When I was younger, I remember radio shows featuring "A Chapter a Day" events where one chapter of a book was read aloud for about 15 minutes of air time. I loved those old serialized books .
In honor of the good ol' days, when it wasn't all about the almighty buck and how many people liked you on Facebook, I have decided to make one of my own novels free on my website.
http://lilysilver.webs.com/ The entire Novel will be free, and there will be two to three new posts a week until the novel is finished. If you wish to follow along on this journey, then please click the link and add my website to your browser. I will post the newest post at the top of the page each time for your convenience.
About the Book: The Gypsy's Curse is a book I began writing in 2010. It is nearly completed, but not quite. That's the beauty of it. Having readers tune in every week for a new excerpt is a motivation for me to finish the book. The story takes place in England during the Romantic Period of art and literature, about the same time as the Regency Period. It also takes place in the romantic Lake District area of England. Zara, a gypsy, has been cast out of her tribe as it is believed she bears the 'Devil's Mark'. She is half gypsy and half Gadje blood. She is taken in by a kind old widow and lives with her on her small farm. When the widow is murdered, Zara is the suspect, and she must flee for her life. She finds refuge in an old manor house that has been closed up for a few years. The owner is a widower racked by guilt over his wife's violent death. He is a werewolf, and believes he killed her. While Zara is hiding in the house, he decides to return to the place to confront his demons. At first he doesn't realize the woman appearing to him at night is a real person. He believes it's a ghost . . .
To get you started, here is the first excerpt of "The Gypsy's Curse" Copyright Lily Silver 2012 Prologue
The sheriff marched resolutely to the center of
town, hammer in hand, and the decree tucked under his arm. He stopped at
the billet post, dug into his coat pocket, and produced two thick
nails. He slipped them into his mouth, the blunt ends in, sharp points
hanging out, and pressed the decree against the wood board. The sound of
his hammering echoed about the village square as he posted the warrant
given him by the local magistrate.
Wanted for
questioning regarding recent murder in Lexford Woods: Young woman of
gypsy blood described as short, slim, with dark hair and bright green
eyes, of approximately a score in age. The gypsy is known to frequent
these parts with a local caravan, but has recently been traveling alone.
Distinguishing features include a scar on the left side of her face,
above the eye, and a fresh wound to the hand. The woman is armed, and
considered a prime suspect in the murder at the farm of Widow Kendall
and her visiting nephew, one Jasper Leeds of Hampsell Place.
Once finished, he marched straight toward The Griffin’s Lair for a shot
of whiskey. It might be an hour shy of noon, but he sorely needed a
shot of courage after the grisly scene he’d been called to this morning
at Widow Kendall’s farm. The bodies of the poor souls were still
swimming before his eyes, the jagged wounds, the slashed flesh and the
horrified open eyes.
Worse for it, the stench of their
gore stuck in his nostrils. Even with a sound washing with plenty of lye
soap, he doubted he’d be able to escape that putrid smell of human
innards split wide open like a gutted deer for weeks to come.
Wanted for questioning!
Ha, that was a bunch of rancid tripe on the part of the magistrate. All
that fancy talk of evidence, motive and guilt verses innocence was fine
and good for a man like Magistrate Collins, who sat behind a desk all
day and didn’t have to hunt down a vicious killer himself. When face to
face with evil a man didn’t argue with the devil, he took action and
saved the lives of those who depended upon him.
If
he caught the little whore she’d wish she’d never been born. Question
her about what, for pity’s sake? Why she’d mutilated two God fearing
souls in the middle of the night. He shook his head. The world had
worked just fine without these intelligent blokes always throwing a cog
in the works and bringing everything to a dead halt with their grand
talk of rights and habitual corpses! Oh, she’d hang for sure when they
found the bitch. He’d hang her on sight and send a message to all her
kind to stay away, for good.
Chapter One
The Lake District, England, 1816
The Devil’s Mark! That
was their excuse. That was the reason she’d been thrust out into the
world of the Gadje, coldly cast out of her tribe and exiled from the
family she’d known and loved.
Zara trudged on through
the woods. She pulled the woolen shawl tight about her shoulders, and
pushed on. Her progress was slow as she was walking into the wind. She
was tired and hungry. She’d spent last night in a cave, without a fire,
lest the townspeople see the flame and discover her hiding place. The
cave had been damp and cold. She finished the last of the bread and
cheese she’d taken from the Widow’s kitchen before setting out on her
long trek to parts unknown.
It was late autumn. Snow
would soon be dusting the woods. The small streams and creek beds would
freeze over. The rivers would remain a source of water throughout the
winter, but most rivers were surrounded by towns and farmsteads. As a
child of nature, she knew she must find shelter soon or she might die
from exposure to the harsh winter nights. Lothar taught her how to track
animals and trap game from the time she was able to walk. Her uncle had
unwittingly given her the tools to survive without being dependent on
another. Thank the fates for Lothar and his practical, pragmatic nature.
