Title:
Birthright Bestowed
Author: Erika M Szabo
Series: Ilona The Hun Trilogy
Genre: Fantasy/Magical-Realism/Romance/Mystery/Urban
fantasy
Publisher: 5 Prince Publishing
Release Date: October 18 2012
Edition/Format:
Ebook and Print
Blurb/Synopsis:
Ilona is an emergency room doctor, born into an ancient Hun
tribe which still exists hidden amongst us with its strict and
fiercely enforced rules. She doesn’t know much about her Hun heritage besides
legends, customs and rituals that she continues out of respect for her parents
whose sudden death ten years before devastated her. She plays her tune on her
birthday given to her by her grandmother.
Elza – Ilona’s housekeeper - explains the purpose of the tune is to let
the elders know she had come to age. Her mother didn’t have a chance to explain
her inherited powers, but after her 29th birthday when she is considered as an
adult by Hun standards, she begins to remember the forgotten instructions
concealed as rhymes her mother was teaching her since she was a small child.
Ilona discovers she can heal with her bare hands; she can rearrange the human
body to its healthy state. This ability is exciting as well as frightening. She
is conflicted between having confidence in her intelligence and inherited
abilities while having no confidence as a woman. Her insecurity created
barriers which keep others out, and I also keep her caged in. She’s been in
love with her unsuspecting best friend Bela, when a dashing stranger explodes
into her life. The sudden magnetic feeling frightens her and discovering evil
in him doesn’t help either. A sinister dark man appears Ilona connects his
presence with the series of mysterious deaths around her. Zoltan saves her life
by jeopardizing his, which prompts Ilona to start fitting the puzzle pieces
together and discovering the ancient tribal secrets that not only can change
her future but the future existence of the Huns as well.
Purchase
Links
Barnes and
Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/birthright-bestowed-erika-szabo/1113521952?ean=2940015492262
Createspace: https://www.createspace.com/4045394
I’ve been publishing Alternative Medicine
related books. I love healing as passionately as I love to read. Growing up
with a father who was a closet reader (having a macho image allowed him to read
only in secret which he shared with me after I caught him reading my book ‘The
lady of the camellias’ and he left a few teardrops on the pages) he introduced
me to many great books. The inspiration to write a novel came from my daughter.
I’m an avid reader, and she was yelling at me to stop whining when I didn’t
have anything to read. She said, “If you don’t have a book to read, than write one”.
The idea shocked me a little at first, because English is my second language,
but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The history of the Huns always
fascinated me, they were my ancestors. I was playing with the idea of writing a
fantasy story peppered with historical facts, and then I decided that it was a
stupid idea after I started reading about how to write a fiction book. 'I am
not a literary genius, I have no idea how to create a good story line or form
characters and make up a plot.' I thought, but the idea didn’t leave me alone.
I kept adding events and dialogs in my head to Ilona’s story. Not knowing how
to do something properly had never prevented me from a accepting a good
challenge before, so I sat down by the computer and I began writing. I've never
been good at following rules or formulas, therefore I discarded the
instructions and I made up my own rules. I began writing Ilona's story as a
diary. 'Just for my own enjoyment, writing down the ideas that are swirling in
my head is far better than being hunted by them.' I thought. I kept writing for
months, and soon I realized that I never had so much fun doing anything in my
life before. Somehow the characters came to life on their own, and they
developed under my furiously typing fingers. Pretty soon I realized that I
wrote about four hundred pages already. I gave the manuscript to my friends to
read, and they urged me to publish it. I was elated when I received the
publisher’s review about my story that said “I want to give you my overall impression
of your work: You have a terrific writing style. You have obviously done a
significant amount planning and preparation in crafting your work. Your prose
is nicely written with details that capture the reader. Right from the start
your plot was very engaging. You do a nice job of slowly making your way
through the story with details and a certain voice that allows your reader to
really interact with the characters (who are all round and very nicely
developed). The greatest value in fiction, it seems to me, lies in what we can
learn about our own lives when we take time to analyze someone else’s — even if
that someone else is just a character in a story. Characterization is one of
the most important elements of any successful story. I always love it when I
leave a story feeling like I know the characters. This is true for your prose.
