's Dust

The eagerly awaited sequel to the bestselling
Mallawindy
.

 

Yesterday's Dust
continues the story of how even those who escape Mallawindy have to fight to escape its dark legacy.

 

In the 1990s, the Burtons are surviving as best they can, but Jack Burton continues to control his fractured family even in his absence. John has returned to Mallawindy unable to forgive his father and haunted by vengeful thoughts. Ann has three young sons and is soon to have another child, but still grieves for her firstborn daughter, Mandy.

 

When the river disgorges what appears to be Jack's body, the family's tumultuous history is stirred up again. Ann must confront the terrible day of Liza's disappearance once and for all, and discover the truth about her father's fate.

 

‘At the heart of this absorbing tale – the sequel to
Mallawindy – is the writer's ability to interweave the
country-town propensity for rumour and allegation into a gothic narrative . . .
Yesterday's Dust
lightened by its pinpoint descriptions of people and places, as well as the occasional touch of humour, some of it with a country flavour and some delightfully black'

AUSTRALIAN BOOKSELLER
&
PUBLISHER

 

‘Is there such a thing as winter beach reading? If so, Joy Dettman's
Yesterday's Dust
fits the bill nicely . . . an easy, entertaining read by an author who's well in tune with her subject and audience'

THE WEEKEND AUSTRALIAN

Juliet Marillier

Child of the Prophecy

BOOK THREE OF THE SEVENWATERS TRILOGY

A freezing terror ran through me. It was not just that I had done the unforgivable. It was something far worse. Had not I just proved my grandmother right? She had told me I bore the blood of a cursed line, a line of sorcerers and outcasts. It seemed I could not fight that; it would manifest itself as it chose. Were not my steps set inevitably towards darkness? I turned and fled in silence.

 

Raised in an isolated cove in Kerry, the young sorceress Fainne has been sent to live at Sevenwaters and burdened with a terrible task. She must use whatever powers she can to prevent the Fair Folk winning back the Islands, no matter what the cost. Even if it means denying herself the one she loves.

 

But can Fainne turn her back on the family for whom she has come to care? And, more importantly, can she bring herself to rid the world of the chosen one . . . the child of the prophecy?

 

‘A rich tapestry of love and loss, family loyalty and personal sacrifice . . . Marillier's strong voice and rolling, lucid prose seem appropriate for a 10th century Irish tale, and her command of a fantasy story's elements make this an excellent conclusion to a fine trilogy'

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

 

‘an utterly absorbing, satisfying end to the trilogy, and perhaps the best novel of the three'

THE HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW

Cecilia Dart-Thornton

The Lady of the Sorrows

BOOK TWO OF THE BITTERBYNDE TRILOGY

Though Imrhien's memory is clouded by sorcery, she must take vital news to the King-Emperor of Caermelor. She hopes that there she may also find Thorn, the fearless ranger who has won her heart.

 

Since no commoner may approach the royal court, Imrhien assumes a new identity as Rohain, a noble visitor from the distant Sorrow Isles. She soon discovers that the King and his rangers have departed to battle the unseelie hordes which have suddenly declared war against mortals.

 

Attacks by nightmare monsters of the Wild Hunt, led by the unseelie Lord Huon, grow ever more frequent and brutal. And when evil forces lay siege to the royal sanctuary on a hidden mystic island, Rohain is confronted with a horrifying discovery.

 

To protect those she loves, the Lady of the Sorrows must undertake a desperate quest to discover who she is and why an unhuman evil would wreak such destruction. But the truth of Rohain's past will prove more incredible – and far more tragic – than any she could possibly have imagined.

 

‘Not since Tolkien's
The Fellowship of the Ring
. . . have I been so impressed by a beautifully spun fantasy'

ANDRE NORTON
,
GRAND MASTER OF SCIENCE FICTION

 

‘a narrative tapestry that is richly imagined and teeming with enchanted beings, a
Goblin Market
meets
Lord of the Rings
'

SUNDAY AGE

Beverley Harper

Jackal's Dance

Agony exploded in her knee. She staggered, tried to keep going, then nearly fell as a shocking pain rushed up her leg. Confusion and fear swamped her senses, escape suddenly essential. The tuskless cow turned and hobbled away, each step agonising torture. Her front right knee joint had been shattered by the single copper-jacketed bullet.

