One Page A Day

Love Me God Free

2011-07-30T09:19:00.000-05:00

It was a long standing joke emblazoned, chest high, on the glass panes. love me god free. Six panes with one word within the four centers and surrounding the double doors. Glass. love. me. Door. Door. god. free. Glass. All lower case, the letters were those ugly retro-seventies decals.

She had spelled it that way when I had given her my phone number; her pretty, curly script written too heavily on an overturned receipt for windshield wipers from Pepboys. My name. god free. What was she thinking? Why even separate the words?

No one ever called me that. The full thing is Godfrey Michael Dufresne. All family names that no one could ever pronounce. God-frey Michael Doo-frez-nee was as close as they ever got. I go by Michael to keep it simple. The correct pronunciation is Godfree Michael Doofrain.

The wooden frames about the glass were tinted a strangely bright blue in the failing light. The gray of the stone above the storefront was too clear, too sharp. The lengthened shadows were the cool mint the city gets just before the streetlights click on and dispel them with warm orange. I saw a desk behind the glass on the left. The doors had a place for a padlock, but there wasn't one. The metal gates were still open. There were no lights on inside.

There was a smattering of trash on the tiled floor. The walls behind my reflection were white and bare. Gallery track lighting hung from the ceiling. Some of them were missing bulbs. It was an art gallery. She'd left our words - her intimate whispers - on the windows of an art gallery.

I moved toward the door, fingers toying with shaking lips. I was dizzy with the rise and fall of my chest. How could she have done this? I fought a wetness under my eyelids.

* * * * *

Her lips were free of lipstick and her teeth weren't a brilliant white and when she smiled the right corner of her mouth didn't quite meet the height of the left. She was astounding. She had her long hair parted off center and pulled into a loose braid that curled around her long neck. She even wore glasses.

The lights were defused and angled away from everything other than the art that hung on the walls or was illuminated within little pools on the cement floor. There were people everywhere. Someone was playing piano; variations on Satie. A pretty caterer slid beside me and deposited an aperitif and a red wine in my hands. I didn't need the little napkin she left with them.

"I'm smitten." I said.

Marci didn't answer me. Her eyes were in the bottom of her second wineglass. When she came up for air, she asked "What?" from behind a blotting napkin. "What?"

"Do you know everyone here?" I asked.

Her blink was slow, "Anybody who's anybody." She had plastered her black hair onto her scalp with gel and tied it tightly in a high-fashion bun at the base of her head. I remember she said it hurt when she laughed. Her foxy, pointy face was done up with deep reds and too much base.

I pointed across the room with my glass. "The tall girl over there with the braid."

"I can't see that far." Marci was short and on the heavy side. She strained onto her tiptoes. "Where again?" I couldn't help but notice that there were crumbs in her cleavage.

"Over there."

Across the room, I could see that she held her high-heeled shoes in her hand. Marci pulled on my arm and attempted to stand taller.

"Its useless." She said. "Let's move closer."

"Hold on." She grappled my proffered arm and I led her through the crowd.

* * * * *

The doorknob was only for show. When I twisted it, it didn't move. I pulled open the door and stepped inside. My lungs were shaking.

"Hello?" My voice sounded shrill to my ears in the dusky emptiness. "Hello?" I tried again. There was a chair behind the desk. An old rotary phone with no phone line connected broke the wide stretch of white. What light still arced in through the windows was filled with tiny motes that rode around me as I shut the door, whipping and twirling in the air. There was a sense of recent occupation.

* * * * *

"Her name is Claire." Marci said, stopping a waiter and swapping her empty glass for a full one. "I can't remember her last name. I think she's a photographer or something."

I could see now that she wore a long black dress that framed her hourglass curves with faint red leaves of velvet. There were no straps to hold it up. She didn't need them.

"Claire." I said when I forced my eyes to blink, "It fits."

"You want me to introduce you?"

"God, yes."

* * * * *

I could see the detritus of a show on the clean, white walls; picture hooks, slight angled pencil marks that would be hidden behind frames. There was a hallway behind the desk on the right. I tried again, "Hello?"

There was a shatter of glass; a sudden, loud spark of sound.

I moved down the dark hall. My steps were loud and slow, "Hello. Everyone okay?" Suddenly defensive, "The door was open."

A door opened, a slice of light fell on the tile.

A voice, quiet and female. "Yes?"

My god, I thought, she's terrified. "I'm so sorry to frighten you. The door was open. I'm so sorry."

A woman peered from the the doorway, her face half-lit. Sharp, black bangs over thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Her lids were heavy, asian. "It's alright. It's alright. How can I help you? We're closed, you see." I was sure she held pepper spray in the unseen hand behind the doorframe. But when she looked up and saw my face, the fear dissipated into a sad smile. "Oh. It's you. Come in, please."

I hadn't the slightest idea who she was.

* * * * *

"Claire!"

She turned her head toward us. Her eyes were blue.

"Marci!"

They gathered each other into a hug. The tiny hairs at her neck curled about her ears.

"Hello, sweetheart." Claire's voice was fresh and clear, a fall of rain on wind-chimes.

Marci gestured to me, "I'd like you to meet Michael. Don't ask his real name."

Her smile made me blush, "Well, then...I'll have to."

* * * * *

I followed her into the doorway. She was speaking with her back to me, "I'm just packing." There were frames, newsprint, butcher paper and packing peanuts strewn against the wall. She was still speaking, "I'm just going to lock the front door." She bent down, fished in a black purse on the floor, and stood with keys held in her hand. She was so quick, darting about me. "Back in a moment." came her voice from the hallway.

There was a frame face down on the floor with shattered and broken glass around it. I knelt and tipped the frame up. My surprised intake of breath must have been louder than I thought.

"You all right?" from the front room.

* * * * *

I wrapped my hand about hers and stammered, "Nice to meet you."

Marci was playing the wingman. "He's in deep smit."

I didn't want to let go, but did with a roll of my eyes. Before I could speak, she continued, "He saw you across the room and practically peed himself."

"Nice." If I could have jabbed her in the side, I would have.

* * * * *

She found me against the wall with the broken print in my hand. An artfully out of focus picture of me underneath the splintered mosaic of clear glass.

"My god...you didn't know..." her voice filtered down through the cotton that seemingly stuffed my ears. The words were tinged with tears.

I threw myself forward and began tearing through the leaning frames; pulling paper free and shearing through taped boxes.

All of them. Pictures of me.

* * * * *

We talked and laughed, moving through the odd modern works that hung on the gallery walls. Her hand about the crook of my arm sending delicious chills across my skin. I don't remember what we said. As the crowd thinned, she asked for my number, pulling a thin, paper from her clutch-purse.

* * * * *

"This was her last show." the woman was speaking over my fevered search. Looking back, I am pleased beyond belief that she didn't make any effort to stop me.

Below my trembling fingers, Claire and my life together was catalogued in varying hues. Close ups of smiles and silly faces. Our room, disheveled and comfortable, I was asleep under white sheets. Cooking dinner, chopping onions, faces blurred with the movement of laughter. Frame after frame, some with our hands - fingers around fingers - wedding rings bright silver and glinting in dappled sunlight.

"It was some of her best work." her voice so desperately trying to comfort. "We kept the show up for sometime after..."

The final frame focused before me. love me god free. It was scrawled on the back of a scrap of paper.

New Novel - Faeth - Post 1

2011-04-01T01:02:00.002-05:00

Prologue

Here was something new. He reset the cameras, powering them off and waiting for the indicator lights to roll back green. Leaning back into the chair as he waited, he allowed a smile to touch the corners of his lips. He couldn't help but feel a tinge of excitement. He knew enough to temper his elation. It's some sort of pixel junk, he told himself, some random digital garbage on the screens.
He heard the whine of the restart protocols and held his breath. Any moment now. His throat was dry and his eyes scratchy as he blinked. The indicators flashed red and rode over to green. The static on the screens was replaced by a flickering video that revealed the familiar valley outside. And there - nearly hidden behind the Hand - it stood. Thin and fragile it looked.
A stalk. A weed, most likely. It was topped with an angled bloom that appeared closed.
He peered about the other formations, tabbing through the screens with a shaking finger: the Arm, the Face, the Knee, all of them. The rocks held no secrets.
He sent a hand through his hair and leaned back again. He scratched his beard with shaking fingers. He wiped sweat from his forehead along the legs of his stained cover-alls.
Just to be sure, he reset the cameras again.
The jittery flicker within his belly held as sharp as the black and white snow on the screens. There it was again. No mistaking it. Paul ran his tongue along his lips. The rumble of a sob twinged his lungs.
There had to be others, there couldn't just be one. She would have to send some one to perform tests, to physically search out the area. With any luck, he'd be suited up and treading the surface within days. The Matron must be told.
He pulled the com to his face, speaking before he thumbed the channel open. "Eye 14 to Central." He didn't care that his voice cracked as he spoke. "I have Sign. Repeat. I have Sign."
The was a sudden explosive spark of chatter across the channel.

Chapter 1

"They turned our skeletons to wood and scattered matches underfoot. We must walk carefully these days." - The World Without, A Fine Frenzy

The house had been quiet when Faeth had awoken. Her Father must've been up and out before First Bell. It was odd. Usually his movements within their small home would have awakened her: bringing the embers back with breath and kindling, preparing breakfast and lunch, gathering his things into his pack. She had clambered out of bed and stumbled, bleary eyed, into the main room and found him gone. He had left a plate of apples and goat cheese for her on the scarred surface of the table. There was a note on the slate, his scrawl across it in bright chalk: Council meetings all day! - Stay out of trouble and stay close! - Papa. She had seized the moment. Not bothering to comb the mats from her dark hair, she had gathered her own things and filled her pack. She had run from the door, mouth packed with fruit and shoes slipped over stockinged feet.
The sky was dark but hazed at the edges with morning light. There was a rime of ice on the grass below her feet and her breath came in visible plumes. She darted around to the back making sure that no one caught sight of her, past the garden plot where they had covered the winter plants with hay, and into the common land where their property backed up to others within the Village. Right where the three closest plots met, the well stood. It was a ring of simple stones. Father and Grandpa Price had dug it back when Father was still courting Mother. That was a long time ago back when the Rains were heavier. The path to the well was lined with more winter plants in tight rows: snap peas, walking onions, beets, carrots and parsnips. All frost hardy and barely peeking from a layer of thin hay. She could just make out the silhouette of the Wilson's and the Parham's homes in the rising light.
As quietly as she could, Faeth broke the ice from the bucket and slid the rope down into the darkness. Her eyes were on the area about her, scanning and checking. No one was about. The rope held a frost on its wispy edges just like the grass. The ground was warm enough that she didn't need to break any ice below and the water that she poured into her skins was clear and cold.
The animals were beginning to move within the pens about her. She could hear the shuffling clump of the bison, the occasional bleat of sheep, the cluck of a hen. The wooden pickets were rambling rectangles that butted up to the backs of the silent houses. There were only small, thin lines of smoke from the chimney's closest to her; one of the adults hadn't yet risen to bring life back to their coals. She had time to be away before any could catch her and send her back in. No one to shout her name from open shutters. She shouldn't go alone, but Father was always away; an Elder of the Village Council had little time to spare for someone not yet a Teener. She lowered the bucket back to the ground, stowed the skins within her pack and moved into the thick stand of brush that lay between the Village and the Wall.
There was no path to the Wall but she knew the best way. The brush broke over the angled drop of a ravine that ran east and west along the edge of the Village. A small stream used to run along its bottom, but they had dammed it up long ago for the trout pond in the Village center. A solitary trickle still ran there when the rains came. It was dry and the flinty soil held only dust. Using her hands and knees, she slid down and clambered over and up the far side. Something darted away into the leaves as she climbed. She thought she caught sight of a white-tipped tail, bushy and long; a fox. There were always little creatures in the brush, but none that she need be afraid of. The Wall kept the big ones out.
There were a few larger trees now, bare, as winter approached. She tried to lessen the loud crunch of her feet in the leaves by walking slowly, but it didn't help. So she ran. Better to make a lot of noise in a shorter span of time, she thought, and her feet knew the way.
Over a small rise, the Wall loomed, a slash of darkness under the lightening sky, high and over her head. It was now merely a shaggy brown mess of ivy, dead leaves still visible from the thick, ropey vines that hung over the tall palisades. Gathering her hair and sending it in a disheveled mess over her shoulder, she began to climb. She enjoyed the clattering fall of leaves. She was far enough away to not be bothered by the sound. She spun over the top and slipped down the far side.
The Road stood, stretching ribbon-like before her, silent and following the curve of the Wall to the east and the south. Faeth knelt and set her fingers upon the broken surface. Tiny black stones flaked into her hand. Rain-washed dirt covered most of it, but moving with the rise and fall of the land, she could still see it, marking the surface in wide swaths like jutting black bone. The Cathedrals lay to the East below the rising sun where the Road went over the River and became metal. The Cathedrals was what she called them. The place where the sun shone through spires of twisted metal beams and broken glass and the metal wagons lay upturned and jumbled in long lines. She would walk through the lanes and worship the gods who had lived there. She would stand on the wide, shattered stone and feel the history of the place about her like an apple wine on her tongue, a fine, glittering dust that settled on her shoulders that she would not brush away.
She set off at a run and she would be back before the sun fell behind the mountains. Her feet were a blur beneath her and her heart pounded. Her breathing fell into a cold rhythm between her footfalls. About her the trees were filled with black birds. They broke into flight as she passed them, squawking at the sudden disturbance. They wheeled in a mass of thrumming wings and air in the warming sky. Faeth smiled. She would take them as a good omen though the ladies of the Village would have said otherwise. They landed back within the bare branches when they saw she was not a threat.
The bones of the land rose upward into overgrown heaps as the Road moved further south leading her toward the valley edge. The edge was the highest hill that gave her two different views: the village behind her and the Cathedrals before and below. On her left side were the Remnants of the Before Time. Tall piles of stone - her father called it cement, but that was such a strange word - that were covered in ivy and weed leaned against each other or were held up by stout, gnarled trees. There had been roads in the sky so that many of the metal wagons could move at once in all directions. At least, that is what her father told her. Some of the mounds were other pieces of forgotten detritus (another word her father used) that, over time, had been covered in dirt and forest. Father said that they had dug and searched through most of the closer ones when they had settled the Village. They had taken what they could salvage and left the rest to become dirt. The blacksmith still had a pile of the stuff behind his forge.
A sound slowed her steps. She dropped to her belly and rolled into the roots of a tree. She tried to still her breathing and quiet the beating of her heart. Sweat slicked her scalp and she brushed the drops from her eyes. Again, the sound. Footsteps within leaves? Father would be proud. "Stop, Drop and Listen." His words were seared like a scar in her thoughts. The footsteps were regular and close. A small gait. Not something large. She caught sight of movement to her left, a glimpse of bright red. She pushed herself up with shaking arms and sighed. She would have smiled but anger held her face taut.
"Euan." The steps ceased at the sound of her voice.
Faeth could hear the shuffling attempt at continued silence and a sudden, shocked intake of breath.
"Euan, I know it's you."
"No you don't." The voice was a froggy squeak.
She rose and brushed the dust from her leggings, "I told you not to follow me."
A spiked mass of dark hair leaned out from behind a tree and shot back, "You said I could come with you." The voice was young.
Faeth shook her head, "I said when you were older that I would take you."
"I am older than I was yesterday."
Exasperation was clear as she responded, "No...I meant much older..." She sighed again, "Will you come out here, please? I'd rather not have a conversation with a tree."
He was skittish as he stepped out onto the Road. She hadn't noticed but the sun had risen higher and now the outlines of the naked trees moved over her, shifting lines and angles of shadow. Small and wiry, Euan Wilson emerged, head down and sheepish. He was little for his age which was a year or so younger than Faeth. His hair was a perpetual clump of black thatch that sprouted wildly above pearly black inset eyes. With a severe, angular face and lacking the definition of a chin, Euan was a rodent walking upright. The other children of the Village had a nickname for him that, sadly, fit him very well. They called him King Rat. Euan pretended not to mind, but he did. Often the skin about his eyes was red and mottled. That was why Faeth never called him anything other than his given name. She knew he cried when he was alone.
"You can't come with me, Euan." she said watching him rub the sweat from his palms on the dirty blue cover-alls he wore.
He fought a tremble that flickered his lower lip, "Please. I'll listen and obey." He shrugged his red, corduroy backpack into a more comfortable position on his narrow shoulders, "You say stop and I'll do it. Promise." He sniffled, "Please?"
"There are things in the streets sometimes." She wasn't trying to frighten him. She was just being truthful.
His eyes brightened. "Really? What things?" A shaking smile played at the corners of his thin lips. "Things that are gross?"
Faeth kneeled and slid her pack to the ground. She fished out her water-skin and took a pull before answering, "Yeah." She felt older as she spoke, experienced and adult. She narrowed her eyes, "The shadows are deep enough."
She stood and replaced her pack. "Go home, Euan."
He wasn't listening. "I've got a lantern."
"No."
"I brought water for myself and some food too."
"I said no."
"You know that I'm fast. I can run and hide better than anyone. I've got rope."
"Go Home!" Her voice was getting louder.
He was shuffling his boots in the black pebbles. "I'll just follow you anyway. You know I will. " If he had a chin to speak of it would have been jutted out to show his obstinacy.
She knew he was telling the truth. "You are a trial." At least, if he were with her, she could protect him if things went badly. "Whatever." She began to trot southward, "Stay close and pay attention. And, I swear, one mistake and you are going home."
A wide grin split his face. "Okay."
He stayed close to her side as they moved up the rise to the valley's edge.
"If we find any mud, you're gonna have to dirty up that pack." she said, not looking at him, "That red is way too noticeable."
"Okay." She could tell that the grin was still in place.

When the Road broke over the crest of the hill, Euan let out a squeak of wonder. Spread below them lay a wide river that cast glittering, jewel-like reflections into their eyes. But beyond, passed the ruined bridge of metal and stone that arced over the water, the Cathedrals loomed; broken towers, shattered and leaning over straight black roads, some with thick coverings of ivy and forest that hung and swayed in the morning light. It was a patchwork of colored stone and green growth; varying sizes of rectangles and squares, rooftops - some sagging, some still whole, reddish stone, white stone, sudden rounded angles. The river ran on either side of the grand spires. It looked like the Cathedrals themselves had been built upon a thin peninsula that was surrounded by the splitting of the currents. It was as if the waters had worn down the earth and revealed the jutting remains of a leviathan; the towers were its ribcage, the broken piles that dipped and disappeared into the riverbed its fractured skull, the undergrowth and vines that covered all were what remained of its shaggy pelt. It was a great, geometric and mouldering beast filled with dark shadows.
Faeth let the boy stare in wonder for a moment before speaking. "At first, I thought I had to cross the bridge, but then I found something."
Euan did not respond right away. When he did, his voice was a whisper, "I had no idea it was so big. Let alone so close." He continued to walk forward, his feet shuffling, his mouth open. Faeth grabbed his arm and stopped him. A few steps further, the Road ended. A breeze rose and moved their hair. It smelled of damp and algae.
"I think rains must have washed out the earth below the black stone here." Faeth said. "It must've happened a long time ago. From below it looks like a hand just scooped the road and a big chunk of the hill away."
She pulled him back from the edge. "There's a way down over here."
Euan's eyes were wide and misted. "How can this place be bad?" He was shaking his head, "It's so beautiful."

"See. Look. Someone else has been there before."
Faeth stood at the water's edge. They had slid down the ruined hillside on their haunches, following a dry wash that zig-zagged to where the Road met the bridge below. The lapping of the greenish river water sounded about them, striking the stone of the bridge's supports and rolling onto the muddy bank. Her voice was hollow and echoed in the shadows of the arches. A boat bucked up and down in the water. It was moored to the closest pile and, running - as far as they could see - to the farthest shore, there was a thick length of rope.
"Who did this?" Euan asked.
"I don't know. But they made it so that they could easily return to either side. Look." She pointed to the sagging bit of rope that was strung from column to column along the length of the bridge. "They made big nail-things with rings on the end and someone must've hammered them in and placed it."
Euan's eyebrows wrinkled, "How does it work?"
"You just pull yourself along. Theres a loop of rope that runs from the boat to the line just in case the current is strong enough to pull you away." Faeth felt a burst of pride. "It's easy. I've done it many times. Come on," she was wading into the water, "get some of that mud on your pack and let's go."

Above them, twisted rusting cables hung. They were coiled bits of metal wire that were bolted to the hulking bridge, like big snakes that were wider than her hands. Some were complete and lay deep within the water below, others were uncoiled and cut. The little boat was old and most of the paint had flaked off long ago. Its timbers were swollen and brackish. Rains had gathered in it and their boots were soaked. Euan sat upon a little bench that split the boat in two and Faeth stood behind him, sliding her hand along the guide line and moving them slowly across the swift currents. Her pack lay at her feet.
Euan had slathered himself with mud, much more than she had anticipated. The dark earth had dried on the back of his neck and slicked down his hair; some of it was even on his cheeks.
"How many times have you been there?" he asked, his eyes on the bobbing mass on the far riverbank.
"I dunno. Five or six? The first couple of times I was too scared to stay long."
"What's the longest that you've stayed?"
"About five hours."
"Have you ever stayed overnight?"
She nearly laughed outloud, "No."
He turned and looked at her over his shoulder, "Why?"
As they neared a column, she was gathering the boat-line into her hand, "There are things that live there. Bad things." Faeth unclipped the boat-line from the guide just before the iron loop and clipped it back on to the guide just after. "I told you."
"There are people, right?" He was cleaning his nails with his teeth.
They were moving back into the wide water between the columns. She tried to sound reassuring, "I've never really seen them very close. But I think so....yeah."
"What do you do there?" He was changing the subject.
Her work was an enjoyable strain and the open stretches of moving current cheered her. "I walk and look. I imagine the streets filled with people during the Before Time. The spires not broken but whole." The broad water and fresh reflected sunshine made her tongue loose, "There are a few places I try to go everytime. There's one that I think used to be a school or some sort of place for children. There are pretty colors and things to climb. Another place is a long set of wide stairs that end in a fountain. There's nothing there now but dirt and grass but it gives a wonderful view." She lowered her voice, oddly afraid that someone might overhear, "The best, though, is the Library. I'll take you there. It's beautiful, but it makes me sad too."
Euan shrugged, "What's so special? We have books."
Faeth was excited for him, "Just wait."
As they neared the far end of the bridge, their conversation hushed and fell to silence. There was a scent that gathered as the spires came closer. It seemed to be held within the mists and fog that still clutched to the lower, darker shadows. It was a raw smell of stone, dust and static; of rain though the sky was clear and bright.
Euan pointed from his seat, "Rats."
"Big ones." Faeth was nodding. She had seen them too; in the murk were the arches met the land again, fat with thick tails and nasty eyes. In the Village, they ate them sometimes, but only the ones that Theodore raised. The wild ones were often too sick. "They'll leave us alone unless we blunder into a nest."
"Which there is a good chance of doing..."
"Not if we stay in the sun."
The stones were bigger on this shore, square and substantial. Some of them had either fallen or been moved to make a slip of land for the boat. There were holes in the bridge above and the sunlight illuminated them in bright, slanting patches. As they scampered up and out, they could hear the pulpy bodies and skittering claws of the rats beneath them, within the stones.
The stones gave way to earth and grass . The tall, heavy stalks rose over their heads. The ground sloped upward to a flat area with more of the tiny, broken black pebbles. There were big ferns at their feet; broad-leafed and wide angled clumps of drooping fronds. The light was clear and sharp and the air felt chilled. The breeze had shifted and was blowing from behind, tugging at their clothes. The closer buildings were just metal frames. A few still held squares of rusted tin that waved in the wind.
"I think lots of boats came here." Faeth said. "It's about half a league to where the towers get taller. These are just low, wide ones." She set off through the ferns. The pebbles crunched under her feet, the leaves swinging back with a moist rustle. Euan followed at her heels.
They walked in silence for a while. The Road here was narrow and bordered by many two story buildings; streets and streets of empty rectangular box-like ruins. Pools of stagnant water lay on either side of them, their surfaces shimmering with whirling rainbows of color. Euan nearly stepped into one, but Faeth pulled him short. "It will eat through the soles of your boots." she said. Hanging over them were long wires, each with heavy ivy dangling down; some were so low that they had to part them like curtains. Everywhere were upended wagons and molded slick sheeting. The sheeting was black and glossy where the rains might have washed it. It rattled in the wind and covered shattered glass. They consistently had to thread their way through mounds of disturbed earth and stone. Always they kept to the Road, as straight as it would allow. At one point, Euan heard the sound of flowing water. Below them, through a ragged crack that ran across the Road, a torrent flowed. Euan raised questioning eyes to Faeth. "Yeah, there are round tubes under everything here. And there is water everywhere."
Just as the sun began to lower past noon, the towers came closer. They had broken from the lower buildings and found a gradual growth of height about them; two stories became three, three became four until they had been hidden from the sun by the cooler gray light of the towers. The wind was colder within the shade. The road had become less straight and more crisp, cutting in grid-like patterns through the pillar bases of the Cathedrals. There were long metal pipes that were fixed into the stone at each corner. They couldn't make out what the faded green signs said. Euan's eyes were above more than at his feet and he stumbled often.
The towers were huge and were littered with more windows than they could count. They were surrounded by them. They were a ring of sacred stones jutting from the earth and the windows were the all-seeing eyes that their followers feared. They were not safe, but they were astounding. Most leaned like piles of toy blocks against each other. Others were sheared off and missing outer walls. Their guts were of metal and dust.
With something like awe in her voice, Faeth said, "We'll soon be in the center. The Library is close."
There was a clearing in the center of the Cathedrals. The road cut a wide square about a clump of trees and grass. In the very middle of the depression, there was a fountain. No water flowed there, but water lilies and thick, viscous algea bobbed on the surface of a pool. There was a small herd of deer grazing in the lush green. They lifted their heads and scattered with thrumming hooves as the two approached. The sunlight colored the clearing with warm yellow. "I should have brought my bow." Euan smiled.
Faeth shook her head, "But you're a terrible shot."
"True. But this would be like target practice." He shrugged. "The grass here isn't that tall."
"I think lots of grazers come here and keep it clipped short."
They felt shy as they spoke, not wishing to disturb the calm.
Faeth sat on the fountain's lower edge and slid her pack from her back. She fished inside and pulled a tied cloth and her waterskin free. Euan perched beside her and did the same. She cautioned him against breaking too much of the mud free as he began to tug at the buttons. The cloth in her lap was filled with what her father called 'Corndodgers'. They were her favorite; balls of cornmeal fried in bacon grease. Crispy on the outside and still slightly gooey on the inside. They would keep forever and one could fill a grown man's stomach for several hours.
"Through the trees behind us is the Library." she said.
Euan's mouth was full of dried meat, "Do we have enough time?"
She sent her gaze to the sun, her hand shading her eyes, "What is it? Two or Two-Thirty?" She lowered them and took another bite, "Yeah. We can make it back in plenty of time if we only stay an hour or so. We just need to keep an eye on the length of the shadows while we're inside. It's easy to lose track of time."

