Author: Kristin Kindall

FORTUNA AND THE SCAPEGRACE
A Dark Comedy South Seas Adventure
Book Two of The Epic of Didier Rain
BRIAN KINDALL
FORTUNA AND THE SCAPEGRACE
Copyright 2019 Brian Kindall
ISBN: 978-0-9994569-8-9
LCCN: 2018903490
Cover design by Rafael Andres
.mobi edition

This and other titles by Brian Kindall are available in print at major online retailers, including
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TABLE OF CONTENTS

San Francisco, California - 1855, The Beforehand
Part One - Genesis
ENTR'ACTE
Part Two - Revelations
The Afterwords
Other titles by Brian Kindall
"Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered."
- William Shakespeare
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA - 1855
THE BEFOREHAND
A SINGLE LONESOME COIN had somehow found itself lodged in the darkest depths of my otherwise unoccupied pocket. How it got there is a happenchance I will forever marvel at as one of my life’s untold pivotal mysteries. For I was, to put it plainly, destitute. My stomach was empty. My clothes were in tatters. I was in desperate need of a big tub of hot water and a bar of soap – preferably perfumed. To rub salt in my well-numbered wounds, it looked as though I would likely be enduring yet another night shivering in a stable with no company but the occasional toe-nibbling rat, and the ghosts of my own troubled past.
Woe was I!
But more than all my physical gripes were my invisible sufferings. Nothing hurts so badly as soul pain, and I had what felt to be a terminal case of that particular infirmity. It appeared the gods – once my fun-loving allies – had abandoned me to a dismal fate. Whatever had I done to peeve them so?
Well, admittedly, there were a number of possibilities.
But now – hallelujah! – an unforeseen reprieve.
I held up the coin to inspect its value. The day was entering its dusk, rain was falling, and the light was poor, but I surmised by the coin’s golden glint that at least a few of my worries could be alleviated by way of its worldly worth. I squeezed the treasure in my fist and gazed around to gain my bearings. There is nothing like unexpected riches for giving a man a fresh compass point from which to navigate his next step.
I looked first this way, then that way.
That backstreet was filled with naught but smoke and fog.
One felt himself to be the sole occupant of an otherwise uninhabited city.
To my surprise, a Chinese man sprang from the nearby shadows, gave me a meaningful nod, and scurried down the sodden lane, skipping puddles, dodging raindrops. He wore a braided ponytail swinging across his back like a bullwhip and carried a dead salmon in one hand by its tail. The fish’s head bumped in the mud as, at last, the man sashayed around a corner and disappeared.
And that is when my eyes fell upon the makeshift building behind which the fish-toting apparition had so fortuitously vanished. It was most unusual.
A veritable anomaly.
A mislaid dream.
I walked over for a closer look.
Through no small effort, some team had hauled a defunct whaling ship up from the bay and placed it between two buildings, like a skiff in a slip. The vessel’s masts were sawn off, and it was buttressed by a number of stout timbers angling out from its sides to keep it balanced on its keel in the oozing earth. A half dozen windows had been placed into the ship’s lower gunwales toward the bow, and a single door at ground level. A white light emanated from these various portals.
The light itself was inviting enough. The rain that poured down on my head right then was late winter cold and it seized me with an exaggerated discomfort. I trembled. The thought of warming my fingers over the source of said light struck me as immensely pleasing. However, it was the dripping sign hanging from the bowsprit that proved most provocative and full of promise. I craned up at it and read the words aloud to the rain.
“Fortunes Foretold.”
Now prudence and I had a long and turbulent history. In fact, one could truly say that most of my life’s more monumental decisions had been made with the malevolent purpose of thumbing my nose at that particular virtue. Recently, however, I had become determined to change. My pell-mell wisdomless ways had too often led me to ruin and were in sore need of reassessment. A more responsible charting of my life’s course was in the offing. Surely it was. And yet, as I peered up at that sign I felt my weakened self slipping, slipping ever so slightly backward into my more habitual mode of philosophication.
