The Faithful Scar

The first of the exciting new Heroes of Aletheia Series!


Teenager, Bourne Faithful, has made the most drastic choice of his life: he has joined the army of Err. He is now part of the fighting force that is heading to the deadly Mountains of Destruction. But their mission of mercy is a farce. An evil plot not only threatens the Bible Truth of Aletheia that Bourne has rejected, it also threatens him. Caught in a web of intrigue, fighting for his life, he will be tested as he never imagined. Until finally, he faces the most terrifying creature of Err.

He has no hope of survival. No hope of mercy or salvation.

How can he be saved?

This story illustrates the Bible's message of salvation, and in particular explains the truth of Substitution; Bible references are also included.

Youth fiction - suitable for older children and teenagers


Published in 2019;

Written & illustrated by Eunice Wilkie;

Approximately 43,500 words;

Includes maps;

Available as print book and ebook.


THE FAITHFUL SCAR is available across the UK, USA, and elsewhere - in print and also as an ebook. It is available to purchase through good local Christian bookshops, and through several websites, including through the following links:

Book Sample




Blinding snow. Howling wind. Dense forest. Steep slopes.


Keep walking. Left foot… Right foot… A step at a time. A faint pinprick of light? Take another step. Every single one counts. Just a bit further. Life depended on it.


The light again! Was it… shelter? Or a cruel illusion? Through the blizzard… could it really be…? The faint outline of a cabin. Ice hanging in pointed spikes from ramshackle eaves. Broken windows. Through one, light glimmered. The merest hint of life. A refuge? A trap?


Friend… or foe…?


An old man huddles closer to the feeble fire. One gnarled hand stretches for a log and pushes it into the blaze. Hungry flames lick it eagerly. Far too quickly it is consumed. It is poor wood. Soon he will need to collect more.


Tap. Tap.


Faint knocking at the cabin door.


The old man – Ramekin – raises his head, listening. The wind shrieks. He shakes his head and slumps towards the fire again.


Tap. Tap. TAP.


Louder knocking, competing with the howl of the blizzard. Not Dump, the donkey, in the adjoining stable. No, it’s far too deliberate for that. Ramekin frowns. A visitor? Friend? Or foe?


Bang. Bang. BANG!


He starts from his chair; reaches for his ancient hunting rifle. No trustworthy visitor would be out in this storm. Apart from Mr Truehope, no respectable person was within fifty miles. What desperate traveller had made the journey to these forsaken regions?




He pulls at the door. It scrapes roughly across the uneven floor. The blast of the wind is cruelly cold. Icy snow blinds him. He staggers back into the doorway.


A large man, carrying a muffled form, stumbles into the hut. 


Quickly, Ramekin shuts the door to keep out the cold. “How came you ‘ere?” he roughly exclaims. He watches the big man warily. Is this a ruse? The man is strong; undoubtedly, he has all the advantage, despite Ramekin’s old rifle. But there is nothing of value for them here.


The man ignores the question and bends intently over his companion – who is now on the floor. “Water?” he grunts.


Ramekin puts down his rifle and reaches for a cloudy bucket of water. In silence he offers it to the man.


Slowly, carefully, the man begins to peel away the tatty woollen muffler that hides the face of the other. He tears a strip of cloth from his tunic – from what looks like a uniform. Begins to gently wash…


A face emerges. A young man, but…


A cry of horror escapes old Ramekin.


It is a mercy that the young man remains unconscious through the rough washing and tending of his injuries. The worst wound is slashed across the youthful face: a deep chasm of roughly torn flesh across his cheek, from his ear to his nose, horrible to see. The man grimly cleans it and wraps a strip of cloth across the face. It is no adequate fix for such a deep wound, but there is nothing else to do. As he works, he says his name is Faintnot. When it is finished, he props the injured boy – he is not much more than this – as close to the fire as he can, with Ramekin’s sole blanket around him. As best they can tell, the young man sleeps.


Faintnot thanks the old man. Ramekin merely nods. This is no disinterested kindness. He had no choice; Faintnot could easily have forced his way into the cabin and helped himself to the meagre belongings. But, suspicious though he still is, Ramekin views this man Faintnot as useful: strong as an ox, despite the wound he seems to carry on his shoulder; maybe he would be able to cut and carry wood and tend Dump, the donkey, and many other things besides.


As if reading his mind, “We’ll earn our keep,” Faintnot assures him.


“Time enough for that,” grunts Ramekin.


Faintnot takes charge and thoroughly explores the cabin’s contents. With Ramekin’s permission, he heats some thin soup and feeds the barely conscious figure on the floor, before seeing to himself. He empties their possessions out of his backpack, which looks like an army issue survival pack. Are they deserters then? Ramekin watches eagerly, anxious for something of value which could be to his advantage. But it’s a poor showing; not really a survival pack at all. He sees the energy bars which tumble out and Faintnot tells him to take them. There isn’t much else; certainly nothing of value. Faintnot ignores it all and instead carefully removes a book from his pocket, as if it is very precious indeed. It is torn and stained; Ramekin dismisses it as nothing.


Through the hours of the cold night the young man sleeps fitfully; Faintnot tends him diligently; Ramekin listens to their tale. At Faintnot’s invitation, the old man examines the book. But there’s nothing to hold his interest there. The print is small; the binding poor; the book is battle-worn. Ramekin hands it back. As Faintnot talks, he holds the book in his large hand.


Incredibly, it seems to Ramekin that it glows.

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