At the top of a long, wide flight of stone stairs, were the doors to the Library. They were open and darkness seemed to flow from them. Euan had used his flint to light his lantern. They stood at the enrance. Faeth held a wavering candle, black smoke rising from the tallow.
"There are holes in the floor within the first room. Hug the left wall and follow me. There is light in the big room."

Short Story 4 - Space Selkie - Completed 1/06/11

2011-01-25T01:33:00.004-06:00

I found it today. I dare not tell Evelyn. It was hidden inside one of the vents in the living room, behind the sofa, under a mat and in a plastic bag. It shimmered so. Everyone was gone for the lunchtime meal, but I wasn't feeling well. My stomach hurt. I didn't even tell Eric when they came back. I had to hide it again quickly. I heard the sound of their approach down the long emptiness of the corridor and slid everything back into place.
They find me in the living room, reading one of my data books. The one I picked was a favorite. Sometimes the tablet catches on certain pages...just because I've visited them so often. I love the pictures of Old Earth. The forests of South America before the Bad Rains. Father tells me that we are lucky to be here, that there were many who would have killed to have our place. I don't like to think about that. I just like the pictures.
"Looking at the Rainforests again, Michael?" Evelyn says as I slip the tablet under my blanket. I don't know why I tried to hide it. She always knows what I've been looking at. There's nothing wrong with it.
"You always pick the most boring stuff to look at." Eric says, dropping onto the sofa with a loud grunt. "You missed spaghetti today. They even added some soy meat." He reaches around me and pulls the tablet from my covers. He presses a few buttons and the electric squawk of one of his games soundes from the small speakers.
Evelyn's voice is soothing and kind, "How are you feeling, my dear?" She stands at the window and presses the shaders down. With a slight hiss, the windows brighten and the unfettered light of the sun filters through the thick, transparent aluminium. Our rooms are walls of silver and floors of matted brown. The door leads into the service corridor that connects with the main tunnels of the station. We revolve over the empty skies. There are pinprick lights about us and blues and browns below us. Father says that the colors below are where we used to live. But I don't remember any of it.
Mary has a plate full of lunch within her hands. It is covered with plastic sheeting. "Maurice was there. He missed seeing you." Her hands are small though the fingers are long - like Evelyn's. Her hair is the same shade as mine. She sets the plate on the side table and sits back. I lean against her and she begins to play with my hair.
Evelyn speaks from across the room, "Feeling better?" Her eyes are warm pools of concern, "Tummy still hurting?"
I nod and snuggle into the crook of Mary's arm. She shifts slightly and takes one of my hands in hers, moving long fingers along the lines of my palm.
"My little man." Evelyn says and moves across the room to me. I feel her warm breath as she leans in to kiss my forehead. "I'm sorry you don't feel well."
"What a baby." Eric breathes, eyes not rising from the light of the tablet.
Evelyn ruffles my hair and takes a playful swing at my brother. "He's little and feeling bad. Leave him alone."
Eric laughs and smirks, "He's always feeling bad."
"If you have nothing nice to say...take that thing to your room and leave us in peace." Evelyn's voice is kindly but firm.
Eric is up and gone with a sigh.
"Don't let him get to you, little." Mary comforts me, "He's just sad that he's too old to get any sympathy."
I smile and let my eyes close. The shimmer of the thing behind the couch burning behind my lids.

I want to tell Mary. I want to show her. But there is a fear about the shimmering thing that I can't seem to shake. It's like something will happen if others know. Like I'll lose something. I dream for a while. The Station is gone and I float in the darkness for a while before I am caught and brought to the surface in a burning mass of light. I think I can still feel Mary's fingers on my face, but I seem to remember Evelyn carrying me to bed. I hear her sing her nighttime song, the one I love about stars and dust and black.
Father was there too. Strong hands and dark eyes over my pillow. I feel his rough hands touch my cheek. "G'Night, my little one." His voice is rough too. The words scratching out of his throat.
I don't see my father much. He works the engines at nighttime. He smells of electricty and fuel. There is another smell about him though...something sweet and nice. Evelyn. Sometimes he smells of Evelyn and it calms me. He is there sometimes in the evening before rushing out to work; a distant black at the end of the table at dinnertime. Only his eyes seem bright.
I was sick again during the night. I had nothing within my stomach to bring up. Eric helps me to my bed and I fall to the pillow shaking and sweaty. I might have said something then. Told my brother about the shiny behind the couch. I seem to think that I did, but I don't know for sure. The nighttime is full of my stomach hurting and sleep.

I feel better when the lights rise in the morning. We try to set our morning times to the earth time below us. Father says it is wise to do so. So that we'll be ready when the earth is.
Evelyn comes in and rouses me. I had been awake for a little, but acted like I was still sleeping. When I do that, she sings to wake me. I think she knows that I am playing. But her song is so beautiful, I can't help myself. Her voice sounds of starlight and sunshine. She sings words I don't know but the feeling within them is her. A smile breaks across my face and she laughs.
"You've been awake this whole time." her voice careses my face like Mary's fingers. "Up and out, my little one."
Father is at the table when I emerge. He holds a tablet in his hands and his face is lit up with it. I almost tell him of the Shiny behind the couch but my stomach is gurgling with hunger. He hears the sound and smiles, "You must be feeling better." He sets me in the chair next to him, "Take it easy, son. Don't try to eat too much."
I nod so strongly that it makes my neck hurt.
Eric and Mary are already gone to their classes and our rooms are quiet. Evelyn is moving about us, picking up things and straightening. Father's eyes follow her above the edge of the data tablet. He doesn't know that I notice. When Evelyn sets my breakfast before me, she rubs my her hand through my tangled hair and hums a bit of the song. Her eyes are cast out of the windows and her lips tremble. Father isn't watching then.

We have been in the skies since I was born. I'm nearly eight. The Bad Rains made the buildings melt and the ground dead. Father says some bad men made it happen. He has told me alot about the times before, but I don't remember. He says that there were lots of people who couldn't come on the stations and that we live in only one of the many that float in the black skies. He is really good at his job and that is why we were able to come. Mother didn't get to come to our new home. She died when the first fires fell from the sky. I never knew her. I only know Evelyn. She is tall and her hair is the darkest black, like the sky. She moves softly like air even though her feet touch the ground. She is my mother now and I don't mind at all.

Father leaves for work and Evelyn goes to the Gardens for our food.
She locks the door and tells me to rest. Even though I am feeling better, she thinks it would be better if I stay home. It's fine, I tell her, and cuddle on the sofa with my tablet and my blankets. She leaves some fruit on a plate with some water in a cup just in case I get hungry. I've been to the Gardens many times. All of our food grows there under the bright lights and the misters. All of us that live on the station share the Gardens. We can only take what we need for one day.
I know that Evelyn will go to the Observation Room too. She always goes there after. She will stand in the bright sunshine and look at the stars. If no one else is there she will sing and twirl. I've been there with her too. That is the only thing that I will miss today.

I am alone with my tablet when Mary comes home. I hear the door open and look up to see her drop her bag on the table by the door. Mary is so pretty. She has red hair and is about fourteen, I think. Her skin is lighter than mine and her face is always on the edge of a smile, even when she is sad. She sits next to me.
When I start to ask her why she is home so early she tells me that it was a half day today. Some times they do that, she says, to save power or to work on the engines.
I feel a tingling in my stomach as I ask her about the Shiney behind the sofa.
"Shiney? What do you mean?" her voice is flat. She doesn't know.
"Yesterday" I say and feeling dry in my throat I take a sip of water, "I found a glittery thing in the vent behind the sofa. Here. I'll show you." I pull the blankets back and suddenly feel cold. I'm still wearing my pajamas and the thin cloth doesn't hold warmth.
I tell her to stand and move the sofa just a bit away from the wall. The vent is low and comes loose easily. I can hear the rattling of the plastic wrapping like before. That was what made me look inside to begin with, I tell her. As I reach in and pull the Shiney out I tell her how I dropped my tablet behind the sofa yesterday and had to climb under to grab it when I heard the plastic moving in the air.
I stand and push the sofa back. I am holding the black plastic bag in my hand. Mary is frowning.
"We shouldn't be doing this." She says. Her cheeks are red. When I ask her why, her frown only gets deeper. "This is someone's secret. We shouldn't look for secrets. Father said so."
I slide my fingers along the seal at the top of the bag. The shiney lets some of its light out and I hear Mary take a deep breath. She reaches over and takes the bag from me and pulls the Shiney out.
The light of it moves over her face like a million tiny mirrors reflecting the sun. It makes a shimmery, electric sound as she holds it and the little pieces of it move against each other. Her voice is only air when she talks, "Its like its made of fish scales only glowy metal. But not metal." She tips her head as she thinks of words to say. Her eyes are wide and the Shiney glimmers over them. "What is it?"
"Here." I say and take it from her. I lay it out on the rug. "I thought it was some kind of blanket at first. Like the ones in the saftey bags they keep near the air locks. The ones that look like foil?" She only nods as I press the folds out flat. "But its not a square or a rectangle like a blanket."
Mary gets on her knees beside me and we both look at it. I feel almost afraid, but it is a kind of afraid that wants to make me smile or giggle.
"Its so pretty." she says as her head tilts again, " but what could it be?"
"I did some looking on my tablet." I say and retreive the small plastic screen from the sofa. I press the awake button and flick through some of the pictures on it. "Its like this."
I give push the tablet in front of her eyes since she won't turn from the Shiney to look at it.
"The picture I found is something called mail. It is from long, long ago. A time hundreds, maybe even thousands of years before the bad rain. It was the only thing that I could find that even looked like it. People used to wear it to keep safe when they fought each other. Back before guns and bombs."
She barely even looks at the picture. "I know what that is. This isn't..." she is looking at the Shiney again, touching it with her fingers and feeling the soft glow. "The shape is wrong. This is almost round, like a tube. See?" She slides her hand along the top and slips her fingers inside. "Look. The bottom is closed. Its like a sock and look at this." She lays down next to it. "It's longer than me." She moves to her side and is touching it again. "It doesn't feel like someone made it. It feels like something natural. Like..." she frowns again "like skin. It almost feels like its moving under my fingers."
She jumps up and pulls the tablet from me. "Wait." her fingers move on the screen, pressing and typing, "I've seen something like this. When we went to the Ark at school."
She is chewing on the inside of her cheeks as she searches.
The Ark is where we keep the animals on the station, like the old story when water was everywhere on earth and the man kept animals safe. We did that too. As many as we could find.
"Here." She turns the tablet to show me. "Snakes do this. They change their skin." I see a long white papery thing that looks like a snake but with no snake inside. Mary is still talking, "It's like that only prettier and still alive, I think. I saw a snake with half of his skin off and it had a new, shineyer skin under it. I think that if a snake made something like this they could get back inside and still use it."
Mary is so smart. All of her teachers have told Father and Evelyn so.

We put it away. We are both afraid that Evelyn will come home and see it. The Shiney feels like a grown up secret. Like when its dark and we all hear noises and their door is closed. But she doesn't come home first. Eric does. We show it to him.
"Father said not to look for secrets." he says, but he can't keep his hands off of it. He presses it to his cheek and says it smells like dust and the long light bulbs when they burn out and we have to change them. His eyes get wet when he sets the Shiney down and says, "I bet this was Mother's."
Mary shakes her head, "But Father keeps all of mother's things in his room in the chest. The one with the lock."
I nod, "I think Mary is right. We should tell Evelyn about this."
"No." Eric says, "Maybe this is her secret. Maybe she wants to keep this from Father."
"Maybe Father wants to keep it from Evelyn." Mary says.
We decide not to tell and we put it away. All of us want to hold it and feel it. It is hard not to be looking at it.

I start feeling sick again when Evelyn comes home. I wish I could call her mother, but Father said not to. "Mother is gone. We love Evelyn, but she is not Mother." he said to me long ago. That makes me sad, but I think it would make him even more sad to disobey.
The fever comes back and I feel so cold. The blankets don't seem to help and I feel shakey and my hair is wet with sweat. Evelyn takes me to my bed and holds me for a long time. I think she is crying a little. When I get really sick, she is sad too.
My room is dark and she has been singing softly to me for a long time. I hear the door open and Father comes in. He sits on my bed and reaches around Evelyn and holds us both.
I hear them talking in whispers.
"When did it come back?" Father asks.
"Sometime in the afternoon. It seems worse than ever."
"Have you sent for the Medic?" He asks, his mouth is close to her ear.
I feel her nod through the padding of the mattress.
They are quiet for a little while. I hear him kiss her.
I start shaking more as I get colder. Evelyn tightens the blankets around me. I hear her cry a little and feel her body shaking too.
"Thank you for this." Father says. "Thank you for staying with me."
"I don't think I could leave even if I wanted to." she says.
"Really?" I don't think Father believes her.
She sighs and even her breath sounds like a song, "There is much that I miss. But my love for you and these children..." Her voice falls into song. A soft, cozy song that makes me think of blankets and her smell.
Father stands and kisses her hair. "Thank you."
He stops at the door. He speaks softly and I can barely hear him, "I still have it...I could..."
She speaks over him, "No. The skies do not hold anything for me for they would keep me from all of you."
Father is crying. "I will let them call you mother, if you wish." He shuts the door behind him and does not wait for her to answer.

The Medic gives me medicine when he comes to see me. His face is blurry and I feel sleepy.
Most of the night is full of Evelyn's song and sleep. She is always there. She sleeps beside me and sings when I wake up and cuddle next to her for warmth.

I dream during the night. It is odd but I dream of smells. Sharp electric smells of oranges and dust. Evelyn smells.
The Shiney.
Evelyn.
They smell the same.
Starlight and sunlight and they empty black.
When I awaken, Mother is beside me and she glows. She sings and the song is of years and time and stars. I shudder as the fever moves over me again. There is light from below the covers.
Mother laughs. Evelyn laughs.
I sleep for a while.
It is still dark when I awaken. Father is there standing in the middle of my room. The lights are still low so it is night time.
Evelyn is moving about him, sliding in the air alive with light and laughter. She glows and her glow files the room with starlight.
I hear Father laugh for the first time in a long time as he says, "My maiden of the stars."
The fever sends me back into the darkness and I sleep.
The Shiney is hers and she is my mother now.

Short Story 3 - Cold of Winter - Completed 1/19/11

2011-01-25T01:31:00.003-06:00

The tires were only matted clumps of rubber strips. Alex saw that the rims were imbedded in the soil and that rust had dripped down like icicles. Mice or something bigger had burrowed into the blue vinyl and padding at some point and made a nest in there. She hoped they weren't still in it.
At least it had windows. Dirty and cracked but still enough to keep some of the wind out. She pried the back door open. The loud squawk frightened something out in the darkness. She heard the brittle, empty branches of the trees move and shake. She saw snow fall. A bird, she thought. The door didn't fall off. That was a good thing. The first good thing since this day had started. She waited a moment and let the silence of the little clearing fall like the snow about her.
She tossed her bag inside and, brushing the gathering flakes from her jacket, she climbed in after it. She kicked the wet gunk from her boots and pulled the door back into place. The interior reeked of mildew and rot, a close furry smell. Just until the heaviest of it passes, she thought. I'll just wait here until the snow lessens and then I'll go. Just for a little while.
She fished her cell phone free from her pocket and opened it. The sudden light from the LED screen bathed her face in blue. No bars. She smiled. Why did I expect any bars at all?
The wind redoubled and moved its cold nose along the side of the car, a beast that wished to find her. It whistled through the cracks in the windshield and buffeted the rusted frame. She spun the still lit screen around the interior noticing the worn dash and the words on the little metal badge that still hung near the passenger's side window: Pontiac Grand Marquis. They had rented one of those...so long ago. On their honeymoon, it had been. The insurance had been to expensive for anything else. She smiled again and wondered where he was at that moment. What was he doing? Was he coming for her? Was he on the phone? Calling everyone he knew?
There was a scuttling sound from where the engine - or what was left of it - rested. She suppressed a shudder and clipped the phone closed. Outside, the snow fell in big, thick flakes. The wind spun and sent it heavily against the glass beside her. She pulled her knees to her chest and sighed. The breath curled from her mouth in a wide vapor. She noticed the tang of gasoline.
The springs beneath her sounded loudly as she shifted her weight. It was a bright sound; metal scraping against metal. She wished the snow would cover the car, fill in the cracks with drift upon drift. It would be like an igloo and lock the heat of her body inside and keep the treacherous fingers of the icy wind from sneaking in and stealing her warmth away.
A sudden anger struck her and she banged her fist against the headrest. Dammit. Why do these things always happen to me? Stop it, her mind rallied, stop feeling sorry for yourself and work the problem. Solve the dilemma.
Her thoughts centered with another sigh and she settled into a calm that surprised her. Right. Work the problem.
1) You didn't stay with your car. Mistake one. Movies should have taught you that. Always stay with the car.
The gas had given out and she had made another mistake (we'll call it number two) and not filled up when she had passed the last gas station. It had just looked...scary. Is this present circumstance any less so? her mind asked of her. No. No, this was fairly frightening. It had been the plaid enshrouded man at the pumps that had frightened her away. She had gone as far as pulling up to the pump when she noticed him. He had had a distinct "Deliverance" quality to him; soiled shirt, equally soiled jeans, missing teeth and a yellowing beard and red face that spoke of alcohol and cheap cigarettes.
She had pulled away as soon as he had started to rise and she noticed the brown stain that rode down one pant leg.
Her mind struck out at her again - oil. It had been oil. Not shit or something. Oil.
Regardless, I drove on, she thought. And the gas gave out fifteen minutes later. It had been the sign that had made her leave her car - she could still see it from the light of her brakes behind her: Breeze-line Motel, 2 Miles.
On a map, 2 miles is nothing. Not even longer than the first bit of my finger.
Very well. Her error had lead her here.
Let us continue cataloging the mistakes.
3) The Blue Highways on the map are more interesting than the boring black ones.
Ok. Going cross country on the map is simple. Broad black lines are interstates and freeways and toll roads. Who wants to travel on those things? Boring people. She had made the decision from the outset to find a roundabout way to her parent's home. Two hours by highway. Maybe three by the prettier routes.
She had heard the weather reports but figured that she was well ahead of the storms. The weatherman had been wearing a tie but had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. That should have been a clue. A big flashing warning that the weather was taking a turn for the worst. It wasn't just a quick update. It was a big winter storm update and they were worried. She had watched with only one eye as she piled her clothes into her bag. She didn't have much time and had to be out before his shift ended.
Sitting in her car in the parking lot underneath their apartment, the choice had been simple, so fun. The Blue Highways are more interesting. On the atlas, they were jovial and exciting - veering off of the everyday and striking out into the wild backcountry. It really meant no services and scary guys at the pumps she passed.
All right. Mistake 3 covered.
4) They have ATM's everywhere.
For crap's sake. They are only really everywhere within Baltimore proper. Move beyond the city center and they become harder to locate. When you leave the interstates - there still are places that don't have internet connections. Places that don't have phone lines dialed into their cash registers. You can't just swipe your card for everything. She had forty dollars. Well, she had had forty dollars. One fill up and a snack had taken care of it quickly.

In the rusted out car, she began to rub her legs with her hands. The springs sounded their resistance. She flipped open her cell phone and used the light to search through her bag. Oddly, she had packed her gloves and a scarf.
A silk scarf the color of oatmeal. Had he given me that?

5) This one she regretted the most. Ask your husband, point blank, about an affair rather than assuming. You know what assuming does, right? She could almost hear her little brother's voice ask the question. She could definitely hear his chuckling response: It makes an ASS out of U and ME. God, who first thought that was funny?
The idea had struck her over a month ago. Late nights, distant conversations and a phone call. That had been all that it had taken to plant the seed. The seed of distrust and suspicion.
"Is Michael there?" The voice had been a woman's, slightly husky like that annoying Cyrus girl.
"No. Who is this?" she had asked.
The pause on the other end had sowed the first distrust, "Um. Cecilia. From the store." Another pause, "Will he be home soon. It's pretty important."
"He's out with some friends." Why had she added, "He's got his cell phone if you want to try him on that." She had even given the girl - Cecilia, really? - the number. She'd met everyone from the store and that name didn't sound familiar.
"What's so important?" Alex had asked.
"I can't...talk about it...it's personal..."
The call had ended.
That night, when he had come home smelling of smoke and beer, she had asked him about it.
His eyes had been a little too bright. "Oh, honey. She's just sad and having a hard time."
"And she's got no family or friends to call?" Alex's eyes had been narrowed at him as he cuddled in next to her. She'd gone to bed early with a book and he had crawled in, fully clothed.
His voice was tired, "Honey. She's in a bad way. She's showed up at work with a couple bruises. I asked her if everything was o.k. and she told me about her boyfriend."
She felt harsh when she asked, "And this is somehow your responsibility?"
"Sweetheart, she's really nice and she should have to deal with this sort of thing." He breathed into the sheets, not really wanting to go into it. "I've asked her over for dinner sometime. I think you'd really like her. You too would really get along."
"I don't want to get to know her. Is she cute or something?"
She hadn't really listened to his responses. He had clumsily attempted to start something sassy, but the smell of him had put her off. That and the needling feeling that he was cheating on her.
She had other facts to pin her suspicion on. Small things like taking a shower as soon as he got home. He had always done that, but usually after a little time had passed. He'd come through the door and drop his things at the side table. Sit and talk. But lately, it had been a bee-line for the bathroom. Trying to wash the stink of another woman off? she thought. He had been coming home later and later each night claiming excuses like: late customers, inventory, things like that. They all sounded flimsy and made up.
The final straw had been the e-mail. She had found it that morning.

The snow through the glass seemed even heavier. She wrapped her coat tightly about her neck and blew air into her hands. She could feel the heat of her breath through the woolen gloves. The darkness had fully settled over the car. Alex could barely make out the shimmering shape of the naked trees about her. The wild snow blotted most of the clearing. She couldn't even see the road.
I overreacted. She knew it. He was being kind.

