Far Away And Over The Hills Novels & Stories

Doesn't matter anymore. And I turned off my senses as I drifted far away. And from the distance I could hear a distinct howl...

He chuckled inside my mind. "Don't worry...we're near," he said. My grip on his black fur got tighter and tighter and when he stopped at the top of a hill, I couldn't stop being amazed. From here on the top of the hill, I can see the nearby plains, and at the end are the mountains that protect the kingdom of Agama. And from here I can see the orange sky and the sun that is about to bid goodbye to the sky. "H-How'd you know this place?" I exclaimed in amazement.

Over me comes a rush - no speech, only images, textures. From up high, the mountain appears again and again, across many cold seasons and hot ones. Above its ridges, the Hill Folk make their lives blend with the land. A glowing strand links the Heart to everyone - villagers, creatures, even bark and roots. That line pulls tighter when folks begin walking toward the southern edge. Now the glow along the strand fades, nearly gone. Torn at the edges. From here, I spot the filament linked - somehow - to myself. Just a small flare, a speck of brightness tied off. Distance stretches between us. This bond barely holds.

Amid the crisp sound of glasses colliding, I took a sip of the cold beer. The chill slid down my throat, but somehow, it warmed my heart. The road ahead was long, yet there was no reason to look back. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, an open wilderness was still waiting for me.

They were calling. And somewhere beyond the lake, beyond the mountains....Someone was listening.

Slow, even movements will also be less noticeable than fast, jerky ones, I remind myself. I’m lying in a field of tall grass and stringy weeds, which help conceal me at least a little. Scattered saplings and clumps of low shrubs dot the field, which stretches back from the cliff for a couple of hundred yards. Beyond that, tall, thickly wooded hills rise up to meet the sky. The bright blue canopy is painted with high, wispy cirrus clouds—“horsetails,” we call them back home because of the way they look. The silence is unsettling. Other than the muted pounding of the waves onto the beach far below, I hear nothing. I suppose that’s better than hearing growls and screeches.

The hills beneath her. The wind around her. And forward still ahead.

Hard. And the marshes, and home, felt farther away than ever.

So I watch as the cityscape gradually fades into the background, replaced by rolling hills and open fields stretching endlessly towards the horizon. As we continue along the winding road, I notice subtle changes in the terrain as well. The ground beneath us gently rises, undulating like a living creature, and I feel a tinge of excitement building within me. The scenery transforms, almost magically, before my eyes, the hills giving way to majestic mountains in the distance. Their peaks are shrouded in a soft mist, lending an air of mystery and allure.