I scratched my chin.
I regarded the coin in my palm.
“Of course,” I muttered, “there are a number of more sensible purchases I could make with this money. That would doubtless be the responsible thing to do.”
But then I asked myself, from where had this magical coin materialized? If it had indeed been bestowed upon me by a good-hearted pixie, then what was that pixie’s intention? And with whom was the pixie in league? A benevolent deity was certainly the most obvious answer. And anyway, what man – no matter how consistently delusional – would not choose to believe he is being guided by Providence toward his sunlit destiny? It would surely be a kick to the collective groins of the gods to ignore such blatant signs and prayer answers.
I looked into the darkling sky above the sign. “And why, pray tell, did you not have me find this coin while in front of a food store, or a bathhouse?”
Again, the answer seemed clear. I was meant to find the price of an oracle’s services when in the proximity of an oracle. Still, I am proud to say, I questioned this likelihood with all the incredulity of a man sponsoring the more righteous traits of a bona fide skeptic.
I waffled responsibly.
I wavered with a calculated reticence.
Then I was struck with an idea that would transfer any responsibility for my decision to the heaven-born winds blowing my life’s boat on its seemingly fickle way.
“Why!” I told myself. “You are holding the very key to the answer in your own hand.”
I stepped over to the ship’s doorway, out of the rain, to a place that was better illuminated for my purposes. Carefully positioning the coin on my thumbnail, I poised my hand to launch it into the air. “We will now let the Fates decide for themselves. If it lands heads up, then we will be off to a dining hall for a bite of much-needed supper.” I nodded. “But if it is tails… Well, then, it is undeniable. We should go and have our fortune told.”
I nodded once more, then flipped the coin.
It twirled in an arc through the white light.
It twizzled toward my open palm.
And then it glanced off my wrist bone, tumbling to the step at my feet before rolling through a sizeable crack beneath the door.
“Hmm!”
In this way, the matter was decided.
A LITTLE BELL TINKLED when I opened the door.
I hovered sheepishly, leaning in.
“Hello?” I called, but no one immediately appeared to greet me, and so I dropped to my knees and began searching for my misplaced money. The floor was covered with an Oriental rug and it seemed unlikely that the coin could have rolled far over its plush weave. Even so, its whereabouts eluded me. I crawled with my face near to the floor, like a grazing goat, searching. I peered under a bookcase, and then a chair. I had traveled a ways into the room, patting the floor with my palms, when I was surprised to come across a pair of slippers. When the toes inside the slippers wiggled, I sat back on my heels and blinked up into the face of the person wearing them.
It was the very man I had seen in the rainy street, minus the salmon. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing a long silken robe heavily embroidered with Chinese-style designs of lilies and swirling carp.
“Oh,” I said. “Good evening.”
The man held my coin pinched in his grasp. “Please remove shoes,” he said.
“Oh.” I smiled. “Of course.” I rolled awkwardly onto my rear end and shucked off my mucky footwear. I then quickly stood with my moccasins in my hands, finding myself made somewhat self-conscious by the startling cod-belly whiteness of my naked feet.
“Please wait,” said the man, and bowed before he stepped away behind a curtain.
I walked over and placed my shoes by the front door. Then I turned to assess the room.
This had been the ship’s forecastle in its working days. It had since been changed into a foyer, complete with framed pictures and bookshelves and a pair of comfortable velvet chairs. In spite of its extensive remodelment, one could still discern the squat room’s original purpose. Iron hooks protruded from the posts and ceiling – pinions from which to hang the sleeping crew’s hammocks. One could almost hear the time-traveling echoes of those long-gone sailors snoring and murmuring and farting in their swinging slumber. One wall had a multitude of little hash marks carved into it. I conjectured that this had been some lonely seaman’s calendar, a means of counting the days before he was returned to port and the doting embrace of either a much-missed mother or a sweetheart.
