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AUTHOR PROFILE
Nikkie
Gallivan was born in She
began to delve into the genre of fantasy and commenced work, unbeknown to her,
on the prologue of The Four Corners series. At
fifteen she embarked on the first volume of the series, The Hermit, which took
three years to reach fruition. Now,
at age 19 years,, Nikkie Gallivan lives in READ A SAMPLE: Chapter One
The Hermit
To travellers who crossed the shadow of the great cliff now and then, the cliff of Midfire was a dusty and barren face just like the barren land below. Travellers would barely notice the large wall of stone if not for the cooling shadow it cast along the cracked earth. Each traveller would slow down their pace as they passed under the cliff’s raw surface as they trudged across the dirt path made by the traveller before them. Kicking up the choking dust as they led their mule or horse along behind. Once
or twice a snake would cross their path, slivering from the dry grass beside the
road scaring their grazer into a stamping screaming frenzy. The animal’s
hooves crushed the ground, filling the air with even more dirt; the marks of a
thousand hooves and boots indented this long road. From
the top of the cliff the road was clearly visible, yet from the road the cliff
looked dead and deserted. Rocks jutted out from certain places, cracks
lengthening down its walls. From the low vantage point of the dirt road none
would notice the cave beyond the third ridge from the top. This was why the
Hermit chose to dwell there. The
Hermit never noticed the passers-by anymore. At first he had watched them go by,
trying to distinguish a face from the tiny dot below that caused so much mess on
the air as it walked. It seemed like each dot was giving off a cloud of smoke at
each stride. Now, of course, the Hermit took no more interest in the people
below than he did the time of day. He had stopped counting the days after the
first six months of his stay in the cave, growing tiresome of the tallies on his
stone wall. He no longer knew how long he had been up here. For
most of the Hermit’s time in the cave he had let his mind wander, as he
watched the sun pass across the sky, sometimes looking down at the dry earth
below when the waves of heat blurring the horizon did not bother him. But
it did now. He
now would not even look out of his cavern. The only time he left the back of the
damp cave was to collect twigs and sticks from a higher ridge to construct a
fire, the heat did not reach him in the cliff, but even this he had stopped
doing. For a while his mind ran rampant, causing the Hermit to find things in
the darkest corners of his subconscious. He began to hate the corners of his
mind, loathing the continuous turning of his brain over and over. He would talk
to himself continuously, enough just to muffle the sound of the voice in his
head. He had found something to pass the time though, a habit that he had
started a few years ago. A
strange moss had once covered the cave. The moss, seemingly clean, green and
rather comfortable to sleep on, attracted mites and insects that caused the
Hermit to itch. So the Hermit started to scrape the moss off the walls and floor
of his dwelling. Little by little the brown stone began to surface, and now the
Hermit was up to the last foot-by-foot square of moss, which he chiselled at
with a small rock. He
had been trying to remove the moss for so long that he had forgotten why he was
doing it. The mites had now infested his body and there was no way to be rid of
them, unless he decided to take a dip in the small well that had formed in a
cavern beside his cave, but he did not wish to contaminate his water supply with
lice. Although, he would no longer need it, as he would soon leave his
sanctuary. Sick of being around himself and his thoughts he would leave the cave
and go back to the world below. Just as soon as he’d finished scraping the
moss off his wall. The
Hermit scraped at the last of the moss; muttering to himself as he did his
tiresome work. His arms ached from the days of scraping, and he did not look
forward to the great descent to the low ground he would have to make that
afternoon. Later,
he thought, he would catch something to eat before his climb. Hopefully a
vulture might roost on his cave entrance, which would be an exceptional meal.
All of this he thought out loud, voicing the idea as if the moss were a faceless
audience. His mouth watered at the thought of a decent meal. A bird had not
landed on the cliff for days now and he had to make do with eating the green
moss that had plagued his home for so long. “Last
inches,” he muttered, scraping at the wall faster. The stone he had been using
had all but blunted, and now was the shape of a spatular, which proved far more
effective than the point it once had been. The Hermit muttered on with only the
scrapedy-scrape of the stone against the wall to accompany his rambling. The
scratches on the cave walls were the markings of his obsession with removing the
plant. He could leave now if he wished, there was no longer a need to remove the
moss, but he had to; he had started so long ago that he now had to finish and
there was but an inch left. “Almost
done,” he said, scratching faster at the moss. Green flakes fell off the stone
and drifted down to lay on his diminished knees. He scraped at the last of the
moss vigorously, hurting his green-stained fingers. The last flake fell with a
chip of the stone still attached. The
Hermit smiled, the expression feeling foreign to his face. He removed it
quickly, not welcoming the creeping feeling of his cheeks. He stood and
stretched. His knees cracking as he straightened. The
Hermit hobbled over to the small well just through a hole in one of the walls.
