Sneak Peek: The scene that didn't make the cut.

This is part of a scene from my first book that ended up getting rewritten. The poem and the riddle ended up cut from the rewrite, so I’ll include them here.

As for background, the protagonist, Alaira, has recently met Enver, a traveler from another world. They’re slowly making their way back to her house to retrieve a key.

Image: Aleksa Kalajdzic at Pexels

When she opened her eyes again, the afternoon was fading. The heat of the day had begun to wane, and the shadows around them grew long. She blinked a few times, wondering how she could have slept so well in broad daylight, though she was thankful for the warmth even in the shade for lack of a sleeping bag.

At first, she thought Enver had fallen asleep on his knees, hunched over toward the ground, but then she realized he was awake. She recognized the position as one of prayer. When he rose, his serious, contemplative mien had returned, but when he caught her eye, his expression lightened, and he grinned. “Good, you’re up. I didn’t want to have to wake you.”

She turned away, embarrassed by the thought of sleeping too long and needing to be roused. Enver opened the bag again. He was busying himself with the food, but she hadn’t realized they would have to eat rice and beans again. Spurred on by hunger, she ate. And while part of her waited eagerly to reach the safety of home with her warm bed and varied diet, part of her didn’t want the trip to end—at least, not before she had satisfied her curiosity and received more answers. To her relief, rice was not the only food Enver had in his bag, just the main food. He pulled out two apples, and she gladly took one.

By the time Enver finished packing up their makeshift camp, the sun was lowering itself across the horizon somewhere off to the west, casting an ever-deeper shadow from the trees across them and beginning to distort the coloration of the horizon into hues of pink and red. The low angles of light outlined Enver’s frame as the sun sank lower behind the mountains; he had reverted back to a rigid posture after breaking camp.

He slung the canvas pack over his shoulder and strode out from the shadow of the trees. Quietly, she trailed behind him. She was beginning to make sense of Enver: he was quiet but reflective, serious but also seemed to have a lighter side to him somewhere that occasionally came to the surface.

They had to take a detour to cross waterways, making the trip longer. They passed dirt roads and driveways with rusted pickup trucks. The fields dominated, extending far and wide. One of the houses inhabited the edge of an overgrown field; years of neglect led the dilapidated structure to a state beyond hope of repair. Rickety fences creaked as the wind pushed them, making her wonder how the weathered fence posts remained upright. Alaira didn’t recognize anything. She had never taken this way home. She wondered what Enver thought of it in comparison to his reckoning of Ruynia.

“How long has it been since you’ve last seen Ruynia?” she asked.

“Over a month, closer to two months now.”

“I bet you’re getting pretty sick of this food.”

He chuckled. “It’s food at least, but yes, I will be happy to put this behind me.”

They continued another quarter mile with an uncomfortable silence yawning between them, but she didn’t know what to say. He didn’t seem to be keen on talking about himself, so to fill the silence, she recalled another of her gran’s poems, or at least the beginning.

"It gleams and shines in the bright light of day,

but turns dark and strange as night comes to stay.

In spring, it flows eager. In summer, it wanes.

'Til autumn reflects sparse tawny remains.

Then, at long last, winter arrives—

To freeze over all 'til springtime revives.

“That’s water, unless I’m mistaken,” Enver answered when she had finished.

“You’re right.” She realized she hadn’t given the title, making the poem somewhat more cryptic than she meant.

“Now I have one for you,” he said with an eager smile that lit up his usually distant features.

"There stands a grand house that no hand has built.

It's walls are brown, and uneven they tilt.

From the roof drips rain, though a fair light shines through.

And in warmth, it is crowned with an ample green hue."

“Mine was a poem; yours is a riddle,” she said, quickly trying to think up an answer. “I wasn’t ready. Say it again.” He repeated the riddle, and she listened more closely. An animal burrow sprang to mind with the words home and brown, but she shook her head. A burrow wasn’t grand. “A tree,” she guessed, not knowing what other answer to give.

“Hmm.” He glanced away and placed his hand on his chin. “I was going for forest as the answer, but I don’t see now how you could guess forest above tree. I think I should take tree for the answer.” He paused, surveying the stars before continuing north.

“I guess you’re not used to the stars if the sun always shines in Ruynia,” Alaira said, not fully believing that could be true of any place other than perhaps extreme latitudes over summertime. “I’ve always admired them—they illuminate the darkness.” She gazed up at the stars. The night was clear, the kind without clouds that made the air crisper as a coolness settled in. The cool of the night didn’t bother her as she walked, her movement keeping her plenty warm.

“Ordinarily, I prefer daylight myself. Nothing is hidden in the daylight.” He tipped his head from side to side in assessment. “But I can see there is some quality of enchantment they leave on the viewer.”

“That sounds almost poetic.”

“Should I make it into a poem? A poem about the stars should be very original.” He grinned, and she laughed.

Janine Eaby is the author of Beyond the Water’s Edge—a fantasy book series influenced by her faith, love of nature, and desire for adventure. Ideal for fans of portal fantasies to other worlds, like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.