She had shut the door to her Corolla and trudged north. The snow isn't bad yet, she had thought. It had changed in a matter of minutes. The sky had turned from gray to slate and pulled ice down. She had spotted the ruin from the roadside. If the wind hadn't been so cold and if she had put leggings on...she would have walked on.

The e-mail had been short. Just a couple of lines: "Michael, thank you. Thank you so much. If you hadn't been there I don't know what I would have done. I think you saved my life."
She had ended it, "Yours, Cecilia."
Yours.
Why not something un-sexual like "thanks again" or "your friend". Yours has such an intimate feeling.

The cold was working up her legs, biting and gnawing. She knew that she should move on. Tramp the mile or so to the warm lights and covers. But she felt so tired. Worn out and tired. She saw a pair of headlights through the snow, moving slowly. She thought of tearing the door open and pursuing them, but didn't. They disappeared in red pinpricks. So cold, she thought, so cold to him. He was being kind. He was being kind. She could see his face, close to hers, the murmured words. He was being kind.

Michael gripped the phone tightly in his hand, his voice was sad, "I'll be right there."

He grasped the plastic bag in his hand as he signed the form. It was one of those large ziplock things. He could see the coat and the silk scarf beside it. He had bought it for her in a fit of romanticism. She didn't wear scarves. What was I thinking?
He asked if they needed anything else. The answer was no for the time being. Would he be available if they had any other questions? Yes, he had said.

He left her there. Behind the steel doors. On the slab. Cold, as she had died.

Short Story 1, Post 4

2010-10-05T21:28:00.003-05:00

He took a few steps down, his eyes alighting upon the rough marks of excavation that rode the walls; thick, wide scratches of pick and spade. Set within even intervals along the tunnel there were torches in iron rings. Next to them were small hollows dug from the earth. They were shelves of a sort, indentions with flattened bottoms.

Another whispered word and the Thieves' Light flared brighter.

The nearest shelf to him, down and on his left, held a swatch of torn cloth – dirty silk netting stained with blackish marks – wrapped about a desiccated mound of remains. He glimpsed teeth and bone beneath a wiry mass of brittle hair. A word was scrawled hastily upon the fabric. Another shelf, now to his right, revealed a piece of heavily polished bone that had been worked into the shape of a man. Its eyes were black x's and the corners of its mouth were turned down into deep furrows. Across its torso, another nearly illegible word. Yelin took a few more steps and found more; some larger, some smaller. Like dolls they were and made of simple things mostly: a carved root, an apple, sheaves of paper, tallow, a potato, clay, branches, or cloth stuffed with herbs.

Poppets. Folk-magic.

The air about him seemed alive with enchantments. A static rode his movements; a shifting thrumming sounded within his ears full of treble pops and torn parchment. He took several steps down. The Thieves' Light held above his shoulder, a steady light.

Tren is one of these things? He sent an errant hand to the whiskers upon his face. One of these sad, little things? Somewhere among the potatoes and bone, there is a bearded doll that committed petty crimes and wished for better luck? A few more steps. The scent of wet earth became stronger from the air below.

Circumstance....

2010-10-05T11:34:00.000-05:00

I am being driven to write again. I don't have a choice. If this is what I love...why am I not doing it? Overall, circumstance is pressing me forward. I shall begin posting again this evening. I promise. Really. I do.

Short Story 1, Post 3

2009-11-02T21:12:00.003-06:00

It was a quick tousle. Yelin felled him with a jab to his throat that left the man gasping at his feet. I would expect more from such a dandy lock, he thought, pulling the dirk free from the man's neck. Thirteen had come at him from above...a heavy club aimed for his head. A sidestep and an upward thrust had ended the attack before it had begun. He had had bright eyes. They had dimmed briskly as his blood had puddled about him upon the floor. Really, such a clumsy attack. The magics worked along the edge of his robes screamed for more. More finesse. More thoughtfulness was to be expected from one whose superiors wielded such powers. So clumsy. Yelin thought sadly of the previous attempt to retrieve Tren's treasure. It had been such a waste. Sileh had been a good thief, but he had been unprepared when the attack took him.

He wiped his blade clean and let his eyes breathe the air of the hall that surrounded him. Simple walls of timber frame, layered with panelling. Trying so hard to look respectable. As the map suggested, two open doors yawned blackly on either side. One would lead to a sitting room lined with books and the other to some sort of gathering hall. Back and angling slightly west, the stairs loomed. The steps were worn and steep.
With his Thieves' Light still anchored above him – sputtering in the new draughts that rode about him, he stole to the left of the stairs. The door was not hidden. There was a simple hook and eye holding the portal in place. Yelin spoke a whispered word and the Thieves' Light widened into something akin to lantern light.

The door opened revealing a landing and a long stretch of thin stairs. A moist, moldy smell met him. There will be standing water below, he thought as he moved inside. Again, the candle-wick enchantment at his shoulder flickered in the movement of air. His weight upon the timbers sent creaks along the length of the stairs. The walls about the frame were cut from the living earth, the musty scent of loam and dust filled his nostrils. He let the door close behind him and with a flick of a pick dropped the hook back into place. Just in case they return, he thought.

So, apparently, I'm failing miserably on this whole thing...

2009-08-30T09:42:00.002-05:00

First off...sorry for the lack of frequency on posts. I could pull out lists of reasons (all of which I've used before so they won't bear repeating). But the real reason is the lack of inspiration. It bothers me that it has become an issue. When I was posting a page a day on the "novel", I had achieved a level where I was no longer in need of inspiration. I could sit and pound out a page in about forty-five minutes. That is no longer the case. There was a clean flow to the time that allowed a quick return to the story and environment that I haven't been able to re-acquire. It's depressing.

I had assumed that that was a hurtle I had overcome.

Add laziness to the equation and there you have the reasons for the delays.

This evening, I'm planning on sitting down and powerhousing through to the end of this first short story. I am making no promises, but I am going to attempt it.

Short Story 1, Post 2

2009-07-20T21:27:00.000-05:00

It was more intricate than he had thought it would be. There were lines of glinting filigree that entwined the keyhole, filling the depths of the lock with spiderweb enchantments that ran the length of the brass casing. The colors shifted from pale blue to warm red. Their pattern was such that he could not follow it or had not the time to discover it. They culminated at a broad junction at the bolt, surrounding it in a mass of fine threads.

He withdrew the mirror and brought out his picks; a feather touch and a half-diamond would serve the best, he thought. Another pouch was pulled from his pockets. This he set at his feet and dipped the tips of each tool in the powder housed within. He spoke a soft word.

His movements were slow and deliberate. A shift here as sudden twist there. All the while, his eyes lay upon the threads that lay a hair's breadth from his picks. The tumblers did not twist. The pins did not move. He withdrew, settled and returned to the lock. Nothing. Twice more. Still nothing.

Sweat broke across his forehead. Outside, alley-cats tousled loudly, hissing and mewling as they sparred. It lasted for only a few moments. The disgraced opponent overturned debris that littered the street as it fled.

He ran his fingers along the top of the casing, testing for indentions, desperate. He found a slight depression to the left that terminated in a small, pinprick hole. The mirror again in his hand, he searched the interior of the lock.

Ah, he thought, Of course. They deal in poppets. Of course.

The vial was small. It barely measured the length between the knuckles of his smallest fingers as he pulled it free of the thongs that held it in place in the lower reaches of his pockets. The powder that lay in a thin layer at its bottom was a pale red in color. He pulled the stopper free and let a small droplet of spittle fall from his tongue into it. With a few brisk shakes, the mixture colored a deeper shade of red.

With the mirror in place, he poured a scant amount into the indention. He watched as the liquid met the silver traceries of the upper mechanism, suppressed a smile as the enchantments within bled to one color. The timing had to be perfect. He worked the picks quickly, mirror held with clenched teeth. The pins slid back with oiled precision, the tumblers fell. The bolt slid back silently.

Blood Lock. I've never seen one of them before. The trick to them was to have either the blood of the individual to which it was attuned or a little of the sanguinatix. Luckily, I had just enough.

He pulled the door toward him, gathered his tools and replaced them, and moved noiselessly inside.

Lucky Number Thirteen met him as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness within the hall.

Short Story 1, Post 1

2009-07-17T22:10:00.006-05:00

I'm just gonna post what I have so far. I'll continue posting the additional bits as I finish them. I'm rethinking the posting process. I kinda got used to the whole "page a day" thing so...I'll just continue that, but try to finish the story in a weeks time.

On Monday, I'll post the beginning and try to finish it by Friday - posting as I go. This one will have to suffice for this next week. I'll continue on Monday and attempt to finish it by Friday.

The streets were crowded; the scents were raw and animal. Dusk was settling in the the alleys and drawing deep shadows along the high street. Light poured from open shop windows. Vendors cried out their wares and the mummers were performing, cutting a wide swath from the center of the lane. Yelin sidestepped them, pressing through the throng that gathered to watch. He slid his hands into his pockets and wrapped his fingers around the coins he found there. Let the pickpockets attempt to seize them now, he thought as the press of bodies drove him nearer to the troupe. He glanced toward them and smiled.

The tallest of the group, a lanky youth with tousled white hair, capered behind a painted face. His body was all angles and lines. His shoes clattered shallowly against the worn paving stones as he spun in a wild dance. Beside him, clad in a shift of white, a lady sawed upon a violin, screeching out The Floating Crowbar with abandon. Her tones were less than precise. He found it odd that the dirty hem of the ladies' shift should cause him a twinge of sadness. There were jugglers with them, the tight line of batons whirling and singing through the thickening air. A dwarf called out to the crowd, reciting lines and capering in a threadbare jester's costume. The bells upon the hat jangled as he moved.

He stole past them with a snigger.

The cold of the evening deepened as the sun pulled its rays in upon itself and left the city in shifting darkness. Mist rose from the stones, seething about feet and running down cooling walls. Condensation filled the wind, adding moisture to the cold. Yelin felt it upon his face like sea-spray.

The lamplighters were moving about the streaming crowds, wax dripping indiscriminately upon those beneath them. Stilts fastened with leather thongs to their legs, they lurched overhead from lamp-post to lamp-post: raising the sooty glass, placing their guttering flames to the sodden wadding within and – with a thick key from about their necks – coaxing gas to a warming glow. They called the hours as they passed, more to clear the way before them then to pass information.

The streets of Illym were filling.

* * * * *

He found the tavern at the end of a forlorn alley, a few twists from the high street.

The sign hung from chain that dripped rust. He could not make out what might have been carven upon it.

Tren was waiting. He was in the darkest corner as he said he would be. The room was full of smoke and crowded as Yelin entered. The burning lamps shed a sickly orange on the warn tables. The air was rank with sweat and piss. No one noticed as he crossed the room, pulled back a chair and sat.

"You're late.” came Tren's voice from the shadows.

"I had other business that detained me.”

The bearded man chuckled, a rumble barely heard above the murmur of conversation, “Maybe I got other business too.” Tren began to stand.

Yelin placed a hand upon his shoulder, “I'm here ain't I?” He pressed the man back to his seat, “I'm still willing. What's a few minutes here or there?”

"Timing is everything, friend.” Tren's face was hidden within a heavy hood, “A man in your business should know that.”

Yelin smiled, “I am aware of my business.”

They sat for a while in silence. They ordered drinks. Tren had another ale while Yelin settled for a red-clover wine. It was better than expected; spiced, rich and earthy.

The thick-bearded man cleared his throat and spat, “Let's get to it then.” he said, wiping the spittle from his lips with the back of a dirty hand, “They leave at first-watch every night.” His voice was low, “No-one knows where they go and it don't matter. What's important is that they ain't there. Some say the coalers bring them their trappings up the river, hidden in among their loads: cloth, herbs, potatoes and the like from the Wild Lands. Stuff to make their poppets. But, again, it ain't important. What I want is in that house.”

Yelin had lit his pipe. A long exhale of whispy smoke traced his words, filling the table with a pleasant scent of blackberries, “You mentioned a map?”

A sheaf of parchment was spread under the swaying light, “Sileh got this for me. He copied it from memory.” Tren was speaking quickly, “You remember what happened to him, don't you? How they found him?”

Yelin remembered. He had seen him. He let the vision run from his mind as water through a sieve. A shudder sent ripples along the surface of his wine. “I need no reminder.” His hand found the stubble that lined his mouth and smoothed it down, “Tell me again about the layout and where you think this thing lies.” He enjoyed the rasping of bristles against palm.

Pressing the paper flat under his hands, Tren leaned in, belched and spoke, “He only saw the first floor before they found him. But he had a goodly amount of time to explore. They have fourteen in their number. He didn't count 'em as they left. One must've stayed behind.” His smile revealed blackish teeth. “You count 'em. If they don't all leave. Don't go in.” He set a grubby finger on the parchment, “This is the entrance. Simple lock. Should be easy to get past it. Once inside...there's this foyer with another door behind. Bigger lock, more difficult. Once passed it...there's a hall. Sileh said the lower chambers were get-at-able by means of a door under the stairs, “ he pointed to a series of ragged lines, “just there. Now this hall has a number of doors, the first takes you to a library. Don't go in there. I don't want no books. There's a kitchen and a few other rooms: study halls, gathering rooms, a dining hall. None of them is important. It's below the stairs that I think they have it.”

Yelin pulled a stray bit of tobacco from his tongue, “How will I know which you want? Assuming I make it that far.”

The other man laughed and leaned back. “I don't know. I figure it'll look like me.” He shook his great shaggy head back and forth, “Somehow, it'll look like me.”

* * * * *

Mist boiled in from the harbor, moving in slick slow tendrils along the cobblestones. Yelin felt his toes cramping slightly within his thin, leather boots. He tightened his grip on the uneven stones, shook his foot, and continued his climb. The poor workmanship of the wall made his task simple. His hand met with the topmost timbers of the roof. He took a moment and let his gaze drift. Below, the alley was a yawning, black pit.

With little or no sound he pulled himself up onto the rooftop and perched on the edge. He drew his feet underneath him and procured his pipe.

I have time, he thought, it isn't even night watch yet. He had a clear view of their doorway. There were burning lights within the windows, single candles in the upper chambers and lamp-lights in the first floor. He glanced upward and saw the Hunter's Moon casting a bright light upon a shelf of low, swift moving cloud. The wind, at this height, caught his cloaks and sent them billowing about him. He gathered them close and, with a few quick flicks of his wrist, set spark to his bowl. The tobacco smoldered for a moment and caught. He watched the smoke as it was snatched greedily from him into the night by the wind. It roiled and twisted from his mouth.

Illym stretched out about him; hillsides of slate roof and valleys of cobblestoned street. From his vantage point, the Spires caught the moonlight and reflected back pale glimmers. It was there the Priests lit their incense and sent their prayers to the gods. There were houses for each of the Three: Illganth the Thoughtful – the many-armed patron of wealth, Cheathina the Resolver – patron of safety with her pillows and rings, and Stoophad the Innocent – patron of the Children. She was all of bosom and eyes.

The fresh gaslight from the High Street brought with it song and motion. As far as he could see, the massive layers of stone and timber of Illym crowded, the great city of the Narsoom, bannermen of Urnit the King of Athper, son of Dreillim and Holder of the Land Kinrt. Below and about, the city breathed; an acrid intake of smoke and fire, a sweet exhale of life and folk.

The smoke of his pipe stung his nostrils as Yelin pulled it in. He let his lids drop as he waited. The city moved, shrugged and rolled over.

* * * * *

There was a distant sound, a trickling of bells. He roused and peered over the edge. The rope about his waist tightened. Below, heavily cowled figures passed in a tight line. Yelin could just see the first. He or She held a lantern above them hooked to a stick. The door was open and they filed out slowly. The robes were long, flowing things of russet velvet, the cowls were tinged with silk and the slippers they wore, just glimpsed as they slid along the wet cobblestones, were ermine with soles of leather.

The pipe was still in his mouth. He worked it free of his lips and tapped the ashen remains over the edge. The dottle dissipated in the wind before it struck the ground.

Thirteen.

I'm counting them. He smiled.

The last pulled the door shut and twisted a key in the lock. It was an ornate thing with horns. There was slight flash of a vermillion hue as the lock slid into place. It was a flicker of cinnabar that spoke of enchantment.

My Ma always said that I had keen vision, Yelin thought. He rolled his eyes as they moved below him. Portentas Mal? Of all of the entrance forbidders to choose? Portentas Mal? It was a parlor trick, an first year alchemists' legerdemain. I should either laugh or begin to fear. Could it be a performance for the watchful? Or a lulling 'show of hand' for the foolish?

The last of the hooded initiates turned the dark corner and sped along Yellow's Walk, the road that tied to the main arteries that fed to the Warf Roads. The final fellow held a lamp, as well. It was born behind him on a shepherd's crook similar to the first. A fine line of fools they looked. The swinging light set wild, angular shadows upon the brick walls that loomed over them.

One remains inside. Same as before, he thought, pulling the rope free of his waist and fixing it with a robust knot to the pile of stone at his back, began to lower himself to the darkened street. Most likely the stone to which he was anchored served as some sort of communal chimney for the poor, oppressed folk whose building he had traversed this night. With the rope sliding through his fingers at slow, released increments, Yelin fell to the past the shuttered windows and alighted upon the stone. His feet settled into an oil-slicked puddle and his sharp intake of breath held a swear.

Across the street and on the corner the doorway loomed. A few quick steps and he stood at the threshold. A light still burned in one of the lower windows, a lantern by its unshifting nature. Above him and hanging out over the street, a sign was affixed to a iron pole and chain. It was a simple picture, easy to see in the darkned light; a fleur-de-lis or Yellow Flag. The only difference was the binding that bound the stylized lily petals was that of a sickly thorn.

He fumbled within the pockets of his clothing for a downy pouch. His fingers found it and untied the threads that held it closed. He withdrew the powder within and blew a scant amount upon the lock. There was a small flash of blue. The picks flew within his fingers and the bolt slid back.

Yelin pulled open the door and disappeared inside.

There was little or no light within the small foyer. Another door lay a few feet from him. Lined upon the floor at his feet were boots of varying size and make. Pegs lined the walls and more of the same cloaks that he had seen were hung upon them.

He could hear the voice of Tren within his head, the consonants slurred with drink, “Once inside...there's this foyer with another door behind. Bigger lock, more difficult.”

He pulled a small bit of parchment from his pockets, breathed over it and spoke a few mumbled words. The paper flickered at the edges and browned. He released it with a whisk of fingers. A light flared above him, a mere candle flame. It held above his head, though no wick gave it existence. The Thieves' Light, an incantation that offered a radiance for his eyes alone. He had spent a year in study to achieve the skill. Another word and the light adjusted, focusing toward the interior lock. His eyes adapted to the sudden influx of illumination. His pupils tightened as he leaned in.

Another plume of powder upon the lock.

There was a surety to his movements; a practiced skill that quickened his hands. Yelin's palms were hot and the pads of his fingers tingled. He brought his thumb the tips; back and forth, back and forth before he lowered a small mirror into the keyhole. The light was angled back against the interior of the lock.

The mechanism was complex; cogs and projections and bars of brass encircling further wheels tied to springs and free floating flywheels.

That's it so far...I'll add more on Monday night - unless I get to add more over the weekend. Thanks for your patience and make sure to leave comments on what you think. I edited it a little after the original post to make the reading a little easier.

It begins...finally!

2009-07-01T09:23:00.004-05:00

I have finally begun working on the short story for this week. It may stink, but I'm starting. I will start it on Mondays and post the finished piece on Fridays. I won't do any writing on the weekends unless the story pushes me into it.

Sorry for the delays...

Sorry, kids - I'll have it up by late Sunday evening (7/5/09).

Again...I'm stinky. I'm working on having it up by Friday 7/10/09. Sorry.

A New Title for the Blog and a New Purpose...

2009-05-30T00:31:00.005-05:00

If you have a chance to watch this talk...do so. Bradbury is speaking to students entering a writing program. It's long...55 Minutes...but it is wonderful. His excitement is transcendent.

I've put the novel on hold. Watch the video and you'll hear why. There's just too much for me to learn.

Beginning the first week of June. I will begin posting a Short Story a Week for a Year. Invest a little time to hear the reasons.

I adjure you to do the same.

I love that word..."adjure".

See you next week.

Update - 6/6/09 - I couldn't get started this week. I'll begin working on the first short story tomorrow (6/07/09) and will post the finished piece on 6/13/09. I'll write and edit before I post. I don't think that I can "post as I go" with these. If it changes...then I'll post what I've got.

Update - 6/16/09 - Again...more of the same. I think I've finished with the cleaning thing, so I should be able to get back into a regular schedule (well, at least, a regular schedule for me!) I'm attempting to get back in the swing this week.

The Pox and Laziness

2009-05-25T08:20:00.001-05:00

Hiya...still here. Ellie's Chicken Pox and a fine bout of laziness have kept me from posting. I'll get back to it soon!

Current Work, Chapter 2, Post 2

2009-05-07T11:14:00.003-05:00

This post is strange and it is supposed to be so. If it doesn't work or is unclear, let me know. I'm not sure wether I've communicated the scene very well. It is supposed to be "otherworldly" to Maxwell and some of the stuff - especially toward the end - is purposefully vague...let me know if its too vague. - Mattie

The sun lowered and brilliant hues broke across the horizon: fierce purples, coral oranges and pinks. The sky dulled to a blue sage as he walked. His mouth was wide and his eyes moved ever upward reflecting back the first pinpricks of starlight that showered upon him.

There were three moons in the heavens.

* * * * *

It had never been so real. The Walk that led to the Fires. I had been there so many times before, but this time everything was sharp and clear. The edges of the leaves were razor sharp against the failing light. All held a thick-lined definition that made all previous dreams just that - vague and murky nighttime slumber that touched this truth but never achieved it. It was like looking through a pane of dirty glass only to have it shatter and warm a cold room with sunlight.

* * * * *

The bricks were cold against his feet, solid and dusty. The smell about him was of fresh, loamy earth. It was a garden smell; a smell of clipped grass and bruised herbs. The air was cool. Honeysuckle and clover infused his senses.

It is mother's tea with dirt in it, he thought. And to him, the thought held a connection.

He broke over the rise and followed the road as it wound in a lazy curve down the hill. Here the forest had been held back and a thick-bladed grass grew over the undulating earth. A few taller stalks of the grass held ripened grains. They were grey in the evening light.

He heard nothing save the slight murmur of the wind. There were small rills that the path rose over with piles of round colored stones. They snaked between the rolling downs. He could not see over them and the cobble-stones held his path at their base.

A light flared before him, a sudden redness that colored the hills. He felt no fear, but sped his feet around the curve and his eyes fell upon a ring of ancient stones. Here the hills had been cut back into a small shallow bowl and in its center sat the ring. They were grey-black obelisks that jutted from the green earth, broken and mossy teeth they seemed. Above each of them, spaced evenly from the round convergence of the path at its center, a plume of flame boiled. They needed no fuel. The flames thrilled the air with a sudden heat.

"You come uncloathed?" a voice said.

Maxwell had not seen the five figures that stood at each stone. Neither did he know which of them had spoken. Five nearly shapeless bundles of cloth they seemed. Heavy cowls hid their faces and the remaining yards of thick material fell sharply to the ground and pooled at their feet. Their color matched the stone behind them and, had they not moved to face him, he would have thought them part of the living rock.

The nearest one stepped toward him, the shifting sound of cloth and grass whispering delicately to his ears. Its movements were a gliding grace, smooth and yet deliberate. Only the cowl seemed to hold any substance. A reddish, warmth dwelt there.

The voice was soothing, old and full of breath, "I shall clothe you, child."

Maxwell felt no fear, for the figures held none. He tried to speak, but no words came. He nodded and cast his eyes down. The figure drew a portion of its covering over the boy. The cloth was rough and spun of thick, ropy threads. Though it was heavy, it did not overwhelm him. He found the covering fastened about his neck, cowling him and spreading at his feet. He was warm and the flinty scent of rain on stone rose to his nose.

"When next you return. This shall cover you." The figure said, moving away from him.

The firelight flickered over them as the boy followed and strode into the circle of stones.

"You were assailed within the Other Time." Another of the figures spoke, deeper, resonant and kind, "We, the Keepers, know this."

The others spoke their affirmation with a long, exhaling breath. "We have little time." Another spoke from behind him. Maxwell stood now in the center of the ring. The ancient stones seemed to grow to a greater height about him, angling slightly in and cradling him. Starlight brightened above. Singular and naked, they held a cold brightness within the slate sky as they twinkled and pulsed.

Though he knew that he had passed to this place before, the boy felt strange and lost. His small legs trembled. It was not from the cold but from a fearful anticipation that they shook.

