Cut Hand
By Mark Wildyr
“Bearded men cast cold eyes upon lands our fathers left us.
‘Now it is ours,’ they claim.
The beat of drums turns angry.
Beaded flutes go shrill.”
—From the poem “Echoes of the Flute” by Mark Wildyr
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