I stepped close and ran my fingers over the notched wood. In my weakened state of mind, I found it quaint and poignant. For some reason, the thought of that lonely stranger put an empathetic knot in my throat and an unwarranted mist in my eyes, causing me to gulp and wink.
*****
Now who does not, even within the more banal stretches of his life’s earthly sojourn, occasionally sense an ominous, leviathan-like mystery prowling beneath the murky surface of all existence? Such powerful vibrations override any glib dismissal of their presence as mere illusory hogwash. Nonetheless, most times it is necessary to grant such reverberations no more than a passing nod. We must put them away for future contemplation and get on with the more pressing, if mundane, business of the day. After all, the world needs met its worldly needs. And yet, the sensation gripping me right then was one too powerful to be put off for such someday Sunday morning musings.
I wiped an inexplicable tear from my eye. I steadied myself against a post. I was stunned by a premonitional vision combined with a backward dash of topsy-turvy déjà vu. I know no other way to describe it. I admit it is improbable, but I swear that in that instant I remembered quite vividly my fetal soul’s brief stopover in my own mother’s womb. That warmth and weightless comfort. That amniotic slosh and gurgle as I burst headlong into this chill world. And then in my next breath, I pre-remembered my own death as it would occur sometime in a future that had not yet transpired. That those two seminal moments should so closely resemble one another gave me a severe case of the soul shivers.
Most disturbing!
Perhaps it was the setting in which I then found myself. Was I not, after all, in the abode of an all-seer? Could it be that some of the prophetic powers of the yet-to-be-met soothsayer had infiltrated my being, giving me an unsavory glimpse of self-prophecy? I do not know. Of a sudden I felt myself poised on the brink of an irrevocable destiny. The floor pressed into my heels as if the ship were climbing up the stack of a tall wave. The timbers creaked with the strain. I grew woozy. I knew I needed either to abandon ship or risk the roughest of augury seas.
I looked at the front door.
I regarded my feet, calculating the distance and effort between them and their moccasins.
“Hmm,” I thought. “You will surely forfeit your precious coin, but…” I gripped the post before me. “But at least you will escape with your ignorance intact.”
I was wholly prepared to flee when the Chinese man reemerged from behind the curtain.
“This way,” he said, and gestured into the darkness.
I vacillated, but then stumbled helplessly toward him, taking hold of his outstretched hand the way a drowning man might take hold of a cork buoy.
HE LED ME LIKE a toddler down a passageway. It was black as pitch. My eyes would not adjust to the sudden gloom as I blundered along behind. How he was able to see his way, I do not know. Why did he not simply light a candle for my benefit? I assumed it was for the sake of thrift, theatrics, or possibly he was just showing off his owlish capabilities.
“Watch head,” he said at one point, and placed his palm on my brow, pressing down as we squeezed through an invisible doorway. The stink of dead fish drifted from his fingers. I was at his mercy. I sensed we were passing through the bowels of the ship – through the hold and barrel rooms where the carving tools and slaughter hooks and blubber peelers had once been stored alongside the boilers and vats of whale oil. The air reeked faintly of bygone carnage. A taste of rancid tallow lighted on my tongue. I prayed my silk-clad midwife was delivering me to a good place, and not merely leading me somewhere better suited for my murder and subsequent mutilation.
At last, a lunar glow appeared before us.
We approached yet another curtain, and then the Chinese man parted the drapes like a cloud and let me pass into the lighted berth at the very aft of the ship.
*****
She is carved of a moonbeam!
This was my thought upon first seeing the comely telepathist.
Her skin was white as pearls, as was her flowing hair. She wore an ivory-colored gown, and its pallid redundancy worked to compound the lady’s already embellished etherealism. She seemed to glow. Her figure was thin as bone, with a minimal but pert bosom contained within the bodice of her apparel.
I will not lie – my second thought was of her nipples, which I could detect protruding just faintly from behind their gauzy wrapper. Were they, I wondered hungrily, but spiced albino gumdrops?
