An arrow flew past just over the left ear and thunked in the dirt behind mercenary battle witch Polypoloy Castle. The brown eye, which had been through many close calls regarding arrows this afternoon, barely twitched before traveling to look to her right. Too many soldiers on her side lacked shields tough enough to withstand the thick Kan shafts. She sidestepped to avoid another arrow, then was forced to bring up her staff to knock a couple more away. Smiling, she waved to the enemy archers as the barrage ended and the armies crashed together. Pol crouched deep, then sprang over the heads of several soldiers to bring her closer to the edge of the battle, where the Kan army was starting to surround them. A broadsword sliced toward her left ribs as she landed, another coming down over her collarbone, sending her rolling backward to avoid the blades. Springing to her feet, she jabbed her staff straight into the man’s nose, crushing the front of his skull and spraying her with blood. His companions attacked her ferociously, most of them also wielding double broadswords, honed to fingernail-thin sharpness, thick enough to make her stay well away. Years ago she’d made the mistake of thinking Kan broadswords would snap like any other sword when applied sufficient pressure — that blunder had cost her a good staff and several gold bullets to pay for stitches. Nowadays when she knew she was fighting Kan soldiers she carried a spell or two to weaken their blades, and her staff was covered in several layers of strength spells. It wasn’t always necessary to fall back to destroying weapons, however; a well-timed flame always served Pol well. She spun her staff clockwise, keeping the enemy away in front, and waited for the men behind her to make a move. They stepped in, and she spun gracefully around on her toes, the staff clanging against their swords.
Time to fly.
She sprung off the ground, bringing her knees to her sides, and plucked a packet from the inside pocket of her shorts before she started her descent. Too late, she noticed a soldier who thought to impale her on his sword as she landed. Twisting sideways, she brought her staff around for balance, the sole of her boot catching on the tip of the sword. The staff dropped as she brought her arm down to catch her, and with the other she threw the packet. It exploded a few feet away, and the soldiers around her burst into flames. The warmth licked her cheeks and played around her fingers, now lightly clutching her staff, warning her not to be so careless. Her lips, pressed tightly together in the stress of the fight, now spread into an exuberant grin, and she leapt to her feet, running back into the battle with a loud cry. Soldiers fell around her, and soon her boots were sinking in blood mud, her legs and stomach spattered red. The shirt, ending above her belly button, originally a light blue, was now purple and would have to go.
A quick survey of the battlefield showed that, although she’d killed a fair number of Kan, the majority of bodies in sight were Golian. They’d attacked with roughly 500 against 230, which should have been strongly in their favor. Pol’s face, light with the thrill of battle, began to distort to a displeased frown. She took off through the fray until she could spring from the ground and land on the highest point of the battlefield. First she reapplied fire spells to her staff and coated her boots with another shield spell, then she dug out some mildly spelled lotion to cover the scratches on her shoulders. Anyone who saw her before a fight suggested she wear armor, but ruining her cute outfit wasn’t worth it. She bore several light scars all over her body because of this, but those only added to her impressive figure. Prepared to fight once again, the mercenary had to decide which side to fight for. What she saw did not please her.
I think I’m on the losing side again. Damn.
--
There, that unedited passage is the start of my 2010 Nanowrimo project. I made the 50,000 words for the contest, but only got about halfway through the book, so now (at a slower pace) I'm finishing it (current word count = 85k). I'm really challenging myself with WitchLyre for 2 main reasons: I've always avoided writing battle scenes before, so that one ^ up there ^ is really my first one; and the main character, Pol, is kind of evil. Not evil evil, she's just not nice. Very unlike any character -- especially a main character -- I've written, I'm having a lot of trouble keeping her the way I want her. Anyway, if you have any opinions on the above passage, I'd love to hear them.
Confession: The only battle scenes I actually like to read are those by Brandon Sanderson (esp. Mistborn). Most of the time I skim battle/fight scenes if they're longer than a page. I should probably change that if I'm going to be writing them...
Friday, March 18, 2011
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Excerpts from the beginning of CAUTION: This is a Book (2007-2009)
Prologue:
In the yellow mountains of Promanganjubule there are tunnels leading deep into the ground, where short little men with armor dig with hammers to uncover useless sparkly things. The tunnels are small as the little men, sometimes smaller, forcing them to crawl toward their destinations, which are either a) jewels, b) food, c) battles, d) jewels, or e) jewels. It is rumored these little men don’t reproduce by the standard method, simply popping out of the ground and into existence. They are called by most others who can talk ‘dwarves’, which comes from phrases describing the characteristics of the little men, ‘do war’ and ‘dig for jewels’. Other have been known to call them ‘ugly people’, ‘mountain shorties’, ‘weird little mountain guys that wear armor even when underground how do they survive the heat?’ or simply ‘little men’, though in fact they share few characteristics of men, point-in-fact they don’t seem to have any women. It’s further said they’ve evolved out of having eyes from spending so long underground. Dwarves exist in mountains besides yellow ones, but the ones in Promanganjubule are particularly special to this story. The dwarf king at this time, meaning the one dwarf whom the others actually pay attention to, had Thoughts. Bad, bad, thing to do. His evil little mind got a-whirling, devising an evil plan. One dark and stormy night, unfelt by the dwarves in their tunnels, this dwarf king Ramajuju stood in a grand chamber, behind him a giant mirror twenty times his size and a huge lever two times his size.
“My dwarves!” he called, pounding his breastplate with his calloused hands, “I have a plan!”
“A plan…”
“A plan…” the words echoed around the chamber.
“Tonight, with this Lever-and-Mirror Thingy--“ he pointed dramatically “—we will conquer the world!”
“Conquer…”
“Conquer…”
“Conquer…” echoed his statement.
“We dwarves have always been stuck underground, away from the sun and treasures of the upper world. Why should other creatures have these things that we do not? Even the mighty dragon gets treasure, caves, and the outside world! Spurred by this indignation, this travesty, this injustice, I have built this mirror to reflect upon the world. When I pull the lever, it will open for us!”
“Open…”
“Open…” came the calls, lacking any outcry against the use of mercury.
Ramajuju placed his gauntleted hand on the lever, taking in a deep breath through his beard. “See the glory of the dwarves, and rejoice!”
He pressed down on the lever.
… Undaunted, he put both hands on and pushed with all his might. “See the glory of the dwarves!”
… Still undaunted, he hung from the lever to the satisfaction of it giving a slight creak. “See the glory!”
The lever came down still more, while “Glory…” sounded through the empty chamber.
“See the--“ he managed once more to say before the whole thing smashed to the ground, throwing him away with a flash of brilliant light. It was done; this evil could never again be removed from the world, this evil of the Mirror….
Caution: This is a Book.
I woke up screaming in my bed, sheets wound around my legs, streamy sweat on my brow from thrashing in my sleep. The screams died as coughing prevailed, remnant of the cold I was just getting over. Breathing heavily, not sure how I ended up with any sheets on my bed at all, I kicked them off. I distinctly remember turning on the fan, stripping the bed, going to sleep in nothing but my underclothes. The summer had been brutal, but the last couple days had been the highest temperatures the state ever faced. I was still in my underclothes, which was weird to me and made me feel uncomfortably exposed, but I couldn’t hear the fan. I looked at the clock and read through the sweat dripping in my eyes that it was just past dawn. Dammit. Getting to sleep in this heat wave was near impossible. It was a miracle I’d done it, I’d never be able to do it again....
[...]
Logically the only solution left to me is to watch TV, wasting away on the couch with chips and soda watching worthless shows my mind doesn't even have to process they're so lame. I devised a plan to steal Marn's, it sounded so appealing to me. Unfortunately he's been keeping close guard on the thing, I suspect he could almost hear my motives through the walls. Port and Gina don't have TVs either, which makes me stuck. Already the second day of vacation, and I've done nothing fun. I tried walking around the first day in town, willing my body to not melt, to no avail. That's how I led myself to wasting the first day of vacation: I saw an ugly bookstore and sort of oozed inside, feeling my parts reform as the AC hit me. Holding my hands to the vent in thanks I didn't at first notice the old man sitting at the desk.
"Whacha read?"
I jumped about two feet in the air, his voice sounded so much like a bird's squawk.
"Nothing," I said quickly, only realizing what he'd asked when he fixed his piercing eyes on me.
I squirmed. "Um... comics and fantasy? But I never have any time," I blurted. "School, you know."
His narrow eyes got narrower. I strode confidently over to a shelf.
"But it's summer break." There were worse things than flipping through old books... like going back outside. "Don't you have anything new? All this stuff stinks. It smells like my grandma's old attic."
Lips pursed in silence, he got down from his stool and stared up at me. In middle school, Kindergartners were taller than me. This old guy was like a dried up bean. I edged away from him, as if his tiny gnarly hands would suddenly shoot out. Instead he reached into his long coat and pulled out a dusty paperback. "This."
I wrinkled my nose. "Do normal people keep books hidden in their coats?"
