‘The Living Fiddle’: Read a free sample of Sarah’s new novel!

[a retelling of one of Grimms’ fairy tales]

Our eldest, Sarah, is a professional editor and writer who in her spare time has written three books. Her first, Eyes of the Night Sky, is a collection of short stories; the other two, The Power in the Snow and now The Living Fiddle, are fantasy novels. In a past life I did book design for a Simon & Schuster imprint, and I’ve designed and published them for her via Kindle Direct Publishing. A friend of Sarah’s, Keelin Kelly, did cover art for the two novels. For title design, I chose lovely, distinctive typefaces by Swedish designer Måns Grebäck.

Sarah’s latest, The Living Fiddle, is an inspired retelling of the Grimms’ fairy tale “Sweetheart Roland.” Here’s the back-cover blurb:

Christina’s happy childhood world is swept away when a pair of witches attack her family and take her captive. When unexpected help comes from a young man named Roland with a magic fiddle, Christina bends her own mysterious gifts toward a bid for freedom—but the witches won’t let her go easily! Inspired by the Grimms’ fairy tale “Sweetheart Roland,” The Living Fiddle blends magic, memory, and love in a thrilling tale about a young heroine discovering her power, facing her fears, and finding her place in the world.

As a writer myself, it’s exciting to me to watch Sarah’s craft grow with each new work (her fourth novel is underway, and looks to be her most impressive yet). Inspired by her efforts, I put more into the design of this book, and I think it looks pretty terrific.

All three books are available in paperback. The Power in the Snow is available via Kindle, and the Kindle edition of The Living Fiddle is coming. Amazon will currently let you read the first six pages of The Living Fiddle, plus the afterword. I’ll give you a slightly fuller preview of the text here, plus a glimpse of the design!

If you go inland from where the Whitewater River meets the sea, for a week or so’s good march, and from there make a sharp turn to the south, you’ll come to the Knotwood, so named because its branches and vines and paths run in such a wild mess of knots that only creatures just as wild can or would live there. And if you make straight for the deep, lost heart of the wood—though I don’t advise you to do so—you are likely to find the barren, wasted spot where a walled-in cottage once stood. There lived Gulka, the witch, and Gulkunda, her monstrous daughter, and Christina, the girl they took from the shores of Catseye Lake.

Nothing about Christina’s life before that was so strange or startling. She was born and raised on a little farm by the lake, where her parents had settled shortly after they were married. They were close enough to the nearest village to go there for church or market or festivals, but generally they kept to themselves. They liked the quiet, all three of them.

Christina was born in harvest-time, and as she grew, the autumn seemed to stay in her, in her hazel eyes, her brown hair touched with red, and her quick, lively ways. As her father said, “The way those little limbs fly about, she’s a young tree dancing in her own wind.”

“A pity you weren’t born to an estate,” his wife teased him. “You might have made yourself fame and fortune as a poet, if you had nothing else to do.”

“That might be all right, if you were born to the nearest neighbor’s estate,” he laughed back.

For Christina, their home was not only an estate but the whole world. There were little animals and birds to watch in the fields, trees and boulders to climb, flowers to gather, pebbles to skip across the lake’s shallows. Sometimes, when her father fished, he would row her out to the long, narrow rock that made the “cat’s eye” of the lake, where she would stand up as tall as she could and shout, “I’m the queen of the waters!”

As she grew, she found there was more she could do. She fed the hens and gathered their eggs, milked the cow, watched each tiny green sprout rise in her parents’ furrows, and eagerly joined in protecting and nurturing them. To an onlooker, it might have seemed a dull life; to Christina, each new season meant new discoveries. Never was it the same from year to year. There was so much to see and to learn.

For one so eager to learn, lessons were never lacking. Her mother had much to show her: cooking and baking; spinning, weaving, and dyeing; helping animals be born; preparing simple medicines. Christina listened attentively, wondering how her mother did everything so easily and—she thought—perfectly; but what she liked best, and learned quickest, was anything to do with making things live or grow. Planting and tending the seedlings, looking after young animals, healing hurts and illnesses, all were her delight and soon her realms of greatest skill. “It’s magic!” Christina exclaimed one day, seeing how quickly a poultice they had made healed a wounded sheep.

“You might say that.” Her mother smiled. “A plain kind of magic that’s not so hard to find, if you know a little.”

But Christina’s favorite kind of magic was that which came in the evenings, after the three of them had prayed together, when she settled in her father’s lap by the hearth and he told stories—stories of dragons, elves, goblins, enchanters, heroes and the adventures that befell them. His face lit up, his voice took on strange tones, and Christina thrilled with the feeling that things far away were coming to life.

One night, though, when the adventure felt just a little too real, she looked soberly at her father and asked, “If a dragon came after us, what would we do?”

“Oh, perhaps hide in the lake,” he replied lightly, with a shrug. But Christina didn’t laugh, and he saw the troubled look in her face. His own face changed, and he said gently, “I’m sorry, little one. Don’t worry yourself. Most people go all their lives without ever seeing a dragon or any monster.”

Christina pressed against him and stared into the fireplace. Usually those flames were comforting, but tonight they felt like a window into another world, strange and horrifying. “It could still come, though.”