I suppose it could be argued that my thoughts were the easily predictable sort had by any starving man who had been deprived of feminine companionship for a good long while. I chastened myself for this, as it was not in keeping with my gentlemanly ways. But in that moment, the lady gave me a coy nod that indicated she was in fact reading my mind, as well as affirming my aforementioned question concerning the coloration and flavor of her nippular accouterments.
Surely I was in the presence of a strange and wonderful power!
“Bienvenu chez moi,” she said, and motioned with her hand to her quarters.
“Oh,” I answered. “I beg your pardon?”
She raised an eyebrow, as if amused. “You are not French?”
“Uh,” I stammered. “No. Er…” But then I remembered that I was talking to someone who purportedly knew me better than I knew myself. “Well,” I smirked, “at least not anymore.”
*****
The truth of the matter was, I had grown weary of who I had become in recent years, a direct result, at least in part, I concluded, of an inability to shake the lingering traces of my bastardized French-derivation. I was in want of a new start in life, a new set of personality garb, if you will. I sought a metamorphosis. To this end, I had set about vehemently denying my legacy and my past. Recently, I had made elaborate gestures, the foremost of these being to bury an effigy of my old self in an actual grave. It was a symbolic act, to be sure, but one I hoped would work wonders for the sloughing of my careworn shell. I wanted to be rid of Erstwhile Me once and for all. I even went so far as to carve a grave marker and say a few words over my former self’s resting place.
“He was a scalawag,” I had said, with bowed head and hat in hands. “A ne’er-do-well nincompoop and butt hook with unreasonable aspirations. The two-legged stuff of tragedy. A word twister. A cut-rate rhymester and a bastard besides. An assonant ass with alliterative tendencies. Good for not much.” I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Although irrefutably, he was somewhat suave and handsome to the ladies, willing to serve them with an unbending and upright bravado whenever allowed to so do.”
I gazed over the rain-sodden hillside I had chosen for my former self’s eternal resting place. A crow flapped like a rag across the wind.
“I cannot say he will be missed,” I concluded. “But nevertheless, adieu. May he rest in peace.”
The gravestone read –
Here lies one Didier Rain
Once a Bard, now a Carcass.
NEVERMORE HIS POESY WILL BE HEARD
My honest hope was that anyone finding that grave mound would determine that my jellied corpse was moldering underneath. Truth be told, I was somewhat on the lam at the time, as a certain contingent was after me for an infraction they felt I had committed against their sect. Maybe now they would give up their chase. Either way, I was pleased to be nameless and, more or less, naked as a newborn, with hope in my heart, and a fresh beginning most assuredly awaiting me as I set out to discover my next life.
Sadly, it had been somewhat rougher than I had foreseen. Even in the gold-lined streets of San Francisco. Thus, my current state of destitution. And twice thus my irrational eagerness to hear if my fortune would soon turn more favorable.
THE SOOTHSAYER’S ROOM WAS elegantly simple, with none of the flamboyant finery one typically finds in such an establishment. There were no tarot cards strewn about, and no voodoo dolls. There were no Zodiacal charts or spirit bones or telepathic hairballs. The walls were whitewashed and blank. Somehow this austerity lent an unexpected credibility to the little industry and its alabaster proprietress. One sensed that a lucid insight could be more genuinely ascertained in such a tidy and colorless venue.
A dark curtain divided that part of the room in which we stood from another part kept out of sight. A large silver bowl rested on a squat table, and an orbicular lamp hovered above it like a miniature moon. The bowl was half full of water. A pair of spoke-back chairs faced each other from opposite sides of the table. The lady bid me to sit on one chair, and so I did.
She sat on the other.
A brackish fragrance wafted from the bowl between us, indicating that the water it held had been drawn from the bay. My senses were somewhat aroused, and I could also detect – like a breeze blown over a bank of tropical flowers – the unmistakable attar of a well-cosseted femininity.
I was amused to see a yellow minnow darting about in the bowl.
The lady smiled and reached toward me. “Take my hands.”