So many authors rush through their stories without really developing them. Not
you. Your book read like a movie in my mind. You have crafted a quality piece
of writing.”Social Media Links
WEBSITE: http://www.authorerikaszabo.com
FACEBOOK PAGES:
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/#!/erikamszabo
LINKEDIN: http://lnkd.in/N64qzw
I was dreaming.
In the dream I was about four or five with pigtails, wearing
a ruffled white dress. We were in a grocery store; I was happily hopping and
singing, holding onto my mother’s hand, delighted to be with her as always. She
smiled at me. Her hand was warm and silky, and her lustrous dark reddish hair
flowed to her mid-back. She had the deepest blue eyes, framed by long lashes.
Her eyes promised love and security. I admired her and wanted to be with her
all the time. To my childish disappointment, she was busy for the biggest part
of every day. When she could spend the whole day with me, I enjoyed every
moment of our time together. I was chattering away, happy she was paying attention
to me, only to me. I was telling her a silly story I’d made up, when I saw an
old woman fall in the middle of the aisle. I tore my hand from mother’s grasp
and ran over to the woman. She was wincing in pain, lying on the floor. I felt
my mother behind me.
“Momma, she is broken. I want to fix her!” I looked up,
hoping for her approval.
“All right, sweet pea, you know what to do. Gather the wish
in your core and concentrate on it. There you go. You’re doing fine. Now, put
your hands on her. Don’t be afraid, go ahead!” I heard my mother’s velvety
voice, and I felt her hand on my shoulder. As I touched the woman’s hip, I felt
warmth emanating from my fingers. A serene, satisfied feeling washed over me.
I sat up in bed startled. My room was dark; the digital clock
blinked two in the morning. Whoa, where did that dream come from? I whispered
quietly. I fluffed my pillow, pulled the comforter up to my chin and
immediately fell back asleep.
J
The sun woke me around seven. It snuck little fingers
through the lace curtains, tickling my nose. I sneezed, yawned, and then I
stretched lazily under the silky lilac cover. It was a beautiful Sunday morning
in early September. The air was spicy with the aroma of ripened fruits. I
didn’t have to get up early; I had taken the day off. The birthday girl should
enjoy the luxury of sleeping in, I thought, as I rolled on my side, trying to
find a comfortable position to go back to sleep. I couldn’t. I recalled my
dream clearly and I wished I hadn’t woken up in the middle of it. I was
wondering how it might have continued. Perhaps I had healed that woman by
touching her. The thought made me smile.
I tossed and turned, trying to figure out what made me feel
so wide-awake and keenly aware. My dream had triggered this feeling, I just knew
it. A vague and nagging memory in the deep recesses of my mind was trying to
surface, yet I couldn’t pry it up close enough to remember. I felt a strange
yearning and excitement inside me. This notion was new to me; usually I kept my
emotions well under control. I tried to hush it, urging it to leave me alone
and let me savor the lazy morning, but I couldn’t. I tried to repress the
yearning which was relentlessly creeping up on me. It became pressing, strong
and nameless until I finally understood what it was.
I felt a deep urge to heal someone. I thought about the
unusual dream and I wondered: I am a
doctor. For me it shouldn’t be strange
wanting to heal people. This feeling was different from the usual - your
illness confirmed I’ll write the prescription – type. I had this strange idea
that by touching someone I could instantly wipe away all their illness. Yeah,
right! Like that’s ever going to happen. I wish it could be that easy…. I
played a little with the inconceivable notion. I tried to figure out why I felt
so excited. It couldn’t have been birthday jitters; those days were long gone
when I was looking forward to birthdays and gifts. Celebrations became a
nuisance rather than enjoyable events. I had resigned myself to leading a
quiet, single life, and being a loner.
Suddenly, my mother’s face swam in front of my mind’s eye.
Seeing her so clearly took me by surprise. We were celebrating my ninth
birthday. I saw everything so clearly, as if a movie were playing in my mind.
Mom was smiling and leaning toward me. I had a strong feeling that it was
something important she wanted to tell me, but my nine-year-old self just
didn’t pay much attention to what she said. The silly girl was eager to open
the presents.
“Remember, little one, your twenty-ninth birthday will be
the turning point in your life, you will be a grownup. You will find out about
your heritage and…”
“But Mo-o-m, I’m only nine years old!” I cut her off
angrily, eyeing the present table. “Can I go and open my presents? Pleease!” I
whined, tugging at her dress.