His mouth opened showing perfect teeth... like a hyena.
I took the book, my tongue sticking out. "It's still old, though not as much as you."
He didn't change his grin. I looked at the title. "Cookies? What type of title is that? I'm not a baby."
I pushed the book back into his hands, whence he returned it to his coat. His other hand slid into the same spot and pulled out a different book. This one looked like it had just come off the presses. I snatched it and flipped through. It even smelled new.
"This is more like it."
His lips closed, but he was still grinning. It felt like he would growl any moment. Eeew! I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.
"Ok, I'll take it."
[...]
[Wallowing in self-pity, t]he tears kept flowing out of me, cooling my cheeks, cooling my neck, cooling my back... they died down as I felt wonderfully cool, like I was floating in water.... My eyes sprang open to see the floorboards level with my nose. I flailed, trying to grab onto something. All my hands found was that stupid book.
"What the hell!" I screamed as I slipped through the floor, still in my underclothes.
Don’t try to tell me I could’ve figured it out, that ‘Book’ is an acronym standing for something stupid like ‘Bring Over to Other Kreality’ or whatever word you can think of that starts with K. It can’t be the book’s got anything to do with how I ended up sinking through a silvery substance and landing heels over head at the top of a hill and rolling the way down painfully. Grass is cushy, boney legs aren’t. I’m the kind of person who, by right, should be fat. But I don’t like shopping, cooking, or spending money, so it’s not like I’m thin ‘pretty figure’ thin, probably just malnourished.
After figuring out how to put myself right up, finding I was still holding the book, I threw it to vent my frustration and confusion. It helped little. Whimpering slightly, I wondered if I’d broken anything.
“What the hell?” I repeated, rubbing my side and viewing my surroundings. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any hidden plains of grass under my apartment. It was pitch black, the formerly rising sun nowhere to be seen. I looked up, half-expecting to see a ceiling, half not surprised to see stars. For the first time in my life I wished, for a brief moment, I knew some constellations. Ah, that would be too much work. There were too many stars to distinguish anything anyway.
Around me wasn’t much of anything else helpful. “Grass, grass, darkness, and yes, grass. Just kill me now!” I screamed, falling over on the grass. At least it was nice and cool. So nice and cool, in fact, that I closed my eyes in appreciation and promptly fell asleep.
--------
I started CAUTION in 2007 on a school computer, and continued writing sections here and there until in 2009 I finally sat down, completed the book, edited it a little, and sent it into a publisher (first EVER). It was rejected 4 months later, no surprise. It's just so fun to write! I can't sacrifice that for solid plot and intricate characters, right?
In the yellow mountains of Promanganjubule there are tunnels leading deep into the ground, where short little men with armor dig with hammers to uncover useless sparkly things. The tunnels are small as the little men, sometimes smaller, forcing them to crawl toward their destinations, which are either a) jewels, b) food, c) battles, d) jewels, or e) jewels. It is rumored these little men don’t reproduce by the standard method, simply popping out of the ground and into existence. They are called by most others who can talk ‘dwarves’, which comes from phrases describing the characteristics of the little men, ‘do war’ and ‘dig for jewels’. Other have been known to call them ‘ugly people’, ‘mountain shorties’, ‘weird little mountain guys that wear armor even when underground how do they survive the heat?’ or simply ‘little men’, though in fact they share few characteristics of men, point-in-fact they don’t seem to have any women. It’s further said they’ve evolved out of having eyes from spending so long underground. Dwarves exist in mountains besides yellow ones, but the ones in Promanganjubule are particularly special to this story. The dwarf king at this time, meaning the one dwarf whom the others actually pay attention to, had Thoughts. Bad, bad, thing to do. His evil little mind got a-whirling, devising an evil plan. One dark and stormy night, unfelt by the dwarves in their tunnels, this dwarf king Ramajuju stood in a grand chamber, behind him a giant mirror twenty times his size and a huge lever two times his size.
“My dwarves!” he called, pounding his breastplate with his calloused hands, “I have a plan!”
“A plan…”
“A plan…” the words echoed around the chamber.
“Tonight, with this Lever-and-Mirror Thingy--“ he pointed dramatically “—we will conquer the world!”
“Conquer…”
“Conquer…”
“Conquer…” echoed his statement.
“We dwarves have always been stuck underground, away from the sun and treasures of the upper world. Why should other creatures have these things that we do not? Even the mighty dragon gets treasure, caves, and the outside world! Spurred by this indignation, this travesty, this injustice, I have built this mirror to reflect upon the world. When I pull the lever, it will open for us!”
“Open…”
“Open…” came the calls, lacking any outcry against the use of mercury.
Ramajuju placed his gauntleted hand on the lever, taking in a deep breath through his beard. “See the glory of the dwarves, and rejoice!”
He pressed down on the lever.
… Undaunted, he put both hands on and pushed with all his might. “See the glory of the dwarves!”
… Still undaunted, he hung from the lever to the satisfaction of it giving a slight creak. “See the glory!”
The lever came down still more, while “Glory…” sounded through the empty chamber.
“See the--“ he managed once more to say before the whole thing smashed to the ground, throwing him away with a flash of brilliant light. It was done; this evil could never again be removed from the world, this evil of the Mirror….
Caution: This is a Book.
I woke up screaming in my bed, sheets wound around my legs, streamy sweat on my brow from thrashing in my sleep. The screams died as coughing prevailed, remnant of the cold I was just getting over. Breathing heavily, not sure how I ended up with any sheets on my bed at all, I kicked them off. I distinctly remember turning on the fan, stripping the bed, going to sleep in nothing but my underclothes. The summer had been brutal, but the last couple days had been the highest temperatures the state ever faced. I was still in my underclothes, which was weird to me and made me feel uncomfortably exposed, but I couldn’t hear the fan. I looked at the clock and read through the sweat dripping in my eyes that it was just past dawn. Dammit. Getting to sleep in this heat wave was near impossible. It was a miracle I’d done it, I’d never be able to do it again....
[...]
Logically the only solution left to me is to watch TV, wasting away on the couch with chips and soda watching worthless shows my mind doesn't even have to process they're so lame. I devised a plan to steal Marn's, it sounded so appealing to me. Unfortunately he's been keeping close guard on the thing, I suspect he could almost hear my motives through the walls. Port and Gina don't have TVs either, which makes me stuck. Already the second day of vacation, and I've done nothing fun. I tried walking around the first day in town, willing my body to not melt, to no avail. That's how I led myself to wasting the first day of vacation: I saw an ugly bookstore and sort of oozed inside, feeling my parts reform as the AC hit me. Holding my hands to the vent in thanks I didn't at first notice the old man sitting at the desk.
"Whacha read?"
I jumped about two feet in the air, his voice sounded so much like a bird's squawk.
"Nothing," I said quickly, only realizing what he'd asked when he fixed his piercing eyes on me.
I squirmed. "Um... comics and fantasy? But I never have any time," I blurted. "School, you know."
His narrow eyes got narrower. I strode confidently over to a shelf.
"But it's summer break." There were worse things than flipping through old books... like going back outside. "Don't you have anything new? All this stuff stinks. It smells like my grandma's old attic."
Lips pursed in silence, he got down from his stool and stared up at me. In middle school, Kindergartners were taller than me. This old guy was like a dried up bean. I edged away from him, as if his tiny gnarly hands would suddenly shoot out. Instead he reached into his long coat and pulled out a dusty paperback. "This."
I wrinkled my nose. "Do normal people keep books hidden in their coats?"
His mouth opened showing perfect teeth... like a hyena.
I took the book, my tongue sticking out. "It's still old, though not as much as you."
He didn't change his grin. I looked at the title. "Cookies? What type of title is that? I'm not a baby."
I pushed the book back into his hands, whence he returned it to his coat. His other hand slid into the same spot and pulled out a different book. This one looked like it had just come off the presses. I snatched it and flipped through. It even smelled new.
"This is more like it."
His lips closed, but he was still grinning. It felt like he would growl any moment. Eeew! I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.
"Ok, I'll take it."
[...]
[Wallowing in self-pity, t]he tears kept flowing out of me, cooling my cheeks, cooling my neck, cooling my back... they died down as I felt wonderfully cool, like I was floating in water.... My eyes sprang open to see the floorboards level with my nose. I flailed, trying to grab onto something. All my hands found was that stupid book.
"What the hell!" I screamed as I slipped through the floor, still in my underclothes.
Don’t try to tell me I could’ve figured it out, that ‘Book’ is an acronym standing for something stupid like ‘Bring Over to Other Kreality’ or whatever word you can think of that starts with K. It can’t be the book’s got anything to do with how I ended up sinking through a silvery substance and landing heels over head at the top of a hill and rolling the way down painfully. Grass is cushy, boney legs aren’t. I’m the kind of person who, by right, should be fat. But I don’t like shopping, cooking, or spending money, so it’s not like I’m thin ‘pretty figure’ thin, probably just malnourished.