He gave her knowledge to the woods and the creatures that inhabited it
that most girls of her tribe would envy. He took her with him on his
forays into the bush to trap dinner, when other girls were kept close to
the fire to learn other skills from their mother’s knees. But winter’s
harsh pall left even the best trappers in her tribe with empty pouches
when they returned to camp. That was why the caravan traveled south for
the winter months.
A deer had come across her path at
dawn, when she was filling her cask with water at the icy stream, but
Zara had no weapon with which to bring down such a fortuitous bounty
presented to her from the wood spirit. She had no gun and no bow and
arrow. Just a knife, a large hunting knife Lothar had given her when she
was ten years old. Even if she had such weapons, she didn’t think she
would have been able to fell the gentle eyed doe. Like her, the animal
was alone in a world full of hunters, alone and without hale companions
or the protection of a great horned mate.
She stopped
for a moment to recover her breath and examine her hand. Her fingers
were numb from the cold. The bandage was stiff, almost frozen to the
scored flesh. At least the cold weather had offered her some assistance.
The outer bandage was dried from the cold; there would be no fresh
flowing blood to give the hunter’s hounds a trail to follow.
As if in protest to her hard won peace of mind, deep baying echoed the
distance behind her. Zara smashed her lips together and hurried up the
steep hill, as uncertain of her destination as she was of her present
bearings. She returned to the woods two nights past, after awakening in
the farm house to find the widow and her reprehensible nephew dead
beside her. She had no memory of what happened. She’d awakened on the
floor of the parlor just before dawn, with Lothar’s knife in her
dominate hand, and the painful gash splitting the palm of her other
hand.
Zara knew she’d be blamed for the murders,
regardless of the mysterious circumstances, simply because of her
origin. A gypsy, even a half blood gypsy was always blamed for any
misfortune that fell on the people nearby. If a pig or goat went
missing, a horse took ill or a barn burnt to the ground, it was always
the gypsies, so the Gadje claimed.
Some villages were
better than others, more accepting of their visits. They were tolerated
and allowed to trade with the town for a week or driven on without even
being allowed to rest their horses by angry Gadje men with guns. Each
time they set up camp in a new place, the men of her band made wagers
amongst themselves as to how long it would be before the Gadje showed up
with guns and pitchforks, demanding that they move on to the next town.
It was her misfortune to be banished when her tribe was traveling
through a hostile region instead of a more tolerant one.
As she crested the rise of the steep hill, Zara leaned against a stark,
majestic oak to recover. There was a sharp stitch in her side. The
silver steam of her rapid breath wreathed about her in the cold air. She
was so tired. Her chest ached and she feared she might be courting the
dreaded lung sickness after spending two nights out in the cold, damp
November woods with no fire and no shelter. She’d walked hard for days,
trying to put as much distance between herself and the Kendall Farm as
she could. She didn’t dare stop to rest until she found a shelter, as
she feared if she stopped too long, she would not have the will to get
back up and keep going. An abandoned barn or cottage would see her
through until spring. By then, perhaps the locals would have forgotten
she had resided with the Widow Kendall for a time and she would no
longer be hunted like an animal by the people of the town. In the
spring, when the snow melted, she’d head south and try to find a caravan
traveling northern to take her in. It seemed a good plan, to her
fevered mind, and she scanned the valley below for a possible refuge.
The landscape below was very beautiful. In spring and summer, it would
be a veritable paradise. It would be a wonderful place for the caravan
to make camp, and perhaps stay for longer than a week or two. A
picturesque lake was banked by tall willow trees. The lake skirted a
fenced in pasture. A deep longing burgeoned forth unbidden.
This would be a delightful place to live, in a small cottage near the lake, nestled between the two hills, a cozy place---Zara
gasped. She covered her mouth and made the sign with her dominant hand
to ward off the evil eye. She was alone, but still, it wasn’t good to
let her Gadje blood rise to the fore. And settling in one place, setting
down roots was foreign to her mother’s people, it was his father’s
influence, his taint in her blood that made her yearn for such wanton
things.
She turned her mind back to the task before her,
finding shelter before nightfall. There had to be a farm nearby or some
estate, if there was grazing land below. She studied the beguiling
landscape. Not one building. She squinted, and placed her hand over her
eyes. Perhaps, just past that stand of trees on the opposite end of the
valley . . .?
The sun was lowering in the sky. It would be dark within hours.
The Gypsy's Curse: copyright Lily Silver 2012
To continue the story, click the link here to go to my website;
lilysilver.webs.com/ and if the free reads page does not come up immediately click on that tab.