“Okay, go, but let me show you something first,” she said. I
was eager to find out what was in the big silver-wrapped box, so I just nodded.
I saw Mom pulling something small and shiny out of her pocket.
“This necklace will be yours on your twenty-ninth birthday,
this is your heritage and represents…”
Why is she showing it to me now if she won’t give it to me?
I thought angrily, and I turned toward the table loaded with presents while she
was still talking. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a small golden
medallion hanging on a leather string between her extended fingers. It was just
a necklace, of no meaning to me, so I turned and ran. She was still talking as
I left, but my mind was already on the bike I was hoping for.
I wish I had paid more attention back then. She had
mentioned the importance of my heritage… and that the necklace represented…
What? I couldn’t remember anything else, no matter how hard I tried. It must be
important; her message is trying to emerge from the fog filling my brain. Her
message must be in my subconscious memory; she was still talking when I turned
away from her. I speculated. I tried every method I knew of to recall that
memory. I tried to picture Mom in different places, waiting for the memory to
click. I tried to picture us in my old room; I recalled other birthdays when I
was kid…… but it was no use. She never repeated that sentence, and she never
had a chance to give me the necklace. She didn’t live to see my twenty-ninth
birthday. Oh Momma, you promised to give me that necklace today, I miss you so
much! I sobbed softly into my pillow.
Going back to sleep became impossible, and the nagging
feeling returned with full force. It started to annoy me. I tried to shrug it
off, yet it kept badgering me. I knew it would haunt me relentlessly unless I
tried to relax and stop obsessing about it. I threw the covers off, and walked
barefoot to the bathroom, deep in thought. I took a wrong turn in the hall,
opening the linen closet door by mistake. The change of rooms didn’t set in
just yet. Sweet and creamy chocolate, what a dope! I mumbled, and oriented
myself toward the bathroom.
During my shower, the nagging feelings grew stronger and
stronger. By the time I’d finished drying my hair, my nerves were on edge. I
tried to order myself to act normal, to just go about my day as usual. I went
down to the kitchen, trying to make my swirling thoughts quiet down, telling
myself to just enjoy the day. Frustrated, I realized it was not going to be an
easy task – this time I couldn’t control my emotions as I had before.
I found my housekeeper Elza in the kitchen, busy making
breakfast. Her long auburn hair was pulled into a tight bun. She was wearing a
gray uniform with the crisp white apron pressed and wrinkle free. I had always
hated that darned uniform, yet she insists on wearing it and she ends our
countless arguments over it every time by saying, ‘I am your housekeeper. I
like who I am, and that’s that!’ It makes no difference to her that I am the boss
– she always does as she pleases.
I tried to force my disapproval and nagging thoughts to
subside. Elza seemed preoccupied; she turned away quickly when I reached for
her hand. She knew I could read her feelings by touching her. She surprised me,
but I respected her wish. Yet it bugged me that she was trying to hide
something from me. To feel that strong yearning inside, and then be emotionally
rejected by my own housekeeper, started affecting me more than I could
tolerate. I just hoped that after prayer and breakfast everything would return
to normal.
Ema, Elza’s daughter and Rua, my groundskeeper, joined us in
the living room to begin our usual Morning Prayer. The role of leading the
ceremony had fallen on my shoulders ever since my mother had died. I never
fully understood why I had to do it. After my mother was gone, Elza insisted
that I continue the True Hun tradition, so I obeyed to please her. When I had
pressured her to give me an explanation, she always clammed up. She said I
would find out when the time was right. There goes nothing, again. I don’t
understand all the secrecy about being a Hun. What the big fuss is about is
beyond me. I hoped the awful feeling would stop so that I could enjoy the day.
Hopefully, concentrating on the ceremony will help me to calm down, I thought.
I lit the sacred candles infused with herbs, and I placed it
in silver candleholder on the small round table. The ancient wooden figurines
of male and female holding hands stood between the candles, with our delicately
carved Turul bird. The statues were small; they had a deep, warm brown color.
My family had owned them for who knows how long. The rich shiny brown color
came from the hot herbal tea poured over them every morning by Elza, and many
before her, for generations. The bird held widely stretched wings over the male
and female figurines. Beside the statues was an ancient, dark leather-bound
book. It contained the names and life stories of my ancestors.
Comments
Post a Comment