Enchantments is an allegorical tale told in prose and verse.

Though born and raised in the elvin land of E’alowen, E’lienna, daughter of Lady Claire, a human, and Gle'anden, prince of elves, longs to better understand her human lineage. She sets out from E’alowen and into human lands. There, she visits the wizened Mage of Dur, a long-time friend to her parents and all elvinkind. She discovers that the wizard is secretly working to help bring about a new age throughout the land of humankind. For he reveals to her that a babe, born of a king, has been secretly hidden away until such time when he is grown so that he may fulfill a prophesy made long ago of a king of men who will grow to rule the land with justice and mercy.

Through her quest to find out more about her mother’s past and about this king of men, E’lienna uncovers the mystery behind a tragedy that befell her family years ago and, in the process, discovers that the worlds of men and elves are much more deeply entwined than either have believed.

Excerpt:

My name is E’lienna. I am daughter to a human woman and an elvin prince. Both bloods flow within my veins, the human and the elvish. This very thing it is which brings up longing deep within me, a longing in my heart and mind to find my own place in both worlds.

Born into a time of change for elf and humankind alike, I have always sought out answers far beyond my elvin kin’s embrace. Many stories tell of how the worlds of men and elves are weaving. This is my own story. So listen, if you’ve mind to hear, and I’ll recount my tale to you in that fashion keeping with the long-held elf tradition; poetry and prose entwining.

While moon shines bright and full, I ride out from my elvin wood, E’alowen, and under hood and cloak, I keep myself quite hidden. After I have ridden under summer’s silken stars for three nights and three days, I finally come upon the village where the wizard dwells. I’ve come to visit him.

I reach his cottage just at dusk and knock upon the door three times. He opens it and clearly is astonished by my visit.

“E’lienna!” says the sage. “Child, what brings you here?”

“Good Mage,” say I, “I am no child. Sixteen years have crowned me. I have come in hope of finding answers to a mystery which will not be explained to me by either of my parents. So please, good sage, will you engage in sharing what you know? For you are wise and friend to both my father and my mother.”

“Do they know that you are here?” he asks, and strokes his beard.

“Of course, good mage!” I answer truly. (Elves don’t lie or trick.) “It was they who told me you might offer clarity! Now will you let me in?”

And so the wizened Mage of Dur ushers me inside. His cottage proves a simple hut, yet comfortable and cozy.

“Sit. Please sit. And have some tea,” he says, upon my entering.

He serves it on a wooden tray, in two clay cups, all painted brightly. Then he sits himself across the large old wooden table, smiles and cocks his head.

“Now, pray, tell me why you’ve come.”

I pull a locket from the bag which hangs about my waist and open it to show, inside, two portraits, small as thumbnails.

“Sir,” I say, “I want to know whose picture this might be.”

On the left, my mother smiles, her sixteen year-old face all rosy. On the right, another girl stares out from sullen eyes. Their faces seem so similar. Hair and eyes, chin and cheek, both share all the same fine features. Yet they could not be more different—one a joyous angel, filled with light and magic, one an angry, brooding creature, shadowed, bleak and tragic.

I set the locket down before him. Even before looking, he begins to nod his head then sighs and closes his dark eyes as if he knows already who the woman must have been.

“No wonder Claire sent you to me,” he finally says, “and I agree it was a good thing that she sent you here. For this tale is a tale of grief—for her and your poor grandmother. Because you ask this task of me, I’ll tell you what I can.”

He pauses. I wait. Then he takes a long and heavy breath.

“How shall I begin? This portrait, E’lienna, is of your mother’s sister.”

“Mother has no sister!” I exclaim.

“Now, good child,” he says, “you must allow me to explain. And without interruption! As I said, I’ll tell you what I’m able. But I warn you, E’lienna, this is not a fable! This is sorrow. This is pain. Now, shall I start, again?”

The air hangs still, a silent weight that seems quite palpable. I swallow back my sudden feeling of dismay and answer, “Yes, dear mage, continue on, I pray. I will hold my tongue, I promise. ‘Til the end of it.”

Purchase Enchantments at:

About the Author:

Susan M. Botich writes science-fiction and fantasy. She is also a freelance writer, poet, songwriter and performing musician. She has lived all over the United States from California to New York, Alaska to Hawaii, Washington to the Midwest of Iowa and Minnesota and even the high desert of Northern Nevada. She and her husband have recently made Bend, OR their home.

Susan is an eclectic reader, having interests that bridge physics and metaphysics, social and spiritual issues, and multiple genres of fiction. She simply loves to read a good story. She became a science-fiction and fantasy fan as a teen. She has always been an avid reader but turned her focus to story writing after marriage and family in her early thirties.

Susan has recently published her science-fiction novel, The Dream Star, as well as a fantasy verse-novel, Enchantments. Both books are available through amazon.com in both Kindle and print edition and barnesandnoble.com as a Nook book. Readers may also buy her books through her website www.susanbotich.com.

