THE LEGEND OF SPARROW Paperback – New Release: 20 Mar 2017
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THE LEGEND OF SPARROW
The Legend of Sparrow Copyright © 2017 by Wendell G Sweet all rights reserved foreign and domestic.
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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
Parts of this novel are Copyright © 2009 and 2010 Wendell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission.
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In The Sunlight:The Book of Memories;
The old truck bounced and then bumped down off the road and into the yard. It slowed to a stop just beyond the porch. The motor popped and belched unevenly as an old man climbed down from the cab, smiled our way and then walked over closer to the porch. The truck continued to pop and idle choppily behind him.
“Miss,” he said. His eyes fell to Bear. “Fella,” He added. He took off his old fashioned hat, beat it against his leg to remove the dust, smoothed it out and then placed it back upon his head. He cleared his throat. “Dry,” he said.
“Could I offer you water,” I asked?
“Please… If you would be so kind.”
I left, but Bear stayed behind. On all fours. Body stiff. He wasn’t growling, but he wasn’t accepting either. Nothing had changed when I returned with a cold glass of water a few minutes later.
He drank the water down in one gulp. Wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his white button-down shirt and then thanked me.
He looked down at the ground. Kicked at a small stone he had found there. Checked the sun in the sky.
“What is it I can do for you,” I asked at last.
“This is a nice place,” he said in response. “Ingenious. Unbelievable. I wouldn’t have thought of it, Miss.” He met my eyes, reached into one pocket and pulled an envelope from it. He handed it to me. I was reluctant to take it, but after discovering no good reason not to I took it. “He sent it,” the old man added.
I looked at him.
“He,” he repeated
I flipped the envelope in my hands. ‘Laura’ in bold script on one side. Nothing else. I slipped the envelope into my back pocket and leveled my eyes on him. “What else,” I asked?
He shrugged. “I’m to wait for a response.” He scuffed the paint on the lower step that lead to the porch but made no move to climb the steps to the porch. He said nothing else.
I sighed inside, but I pulled the envelope from my pocket, levered one fingernail under the glued down flap, and ripped the top open. A small single sheet of lined notepaper resided inside. I had seen that paper before: Joe’s notebook. It was folded in half. I opened it. Joe’s close script graced the page.
I can’t come to you. I can’t explain it. The messenger is a dreamer I trust. I think you know him too. Whatever you do don’t leave there. I cannot promise how long I will be gone, but I can promise I will come for you just as soon as I can,
The old man cleared his throat, lifted his eyes from the ground and looked at me.
“You can take a message,” I asked him.
“I can,” he agreed.
“You know where he is?”
“Well, not exactly… I know where part of him is.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I cannot go to him. Where he really is, but I can dream to him.” He paused. “Write what you want to say on that paper. I can get that paper to him. That I can do. And I won’t read it either. I promise you that. Your man has a bit of a fight, alright.” He looked up at the sun in the sky. “I guess you both do. There are some of us who will help when we’re asked… When we can, Laura… Right now this is what I can help with. It’s what I got. You say what you got to say… Write it out and I’ll get it to him.” He nodded his head vigorously when he finished as if to assure himself.
I thought he had to have come from Joe. No other dreamer knew my name. No one knew where this place was. Maybe if he came himself he would be like that beacon he had talked about. I took the paper into the house, found a pen and scratched out a quick response. Re-folded the paper again, and took it back out to the old man.
“What do I call you,” I asked him as I handed him the small slip of paper. He slipped it into his front shirt pocket.
“Some call me Bear Killer,” the old man said slowly.
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