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Aster Wood and the Lost Maps of Almara (Aster Wood, Book 1) by J. B. Cantwell

By J. B. Cantwell

Damaged. That's what the realm is now. The lengthy Drought is over, however the rain that falls burns like acid at the flesh.

Young Aster wooden is susceptible in comparison to the opposite survivors who flock to the towns, the single locations the place a meal and clean water will be had.

But while he reveals a ragged piece of parchment within the hidden corners of his father's youth domestic, he's pulled in the course of the cosmos to a spot not anyone on the earth understands exists.

Here, the grass grows eco-friendly. The wolves glow just like the complete moon. The wizards play with old wisdom, thrilled with the easy spells that could carry demise vegetation again to existence and make invisible that which they refuse seen.

And Aster is fit again.

The middle that has plagued him seeing that he used to be a baby is abruptly absent, and Aster reveals himself working, no, flying around the geographical region as though he have been born to do it.

Now, he needs to chase down the long-lost sorcerer, Almara, to find the reality approximately his personal family's prior. And to profit what's but to return for Earth's future.

And he needs to paintings quick if he desires to live to tell the tale. Almara left not just clues, yet enemies at the back of. If Aster loses the race to discover him, and the enemy captures him first, he'll by no means see Earth back.

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Extra info for Aster Wood and the Lost Maps of Almara (Aster Wood, Book 1)

Sample text

It’s all I’ve got," I said. " Dick was the sort of man who always carried a fair amount of money in his pocket. Without demur, he handed me two five-pound notes. I was able to off-load my belongings before the Mahurangi sailed… all except the stones and three big cases buried beneath other cargo. Fortunately, I had kept lists of the contents of each package. Dick’s lorry took eighteen of them back to the room after I had arranged to rent it again for a few weeks longer. Before the Mahurangi sailed, I went to the skipper and every member of the crew, begging them to look after the three cases I could not off-load.

Instead, I would relax in the evening and, if the weather were fine, I would brew myself a bowl of tea and carry it down to the beach. There I would sit with the faint sigh of the trade winds rustling the palms which bent like a canopy over my head. Sometimes I would light a small fire to cook the cats’ supper, and later Mr. Tom-Tom or Mrs. Thievery would jump up on my lap and purr contentedly. On some evenings the air would be so still I could hear my own breath; at others, my little world would be filled with the screams and sounds of birds wheeling above me, mostly the terns (which I watched patiently, for I knew they would soon start to lay) and frigate birds, which nested on the islets in their thousands, knowing they had no humans to fear.

I did make a start by sifting out three sackfuls which I put into shallow boxes so that I could at least start growing seeds, though whether I would ever be able to transplant them was another matter. My first attempts at separating the fine soil took me several days—simply because I had not thought to buy a sieve in Rarotonga. I did, however, have a small tea strainer, and I sieved enough fine soil for six seed-boxes, using only this wretchedly small implement. How I missed a boat! " Why hadn’t I brought some caulking material?

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