The Gift of Sky and Soil (Father Sky Book 1) Read online

  The Gift of Sky and Soil

  Father Sky Volume 1

  Gillian Zane

  To those that stuck with me. For those that didn’t - welcome back.

  “What are men? Mortal gods.

  What are gods? Immortal men.”

  Heraclitus

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Thank you

  I. A Cruse of Man and Magic Preview

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Books by Gillian Zane

  1

  The brand-new SUV slipped into a growling charge as I powered down the empty highway trying to find the fresh air I was craving so dangerously. The surreal quiet of a mostly empty street, without cars or pedestrians, surrounded by boarded-up shops was normal for this part of the once great U.S. of A.

  I had sat enraptured this morning, in front of the television for the five hundredth and twenty-second press conference of the year and yelled in frustration at the governor. He had recently passed an executive order that he would be serving out his term indefinitely. His reign as governor wouldn’t end until we came out of the crisis. It wasn’t an original idea, he was following in suit of what other governors and our president had recently done. And now he was talking about burning the crops. Like they were doing in Africa.

  When would the crisis finally be over?

  When would the emergency declarations finally come to a close? Most likely never since we had been in a perpetual state of emergency since early 2020. My terrible mood hadn’t been caused by the governor’s self-serving power grab or his ill sighted and reactionary problem solving. My dark feelings were caused because he had chosen not to relax the stay-at-home order like he had promised.

  Midnight curfews were still in place; the police weren’t policing crimes anymore but would only be guarding government buildings with the remaining National Guard. The ten percent that would be allowed on the street to patrol would be looking for curfew violators and businesses who were operating in an unsafe manner. And everyone seemed okay with this. They were okay with indefinite days of takeout food and bad home hair dyes. An indefinite amount of time where human contact was limited, with only social media for company, and the news to feed the fear and anxiety. They had put up with it for almost a decade, what was one more year?

  It was enough to drive a girl insane. And I was at my limit with this nonsense. This was the third stay-at-home order in four years, and that was only counting the pandemics. That didn’t include the riots which had us sheltering in place for every major holiday weekend, the Canadian coup which sent the Northern states into their basements for weeks, and now some kind of weird allergy kicked up by pollen which meant another lockdown and back to Phase One until they can “better assess” the situation.

  A girl could only take so much.

  And this girl had it easy. Much easier than the majority of the population, which was down about ten million the last time I had checked the numbers. I tried not to look at the numbers often. If I didn’t pay attention to the death tolls it helped ease the tightness I got in my chest, the panic that wanted to take over and lead me to hide scared in my house. I didn’t want to be scared. I didn’t want to be perpetually on the verge of a breakdown.

  The Bluetooth in the SUV started to crackle as I lost satellite to my phone, and I switched to radio, regretting it immediately.

  “Jobless numbers are in and another two hundred and fifty thousand new unemployment claims have been filed this week, Congress is currently in discussion to pass the twenty-fifth stimulus…” I slapped the power button and cut it off.

  Most of the country had adapted, people were working from home. The ones that could, at least. But the service industry was reeling, having been all but eradicated in the last five years. My career had flourished and new types of jobs had popped up, filling some gaps. People spent most of their day scrolling through social media; I and a lot of others had learned quickly how to capitalize on that.

  Which reminded me, I pulled to the side of the road where a man was selling watermelons from the back of his truck. He had fashioned a tent over the bed and taped plastic sheeting to all four sides of it, cutting a small hole in the front and adhering it with Velcro. The watermelons were in the bed of his pickup, and he had enough room to stand behind the truck near guarding his make-shift bubble. He was an older man, dark skin weathered from age and outdoor living. He had a huge smile though, large white teeth gleaming when I pulled up next to his little window as if I was at a drive through.

  “Ten dollas each, cash only.” He wiped sweat off his forehead before he reached through his window for the cash I held in my hand. It must have been a hundred degrees in his make-shift protection, but you did what you had to do. I tried not to show the disgust on my face because of the bodily fluids that most likely clung to his hand. It was an involuntary reaction now.

  “I gave you twenty, for two,” I told him when he looked down at his phone after only handing me one watermelon.

  “Oh aight.” He met my eyes again and looked disappointed that extra wasn’t a tip.

  “Mind if I take a picture of your set-up? I’ll post it online and let them know where you are?”

  “Don’t mind.” He continued to look down at his phone. I heard chanting—he had to be watching clips of the latest riots. They had started up again near the Mexican border. Everyone knew the cartels were behind these latest riots, they wanted to get all semblance of law and order off the border like they had been doing in Mexico for the last couple decades.

