Excerpt from my New Novel

Fifth Century Ireland: A solitary woman lost her way in the shadowed wood, her heart a restless drum. “Where am I?” Her breath came in short gasps. She cast her gaze about, seeking the path she had abandoned. The musky breath of leaf-fall rose beneath her feet, warning of autumn night’s bitter chill. “Foolish one,” she muttered, voice low and bitter. “You should never have strayed from the road for those cursed mushrooms. I ought to be at the market by now. I am certain of it.”

The woman of worn appearance climbed a steep rise, where the trees—ancient and knowing—bent their boughs to murmur caution. All mortals knew the woods were no friend to those who walk alone, and many had vanished where the shadows grow deep.

From under the dusk of the great pines, her gaze held the last sigh of the fading sun. “O golden wheel of the sky, long have I harbored doubt of you gods. But now, with no hand to lift me, where else can I seek mercy? Would you be so kind to linger a while. For when your light dies this eve, then I shall not find my way.” And so it was, her own voice kept her company, soothing the emptiness of a soul often alone.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her middle. Threadbare and frayed, it clung to her like old sorrow. “None know of my journey upon this path. Should misfortune befall me, none shall seek me. So in moons yet to rise, they will find my bones scattered by wolves of the dark wood.” A chill surged through her. The forest cared not and seemed as silent and cold as the hearts she had known. She swallowed a rising lump and turned her thoughts aside.

 After a few paces, a sound, not born of forest nor creature, reached her ears. She halted, tilting her head to the hush. Low and forlorn, the wail of a child threaded through the trees.

“A child?” Within she wondered, What child would dare roam this dark wood? Perhaps a wily leprechaun weaves his mischief amid the trees. She paused. “No, it is indeed a child’s cry. Hurry. The wee one needs me!” A warmth surged through her blood, sudden and fierce. Swift as a falcon—an older falcon—slicing through the sky, she darted toward the mournful wail.

Soon, with ragged breath, the woman skirted a thicket’s edge. There her gaze fell upon a sight so sorrowful, it chilled her blood as if touched by winter’s hand.

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To what extent does the old Irish dialect in this novel affect your willingness to read it?

On a scale from 1 (hard) to 5 (easy), how easy was this excerpt to read?”

I’d also enjoy any additional feedback or suggestions. Thank you for being part of the creative process behind this story.