Thus and so, I write in purple ink on oat parchment paper this new tale of Jo Bree, the Carven Flute. We dwell in the boundary hedge on the edge of the Woeful Wanderers’ Wasteland by the Boad, all Fidd and Leee Combined, where I, Bekka of Thorns, have earned the title of Chronicler. In the language from the world down the Well -perhaps yours? we are bramble dwarves. Once Upon A Time stories are the most important of the bendo dreen tales. Gwer drollek is how we bendo dreen say Once Upon A Time. Many were the mornings I listened content to the Gwer drollek story of the Carven Flute. If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by Wild Child The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. ‘One year to prepare another potion, and I, too, will join you, my darlings,’ she mouthed silently.The Carven Flute Copyright © 2011 by Steve ShilstoneĬover illustration by Wild Child Publishing © 2011įor information on the cover art, please contact Posh Gosh.Īll rights reserved. Her eyes glistened, but she smiled and nodded yes. She reached down, scooped up sand and allowed it to filter through her fingers. Later that afternoon, the grandmother stood on the spot where the tree had appeared. She stood, approached the tree, and disappeared in laughter. ‘Come to me, precious jewel’ was a whisper softly sounding in Ambelinda’s ears. Shimmering into existence right in front of her was a tall thin white tree with long rusty fringes of hair hanging from its branches. As noon approached, Ambelinda sharpened her focus, darting glances up and down the beach. Her mind wandered here and there and back. She crossed her legs at the ankles and swung them in a steady rhythm. For her grandmother was wonderful, magical, enchanting, and she had raised Ambelinda with loving care ever since the terrible incident.Īmbelinda sat on the bench, looked out across the lake and ate her peanut butter and honey sandwich.

‘And then watch closely,’ her grandmother told her.Īmbelinda followed her grandmother’s instructions without hesitation. Wait there until noon,’ her grandmother told her.

‘Sit on our favorite bench,’ her grandmother told her. ‘Go to the beach,’ her grandmother told her.

The Carven Flute by Steve Shilstone