After figuring out how to put myself right up, finding I was still holding the book, I threw it to vent my frustration and confusion. It helped little. Whimpering slightly, I wondered if I’d broken anything.
“What the hell?” I repeated, rubbing my side and viewing my surroundings. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any hidden plains of grass under my apartment. It was pitch black, the formerly rising sun nowhere to be seen. I looked up, half-expecting to see a ceiling, half not surprised to see stars. For the first time in my life I wished, for a brief moment, I knew some constellations. Ah, that would be too much work. There were too many stars to distinguish anything anyway.
Around me wasn’t much of anything else helpful. “Grass, grass, darkness, and yes, grass. Just kill me now!” I screamed, falling over on the grass. At least it was nice and cool. So nice and cool, in fact, that I closed my eyes in appreciation and promptly fell asleep.
--------
I started CAUTION in 2007 on a school computer, and continued writing sections here and there until in 2009 I finally sat down, completed the book, edited it a little, and sent it into a publisher (first EVER). It was rejected 4 months later, no surprise. It's just so fun to write! I can't sacrifice that for solid plot and intricate characters, right?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Unnamed (2004?)
(I've realized a lot of these are probably older than I realized.)
----
It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t even dawn. In fact, only a Nitera could claim it was time for anyone to be moving about the forest. Iela thus felt she had quite the right to be annoyed with whatever it was that had woken her in the middle of this cold winter night. Pulling her cloak around her with a cool expression over her dark-skinned face, she slid herself out of her tree hole and landed lightly upon the frozen ground. Crouching, she listened again for the racket. There it was, that strangely familiar sound. An uneasy feeling stirred in her chest, moving her to slowly open her eyes and blink at the sparkling snow. Light was somewhere near, crackling — fire!
Her panic hit for only a moment before ebbing. It was not a forest fire. Curiosity replaced annoyance, and she crept towards the light and the strange voices around it. Peering through the branches her heart gave a thud. Humans! She drew back with a sharp breath, memories flying through her mind. She had seen her own reflection many times in ponds and lakes, and knew she was different from the forest creatures who had raised her, but she never accepted her own oddity until she saw these beings here. Her eyes flashed. What were they doing in the forest, her forest? In all her years — somewhere more than 10, somewhere less than 20 — she had never seen one. She now recognized the language... her own. Perhaps she had not been in the forest as long as she believed.
“But my prince,” one human was saying, “your stepsister will surely send soldiers after us. We should go—”
“We’ll be safe in the forest for a time,” another one interrupted. This one dressed in clothing frilly like vines and sparkly things. “She won’t expect us to come in here,” he added.
“For good reason,” another grumbled.
Iela drew away again. No, they were humans. She was not — not anymore. Her forest was her home, its creatures her family. Contentment reigned here, settled like a warm fox on her chest. And yet... she bit her lip. Could this be my chance for change? She drew a breath swiftly and turned away. There was time left to rest before her day was to start. Back to her tree hole she would go. The humans would pass, tomorrow she would watch the wolves assemble for their winter snow dance. That thought brightened her eyes as she crept back to her sleep hole.
Errin stuck his head out into the corridor and quickly looked both ways. It was empty. He quietly tiptoed out, shutting the door behind him. His back to the wall, he crept down the hall until he came to a corner. Just as he was about to turn, he heard voices. Uh oh! He would likely get in trouble for being out of his room, so being caught was not an option. He ducked into the room next to him, fervently hoping it was empty. Luck was with him, as there were no people or furniture. He listened at the door until the voices passed, when he snuck again into the corridor. This time he made it to his destination without mishap. He sighed and relaxed against one of the enormous bookshelves. Hardly anyone ever came into the library, and when they did, they only stayed long enough to select a book. Errin knew every inch of the library, and almost every book. It was his goal to read them all before his 13th birthday. He still wasn’t sure if this was a reasonable goal, as he was already 10, in the 4 years since he’d learnt to read he’d made his way through slightly less than half the library, and new books were added all the time. His father collected books, but hardly ever had time to read any of them. Now that Errin was getting older, his father was assigning him more tutors and more responsibility, which left less time for reading. Errin was very determined, though, and lately he’d taken to giving his tutors the slip, and even blackmailing one to tell Errin’s father that he was doing all his lessons when Errin had in fact missed all but one. Errin felt only very little guilt about it. It wasn’t a very important lesson anyway. All the same, he grimaced as he thought of the test his father was likely to conjure up for him. As he moved to a different shelf, a thought struck him. His test, if on schedule, would’ve been held yesterday. His father had missed before, certainly, but only for good reason. He would have to ask him tonight.
Having skipped lunch to learn that oak leaves were edible if cooked in oil — useless information, he grumbled — Errin was quite famished once dinner came around. As he usually did, he took dinner with his father in the king’s chambers. Errin wondered how to broach the subject of the test without bringing it down on himself right then. He was saved, though not in the words he would have preferred.
“We are having company tomorrow night. I hope you will be prepared.”
Errin nodded. “Of course. Who is it coming?”
“The Countess Laina dy Welan, lately widowed, and her daughter Fy’ona. You might recall the Countess’s husband, Count Welan.”
Errin shook his head.
“No matter,” his father went on, “he was a good man, a friend. His wife was young for him, though. How went your studies today?”
Errin started at this abrupt change of subject, then mumbled something about oaks. The king looked unamused, but fell lost in thought and talked no more.
The countess was lovely and charming. Her daughter was rather quiet, but her piercing eyes took in everything. Dinner went delightfully, and Errin was pleased by his fine performance. He was less pleased when, the next day, his father assigned him a new teacher, this time on etiquette. Errin was very much put out, especially when he could find no way of worming himself out of the lessons. After a month, he realized he truly despised his new tutor. The man was a demon sent from the underworld, it must be. Anger grew in him, and a dark hatred of all his lessons began to form. The anger gradually gave way to annoyance, and then to rebellion. He skipped his classes, and after a time he realized no one was punishing him. His father was too occupied with matters of state, and Errin was free to roam. What joy! What glee! He did, however, attend a few etiquette classes, especially when the Countess dy Welan was invited more often for dinner.
Curled up in her trunk, the forest girl tried to sleep, but only managed a half-sleep. Creeping through her usual thoughts of the forest were visions of the things she had seen earlier. It wasn’t long before she saw only the fire-light dancing on the faces of the sparklies. What things were these, that reminded her of sunlight on water? Finally she shot out of her tree in frustration, and plunged her sweating face into the snow... which was stupid. She wiped the snow from her face, wincing at the cuts the ice gave her. It was no use — she’d never been so curious about anything in her life, she had to look at those sparkling ornaments. She crept back to the fire site, to see it only burning embers. The humans were sleeping around it, some of them making horrid snorting noises worse than a horse. The one who was wearing the ornaments was the only one with a cloth to warm him. Iela sat there the whole night watching the sparklies, and she was absolutely hooked on the beauty and mystery they held. When the humans awoke, ate, and departed, Iela found herself staring longingly after them. What were the sparklies? How were they made? Where did they come from? She also wondered who the people were who wore the sparklies, but that wasn’t as important. Could she, dare she go after them? The forest animals never minded her wanderings, in fact they encouraged them. She’d never wandered far before, though nothing physically kept her here. Curiosity was only natural, and seldom fatal. With much less thought that should be given to the start of life adventures, Iela rolled to her feet and sprang to follow the horses.
After following them the whole day, Iela was ready to collapse in slumber. While they were eating their own supper, however, she saw fit to gather herself some roots to chew for her empty stomach. While she chewed and watched, the younger human, the one with the sparklies, took off the jewels to put in a soft bag. Longing to stare at them more, once the humans were asleep, Iela crept into their camp with muffled footfalls. She just wanted to look at the sparklies spilling out on the ground after she’d upturned the bag, which was satisfying, but temptation grabbed her. I’ll just take one. The red one was lovely as fire, the white like a river, the blue as the sky, the green as leaves. After some time she decided on the forest color, and started placing the rest back in the bag. They chimed softly, she glanced at the humans but they still seemed deep in slumber. A moment later, a hand closed about her wrist. Caught green-handed!
---
I don't know what comes next. Part of me wants to figure that out right now, but I'll resist doing that until I can devote the proper time to it.
----
It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t even dawn. In fact, only a Nitera could claim it was time for anyone to be moving about the forest. Iela thus felt she had quite the right to be annoyed with whatever it was that had woken her in the middle of this cold winter night. Pulling her cloak around her with a cool expression over her dark-skinned face, she slid herself out of her tree hole and landed lightly upon the frozen ground. Crouching, she listened again for the racket. There it was, that strangely familiar sound. An uneasy feeling stirred in her chest, moving her to slowly open her eyes and blink at the sparkling snow. Light was somewhere near, crackling — fire!