 

Man, her hated enemy, had just handed out a death sentence.

 

As the rangers and staff of a luxurious lodge in Etosha National Park, Namibia, welcome the last guests of the season, thoughts are predominantly on the three-month break ahead. Except for Sean, who is fighting his growing attraction for the manager's wife, Thea.

 

Camping in the park nearby, Professor Eben Kruger has his work cut out keeping the attention of the university students in his charge on the behavioural habits of the cunning jackal.

 

None of them could ever be prepared for the horrendous events about to take place. Each will be pushed to breaking point as the quest for survival becomes the only thing that matters.

 

Shocking, gripping, breathtaking.

 

‘Because her novels are set in Africa, Australian writer Beverley Harper has been labelled our answer to Wilbur Smith . . . the fact is that Harper is a considerably better writer.
Jackal's Dance
is her most accomplished work'

GOLD COAST BULLETIN

 

‘ . . . very credibly written, gripping, exciting and obviously well-researched'

MARIE CLAIRE

Isolde Martyn

The Silver Bride

England 1483. It seems the Wars of the Roses are not yet over. Only the powerful rule of Edward IV prevents old enmities from tumbling the kingdom into civil strife. In Wales, Sir Miles Rushden, adviser to Harry, Duke of Buckingham, awaits the chance to thrust his friend towards the crown. And in the north, Richard, Duke of Gloucester is becoming increasingly isolated from the growing intrigue in the south.

 

But the threat to Miles's ambitions, when it comes, is from a completely unexpected source. A land dispute sees him forced into a marriage at sword-point with Heloise, a girl whose clairvoyancy terrifies people. He thinks himself rid of her but Heloise seeks out her reluctant husband after being cruelly cast out by her father. Miles must tread carefully as his unwanted wife is a former maid of honour in Gloucester's household and has powerful allies.

 

With the sudden death of the king, Miles and Heloise find themselves at the heart of a power struggle as the mighty dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham manoeuvre ruthlessly to seize the crown. In a conspiracy that could have a lethal ending, can loyalty, that most elusive, fragile cornerstone of love, prevail?

Jacqueline Carey

Kushiel's Dart

She will sell me to this cruel old woman, I thought, and experienced a thrill of terror. My mother stood with my hand in hers and gazed down at my upturned face. It is my last memory of her, those great, dark, lambent eyes searching my own, coming at last to rest upon the left. Through our joined hands, I felt the shudder she repressed.

Such a small thing on which to hinge such a fate. Nothing more than a mote, a fleck, a mere speck of colour. If it had been any other hue, perhaps, it would have been a very different story. My eyes, when they had settled, were that colour the poets call bistre, a deep and lustrous darkness, like a forest pool under the shade of the ancient oaks. Bistre, then, rich and liquid-dark, save for the left eye, where in the iris that ringed the black pupil, a fleck of colour shone. Thus did I enter the world, with an ill-luck name and a pinprick of living blood emblazoned in my gaze.

‘Take her, then.' Letting go my hand, she shoved me violently. I turned my head at the last for one final glimpse of my mother, but her face was averted, shoulders shaking with soundless tears. I had entered a different world.

Is it any wonder, then, that I became what I did? Delaunay maintains that it was ever my destiny, and perhaps he is right, but this I know is true: When Love cast me out, it was Cruelty who took pity upon me.

Dianne Blacklock

Call Waiting

Ally Tasker is trapped in a dead end teaching job and a relationship that's going nowhere. Her dreams of a fulfilling life after art college didn't include cleaning up after bored school children and being a doormat for her yuppie boyfriend. What she really wants is to be more like her friend Meg – at least she has turned her art training into a lucrative job in computer design, not to mention having a doting husband and a gorgeous baby son to complete the package.

 

But when Ally's grandfather and sole relative dies, she returns to the Southern Highland home of her childhood where she must confront painful issues from her past that her safe life in the city has allowed her to ignore. Meanwhile Meg is not as happy as Ally imagines. Dissatisfied with the pretty picture her world projects, a restless Meg longs to inject more passion and spontaneity into her life – but at what cost to her family's happiness?

 

Sometimes you have to risk all you have to realise what is worth saving.

 

‘Full of genuine warmth and gentle humour . . . the perfect example of utterly relaxing escapism'

CATHY KELLY