The rugged uplands of Haphyr matched my expectations, and exceeded them. My sacha's stories did not do the land justice.
"What a forbidding place!" Parita said.
I glanced at her in astonishment. She sat her horse with all the enthusiasm and grace of a lump of clay.
"You really think that?" I asked.
Parita gave me a sullen look. "I suppose you don't."
"You don't see the beauty here?" My gesture took in the steep ridges and switchbacks, rising to snow-capped mountains in the distance.
"A cold and ugly place full of snow is what it looks to me," she said.
As if on cue, a flake of snow landed on my cheek, quickly followed by another. Our guide, an elderly Merwik man named Shengo, looked back over his shoulder at us, brow wrinkled.
"What is it?" I called to him.
My horse, a mare near as sullen as Parita, put back her ears in irritation. The temptation to swat her arose, but I put the thought aside as unworthy.
"We'll have to pick up the pace," Shengo told me. "The snow could halt us at Wizard's Pass and turn us back until spring."
"This?" Parita said, scornful. "It's hardly snowing."
Shengo gave her a look with equal parts derision and annoyance. "Here, yes. But the pass has already seen snow. Much more, and no one will pass until spring thaw."
I digested this even while I urged my mare to a quicker gait. To be turned back now would be--disappointing. House Theuron expected us. I very much doubted they would appreciate a four-month delay in our arrival.
"Glennis, do you see that?"
A distinct quaver in Parita's voice caught my attention immediately. I followed her pointing finger with my eyes. Far ahead, near the limits of vision, what looked like a great white creature strode along the edges of a ridge near the trail we followed.
"Shengo," I said, and jerked my head in the creature's direction.
By the time he turned, the creature had disappeared.
"What did you see?" Shengo asked.
"A great white creature that strode like a man," I said.
Shengo turned to look again, searching the ridge.
"Men in these parts speak of something they call the teu shan," he said. "I have never seen it." He shook his head. "But these were men in their cups. Drunken stories should never be trusted."
Shengo turned and smiled at me, but his eyes betrayed him.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Friday, June 1, 2007
Friday Snippet - June 1, 2007
I'm taking a break and writing a short story for a themed anthology. Here's a snippet from that.
#
The sound of breaking glass alerted Losa to the intruder. In his living area, he raised his head and listened. The sounds could only mean what he had feared. The killing thing had come for him.
Moving quietly, Losa entered his lab and positioned himself between two crystal spheres balanced each on a metal rod at eye-level. He had little hope that the crystals would shield his presence for long. He must assume that some of the fifteen slain wizards had tried at least as much. And still they had been brutally butchered in their own dwellings.
Losa heard the ticking first. The killing thing appeared in the lab's doorway. A monstrous wonder of levers and pulleys and metal joints, it paused on the threshold, featureless head swinging back and forth. Losa let out his breath, long and silent. At last, he knew which of the Brethren had been methodically eliminating competition. Only one wizard had the aptitude and knowledge to build such an artifice.
Not that knowing his enemy would save him.
#
The sound of breaking glass alerted Losa to the intruder. In his living area, he raised his head and listened. The sounds could only mean what he had feared. The killing thing had come for him.
Moving quietly, Losa entered his lab and positioned himself between two crystal spheres balanced each on a metal rod at eye-level. He had little hope that the crystals would shield his presence for long. He must assume that some of the fifteen slain wizards had tried at least as much. And still they had been brutally butchered in their own dwellings.
Losa heard the ticking first. The killing thing appeared in the lab's doorway. A monstrous wonder of levers and pulleys and metal joints, it paused on the threshold, featureless head swinging back and forth. Losa let out his breath, long and silent. At last, he knew which of the Brethren had been methodically eliminating competition. Only one wizard had the aptitude and knowledge to build such an artifice.
Not that knowing his enemy would save him.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Friday Snippet - May 25, 2007 "While He Sleeps"
A little bit of backstory since last snippet. Jeff has tracked down her phone number from her parents. They gave it to him since she had called him. Jeff accuses her of ducking the whole issue, trying to pretend it never happened. They exchange some heated words about commitment and expectations.
#
Rhea hated going to restaurants alone. Something about sitting at a table in lonely splendor while families flowed and dined around her struck her as sad.
She called her friend Mary and arranged to meet her at their favorite place after work. The commute dragged, and she walked into a crowded restaurant. That annoyed her, and the annoyance clung as she searched the crowd for Mary's face.