Her panic hit for only a moment before ebbing. It was not a forest fire. Curiosity replaced annoyance, and she crept towards the light and the strange voices around it. Peering through the branches her heart gave a thud. Humans! She drew back with a sharp breath, memories flying through her mind. She had seen her own reflection many times in ponds and lakes, and knew she was different from the forest creatures who had raised her, but she never accepted her own oddity until she saw these beings here. Her eyes flashed. What were they doing in the forest, her forest? In all her years — somewhere more than 10, somewhere less than 20 — she had never seen one. She now recognized the language... her own. Perhaps she had not been in the forest as long as she believed.
“But my prince,” one human was saying, “your stepsister will surely send soldiers after us. We should go—”
“We’ll be safe in the forest for a time,” another one interrupted. This one dressed in clothing frilly like vines and sparkly things. “She won’t expect us to come in here,” he added.
“For good reason,” another grumbled.
Iela drew away again. No, they were humans. She was not — not anymore. Her forest was her home, its creatures her family. Contentment reigned here, settled like a warm fox on her chest. And yet... she bit her lip. Could this be my chance for change? She drew a breath swiftly and turned away. There was time left to rest before her day was to start. Back to her tree hole she would go. The humans would pass, tomorrow she would watch the wolves assemble for their winter snow dance. That thought brightened her eyes as she crept back to her sleep hole.
Errin stuck his head out into the corridor and quickly looked both ways. It was empty. He quietly tiptoed out, shutting the door behind him. His back to the wall, he crept down the hall until he came to a corner. Just as he was about to turn, he heard voices. Uh oh! He would likely get in trouble for being out of his room, so being caught was not an option. He ducked into the room next to him, fervently hoping it was empty. Luck was with him, as there were no people or furniture. He listened at the door until the voices passed, when he snuck again into the corridor. This time he made it to his destination without mishap. He sighed and relaxed against one of the enormous bookshelves. Hardly anyone ever came into the library, and when they did, they only stayed long enough to select a book. Errin knew every inch of the library, and almost every book. It was his goal to read them all before his 13th birthday. He still wasn’t sure if this was a reasonable goal, as he was already 10, in the 4 years since he’d learnt to read he’d made his way through slightly less than half the library, and new books were added all the time. His father collected books, but hardly ever had time to read any of them. Now that Errin was getting older, his father was assigning him more tutors and more responsibility, which left less time for reading. Errin was very determined, though, and lately he’d taken to giving his tutors the slip, and even blackmailing one to tell Errin’s father that he was doing all his lessons when Errin had in fact missed all but one. Errin felt only very little guilt about it. It wasn’t a very important lesson anyway. All the same, he grimaced as he thought of the test his father was likely to conjure up for him. As he moved to a different shelf, a thought struck him. His test, if on schedule, would’ve been held yesterday. His father had missed before, certainly, but only for good reason. He would have to ask him tonight.
Having skipped lunch to learn that oak leaves were edible if cooked in oil — useless information, he grumbled — Errin was quite famished once dinner came around. As he usually did, he took dinner with his father in the king’s chambers. Errin wondered how to broach the subject of the test without bringing it down on himself right then. He was saved, though not in the words he would have preferred.
“We are having company tomorrow night. I hope you will be prepared.”
Errin nodded. “Of course. Who is it coming?”
“The Countess Laina dy Welan, lately widowed, and her daughter Fy’ona. You might recall the Countess’s husband, Count Welan.”
Errin shook his head.
“No matter,” his father went on, “he was a good man, a friend. His wife was young for him, though. How went your studies today?”
Errin started at this abrupt change of subject, then mumbled something about oaks. The king looked unamused, but fell lost in thought and talked no more.
The countess was lovely and charming. Her daughter was rather quiet, but her piercing eyes took in everything. Dinner went delightfully, and Errin was pleased by his fine performance. He was less pleased when, the next day, his father assigned him a new teacher, this time on etiquette. Errin was very much put out, especially when he could find no way of worming himself out of the lessons. After a month, he realized he truly despised his new tutor. The man was a demon sent from the underworld, it must be. Anger grew in him, and a dark hatred of all his lessons began to form. The anger gradually gave way to annoyance, and then to rebellion. He skipped his classes, and after a time he realized no one was punishing him. His father was too occupied with matters of state, and Errin was free to roam. What joy! What glee! He did, however, attend a few etiquette classes, especially when the Countess dy Welan was invited more often for dinner.
Curled up in her trunk, the forest girl tried to sleep, but only managed a half-sleep. Creeping through her usual thoughts of the forest were visions of the things she had seen earlier. It wasn’t long before she saw only the fire-light dancing on the faces of the sparklies. What things were these, that reminded her of sunlight on water? Finally she shot out of her tree in frustration, and plunged her sweating face into the snow... which was stupid. She wiped the snow from her face, wincing at the cuts the ice gave her. It was no use — she’d never been so curious about anything in her life, she had to look at those sparkling ornaments. She crept back to the fire site, to see it only burning embers. The humans were sleeping around it, some of them making horrid snorting noises worse than a horse. The one who was wearing the ornaments was the only one with a cloth to warm him. Iela sat there the whole night watching the sparklies, and she was absolutely hooked on the beauty and mystery they held. When the humans awoke, ate, and departed, Iela found herself staring longingly after them. What were the sparklies? How were they made? Where did they come from? She also wondered who the people were who wore the sparklies, but that wasn’t as important. Could she, dare she go after them? The forest animals never minded her wanderings, in fact they encouraged them. She’d never wandered far before, though nothing physically kept her here. Curiosity was only natural, and seldom fatal. With much less thought that should be given to the start of life adventures, Iela rolled to her feet and sprang to follow the horses.
After following them the whole day, Iela was ready to collapse in slumber. While they were eating their own supper, however, she saw fit to gather herself some roots to chew for her empty stomach. While she chewed and watched, the younger human, the one with the sparklies, took off the jewels to put in a soft bag. Longing to stare at them more, once the humans were asleep, Iela crept into their camp with muffled footfalls. She just wanted to look at the sparklies spilling out on the ground after she’d upturned the bag, which was satisfying, but temptation grabbed her. I’ll just take one. The red one was lovely as fire, the white like a river, the blue as the sky, the green as leaves. After some time she decided on the forest color, and started placing the rest back in the bag. They chimed softly, she glanced at the humans but they still seemed deep in slumber. A moment later, a hand closed about her wrist. Caught green-handed!
---
I don't know what comes next. Part of me wants to figure that out right now, but I'll resist doing that until I can devote the proper time to it.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Blood Queen Rising (2007(?), Prologue 2010)
I have no memory of any (if any) plot I had for this story, and it's less than inspiring writing, but I may come back to it someday.
Prologue:
Okuzanbe was once free and without borders. The people ran the miles of grassy planes unhindered, following the wild deer and chasing rainbows through waterfalls until they could neither run nor be carried any more. For generations the stories passed down were full of discoveries and the joys found in nature, simple tales woven around simple observations and plenty of good food. 300 years ago, elders from many different clans gathered together, discovering that many people could accomplish much more together, that with one person to weave another could focus on food and another could paint masterpieces with previously unaffordable time. After a generation of planning a government was set to rule over all the clans, and the Parliament of Okuzanbe was chosen. The Parliament split Okuzanbe into 8 Provinces, or Territories, each of which had a king to govern them. The king took care of local matters, and took all matters of law and things dealing with other Territories, such as trade customs, from the hand of the Parliament. For more than 200 years this system was without flaw, and Okuzanbe continued to flourish. No man, woman, or child was in need of food or toys, and most of the population was educated enough to make frequent use of the highly-coveted libraries. Crime was almost non-existent, and most adults could handle a staff well enough to defend themselves against invaders. No one ever invaded Okuzanbe.
In 517, twenty years ago, the king ruling Chatizan Territory died suddenly on a pilgrimage to a great shrine. It was custom for a new king to be chosen by the Parliament, a process which could take months. While the Parliament was considering its options, the widow of this king took up her husband’s crown and set herself upon the throne. She gave herself no title, only authority in command of all her husband’s land and soldiers. At first the people followed her because they had no other ruler and she was wise, learned in the ways of governing. Later they obeyed her because she had shown her true colors and earned the title of the Blood Queen. In these short years she has conquered and subdued three Provinces that now fly her flag above their lands, and she shows no intention of stopping. The Parliament has raised brave soldiers from the Provinces to turn her forces back, but their morale and numbers are breaking. It won’t be long now before Okuzanbe is consumed with the terror and inefficiency that is total rule by arms, rule by the Blood Queen.
Chapter 1: A Sense of Death
(he goes through the elements, fire, water, air, earth, and thought.)
