Today, I host a young, budding author whose work resonates with my heart. I, too, share an interest in the biblical book, Song of Solomon, and am fascinated that she's chosen to tackle this project. God's best to you, Stephanie, in this writing venture!
Here's what Stephanie says about the story:
"Kedar’s
Tower, a fantasy retelling of the book of Song of Solomon, is a work in progress by budding author, Stephanie Kehr. The novel seeks
to explain the metaphors in Song of Solomon through story, and provide
readers with a better understanding of this often misunderstood book of
the Bible. The manuscript has been a work in progress for the past
couple of years. It was inspired by some of my own battles with fear and
how God set me free from them. I hope that readers of Kedar’s Tower are
encouraged to seek freedom from bondage and to take a second look at
Song of Solomon — because it’s such an incredible message from God!"
Kedar's Tower
CHAPTER ONE
"Technically I am a princess," I said to my only
companion, the mirror, with a twirl. The smudges of dirt and grime on my
petticoat flashed with the spin, prompting a frown. "But I am also a
curse."
"Kedar! Filth of the earth!" Terrin shrieked, confirming my
cursory. Something shook my tower from outside. I stumbled, tripped over the
untied sash of my dress, and watched my only companion teeter on one elegant
leg and smash onto the stone floor. Pieces of mirror skated across the ground,
and a streak of scarlet heat oozed from my bare left ankle. I hopped down the
patchy stairs on one leg, eyes concentrating on the glass shard I was
extracting from the other.
There was no moon this morning, so Terrin's figure startled me, even
though I knew he was waiting. His head rose two feet above mine, and his build
was solid, burly, and now, intimidating.
I began, "I know—" but he didn't let me finish.
There was a grip on his weapon, worn leather that fit between his
knuckles, familiar as his oldest friend. It struck my stomach, and below my
shoulder blades. The other end of the weapon, the splintered side, was my own
old friend.
"This kingdom despises you," my big brother said. And then he
punched with his fist.
The sky was grey, and moisture hung in the atmosphere, leftover from last
night's rain storm. The ground was flat here, good for growing and harvesting,
and easy on the knees when we had to walk it for sixteen hours every day. I
could see little ruts carved into the dirt by streams of water and droplets
still hanging on the grape vines. The grapes went on forever, catching the end
of the sky. I knew of nothing beyond them, except what was in my imagination.
Abruptly the weapon came down on my back again, wrenching the fantasies
from before my eyes. I stared at Terrin, through blots of dark, fuzzy ink
trying to overcome my vision. His shirt was red-orange, a stand out color that
I could focus on, to gain back reality. That is an object, I
said. The object is constant.
"Traitor to the crown," Terrin shot back. Then he spat out
words reserved for the ears of only the most corrupt creatures, and let me go.
I hoisted an empty lug over my right shoulder, and armed myself with a
pair of sheers for pruning. Enna stopped our work before I'd even started. Her
sandaled feet tripped across the damp ground behind me, and she arrived, hair
all in shambles, out of breath, and splattered over in mud. She landed hard on
her left foot, skidding on her right one that was still traveling. "You
heard, right?"
I moved a piece of hair out of my face to meet Enna's expectant blue
eyes. She'd just reached marrying age, but her family was corrupt, and her
father couldn't manage money. So she worked alongside me for little wages. She
was beautiful, though, and crazy about boys.
I squinted at the sun, rising behind Enna's head where it seemed to
catch her curls on fire. "I don't know what you're talking about. I
haven't heard anything."
Her toes danced in place, and I noticed she was squeezing a pair of
sheers so hard her knuckles were turning white. "Matthias is coming."
The rain had started pouring down again, but Enna's words made it stop.
A pesky fly had been crawling up the back of my leg, but now I couldn't feel it
anymore. The earth must have ceased turning in space.
I determined immediately not to say anything, not to think, and not to
feel. I'd turn around, pretend Enna never spoke, and resume harvesting grapes.
But before I could do any of those things, a voice behind me spoke.
"No," it said, flatly. "He's not coming."
She smiled at me, curls still bouncing, toes still dancing. "Yes,
you idiot, he's coming."
I whirled to see whose voice had penetrated us, who she was talking to.
But there was no one, and the voice had come from me.
I willed the world to start turning again, and the rain to pelt over my
face. Someone pushed Enna aside, and I think it was me. The grapes and skyline
got closer, and she was trailing close behind. "Did I say something
wrong?"
"You didn't say anything wrong." There was a branch in need of
pruning that I stopped for. I squeezed hard with the sheers, and the rot fell
to the soggy earth.
"I thought you'd be surprised, or maybe even excited."
"I'm not surprised." Our drastic differing emotions made me
uneasy. “Or excited.”
"Come, yes you are."
I gave her a look. "He doesn't remember me." Another dead
branch fell from the vine with a snap. I felt the warmth of Enna's body close
to me, working alongside, snaps from her sheers offsetting mine.
The bloody screeches of a man two rows ahead of us cut through our
rhythm. Predictable, Terrin's whip was thrashing his closest subject, an
elderly gentleman whose age often slowed his work. Through the rain, you could
hear his limbs flailing, hitting hard on the ground in defense as the whip
snapped.
I turned my eyes downward, back to the vines and focused my attention on
Enna. Her gaze was already glued to me, willing her own delicate soul to focus
on something besides our coworker's flogging. I caught her fingers wandering to
the space on her own shoulder where I knew skin had once been torn.
"Here." I guided the wandering hand to a patch of ripe grapes
where she could begin harvesting. When Terrin wasn't looking, I pushed one of
the fruits into her mouth, and it seemed to calm her.
"I don’t trust Matthias," I spoke up, softly. "He
couldn't expect me to. His promises are so old—and so broken. He's not here for
me. He won’t even recognize me, I swear."
We watched the rain for a little while, and picked in silence. I
almost didn't hear when her voice broke through. Soft, but confident.
"I think he is," she said.
~~~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephanie
is a professional writer and journalist living in the metropolitan D.C.
area. She’s pursuing publication for her first novel, Reaching Home,
and spends her quiet moments writing poetry or blogging about her
adventures with God. Stephanie has a heart for sharing real stories and
encouraging authors to write for Jesus and to love what they do. She’s a
big believer in hard work, audiobooks, chocolate, and can usually be
found changing the world somewhere.
Like the French Canadian student who asked why our kids would want to live in a strange part of the world. What an opportunity to tell her they go because they love Jesus and want others to know Him, too.