"You are but one of many." They spoke in unison. The voices whirled about him becoming one in his ears. "We know not how this is accomplished, but the Thread is not accountable to us. We only accept and attend. We shall let you see what we see."

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, a small arcing shaft of bluish light rose above the boy's head. It twisted and buckled about itself as it moved upward. Like a shaft of smoke caught in a twirling wind, it rose. As it passed the crowns of the five stones about him, the light split and met them. A thrumming erupted from the earth.

The Keepers, for so they had named themselves, opened their parchment throats and a deep rumble smote him. The shaft broke into the sky, dimming the fire that burned even still above the ancient stones. Maxwell felt a music within the spire that now pressed against the scudding clouds within the sky. A sacred, timeless music that spoke of growing things and rainfall, of the return of absent friends and of journey's end. It called to a place within him that he had not known but knew existed. It spoke to him in a clear voice that echoed across the span of his days. It was calm and savage. It was powerful and somber; agonizing and kindly. Bands of yellow sunlight wound about the pillar, winding in threads of impassioned fervor.

The strong voices continued, but one tore free to speak, "This is ever with you, child. A Thread that ties you to Us and Others. It is this that bridges the Rift. It is this that makes you unlike Us."

Maxwell spun and found that the faces of each figure, each Keeper, held wild, bright eyes.

The Thread splintered and reformed, the light shattered for the briefest of moments.

"The greater the attack, the greater the sundering, the greater your strength." the Voices were suddenly distant, "Soon you will leave us." They grew anxious and the words were hurried, "The Chasm calls. The Fissure opens. Hold to this sight. Hold to what we have shown you. The Windhorses are ever at your side. The Grey cannot do more that what is allowed. You will come to us again. Think upon the Thread and know that it binds you to Us. Fear no shadow, but know that as they assail you, ever are you fortified."

The light weakened even as the Keepers attempted to shore it with their own illumination. Maxwell felt a tug within his torso, a tearing that broke something inside. He struggled to hold to what he had seen, but the insistence weakened his resolve.

He was drawn away as blackness enfolded him. Lost, broken and blind, he knew that he slept.

A whickering sounded in the darkness. It comforted him.

Current Work, Chapter 2, Post 1

2009-05-01T23:24:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2

"...I dreamed and met Others. There must have been Shadows as I slept...but not all Shadows are evil..."

He knew this place. He knew the stones that made the road that wound from where his bare feet stood. The trees that flanked the winding path swayed slightly in the easterly breeze, a thrumming vitality flowed from them; tall and nearly naked of foliage they were, their tops only held thick, silvery-green leaves.

The child had been in this place before. Above him, the sky was of the deepest blue and the few clouds that moved above him held the shimmering gold of the setting sun.

His lungs were clear and the air within them was wholesome and pure. He turned and followed the course of the road behind with his eyes. It wound in a southerly direction, closely guarded by the sentinels of the swaying trees to fall sharply down into a rich valley of greenish-silver. The valley was flanked by mountainous summits tipped with glistening snow. Mists were forming as the sun relinquished its heat to the coming dusk.

Maxwell knew that he dreamed. They could hold fear, but this was pleasant.

Turning, he strode up the cobble-stoned trail. His heart was light and the smile upon his face was true.

Current Work, Chapter 1, Post 6

2009-05-01T22:53:00.001-05:00

* * * * *

It was not the first that I had seen. They had brought the sickness upon me. I heard them often as I dozed. A crackling, static of ticking clocks that buzzed about my ears. It was shadow that gave them form.

In darkness, there is peace. This I had learned at a young age.

In later years, I would place heavy plastic over the windows of my bedrooms. No shadows, complete dark and sleep would be true and deep.

* * * * *

"...the worry doesn't help him." Tom was saying, his voice still low. He was keeping his tone calm, attempting to assuage his wife's growing panic. "He needs us that way, sweetheart."

Again, the words angered her, "I hate to see him like this. Every breath a struggle...even sleep is a fight." Her speech fell into a repeated refrain, "I can't help him. I can't help myself."

Maxwell felt a rush of nausea in the pit of his stomach. The blackness within the tubing met with his skin. A fit of wild coughing smote him. Sharp pain broke from his throat.

They moved to him, still at a distance, the sheeting about the child held them at bay. Barbara rushed from the room, her lips moved and Maxwell saw his father's head nod. The boy's eyes misted as the little breath that he held within his lungs was expelled in spasms of choking coughs. Phlegm, thick and ropy, dangled from his lips. He struggled to bring the oxygen into his mouth, his tongue felt heavy and swollen, his lungs quivering and shuddering. Pops and wheezing smothered his attempts at breathing.

There were nurses at his bedside. His parent's faces were lost in the crowd that moved quickly about him. The sheeting was pulled back and a mask was placed over his face. His arms and legs were rigid and restrained. He felt the light collapse into a fine point.

The Grayman dissipated as more light came from above; a smile rode the stained lips and the mouth seemed to widen, full to bursting with blunted, silver teeth.

As darkness overwhelmed him, he heard the solitary tears of his mother over the tremor of the nurses that worked to save him.

Current Work, Chapter 1, Post 5

2009-04-30T01:44:00.001-05:00

He kept his hand resting there for a moment, "He's gonna be okay, honey."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

He turned to face her, "I don't know." A smile curved his whiskers upward. "I just know. Can't you trust that?" There was a stolid certainty within his tone. It seemed to anger her. Her hands caught each other, knuckles white and nails digging crescents in her fingers.

The room dimmed as clouds, still heavy with gray rain, scudded across the sky and sent an early dusk across the tiles. Maxwell let his lids drift upwards as his father moved back toward his mother.

"It seems so easy for you," she was saying, "He is so weak. You are almost cavalier about it..."

Her voice fell upon his ears, but Maxwell couldn't pick out the words or separate their meaning from her pointed emotion. His attention was elsewhere. His pupils widened and a shaking, coughing breath erupted from his tightened chest.

A Greyman stood in the corner. The shadows that grew under the fluorescents gave it birth; an oily slickness that congealed and took shape before him. It seemed to form itself from the gathering darkness, a shade of deeper gray from the gloom that inhabited shrouded corner. It seethed there; a ghost, a glimmer of a tall, lanky silhouette. A hand rose, merely the suggestion of a hand, and rested upon the IV bags before it. Maxwell saw a murkiness infuse the clear liquid within the plastic and begin a slow run down the tube that ran to his arm.

* * * * *

They could not see it. My parents, so concerned, so troubled, had no idea that the creature stood there. I cried out. A wheeze of breath that they did not hear. I heard them speaking, heard them arguing.

* * * * *

As a man, it now stood. Its edges colored with mist. Gray was its skin, drawn and stretched about the sharp angles of its face. Where a nose should have resided, there were merely serpent's slits. Its mouth was but a jagged cut across the lower half of its longish, flat head. A long, black coat fell about its shoulders, most of it resting at its feet; unfurling into the darkness that enshrouded it.

It spoke; a rasping, sibilant hiss that scraped against his ears. "The sign is within you."

Current Work, Chapter 1, Post 4

2009-04-27T22:07:00.002-05:00

I know my father is there, but his face is clouded. It is his hands that I see, the thick fingers are wrapped about my mother's thin hands. There are voices in the room. The doctor is there with them. His tones are low and attempting to be reassuring.

I must have been six or so.

The Graymen were there too.

* * * * *

Tom arrived about twenty minutes later and found his wife red-eyed and worn in their son's hospital room. She rose and let him hold her as fresh tears rode down her cheeks.

Maxwell awoke to their soft speech. He kept his eyes closed and listened. Their voices were sharp and tinny through the plastic sheeting.

"What have the doctors said? Anything new?" Tom asked.

"His breathing is worse." His mother said, voice muffled against her husband's chest. The lapels of his suit jacket were damp. "The nurses say he's been sleeping most of the day. The tests haven't come back yet so the doctor is staying quiet."

"Has he come in since you arrived?"

"No." She let her hands fall to her sides. "I don't think he's even here." Tom kissed the top of her head and released her.

He sent a hand over his face, brushing the black whiskers down. His glasses held droplets of water on the lenses. He pulled them off and wiped them with his tie, "Honey, they are doing what they can."

"I just want him home. I want this to be over." her voice held a tinge of hysteria, hidden but about to break through.

Tom moved to the bed. Maxwell felt the lights dim behind his closed eyes as his father leaned over him. He felt the warm rough fingers press against the exposed flesh of his feet and push them under the hospital coverlet. "My boy." his father said, "My boy."

Current Work, Chapter 1, Post 3

2009-04-25T00:46:00.000-05:00

Behind her, she could still hear the stilted breathing of her son. The sudden sound caught her off guard. I should be used to it, she thought. She turned back to him. The child's chest rose and fell quickly and the high crackles that popped and rattled within his throat brought moisture to her eyes and a redness to her face. The doctors had said pneumonia. She remembered a mention of Leukemia.

It was odd that she felt the need to step out and smoke. Barbara hadn't craved a cigarette in years, but the back of her throat ached and her lungs felt like sodden clay.

She returned to the chair by her son's bed. Her steps were quick and the sound of her shoes upon the floor like the distant clack of gunfire. Her thumb rolled the wide, gold wedding band upon her ring finger. She tore open the Time magazine that sat upon the bedside table and stared at it, unheeding of the tight rows of letters upon the page. I should pray, she thought, Where was Tom? How could he be so late?

The tears came upon her then and she surrendered herself to them.

* * * * *

There are little things that can remember from that time. Images and feelings, mostly. Foolish, childish thoughts of wanting to be held. I can see my mother. She is in a chair close to the bed. It's bright, the sun is high in the sky, filling the room with noonday light.

Ok...I'm back.

2009-04-24T23:51:00.002-05:00

I've put this off for far too long.

I'm not sure what caused the delay to continue as long as it has. I've fallen out of the habit and I have got to correct it. So, from this day on, I will - once again - begin posting a page a day. Again, it will be during the week - Monday through Friday. The current work will continue, for better or worse.

Those of you who have totally given up on me...come back. I need the contact to keep me going. Others - namely Nic - thanks for getting me going again. This work is necessary to keep me sane.

I'll be posting the first page in an hour or so. You may need to re-read the previous posts to get back into the tale. There aren't that many - four or so.

Again...another delay...

2009-02-10T14:56:00.002-06:00

Ok, so I've decided to entirely change the plot of the "Current Work" and I'm more excited about this idea than the other. I've begun plotting this one - it will incorporate some of the ideas that were sketched out for the other, but the tale will be different. That's one of the reasons why I haven't posted in so long (apart from the working of two jobs and the general tiredness I feel at all times).

I'm hoping to get the plotting worked out this week and begin posting a page a day soon. I've got three days in a row totally off next week (Sunday thru Tuesday) and, hopefully, I'll be able to add some writing posts then.

- Mattie

Current Work, Chapter 1, Post 2

2009-01-26T21:58:00.000-06:00

The sunlight cast sharp-cornered glows across the foot of the hospital bed. They were bright, angular yellows against the grey-white of the floor and the metal tubing that encased the thick mattress. The doctors had silenced the heart monitors earlier in the day. They were afraid that the constant noise were interrupting the little boy's sleep.

Barbara arose and stepped to the bedside. She seemed small beside it. She let her hand touch the plastic sheeting. This hiss of oxygen pumping in and out of the tenting filled the room with sharp gasps that seemed to match the breathing of the little form that moved, rolling from one side of the the bed to the other. The pillows were grey with sweat. He had repositioned himself so that his tiny feet slid free from beneath the crumpled sheeting. His blonde hair dark and mussed, his eyes moved rapidly under his lids, his mouth agape. She noticed the small, cords of his neck standing fiercely as his chest fought for breath.

She turned and faced the window.

Tom was late. A nurse had informed her of the call. The meeting had run longer than intended. He was on his way, but had only just left.

Outside, dusk was creeping into the sky, darkening the rosiness of the clouds and dulling the light with gray. Several floors below, the parking lot was emptying. Cars moved sluggishly over the cement, disturbing the puddles that gathered and reflected the waning day.

When had it rained? she thought. Her right hand toyed with the short strands of colored hair at her neck.

Sorry for the delay...

2009-01-25T01:18:00.002-06:00

Again...I'm knackered. I've not had a decent amount of time to sit down and write. I'm feeling it. I've got the desire, but the two jobs are knocking me down. I'm trying to get a set schedule at Resto...its almost there. I've got tomorrow - Sunday - off so I think I'll be able to squeeze some time to add more to the story.

Current Work, Prologue & Chapter 1, Post 1

2009-01-16T21:00:00.001-06:00

I can remember the name of the motel now. Why couldn't I remember that before? All of it comes as flashes of memory, impressions that appear like photos scattered on a floor. Scattered until a memory connects them - one becomes two, two become four until a moment is brought back into focus. The snapshots become fans of history, laid out with only a few gaps.

I don't really know where to begin...I don't have that much time.

At the beginning, it was the sense of discovery that compelled me. The feeling that there was a new shore beyond the known to place my foot upon. Others had been there. Others had seen them first. It didn't matter. They had been forgotten.

Chapter 1

"...the time line is muddled, but I can remember where the first glimmer was sighted, where the first spark was ignited..."

The hospital room was quiet save for the distant thrumming of machinery. Under a tent of thick plastic, the child lay sleeping. Blankets were askew about him. He moved and the sheets fell back revealing the angular, delicate joining of skull and neck. The thin, blonde hair became a downy shade of brown within it. His little fingers clenched and held at the cuffs of his blue pajamas for a moment and then released.

Barbara saw his breathing quicken. His chest swelling with short gasps, rhythmic patterns of sudden fear as he fought for breath. She found her breathing matching his, willing lungs to relax and function.

A mist of condensation shook as he turned again. Droplets of water appeared milky-white as they slid down the interior of the plastic sheeting that rose about him. The tent was meant to cover only the head and shoulders of a patient. But on Maxwell, it enveloped him entirely.

Barbara held back a desire to tear the plastic back and pull him close to her. She could smell the sweet mustiness of the little boy, her son.

Her hands met each other within her lap and the thin fingers entwined. As he settled, so did she.

Current Work, Prologue, Post 2

2009-01-14T21:11:00.001-06:00

Even now, as I lay here, my eyes are drifting around the room, rolling over dilapidated furniture that looks like a lumbering beast in the darkness of the corner. The television screen is shattered and reflects the full moon back in a thousand pieces. The broken glass glows brightly looking like a multi-faceted eye watching me.

The dirty tan floral drapes move slightly in the draught that sing through the walls. The wall boards are sunken and moldy under the thin veneers.

That I would die here...spend my last waking moments within this tottering structure...

The sign outside read, "Desert Paradise Motel". The paint beneath the broken neon was flaked and peeling.

The lobby door hung open as I approached. I didn't need a key to the room either.

"It's 11:59, and I want to stay alive."

I propped a broken chair behind the sagging door, more to keep it closed than to keep anything out. They'll be able to get in with or without the deterrent.

[a thick, liquid cough]

The moon has slid behind a few clouds. Now the only light that I see is the sickly glow of the red recording light on the bed beside me. Something is skittering around in the darkness. The rats don't like me here. I'm interrupting their normal nightly routine.

Where to start? Where to begin?

[breathing erratic]

I don't remember how I was hurt. I can't seem to recall the moment of pain. It seems like I've been this way for so long. I cannot remember what it feels like to be whole.

"Today could be the end of me. It's 11:59, and I want to stay alive."

Current Work, Prologue, Post 1

2009-01-12T21:56:00.003-06:00

[Transcription of GE 35364 Mini Cassette Recorder (Silver) recovered at scene on January 12, 2008. Here marked as Exhibit B-1.]

{After a few moments of shuffling...}

The wind is rattling the shutters. Even though the thick glass frames are tightly shut, I can feel the coldness whisper along the surface of my skin like slow moving droplets of water. Air seems to bristle and snake into the walls, subtly expanding and contracting the worn veneer that is stapled to them. The pillow is stained and cover-less, the thin pencil stripes colored in with the brown and gray of old sweat and spittle.

That I should find this room comforting is a testament to how little comfort I actually need.

My fingers are white and skeletal as they grip the faded coverlet. Large, the knuckles are. Each separate finger topped with padded patches of thin hair dotted with over-large lines and pores.

It's odd, isn't it? What you find yourself drawn to focus upon as the final moments approach.

There were no lights when I arrived. There are still none, but the full moon is letting a cold, white glow filter into the room. I don't remember the name of the place. I couldn't read the sign. I...the place seemed to veer up out of the darkness.

The gas gave out and I walked as far as I could.

They'll be here soon. I'm sure that they've followed me.

{coughs, sputters...must pull the recorder more closely to his mouth as his voice is nearly a whisper, though clear}

How did that song go? Blondie, I think it was...11:59...

"Today can last another million years,
Today could be the end of me,
It's 11:59, and I want to stay alive."

{The click of the tape being stopped...and then...}

I'm sorry. Even now, I want to go back and edit what I've put down.

I am...well, was...a writer. I guess I should explain that before I keep going with this. I might get a little verbose. In descriptions and the like. I can't really help myself. Its a sort of a compulsion.

I'm not feeling it...

2009-01-12T11:23:00.003-06:00

Not sure what's going on, but I'm not quite getting the excitement that I should with this latest outing. The writing - apart from the first post - seems really juvenile and I can't seem to get a clear picture in my head of the total environment. And the environment is the key for me. It I can't see it, I can't write it. This one may need to sit a little longer - its not ripe yet. Sorry for the false start. I've got another idea thats been rumbling around for a while...I'll give that one a shot this evening.

So, different story...sorry for the digression. The five posts will be held in abeyance until the world of the story is a little more complete in my mind. Besides, the writing style - that film noirish thing - requires a little more research.

Something else begins tonight. Entirely different. I've got to find something that catches me right away.

Novel 2, Chapter 1, Post 5

2009-01-07T22:18:00.000-06:00

Dekkerd lit another cheroot with the glowing end of the previous one, his cheeks reddened by the effort, "I can't think of anything else to call it." His thick fingers were wrapped around his dirty glass, tapping a rhythm to a distant thrumming that only he could hear. Terrence felt irritation rising between his shoulders, a prickling of ire. Before he could bring himself to say anything, Dekkerd continued, "Where the sewers meet the grating, they found some sort of 'flotilla'...I think thats what Alex called it. Nothing more than a few planks and inner-tubes lashed together, but some of them had been calling it home for some time. They found food - a box of contaminated Alpo - some maps, a few sleeping blankets and pillows, and two junk guns with nothing more than a couple of rounds apiece." Dekkerd's nose wrinkled, "God, it must have reeked down there."

"Wait. You mentioned air-pistols."

Dekkerd smiled, "Yeah, I guess they were saving the good stuff if they were discovered."

"How long had they been there? Any ideas?"

"Like I said, it looked like a couple of 'em had been living there for some time. There were several open cans littering the thing and their water was nearly gone."

Paterson lowed the glass and set the cheroot back between his lips. "They must be planning something big to bother with this. You said there were four. Were all four taken?"

"Yes." He held the smoke between his teeth, the grey billows nearly indistinguishable from his lips. "But..."

He's dying to tell me, Paterson thought. "What about this Second Attempt?"

StackenBlochen - while I'm working...enjoy!

2009-01-07T21:28:00.001-06:00

Link:

Sorry, can't be bothered...

2009-01-07T01:28:00.001-06:00

Hey. I'm working two jobs...just got home and I'm knackered. I'll write a couple of pages tomorrow night (Wednesday).

Novel 2, Chapter 1, Post 4

2009-01-02T22:33:00.001-06:00

"Why is that?" Terrance asked, straightening his back and letting his spine pop. It was full dark outside now. The street lamps had blossomed and their pale lights dotted the stubby skyline. It was difficult to see much through the florescent haze that filtered from above him.

"Alex found some sort of den." The words came out clearly, though the voice seemed mumbled. Dekkerd leaned forward and pulled a bottle from one of the drawers. It's label was tattered and torn. The brownish liquid sloshed as he set it on the desktop and let long slow, legs drift down along the thick glass. Paterson could taste the acrid sting of the liquor on his tongue. His head felt stuffed already.

Dekkerd set two glasses next to the bottle, "You know the old warehouses along the Eastern Edge?" He slid the plasticork from the neck and let a few splashes fall into each tumbler. He proffered one to Paterson.

Terrence took it and took a pull. His eyes widened, "This is real!"

"Benefits, my friend, fringe benefits." The girth under his shirt seemed to swell. A sigh followed a long draught of the whiskey and he continued, "The Alliance makes sure I'm well stocked in the necessities."

Paterson let the liquor warm his throat before prompting, "You said something about a 'den'?"

Novel 2, Chapter 1, Post 3

2009-01-01T00:32:00.001-06:00

Fat fingers thrummed on the metal desktop, “Terrence, watch that temper.” Slicked lips spread as he added, “The hand that feeds you and all...”

Paterson let it pass, “What is it you want from me?” He tapped the ash from the cheroot to the floor, caught sight of the fine flakes dancing in the sunlight. “Let's not play games. Give it to me straight and let me, at least, play at taking a moment to consider.”

Dekkerd let a greasy laugh belch from his lungs, “Like you have a choice, eh?”

The light about them flared as the interior glass tubes flickered to life, a distant guttering of electric diodes that sent a spasm of false blue over them. Night was coming on through the windows. Dirty glass dulled to dusky grey as Dekkerd spoke. Along the horizon, generators powered up and servos swung to worn metal positions. Lights sparked and glistened brightly in sudden flashing pulses. Along the Wall, Terrence Paterson saw the night shift watchmen begin to move, pacing in tight lines, shadows and silhouettes holding las-guns (the heavy power-packs distending their backs and hunching their shoulders) and old-style carbines.

“The past two nights, they've hit us.” Dekkerd was saying, “The first attempt was stopped. Alex had a comlink from a citizen who noticed something along the Western Wall a little after midnight. The message was garbled and difficult to read, but it was enough for him to respond. They had sent four in to take out the secondary generators.” His tan teeth slid behind his tongue, “They were armed with jury-rigged pellet guns. The damn things shot only pea-gravel.” Dekkerd laughed, “Some sort of air-compression thing had been worked out and the damn things only shot bits of little rock, can you believe that?”

“They work with what they've got.” Paterson breathed.

“Anywhoo, Alex and a couple of the boys were able to take them out with little or no hardship.”

“Were they able to speak to any of them?” Paterson asked, pulling on the cheroot and gathering greater plumes of smoke about him.

“No.” Dekkerd answered. “It was las-guns against flintlocks. What the hell do expect? They seared them before any words were exchanged.”

“What of the second attempt?”

“Well”, Dekkerd let a long slow exhale out of his gurgling lungs, “that's why you're here.”

Novel 2, Chapter 1, Post 2

2008-12-31T02:28:00.000-06:00

There was an oiliness about his words; a sibilant pattering of thick tongue against palate that spilled through his teeth as he continued, “You've been back inside for seven years. We can't have washed all of the filth away.” The smile seemed plastered to the lower half of his flabby, waxen face. Dekkerd let his eyes narrow as he watched him; attempting to bait him into a quick response.

Paterson let a sharp funnel of smoke break from mouth and pulled a bit of tobacco from his tongue with his thumb and ring-finger. He leaned forward. The partly-opened blinds sent fierce shadows cutting across them as the sunset flared suddenly bright through the dirty windows. Mellow smoke ran red and Dekkerd's eyes glowed hollowly in photographic relief – only for the briefest of moments – as the rays hit them and slid over his face. It was as if a flash had popped and caught his eyes and shocked them white.

It was a trick of the light, but Paterson found a shuddering fear grip his throat. Another draw on his smoke settled him.

“I'm not interested.” he said, blinking slowly. I'm not going back, Paterson thought. Nothing can drive me back. “I'm not the man I was.”

Again, the chair upon which Dekkerd's paunch settled let a squeal as he leaned further back. His meaty fingers played daintily over his chest, smoothing down the wrinkled shirt, brushing and flicking unseen particles from the thin tie, soiled with spots and stains. He let a sigh roll from him, “God, you were useful once. Like a rabid dog. Vicious. Ruthless.” He made a clicking noise against his cheek, “Sad to see a man passed his prime.”

“Look in the mirror.” Paterson retorted, letting a small chuckle catch in his lungs.

The fat man's smile winked out; a wave of anger shook his jowls and subsided.

Novel 2, Chapter 1, Post 1

2008-12-29T21:37:00.002-06:00

Chapter 1

The chair gave a whining squawk as it held, upright, under the ponderous weight. The casters seemed to spread on the cool concrete and settle with metal ability. Dekkerd was speaking.