I pushed up my sleeves and interlaced her thin fingers in my own. It had been some months since I had enjoyed a proper manicure, but she did not seem to mind my grubbiness. She squeezed my fingers affectionately as she lowered our hands into the tepid water.
The sensation was quite visceral. It had been a long time since I had coupled with a creature quite so lovely, and it was most agreeable to do so now, if only in a benign, handholding fashion. The near warmth of the water heightened the sensuality of the moment, and I blush to say it, but the entire experience worked to cause a certain stirring in the long-dormant manliness sequestered in my trousers.
Our hands floated weightless in the bowl.
The minnow wove in and out around our wrists.
I began to relax.
At last, the lady leaned forward, entered a trance-like state, and then, as if peering into the pages of a book, she began to read.
*****
Now the language she spoke to me was not one I recognized at first. It was a melodious mix of awes and oohs and lahs. Her charming libretto rolled and flowed in exotic, rhythmic waves. The tip of her tongue appeared intermittently between her pearly teeth. The pale lucent rose of her lips pouted and puckered in resonant labial spasms. A deep part of her, it seemed, was communicating with a deep part of me.
From a primordial place long submerged.
In an original language before words.
It made no sense at the start. But by and by, I began to believe I could indeed remember that old vernacular from long ago. It was water music sloshing. It was the jargon of bare wet skin brushing lightly against bare wet skin. The laughter of unborn babes. The lullaby of whales. The hallowed hush of a church left empty after the choir has shuffled out. It was God cracking his knuckles on high while stardust sprinkled down onto the eyelids of sleeping maidens.
“I see rain,” she told me in this oblique language. “Followed by sunny days.”
I took that as hopeful information.
“I see a little death.”
Not so hopeful. But then, I thought, perhaps she is only referring to the recent death of my former self.
“And a rebirth.”
Hmmm.
I confess, I cannot prove she voiced these things exactly, but that was the translation as I heard it with my own ears. Her breath uttered forth little echoes of wind full of secret meanings designed, it seemed, for me alone. Such was her method of prophecy. And yes, I suppose a more skeptical sort could argue that what she uttered was so undeniably vague and unfathomable that what I thought I heard was only what I so badly wanted to hear.
Phrases like –
“I see a fondling bosom in your future.”
And – “I see the possibility of great riches, and a much-sought comfort and contentment.”
Who, outside of a lunatic, could hear such exactitudes through her nonsensical blarb and blabble?
Well, I thought, time will unravel the particulars.
Maybe it will prove true, maybe not.
I was keen to find out.
And anyway, I had experienced enough baffling mystery in my life to know that only a faithless dupe would choose to doubt such favorable, and possibly heaven-sent, blessings of foresight.
AT LAST, THE FORTUNETELLER finished her predictive incantations.
She lifted our dripping hands from the water.
The Chinese man came in with a towel and we dried ourselves. I found this intimate and most enjoyable to do, holding our hands out before us over the bowl and patting them with the one towel. After that, the man took the towel and draped it over his shoulder, and then he squatted and, with a grunt, lifted the bowl from the table. He struggled not to slop the water and minnow onto the floor as he staggered into the darkness beyond the doorway.
I looked into the lady’s face. She seemed strangely familiar. Her eyes were very nearly clear, holding only the faintest suggestion of blue, like shallow water pooling over clean white sand. Her gaze roved over my person, and I had the discomfiting sense that she was sizing me up as a man – an assessment for which I felt, on that particular evening, ill-prepared.
Most mystics I had encountered in the past were either scabby old men or wart-laden hags. They all reeked of smoldering incense mixed up with the odor of something dead left out a little too long in the sun. But not this one. Had I known she was going to be so exquisite, so appealingly wraithlike and fair, I most certainly would have prefaced my visit with a haircut and a shave, and maybe even cleaned my teeth. Yes. Call it the misguided whimsy of a desolate man, but I found myself hoping the lady and my destinies might prove to be intertwined, and that the fondling bosom she had so vividly mentioned in her premonition might turn out, coincidentally, to be her very own.