Instead, she found another face. The top of his head and his eyes were all that she could see of him. The pit of her stomach knotted and her eyes burned. Intellectually, she knew this man couldn't be Charles--that if she moved to where she could see his entire face, she would be looking into the face of a stranger. Her head knew this. Her heart didn't.
Rhea dug her fingernails into her palms. The little pain distracted her from the larger one, helping her control the urge to burst into noisy tears. Too much. These last few days, seeing Charles in a walk or a turn of the head, the weird, unexplained events surrounding her, all culminated in this moment of intense emotional distress.
The awful finality of her brother's death hit her like a slap. Maybe what Jeff had said was true. Maybe she had left Stillwater to pretend nothing had happened--that Charles still lived and laughed and hadn't shot himself over a girl.
Rhea turned, nearly bowling over a young couple walking behind her. With a muttered apology, Rhea made her way out of the restaurant before the tears flooded her vision.
She cried for awhile in her car before again joining the queue of homeward-bound cars. She called Mary enroute and gave her a story about not feeling well. When she entered her apartment and flipped on the lights, the sight of her notebook, somehow retrieved from the trash and now prominently displayed in her chair, didn't surprise her.
Rhea looked at the notebook, and the words, help her covered the page.
"What do you want from me, Charles?" she said.
And once she started talking, the logjam broke.
"What could you possibly want from me? You made your decision all by yourself five years ago. You didn't need my help then. You never asked for anybody's help. Did you even stop to think about what pain you would cause? No, you didn't, because you never did. Because that's the way you lived your life. All about Charles."
A sense of great sadness rushed over her. Rhea couldn't tell if the sadness belonged to her or to Charles. Or if she had just gone completely around the bend.
Rhea threw her purse on the chair, dislodging the notebook, which fell to the floor. The pages flipped to an older scribbling she'd done weeks ago. Rhea had written "Stillwater," and drawn a heavy black box around the name.
"You want me to go home to Stillwater," she said.
The feeling of sadness lightened. Her phone rang. Rhea looked at the caller id. Her mother.
Around the bend. Definitely.
#
Rhea hated going to restaurants alone. Something about sitting at a table in lonely splendor while families flowed and dined around her struck her as sad.
She called her friend Mary and arranged to meet her at their favorite place after work. The commute dragged, and she walked into a crowded restaurant. That annoyed her, and the annoyance clung as she searched the crowd for Mary's face.
Instead, she found another face. The top of his head and his eyes were all that she could see of him. The pit of her stomach knotted and her eyes burned. Intellectually, she knew this man couldn't be Charles--that if she moved to where she could see his entire face, she would be looking into the face of a stranger. Her head knew this. Her heart didn't.
Rhea dug her fingernails into her palms. The little pain distracted her from the larger one, helping her control the urge to burst into noisy tears. Too much. These last few days, seeing Charles in a walk or a turn of the head, the weird, unexplained events surrounding her, all culminated in this moment of intense emotional distress.
The awful finality of her brother's death hit her like a slap. Maybe what Jeff had said was true. Maybe she had left Stillwater to pretend nothing had happened--that Charles still lived and laughed and hadn't shot himself over a girl.
Rhea turned, nearly bowling over a young couple walking behind her. With a muttered apology, Rhea made her way out of the restaurant before the tears flooded her vision.
She cried for awhile in her car before again joining the queue of homeward-bound cars. She called Mary enroute and gave her a story about not feeling well. When she entered her apartment and flipped on the lights, the sight of her notebook, somehow retrieved from the trash and now prominently displayed in her chair, didn't surprise her.
Rhea looked at the notebook, and the words, help her covered the page.
"What do you want from me, Charles?" she said.
And once she started talking, the logjam broke.
"What could you possibly want from me? You made your decision all by yourself five years ago. You didn't need my help then. You never asked for anybody's help. Did you even stop to think about what pain you would cause? No, you didn't, because you never did. Because that's the way you lived your life. All about Charles."
A sense of great sadness rushed over her. Rhea couldn't tell if the sadness belonged to her or to Charles. Or if she had just gone completely around the bend.
Rhea threw her purse on the chair, dislodging the notebook, which fell to the floor. The pages flipped to an older scribbling she'd done weeks ago. Rhea had written "Stillwater," and drawn a heavy black box around the name.
"You want me to go home to Stillwater," she said.
The feeling of sadness lightened. Her phone rang. Rhea looked at the caller id. Her mother.
Around the bend. Definitely.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Friday Snippet May 18, 2007
A scene later in Chapter One. Working title of novel is "While He Sleeps"
Rhea dialed Jeff Towerhouse's number. While she waited for him to pick up, she pulled out the notebook and pen she always kept by the phone to write aimless words and to draw geometrical shapes.
