The Valley of Light
Contents ( 28)
The Valley of Light
TERRY KAY
ATRIA BOOKS 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020
The Valley of Light
ALSO BY TERRY KAY
Taking Lottie Home
Special K: The Wisdom of Terry Kay
The Kidnapping of Aaron Greene
The Runaway
Shadow Song
To Whom the Angel Spoke: A Story of the Christmas
To Dance with the White Dog
Dark Thirty
After Eli
The Year the Lights Came On
TERRY KAY
The Valley of Light
A NOVEL
ATRIA BOOKS
NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY SINGAPORE

ATRIA BOOKS
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Terry Kay
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-743-47594-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-12203-7
First Atria Books hardcover edition October 2003
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ATRIA BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America
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This book is dedicated with affection to Marjorie Ammons
A gifted teacher, a gentle and caring lady, and the first great influence in my life other than my own family.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Iseldom go fishing, though I have memories (and a photograph) of fishing in the small branch that ran through our farm in northeast Georgia. Catching a finger-long minnow was an accomplishment of great pride.
Truth is, I have no talent for fishing. Sometimes a little luck, but no talent. I have never caught anything on an artificial lure, for example.
But I have a son—Scott—who has a remarkable gift for catching fish. Once, when he was very young and we were on vacation at a lake house, I saw him go to the lake and kneel down and place the palm of his hand on the water’s surface, like a ritual in an innocent religious ceremony. He began fishing—and catching. I stood beside him. Used the same kind of equipment, the same bait. Fished within inches of where he was casting. I don’t remember getting a nibble.
That gesture of touching the surface of the water has stayed with me for years, and it is the leaping-off point of this story.
Yet, this is not a story about my son or about fishing, but about the mysticism of being gifted. It is a trait that has always inspired me—seeing that person who, by nature, had a way of doing something that was, in the long run, inexplicable, yet thrilling. The artist. The musician. The gardener. The mechanic. The engineer. The chef. The anything.