My stomach growled loudly.
“Pardon,” I said, and felt myself redden.
“You are alone in San Francisco?”
“Uh…” This caught me off guard. “Yes, madam, I am.”
“What is your profession?”
“Well… honestly, I am between vocations at the moment. Formerly I was a wandering Romantic Poet – a nomadic wordsmith, of sorts – but recently I have decided to make a career change. Sadly, it turns out that penners of heartfelt verse are greatly underappreciated in this part of the world. I have kind of lost my taste for it besides. It is a fool’s pursuit, a compulsion that I have sworn off, involving too much soul-searching to be healthy, too much mental and spiritual anguish not to cause a persistent ache in one’s heart and spleen.” I shrugged. “Anyway, it is a hard way to earn one’s bread.”
“And what will your new career be?”
“I am open to the possibilities, but…” I held up my palms. “Your guess is most assuredly better than mine.”
“You have no friends or family in your life?”
I squirmed in my seat and considered the pathetic truth. “None to speak of. Of course, like most fellows, I did have a mother. But I have not seen her in many years. She may well have passed on to paradise by now.”
The lady nodded, apparently thinking. Her interrogations were making me somewhat uncomfortable, but I assumed it was all part of her services. Although mention of my mother made me feel queer and sentimental, I felt I needed to speak with a forthcoming candor. Perhaps the lady was not yet done with me and was gleaning further information for another prediction concerning my bright and happy future. Besides, it had been so long since I had conversed with anyone, it was somewhat cathartic to do so now.
Still, for all the narcissistic enjoyment I was experiencing in talking about myself, I somewhat wanted to know a thing or two about my hostess. Things like – where was she from? What was her name? Did she find me handsome? Had she ever read Keats? What did she look like naked? And could she ever see herself living the rest of her life in connubial bliss with a tender, if failed, poet?
She pushed away from the table and stood.
Eager to appear the gentleman, I pushed back too, but in my haste, I upset my chair and it banged backward onto the floor. I scrambled to right the chair and regain my poise. When I turned around, the lady had moved to the dark curtain and was drawing it back along a cord.
A quaint parlor lay beyond – a separate arrangement entirely from the austere room in which she performed her business. A dreamy seascape caught my eye right off, complete with the sails of a ship disappearing over a distant, stormy horizon. It hung on the wall over a satin divan loaded with tasseled pillows. A fish bowl rested atop a marble pedestal at one end of the divan, filled with more of the yellow minnows. A little table with a pair of silver hand bells stood at the other end. A rug covered the floor. A squat porcelain brazier was mounted near the wall, and I detected from the quiet click and snap I heard coming from behind its grate that it held a cheery flame.
The lady glided into the room and let herself onto the divan, extending her legs over its length. Her gown fell open partway down, revealing a pair of thin vanilla knees that brought to my mind a statue I had once seen in an Italian fountain. I inadvertently tipped back on my heels and sucked at my teeth.
“Would you care to warm yourself at my fire?” she asked.
Oh, man!
Now, I was generally dank. My clothes and I had been out in the rain for days on end, and I could not be certain that moss was not beginning to sprout between my shoulders and shirt. Hovering near to the lady’s fire, so to speak, might just cure my constant juddering and overall stiffness. And yet, for all of the luxurious promise of comfort, for all of my aforementioned longings concerning the lady’s bosom, I felt a trifling of doubt flutter in the deepest depths of my common sense as I wavered on the threshold of the lady’s parlor.
Do not go there, I heard a self-preserving voice whisper in my ear. Something is not right. Turn and leave.
“Would you care for some brandy?” asked the lady.
No! shouted my inner voice.
I rubbed my chin as I hemmed and confusedly hawed.