I can’t see. The smoke hurts my eyes, and I am blinded by my own pain. Oh, my Searra. I can swing this sword around, hoping I hit an enemy soldier, but the forest fire is spreading. I must get out soon or I’ll burn. Like my Searra shall. The hurt of my leg, sliced off uncleanly at the knee, is nothing compared to the pain of her parting. We signed ourselves on as soldiers knowing the fates that awaited us, but my wife should not have died. Mere moments have passed since her warm blood splattered across my face, a gaping hole in her chest, but already the emotions — shock, disbelief, anger — have passed through, leaving a throbbing grief. I jump aside, dodging a mace, and plunge my sword through the man’s back, feeling him collapse. A burning branch falls, and I hit it with my sword to send it into the enemy lines. What lines? Everyone is fleeing the scalding heat. The impact of the hit breaks my sword at the hilt — worthless hunk of metal! I take up the mace, and turn to the last man present. On observation, however, I see that might be hard, for I am the last man. I turn to flee, but a glint of something green catches my eye. Searra’s killer, dead by my knife, dropped something as he died, and now I can see it. Searra always wore the emerald around her neck, having refused to sell it even when we almost joined our children in starvation. I pick it up and squeeze it hard, feeling its uncut edges slice into my whole palm. Now I will run. I don’t know if I will escape with my life, especially since I can’t really run — I hop, trying to ignore the pain in my fire-cauterized leg. The mace is sturdy and long, I use it to help me limp along. Fire singes me all around, and I feel as sunburned as a bad day in the field. It’s so hot... everything is burning. My mind is full of the image of Searra’s golden hair consumed by the flames. Tears stream down my cheek, offering some relief to the burns. I will never make it out alive.
Hot, hot, everything is burning. There goes my black hair, which Searra loved to run her hands through. My jacket is full of burned holes, and it saddens me. Julia had sewn it for me, her precise stitching ever meticulous. Anne had helped her with the buttons, using the little stones Benny collected. All gone, now. And soon I will join them. I tell myself I must not, but how can I listen to myself? We lost this battle. Our kingdom will fall now to the tyranny of the Blood Queen. It would be better for me to die here, burned up to a black husk, to become ashes on the wind, flying forever with my Searra. I can not walk any more. I drop to the ground, releasing the burning handle of the mace, and pull myself along the ground. I don’t really want to die, I’m only trying to convince myself that burning here isn’t so bad because that is what is going to happen to me. I’m crawling through bodies, all dead, by weapon or flame. My comrades, all. I wonder if Dan is among them. Good lad... he would’ve wed Julia had she survived. His parents had also died of starvation, just like so many others. My eyes hurt. I can cry no more. I should have stayed by Searra, died by her side. The emerald is still in my hand. What will it be like to die? Besides the pain, I think I’m getting that. I will find out soon. I’m scared of it, but under the fear is a calm acceptance. Everybody died someday. Oh Hades!.. I’m not going to die if I can make it out. I’m crawling, I’m crawling. I’ll not be joining your underworld so soon, Hades. Like everyone else, I will fight to the last to preserve my life. Demeter, I was a good farmer, let me live to see another crop. No... that doesn’t seem right — like Hades I was a good farmer. I failed my children. Athena, I was a good soldier. My warrior goddess, let me live to fight another day. Hot, hot, I’m burning up. My head hurts. They say a man’s life flashes before his eyes before he dies. That would be interesting. I would like to see my life. I can’t remember much of it. Just flames. And Searra. And little Jake, who died soon after birth. I remember holding his little body and wondering why the Fates had decided he must go. Just a baby, a tiny thing, I could hold him with one hand. Melancholy thoughts are mine. I could do more with my life, if more of life was granted to me. Let this pain end soon. May I die swiftly now. Hot, hot, hot! Burning. Like Anne’s first crumpets she tried to make when she was six. Burning. Like Searra’s body. I shall be but a shell, like a tortoise eaten by a hawk. Crispy, like a dead locust. The birds had eaten them, I remember, and we didn’t think of following their example until it was too late. Hot. Burning. Falling, like the rain that never came to feed us. Cold, freezing, like ice. Ice, like the pond that froze up each year. We went sliding on the ice. I am burning. Why do I feel cold? Cold. I can breath no more, my lungs are filled with fire. No. Fire isn’t wet. There are shadows here, but no dancing flames. I’m sinking. Oh! I fight the current, finally breaking surface. Air fills my scorched lungs, air not filled with the taste of ash and blood. I still can’t see clearly, and my senses are still numb, but my brain is awakening. Water! Blessed water! Did I fall into a river? There were no rivers where we fought. Julia, coming home from her schooling. Telling us about underground rivers. Hah! Poseidon, I’ll see your sea soon enough, for the current is too strong, and where would I get out? The rocks are bashing into me, I feel them now. It hurts. And it’s cold. Now I can’t feel anymore, because my sense have been numbed by the cold. What else would I expect from melted snow? That’s where water comes from in the spring. Hah! Death by fire is no longer an option. Death by drowning seems very likely. Now that I’ve experienced both moments, I might have liked burning more. Burning is warm, after all. Hot. No, no burning. Cold. Ah! Cold, cold, cold! How long can this go on? I am too numb. Rushing with the current, I feel like an insect caught in a gale. Swirling, swirling, cold, fast, ah! I can not stand this much longer. How long has it been? Why do I care? It was false dawn when the fire came. I should like to see the sun again. The sun warms, but does not burn. Curse the titan who brought us fire! No, forgive me, Prometheus, without fire I could not have eaten Searra’s food, a joy to me. I can’t remember the taste of food, although I remember the grainy feeling of bread. I am tired, very tired. I sleep now. My dreams are troubled, horror fills them, they smell of ash and are as red as blood.
Searra.
“I love you, Meagle,” she says to me. I reach my hand to her, but I am falling. Cold! Wind chill? Waterfall. A very, very, big waterfall. I’m falling. If I flap my wings, will I fly? I mean my arms. I don’t have wings. Eagles have wings. Eagles, that which I was named for. “My little eagle,” my mother would call me. “M’ eagle,” she whispered at her death. “Meagle,” my father called me then on. “My Meagle,” Searra called me once we had wed. If I was an eagle I wouldn’t be falling. I would fly, if I flapped my wings. Eagles, for which I was named— I’ve gone over this already. My skin burns. Wind-burn. I never knew wind could burn. I’m falling. Oh gods. That means it will end soon. Ah! I didn’t know cold water could burn, either. Ooah, it hurts. Smack I fell, and I can’t move now. There, my arms can move again, Water again? Oh. The current is slowing. I can’t get to land, though. I’m too tired. Hmm. Blessed unconsciousness. When I’m unconscious, I’m not supposed to be thinking, am I? Oh. Now I’m dreaming. Lovely sight, the gods. They have very peaceful voices. Hmm. Pretty. Ah — blackness at last!
Am I awake now? I must be, for I am thinking. I do not feel like opening my eyes. My eyelids tell me to sleep while they continue to droop. Well, I’m not dead yet, eyelids, come now, open up. Ow. Go away, birdie. Hey, I can move! I can feel! Is that a good thing? Ooh — no. Everything hurts, and far more than is good for me. The sky is such a lovely blue. The sun is warm, and I am still wet. I will attempt to sit up. Ooh — no. Never mind. I shall simply lie here until I die of starvation. I have washed up on the river banks, and the current doesn’t carry me away again because it has wedges me ‘tween two rocks. They hurt. The river bank is right here, I should get to it. To lie on the soft grass — yes, I have to. Oh, but it hurts as I drag myself over the rocks. Everything hurts, and my eyes are blurring. The grass. How soft it is. I will lie down here, and let the sun dry me. It is cold still, but the sun feels nice. I’ll sleep now.
Am I awake again? No, not really. I am moving. Why am I moving? Oh dear. I think I will sleep through whatever this is.
“Ah!” Hit against a rock! The sound that comes from my mouth is no more an ‘ah’ than a ‘sun of life, feed me with thy grace.’ It sounded a horrid gurgle, and the result is that I am dropped.
“It’s alive!” I hear someone cry.
“I had better get Papa,” a different voice said, and I felt the vibration of footsteps. The other one left too. Are they coming back? I don’t know. They know I’m alive now, however, and that’s a step up. I am going to sleep.
I’m awake again. Oh! I keep interrupting my sleep. Right. I shall open my eyes now. Oh. What a pretty little girl.
“Mamma!” she cries, jumping back, “his see-ers are on!”
What an odd way to say my eyes are open.
“Thank Hera,” a woman breathed. “You’ve been in sleeps for half a month,” she told me.
“Oh,” I say, though it comes much clearer than my ‘ah’... two weeks ago. That doesn’t surprise me. The two weeks, I mean. I feel much better. Except the smell of fire. Er. I shiver.
“You are who?” the mother asks me.
“Me?” I babble, “I hurt. I’m hungry. I’m... Meagle. Right. Searra!” I remember now. Oh, the pain. I turn to the wall and cry. It doesn’t hurt so much. It feels good to cry. Searra, oh Searra!
I’m hungry. Whatever it is that tickles my nose, it smells good. The ceiling. I guess I should expect that is what I would see, lying on my back. A rather pretty ceiling. Stone, like my home was. I’ll not cry again for you, Searra, not right now. Later, then I can cry again. Now I had better let my hosts know I’m living.