His young back stiff from stooping over the last part of his chore. A drip of
water splashed into the well distorting the water’s placid surface. The drip
came from the cavern’s damp ceiling, the result of an underground stream. He
dipped his callused hands into the water and took a long drink from the cupped
palms, the water tasting slightly sour. His profile cast a dim shadow across the
water’s face. Aged by time he would barely have recognised it, if he had cared
to notice. When
the turning of the land below had begun, forcing him to flee into this crevice
of the earth, he had no clue what had become of civilisation below, or what had
changed since then. Whenever he thought of what it would be like down there, a
sensation of foreboding overcame him, but at the moment it became all to
apparent that he could not continue to live on rocks and bugs alone. He
climbed back into the bulk of the cavern, putting his lanky legs through the
hole one after the other. He paused before he stepped entirely through the wall,
one foot still suspended within the hole. A
large shadow was perched in the cave’s entrance, crested with a gold trim from
the fading yellow light. The immense bird preening its feathers on the
Hermit’s doorstep looked like none other than a raven. But none ever known in
history had grown to such an enormous size. The creature must have been 3 feet
tall, with eyes the size of golf balls. Surely this creature was a freak of
nature, may haps even deformed in some way. But the Hermit did not care of its
uniqueness; this creature was food, and in the Hermit’s experiences, food has
a nasty habit of flying away. With
only a couple of seconds for hesitation the Hermit ran at the raven eyes closed
and arms outstretched. He swung his arms around the creature’s legs his elbows
popping from stiffness. The raven was startled into flight, its wings crashing
into the ceiling, sending rubble down onto the Hermit’s head. The Hermit
managed to get the upper hand, and pulled the bird out of the air, toppling back
into the cave and crashing onto the floor. The raven turned on the young man’s
face, trying to gouge out his eyes with its long pointed beak, but only managing
to tear a large chunk out of the man’s arm. The Hermit screamed as the bird
beat him with its wings, blinding the Hermit with its feathers, forcing him to
let go of the bird’s leg and cover his face. But
the raven did not attack him; instead it composed itself and hopped back to its
perch. It cawed loudly, a forked tongue visible as it opened its mouth. The bird
took to flight cawing loudly as if laughing as it flew away. By
the time the sun had begun to set, painting the cliff face with a blazing red
light; red liquid had pooled on the floor from the Hermit’s wounded arm. Bugs
had begun to surround the blood as if it was a drinking pool. The Hermit
snatched one up and popped it between his lips, grimacing at the crunch as he
bit down, the horrible tasting liquid squirting into his mouth. He
stood, when the sky had turned from the red to a vibrant pink, and looked over
the edge of the precipice. His head swooned as he looked down the steep drop and
felt as if he would tumble over. He clung to the wall, letting his senses clear. He
must not have truly noticed the extreme height he had ascended to when he had
first fled from the terror of the turning, for when he had first hidden in this
crevice it had seemed only a step away from the ground. Throughout these lonely
years his mind must have played tricks on his memories; or had the cliff risen
up from the ground during that first night when he had curled up, broken and
alone in this scabby little hole? It may have, but he didn’t care to think
back so far. Looking
down now at the descent in front of him a terrible nausea swept over him. The
Hermit imagined himself walking off the cliff and plummeting to the red earth
below. He opened his eyes and pulled himself back into the depths of his cave.
The only way he could get down, was the only way he had gotten up there in the
first place, which his mind had deceivingly scratched from his memory. He needed
to scale the cliff face, and as well as not knowing how, his diet hadn’t been
at its best, consisting mainly of bugs and moss, and although he was much the
same weight he had always been he was far weaker and his bones were brittle from
lack of nutrients. The Hermit was not sure if his frail limbs would be able to
support his body as he descended down the cliff. The
Hermit forced himself to look down the precipice and studied the surface for
several minutes, trying to forge out some sort of track. The Hermit rubbed his
eyes wearily and stood up once more, his arms and legs shaking as he walked to
the entrance. He did not face the horizon; instead turning his back to it he
began to edge across a small ledge to the right of the cave. He dared not look
down at his feet and made his way by scraping his uncut toenails across the
cliff’s surface. His
foot hit air and he almost stumbled but clung to a nearby rock. The ledge ended
directly above a large ridge. The Hermit lowered himself down, listening to his
bones crack, until the soles of his feet touched the dry stone below. He dusted
his hands on his tattered shirt, only briefly removing his fingers from the
stone. Next to the ridge was a large crack, which he could use to make his way
down some of the way, before coming to a smaller ridge below it. Below this
however, there was no prominent track to get to the next ridge 30 feet down. The
Hermit began to make his way down the fault, stopping half way to crack his
wrists, pushing on either side of the fracture with his back and feet. He made
his way down swiftly until he reached the next ridge. He scanned the remaining
precipice below, becoming dizzy he sat down. He swung his legs over the ledge
and found a hole; he grabbed another hold near his head and began to make his
way once again down the face, this time at a far slower pace. Descending down
the cliff in this way was far more treacherous than down the crack. Every other
hold gave way and crumbled under his grasp. Several times the Hermit found
himself dangling by one hand, flailing his legs around to find a firm place to
put a foot. By
the time he reached the lower ridge he was far too exhausted to carry on. His
arms ached from overwork and his eyes stung from the dust and the remnants of
the sun’s glare. He had not been out of the dark cave for so long that even
the diminishing light, which now filled the sky with violet, burned at his eyes
and the back of his neck. The heat began to affect him, raising from the
wasteland below, causing him to notice for the first time the pungent smell
coming off his dirty skin and clothes. His unwashed flesh gave off such a sour
odour that his eyes began to water. He wanted to strip off his reeking rags and
throw them to the ground, but to do so would allow more flesh to be subject to
the ravenous sun. The
Hermit leant back on the rock and closed his eyes, trying not to notice his body
odour. Twilight
had passed and night had settled in by the time the young man noticed a
crumbling sound behind him. He spun about to see a large crack forming where the
ridge connected to the cliff, and large chunks of rock were beginning to crumble
and fall. The Hermit jumped to his feet and threw himself at the cliff face,
scrambling to find a hold somewhere. But it was too late, his slow rate of
awareness was his failing, and the ridge gave way leaving the Hermit unable to
grip at the cliff face and he, closely following the ridge, plummeted to the
vast wasteland below. Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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