The Forest at the Edge of the World

Copyright © 2013 Patricia Strebel Mercer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distri
buted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual pe
rsons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13:
978-1481896368 

ISBN-10:1481896369
 

Contact author via website: forestedgebooks.com

Because my sisters Judy and Barbara

knew how to hold their tongues,

but usually wouldn’t.

MAPS

A pronunciation guide to some of the more

unusual names . . .

For background information on all character names and derivations, visit 
forestedgebooks.com/characters

Prologue ~ “Words for Weeds?”

“
S
o
. . . you really destroyed the world?”

The old woman kneeling in the pumpkin patch sat back on her heels and looked up at her accuser. The sunlight illuminated his wo
rried look, betraying his attempt at nonchalance.

The woman smirked. Thirteen-year-olds weren’t known for their subtlety. She tucked a wisp of gray hair behind her ear. “Not exactly.”

But the look in the boy’s eyes suggested he didn’t believe her. She’d seen this happen before, with other thirteen-year-olds. He was now ready for the knowledge, and for many moons he would struggle to regard her as he used to, because the old woman he thought he knew turned today into something much
more
. There had always been the stories, but today he heard
the
story.

The old woman noticed a movement behind the boy. His cousin was picking her way through the pumpkins, wearing the same an
xious-stunned look. She was thirteen too.

“Now I understand why you didn’t teach the lesson,” she said when she reached them. The girl warily eyed the small woman. “So, Muggah . . . is it all true?”

Muggah positioned herself more comfortably in the dirt—that was why she wore her brown cotton skirt and tunic—and put her hands on her hips. “Depends on who told the story this time.”

“We were told that you are—” the girl swallowed nervously b
efore continuing, “—the most dangerous woman in the world?”

Muggah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Let me guess: a
certain general
told you that?” Her voice dripped contempt.

The children nodded and, for the first time, began to relax.

“You know how he likes to weave a story,” she reminded them.

Finally the cousins smiled. Muggah was still as they reme
mbered her.

Sort of.

“I can give you the
real
story, the more
accurate
version.” She winked at them.

They grinned. “That’s what we were hoping,” the boy said, sounding relieved.

“Ah, but I have so much weeding to do.” Muggah sighed sadly. “So much work . . .”

The cousins exchanged a knowing glance, and then dropped to their knees. Their mothers had purposely sent them out in their work clothes.

“Words for weeds?” the girl asked.

Muggah nodded. “Words for weeds, Hycie. And Vid, it wasn’t
exactly
destroyed. The world’s still there, right?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, Muggah. Is it?”

She gestured to the garden. The children immediately started pulling unwanted vines and yellow flowers.

Muggah smiled and leaned back to let the sun beat down upon her. The afternoon was going to be easy, just as she expected.

“Now, we’ll begin with Oren, in the year 317. I always like to start with an end, because that’s the way to get a beginning . . .”