“Hello?” I croak. My vocal chords are still half-burned, I shouldn’t wonder. Footsteps.
“Ah, hiya to our living ward, Sah Meagle,” the woman welcomes, pleased. “I am Maria.”
“Thank you, Ses Maria,” I say quietly, “it must be a burden for you to have me.”
She was silent for a moment. “We what we could did,” she murmured, “to Hera we give thanks of your life.”
“Hades ate me then spat me out,” I sigh, tears blurring my vision of the gray ceiling. “If it was by Hera’s bidding, then I shall also thank the goddess for my life.”
“Are you better feeling, Sah Meagle?” she asks gently.
Am I? “I think I can walk,” I offer, though my whole body vetoes the idea.
“We are to sup in moments, you will join us?”
“Please,” I say enthusiastically.
She chuckled. I finally turned to face her, and smile wistfully. Ses Maria is lovely as her daughter, and I tell her so. She chuckled again, her blue eyes twinkling.
“That was my Lara, fifth child of mine six.”
I sighed. “Searra wanted six children,” I say rather blandly.
Her humor turned to a soft pity. “You have lost your wife?”
I nod, then change the subject to ask of when we would eat.
She smiled again and pulled some things over. “First, Sah Meagle, your hand.”
I stare blankly.
“Even throughout your weakness, your fist remained clenched, and nah I nay my husband could open it. Bleeding through, and I don’t wand infection on you.”
I lift my right arm to look at the hand. Clenched about the emerald, I remember. It hurts to open, but ah! an ugly sight! The emerald has dug into my hand, the skin healed around it. Ses Maria looked surprised for a moment, but began cleaning the dried blood away.
“Cleanly healed,” she murmured, tracing the scars on my palm with her finger. She gently lay my arm down, then went across the room. She returned with a small man.
“Sah Ivor,” Ses Maria told me, “my husband.”
“Greetings,” I sigh. Together they helped me to the chair I was to sit on. The rest of the family filed in, the eldest holding the baby boy. The eldest two children are the boys who found me, the other three are girls. The children all looked at me uneasily, and I wonder why I unnerve them so. Oh dear. I should see what I look like, perhaps. Being burned and stoned and flown and swept, I do not imagine myself a pretty sigh. And my half-leg probably scares them. Once we all were seated, we gave thanks to the gods, and we ate. The soup tastes good, but I let it cool more. Hot does not bide well for me. And I feel awkward holding the spoon, as it clanks dully against my emerald. I wish I could give the gem to this kind family, but it seems it has rather grown attached to me. To make conversation, I ask the names of the children. Jake and Jack are the boys, then Lisa, Lara, and Betty. The baby is Ben. What a lovely family! I eat now, and feeling is coming to me again. My head hurts.
Finished eating now, the children leave to play. Silence unnerves me.
“Where am I?” I ask rather abruptly.
Sah Ivor sets down his cup to answer me. “This is the Gaetizan province.”
My smile, if it was there, is gone. Gaetizan. My enemy. Bordering Lefizan, my home.
“Oh,” is all I say. Now I am in a province ruled by the conqueror of terror, the Blood Queen.
I admit, it’s rather strange. This family is happy, their house is large, their crops strong, their fields stretch for acres. They are not in chains nor under guard. The Blood Queen and her soldiers must eat, of course, perhaps that’s why the farmers have free reign. I realize my silence is pressing, so I smile. It was rather like a quick grimace, and I put my head in my hands.
“You should get back in bed,” Ses Maria whispers. For my face feels... I know why the children are afraid of me. Ses Maria gave me a mirror and I look into it. I scare myself. My face is scarred beyond repair. My nose, which used to seem so odd, is now my strong feature. My cheeks are jaggedly red and orange and pale and dark... I look like a demon. It set the mirror down and Ses Maria helps me back to bed, and none of us speak a word.
Chapter 2: Rebirth
When I wake the next morning I have a strong incentive not to open my eyes. I should just die, really. I am a walking horror, with nothing left for me. Meagle, get up. I guess I have a rebellious side — oh, but it know that. There is life ahead of me... and revenge. I will not cry for Searra, not for a long time, but I will avenge her. Ow. I will be no use to kill the Blood Queen if I hurt myself after two weeks of healing. No more trying to jump out of bed. I open my eyes, and see Jack watching me, alarm on his face.
“I am all right now,” I said, feeling foolish, “just... a nightmare.”
He calmed immensely. “Oh Sah, yes. I know what you mean.” He looked a moment at my disfigured face, reddened, then hopped up from his seat and left the room. A moment later Ses Maria entered and came to my side.
...
later part: Fortune Teller
She grasped his hand in her own, looking into his eyes, a solid stare of mystic. She smiled. “Treasure of your ancestors, you search for all. Look to the songs you sing, they give you clues.”
Dale gaped at her. “My nonsense songs?” he asked, flabbergasted.
Her smile grew and her eyes twinkled, then she gave Dale back his hand and looked to me. Her smile slowly dimmed until it was a ghost of its former brilliance.
“You have great fortune coming your way,” she told me, but she sounded less certain that when she spoke to Dale. “You will wed a lady of beauty greater than the sunset, and...” She paused. “Or? And defeat the tyrant and bring us peace.”
I stared at her, my face impassive.
“Was that an ‘and’ or an ‘or’?” Dale asked, as always pinning down the trivial points.
The fortune-teller focused her eyes on him. “That is Meagle’s own decision.” She sounded so decided, so mystic, so sure of herself, that I could not doubt her. But as we ride away from the tent, I remember the expression in her eyes at the last thing she said, and wonder what she was afraid of.
Prologue:
Okuzanbe was once free and without borders. The people ran the miles of grassy planes unhindered, following the wild deer and chasing rainbows through waterfalls until they could neither run nor be carried any more. For generations the stories passed down were full of discoveries and the joys found in nature, simple tales woven around simple observations and plenty of good food. 300 years ago, elders from many different clans gathered together, discovering that many people could accomplish much more together, that with one person to weave another could focus on food and another could paint masterpieces with previously unaffordable time. After a generation of planning a government was set to rule over all the clans, and the Parliament of Okuzanbe was chosen. The Parliament split Okuzanbe into 8 Provinces, or Territories, each of which had a king to govern them. The king took care of local matters, and took all matters of law and things dealing with other Territories, such as trade customs, from the hand of the Parliament. For more than 200 years this system was without flaw, and Okuzanbe continued to flourish. No man, woman, or child was in need of food or toys, and most of the population was educated enough to make frequent use of the highly-coveted libraries. Crime was almost non-existent, and most adults could handle a staff well enough to defend themselves against invaders. No one ever invaded Okuzanbe.
In 517, twenty years ago, the king ruling Chatizan Territory died suddenly on a pilgrimage to a great shrine. It was custom for a new king to be chosen by the Parliament, a process which could take months. While the Parliament was considering its options, the widow of this king took up her husband’s crown and set herself upon the throne. She gave herself no title, only authority in command of all her husband’s land and soldiers. At first the people followed her because they had no other ruler and she was wise, learned in the ways of governing. Later they obeyed her because she had shown her true colors and earned the title of the Blood Queen. In these short years she has conquered and subdued three Provinces that now fly her flag above their lands, and she shows no intention of stopping. The Parliament has raised brave soldiers from the Provinces to turn her forces back, but their morale and numbers are breaking. It won’t be long now before Okuzanbe is consumed with the terror and inefficiency that is total rule by arms, rule by the Blood Queen.
Chapter 1: A Sense of Death
(he goes through the elements, fire, water, air, earth, and thought.)
I can’t see. The smoke hurts my eyes, and I am blinded by my own pain. Oh, my Searra. I can swing this sword around, hoping I hit an enemy soldier, but the forest fire is spreading. I must get out soon or I’ll burn. Like my Searra shall. The hurt of my leg, sliced off uncleanly at the knee, is nothing compared to the pain of her parting. We signed ourselves on as soldiers knowing the fates that awaited us, but my wife should not have died. Mere moments have passed since her warm blood splattered across my face, a gaping hole in her chest, but already the emotions — shock, disbelief, anger — have passed through, leaving a throbbing grief. I jump aside, dodging a mace, and plunge my sword through the man’s back, feeling him collapse. A burning branch falls, and I hit it with my sword to send it into the enemy lines. What lines? Everyone is fleeing the scalding heat. The impact of the hit breaks my sword at the hilt — worthless hunk of metal! I take up the mace, and turn to the last man present. On observation, however, I see that might be hard, for I am the last man. I turn to flee, but a glint of something green catches my eye. Searra’s killer, dead by my knife, dropped something as he died, and now I can see it. Searra always wore the emerald around her neck, having refused to sell it even when we almost joined our children in starvation. I pick it up and squeeze it hard, feeling its uncut edges slice into my whole palm. Now I will run. I don’t know if I will escape with my life, especially since I can’t really run — I hop, trying to ignore the pain in my fire-cauterized leg. The mace is sturdy and long, I use it to help me limp along. Fire singes me all around, and I feel as sunburned as a bad day in the field. It’s so hot... everything is burning. My mind is full of the image of Searra’s golden hair consumed by the flames. Tears stream down my cheek, offering some relief to the burns. I will never make it out alive.