“We don't really know how they've made it inside.” The smoke from his cheroot boiled about his sweating, pouchy face. The eyes were distant flecks of silver behind the shifting cloud. He coughed and wiped traces of spittle away from his thick lips with the pudgy back of a dirty hand. “Alex thinks they squirmed in through the sewer...” his mouth widened in a smile, “though I don't know how they could have done it.”

The oscillating fan in the upper corner of the room caught the rising smoke and sent it curling in plumes that looked almost pretty in the fading light. Terrence Paterson watched as sweat glistened on the fat man's forehead. He was transfixed as small droplets rode down the yellowed skin and gathered in the stained collar.

“It's feasible.” he said, answering the unspoken question, “We assume the barricades hold with little or no redundancies in place.” His voice sounded hollow against the thrumming basso from behind the desk. Fat adds resonance, he thought and leaned over the papers that scattered the worn plasteel planks. The cheroots were hand-rolled and – by god – he'd smoke one himself before he left.

Dekkerd followed his movements from behind the swirling vapor, his piggish eyes darting in oily slides. “Take as many as you want, Paterson.” his jowls shivered to accommodate the stretch of words, “I get a new box the first of the week.”

Terrence lit a match with his thumb and let the greasy flame turn the tobacco to a flaming coal. His lungs expanded as the smoke rolled into them. Silver fog fell from his lips as he said, “My pleasure.”

Dekkerd continued his smile – his teeth, putty colored like baked beans jutting from a dented tin of bruised pink, “It's real tobacco taken from the ground, rolled on the plump thighs of migrants.”

The smoke soothed him and Paterson felt a warmth within his chest, “The rewards of being a Company man, eh Dekkerd?”

“Synths never will replace the true article.” Dekkerd let the vapor trail from his lips as he spoke.

Company man. Paid from the coffers of the Allegiance. Nameless government men who used words like “reintegration” and “interrogation” when mind-control and torture would fit better. Keep that to myself, Paterson thought, just enjoy the smoke while it lasts. He settled back into his chair, enjoying the firmness of the steel at his back. He let the match fall to the ground.

“They've hit the power station twice and have attempted a food-strike at least once.” Dekkerd said. His fat fingers played along the corners of his mouth, touching and twitching.

The air of the station was stuffy. Dust fell in wild motes about them, caught in the languid breeze created by the moving fans. The papers on the desk fluttered in sluggish gusts of the blades; idents and visas stamped with pointless government ink.

“What do you want from me?” Paterson asked.

“You know them.” Dekkerd said, letting his fingers rest at the hairless point of his chin, the pads tapping the folds. “You've been there.”

“A lot of the men have been there, Dekkerd. Why me? Why not Ginkle or Hodge?” he asked.

The baked beans were visible again as he smiled, “None have been one of them. One of the Nameless.”

“I was never one of them.”

“Say what you want, Paterson.”

Paterson let the cheroot ride his lip as he responded, “It was a long time ago and I've been domesticated.”

Again the cough met him, a gurgling rumble of filled lungs strained through stained lips, “Not entirely."

Merry Christmas and Enjoy!

2008-12-25T12:08:00.002-06:00

After the Retail Christmas season is over...

2008-12-10T21:15:00.001-06:00

I shall begin. It's just too much to set aside the writing time at this point. Sorry for the delay.

Ok...so its sad..but...

2008-11-10T21:10:00.006-06:00

The writing has been put on hold for a little. I'm basically working two jobs right now and I've been tired. I've got some other ideas percolating and I've not had the time to get any substantial writing done. And no...I didn't get the stories finished on time for the contest. I think I could have pushed myself a little harder on them, but I didn't.

But one thing has come of this project. I now have the confidence that I didn't have before. I now see that if I do press myself, I'm able to complete a work of substance - or, at least, lots of pages.

With the first draft nearly completed, I've decided to set it on a shelf and try my hand at something new. Here's my thinking....if I can basically wing a four hundred plus paged first draft, what can I accomplish if I really plan a novel out completely. Before, I had just some basic ideas, little plot points and characters. What if I fully plotted and contrived a world without the meandering waffle of the first attempt?

So, heres the new plan. A Reboot. A new page a day project that will begin next Monday - November 17th. A new story, a new novel...this one embarked upon with a definite plan of attack. Something in a post-holocaust world? A revisiting of my Aftermath roots? That is an exciting prospect. We'll see.

Trust me, the editing on the first draft of the fantasy will continue, but it will not be the main thrust of my efforts.

I'll see you again on the evening of November 17th with a new tale - one that will be worth the effort.

- Mattie

PS - I've already begun the plotting...

PPS - I'll post the rest of the short stories when I complete them...don't hold your breath.

- Edit added 11/17/08 -

I wasn't able to get started this evening. We had a going away party for my manager at work. I'll begin tomorrow...I've got the day off.

- Edit added 12/3/08 -

Dammit. I'm tired. Still wrestling with plot. I promise the first page of a second novel is coming soon. Christmas in retail drains my will to live...

Phil Keaggy - Time

2008-10-05T00:53:00.003-05:00

I've been revisiting my hero, Mister Phil Keaggy, and I came upon this old video. I'm not sure what year this thing was recorded...but he's young. What a great song!

The work is slow...

2008-10-01T22:39:00.001-05:00

Don't hate me, but I'm making very sluggardly progress on these tales. I'll post when I'm able.

Writer's Diget Contest

2008-09-19T22:48:00.003-05:00

So, they've got several different genres for the contest that I'm considering.

Romance
Mystery/Crime Fiction
Science Fiction/Fantasy
Thriller/Suspense
Horror

I've started two short so far; one for SciFi and one for Crime. I don't have a clue how either will end, but I've started working on them.

The Entry Deadline is Monday, November 03, 2008. We'll see if I can get anything complete enough to submit by then.

Here's hoping.

Let me know what you think on what I've posted so far.

Crime Short for Contest - Post 1

2008-09-19T22:46:00.000-05:00

He slides from the bucket-seat, tall and thin. He is all knees, elbows and dirty denim. His hair is unwashed and clings thickly to his head. The heated wind that gathers and tosses bits of trash along the empty stretch of interstate does not bother him. As long as there's a breeze, the heat don't bother me, he is known to say to those who complain. The Knack plays from his radio. The bass is oddly absent from the factory speakers mounted in the open door. He studies the lengthening shadows along the far side of the highway, some internal sense informing him of the time.

Splayed in the center of the blistering tarmac, the body lies. It is broken and silent, limbs wildly arrayed, blackish stain spreading from the torso. It covers the flaking yellow dashes that cut the grey in half.

He sends his tongue along the thin hairs that pepper his upper lip, tastes the salt gathering there, and smiles.

The radio blares, unheard as he touches the pads of each finger along the rough tip of the thumb. Only his right hand does this. He is not aware that this occurs.

When you gonna give it to me, give it to me.
It is just a matter of time, Sharona
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Sharona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.

His eyes saunter along the expanse, a loose surveillance of desert scrub and rock. East then West, they roam. Dust rumbles across his ears as the wind picks up.

It's done, he thinks, pressing sweating palms to silence on the greasy jeans that fall straight from his hips. His boots are worn nearly to the sole. The silver sunglasses that cover his eyes reflect the landscape. He was nuts, his mind continues, bugnuts.

SciFi Story - Post 3

2008-09-17T21:46:00.001-05:00

The voice came from behind him, rising from the outward darkness beyond the shifting pool of light. It held a pulsing, digital closeness. Its trebles were static and its basso growl a pounding swell of electric hums. “Interrogation protocols active. Session one.” A pop of feedback was cut short as it repeated, “Questions? Repeat.”

The final phrase was a directive.

He let a breath from his lungs, a slow withdraw, “Why am I here?” His eyes rolled within his sockets as he strained his neck backward, attempting a glance behind him. The cold of metal against his scalp sent a chill that blossomed in bumps along his back.

Again, the whining ratchet of rising computations sounded before the response, “You are accountable.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

The clank of his chains resounded within the chamber as he sought for a more comfortable position – such a lonely sound, “How is that possible? What are you?”

“One question. One question is permissible for a response.”

“What are you?” his voice was a whisper.

SciFi Story - Post 2

2008-09-16T22:19:00.002-05:00

The accent within the words is unfamiliar, exotic somehow. The breath that speaks holds cinnamon within its round vowels and the bright scent of cloves break from its severe constants. Acrid condensation must run from the device into which she speaks.

He felt sweat break from his scalp as he strained against the tethers. On his arms, he saw the skin grow taut and the ropy muscles sharpen to cutting ridges about the thin bones. Chain held and he relaxed against the cold metal that supported him. The distant clank of machinery redoubled and a musty heat fell from the ceiling.

The air is warming as the sibilate murmur continues. Do they try to comfort me?

They were using heaters to take the chill from the air. The single bulb above him was caught in a sudden draught. Nearly imperceptibly, it began to swing, lengthening the shadows and etching spectral images within the corners of the chamber.

“Why am I here? Why do you hold me?” his voice sounded hollow and shrill in the emptiness. The rising heat seemed to snatch it from his lips and pull the sound from him.

The whispers ceased. Somewhere outside the chamber, a toggle had been drawn down to silence them.

A hiss and a pop – a sharp exhale of static – and then a voice responded, “Questions?” A slight rumble of machinery precluded the word, a whining of spinning discs and a vague, unvarying wheeze of electric diodes. Realization perched upon his chest and taunted him.

This thing that speaks is not human.

Short Story Beginning - Possible contest story entry - SciFi?

2008-09-13T20:10:00.002-05:00

I don't want this. I never have wanted it. Whatever it was that They promised is dry ash now - filtering to the ground in heaps of sadness and distant memory. The cold wind has dispersed them, remade them. Gathering all that remains into a heartless, feral rain that cuts through stone.

There was little or no sound in the room, just the movement of recycled air being shuffled about by distant whirring machinery. The straps restricted his movement. They were tight leather things with sheep's wool jutting from the cuffs – as if the cushion would make them more tolerable. He'd discovered them almost immediately when he'd snapped awake and tried to move his lank, wet hair from his forehead - the sharp treble tinkling of tiny links jarring the oppressive silence, even then oddly muted and indistinct. Scraps of what could be called memory played like yellowed film before his eyes. A tittering kaleidoscope with a scratched and hazy lens: green fields, movement of wind through leaf and limb, campfires glittering in the darkness near a seaside gate, cascades of light as the stars fell, whirling pinwheels in a stately line by a gravel roadside.

My name is Judas. Yes, an odd name. It was given to me by my father – obviously, a man of peculiar ideas. I believe that he thought I might be able to redeem it. I hope that he died believing that I would. I have not done so.

A single bulb hung, suspended and unshaded, above him farther out toward the center of the room. Either the wattage was low or the power to it insufficient, as it seemed to pulse at irregular intervals. It flared from 15 watts to 40 or so and stung his staring eyes. He closed them, but the light burned through. There was no escaping it.

I always knew it would come to this.

The whispers began. He had heard them before. A woman's voice speaking words. His ear itched with the intimate touch of breath on his skin.

“Ahsia.”
“Ahfrika.”
“Ephropah.”
“Auhstralia.”

It was a litany, he knew; a list, a catalog, an inventory. They were reminding him of what he had done.

The Whispers. Delicate and enticing.

Editing is fun but...(everybody's got a big but)...

2008-09-12T19:33:00.002-05:00

The process of editing and re-working a first draft is monumental. It is not to be taken lightly. I fear...that I have done so. I always forget that. I seem to think that I'll be able to re-read and flesh out as I go. That is a tiny - tiny - part of the editing process.

The work is slow and - as of right now - not producing a page a day. I'm lucky if I can read through a couple of paragraphs and make notes in an evening. It's fun but brutal.

I'm currently notating areas that need expansion.

In the interim, Becks has come up with an idea. We're going to submit some short stories to a few contests. I'll post what I have on those as the progress.

Novel - 2nd Draft: Chapter 1, Post 1

2008-09-06T00:50:00.004-05:00

Chapter 1 – Joreth

Joreth, Seventy-Third Curate of the Skael Theologians and Keeper of the Keys, dropped the quill back into the inkwell and raised his pipe to his lips. He pulled a few breaths though the clay stem, frowned. Taking a split quill from the discarded pile upon his desk, he set it in the flickering candle's flame. The light diminished for the merest of moments before it caught and flared along the feather's vane. They still serve a useful purpose, he thought, as he set the rising glow to the round briar of the bowl. A few rigorous draws and the blackened tobac flared and sent vapor snaking about his face. Blackberries seemed to ripen in his chamber and smoke drifted above him, caught by a light draught and carried up and out of the solitary eastern window. Pleased, he let a thin curl of smoke drift from his mouth and gather in his ample mustaches before being pulled into his nose. He leaned back in his chair, haze now trailing his movement, his hand carelessly twisting through the long, silver hairs of his beard. He let a great sigh escape him.

The single guttering candle on his table cast only a small glow in the dying evening light. Shifting shadows cavorted and danced in the corners of his chamber. A spare room it was: tall, canopied bed – curtains sensibly closed, night table with its clay wash basin – water still and waiting nightly ablutions, trunk filled with the simple brown robes of his office. Against the far wall, a small hearth, untended and cold. The main area of he chamber was dominated by the great table littered with parchments, books, writing quills and spilled ink – long since dried and brightly reflecting the candles' single flame. It was here that he sat. It was here that he allowed himself to feel again.

It is here that I remove myself from my duties, he thought, at this tattered, scarred surface, my life has purpose. The hours would pass in delirious work, in wondrous leisure. The day is ended, the Hours are no longer a concern to me. Let the Brothers care for the next review. My time – for the day – is done.

The sun had set an hour before and the moon had not yet risen. Out of the window, he could see the purple dusk slowly come alive with small pinpricks of firelight. The torches and lanterns of the City Watch danced through the close streets of Skael, tiny fireflies performing rounds. Hearths at inns and common houses were being stoked to cooking fires as fieldhands, merchants and travelers shouted for dinner. Smoke drifted up and held in the cooling sky, pockets of grey that merged above the rooftops to fill the night with silver fog.

Odd how the streets emptied at early afternoon only fill again as evening drew close. Rest after labor was needed. Yet, rest was deferred. Stories had to be told and ale needed to be drunk. Songs cried to be sung. The townsfolk of Skael were revelers. Happy, foolish revelers with shining, jolly eyes.

Even now, Joreth could just barely hear the strings of a lute picking out the first few lines of the Trail of Stars. He smiled at the rush of applause that greeted the player. The bard was heavy handed and would – doubtless – would receive too many coppers this evening. The Trail deserves better, he thought. But the patrons of whatever public house in which the musician performed would not care. They treasured the singing. Such beautiful verse should never be played by so coarse a hand. How did it go? He wondered. His grey eyes darted upward in thought.

Follow me, my love, follow me
Into my hands have fallen the stars
Bring the day, Bring the night
Shout from the gleaming spires
Follow me, my love, follow me
I'll have thee as my bride, my love
Into my hands you have fallen
Bring the day, Bring the night
Shout from the fragrant palaces
Follow me, my love, follow me

A child's laugh, bright and free, rode the air to his window. It drew him, slowly, from his chair and to the windowpane. Below, outside the gardens where his brothers carefully tended their plots of nearly ripened vegetables, and beyond the high, slate walls of the Theologia, a group of children were at play. A ruddy haired youth, tall and gangly with growth, juggled four differing colored balls in the air. His companions, all nearly as awkward as he, ran in fast circles about him, shouting and capering in the dusty street.

Such concentration. Excellent practice if that was to be his trade. Joreth chuckled. Ever the realist. Never the child at play. His brow furrowed.

This is my place. If what I believe to be truth is truth, it is my place.
{End of Chapter 1, Post 1, Revision 1 9/5/08}

Novel - 2nd Draft: Prologue, Post 2

2008-09-04T22:27:00.003-05:00

He stopped, the scythe rode above him, cutting the sky.

What was that?

The sun had just broken the horizon before him. A filtering of shadow covered his feet, the darkness warming with newly born light. Again, he heard a sound. He fought for recognition. He had heard the loud screech of stretching leather.

He cast his eyes before him.

Stark in the contrast of fresh morning, a rider loomed.

Black as night he was. Studded leather armor wrapped him tightly. A helm of ragged steel hid his face. His horse was a blue roan, stamping at the freshly cut wheat. Antlers spread from the helm, casting long angled shadows. A great sword jutted from thongs on his saddle. The eyes were distant flames of brilliant lambency.

Stumbling and shaken, Elder croaked, “Lord, I have not heard you?” He let the scythe fall to the ground. “So intent in my labors, I did not even hear you approach.”

The rider stirred and let a breath out that slowly curled into vapor. “Elder Thomas, I believe you are named?” The voice sounded like scree loosed on a mountainside.

“Yes. I am known by that to some.”

The rider held a small child in his arms.

No more than three months old, the child was sleeping. Wrapped in a dirty horse blanket, it seemed completely at peace. A smile upon its innocent cheeks.

The rider had spoken, but Elder had heard nothing. He shifted in the grain that lay at his feet, “Sir?”

The rider shifted in his saddle, “Take this child.” He repeated, “The child I bear is for you.”

Such a simple statement, Elder thought, before repeating, “Sir?”

The rider dismounted, a quick movement of leg and leather. A soft motion, a fluid action that spoke of training and years of battle. The child stirred, its small fingers clenching the freshening morning air and resolving in further slumber. “This child that I bear is for you, sir.”

The unspeakable then occurred. The rider knelt. His stained and scarred leather breeches settled into the freshly cut sheaves and he proffered the child before him.

Elder met him upon the ground, “My Lord, I cannot accept this child...pray, do not bow to me.”

The dark man lowered his head and spoke softly, “Elder Thomas of Rythart Family, this is your child...ordained from the dawn of time.” His head tilted as he asked, “Have you any children?”

The question took the old man by surprise. “No, my Lord, I have none. My Myra is barren.”

If the rider smiled, Elder could not say for certain, “The Fates would like to remedy that, sir.”

“I am old. Myra is old. We have not the need for a child.”

“My arms tire, Thomas. I have not the skill to raise this little one. She is for you, my friend. Take her, I beg.” His voice was softer, kindlier.

Her? A woman child? Elder's mind raced.

“Her name is Alia.”

She was suddenly in his arms. So light. So little. The blanket fell form her face and Elder saw that she was no longer sleeping. Her small eyes afire with morning light. A peachy sheen of red peeked from the blankets about her head. She smiled and he was transformed.

“Raise her well.” the rider spoke as he mounted his steed, the sharp din of leather sounded as he settled into his saddle. The roan pawed the turf and let vapor rise from its nostrils. “I will return and claim her when she is of age.” The voice now was certain and strong.

“When will that be?” Elder asked, eyes held by the greening pools that stared up at him from the dirtied blanket.

From a distance, ere he disappeared from view, the rider repeated, “When she is of age!”

Silence descended. Cool wind blew through the rough grain, ripe on their stalks. The child cooed and moved within her blankets.

“Myra!”
{End of Prologue, Post 2, Revision 1 9/4/08}

Opening Lyric

2008-09-02T22:06:00.003-05:00

A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times
An endless turning stairway climbs
To a tower of souls
If it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,
The towers rise to numberless floors in space
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face

A million roads, a million fears
A million suns, ten million years of uncertainty
I could speak a million lies, a million songs,
A million rights, a million wrongs in this balance of time
But if there was a single truth, a single light
A single thought, a singular touch of grace
Then following this single point, this single flame,
The single haunted memory of your face

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head

I may be numberless, I may be innocent
I may know many things, I may be ignorant
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands
I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times
Reborn as fortune's child to judge another's crimes
Or wear this pilgrims cloak, or be a common thief
Ive kept this single faith, I have but one belief

I still love you
I still want you
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head
On and on the mysteries unwind themselves
Eternities still unsaid
'til you love me

-Sting, A Thousand Years
from the Album "A Brand New Day"

Novel - 2nd Draft: Prologue, Post 1

2008-09-02T21:59:00.006-05:00

Prologue

The fire was just a small pile of embers in the hearth, small moving coals tinged with dusty blood-orange and frosted with ash. He had let it burn down, knowing that Myra would stoke them back to full life when she arose. His breakfast had been small: porridge, apple and tea of halspeth. The rising steam from the cup breathed life into his face as he held the cup with his gnarled hands. It was a few hours till daybreak.

The older I become, the earlier I rise.

The old man, by some called Elder Thomas, sat hunched over his cup and smiled.

So simple were his loves: a labor to put his hand to, a home to which to return.

Myra stirred under her furs. Her soft breathing filled the silence of their dwelling. So simple. The smile still remained, a wide swath under his silver beards.

Elder rose and strode - sandaled feet padding softly over the warn timbers of the floor - outside. He let the door meet the frame quietly. Cup of herbs still steaming in his hand, he let his eyes take in the darkened morning. The moon still sat above the eastern sky filling the air without with a filtering of blue light. Mists had settled on his fields, trailing into the deep quiet of the forests about them. He took a deep breath and felt the early morning bloom inside of him. Stillness and quiet filled the land.

This is why you rise so early, his mind told him.

The porch looked out onto his fields. The fields of his youth. He had worked them since his father had passed them onto him. As his father had received them so long ago. This patch of open land had been in his family for over seventeen generations. Worked, plowed, seeded, reaped for untold years by members of his clan. Rythart was a name long known by the soil, the stones, the trees. The forest stood black and silent on all sides, kept back by his hand. A small dirt path – hardly a road – cut through the center of his fields. A barely traveled lane that lead on to the East. Elder only assumed it did so, for he had never traveled further than the market in Riverton. He had no need of towns or cities.

Everything I desire is here; labor and Myra. Let the Land hold its palaces, its spires of worship...this is all I need.

Stretching and feeling the wonderful snaps that rode down his spine and his back straightened, he walked down the four steps of his porch and moved to the stables, the hems of his robes hissing in the bent, dew-heavy grasses. The stretch of muscle and the creak of sinew thrilled him. The jangle of harness and the thump of rope sounded slightly as he opened the door. Inside, blackness yawned.

Elder had no need of light. As if born for darkness, he pulled down the scythe that hung at his left and slid a length of rope onto his shoulder. The slumbering animals stirred but said nothing.

The feel of hemp and the weight of the scythe comforted the Elder. These were thing that he knew. These were things upon which he could rely. Years had stretched to decades and he had kept his land. During the Fall, he harvested. At the Spring, he plowed and sowed. When the heat of Summer lay heavy, he tended. As Winter scoured the soil with biting frost, he rested. This was his lot. A lesser man would have been discontent and, at times, so he had been. Now though, he treasured his labor. He would never be content with anything else.

He let the stable doors slowly shut and moved into his fields.

His calloused hands grasped the scythe, his scythe, and he began to cut. The slow rhythmic movements were a sweet sweat to his brow. Up. Down. Up. Down. The dance was ingrained in him. The sheaves fell. The grain waited for his gathering hand. The blade was a flash and a wind.

This cut is for you, my love.

Through the labor, the smile remained.

{End of Prologue, Post 1, Revision 1 9/2/08}

Ok - I'm stymied here...

2008-09-02T17:34:00.004-05:00

I've hit a brick wall - a brick wall of blockage. So, I have elected to move back to the beginning - back over 350 pages (sweet!) - and begin some editing. This will be the beginning of the 2nd draft of this novel. I am hoping that there will be some considerable re-investment in story and writing and less of the meandering quality that has permeated the recent posts. This will be the first focused re-working of the novel. Characters might change, story will evolve. So beginning this evening, I will begin posting like so - Chapter 1, Post 1, Revision 1.

I'm actually excited to return to the beginning and flesh out what was only hinted at before.

- Mattie

PS - I will resume the first draft posts when I've got a better feel of how to continue the story. The plot just isn't holding me anymore - and if its not holding me then I can only imagine how you guys must feel.

Give me this week...ok...man

2008-08-27T20:29:00.001-05:00

Work is killing me. We're getting ready for a visit from our new district manager and with all of the preparation, I'm just tired. I'm gonna take a break this week and start fresh on Monday.

Missed it tonight...

2008-08-20T00:21:00.003-05:00

Had a late practice with Barbie for her CD release on Sunday the 24th. When I got home, I watched the pilot to a BCC show called about dinosaurs and time portals...pretty cool. I missed the midnight cut off to post. I'll double post on the morrow.

{Updated}

Ok...give me one more day...there's a lot going on and I'm tired...

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 17

2008-08-18T23:37:00.001-05:00

Uireth caught his commander's eye, vapor trailed from his mouth as he breathed the words, "We still have time..."