Kalindi, a 16 year-old Dreamer-seer and devoted follower of The Way, is guided by a terrifying Dream to journey with a strange yet fascinating young man named Atman to the distant holy city of the Ancient Ones, the Center of the World. Their goal: to rid the land of the horrible intruding alien beings who have infiltrated the city. Along the way, she discovers that everything she believed to be true about her world, Tamar, is a deception.

Atman is not who he first claims to be, the alien intruders have mind-control powers beyond any Dreamer's, and the city of the Ancient Ones holds perplexing mysteries never mentioned in the holy Chronicles.

In Dream, I stand outside the holy city of the Ancient Ones, the Center of the World. All around me Tribefolk scramble in panic. Mothers scream for their children. Men scurry to muster their weapons. Sheep and goats bleat, desperate to escape their pens. The clamor beats through the wind that swirls the plain’s dust into a blinding grit. It twists into my ears, sharp and cold. Whipping from behind, it billows my sleeping-gown out in front of me. Then, turning course, slaps it tight against my breasts and abdomen. I peer through the dust. A huge silver disk, larger than the ancient Center itself, hangs in the air just above the city walls. If it falls, it will crush the city. I gulp down my fear.

I am in Dream. And I know this Dream-vision cannot harm me. And Tribefolk are not my people. But still, my every instinct screams for me to force myself to wake up. I will not give in to it. I am a Dreamer, a seer, trained to never give in to fear. I force myself to breathe, to concentrate with all my strength on the chaos around me.

From out of the swirling dust, a group of strange figures appear. Their long, gray robes twist in the wind against tall, skeletal bodies. One saunters close enough for me to glimpse his face from under his hood. Terror seizes me. These beings are not Tamarian!

I count two dozen. But more keep walking from out of the dust storm. They disperse into the ragged knots of Tribemen who stand with spear and ax in hand to fight. My attention is riveted by the one whose face is exposed to me. He turns, revealing his eyes. As if two small wells of black ink, they show no emotion, not even the smallest trace of compassion or empathy. He walks up to a fist of Tribemen set to strike him down and waves his hand as one would at a swarm of flies. All together, the Tribemen stagger, stupefied. They drop their weapons in unison and stand dumb, stiff and lifeless as straw dolls.

There are so many of the bony ones. They act quickly and seem to understand one another without speaking. One of them turns to his kin. The other nods and begins to gather up the Tribemen as a shepherd gathers sheep. All around me the intruders motion with their hands for the Tribemen to move toward the ground beneath the whirring disk. As if under a fever spell, all the Tribemen mutely obey.

The herded cluster is soon a mass of Tamarian flesh. The whirring breath of the disk grows, sweeping out in all directions. It blows a hot exhale across the plains. Then, from out of its belly, a light falls across those beneath. The dazed captives shimmer in its glow for an instant then disappear. Horrified, my Dream-body tenses. I want to run. But to where? A Dreamer cannot run from Dream. We are to watch, listen, and pay attention. No matter how wondrous the Dream. Or how frightening.

Women, children and elder men left behind scatter in every direction. A little boy turns round and round in circles with wild eyes, wailing. Though I have only just come into womanhood, the maternal desire to hold him, comfort him, and protect him as if he were my own child fills me. But, of course, I cannot. I am as a ghost. Invisible.

A Tribe girl races by and snatches him up then sprints away. Everyone is screaming, shouting. I cannot make out the guttural inflections of the Tribefolk but their meaning is obvious: Run for your lives! Crazed, they flee toward the hills that lead into the wooded mountains where, long ago, my people, Village folk, chose to build our homes. There, nestled in the bosom of the Angelina Mountains, we have remained, ever since.

The Tribefolk have always stayed in the plains and we Villagers in our mountains. This is how we have maintained peace between our two cultures. But are we now being invaded by others? How can that be? Panic pricks at the back of my neck like needles. Is this Dream-vision a premonition of a possible future or is it happening right now while I sleep? I turn my Dream-body to the east, close my eyes and beseech the wisdom of my ancestors.

Why have I been given this Dream, Ancient Ones? What does it mean? What am I to do?

Falling to my knees, I turn my face to the gray blur of sky and wait for the answer.

Susan M. Botich writes science-fiction and fantasy. She is also a freelance writer, poet, songwriter and performing musician. She has lived all over the United States from California to New York, Alaska to Hawaii, Washington to the Midwest of Iowa and Minnesota and even the high desert of Northern Nevada. She and her husband have recently made Bend, OR their home.

Susan is an eclectic reader, having interests that bridge physics and metaphysics, social and spiritual issues, and multiple genres of fiction. She simply loves to read a good story. She became a science-fiction and fantasy fan as a teen. She has always been an avid reader but turned her focus to story writing after marriage and family in her early thirties.

Susan has recently published her science-fiction novel, The Dream Star, as well as a fantasy verse-novel, Enchantments. Both books are available through amazon.com in both Kindle and print edition and barnesandnoble.com as a Nook book. Readers may also buy her books through her website http://www.susanbotich.com/.