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Get Instant Access to The Eye Of The World: Book One Of 'the Wheel Of Time' By Robert Jordan. #8cf EBOOK EPUB site PDF. The Eye Of The World – Wheel Of Time 01 Robert Jordan PROLOGUE Dragonmount The palace still shook occasionally as th. Jordan, Robert - Wheel of Time 01 - Eye of the World. Home · Jordan, Robert Robert Jordan - The Wheel of Time 01 - The Eye of the World. Read more.
The land sloped gently down to the east.
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Though not without patches of woods, farms and hedge-bordered fields and pastures quilted the land beyond the village all the way to the Waterwood and its tangle of streams and ponds. The land to the west was just as fertile, and the pastures there lush in most years, but only a handful of farms could be found in the Westwood. Some said the land was too rocky, as if there were not rocks everywhere in the Two Rivers, and others said it was hard-luck land.
A few muttered that there was no point getting any closer to the mountains than needs be. Whatever the reasons, only the hardiest men farmed in the Westwood. Small children and dogs dodged around the cart in whooping swarms once it passed the first row of houses. Bela plodded on patiently, ignoring the yelling youngsters who tumbled under her nose, playing tag and rolling hoops.
In the last months there had been little of play or laughter from the children; even when the weather had slackened enough to let children out, fear of wolves kept them in. It seemed the approach of Bel Tine had taught them how to play again.
Festival had affected the adults as well. Broad shutters were thrown back, and in almost every house the goodwife stood in a window, apron tied about her and long-braided hair done up in a kerchief, shaking sheets or hanging mattresses over the windowsills.
Whether or not leaves had appeared on the trees, no woman would let Bel Tine come before her spring cleaning was done. In every yard rugs hung from stretched lines, and children who had not been quick enough to run free in the streets instead vented their frustration on the carpets with wicker beaters.
Several times Tam paused to engage one man or another in brief conversation. Since he and Rand had not been off the farm for weeks, everyone wanted to catch up on how things were out that way.
Few Westwood men had been in.
Tam spoke of damage from winter storms, each one worse than the one before, and stillborn lambs, of brown fields where crops should be sprouting and pastures greening, of ravens flocking in where songbirds had come in years before. Grim talk, with preparations for Bel Tine going on all around them, and much shaking of heads. It was the same on all sides. People who had to watch the hail beat their crops or the wolves take their lambs, and start over, no matter how many years it happened, did not give up easily.
Most of those who did were long since gone. Tam would not have stopped for Wit Congar if the man had not come out into the street so they had to halt or let Bela run over him. The Congars — and the Coplins; the two families were so intermarried no one really knew where one family let off and the other began — were known from Watch Hill to Deven Ride, and maybe as far as Taren Ferry, as complainers and troublemakers. He never seemed ready to start over, or to finish what he started the first time.
Most of the Coplins and Congars were like that, those who were not worse. And a good harvest. Now you ask her what she hears on the wind, and she just scowls at you and stomps off. Wit flinched as his wife marched out of the house. Daise Congar was twice as wide as Wit, a hard-faced woman without an ounce of fat on her.
She glared at him with her fists on her hips. And washing your own clothes and making your own bed. The Light shine on you both. Daise was concentrating on her husband now, but any minute she could realize whom it was Wit had been talking to. That was why they had not accepted any of the invitations to stop for a bite to eat or something hot to drink. There was not a one of them who did not know just the perfect wife for a widower with a good farm, even if it was in the Westwood.
Rand stepped along just as quickly as Tam, perhaps even more so. He was sometimes cornered when Tam was not around, with no way to escape outside of rudeness. Herded onto a stool by the kitchen fire, he would be fed pastries or honeycakes or meatpies. Tam was certainly not getting any younger, she would say. It was good that he had loved his wife so — it boded well for the next woman in his life — but he had mourned long enough.
Tam needed a good woman. It was a simple fact, she would say, or something very close, that a man just could not do without a woman to take care of him and keep him out of trouble. Worst of all were those who paused thoughtfully at about that point, then asked with elaborate casualness exactly how old he was now. Like most Two Rivers folk, Rand had a strong stubborn streak. Outsiders sometimes said it was the prime trait of people in the Two Rivers, that they could give mules lessons and teach stones.
The goodwives were fine and kindly women for the most part, but he hated being pushed into anything, and they made him feel as if he were being prodded with sticks. So he walked fast, and wished Tam would hurry Bela along. Soon the street opened onto the Green, a broad expanse in the middle of the village.
Usually covered with thick grass, the Green this spring showed only a few fresh patches among the yellowish brown of dead grass and the black of bare earth. A double handful of geese waddled about, beadily eyeing the ground but not finding anything worth pecking, and someone had tethered a milkcow to crop the sparse growth.