"We know not what might lie there..." Brandon said, his hands tightening upon the stones, knuckles white with strain, "The worms may have cut into it...the Yol may know of it."

"The chance must be taken. We will not be able to move through the enemy....where the Peaksmarch meets the Lane...they hold the passes."

Joreth struck his staff upon the stones and anger filled his words, "Our time fades...is there another path that we might take?"

Brandon lowered himself to sit beside the curate. His voice was low as he responded, all strained their ears to catch his words, "If the Peaksmarch is undisturbed till we reach the third waypoint along the path, there is a way that may be found." The firelight from the Vale seemed to flare as if suddenly fueled with the Yol's ire. The expanse of the heavens seemed slate above them. "A smuggler's path lies hidden within side of Nari and Aeli, the northernmost peaks of the Landfalls. They are the lower spires that hold the Vale."

"Smuggler's path? Of what do you speak?" Jeremiah asked quickly.

"I know only of it as a tale passed from commander to commander..."

Uireth broke in, "When the Wall was new, men would not of their own choice take the Walk. Many of those first Walkers were men sent by their lords to serve sentence upon the stones. Criminals and the like, the Walk was their punishment. And because of this, drink - namely hard cider and whiskey - was forbidden to them..."

"Men will always find a way to keep their courage flowing..." Brandon interjected.

Uireth continued, "Smugglers - namely Alirin, I believe his name was - cut a path below the stones of the two mountains and under the first Watch to bring their wares to the Wall."

"I have never seen it...but I believe it to be there. I have heard of others who have found it." Brandon added

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 16

2008-08-15T22:14:00.001-05:00

"The lights were stoked as we slept, it would seem." Alia said, her face flushed. Her eyes seemed black in the orange glow.

Rojin pulled to her knees and set her eyes over the edge. Below, through the breaks within the stolid peaks, shimmering like diseased fireflies along the gathering shoulders of the northern borders of the Landfalls, the fires burned. Stretching further north, within the heathery growth that lay upon the lower lands, gathering fires loomed. They were stretched along the Brigand Lane, flickering in the chilled night.

Alia was still speaking, "They hold the Vale," she said, her voice low nearly a growl in her throat.

'How much of the Land do they hold?" Rylynn asked, not searching for an answer only breathing wonder upon them.

"We chose rightly not to continue." Joreth said, "We might have stumbled blindly into them...they held their fires till full dark."

"They have not ventured into the Landfalls. There is no sign of them below or between us and the further waypoints." Brandon informed them.

"Not that we can see from this vantage, at least." It was Myrd who dampened the sudden thrill of hope that sparked within them from Brandon's words.

Joreth dropped to the stone floor, "What are our choices then? Lord Brandon, Uireth...what other ways might we take?" His eyes sought for theirs in the shifting scarlet, "Our path lies to the north..."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 15

2008-08-14T15:47:00.000-05:00

Rojin let the shutter fall and the lantern's light was extinguished. The sky was the color of obsidian flecked with the clear silver specks of minutes stars as evening rose. Clouds slid above them darkening the waning crescent moon that hung as a brittle hook in the east, slowly tracing its track across the night sky. Yellow and muted, it cast little light upon them for the day had not fully relinquished its hold upon the air. Little lines of flashing brilliance played across tips of the peaks that broke from the earth about them, the bright snow reflecting diamond flashes to dazzle the setting sun.

In a moment, the light faded and full darkness descended. The glow of Joreth's tobac smoldering in his bowl briefly illuminated his face as he drew fresh draughts of smoke. His voice sounded softly from the cooling air. Rojin leaned closely to him to catch the words above the rising wind.

"I think I shall give more credence to your way of thinking, child." His tone was distant, his eyes wide. Rojin could see the tiny flashes of starlight reflected within the moisture catching within the corners of his beards. "To see a thing is better than to study all of your life and never leave your chambers. Away from the city fires, so much more can be seen."

She turned her eyes upward and saw distant stardust shimmering in pale, coruscating shafts within the sky; brilliant purples and stately reds wound about each other in the deep heavens like shifting tides of glowing cloud.

She opened her mouth to speak, but clamped her lips shut. More words would have lessened the moment.

She let her eyes drift closed and sleep fell upon her.

"Never close your heart to wonder..." came a voice to her ears. "Always strain to see the beauty in the darkness, child..."

Wether Joreth spoke or it was another, her slumbering mind could not say.

* * * * *

"Sister!" a harsh whisper broke in upon her. "Sister, awake!" Myrd's words held alarm.

She sat up straight and set her hands to her eyes, clearing the drowse with unthinking strokes. All were about her, some pressed to the low wall others kneeling to peer over its edge. Bright firelight mottled their faces.

Her brother spoke again from the shadow of his cloaks, "Their fires light the northern slopes. The Yol hold the road before us."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 14

2008-08-13T21:45:00.001-05:00

"Why did you leave the Re'lin?" Joreth asked, mumbling the question as he brought a flicker of flame to his bowl. The tobac flared for a moment and let a whisp of blackberries into the air. His voice was calm, interested.

Rojin shifted and let her back flatten against the stone. A chill rode her spine as she replied, "I did not wish to read more books. It seemed to me the time for study had passed and none would let me freely use the lore I had been taught."

"I see." he responded. His head leaned against the slates and his eyes drifted closed. In the small, shuttered light of the lantern at her feet, Rojin could see his eyes darting in thought beneath his wrinkled lids. He continued, "You find no reward in books then? Action and deed please you more than study?"

A smile struck her face, "Not entirely." She brushed her hands against her breeches and settled her braids across her shoulder, "Learning is necessary. Study has its purpose, but when all has been read and all has been learned...action can be the only continuance."

They sat in silence for a moment. The vapor that rose from Joreth's pipe drifting up only for a brief time before being snatched away by the wind as it filtered above the stone wall.

"I once spent three years upon one passage of the Rastingol. So powerful were the hidden meanings and treasures of Quilindil's writing that I could not turn from it." He caught her eye and raised a brow at her, "Do you think that foolish?"

She stammered for a moment, making dry clicking noises with her throat, "No...I would not presume...for some study is worthy...I - for myself - find it tedious..."

His hand fell upon hers. "Shhh, child. I am not attempting to change your mind or prove you wrong. I only wish to understand you better. Our road shall be long and, if we ware to be side by side, I would be remiss if I did not make the effort." He straightened his legs and smoothed the grey robes down. "Study is my love. Books hold knowledge immeasurable to me." His beards fell to a frown, "So many of the newer initiates that join us within the Theologia hold to your ideals."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 13

2008-08-13T00:04:00.002-05:00

A moment later, Joreth reined in beside them. His face ruddy, he spoke quickly, "We make for the second waypoint...this wind slows us. If we press too long, night will fall about us as we traipse this perilous height." He caught a nod from Jeremiah and responded with one of his own, "I would rather move during the light of day than chance something befalling us in the dead of night as we meet the lower lands."

Dusk held them closely as they tethered their mounts within the tall ring of stones that encircled the jutting shoulder of Thellin's Peak. Grey fell the light and grey it would remain. At Brandon's request, their camp would be a cold one.

"The wind would blow too greedily upon whatever coals we would light. A brighter signal of our passing could not be possible. I would rather pass whatever Yol that holds the pass unknown, rather than shout our coming." He had spoken over the howling winds as they spiraled up the sheer steps to the waypoint. The horses had been led up by slow and deliberate steps to the flattened table of circled stones.

Unbuckling his blankets from Pelin's leathers, Uireth felt a gurgle of hunger smite his belly. He pulled a strip of dried beef from his bags and tore at it with greedy abandon. Upon the heights, the light filtered through the stone peaks, slate and pallid. The sun sent a few wan beams about the stolid peaks and dissipated. Night rode over them quickly, as if a dark cloud suddenly fell upon the mountainside. The chill within the air made plumes of their breath.

Rojin pulled a lamp from her bags and lit the small thing with a flick of her hand and a quiet whisper. The shutters rose and a slight glow warmed them.

"You speak the words well, daughter." Joreth breathed, his back against the cold ring of slate, pile clenched within his teeth. The pleasant appraisal of his gaze set her cheeks to red. His smile caught her unguarded.

"I thank you. The praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards." She heard the words flow from her mouth, nearly tantric in their release. She spoke from rote response...such weariness was upon her.

"Stay a moment, child." the curate said, his hand found her shoulder and pulled her to sit beside him.

She was struck by the smell of him: clean, fresh and unspoiled did he seem. Surely the road would leave a stain upon him, she thought, though she could not see any blemish upon his robes.

The others settled quickly within their blankets. Soft sounds of activity shifted about them as their companions sought for comfort upon the stones. With the win whistling over their heads, Joreth and Rojin held quiet conversation.

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 12

2008-08-11T23:36:00.001-05:00

The winds whistled through the high towers above them; spires still holding on to heavy snow. The air about them bristled with frost, it pressed against them and pulled at their cloaks, sending them about their horses' flanks as tattered pennants. They moved along as snails upon the path. Sheer defiles and cuts held them closely to the mountainsides.

Uireth and Brandon led them, wavering shapes against the gale.

"At this pace, we shall not meet the lower grounds until well after nightfall." Jeremiah called, his voice nearly snatched away as he spoke. Joreth nodded beside him and put his heel to Enmor, his white stallion and broke forward. A blasting wind met him, whipping at his beads and setting them to wag behind him as he rode.

Not unlike the bright tail to a falling star, Jeremiah thought, tightening his fingers upon Ghaen's leathers.

The others moved in a long, straggling line behind him; ever Myrd at the rear, his cowl tightly about his face, billowing about his black eyes.

Alia took Joreth's place at Jeremiah's side, Imora - her horse - snorted heavily with the effort.

"We will never make the lower passes if this blasted wind continues." She shouted, leaning as close to him as she could, her hair scourging his face. "We must find one of these waypoints and seek shelter from the blast. I fear there may still be snow within it."

"The curate concurs, my love," Jeremiah responded, turning his face slightly from the red lashes that thrashed against his cheek, " even now he moves to speak with our guides."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 11

2008-08-08T23:31:00.001-05:00

Brandon took a long pull from his waterskin and drew a hand across his mouth, "There are waypoints - high circles of stone - along the way should we meet any resistance or should need drive us from the path. They hold some stores, mainly fuel for fires."

"Four of them lie along the way." Rylynn interjected.

"Then...let us rest a moment and begin the trek." Joreth sighed, lowering himself to the ground and pulling his pipe from his robes.

They sat in solitude watching the smoke trail from the old man's lips.

Jeremiah spoke softly, eyes still searching the dissipating fens behind them, "We have seen no sign of the Yol within the lower lands, this is troubling. Surely there would be sign of worms this far north of the Wall."

"They cut deep within the earth, below the waters." Alia responded. She stood at his side, her foot tapping the still-hardened earth in her desire to be off, "It must be a treacherous undertaking for ever could the upper crust let water fall upon them."

"But they have already moved so far north? Would not the path be cut already?" Uireth asked, moving to speak with her.

"Perhaps it is a broad way beneath us. A highway under the earth." Rojin let her thoughts escape her lips. She was not fully aware that she actually spoke the words aloud till her brother called to her from where he leaned against the rough skin of a fir.

"For them to have assailed the Seat, surely the ways are great beneath us." he said, not looking at her. His voice was flat, nearly expressionless.

* * * * *

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 10

2008-08-07T23:25:00.001-05:00

Ok...feeling a little better now. I've got a better outline and have plotted to the end of this first novel. Hopefully, things will flow better and you'll have less "waffle" to slog through.

The company moved on after a brief repast which consisted of dried beef and springwine. Jeremiah sat facing the Lane, eyes ever moving over the pond-dotted land and none could hold conversation with him.

The sun brought warmth to them as they trotted slowly onward.

"The snows are passing." Joreth told them, "My breath holds no vapor."

Closer now, the fir tinted shoulders of the Landfalls filled the northern horizon, the grand trees gathering height as they loped up the sheer defiles and held the land steady and kept the scree still. The waters receded as they rode. The cloying scent of the peat and standing pools was replaced with a more rugged scent; granite, pine needles and dust.

The Lane began to ascend and diminish into the higher passes. Here Uireth called to those close to him, "The Peaksmarch shall be the wiser route. It is a slow, thin way but the footing is sure and the ice will not have not damaged the stones."

They slowed within the first line of trees. Joreth had pulled them together in a tight knot. The wind that blew from the high stone before them held a distinct air of the snow that still held in the upper peaks. Above them, the spires loomed, jutting to sharp pinnacles that were hidden in lowering mist and cloud. The sunlight still met them and dappled their faces as they lowered themselves from their horses.

"Can we assail the Peaksmarch and reach the far side ere night falls?" he asked, his fingers weaving across the gnarled length of his staff. "Can we make the journey quickly?"

Uireth nodded, "If there is no delay...nothing within the pass...yes."

"What of the Yol that held the opposite side?" Rojin asked, "They may not have sent their full force after us." She stretched her neck and let her braids rest upon her shoulders. Her hand lay upon Tass' withers, stroking them to stillness.

Arghh...missed it again tonight...

2008-07-31T23:47:00.004-05:00

I sat down - I surfed the interweb - I died a little inside. No, not really...I don't know what that last thing meant. But, I had a goodly share of the blinking cursor tonight. Not really able to get anything down. I'll double post tomorrow.

Updated - 8/4/08

Ok - sos it was a busy weekend...I didn't make up for the "goofing" night. I'm really struggling with this thing. Maybe I shouldn't have switched to posting just during the week...I don't know. I'm off my groove and its getting difficult to continue. My interest is waning. Is it just that the story is boring to me now? Have I strayed from what excited me about it? The Quest is only now beginning...is that the problem? Do I not like the Quest that I have chosen?

The writing has definitely suffered in the last couple of chapters. Its choppy, its dull and pedestrian...there's no real spark. Only occasionally do I post anything that I'm even remotely proud of.

I know that the whole trick of this thing is to keep going - finish the first draft, however horrible. But how long do you slog away when you're not really even enjoying it anymore? This is where the "rubber meets the road" as the saying goes. But I'm not sure that the journey is worth it.

Don't worry, I'll keep posting, but I'm just frustrated right now.

Final Update

Ok, I've missed another night. I think you've got it right, Beck. I'll spend a little time on Plot (I've only been working from a bare-bones outline for the last few chapters). If I get it done after work tomorrow (8/5/08), I'll post some more...but until then, I've got to take a little breather.

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 9

2008-07-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

"I met a worm here." Jeremiah said.

"It must have delved very deep to pass through this wet land." Joreth responded.

"I believe it travelled alone, a pathfinder only. It died still within its tunnel so whatever might have followed behind it might have perished as well."

A still smoking support fell into the charred and blackened ash. Rylynn jumped at the sudden tumult.

"It lost its way and strayed upon where the Dur and Falchweir Road meet the Lane." Jeremiah continued, his eyes moving over the broken earth, hands finding impressions within the soil that revealed information to him but spoke nothing to the others. "There were those gathered here who bravely fought the beast."

Myrd had wandered to the river's edge, "Where is the creature now? I see where it broke through and some of the damage it caused...but where are its remains?"

As he spoke, Jeremiah moved to stand beside him. "They dissipate when their fires die." The mumbling waters soothed him, "They fall to ash."

Below them, upon the opposite shore, the broken and spilled earth wore traces of of its death; splashes of its vile spittle pitted and etched the stones, sand and slate - now dark and glossy - frozen in glassy flows. The gaping black of the Vorkath's tunnel tumbled from the riverbank. Bits of stone and masonry still lay within the center of the rushing water, blocks and timber from the bridge.

"How many paths had it cut...?" Myrd let his voice trail to silence.

"The Yol now have inroads to all lands, it would seem" Joreth called from where the Pig's porch had once stood. His hand held a small catch of charred metal within his haads, presumably part of the door, he twisted it between his fingers as he spoke, "No where is safe from their ravages."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 8

2008-07-29T23:00:00.000-05:00

"Are we blind?" Joreth's voice met them as he set heel to horse and followed Jeremiah's retreating back, "How could we not have seen it?"

The companions followed closely behind.

Curling sable and inky smoke rose from the blackened remains of the inn.

"Watch your progress across the bridge," Jeremiah called, "the repairs are hasty."

The dull cut of the Dur came upon them suddenly; the ground dropped away in straight etchings of chiseled perfection. The water had been faultless in its slow, matchless carving. Black, the water seemed as it roiled over the shallow bed of rounded stones and slate. The bridge was sundered on the southern side. Planks and soiled timber met withe the blackened stone mid way across the expanse. Rojin felt her horse step lightly upon the wide boards, the wood screeching under the passing weight.

Small coals and embers caught the slight breeze, renewing their glows as they devoured what fuel remained. Broken scimitars and helms littered the ground. Bones of men and of horses lay charred and motionless under the clear, noonday sun. The foundation of blackened slate was all that remained.

"The Yol have struck a blow against the Fens." Rylynn said, his voice full of whispers and sadness.

Dropping down from his saddle, Jeremiah surveyed the damage, "They came from the north."

"Those of the company that pursued us?" Rojin asked.

Uireth shook his head, "I think not. We blew passed this place as they followed. It still stood and I think that none of our pursuers were waylaid here."

"This took place within the early hours of this day." Jeremiah countered, his fingers dissecting the ash. "I tend to think that a second company brought this destruction down from the north."

Joreth sent his gaze to the watered plain about them, "They may still be moving."

"We are hostiles in our own lands." Alia breathed, her hand straying the to braided cords of Enosyrath's hilt, "They hold our homelands."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 7

2008-07-28T22:30:00.001-05:00

Within a little time, the first fingers of the Dur began to cut wider swaths from the marshland, each little tributary ending in broad still pools that caught the scudding clouds and reflected them cleanly to the sky. The shadowy firs that lined the lower shoulders of the Landfalls were becoming more distinct in the far distance.

Brandon found that a crisp excitement was overpowering his trepidation. As the loping strides of Samr, his chestnut stallion, devoured the leagues, a pristine joy began to fill him. To be on the road once more, to be free of command, to be one a company...all brought a youthful delight to him.

They moved in a long line along the cobblestones. Joreth and Alia held the lead with Jeremiah behind them. Brandon, the two Messengers, and the lady Rojin rode in a loose pack behind him with the thief bringing up the rear.

Myrd kept to himself. Ever was his pipe clenched in his teeth, though the tobac had been cold for many leagues. His face was hidden within his cloaks.

"Someone must know a traveling song that is worthy." Uireth asked, his voice cheerful. The flawless sky had worked its magic upon the young man and his face held a wide smile.

"The road bores you already, brother?" Rylynn said.

His laugh fell as a song, "No, but surely one tune would be worthy for starting out. Something spritely and improper."

"Stolen Apples?" Rojin suggested, casting her eyes toward Rylynn, a smile lightened her face.

"There is smoke ahead." came Alia's voice. She spoke loudly, calling all eyes forward toward her outstretched arm.

Brandon felt fear tinge his elation. His fingers were white bone upon the leather thongs of Samr's reins.

Jeremiah broke forward at a light trot, Ghaen's sturdy shod hooves sending bright staccato notes into the stillness.

Before them, a column of greasy black smoke rose.

Myrd's monotone called from behind them, "The Pig is roasting."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 6

2008-07-25T21:40:00.001-05:00

"I find it interesting that such a thing is taught within the Walkers," Joreth mused, "For such a practice is held only within the teachings of the Mystics. They held that words, at times, were not capable of truly denoting the spirit."

Rojin called from behind them, "It was beautiful. Words would have cheapened it."

The Landfalls held cold within the distant peaks. The snows that had fallen across the marshlands only weeks before were penned behind the clear sky by their teeth-like outcroppings. Even from the distance, all could see the deepening hues of the clouds that lay heavy there.

But, for the present, clear, blue sky held above them. The mists had lifted fully, leaving only the long, wide expanse of swaying marsh grass and isolated pools of standing water. The chill warmed to a pleasant warmth as the sun rode past the mid point on the horizon and settled above them.

The sound of their horses hooves upon the cobblestones stilled their conversation for a long while.

And though the day waned and broke into evening , it seemed to Rojin that they were moving at a snails pace across the Fens.

"Why do we not ride at a greater pace? Surely, there is need?" she asked, bringing in her steed between Jeremiah and Joreth. They had been speaking quietly together for sometime and she could no longer abide the secrecy.

The old man laughed, a round, fruity sound that sent a smile to her face, as he repiled, "My Lady, we move at the speed appointed. To tire our steeds would be to make them useless should that speed be needed."

"It is sooth," Jeremiah added, taking a long draught from his waterskin, "The worm holes might pepper the fens, deep below the water line. Speed must be held in
readiness for the sudden need."

Abashed, she settled back into her saddle and ran her fingers into the thick, course mane of her horse.

"We will be a the Pig within the hour," Jeremiah called to all, "I would know what has passed there since my last visit."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 5

2008-07-25T21:21:00.001-05:00

They set their heels to their horses flanks, the Walker who had spoken - a tall, brawny man with grey streaks of hair entangled within the topknot that fell along his back, one who had seen many years atop the Wall, opened his mouth and let a single note from his lungs. Others did the same, sending out their own notes. They were not seeking for melody or harmony. Each man, each Walker of the Southern Wall, chose the note that suited him. Louder and louder did the tuneless song rise, a swelling of sound that filled the air with the tense closeness of intimate mediation and communion. They raised their voices, let their singular notes catch and mingle with each other to become a vast wall that rose over them and carried them quickly along the cobblestones.

Rylynn felt a sharp pang of loss as he glanced back to see the upper reaches of the Wall crowded with Walkers. All who faced north, wether upon the heights or clustered about the Bailey gate, sent them forth with their song.

Brandon reigned in his horse and turned to them, raised in a salute. His eyes were shining with a treasured possession for these were his men, his Walkers. They matched his salute as one and the dissonant tones hushed, stilled by his distant hand.

He turned his back to them and rejoined his companions.

They travelled in silence for some time, enjoying the solitude of the slight breeze and the murmur of the marsh grasses that swayed within it. Only the occasional twitter of muskeg piper let them know that they were not alone upon the road.

The Brigand Lane wound in a nearly straight line along the shallow bowl of the Fens. The wide expanse about them was held in place by the distant peaks of the Landfalls that hemmed them in along each side, save the south - where the chalky line of the Southern Wall cut the isthmus.

They moved slowly at first, each deep within their thoughts until Joreth broke in upon them with a clear voice, his words were a question to Brandon, "Forgive my ignorance, by what means did the Walkers show us such courtesy? That is to say, as we left, what was it that they did?" His brows were high upon his forehead.

"We hold to the belief that each man has but one, singular note that is wound into the Song of Life. " Brandon replied, his voice heavy but his demeanor thankful for the question, "It is something held for our times alone when we seek the will of Grondir within our chambers."

"They revealed much to you with this demonstration," Alia said, bringing her steed alongside the other men.

Brandon cleared his throat, "They did, my lady. I have never known the like to have been done."

Missed it today - tired, going to bed...

2008-07-24T23:22:00.000-05:00

I'll post twice on the morrow.

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 4

2008-07-23T23:32:00.001-05:00

"The thief holds his tongue," Uireth called to his brother, "at least, he does us that honor."

"Hold your tongue, as well, brother." The ferocity of Rylynn's words placed a scowl upon Uireth's face. His voice became a harsh whisper, "When you have lost...then speak against him. Until then, hold and watch. There is more within the man than hate and fear." Rylynn held him for a moment within his eyes, a fierce fire danced there.

When Uireth broke his gaze, Rylynn stood looking after him, daring him to speak more.

The sound of Joreth's voice broke in upon them, balm to the taught emotion, "This is the beginning," he said, as the Lady Alia proffered her hand to help him rise to his saddle. The silver horse let a gentle, high-pitched neigh rumble through it lips as the old man settled into the leather, "To horse, companions, to horse. The day is wasting and we have many miles and many enemies to face 'ere we reach our rest...if rest there is to be found upon our road." He cast his eyes over the assemblage, "Let those with harp and drum beat out our steps, for ever has the worshipper let music lead the faithful." Those within the Walkers whose hands were suited to music did as they were told and a soft, lilting of plucking strings and tympani sounded upon the marshes. Slow and doleful was the tune they chose as Joreth continued, "Our quest is but the fulfillment of prophecy that was spoken by the very mouth of Grondir so many ages ago...we but step upon the appointed stones and journey the appointed path. Let us be off with the prayers of those who hold the borders."

The musicians redoubled their tune. A singular flute broke into melody. A hush fell as the notes struck the air.

