EXCERPTS (No. 1) FROM “THE MEADOW” — a story of love and devastation stretching over thousands of years
Excerpt from The Prologue — meet Rachel, one of the authors and her dream about writing
Here is an introduction which should lead you to read the first excerpt from “The Meadow”, a book about love and past lives which started in antiquity and reaches the modern world.
Read all about Rachel, an author who had a dream about writing. Understand how the eagle had such an influence on her and realise how devastated she was when her first story was rejected by the publishers.
This marks only the beginning to her remarkable life as it coincided with the eaglets leaving their nest.
Read the excerpt to The Prologue below.
Excerpt from Prologue
Meet Rachel, one of the authors who always dreamed about writing
“. . . RACHEL
The eagle saw her first. It puffed out its neck feathers in warning and opened its beak slightly where it sat on the nest. Without moving its head, the huge bird glared intensely at the girl. Rachel stood quite still and returned the unwavering look, but her young heart sang. If the eagle didn’t fly off, it meant that it was brooding and protecting eggs. She stifled the giggle that bubbled up, thrilled at what was so blatantly obvious to her. She and the bird had something big in common; the eagle expected to hatch eaglets and she was ready to hatch a dream.
After the long winter at Cape Breton, Rachel couldn’t wait to scale the cliffs behind their home again. The secret route to her favourite hideout still had some icy patches, but she knew how to navigate these and was impatient to reach the pinnacle, from where she could sit and gaze at the ocean, while nurturing her dream. The eagle kept her vigilantly in sight; the thought of her dream sent a tremendous rush through her body. She leaned forward and, taking care not to make sudden movements, she softly addressed the bird. “Mrs. Eagle, keep your eggs warm so that your babies can hatch when the time is right.” She smiled conspiringly. “I will tell you when my dream comes true. I promise.” Then she retreated cautiously. It was time to check the mail again! Her excitement was boundless.
Rachel’s mother noticed her new routine and asked her husband what the daily scaling of the cliffs meant and why their sixteen-year-old daughter was keeping a vigil at the mailbox. She raised a curious eyebrow at his reply. “She wrote a love story for a magazine in Toronto?” Then she added with the faintest tinge of cynicism. “What does she know about love?” She had long become used to Rachel’s confiding in her father, rather than in her.
Rachel’s father didn’t reply but watched the object of his love rush in through the backdoor and strip off her parka and boots. It was still cold on the higher elevations and he noticed her rosy cheeks and bright eyes. “How much longer before the eagles hatch?” he whispered softly in her ear, hugging her.
“Not long, Daddy. I think she minds my presence less and less. We have a bond now.” She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Don’t ask - nothing yet in the mailbox! But soon, I think.”
His heart contracted on her behalf, wishing he could scoop up all the hurt and disappointment scheduled to cross her path now and in the future and protect her from it. He admired her courage but, paradoxically, it also exposed her vulnerability. She had written her story first in longhand and then carefully typed it before sending it off. Only once had he asked her about it.
“What kind of love story is it, Rachel?” She sat next to him on the dock where he had cast a leisurely line, resting her head against his shoulder. Like her, he was lost in the reflection of the clouds on the water. She answered without hesitation.
“The kind that makes your bones ache, Daddy; even if you have not yet had a chance to love anyone like that.”
He tugged at the line, overwhelmed with her ability to express at such a deep level. “How do you know, Rachel? You’re sixteen.” When she didn’t answer he turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were filled with tears and she looked straight ahead. But her expression was serene and accepting, as if she felt the weight of the load and was used to carrying it.
“I don’t know, Daddy. It just feels like a very old memory.”
Sixteen weeks since she had first came across the brooding eagle, she crept closer to the nest again. The mother was nowhere in sight and Rachel looked forward to admiring the reflection of the sun on the young birds and listening to the excited squeaking that her presence evoked. But the eaglets were gone. Rachel stared at the empty nest in shock and then she knew that this was the sign that she had been waiting for. She turned and dashed along the path which led down the cliff, running and jumping over rocks and dried tree stumps; her heart thundering in her chest. This had to be the day!
She was right. The long awaited letter was in the mailbox but she was not prepared for the cold, businesslike rejection. Her father found her in her bedroom curled into the foetal position and read the letter on her dresser with a wistful expression on his face. Then he sat down next to her and softly stroked her hair. What else was there to do?
* * *
That day she vowed never to write another love story. But that was more than twenty years ago and, waiting in the departure area of Lax International Airport in Los Angeles, she again looked at the spine of the book in her carry-on luggage. The golden embossed letters spelled “The Meadow”. The book was the result of more than two years’ collaboration with Jake Fletcher; a man whom she hadn’t met until they had completed this incredible saga of love and devastation.
Then Rachel remembered her father’s question that day at the dock about love and how she knew so much about it. Her answer was that she thought she remembered. “The Meadow” had proved her right . . . .”
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