The sound of Jeff's impatient greeting threw her off stride. She hadn't really expected him to answer. Rhea struggled to get her thoughts in order.
"Jeff?"
She heard the intake of breath, then silence. Rhea wrote something on the notebook like a mad woman, pen digging into the paper.
"It's Rhea."
"Rhea."
A host of unspoken words hovered behind Jeff's enunciation of her name. Rhea could almost hear them.
"I know," she said, as if in answer to a question. "It's been awhile."
"Five years," Jeff said in an even voice. "You walked away from the cemetery and apparently kept right on walking."
"Yeah. About that--"
"You know, Rhea, I wouldn't bother. You don't need my forgiveness. It won't change anything, will it?"
Rhea winced. Her pen moved across the notebook like a wild thing.
"Maybe not forgiveness. Maybe I just need to give you an explanation. After we buried Charles, I hated my job, my life. I hated Stillwater. I had to get out."
"And your friends, Rhea? Did you hate them, too?"
Rhea flipped the notebook page and kept on writing. "No," she said, voice soft. "I never hated my friends."
"You said you hated your life. The implication was there."
The scritch of her pen sounded loud in the silence.
"Rhea, I'm having trouble dealing with this right now. What did you want from me?"
"I'm sorry, Jeff. That's what I meant to say."
"Rhea, don't you hang--"
She hung up, breathing quickened, pulse racing. Hearing Jeff Towerhouse's voice had disturbed old thoughts and feelings, like someone raking up dead leaves in the grass. She knew he wouldn't call her; she had paid to bypass caller id, and he didn't have her number.
Rhea dropped her pen, fingers aching. She looked down at the notebook, and felt a cold chill creep up the back of her neck. She flipped the pages. One single phrase covered two pages, line after line.
Help her.
#
Rhea dialed Jeff Towerhouse's number. While she waited for him to pick up, she pulled out the notebook and pen she always kept by the phone to write aimless words and to draw geometrical shapes.
The sound of Jeff's impatient greeting threw her off stride. She hadn't really expected him to answer. Rhea struggled to get her thoughts in order.
"Jeff?"
She heard the intake of breath, then silence. Rhea wrote something on the notebook like a mad woman, pen digging into the paper.
"It's Rhea."
"Rhea."
A host of unspoken words hovered behind Jeff's enunciation of her name. Rhea could almost hear them.
"I know," she said, as if in answer to a question. "It's been awhile."
"Five years," Jeff said in an even voice. "You walked away from the cemetery and apparently kept right on walking."
"Yeah. About that--"
"You know, Rhea, I wouldn't bother. You don't need my forgiveness. It won't change anything, will it?"
Rhea winced. Her pen moved across the notebook like a wild thing.
"Maybe not forgiveness. Maybe I just need to give you an explanation. After we buried Charles, I hated my job, my life. I hated Stillwater. I had to get out."
"And your friends, Rhea? Did you hate them, too?"
Rhea flipped the notebook page and kept on writing. "No," she said, voice soft. "I never hated my friends."
"You said you hated your life. The implication was there."
The scritch of her pen sounded loud in the silence.
"Rhea, I'm having trouble dealing with this right now. What did you want from me?"
"I'm sorry, Jeff. That's what I meant to say."
"Rhea, don't you hang--"
She hung up, breathing quickened, pulse racing. Hearing Jeff Towerhouse's voice had disturbed old thoughts and feelings, like someone raking up dead leaves in the grass. She knew he wouldn't call her; she had paid to bypass caller id, and he didn't have her number.
Rhea dropped her pen, fingers aching. She looked down at the notebook, and felt a cold chill creep up the back of her neck. She flipped the pages. One single phrase covered two pages, line after line.
Help her.
#
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Friday Snippet
Since I'm out of town Friday, I'm posting a short snippet tonight to start off this linking. Hope I figured out what I'm supposed to do. This is the very first scene of the first chapter of my WIP (work-in-progress). I don't have a title yet.
"Charles?" she whispered.
Of course.
Charles had been dead for five years.
Rhea Taylor paused in the doorway of her flat, hand frozen in the act of removing her keys from the door lock. In the deepest shadows of her living room, but still visible, stood her brother.
"Charles?" she whispered.
Hands shaking, she fumbled for the light switch. When light flooded her living room, no one stood there.
Of course.
Charles had been dead for five years.
#
Saturday, May 5, 2007
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