I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the BERJA by J.K. Divia Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: J.K. Divia
Pub. Date: January 27, 2024
Publisher: J.K. Divia
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 102
Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/BERJA
“They will make you a mother of
monsters . . .”
A village built on ancient promise. A woman destined to run.
The old ways are crumbling. Every spring, a new sacrifice is chosen—a Spring
Maid bred to
seed the future of the village through a ritual before being led to the
foreboding woods. But this
season will mark the end of a barbaric tradition and the birth of something
even more horrifying.
There’s a war coming—one of gods and giants. The Spring Maid has been chosen by
a force far greater than her to be the mother of great warriors.
Destiny has forged a path of bloodshed, and she is the center of it all,
willingly or not.
But she is no Spring Maid, no sacrifice to be made.
She is Berja.
EXCERPT
The Way of the Forest Gods
Once, we lived in darkness, deep in caves not far from here. There was only one season, and it was one of death. That was before we followed the Forest Gods; before they
showed us the way and the stone altar built. To receive the forest’s blessing, we must go through the seasons with it. We must offer up our own, the first children of spring or a child born of the Forest Gods, for blessings or blood.
Chapter 1
The Nest
Tonight, I will run.This giant nest of dried out branches and straw won’t keep me.
I know what is ahead of me if I stay. I have watched it every year since I was a child.
I have paid attention.
They say it is an honor, but what they mean is that it is a duty for me as a daughter. A sale by my family. They were pleased when I was chosen as the Spring Maid. They knew it meant their bellies would remain full this year, regardless of whether I lived or died.
The space around me is filled with the movement of preparation for tomorrow. Fragrant herbs and laced fresh flowers in whites, yellows and pinks adorn the nest. Hands flock to pick and pull my dark hair apart like little birds, weaving it together as I sit prettily in the nest, feigning obedience.
“Drekka,” they urge me, pushing a small wooden bowl with intricate carvings to my mouth.
The carvings show the cycle of the seasons: of life, death, and rebirth. I am meant to mark the end of death, to usher in the rebirth of the village.
My lips feel fuzzy as the sickly-sweet smelling liquid unsuccessfully searches for a way inside.
The drink is meant to ease my nerves and dull my senses. To ease the pain and fear. To make us, the chosen Spring Maids, submit willingly to what awaits us in the forest. To what we must endure before we enter the dark, tall tree line.
Braided locks of my hair fall one by one against my back with gentle thuds as each set of hands flies away to attend to another task. The village men, the strongest warriors, file in one by one and take their place around the nest, like predators circling their prey. Their breath in the cold morning air creates a fog that threatens to smother me like smoke from a fire. They believe me to be a helpless bird, like the little blackbird that sits upon the mistletoe, staring at me with bright green eyes. None of them believe that I would dare fly away. They brush my actions off as nerves, harmless as the trembles from a newborn calf seeking and failing to find its first footing.
When I do escape, maybe the little bird will help lead my way. I smile at him, and those green eyes smile back. They say he is a bad omen, that he foretells of death, and maybe he does because he appeared the day I was chosen. He is my only friend though, besides the little straw doll we have made together over the last few weeks. The little bird is the only one who brings me gifts—tiny piles of berries and smooth rocks that sit hidden in the nest beside me. He doesn’t sing like other birds though, but rather looks down upon us and laughs when they try to chase him away. If it is my death that he is warning of, at
least it comes upon a friendly face, a laugh, and his company. My body rests easily upon my bare feet and legs that lie under my long, green linen dress as I sit upright in the nest. I stretch my head and neck above the nest walls and look toward the sky. As we near closer to the start of spring, the sun begins to linger just a bit longer above me.
The Elder comes and I tuck my little doll under the lip of the nest. I will not share her with anyone. The Elder lightly lays her gnarled hands upon my shoulders to push me back into my captivity. There are no others as old as her in the village. None with as many lines in their face or rings on their body. Soon, she will take her place in the forest at the base of the oldest tree, whose trunk is as wide as four men and its height we cannot tell. When she lays amongst its roots and becomes a part of it, another will assume the role of Elder, and the cycle will continue as it has for countless seasons.
