The Sparrow and the Oak Tree – Book Excerpt

Happy Thursday, friend! It’s time for another book excerpt and author interview. Remember Jamie Jackson who shared her indie recommendations recently? In that post, she had featured her 2021 novel, Fear and Fury. Today’s post is about her recent novel, The Sparrow and the Oak Tree. Let’s welcome Jamie and learn about the book.

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Get to know the author: Jamie Jackson

Hi Jamie! Welcome back to Armed with A Book. Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

Hi! I’m Jamie, an indie author who writes books with words in them. I live with my husband, our three feral children and two badly behaved dogs. When I’m not writing I’m either reading or watching entirely too much TV.

What inspired you to write this book?

It actually started with a writing prompt I saw floating around on Facebook. So initially I set out to write a fantasy horror, and my characters immediately decided that was not the story they wanted told, and about halfway through I had to admit to myself it was a Tristan and Isolde retelling.

How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?

I think somewhere around 6 months simply because of lining up my schedule with my editor’s schedule.

What makes your story unique?

There are Fae, but no Fae courts. Instead, they live alone and rarely socialize with others. There’s also zombies, and I don’t think we often see zombies in fantasy.

Who would enjoy reading your book? 

I think anyone who is a fan of romance would enjoy it, which seems very, very broad, but at its core, that’s what the story is.

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

Honestly I hope they just come away from it entertained, that they enjoy their time in the story, and with maybe a new favorite character or two.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

“Fuck,” was the first word out of his mouth. “Fuck,” was also the second is one of my favorite moments/scenes/quotes from the book.

What’s the best piece of advice you have received related to writing?

Write in the way that works best for you as the author. If that means pantsing and literally making up everything as you go along and discovering the journey along with the characters, pants your heart out. If you’re someone who needs detailed outlines and character note sheets, create them, fill up notebooks with your plans if that’s what it takes. You do not need to write your book with the same procedure as anyone else. I had a professor in college who insisted we needed to outline, and what I discovered was, I could not finish a project that way. I would get stuck and be able to move any further forward because what my outline said was one thing and what my characters would do was another entirely and so I would give up, because I wasn’t doing it the way I was told I had to. If I had continued to follow that “rule” I wouldn’t be where I am today.

If you could give a shout out to someone(s) who has helped in your writer journey, please feel free to mention them below!

I absolutely need to shout out to Azshure Raine, Wildfaeriecaps and my BFF because they’ve all helped make my writing better.

And especially my husband, because without his support I wouldn’t have had the chance to do this in the first place.

Where can readers find you on the Internet?

You can find me on  Goodreads, Twitter, Threads, Instagram, Bluesky and TikTok as @villainleaning.

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Book Excerpt from
The Sparrow and the Oak Tree

Context: Isolde, also called Sparrow and the main character, has been kidnapped and left in the woods by an up to this point unidentified person, who then returns, is revealed to be Fae, and he then proceeds to bargain/haggle and outright trick her into promising to help him.

“Once you’ve helped me rid the forest of this infection destroying it, I’ll not only show you the way to the forest’s edge, I’ll transport you there myself,” he said. “As my thanks,” he added.

“So, you want me to risk life and limb, and my only repayment is being set down where you took me from in the first place?” I asked, too incensed at this point to be careful in how I addressed him.

“I could take you to another Fae instead, if you would prefer,” he said. I blanched and his smile only widened, like a wolf showing its teeth. He prowled toward me, his movements smooth, graceful and controlled, a cat stalking its prey, and I backed away to bump into yet another tree. “I’m sure the others would find a mind like yours positively . . . delectable.” He was right up next to me, leaning in so that his face hovered above mine, our eyes locked on each other’s, and I was surrounded by the heat he was generating again. I could feel the bark of the tree biting into my back through my cloak and dress, into the palms of my hands, where they were pressed against the trunk. The scent of him was filling my nose and making it hard to think straight. I was tempted to shake my head and clear whatever cobwebs his presence was creating.

“I think I would prefer the forest’s edge,” I squeaked out.

He eased back away from me, and I could breathe again. “As you wish,” he said. “A fair price.”

I bit back my retort, since I wasn’t sure extortion counted as a fair anything.

He held his hand out again, palm up, the same invitation as before. “Now, will you help me?”

Hesitantly, and with more misgivings than I could count, I slid my hand into his, that spark tingling on my palm, along my fingers, wrist and up my arm. “Yes.” I spoke the word, a tie that would bind us, and I could sense it in the air the moment my answer left my lips: a surge of warmth jumping from his skin to mine, twining its way around and following in the path that spark had taken before it tightened and flared, a golden light, and then it faded away.

Instead of releasing my hand, his fingers tightened on mine, and he gave me a gentle tug. Unsure of whether he would just yank me forward and let me trip and stumble over myself, I stepped toward him, away from the tree. He turned and started walking deeper into the forest, and unless I wanted to trip in truth, I had no choice but to follow after, the two of us hand in hand.

The constant tingling was making me itch, and desperately, I wanted my hand back so that I could rub that persistence out of it.

I also had questions and wasn’t sure I wanted to be asking them while he held my hand. The skin of his palm was warm, dry, and rougher than I had expected. I had thought it would be soft, unused to hard labor, the same as many of the courtiers. The only ones with any calluses were the ones who qualified as knights, and they didn’t often socialize with the others, too rough and ready to spend time volleying verbal slings and arrows at their peers.