  I parked and got out of the SUV. I snapped a few quick pictures, the man never looking up, making sure to capture the dingy appearance of the tent yet the vibrant green of the melons.

  “Have a good one,” I said cheerily, not expecting a response, and I didn’t get one. The majority of the human population had become mistrustful of each other. We were either disease carriers, terrorists, social agitators, communists in disguise, or right-wing anarchists waiting to burn it all down. For a stereotypical Type A Extreme Extrovert, it was playing havoc on my coping mechanisms. I didn’t do well with social isolation. I didn’t do well with not making small talk in the line at the grocery store, and I certainly didn’t do well not being able to go on my usual five-mile run outside, instead of on a damn treadmill.

  Placing my phone in the special mount I had just for this task, I held up the gadget and checked my image in the reverse facing camera. Selfies, the ultimate manifestation of nar
cissism. I set it up to take ten shots, then I held up a melon and smiled for the camera. I had the look down, the tilt of the head, the cock of the hip, lean slightly forward. Click. Click. Click.

  Sitting in my SUV, I posted the pictures to Instagram, first my selfie and then the shots of the guy’s set-up with a caption reading:

  Don’t judge, needed to get out of the house! Found some #watermelons along the way on Highway 25 on the outskirts of Covington if you’re local. Overpriced, but the guy was friendly enough. Look at his charming set-up. #pollenpocalypse #supportlocal #northshorelife #NOLAAF

  Within moments of the post, I had three notifications of likes and one comment. The little endorphin pop had me smiling. My way of coping with social distancing. If I couldn’t make convos with strangers, at least I could feel their adoration through likes. It was my way of meeting new people, and paying the bills since the pollen bullshit had shut my real income down for good. When I had inherited the house I lived in from my parents, I was barely an adult, had just made it through high school with a lot of struggling, and had no plans of going to college.

  I had converted the seven servant’s cottages on my property into Airbnbs and welcomed strangers into my family home. I loved meeting new people. Talking. Having them fawn all over me. Okay, that last bit was a secret I tended to keep to myself, but if you scrolled through my Instagram feed, you would figure it out quickly enough. I had a bit of a vain streak. Don’t judge.

  The guest houses were the perfect outlet for me. They were a way for me to meet new people and also a way to keep the money coming in. I didn’t have to touch my trust fund, which was even better, but now that everyone had to stay home, no one was venturing into my little slice of bliss. And with that little enterprise over, social media influencer was the new gig. It wasn’t as exciting as I hoped.

  The first comment that had come through was full of the judgement I had so kindly asked them to refrain from.

  Isn’t Louisiana on a stay home order! Way to selfish & keep the spread going. Hope your watermelon is worth it. Kids in Mexico would love to eat watermelons, but they can’t because they are dying!

  I barely made it passed the first misspelling to finish reading the comment and was tempted to delete it but had made a promise not to do that.

  “Haters gonna hate,” I mumbled to myself and felt like an idiot. I slapped my phone back in the vehicle’s port and pulled back onto the road.

  About ten minutes outside of the small city I called home, there was a nature reserve. It boasted a few hiking trails that made for a good running track, plus a big bonus was that no one came out here, so I wouldn’t have to be faced with the shame of not social distancing from strangers, or the risk of running into someone who was a carrier of the latest “this is how you’ll die” plague.

  I parked in the shell lot of the nature preserve, trying to find a shady spot so the car wouldn’t be an oven when I got back. I checked my reflection in the vanity mirror and smiled, showing off my orthodontically enhanced teeth. Even though I had spent almost seven years with braces and another two with retainers my teeth still weren’t as straight as I would like. I frowned at my own face and tried to wipe the critical thoughts that were a repetitive litany in my head when I viewed my own reflection.

  Opening the door of my SUV, I slid a perfectly smooth and naturally tanned leg out and admired my home-waxing job. I was impressed with the job I had done on myself; it was passable if you didn’t look too closely. This week I had resorted to doing my dye job and my waxing myself. I hadn’t tried my eyebrows; I wasn’t that brave. Plucking the strays would have to do, and I had just artfully filled them in like the tutorial had shown me. Again, they looked great if you didn’t look too closely.

  Both feet on the ground, I reached into the glove box and pulled out my compact Ruger and adjusted it into the new pair of concealer shorts I had been sent from a new distributor looking to sponsor me. I smiled as it slid into the front pocket of the shorts that were supposed to be used like Spanx, but were thick enough for me to use as running shorts. Sure, they were super short, but they were perfect for running and I could conceal carry without a bulky holster. My oversized tank hid the purple LCP without detracting from my figure. Nice. I liked these shorts already.