Hot, hot, everything is burning. There goes my black hair, which Searra loved to run her hands through. My jacket is full of burned holes, and it saddens me. Julia had sewn it for me, her precise stitching ever meticulous. Anne had helped her with the buttons, using the little stones Benny collected. All gone, now. And soon I will join them. I tell myself I must not, but how can I listen to myself? We lost this battle. Our kingdom will fall now to the tyranny of the Blood Queen. It would be better for me to die here, burned up to a black husk, to become ashes on the wind, flying forever with my Searra. I can not walk any more. I drop to the ground, releasing the burning handle of the mace, and pull myself along the ground. I don’t really want to die, I’m only trying to convince myself that burning here isn’t so bad because that is what is going to happen to me. I’m crawling through bodies, all dead, by weapon or flame. My comrades, all. I wonder if Dan is among them. Good lad... he would’ve wed Julia had she survived. His parents had also died of starvation, just like so many others. My eyes hurt. I can cry no more. I should have stayed by Searra, died by her side. The emerald is still in my hand. What will it be like to die? Besides the pain, I think I’m getting that. I will find out soon. I’m scared of it, but under the fear is a calm acceptance. Everybody died someday. Oh Hades!.. I’m not going to die if I can make it out. I’m crawling, I’m crawling. I’ll not be joining your underworld so soon, Hades. Like everyone else, I will fight to the last to preserve my life. Demeter, I was a good farmer, let me live to see another crop. No... that doesn’t seem right — like Hades I was a good farmer. I failed my children. Athena, I was a good soldier. My warrior goddess, let me live to fight another day. Hot, hot, I’m burning up. My head hurts. They say a man’s life flashes before his eyes before he dies. That would be interesting. I would like to see my life. I can’t remember much of it. Just flames. And Searra. And little Jake, who died soon after birth. I remember holding his little body and wondering why the Fates had decided he must go. Just a baby, a tiny thing, I could hold him with one hand. Melancholy thoughts are mine. I could do more with my life, if more of life was granted to me. Let this pain end soon. May I die swiftly now. Hot, hot, hot! Burning. Like Anne’s first crumpets she tried to make when she was six. Burning. Like Searra’s body. I shall be but a shell, like a tortoise eaten by a hawk. Crispy, like a dead locust. The birds had eaten them, I remember, and we didn’t think of following their example until it was too late. Hot. Burning. Falling, like the rain that never came to feed us. Cold, freezing, like ice. Ice, like the pond that froze up each year. We went sliding on the ice. I am burning. Why do I feel cold? Cold. I can breath no more, my lungs are filled with fire. No. Fire isn’t wet. There are shadows here, but no dancing flames. I’m sinking. Oh! I fight the current, finally breaking surface. Air fills my scorched lungs, air not filled with the taste of ash and blood. I still can’t see clearly, and my senses are still numb, but my brain is awakening. Water! Blessed water! Did I fall into a river? There were no rivers where we fought. Julia, coming home from her schooling. Telling us about underground rivers. Hah! Poseidon, I’ll see your sea soon enough, for the current is too strong, and where would I get out? The rocks are bashing into me, I feel them now. It hurts. And it’s cold. Now I can’t feel anymore, because my sense have been numbed by the cold. What else would I expect from melted snow? That’s where water comes from in the spring. Hah! Death by fire is no longer an option. Death by drowning seems very likely. Now that I’ve experienced both moments, I might have liked burning more. Burning is warm, after all. Hot. No, no burning. Cold. Ah! Cold, cold, cold! How long can this go on? I am too numb. Rushing with the current, I feel like an insect caught in a gale. Swirling, swirling, cold, fast, ah! I can not stand this much longer. How long has it been? Why do I care? It was false dawn when the fire came. I should like to see the sun again. The sun warms, but does not burn. Curse the titan who brought us fire! No, forgive me, Prometheus, without fire I could not have eaten Searra’s food, a joy to me. I can’t remember the taste of food, although I remember the grainy feeling of bread. I am tired, very tired. I sleep now. My dreams are troubled, horror fills them, they smell of ash and are as red as blood.
Searra.
“I love you, Meagle,” she says to me. I reach my hand to her, but I am falling. Cold! Wind chill? Waterfall. A very, very, big waterfall. I’m falling. If I flap my wings, will I fly? I mean my arms. I don’t have wings. Eagles have wings. Eagles, that which I was named for. “My little eagle,” my mother would call me. “M’ eagle,” she whispered at her death. “Meagle,” my father called me then on. “My Meagle,” Searra called me once we had wed. If I was an eagle I wouldn’t be falling. I would fly, if I flapped my wings. Eagles, for which I was named— I’ve gone over this already. My skin burns. Wind-burn. I never knew wind could burn. I’m falling. Oh gods. That means it will end soon. Ah! I didn’t know cold water could burn, either. Ooah, it hurts. Smack I fell, and I can’t move now. There, my arms can move again, Water again? Oh. The current is slowing. I can’t get to land, though. I’m too tired. Hmm. Blessed unconsciousness. When I’m unconscious, I’m not supposed to be thinking, am I? Oh. Now I’m dreaming. Lovely sight, the gods. They have very peaceful voices. Hmm. Pretty. Ah — blackness at last!
Am I awake now? I must be, for I am thinking. I do not feel like opening my eyes. My eyelids tell me to sleep while they continue to droop. Well, I’m not dead yet, eyelids, come now, open up. Ow. Go away, birdie. Hey, I can move! I can feel! Is that a good thing? Ooh — no. Everything hurts, and far more than is good for me. The sky is such a lovely blue. The sun is warm, and I am still wet. I will attempt to sit up. Ooh — no. Never mind. I shall simply lie here until I die of starvation. I have washed up on the river banks, and the current doesn’t carry me away again because it has wedges me ‘tween two rocks. They hurt. The river bank is right here, I should get to it. To lie on the soft grass — yes, I have to. Oh, but it hurts as I drag myself over the rocks. Everything hurts, and my eyes are blurring. The grass. How soft it is. I will lie down here, and let the sun dry me. It is cold still, but the sun feels nice. I’ll sleep now.
Am I awake again? No, not really. I am moving. Why am I moving? Oh dear. I think I will sleep through whatever this is.
“Ah!” Hit against a rock! The sound that comes from my mouth is no more an ‘ah’ than a ‘sun of life, feed me with thy grace.’ It sounded a horrid gurgle, and the result is that I am dropped.
“It’s alive!” I hear someone cry.
“I had better get Papa,” a different voice said, and I felt the vibration of footsteps. The other one left too. Are they coming back? I don’t know. They know I’m alive now, however, and that’s a step up. I am going to sleep.
I’m awake again. Oh! I keep interrupting my sleep. Right. I shall open my eyes now. Oh. What a pretty little girl.
“Mamma!” she cries, jumping back, “his see-ers are on!”
What an odd way to say my eyes are open.
“Thank Hera,” a woman breathed. “You’ve been in sleeps for half a month,” she told me.
“Oh,” I say, though it comes much clearer than my ‘ah’... two weeks ago. That doesn’t surprise me. The two weeks, I mean. I feel much better. Except the smell of fire. Er. I shiver.
“You are who?” the mother asks me.
“Me?” I babble, “I hurt. I’m hungry. I’m... Meagle. Right. Searra!” I remember now. Oh, the pain. I turn to the wall and cry. It doesn’t hurt so much. It feels good to cry. Searra, oh Searra!
I’m hungry. Whatever it is that tickles my nose, it smells good. The ceiling. I guess I should expect that is what I would see, lying on my back. A rather pretty ceiling. Stone, like my home was. I’ll not cry again for you, Searra, not right now. Later, then I can cry again. Now I had better let my hosts know I’m living.
“Hello?” I croak. My vocal chords are still half-burned, I shouldn’t wonder. Footsteps.
“Ah, hiya to our living ward, Sah Meagle,” the woman welcomes, pleased. “I am Maria.”
“Thank you, Ses Maria,” I say quietly, “it must be a burden for you to have me.”
She was silent for a moment. “We what we could did,” she murmured, “to Hera we give thanks of your life.”
“Hades ate me then spat me out,” I sigh, tears blurring my vision of the gray ceiling. “If it was by Hera’s bidding, then I shall also thank the goddess for my life.”
“Are you better feeling, Sah Meagle?” she asks gently.
Am I? “I think I can walk,” I offer, though my whole body vetoes the idea.
“We are to sup in moments, you will join us?”
“Please,” I say enthusiastically.
She chuckled. I finally turned to face her, and smile wistfully. Ses Maria is lovely as her daughter, and I tell her so. She chuckled again, her blue eyes twinkling.