He glanced back at me, his eyes on my skirts where they dragged on the ground. “We should get you more suitable clothing.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I asked warily, tugging at my hand. He released it, and I tucked it down against my side, my arm across my stomach. I used my other hand to pull my cloak close around me. The tingling was still ghosting its way along my fingers and palm.

“Sparrows are brown for a reason,” he said, stopping and turning to face me. “You look like a cardinal, bright as you are. And—” he paused, considering me.

His hesitation surprised me, and I narrowed my eyes at him. “And what?”

“It clashes horribly with your hair,” he said. At the look on my face, he continued, “It’s not that you can’t wear red, but that particular shade of red – you need jewel tones.”

“I wouldn’t think a Fae would be so concerned with fashion,” I said.

“More concerned with practicality,” he said briskly. “Not only does the color of them stand out, those skirts and that cloak will catch, and I can’t imagine you’ll be able to run in them. If I’m going to be dressing you, then it will include—”

“You won’t be dressing anything,” I said, stepping past him to continue in the direction he had been going. “My clothes are fine.”

Of course the skirt would catch between two raised roots in that moment, the fabric pulling against me, necessitating that I turn back toward the Fae to try and figure out how to wiggle the skirt free unless I wanted to rip it.

“Are they?” he asked mildly, a hint of amusement in his voice, which made me look up from my errant clothing to check his face for any sign of a smile. He looked blandly back at me, the picture of innocence. I stared at him with narrowed eyes again, then knelt, studying my skirt, gently tugging at it to work it back out of the space between the roots.

If anything, the space got tighter, the roots creaking.

My head shot up, to glare at him. He blinked, wide-eyed, back at me. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Let my skirt go,” I said.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “I tried to tell you—“

“Let my skirt go!” I snapped. “Or I will burn it out.”

His face went blank, as if shutters had slammed shut behind his eyes. “Burn it?”

“The skirt,” I almost snarled. “I will burn the skirt and leave the fabric you trapped where it is.”

He blinked again, the blankness in his face clearing, and this time there was curiosity. “I can simply keep catching your clothes with various obstacles.”

“I’ll burn those pieces too,” I said stubbornly.

“You’ll destroy your own – albeit impractical – clothing bit by bit, just to frustrate my intent?”

“If I wasn’t willing to, I wouldn’t have said it.”

He watched me for another minute, then leaned back against a tree, his arms crossed. “Prove it.”

For a second, I gaped at him. Then I clenched my teeth and turned back to my skirt. “Fine.” I studied it for a moment, taking the breath I needed, before pulling at the heat coiled and waiting, a thread of it shooting down my arm, to my fingertip. Glowing and smoking, I pressed it to the fabric.

More smoke went wafting up, dispersing as quickly as it appeared, the smell of burnt wool filling the air.

It stank.

I was careful to follow the line of skirt with generous space left between my finger and the top of the roots, tugging and pulling at the fabric to help encourage it to tear and break free that much faster. When the last bit of it released from the piece still stuck fast between the roots, I let the spell go, a wave of my hand to dampen any residual spark or smolder that could start a fire so all that was left behind was dead ashes.

The Fae was still watching me as I tossed my braid back over my shoulder from where it had slipped and fallen forward. “Told you so,” I said.

“You did indeed,” he said, and that hint of amusement was there again.

I marched forward, ignoring the odd hemline of the burnt section, as I once again headed in the direction the Fae had been leading only to get yanked to a stop again.

This time it was the corner of my cloak, and the Fae was most assuredly smiling at me. Although he had ducked his face down, I could still see the upturned corners of his mouth. Were his shoulders shaking?

I pulled at the cloak, but it was stuck just as fast as my skirt had been.

The crunch of dry pine needles beneath boots, and the Fae was stepping around me, his hand catching at my arm to turn me. “You were headed the wrong way,” he said as my cloak came free. He continued forward without looking back.

I supposed he wasn’t that worried about me not following since my other option was to wander around aimlessly hoping I hit upon the correct direction back out. With a huff, I trailed along in his wake, questions still bouncing around in my head. And perhaps, it would be easier to ask them to his back.

What could be easier than starting with what to call him?

“Do you have a name you go by?” I asked, and he half turned, his own eyes narrowed this time as he looked back at me, but continued unerringly forward, his steps just as sure as if he was looking at the path before him. “I can’t just call you ‘the Fae,’” I said. “How will you know I’m trying to address you and not talking about your people as a whole?”

He turned away, his eyes on the forest ahead of him again, and was silent long enough that I wasn’t sure if I had somehow offended him. It had seemed like an innocent enough question. I didn’t want his name, simply a name.

“Oak,” he said eventually.

“Oak?” I asked, pausing in my steps. He must have noticed the hesitation because he stopped, turning to face me yet again.

“Oak,” he confirmed. “It is fitting, no? The Sparrow and the Oak tree?”

“Are you mocking me?” I asked, and I couldn’t help the heat that crept into my voice.

“What use would that be?”

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Interested?

FindThe Sparrow and the Oak Tree on Goodreads, IndieStoryGeek, and Amazon . Thanks for taking the time to join us for this interview!

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