  I felt safe when carrying. I felt more powerful and had gotten into the habit a few years back. I had turned a hobby into a career when I realized people liked to look at pictures of chicks with guns. And not just pervy guys. All sorts of people followed me on Instagram from all walks of life. And the majority of them were very complimentary. Girls asked for tips on make-up and what kind of protection they should be buying. Guys flirted and proposed and then got intimidated when I discussed work-outs with them.

  I attached the stand to my SUV again and set up the camera. I positioned myself with the woods and trail leading to the swampy underbrush in the background. I raised up my shirt to give a slight glimpse of my abs, along with the gun and the shorts with the holster built in. These types of shots weren’t as good as I’ve featured in the past, but they were different and good enough for a sponsored post. I usually liked to bring someone with me to frame the shot just right. Half the time I used a bestie of mine to capture the shots just right. She used her phone as well, but she would retouch in Photoshop. Not too much, a preset to bring out my eyes, that was it. I wouldn’t be able to utilize her for the foreseeable future, not with the new stay order. She was a stickler for rules.

  It didn’t matter though, because a lot of influencers were pushing for less cultivated shot, more real life, except with the influencers who had their Instagram husbands to do all the work for them. They were keeping the filters and Photoshop alive. I wasn’t jealous. Nope.

  The camera on my phone click, click, clicked, and I smiled in one, made a sexy face in the other, happy, solemn, tough. There were about three good ones when I checked my camera roll and scrolled through the images. The other seven looked ridiculous.

  “Not bad,” I spoke aloud and then rolled my eyes at my social faux pas, again. I was going a little crazy with being stuck in my house for five weeks. Again. It had taken me about three months to get over the PTSD of the last stay order. I found the perfect image, the sexy look—and posted it.

  Social distancing but headed outside for some fresh air. Going for a five-mile run on a trail that no one uses. Can’t forget your fitness during the #pollenpocalypse and my new concealment shorts from @concealhottie let me bring along my little friend in case I run into any other humans of the not so friendly variety. #pewpew #concealmentshorts #gunbunnyAF #NOLAAF #ad

  I tagged the maker of the shorts because they sent them to me with a nice check attached for a bit of advertisement. It wasn’t the greatest of descriptions, but it would have to do on the fly. I would do an in-depth review later, after I used these for a bit. Now to get my run on. I slipped my ear buds into my ears, cranked up the New Alternative playlist, did a few stretches to limber up and took off at a sprint.

  There was nothing like running on a trail. The gravel beneath my feet sending reverberations up my legs and through my core. The music in my ears, the way my lungs opened up, and I felt like I could smell everything that surrounded me. I hyper-focused on the trail in front of me and the words of the songs as they blasted into my ears. The trail got wilder the deeper I got in as parts of it branched off for easier loop backs. I hadn’t used this one before because I liked trails along the waterfront instead of in the woods, but those attracted more people. While I was a bit of a rebel stepping out of the house for a non-essential activity, I wasn’t stupid. The Gov said people were converting the pollen inside of the body and turning it into a deadly disease, and no matter how crazy that sounded, I was going to stay away from people.

  There was a crash of sound to my right that I heard over my blaring music, and I stopped in my tracks. Three low-flying F15s two seconds later screamed above me, flying low and slow, I caught their underbellies as the first sound of their engines h
it me. They were at a ridiculously low altitude. They must have startled something in the underbrush because there was the sound of leaves rustling right off the trail. It sounded big. I looked around, a bit paranoid. A smell, sweet, enticing, hit my nose, and I took a deep breath, I couldn’t help myself. I checked my GPS on my smart watch and frowned. I had done 4 miles already and had barely worked up a sweat. I was deeper into this trail than I had ever been, considering I usually only did a total of five miles. I liked to run fast, not power through marathons. Forty-five minutes had passed since I started my workout, which put me at a 11-minute mile. I was definitely running at a faster pace than usual; this was not my typical routine and I felt rather badass if you asked me. I should have been gripping my sides in pain at this point. My legs barely ached.

  The air around me felt strange. Charged, as if before a storm. That enticing, flowery aroma overtook made itself known again, and I needed to know what it was. If it was a flower, I needed to plant it in my garden as soon as possible. I took a step toward the smell, my foot sinking into the moist ground. Did I want to do this? Yes, I did.

  I kept following the overgrown path. I don’t know why I did, but it was like I had a certain point to go to like something was guiding me in this direction. A sudden pang of fear had me slowing to a stop again. I shouldn't be doing this. I should go back to my SUV. I took a step forward. I had to keep going.