The companions all moved to their steeds and mounted. The freshening sun smote them with clean, clear hope. A hawk's cry sounded from the marshes.

"Our prayers follow you," a Walker called, his voice matching the lilting quality of the flute, "The Seven hold our hope. May Arian speak clearly to all and hold you to your course. Peace and valor be yours to hold."

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 3

2008-07-22T22:24:00.000-05:00

Rylynn stood at his side, "Your thoughts run grandiose, brother." His hand dropped to his shoulder, alighting upon the stained traveler's cloak and settling there. The expression within his eyes one of humor, he leaned to his brother's ear, "Think you of slaying Dragons and hordes of great treasure? Will you storm the gates of Tallic'ir?" His hand sent a playful slap across Uireth's cheek.

"I merely wonder what this road shall hold for us. We enter the Tale this day." His excitement pressed a grin upon his cheeks and he began to reassess the contents of his saddlebags.

"We have long been within the Tale, brother - only now have we become aware that we have a part to play." Rylynn said and turned to his horse and brought a deep draught of air into his lungs. Fresh, the air seemed. The sun shone brightly down upon him and the long known scent of dust and fire seemed to dissipate as the breeze freshened.

Mist still held the lower patches of turf, entwining within the short, scrubby shrubs and grass. He slipped a waterskin under the buckles of his saddles and glanced about him.

A crowd of Walkers stood about the Bailey gates, grey within their cloaks even under the light of the morning sun. Lord Brandon stood in close conversation with a tall, red faced man whose scarred face rippled as he spoke. He could not catch the whispered words.

The Lady Alia stood, eyes distant, as her companion readied their steeds.

Joreth held council with the Brothers who Walked the Wall.

Myrd sat astride his horse, a pipe jutting from his lips. The smoke rose in long, thin plumes from his cowled face.

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 2

2008-07-21T23:00:00.000-05:00

"If the tale has been told aright, eternity has not been enough for the Wayfiri. They will use even the present to stand still and do nothing." she felt her lips move, slackening and tightening with each vowel, as she repeated the thief's words. They hung within her mind, reverberating and condemning her. Jeremiah had attempted comfort with kind words and warm hands, but she had left him in the night, slumbering under warm furs.

The cool air had called her to the parapets that ran along the Wall. With the dissipation of the Yol, the Grey had departed as well. During the night, mist from the marshes had pooled at the northern sides and washed over the tall battlements of the Bailey, spilling down to the tight clumps of the Brambles that hugged the motte to the south. A natural occurrence, the Walker's upon the heights had told her. She had feared that the Grey returned, though there seemed to be no malice within the vapor.

She had watched the mist as it rolled down the granite side of the Wall with wonder. The moving torches of the Watch had lit the night about her, fireflies marching in regular rounds atop the last bastion of safety within the Land.

"...will use even the present to stand still and do nothing..."

Anger flashed again within her eyes. We will do what is requested of us, she thought - her hand fell to the hilt of Enosyrath upon her waist. Perseverance has never been a fault of ours. This task will prove the thief wrong.

She spun and called to the Walker.

No more shall we tarry, she thought as she passed from the summit to the halls below.

* * * * *

Uireth tightened the straps of his saddle and laid a hand upon the warm flanks of his horse. We ride this day, he thought, we ride into the histories.

Novel: Chapter 21, Post 1

2008-07-18T23:48:00.000-05:00

Chapter 21 - The Fellowship

Dawn broke upon the lower marshes, scattering the night with freshening gleams that cut from the eastern shoulders of the Landfalls and scoured over the mists, setting the bowl of the land into flame. Clouds scudded across the paling sky, caught in the soft, warming winds that held the scent of good broken earth and growing things. Behind the Wall, and to the south, stretching out to the length of a man's vision, The Brambles reflected the dawn's brilliance in glistening pearlescent colors that hung from the sharp tines and barbs that covered their still, taut masses. From the height of the Wall, it seemed that small orbs danced and dissipated as the morning mist left water to drip from thorn tip to soil bed.

The call of the Walkers pulled Alia from her quiet stare. From the distance, she heard the wailing cry of "I still Walk!" echo along the length of the span, moving from throat to throat as the Walkers called out their hours. It ran past her and was carried to the distance, a warbling that settled to silence.

A voice called to her. "My lady, the other's of your company stir."

Alia spun to face the young man who spoke. Behind him, the vast shallow bowl of the marshes let the mist rise to the sun, dispelling and scattering to the blue-streaked sky. The young Walker stood nearly two hands below her. HIs face held adoration and his words were breaking within his throat.

She nodded, "I thank you." Her hand fell to his shoulder and she felt him quiver slightly, "I will join them shortly."

"They will be taking breakfast within the Welling Hall. It lies to the north of the main kitchens within the Bailey." He stammered, "I will take you there when you desire."

"I thank you...I shall not be much longer." She hesitated, "It is a wonder to see this land in the freshening light of the morning."

He nodded and departed, a sheen of sweat covering the flushed smile upon his cheeks.

Sleep had abandoned her this night. It had been the words of the thief that had awakened her. She turned to face the Brambles once more, catching the sight of a white-breasted pipit breaking from a tight mass of thorns and beat its wings upon the air. It held an insect within its short beak. From this height, she saw that the crawling thing still lived. The bird wheeled in the breeze and passed from her sight.

It was the first living creature she had spied since her approach to the Wall. Its sudden appearance reassured her. The World still turns, she thought as a draught caught her hair and whipped it about her face. Alia cast a hand up and restrained it, pulling it taut and tying it back with a leather thong from her pockets.

I'll not be dragging Chapter 20 on any longer...

2008-07-18T08:59:00.004-05:00

It's bad. It's choppy and you can really feel the struggle within it. So, for now, I'm going to let Chapter 20 stand as it is. I don't like it and I just have to move on. I know the specifics of the first quest. So I'll move on to the first morning of the journey...

Sorry for the awkwardness and "badness" of the previous chapter. I've just got to keep moving. That chamber was consuming me and slowly killing my joy in the process. It needs to be re-worked so much. It's nearly overwhelming.

The Quest is the thing. Why did I have to have so many characters?

- Mattie

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 16

2008-07-17T21:37:00.002-05:00

A little short, but posted...

"If the tale has been told aright, eternity has not been enough for the Wayfiri. They will use even the present stand still and do nothing."

Rylynn felt his eyes darting back and forth within his skull, focusing quickly on he who spoke and those whom he accused. The tension within the chamber seemed to rise as heated air. The coiling words struck a baleful note that would cause the string to snap. Jeremiah's fingers entwined whitely within one another.

And yet, Myrd continued to speak, softly and slowly, "I know the Book of Threnodies well...have you forgotten the lines that accuse you, Wayfiri? 'Dark will the sight of the wise be, as the blind who forage within the shade find no bounty. Ever will the wise portend, ever will the path be unfathomable.' What have you gained by your spans if, even now, as the Land is overrun, you do nothing? Surely now - with this task set before you - you will go and tarry no further? Why must we sit in this calm chamber and ponder riddles."

Jeremiah let the blood run back into his hands, stretching his fingers wide upon the stone. He nodded, "Though you choose to speak with harsh words, I will not stand against the truth." He rose, "We know the first step. To the north on the morrow, we shall strive." It was as if a cool breath fell from the lights above them, the string had been struck but did not rend. "The path is marked - if only a little."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 15

2008-07-16T14:44:00.002-05:00

Ok, this one came a little more easily...I think I may be back into story.

"We spent some time with those who survived and heard many tales that resounded with one another. The Seat is taken." Rojin added. There was surprise within her eyes, "How could you not know?"

"I have been concerned with the present task. I felt misgivings, but knew nothing for certain."

Jeremiah leaned toward her, "Was the whole Vale taken?"

Rojin continued, "Yes, they broke from the earth. The Vorkath brought them."

His fist met the surface of the stone loudly, "I have seen one of them as well...though I thought it a mere chance that the worm had made it so far northward...now I see that this was one of the back line."

Alia caught his eye, "When did you meet this thing?"

"A day or so before our meeting....at the Pig...where the Dur and the Brigand Lane converge."

Joreth breathed a loud sigh, "Gods, how long have they been hallowing out the earth beneath us...sundering the roots of the earth."

"How large was the force within the Vale?" the question came from Brandon.

Rojin let Rylynn answer, though her tongue felt thick with words held in silence.

"None knew and only Brother Quist would hazard a guess. His thought was that the enemy numbered over twelve legions with as many worms."

Uireth entered into the close conversation with fear of his own, "As I met them at on the Northern slopes of the Landfalls, they were under attack. From the ground they came though only a small sortie when compared to the force within the Vale."

"What of the Wall? What remains of those who besieged us here?" Rylynn asked.

Joreth stood, his face to the glimmering lights of the chandelier above them, "They are routed...for now."

"You will find the land to the south greatly changed, my brother." Uireth added, "Where tundra held now a vast spread of thick brambles holds sway. The Lore I have seen wielded greatly improves my attitude toward our journey's outcome. Such power..." His voice trailed away as fresh awe returned with his memories.

Alia spoke next, "Our journey will be fraught with peril. The Yol, it seems, have broken inland - their worm holes may cover much more that imaginable. No land within the Inland Seas will be safe. Attack may come at any time. The Central Lands are overcome."

"And we sit and tell tales as the Land is raped."

All turned their eyes upon Myrd. His voice was low and his cowl shrouded his face.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 14

2008-07-15T23:19:00.003-05:00

Ok, for the time being, I'm letting the chapter stand as it is written. This may change, but I don't want to lose momentum. The story is unfolding and who am I to let that stop. If this chapter is bad or poorly written, I'm sorry....I've just got to keep going and let the re-write phase correct it.

Jeremiah stood and faced him, "I would deem you unwise if you let this matter drop so easily." The tall man's eyes caught recrimination within Joreth's but he continued, "Time drew us away." His voice held sorrow and a bare nerve of repressed anger, "That is our only defense." He began to pace, his leather soled boots pressing tightly upon the flagstone floor, behind them he moved, his voice filling the chamber with grief, "They fell to legend under the weight of our lives. The Weapons became a mischance, a sadness...nothing more. The difficulty of our foolishness is enough countercharge against us. Be angry if you choose, but know that we will spend ourselves in payment of our disregard."

Alia felt hot tears rise within her lids. She beat them back with a few quick blinks.

Brandon lowered himself onto the cushions of his chair, "Your candor is enough. I hold the matter settled, though my heart is still reticent to let the blame rest."

Joreth stood, "So the matter returns to the present. What is the step that we must take? What is the first lap of our journey?"

Alia felt a laugh within her belly, "Ever you ask questions that you hold the answer to, Joreth. End the riddles and tell us."

"The Path has told me this much....to the Grove we must move. Quasinel holds the memory of the Weapons within him. The Preacher knows the steps." Joreth's eyes held a glint of humor at Alia's words, his voice held truth.

Rojin countered, "You would have us move north? Into the heart of the enemy? They hold the Seat against us."

"What?" Joreth's disbelief was tangible, "Of what do you speak?"

Rylynn stammered, "It is true, Curate. I sought to bring my message to the Seat of Lords...but the enemy held the land of the Upper Plains."

His tale held them in fear. He spoke of the refugees and of the fallen. Joreth kept his questions to himself as the messenger related his journey. He started at the name of Quist.

"He sent you on?" His voice close.

"Yes, my lord."

I've returned from Vacation...with sickness....

2008-07-11T08:31:00.002-05:00

I woke up on Thursday morning with a tickle in the back of my throat. I went to work and started having hot flashes - you know, like those fevery eyes and sudden sweats. It only got worse when I made it home. The sad thing is that - because of vacation - I have to work. I can't miss any days and I can't really use sick time. And, one final thing, I'm working open to close both today and tomorrow! Sweet.

So, all of the above, to say that I will not begin posting again until I'm up to it. It may be Sunday or even Monday next week before I am back at it.

- Mattie

All Right Then....

2008-07-07T12:16:00.002-05:00

I've been on vacation, kids. I've made a pledge - an oath, if you will - that I will not do any writing while on said vacation. I know this violates the whole "one page a day" thing, but - dammit - there are times for taking a break. I will post again on Thursday night (July 10th). I'm planning on posting through the weekend, but I'm not wholly sure about that.

It's odd how the chapter that I have been the most excited about is the one that I've had the most difficulties with. There's one of them life lessons in this.

I've been thinking about re-working the entirety of Chapter 20... some of the specifics of the Quest, I've never finalized - I've only played with ideas... it's just so tough... the break is helping...

See you on the 10th...

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 13

2008-07-01T23:32:00.002-05:00

Brandon stood, "Forgive me if I ask an obvious question...if these Weapons were of the utmost importance why have not the Wayfiri been searching for them all of this time? Why let them be taken and held in secret? Would not that be the search, the destiny for which they had been given?" His eyes were steel, "What other quest could there be? For, if what you say is true, the arrival of Prophecy incarnate is held in abeyance until these four artifacts are again housed together. What other purpose could you pursue?"

Joreth did not answer. It was Jeremiah who responded, his face abashed almost startled, "There is a fine line between that which is truth and that which is legend, lord. A king's crown is but a sign of his office, but it is not the thing which gives it. We believed the Weapons to be largely emblematic. There are some who read the words of Quilindil and say they are metaphorical..."

Anger flashed in Brandon's eyes, "You have lived too long and seen too much to utter such words. You, who have battled the Yol that flowed from Tallic'ir, who have strode the Grove, who have seen the glory of the High Throne....what use are you if such simplicity can be hidden from you?"

Joreth spun to face him, "Hold, mortal!" His staff struck the granite and sent sparks about the hem of his robes, "Things can loose their importance in the flow of time. When you have held your lover in your arms and watched them die upon the field of battle - then you can utter disapproval. Have you strode the Other Shores? Have you bore arms against your truest friend, knowing they may die at your hands?"

Brandon stammered, "Forgive my anger, but I fear the question must still be answered and I shall not be swayed. Why should this be revealed now? Why should the Weapons be brought back into the light after so long being relegated to legend and myth? You knew them to be true. As you say, you were there?"

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 12

2008-06-30T23:04:00.002-05:00

"Theives. The Weapons were taken from the High Palace as the Kindreds met upon the field by thieves clothed in shadow. Some texts speak of a blinding smoke that descended upon the Throne Room, smiting those of the Kalendir who remained to guard. Ilran, it was who led them. A magician of dour mien, who trafficked with unholy spirits and held court with the dead. His name was given him by the those whom he smote. In the old speech of Men, Ilran means "corpse awakened". That is a loose translation with connotation." Joreth spoke quickly. He was moving into the main thrust of the tale. His beard shook as he spoke, "There were not only men within his company, but Ravanor, Undiar and Elstin'tar as well. Bent to his unknown purpose by his malice and dark arts."

Alia joined the tale, "The call rang out over the battlefield. The shouts of men sundered the air. 'Gone from us! Taken have been the Weapons of Power.' Those not in pitched battle broke from the lines to the High Palace. I was with them. The guards, those smote by the blasting fire, rose against us. Puppets of flesh against which swords did little. For what can be done against those who no longer fear the blade and do not feel its bite. They swarmed over us, there were only a score of soldiers who accompanied me to the palace. Their weapons beat us back, bluntly striking and yet seemingly powered with the Necromancer's enmity. Our blades smoked with their dead blood, black and burning it was." Her eyes were lit with memory, vague fires burned within them, "I saw shadows depart from the Throne Room. In all directions, they departed, leaving only the mute, animated dead to mourn them."

"The Weapons of the King As of Yet Unborn were spirited away. The foolishness of the Four Kindreds was now complete, for until they are once again together the full Consummation and Return are not possible. Long ago, the Weapons were made, each by the finest smithies of each Kindred. In pursuit of Prophecy, they labored and cast." As Joreth spoke, his voice rose and grew strong, "For Quilindil, deep within his Grove, had been told of their necessity by the Voice of Grondir himself. The Book of Threnodies began to be written the day that Men, Elves, Dwarves and Halflings turned from the pursuit of He who Made them and sought only for themselves. It was here that that foolishness was made complete. As they errantly battled one another upon the field, that which was their salvation was taken from them. We have striven to survive within that error for thousands of years.

"These that sit with us, have striven more than most. For the Wayfiri ever seek the road upon which will bring us back together, as one."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 11

2008-06-27T20:41:00.002-05:00

Joreth's laughter calmed all within the chamber. Myrd rose to his feet, his legs widening in a defiant stance.

"The foolishness you choose to flaunt is not necessary, young friend. Leave your disbelief at the door with your arsenal and, pray, remain quiet." Joreth turned to face him, "I do not care wether you believe or not. For I hold to the truth of the Wayfiri and my Lord. Your opinion is worthy, but does not change those who are arrayed before you. If it is foolishness, stand in the assurance that your belief will see you correct. But until that time, cease your prattling."

The authority within the old man's voice lowered Myrd to his seat once more.

Jeremiah could not be so easy with the remark, he rose, slowly, his voice deliberate and unhurried, "You seek to rouse him and that is unwise. You play at contempt - and well have you rehearsed - but all that your disdain does is shout of your dubiety. Your fear speaks more loudly than your words." He would not let the thief break his stare, "If we are fools then leave us to our foolishness. None hold you here against your will."

Tension stilled their tongues.

Myrd's quiet reply came slowly, "At the Curate's request, I shall stay. I shall see what is required of me and play that part. I am wary of tales but shall seek for the truth of them."

"Good, the matter is settled - for now." Joreth spoke loudly and broke the hostility with a strike of his staff upon the stone.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 10

2008-06-26T21:37:00.001-05:00

"The King never set foot within the Throne Room of Kirs'tal." The old man held the floor, "It is the Book of Threnodies that tells us of the Disbanding. Under Iluan's spidery letters, the pages speak of petty demands and small-minded requests laid at the foot of the Throne. Through the ages, the Kings of the Races no longer held any true power, that lay within the wealthy land-owners and rich fealties that rose within the countryside. Old jealousies and vendettas became the reason for law and war.

"It was a small thing that widened the Rift."

Rylynn asked a simple question, "How long did the Kindreds rule before the Disbanding?"

All eyes turned to Rojin, small and dark within her chair, as she answered, "A little over six hundred years, if the histories are translated aright."

Alia felt a smile upon her cheeks. This fallen student knows more than she would say, she thought, leaning forward and setting her feet before her. She sighed as the blood rushed back into them.

"Six hundred and forty-seven years to be exact." Joreth added, "I have translated the Book myself and believe I have the right of it."

"What caused the War?" Rylyn prompted, his elbows propped upon the arms of the tall wing-backed chair and his eyes alight with wonder.

"To that we turn the pages of another tome, the Yellow Book of the Ravanor." The old man began to pace as he spoke, the metal heel of his staff bringing sparks from the flagstone floor, "The specifics are not necessary but, suffice it to say, each Kindred chose a side - though not one stood together with another. Through deceit and treachery the Kalendir held the field at the battle's end. Corestinal, a first more of a puppet than a regal lord, became the First King of Man and the Races fled. The Ravanor fled across the Oceans upon their thume-ships, the Elstin'tar marched along the Straights to the West and the Undiar delved deep into the northern mountains. All fled, never to be seen upon the Central Lands again."

"You speak of legend as if it holds reality, old man." It was Myrd's derisive snort that broke into the chamber, "How am I to believe this? You bring nothing to substantiate these tales." His eyes lowered upon the Wayfiri, "Save these two ragged wanderers."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 9

2008-06-25T21:23:00.000-05:00

Ok...this one's a bit short, but it is done.

The tale wound on under the smoke that rose from Joreth's pipe.

"All held the throne lightly, for the King as of Yet Unborn would return to claim it when the Fates settled that the times were right."

He spoke of other kings and of their long reigns: Uilinas of the Ravanor called the Little Blessing for it was he that instituted shared coffers of grain for those struck by the Blight, Falit the Strong of the Undiar called the Kind Brute - ever did he strike against the Yol pressing them further from the Central Lands. It was he who drove them to the Uncharted Lands of the Southern Wastes.

Ever behind them within the Throne Room, the Weapons hung. Waiting, pulled from their stands and polished - made ready for the True King's emergence. Cities rose, the children of the First Father's lived in harmony across the wide land. The Roads wound through the hillocks and all peoples flourished.

The Wayfiri spoke of their retreat. "Ever to the borders of the Lands were we drawn. To conflict and peacekeeping. Ever wise men gave unto us new crusades and holy pilgrimages. Surely, this jewel or that diadem would be the reason for our unending spans. Surely, they had heard the voice of Grondir as they dreamt or sought for visions over the oracular fumes of the temples."

It was Alia who spoke, "Alas, all was vanity."

They were moved forward in the history.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 8

2008-06-24T21:51:00.001-05:00

An indignant narrowing of his eyes was his only response.

Rylynn hid a smile with his hand.

The lady nodded to Jeremiah and the Wayfiri continued, "The Fire I speak of is drawn from the same source, young one." HIs voice held kindness, an inflection of warmth, "I - that is to say - We brought it from the Tower ourselves."

"Why?"

Jeremiah was not sure who asked the question. "The Fire knows its breed. There is an essence, a stamp, upon the temperament of the Yol and their master. It can discern the quality of Malendir within any who hold it. And it can be removed from the Fall as water from a river. The Fire does not dissipate."

"For the judgment is eternal." Joreth interjected, a pipe was in his hands and fine, lines of smoke rose from it and tempered the scent of the chamber with holly and blackberries.

"It was this Fire that was used to judge the intentions of those who sought the Kingship - so long ago." the tall man continued, his grey eyes seemed to drift up and away from the gathering, remembering. "The Fire did not burn the Elstin'tar. Therin'as'tir was clean and chosen to take the throne. As long as breath held within him, he would rule and upon his death, the Trial would re-occur among the chosen of the Kindred and the next would take the Dais."

"As the First took his seat, after the throngs had run to the streets to celebrate in dance and drink, we met him," Alia said, "We laid our swords at his feet and gave him our service. The last in the long line of Quilindil placed his hands upon us and nearly wept at our offer. So tall, so pale he was."

The light within the chamber seemed to dim and loose its sharpness as Jeremiah's dull voice spoke again, "He had nothing to offer us." A sigh broke from his lips, "The King of All Free Folk had nothing to give back for our service."

Joreth rose and set a hand upon his shoulder, "Do not hold anger toward him, friend. He held the Races within his hands and had naught to spare for you."

"There is no anger, Curate, only a timeless despair. You well know how long we have sought a purpose. So many have thought that they had it aright."

His eyes met the old man's and held them.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 7

2008-06-23T23:30:00.001-05:00

New revelations began to be introduced.

The Wayfarers held the table and began to speak.

It was Jeremiah who loosed the tale, "As the pennants flew from the jeweled towers, we - Alia and I - strode into the Halls of the First True King, Therin'as'tir. The incense still held the air and made it thick to our lungs. The scents of the throngs still mingled with the smoke."

Alia stood beside him, "The throne was of thume, bright in the westerly gleams that fell from the gazing window at its back."

"We sought only direction. Needed only a word of command." his voice was tired and his breathing seemed broken and harsh. The chamber set it to ringing about them.

Rojin thought she saw the dangling prisms of the chandelier above her sway with each sharp intake of breath.

"The Races had gathered and made their choice..." Joreth added, his eyes upon the Wayfiri that stood at the table. He sat upon one of the chairs that lined the walls, his face a mingled shadow in the flickering lights. "They had only just left?" Jeremiah's curt nod signaled that he spoke the truth and he continued, "The Commanders of the Four Kindreds had gathered and debated their rule for some time. It was within the Elstin'tar city of Kirs'tal that they had come together. Within the towers of the Great Libraries housed within the Grand Palace, they had decided their fate."

"They would take it in turn to rule." Alia said, "It was the Fire that would reveal the next to take the throne."

Uireth shook his head as if to clear drowse from it and leaned forward, his hands spread upon the smooth surface of the table, "This is wholly new to me. What is the Fire of which you speak? I know of only one Fire within the histories - that of Malendir's Betrayal."

Myrd let a scoffing laugh break from his teeth, "More study would suit you, messenger."

So swift was Alia's rebuke that the olive man's skin seemed to pale to a wan shade. Her hand sent a resounding boom through the chamber as it met the table. Her eyes flashed, "You proclaim your own ignorance with your impudence, thief. Keep your cheek to yourself and let the history be told."

Ok...so it appears I'm taking a break this week...

