Redemption (Redemption Series Book 1)



  Redemption

  By R. K. Ryals

  Copyright 2011 by Regina K. Ryals

  Dedication

  First and foremost, I dedicate this book to my mother who passed away in 2005. She will be my hero always. I would also like to thank Sabrina Williams and Audrey Welch for their much needed support. They were a shoulder to cry on and an ear to vent in when I needed it most. Thank you to my husband who picked up a lot of my shirked duties while I was in the Zen of writing. He is a truly amazing man. And a very, very special thank you to Melanie Bruce, a truly remarkable woman who helped make this book the best it could be.

  In the beginning . . .

  It was dark. I was supposed to be sleeping but the television was turned up too loud downstairs, and I tossed and turned instead. Mrs. Cavendish was a big fan of Tru TV, and she was laughing appallingly loud as I glanced worriedly at the glowing heart-shaped clock next to my bed. The digital numbers stood out too bright in the pitch black room. Midnight. Shouldn’t mom and dad be home already? My bedroom door creaked open, and I dove beneath my sheet.

  “Dayton?” a voice whispered uncertainly, and I pulled the cover down to find my sister’s silhouette framed against my open bedroom door. She took a hesitant step forward.

  “You okay?”

  I fought back tears. Amber knew I didn’t like the dark, but our sitter felt I was too old for a nightlight.

  “You're ten now, Dayton. There is nothing to be afraid of,” Mrs. Cavendish always said. She claimed my parents were discouraging my growth. I didn’t care one whit what she thought! I simply did not like the dark.

  “Dayton?” Amber asked again. I whimpered.

  “Will Mom and Dad be back home soon?”

  I felt her slide under the sheet next to me before pulling it over both our heads. She switched on a small Disney Princess flashlight, and I sighed with relief.

  “It won’t be long, I bet,” Amber assured me.

  She flicked the flashlight off and then on, watching the way our faces disappeared and reappeared over and over again. It made me dizzy.

  “They’ve been gone an awful long time."

  Amber clicked the light back on and left it that way. She lay flat, and we both stared up at the cotton sheet above our heads.

  “I know,” Amber whispered. She grew quiet a moment and then sighed.

  “Why don’t you tell a story, Day? It’ll pass the time.”

  I turned to look at her. Our eyes met, and I saw the worry in her gaze. A story seemed like a good idea.

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe the one about the girl and the mountain?”

  I stared at the sheet a moment and then nodded. I liked making up stories, and Amber and I spent a lot of nights this way—flashlight on and a sheet over our heads. The thin coverlet was a blank canvas, the stories were the paint, and my mind was the paint brush. It was like painting with words rather than color.

  I paused long enough to be sure the T.V. downstairs was turned up and Mrs. Cavendish was still laughing. There was still plenty of noise below, and I turned attentively to Amber. She scooted in close, and I began to tell her the tale of a girl who couldn’t sleep no matter how hard she tried. Even counting sheep failed to work. The child was discouraged. One morning while eating breakfast, she saw her mother rub irritably at the corners of her eyes. “The Sand Man has been busy,” her mother complained.

  “This intrigued the girl,” Amber interrupted.

  I nodded. I had told this story often simply because it was Amber's favorite.

  When the girl asked the mother who the Sand Man was, she described a magical being with a bag full of sand that had the power to make people sleep. This confused the girl. Why had he not come to see her? “What happens if the Sand Man doesn’t come,” she asked her mother.

  “You have to go find him in a place far away called Sleepy Mountain,” Amber cut in.

  “That’s right," I said. If sleep was not to come and the Sand Man failed to show, then the girl would have to seek him out by traveling to his home on Sleepy Mountain. This had to be accomplished before the sun rose over the horizon or the Sand Man would not part with his sand. The girl thought about this. That night, when sleep once again eluded her, she decided to go in search of the Sand Man. She followed her mother’s instructions and, before you know it, she found herself at the bottom of the mountain. But when she looked up, the mountain she found before her was so high, she could not see the top. This scared her. How could anyone climb such a mountain before morning? She wouldn’t give up! She had come this far and refused to turn back. Mustering up her courage, she began to climb.

  “Whoa there!” Amber cried out before poking me in the ribs. I jumped.

  “Hey!”

  Amber didn’t look the least bit guilty.

  “Didn’t the girl have to close her eyes and count backward from three while chanting some silly little chant first in order to even get to the mountain?”

  I frowned at her.

  “You forgot that part,” she added somewhat sheepishly when she noticed me rubbing at the sore spot she’d left behind. The poke had stung. I poked her back in retaliation. She grunted.

  “Oomph! I didn’t poke you that hard!”

  “So you say,” I argued, grinning at her discomfort.

  I retold the "chanting" part of the story before describing the mountain and the huge feat ahead. The girl began to climb. Slowly, so slowly, she propelled herself upward until her legs and arms burned. And still, she climbed. The sky around her turned purple, and she climbed faster. The top was visible.

  “I can do it! I can!” Amber and I cried out at the same time.

  We giggled. It was our favorite part of the story. The girl made it to the top of the mountain just as the sun began to move along the horizon. She was almost out of time, and she made a run for the Sand Man’s throne.

  “Help me, help me!” Amber whispered desperately as if she was the girl in the story.

  The old man looked up from his throne, startled. What was this? "I need sleep," the little girl begged. The Sand Man’s expression softened instantly. It had been many years since anyone attempted to scale his mountain and no one had ever been able to do it before dawn. The little girl had prevailed where stronger men and women had failed. The old man took out his black, star covered bag, closed her eyes gently, and blessed the girl with sleep.

  “And he promised her a restful night of slumber forevermore for her success,” Amber whispered, “That’s a good story, Day.”

  Amber rolled onto her side groggily and placed the flashlight between us. She tucked her hands beneath her head, and her eyelashes fell heavily against her cheeks. There was more to the tale, but I was too tired to go on. I reached out and placed a hand over Amber's, a feeling of comfort stealing over me as I watched her chest rise and fall gently. My own lids fell closed.