For a time her father held her and said nothing. Just as she was wondering if he would ever answer, he said, “There are dark things in this world we live in. But it’s also a world full of beauty, and light, and joy—a world where it’s a great gift to be alive. And no matter what the dark things do, they can never overcome the light and beauty of the world.” Christina looked up at her father’s face, and he smiled and added, “And do you know? No darkness can ever take the light away from you.”

Now Christina smiled back, and they had a longer talk that I have not been permitted to set down.

It was not a dragon that would break the peaceful contentment of that home. When the day came, Christina was no longer small; she was in her blossoming years, between fifteen and sixteen, when childhood fears seemed to have faded into laughter. What dangers were left, mostly from wolves that might try to prey on the sheep, were known and could, with proper care, be shut out.

It was a spring morning, with strong winds blowing over the lake and the fields, and heavy gray clouds piling up in the sky. Christina was coming from the henhouse, a basket of eggs in hand. She was singing, as she often did, for she had many favorite songs; the dreary sky didn’t trouble her a bit.

Open the doors, for the dawn’s come anew,
Time for the rising of wings,
Open and loose them who long for the blue,
How far their high music rings!

She broke off as she came near the cottage door, surprised to see that it was already open. Just beyond it, her father was helping a strange man take off his cloak, and her mother was asking, “May I bring you some soup? The pot’s over the fire still.”

From the doorway Christina studied the stranger. She had seen many kinds of travelers over the years—merchants, farmers, minstrels, warriors, now and then a lord—but this man was different. She couldn’t place him. His brown robe and cloak were simple and rough, but well made and in good condition. His long, unkempt hair and beard were varying shades of dark gray. He wore no hat, though his cloak had a hood. In one hand he carried a stick that looked too thin and too short to be a walking stick, with a little knob on one end, and strange, intricate symbols and patterns carved all over.

“Thank you, madam,” the stranger said, a deep, gravelly voice that sounded slightly out of breath. “My thanks to you both. If I may stay only long enough to recover some strength, I will be much in your debt. A moment longer would risk bringing my peril on you.”

Christina gave a short gasp. The stranger turned sharply, a wild light in his eyes like some hunted animal. Her mother noticed her too, and took the basket of eggs. “Oh, thank you, Christina.” Nodding toward the stranger, she went on, “This man needs a rest for a little while. Would you run and cut us some bread to put in his soup?”

With a quiet “Yes, Mother,” and a final curious glance at the strange man, Christina made her way over to the small back room that served as a pantry. She had no trouble finding the bread that she and her mother had just baked, but finding the knife to cut it proved more difficult. She could not remember who had last used it nor where it might have been put, and scoured all through the pantry shelves and the hooks on the wall.

All the while, she could hear that her parents were talking with the visitor; but as they were speaking in low voices and the wind was rushing so mightily, she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Only once did she hear her father, in a louder voice, exclaim, “And all on account of this thing?” What could be the peril that had the man so anxious, and why was he worried about bringing it on her family?

At last Christina discovered the bread knife, which had fallen behind a little table in the corner. Quickly she wiped it clean, cut a slice from the bread, and hurried out to give it to the guest.

Yet even as she entered the room, the man jerked to his feet, eyes wide with dismay, as if he had heard some distant sound. A bowl of soup was still in his hand. “I had not known they were so near,” he said under his breath. “I should not have come. Forgive me. I must fly, now.”

Christina’s mother tried to say something, but the stranger paid no attention. Swift as the wind he set down the bowl, snatched up his odd stick, and rushed out. Christina ran to the door, only just in time to see him vanishing amid the trees and grass, as if he rode the wind itself.

Slowly she closed the door, shutting out the gusts. “Who was he? What was the matter with him … do you know?”

“He told us very little about himself,” her father answered. “Only that he was fleeing powerful enemies, who wanted that stick of his—it’s some sort of talisman.” He stared at the door wonderingly and added, “It must be a mighty one indeed, if they’re taking such great trouble to get it.”

Briefly silence fell again, a silence that felt thick and heavy. Then Christina’s mother shook her head and took away the bowl with its half-eaten soup. “Come now, those new furrows won’t sow themselves. Better hurry before it rains.”

So they all tried to shake off the strange interruption in their morning. Christina put back the knife and the bread and followed her parents outside. For a time they carried on with their chores as usual, despite the ominous weather bearing down on them. Yet it was not only clouds that hung heavily over them. Since the stranger’s going, each of them felt oddly uneasy, as if some troubling riddle had been left unanswered.

The wind blew ever wilder and fiercer, until there was no more to be done. They could only gather in the animals before the rain began, which looked likely to be any moment. Christina went to bring in the sheep, spread out over a wide pasture. She was far off on a low hill, wading through weeds after a lamb that was her special favorite, when she became aware of a feeling that had been growing in her like a swelling pain—a feeling of the deepest dread. Without knowing how, she knew that something terrible as nightmare was close by.

In a panic, she left the sheep and ran for all she was worth back toward the cottage. The feeling kept growing with each step. Perhaps she could reach her parents in time. Perhaps they could run and hide … from whatever it might be.

As Christina ran between the planted furrows, she heard noises coming from the house—a terrible crashing, voices, and what sounded like two bursts of thunder. Were there lights inside? She couldn’t tell through the curtains. She came past the barn, around the corner toward the door. At the same time, a wave of darkness broke over her, and she knew nothing more.

What her father had told her was true. Most people go all their lives without meeting such terrors as the stories describe. But after that day, it would be a long time before Christina’s life was like that of most people.

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