2008-06-18T22:37:00.002-05:00

I've sat down on each successive night of this week....and had major block. It must be because this is moment that I've wanted to get to for so long...I don't know. I've been at work on it - just not posting. The primary plot has to be laid out here within these next few posts and I'm finalizing what it should be. There's a lot of ideas. I just need to settle on one. I'll post again on Friday night. I need one more day to prepare.

thanks for your patience,

Mattie

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 6

2008-06-14T00:33:00.001-05:00

The World was formed, the scintillating forms of the One stood upon the plains of the earth and made that which they had been commanded. Brandon caught the Wayfiri with his eyes. Their faces told that they had known these plains, had strode them as the magma cooled.

Hearing the Curate's words, he was moved. The tiny chamber seemed to react and pulse with the tale. Arian began to move over the firmament, tilling the sky with deep furrows of cloud and wind. Sartath sent the oceans along the deeps, filling the earth with undulating waves and dark waters. Malendir seethed below them, breaking, biting, destroying.

As Joreth spoke, they saw the mountains fall, dashed into the boiling seas as the hate and despite of the fallen brother pulled them down. The galaxies swirled and bucked as the creation surged in contempt of those who had formed it. The meat of the simple animal fed the ravaging hunger of the lustful beasts that feasted upon it.

Rojin flinched to see the blood that ran down the mountainsides as rivulets. Her eyes moistened to see creatures shredded by the malice that flowed from the Yol, the Fallen's children, as they were set loose upon the fields of creation.

Still the tale wound on.

Brothers and Walkers brought refreshments: tea, spiced cakes and ale. Their shuffling steps were unnoticed for the Curate was speaking.

Uireth gasped in awe as Globas, Ravanor forefather and first of the line, spread his arms and embraced the will of his father. The little folk cried in joyous glee at the sight of the first rivers and wept openly at the first revelation of the sea. Their ships plied the waves and merriment wound the masts as their thume-ships broke upon the wide breakers of the Inner Seas.

Such joy and such sorrow.

The Elstin'tar set their wisdom down in words, scrawling, spider-thin.

Quilindil beheld the face of his Father and wrote.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 5

2008-06-12T23:41:00.000-05:00

Alia chuckled, "Our faith is our own...let his be. It is not our place." Her words were graceful and seemed to flow from her tongue with little or no effort. She was not uneasy or tense at the disagreement, "Grondir will open his eyes. We have only hold to our own." Her hand was upon Jeremiah's arm, smoothing the cloth of his tunic.

The tall man blinked back his anger and let it subside.

"Very well," the old man continued, "to business."

Uireth felt a rush of excitement, a thrumming of blood within his ears.

Brandon stilled his nervous and twitching fingers by gathering them within his lap and pulling air - in a long, slow draught - into his lungs. Gods, he thought, are these to be the ones to sunder the designs of the enemy? Brigands and malcontents? The Wayfiri held prophecy within their bones, their shadows birthed visions...these I see as a consummation...but these others? Me?

Joreth was speaking and Brandon struggled to pull his focus back to the present.

"I have walked the Skael Path. I have seen what is to be done...well, that is, I know the first steps upon the journey. This is the most awkward time. Beginnings always are unwieldy. Tricky and delicate, they are. But I shall begin with a lesson of history. Some here know this tale, to others it will be wholly new." He sent his face toward Alia and Jeremiah. His nod to them held much. "I will begin with the Formation of the World...."

Long he spoke and the creation whirled about them.

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 4

2008-06-12T23:26:00.003-05:00

Ok, I missed Wednesday. So here it is tonight. The Thursday post will be following soon...

He rounded the table and drew a chair to the ponderous slab of stone. His movements were sure and deliberate. He let his muscles take their time. As he moved, he continued to speak, "We have been gathered together by the hand of Grondir, who shuffles all paths to his designs. Each of us have been led - step by step - to this moment and beyond."

He settled into the cushioned, high backed chair and let a loud exhale escape him. The others followed suit, drawing themselves to sit. They were fairly evenly spaced around the massive table, eyeing each other with an odd mixture of awe and distrust.

Myrd muttered words that were hidden within a cough.

"Eh? What was that, thief?" Joreth turned on him quickly, "Come now, hide not in foolishness. Speak what is upon your mind."

Every eye fell upon him, though only the red lady's glance shamed him.

His gaze was disconcerted and his manner awkward as he responded, tugging back his cowl with a distracted hand, "It is choice only that brings me to this place. Mischance and choice, there is no 'guiding' hand upon me." His voice was hollow and vacant in the close air, "I follow the one to whom I owe my life. When the debt is fully repaid, there will be no compulsion to stay within his company." He nodded at Rylynn who sat beside him.

The messenger blushed but did not speak.

Joreth's clear laughter shattered them, "Believe what you will. The road will alter you, I think. But whether it does so truly or not, it is of no matter. Grondir can withstand your disbelief, it does nothing to sway him."

Jeremiah nearly toppled his chair as he struggled to stand, ire bright within his eyes, "I, for my part, will not listen to such talk...I cannot sit idly by and..."

Again, another was stilled by Joreth's upraised hands, "Jeremiah, do you think that Our Father is so petulant to be hurt or offended by this one? Is this man's regard so important to Him that He will dissolve and disperse to the winds because he does not believe? Nay, sit and be at peace. His faith is not our business." He waited as Jeremiah lowered himself back onto the cushions, "Myrd is not as hard as he would have us believe and Grondir is able to move him whether he accepts Him or not."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 3

2008-06-10T23:42:00.000-05:00

His voice was clear and potent. It cast the lore to the side, fully and sent it back to reside within him.

"First," he indicated Jeremiah and Alia, "these two who stand before us. Their true names they still hold to themselves. The man is Jeremiah and, equal to him - his lady, Alia." Joreth let a smile raise the corners of his mouth, "Or if you would prefer, Alia and, equal to her - her husband, Jeremiah."

Rojin caught a withering look that passed between the old man and the lady. Such a lady, she thought; pale green her eyes and like molten rock her hair. The leather that adorned her was skinned and well-worn. But it was her eyes that held her. Age beyond measure dwelt within them. The man beside her was her match in stature. Dark were the hairs of his head and the bristles that rode his face and mouth held no grey, yet age was upon him too. She felt her head tilt as she regarded them.

Joreth still spoke, "More of their tale shall be revealed as we speak. For now, know that they are the last of the Wayfiri, Timestalkers and the Reborn. Those of us who stand within this chamber are the fullness of prophecy that they have long been awaiting. We have been brought into their tale - all of us, even those who do not wish to be." His eyes darted to Myrd, just a quick glance that did not hold him for long.

The dark man lowered his face.

"To their right stands, Lord Brandon - Commander of the Southern Legions and the Keeper of the Wall. He is to join us on our errand, though he too is not fully convinced he should do so."

The tall grey man dipped his head slightly.

"The brothers, no doubt obvious from their resemblance to each other, are Uireth and Rylynn. They are messengers of the Wall and would choose service over death. Neither of them deem themselves worthy and that is their strength."

Brandon took a step toward the massive table and said, "They are goodly men, well known to me. I would vouch for either of them with my life."

Joreth calmed him with an upraised hand, "Nothing I have said belies their worth, friend. They have been chosen and will play their part fully."

The old man sent his eyes upon Rojin, she blanched as his gaze fell upon her, "Rojin, sister of the Re'lin, but a year from her letters. She wears the braids of her teaching though she chose not to complete them. Her compassion shall keep us upon the road."

Again, she fought a seeming compulsion to kneel. She covered her uncertainty with a stifled cough and stayed to her feet.

"And here, this is her brother though not by blood. Myrd, thief and slayer. His ambiguity is his worth."

Myrd did not raise his eyes to meet any there gathered.

"And I and Joreth, Fifth Curate of the House of Skael. The less said of me the better."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 2

2008-06-10T00:12:00.002-05:00

Time lengthened as each regarded one another. Shattering blue eyes met with doe-hued brown. Cloth rode dark skin and leather stretched over lean muscle. Motes of dust filtered through the shafts of light that sifted in reddish hues from the flickering torches that lay behind the stained glass portals that surrounded them.

Eternity gazed upon them and rushed forward as Joreth spoke.

"Do you feel it?" he asked, casting his eyes about the traceries of metal and glass above them, "This day we are cast out into the darkness. We are set adrift upon the waters. The Eye is upon us. I feel the waves of the Other Shores breaking upon my feet, here, within this gathering. This is a moment where Eternity touches earth." His breath emptied from his lungs in a long, slow sigh.

Alia felt a catch in her throat. She felt Jeremiah's hand within hers. His whisper moistened her eyes, "There is hope here." he said though his lips barely moved, "It is a feeling that is wholly new to me." His eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy.

"There is naught that can be done when All Time breaks open before your eyes," Joreth continued, "save to pray." He moved to the table and laid his hands upon its cool surface, enjoying the polished stone under his slightly trembling fingers. "Grondiri, kiraanas tol lathnin. Quilindilae e Rastingolis tolis calatas."

The air within the chamber shuddered, as if great bellows suddenly sought to draw the breath from them and set new, fragrant air upon them. At the Curate's words, the light above them flared and shards of bright, shimmering luminescence broke across the walls. The light broke into coruscating globes that swirled about them. Each watched in amazement to see glimmering sparks rise above their heads and linger above them.

Myrd drew back, his hand at his mouth, eyes wide and a fear within his cowled face.

The lore-light dimmed and the guttering torches returned to illuminate the room.

Joreth stood tall, his hands now securely tightened upon his staff, and spoke once more, "Come now. We have much to discuss. Let us begin with names."

Novel: Chapter 20, Post 1

2008-06-06T23:34:00.003-05:00

The moment long promised is now upon us. Each character now stands to face each other. The Fellowship is gathered. Now, the true tale can begin. I cannot believe that it has taken 19 chapters to get to this point. So much fleshing out of character, so much solo movement to bring us to this point. Can you believe that I've hit over 300 pages now? The Quest has only been hinted at, but now - it is to be fully revealed. This chapter is where the main plot is revealed - and isn't it about time!

I went back to the old blog page and re-watched some of the "Thoughts" videos today. I'm fairly excited to finally be at the point that was promised so long ago. It's wild to think that most of what has happened up until this point has been leading to this meeting. Here is where I've been wanting to get for one hell of a long time. Thanks for staying with me. Thanks for wading through my labors. This is where it will be all paid off. Here's the beginning of the true tale.

Keep Reading...

Chapter 20 - The Fellowship

As they stepped over the portal, a silence descended as if a clap of thunder had suddenly still the tongues of those who awaited them. Recently spoken words still hung within the air, syllables ringing and consonants thrumming.

Joreth felt a thrill of prophecy as they entered. Yet another cog slides into place upon the wheel, he thought. He set his hand upon his staff and began to rise.

The chamber itself was simple. A low rounded room lined with high backed wooden chairs and in the center, upon a wide dais, a large granite table. Set into the walls were panels of stained glass and behind them several torches flared, sending wavering flickers of colored light through them. The light caught upon the whorls of crystalline discoloration that ran through the honed surface.

Above the table, an ornate chandelier hung; delicate traceries of silver and stained glass worked about the lanterns that dusted those gathered below it with an icing of clear, white light that bled to shimmering hues of red and yellow.

Rojin fought the desire to kneel.

Myrd held his hands within his cloaks, searching for weapons that were no longer there with minute flickers of his fingers.

Uireth cried aloud at the sight of the Skael Curate and greeted him with a raised hand and a smile.

Brandon, Alia and Jeremiah about the table stood, awaiting introduction. They were stilled by the sure, slow movement of relevancy that seemed to surround the gathering and tired beyond measure. The dark smudges that ran under each of their eyes were deepened by the light above them. Sharp did it cut them.

The old man moved about the rim of the grand, single slab of stone and met them, "Greetings, Uireth. I am glad to see your errand was successful." He grasped the young messenger's hand and clapped him upon the back. Dust rose as smoke from where his hand lay. His voice was warm as the firelight that danced behind the vermillion windows.

"To these others, I am unknown though I know their names." He held them with his eyes in turn before rounding and facing those who stood behind him.

He did not speak for a moment.

The air was close but fresh. A scent of incense - some crisp woodland flower that held blue sky within its delicate petals - lay about them.

A sigh, "They are gathered."

Rojin started to see the acknowledgement that struck each face as the Dreamstalker spoke. They had all heard him.

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 15

2008-06-05T23:28:00.000-05:00

Olith spoke from before them, not turning, "Men were not always the only ones who Walked."

Uireth felt the rebuke within the words, but did not raise his voice to rebuff him. He spoke to the others, "The Wall holds history within its stones. They hold the memory of each of the Kindred. Before the Sundering, all stood side by side and took the Oath as one. All peoples guarded against the Enemy in the South."

Myrd's voice held awe within it, "This is treasure beyond imagining. And you leave it to dust and the elements. You leave it to mere decoration. It should be adorning those who man the Wall...."

"It is our hope that one day, the folk who fashioned these works will choose to wear them again and stand beside us once more." Uireth breathed, slowing his steps to face the dark man. "They are not ours to sully."

The lady spoke, her eyes were confused, "I have heard of thume, but I know not what it is."

"It is made from the heart-wood of the great trees, my lady, " Rylynn spoke, "A substance stronger than the greatest steel and yet, when warmed by the body of the wearer, it becomes as supple as cloth. It is a marvel. We know not how the meat is pulled from the trees, for they remain full and living and remain to produce more of the stuff."

Olith awaited them at the culmination of the passage. Behind him, two wide, oaken doors lay shut. He spoke when they all approached him, "You are expected within." He eyed their weapons. "You are obliged to leave your blades at the portal. I will stand over them and return them to you when the counsel is ended. There will be no need for them as you hold speech."

Without a word, they piled their weapons along the stone. Myrd's stockpile dwarfed all of the others. From the deep pockets of his cloaks, weapons and snares seemed to flow to the floor, each more lethal than the other.

Olith let his lips curl in a smile, "I would not wish to stand against you in battle, sir. For, even in death, your cloaks would protect you."

He pulled the great doors back and they entered the chamber.

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 14

2008-06-04T23:04:00.000-05:00

The stone was unpolished, simple honed gut rock that had been carried and cut. How the Wall worked into its ponderous mass, Uireth could not say. He knew these halls well. As they strode through the wide Great Hallway, they stepped upon the names of the Walkers that had held the Wall before them. In sharp Elstin'tar script, the names wound about the columns that stretched high to the vaulted flying buttresses above them, swirling and cavorting in thin stretches of fine tracery work. On the walls, grand tapestries hung. Uireth knew the tales that each told.

As he struggled to keep pace with Olith's retreating back, he passed The Spire and The Hawk. The tale seemed to unwind within him as he set his eyes upon it. It was one of his favorites; filled with imprisoned men, sovereign salvation and speaking birds. He heard Rylynn speaking to the others and he stilled the voice within his mind to listen. Ever was Rylynn the better storyteller.

"...gave his life in the defense of the Wall." He spoke slowly, deliberately, "Upon the heights of Oceanfall, the Hawk came to them. It spoke of Walter's grave sacrifice and of the rewards that were to be due to him when he strode the Other Shores. At the hawk's command, they raised a monument of stones to him there. A pile of stones from the Wall, where it had fell and he had repelled the Horde. It was a sign to all who looked upon it that one could stand against legions and remain to tell the tale. It was his wounds that stilled him, but not until the final Yol tasted of his cunning blade."

Rylynn's voice held court with the round tones of their boots upon the stone. To their right, the Courtier and the January Snows peeked from the shadows. Only the wavering light of braziers lit the lower ends of the tapestry.

Olith pulled them to a side passage with his quick steps. Armor and weapons now lined the hall about them.

Myrd broke in upon the drone of their steps, "These are not man-made pieces."

Rylynn drew him on with his voice, "They are Thume-made."

"It cannot be..."

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 13

2008-06-03T20:51:00.002-05:00

Ok, only about a half a page tonight. I'm really struggling with some of these bridge areas. The writing is not what I would like...but I continue to move forward. I guess that says something.

Rylynn spoke, his eyes wide, "What is that sign?" there was a brief flash of mirth behind his wonder, "Are you sending a hex upon us?"

Olith did not return his humor, "The Wayfarers taught it to us." His voice held awe within it, "It is a sign of respect to those who meet and surpass the Enemy upon the field."

Myrd sighed, "Then use it in my presence. I have met the enemy. So have all within this Wall. You will look great fools walking about flicking your fingers at every turn."

Olith rounded on him, his hand fell to the hilt of his sword, "You mock that which is beyond you, friend. I did not say Yol. I said the Enemy." The emphasis drove the word home and the brilliant fire in the young Walker's eyes spoke of a willingness to die to defend it. "Joreth, Curate of Skael Theologia, met the Lord of the Host and bested him upon the field. The Chieftain ran from him."

He spun and continued on, his boots stentorian shouts upon the bare stone of the Grand Hallway. They sped to follow him.

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 12

2008-06-02T21:27:00.001-05:00

As the grate reached midway, two grey-cloaked men appeared from the courtyard behind. Their hands were raised in welcome and the older of the two spoke quickly, his right hand had only three fingers upon it and the bristly beard that jutted from around his mouth covered his lips as he spoke, "Messengers, glad to see you back upon the Walk. Pray, move you and your companions quickly through the Grate." He cast his sullen eyes toward the line of fire that rode the northerly road, "We have gnats to deal with." His smile was tight, but true.

They shuffled under the cold, weeping metal and were bathed in fresh firelight. Uireth clasped arms with the older gatesman and returned the salute of the other Walker. "We thank you." he breathed.

A Legion was arrayed within the large courtyard. Weaponsmiths were hard at work along fires that burned sharply white in braziers plumed to great heats by quickly pumped bellows. Sharpening stones and anvils sounded about them. The younger of the gatesmen pulled Uireth close and spoke to his ear. Uireth knew him, his name was Olith. This was his first year upon the Walk.

"They await you within the Meeting Hall of the Bailey." his voice creaked from youth to manhood as he spoke, a croaking bleat that made a blush rise upon his cheeks.

"Thank you, Olith, Walker." Uireth motioned to Rylynn and they directed the others through the tightly packed quadrangle. The yard held little free space. Most Walkers acknowledged them with a quick smile, a raised hand and a short side-step. Olith moved with them, guiding the men aside and continuing to speak.

"They returned not two hours ago from the Peak. The true tale of what happened there is not known, though - the men who rode with them speak of magics unknown and of power unbelieved."

"What can you tell us? What have you heard?"

Their steps lead them to the far side of the enclosure where stone steps lay. Large, granite things they were - cut from the gutrock of the mountains. It wound upward between immense buttresses that rose to hold the base of the Bailey.

"Some say that Joreth" here he stopped and made a queer sign with his left hand, a slight dance of forefinger and thumb that ended upon the center of his forehead, "is the Word made Flesh."

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 11

2008-05-30T22:08:00.000-05:00

Foam and thick lather rode the haunches of their horses as they heard the first calls of the Walkers. The Bailey rose above them, high and tall behind the great stone of the Southern Wall. Grey and sunless, the light about them held dusk within it. It must be nearly noon, Uireth thought, though I am not able to gauge the track of the sun within the sky and the air still holds a chill.

The thin, scrabbly growth of marsh grasses huddled closely to the cobblestone road, gathering for purchase along the ribbon-like expanse. Mist lay in patches on either side of them, holding the still water close and hiding the uneven mounds of earth and pond. Their pounding hooves sounded dead within the still air.

The Wall loomed over them, the great portcullis down and the lights of men wavered within.

Behind them, the Yol still pursued. Their pale fires arrayed in a long line behind them.

Rojin, for that was what his brother called the dark lady, spoke quickly, shouting from behind him, "Do they not guard this entrance?" her voice held anger, "With so large an enemy behind us? Surely, they will attack them?"

Their steeds had slowed as the fierce pursuit had dragged on. Their breathing flagged and caught within their muscled chests. Uireth returned her query with one of his own, "What would you have them do? The Wall is ever the safer choice. They can rain down arrows that would blot the sun from the sky if they so choose. Do not be so quick to doubt, my lady."

His riposte caused a smile to cross his lips. So sure are you? A voice within his mind accosted him. So certain of the Walkers and of the outcome of this night?

He held the lead. The lady rode behind him, speaking encouragement still to her flagging mount. Myrd, the darkest of them all, and his brother brought up the rear. The Yol were clearly nearly a league distant.

Rylynn called to her, "Trust to the Walkers, my lady. They know how to fight."

As their clattering approach neared the black iron grate of the portcullis, shouts and cries of welcome me them. Fires moved along the heights and within the courtyard of the Bailey men readied to raise the guard.

The clanking grate slowly began to raise.

As they pulled in to dismount and lead their horses in, a command for arrows and siege engines to be rounded to the north sounded. From the deepening fogs, the ponderous creak of rope and chain filtered down about them.

"They will meet the enemy, my lady, just you watch." Rylynn was standing upon the cobblestones, his hands were upon the cold stone of the Wall. His fingers played along the obdurate stone as a lover's upon his beloved.

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 10

2008-05-29T23:56:00.000-05:00

Uireth heard the dark man's words to his brother as they thundered through the close granite stone, "Never take the reigns again, messenger. I am capable."

His brother's laugh at the words brought a smile to his lips.

The three horses sped over the smooth pass, their clattering hooves sending sparks from the stone. The Yol's fire was ever at their backs.

The enemy was on foot, Uireth had not glimpsed any firesteed amongst them. If they moved quickly they would outdistance them within the passes and break upon the flat marshlands with a sizable lead. He felt a slight sadness that the fire upon the heights would not meet them this night. But now, they had no need of it. Speed and deftness within the passes would lead them to the open ground. From there, the Brigand Lane should take them quickly south and, barring any unforseen problems, they would be to the Wall within a few hours.

If their bedraggled horses could keep the pace.

The voice returned as the the stone flew passed him, "Guide them true, beloved. Keep them safe."

A fresh resolve smote him. It settled over him as a glorious, fearful mantle. So much is dependent upon the task to which I have been set, he thought. So much more than the present fear or the present difficulty. There are hands at work within the land that shape all to a singular desire. I have but a small part to play, but I shall perform it to the greatest of my ability.

Uireth wound his fingers more tightly within Pelin's reigns and guided them through the spires to safety.

Novel: Chapter 19, Post 9

2008-05-29T23:38:00.001-05:00

Suddenly, they appeared flying with breakneck speed. The first horse was passed him and the other close behind as he set heel to Pelin and began to match them. Over the pounding hooves, he heard his brother call to him.

"Uireth!" breathless came his words, "Uireth, beyond hope you come to us!" and then - to his companions, "There is naught to fear with Uireth to guide us. He knows the paths to the Wall better than any who breathe."

It was as if a fresh drink of water trickled down his throat. To hear his brother's voice, to see his face, to feel him near...it was enough. Uireth laughed at the joy that unwound the fear within him.

The lady was beside him. Her braids rode the air, whistling through the night as a whip thong. She was low over her steed's head. Uireth caught a few of the words she breathed over it, "Tass, wind-chaser and strength-gatherer, pace yourself. There are many miles to cover."

"Rylynn! Slow so that I may take the lead." Uireth called, passing the lady and moving up to race along side the foremost horse. Rylynn held tightly to the cloaks of the dark man who held the reigns. His face was ruddy and glad as he turned to face him.

His face is so like mother's, Uireth thought.

"Gladly, take the lead." Rylynn said, reaching forward and pulling upon the man's hands, loosening the leads.

"We will make a quicker time if we take the Peaksmarch," Uireth said, speeding past them and calling over his shoulder, "The way is tight but the footing is sure. Stay close!"

Ever behind them, the Yol followed. Their shrieks filled the passes with sputtering hisses and venomous derision as they pounded closely behind.

The Style Changes Again...

2008-05-29T10:15:00.003-05:00

Simplicity is the way to go; ease of reading, ease of posting. So I'm gonna stay with this one for a while. At least until I find a look that suits me. The other one was kinda goofy. The more I looked at it the more I was annoyed. Add to that the fact that not everything formatted that easily and you've got one crappy template. Each time that Jill was in the room and she saw the page she would cry out, "Narnia!". That was sweet, but a little too telling as to whom the template was playing to.

I'm an idiot.

Sorry for the changes.

Ok - I missed Wednesday...

2008-05-29T09:52:00.002-05:00

We had a collective birthday party out at Andrea's folks last night (which included something like 6 birthdays - with both Jilly and Eleanor). When we got home, I was wiped. I tried to add the page - even sat in front of the computer for a little bit - but I didn't get anything down. I'll try to catch up this evening, but I am closing at the store and we have a music meeting tonight....so we'll see.

I hate when life intrudes on my creative schedule.