The Eye of the World
Toward the west end of the Green, the Winespring itself gushed out of a low stone outcrop in a flow that never failed, a flow strong enough to knock a man down and sweet enough to justify its name a dozen times over. Two low, railed footbridges crossed the clear stream at the Green, and one bridge wider than the others and stout enough to bear wagons. It was a good enough reason for Two Rivers people.
On the far side of the bridges, the mounds were already building for the Bel Tine fires, three careful stacks of logs almost as big as houses.
They had to be on cleared dirt, of course, not on the Green, even sparse as it was. What of Festival did not take place around the fires would happen on the Green. Near the Winespring a score of older women sang softly as they erected the Spring Pole. Shorn of its branches, the straight, slender trunk of a fir tree stood ten feet high even in the hole they had dug for it. A knot of girls too young to wear their hair braided sat cross-legged and watched enviously, occasionally singing snatches of the song the women sang.
Tam ducked at Bela as if to make her speed her pace, though she ignored it, and Rand studiously kept his eyes from what the women were doing. In the morning the men would pretend to be surprised to find the Pole, then at noon the unmarried women would dance the Pole, entwining it with long, colored ribbons while the unmarried men sang.
No one knew when the custom began or why — it was another thing that was the way it had always been — but it was an excuse to sing and dance, and nobody in the Two Rivers needed much excuse for that. The whole day of Bel Tine would be taken up with singing and dancing and feasting, with time out for footraces, and contests in almost everything.
Prizes would be given not only in archery, but for the best with the sling, and the quarterstaff. There would be contests at solving riddles and puzzles, at the rope tug, and lifting and tossing weights, prizes for the best singer, the best dancer and the best fiddle player, for the quickest to shear a sheep, even the best at bowls, and at darts.
Bel Tine was supposed to come when spring had well and truly arrived, the first lambs born and the first crop up.
Even with the cold hanging on, though, no one had any idea of putting it off. Everyone could use a little singing and dancing. And to top everything, if the rumors could be believed, a grand display of fireworks was planned for the Green — if the first peddler of the year appeared in time, of course.
That had been causing considerable talk; it was ten years since the last such display, and that was still talked about. The first floor of the inn was river rock, though the foundation was of older stone some said came from the mountains.
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At the south end of the inn, away from the stream, stretched the remains of a much larger stone foundation, once part of the inn — or so it was said.
A huge oak grew in the middle of it now, with a bole thirty paces around and spreading branches as thick as a man. A smile split his round face, which was topped by a sparse fringe of gray hair. The innkeeper was in his shirtsleeves despite the chill, with a spotless white apron wrapped around him. A silver medallion in the form of a set of balance scales hung on his chest.
Bran only wore it for dealing with the merchants and for festivals, feastdays, and weddings. He had it on a day early now, but that night was Winternight, the night before Bel Tine, when everyone would visit back and forth almost the whole night long, exchanging small gifts, having a bite to eat and a touch to drink at every house. And you, Rand.
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How are you, my boy? And the weather. Everyone complains about it, and folk who should know better expect me to set it right.
Though what she expected me to do. He tried to fix both men at once with a beady eye. Henney Company -- Vying for industry leadership: Christians and cultural contribution -- Epilogue: Translation of Storie di tre uccellini. Cover title. IntroductionTojo Thatchenkery and Roger R. Stough Part I: Economic Development Theory and Practice: Stough, Kingsley E. Haynes and Maria Elena Salazar3. Information Communication Technology and Economic Development: Stough, Govindasamy Balatchandirane and Rupa Ranganathan4.
Diffusion Innovation: Development through Knowledge: Industry Issues and Patterns 9. Creating Information Technology Industrial Clusters: Managerial Synergies and Related Diversification: Intellectual Property in the Indian Software Industry: Ron HiraIndex Everyone has a worldview.
How did we get it? How is it formed? New York: Scribner. The Complete Short Stories. Patrick John and Gregory Hemingway. Garden of Eden.
True at First Light. Under Kilimanjaro. Kent: Kent State University Press. Google Scholar Hewlett, Maurice. The Forest Lovers: A Romance. New York: Macmillan. Google Scholar Lynn, Kenneth S. New York: Simon and Schuster. Google Scholar Mandel, Miriam B. Hemingway in Africa. Rochester: Camden House.
Google Scholar Melling, Philip. In Hemingway in Africa, ed.Until that day he had never thought of anyone wanting to kill him, really wanting to kill him. He was a graduate of the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics, and served two tours in Vietnam. Not just his example, but the examples of his characters that inspired me to lead and to be uncompromising in my self discipline, especially honor.
At the civilized world's border, the group enters the Blight the polluted region under the Dark One's control to protect the Eye. The pale sun sat above the trees to the east, but its light was crisply dark, as if mixed with shadow. Reading for Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. I loved the characters. The Wheel of Time is a popular series that I had never heard of before a friend recommended this book. Not more than twenty spans back down the road a cloaked figure on horseback followed them, horse and rider alike black, dull and ungleaming.
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