“That was my Lara, fifth child of mine six.”
I sighed. “Searra wanted six children,” I say rather blandly.
Her humor turned to a soft pity. “You have lost your wife?”
I nod, then change the subject to ask of when we would eat.
She smiled again and pulled some things over. “First, Sah Meagle, your hand.”
I stare blankly.
“Even throughout your weakness, your fist remained clenched, and nah I nay my husband could open it. Bleeding through, and I don’t wand infection on you.”
I lift my right arm to look at the hand. Clenched about the emerald, I remember. It hurts to open, but ah! an ugly sight! The emerald has dug into my hand, the skin healed around it. Ses Maria looked surprised for a moment, but began cleaning the dried blood away.
“Cleanly healed,” she murmured, tracing the scars on my palm with her finger. She gently lay my arm down, then went across the room. She returned with a small man.
“Sah Ivor,” Ses Maria told me, “my husband.”
“Greetings,” I sigh. Together they helped me to the chair I was to sit on. The rest of the family filed in, the eldest holding the baby boy. The eldest two children are the boys who found me, the other three are girls. The children all looked at me uneasily, and I wonder why I unnerve them so. Oh dear. I should see what I look like, perhaps. Being burned and stoned and flown and swept, I do not imagine myself a pretty sigh. And my half-leg probably scares them. Once we all were seated, we gave thanks to the gods, and we ate. The soup tastes good, but I let it cool more. Hot does not bide well for me. And I feel awkward holding the spoon, as it clanks dully against my emerald. I wish I could give the gem to this kind family, but it seems it has rather grown attached to me. To make conversation, I ask the names of the children. Jake and Jack are the boys, then Lisa, Lara, and Betty. The baby is Ben. What a lovely family! I eat now, and feeling is coming to me again. My head hurts.
Finished eating now, the children leave to play. Silence unnerves me.
“Where am I?” I ask rather abruptly.
Sah Ivor sets down his cup to answer me. “This is the Gaetizan province.”
My smile, if it was there, is gone. Gaetizan. My enemy. Bordering Lefizan, my home.
“Oh,” is all I say. Now I am in a province ruled by the conqueror of terror, the Blood Queen.
I admit, it’s rather strange. This family is happy, their house is large, their crops strong, their fields stretch for acres. They are not in chains nor under guard. The Blood Queen and her soldiers must eat, of course, perhaps that’s why the farmers have free reign. I realize my silence is pressing, so I smile. It was rather like a quick grimace, and I put my head in my hands.
“You should get back in bed,” Ses Maria whispers. For my face feels... I know why the children are afraid of me. Ses Maria gave me a mirror and I look into it. I scare myself. My face is scarred beyond repair. My nose, which used to seem so odd, is now my strong feature. My cheeks are jaggedly red and orange and pale and dark... I look like a demon. It set the mirror down and Ses Maria helps me back to bed, and none of us speak a word.
Chapter 2: Rebirth
When I wake the next morning I have a strong incentive not to open my eyes. I should just die, really. I am a walking horror, with nothing left for me. Meagle, get up. I guess I have a rebellious side — oh, but it know that. There is life ahead of me... and revenge. I will not cry for Searra, not for a long time, but I will avenge her. Ow. I will be no use to kill the Blood Queen if I hurt myself after two weeks of healing. No more trying to jump out of bed. I open my eyes, and see Jack watching me, alarm on his face.
“I am all right now,” I said, feeling foolish, “just... a nightmare.”
He calmed immensely. “Oh Sah, yes. I know what you mean.” He looked a moment at my disfigured face, reddened, then hopped up from his seat and left the room. A moment later Ses Maria entered and came to my side.
...
later part: Fortune Teller
She grasped his hand in her own, looking into his eyes, a solid stare of mystic. She smiled. “Treasure of your ancestors, you search for all. Look to the songs you sing, they give you clues.”
Dale gaped at her. “My nonsense songs?” he asked, flabbergasted.
Her smile grew and her eyes twinkled, then she gave Dale back his hand and looked to me. Her smile slowly dimmed until it was a ghost of its former brilliance.
“You have great fortune coming your way,” she told me, but she sounded less certain that when she spoke to Dale. “You will wed a lady of beauty greater than the sunset, and...” She paused. “Or? And defeat the tyrant and bring us peace.”
I stared at her, my face impassive.
“Was that an ‘and’ or an ‘or’?” Dale asked, as always pinning down the trivial points.
The fortune-teller focused her eyes on him. “That is Meagle’s own decision.” She sounded so decided, so mystic, so sure of herself, that I could not doubt her. But as we ride away from the tent, I remember the expression in her eyes at the last thing she said, and wonder what she was afraid of.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Frankenstein 'what if' (2007)
I wrote this as an in-class 'think' assignment, a 'what if' in regards to Frankenstein. I chose to write a blurb starting a 'what if Frankenstein hadn't abhorred his monster?' story. This is what came out. I have no idea of any plot, however, and don't plan to write any more.
...
I finished my creation right as the first sparkle of sunlight crept through the cracks in the wall. It opened its eyes, the first sign of life... then made a horrible sound. My joy at my success simmered down as I was faced with doubt. The creature was not as beautiful as I imagined it to be — in some ways it was even horrifying. I suppose I knew that when I first attempted to bring it to life, but it wasn’t until it made that creaking sound I really understood my mistake. In that moment I was ready to run away, hide in my room, cursing my unlucky self. Something stopped me, an unexpected action: the creature smiled. Not the sort of smile you might imagine, as it was not built that way. But the joy came through, I could see the emotion in its face, and its eyes shone like a happy puppy dog. Despite the horror I had been feeling, moments before, I thought... cute. How such a weird, mis-formed being could look so sweet I still cannot understand, but that is what I felt. Perhaps it was because I, myself, longed to love and be loved, that led me to feel such protection towards my creation. My mind began to battle with itself. Monster. Cute. Horrible beast. Sweet. Disaster. Success. Ah, but that which is sweet always wins against reason. I knew long before, when I first began the experiment, that what I was doing should not be done by any mortal. It is the right of the Gods alone to create life... and there should be no resurrection from the dead, even as a patchwork creation. But my curiosity and desire to learn prompted me to create it, and here it was. I heard sounds on the ground floor, voices above my head. I panicked — what would others do if they found it? What if they don’t see the shimmers of life and joy in its eyes? I created it, it was my responsibility. The protective feeling hit me hard, and I gathered the little thing in my arms. It squeaked in protest, and again I winced at the sound that was something between metal on metal and a dying cat’s yowl. Carefully, unsure of how robust the thing was, I took it to a closet and placed it inside, where I hoped any sounds it might make would be muffled. Then I hurried from the room and ran up the stairs, two at a time, to face the intruders. I couldn’t think of who they might be, as any friends I’d had abandoned me when I started my project. It was only as I placed my hand on the handle did I realize who it could be, but by then it was too late. The door opened away from me, and I fell forward onto the floor in front of glaring, accusing eyes.
...
I finished my creation right as the first sparkle of sunlight crept through the cracks in the wall. It opened its eyes, the first sign of life... then made a horrible sound. My joy at my success simmered down as I was faced with doubt. The creature was not as beautiful as I imagined it to be — in some ways it was even horrifying. I suppose I knew that when I first attempted to bring it to life, but it wasn’t until it made that creaking sound I really understood my mistake. In that moment I was ready to run away, hide in my room, cursing my unlucky self. Something stopped me, an unexpected action: the creature smiled. Not the sort of smile you might imagine, as it was not built that way. But the joy came through, I could see the emotion in its face, and its eyes shone like a happy puppy dog. Despite the horror I had been feeling, moments before, I thought... cute. How such a weird, mis-formed being could look so sweet I still cannot understand, but that is what I felt. Perhaps it was because I, myself, longed to love and be loved, that led me to feel such protection towards my creation. My mind began to battle with itself. Monster. Cute. Horrible beast. Sweet. Disaster. Success. Ah, but that which is sweet always wins against reason. I knew long before, when I first began the experiment, that what I was doing should not be done by any mortal. It is the right of the Gods alone to create life... and there should be no resurrection from the dead, even as a patchwork creation. But my curiosity and desire to learn prompted me to create it, and here it was. I heard sounds on the ground floor, voices above my head. I panicked — what would others do if they found it? What if they don’t see the shimmers of life and joy in its eyes? I created it, it was my responsibility. The protective feeling hit me hard, and I gathered the little thing in my arms. It squeaked in protest, and again I winced at the sound that was something between metal on metal and a dying cat’s yowl. Carefully, unsure of how robust the thing was, I took it to a closet and placed it inside, where I hoped any sounds it might make would be muffled. Then I hurried from the room and ran up the stairs, two at a time, to face the intruders. I couldn’t think of who they might be, as any friends I’d had abandoned me when I started my project. It was only as I placed my hand on the handle did I realize who it could be, but by then it was too late. The door opened away from me, and I fell forward onto the floor in front of glaring, accusing eyes.
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