The fire died low, casting a shadowy light on the walls of the lodge. Now and then a hickory knot exploded sending a flurry of sparks scurrying up into the darkness. Winter lay stretched out, covering the land in a great whiteness which blanketed the meadows and enwrapped the hills. Large flakes of snow drifted down, magically appearing out of the black expanse that had replaced the sky and stolen the stars. Night had brought with it no breeze; no wind to stir the pines and make them speak. There was only silence, not even the cry of the owl; only quiet and snow.

*****

In this collection of original short stories, Elizabeth Bluehorse takes us on a journey into the craft of the Native Storyteller. Through these tales, fashioned after the oratory style of the Grandfathers, readers will find themselves transported deep into the magical heart of the natural world as seen through the eyes of the wenakshe’.

(In the Cherokee language wenakshe’ is a term which indicates one’s extended family - past, present, and future.)

ISBN 1-58500-744-7

Author's website: http://www.angelfire.com/nm/bluehorse