Oh why, oh why, I asked myself, does life always have to do this to me? No sooner do I determine to change my ways and become a wiser and more prudent man then I am thrust into a situation that is full of dubious allurement. Sure, this encounter could lead to nothing more than friendly conversation and a bit of tongue-warming libation, and maybe it could even go so far as to end with me held for a time in the lady’s marble arms, but I had experienced enough such situations to understand that it was more likely to plunge straight to hell and drag me with it. And yet, as I regarded the lady’s kneecaps, I found myself thinking that a brush with hell might not be so bad. At least this one last time. What, after all, is ever gained without taking a chance?
Well, if it does not go as hoped, I told myself, we will most assuredly change our reckless course once and for all.
My inner voice offered its opinion, but I was unable to hear it clearly, as it seemed to sound from under deep water and came to me like nothing more than popping bubbles.
“A bit of brandy would be very nice,” I heard myself say at last. I stepped over to the brazier and opened my hands, waggling my fingers over its warmth. The rug felt luxurious under my toes. “Thank you.”
The lady smiled and reached toward the two bells on the side table. Her hand rested on the handle of the smallest. She hesitated; she had a thought. And then she picked up the larger of the two bells and made it ring.
Yes, I admit, in hindsight this could have been interpreted as a suspicious clue to the events that were soon to transpire. Why one bell over the other? But by that point, I was bewitched beyond help. I could already taste the lady’s brandy-damped lips. I could pre-feel her doting embrace. I had made my leap, as they say, and now there was nothing to do but wait for the splash.
Or possibly the thud.

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https://www.briankindall.com
OTHER TITLES BY BRIAN KINDALL:
DELIVERING VIRTUE, adult fiction: Book One of The Epic of Didier Rain
Didier Rain is broke, lovesick, and just off a three-day whiskey binge. And yet, The Church of the Restructured Truth has been told in a vision that he’s the man to fulfill their Holy Prophecy. He must deliver Virtue – a blue-eyed infant – 1,000 miles along the western pioneer trail to their prophet’s stronghold as his child bride to be. Savages, zealots, and wildfire all stand in Rain’s way, not to mention a list of Thou-shalt-nots designed to thwart any man’s most basic comforts. But there’s something holy about the job – something, Rain suspects, that might just turn his sorry life toward a better path.
In Delivering Virtue – Book One of The Epic of Didier Rain – Brian Kindall takes the classic novel of the West and turns it on its head. Grandiloquent humor, pathos, and a cast of absurd and depraved characters all come together in an American Frontier world inspired by myth and legend, creating a surreal and disarmingly poignant adventure reviewers are calling a triumph of American Magical Realism.

BLUE SKY, middle-grade novel:
Blue Sky can climb like an ibex. She was raised in the highest peaks of the Alps by the herd and named for the color of her eyes. They say her father was a fallen alpinist and her mother his beautiful dying dream… and so, as you may guess, she’s somewhat magical – strong and sure-footed on the peaks, and natural as an ibex in this harsh environment of wind, rock, and ice. Until the day she rescues a young alpinist from a stormy peak. The boy looks like her, and he tells her of the mysterious world beyond the crags. Sky longs to follow him. Can a girl raised by ibex in the mountains ever join the world of humans? Blue Sky must first fulfill her destiny with the ibex and find the courage to leave everything she’s ever known.

A tale of self-reliance about a girl who finds strength in being who she really is and the courage to follow her dreams.

PEARL, middle-grade novel:
Pearl can’t move. She’s never wanted to, until now. Life above the waves beckons to her as she watches the boats moving along the surface of the water above her. Pearl is a statue carved of milk-white stone that has stood on the floor of an ancient sea for a thousand years, but she’s waking up, and she wants more. As desire builds within her, it propels her on a journey that takes her to an exotic island grotto, into the midst of a bloody revolution, underground into a rat-infested tomb, and, at last, to a magical mountain paradise. Crazed rebels, wise philosophers, greedy grave robbers, and a few other friendly people and fish accompany her along the way, as she asks the question, “Is desire enough?” She'll have to have faith in the stars. She'll have to muster more courage than she's ever imagined. But perhaps by journey's end, Pearl will believe in herself, experience a miracle, and realize her greatest desire of all.