The South Men follow no such cycle. They only take. They only kill. They never give back. Their seasons are only that of harvest and death. They have no Spring Children and no Forest Gods. I wonder what that freedom is like, to not be beholden to someone or something.
They say that is why the South Men are cursed to always move and encroach upon others; setting up only to leave for the next place to take from. Why their roots are weak and constantly seeking the water and fertile soils of others and moving on once they have depleted the land. Why they have been coming up further north, though they fear what lives in our dark woods: our Forest Spirits and Gods.
The Elders say there is nothing to fear when you give the Forest what it desires; when you awaken it with gifts of Spring Maids, and when that doesn’t work, then with the blood of Spring Children upon the fields and altar.
The burning sensation builds in my thighs and stomach as she pushes harder. My body holds, resisting her, and I smile. “Drekka?” she asks another elder woman.
Shaking her head of long grey hair, she places the still-filled bowl into the Elder’s outstretched hand. With the cluck of her tongue, pain begins to grow in my cheeks as the branch-like fingers of the Elder’s hand shoot around my chin and take root in my skin. She tries to force my lips apart, but I only smile. I take the pain as the flood of liquid brings again the feeling of fuzziness to my lips as I deny entry once more. Another cluck, and her sharp fingertips pull away from my skin, leaving behind only their sting. My still hands rest upon my lap, and I keep my gaze fixed forward. My little bird friend laughs again from the mistletoe branch, and I resist the urge to laugh with him at my defiance, or my folly.
Drink or not, the ritual continues, and I feel the air move in with the men who come into the nest with me. Their fingers attempt to take root in my skin from the many branches of outstretched arms that surround me and try to pull me down into submission. I am rigid.
I am unyielding.
The seeds cannot be planted if the Spring Maid is unwilling. Their attempts will bear no fruit. No seeds will be planted—seeds that will grow to become new Spring Maids, sacrifices, or servants to the village. Seeds that will never be allowed to be free, but only grow to serve one single purpose, one that offers no joy.
No control.
No sense of self.
No name beyond that of Spring Child and then Spring Maid if chosen by the Elder.
We who are born of Spring Maids are like saplings forced with bindings to grow in specific patterns to please and support the village. To appease the Forest Gods and mark the beginning of the hunting season in the woods. To symbolize the earths rebirth after it’s long winters death. I’d much prefer the quick press of a blade against my skin or heart than surrender to my duty. To surrender to a life of sacrifice.
The drink has always ensured our acceptance, softening our fields for planting.
I have taken no drink.
I do not accept my fate, and they cannot force me.
About J.K. Divia:
J.K. Divia is a Dark Fantasy and Thriller writer from the US.
She is a Spoonie and has learned the importance of rest while pursuing her
writing dreams. As a child she was often found playing in the woods or reading
about world mythology, folklore and ghost stories which have influenced her
writing. She has always loved creative writing and once she decided to take it
beyond flash fiction writing contests, she found a writing coach and editor to
help her achieve her goal of writing a page turning novel. A Sea of Blood and
Tears is her debut novel.
Some of her favorite books include Jane Eyre, Little Women, Dracula, The
Hobbit, Outlander, Girl on the Train
When not writing, you can find her spending time with her family, chasing after
her kids.
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Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a signed finished copy of BERJA & swag, US Only.
Ends March
2nd, midnight EST.
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
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2/12/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/13/2024 |
IG Post |
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2/14/2024 |
Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/15/2024 |
Excerpt |
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2/16/2024 |
IG Review |
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2/17/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
Week Two:
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2/18/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/19/2024 |
IG Review |
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2/20/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/21/2024 |
Review |
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2/22/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/23/2024 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/24/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
Week Three:
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2/25/2024 |
Review |
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2/26/2024 |
IG Review/TikTok Post |
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