Leah R. Cutter's Blog, page 7

Soundtracks

Like many writers, I create soundtracks for the novels I write.

Not every novel. But frequently.

The current novel, Spoiled Harvest has had a soundtrack for a very long time. Since the 2015 season of The Voice. (It has a lot of Sawyer Fredricks on it.) (The soundtrack for Tainted Waters was created during a different Voice season, and has lots of Matt McAndrew on it.)

I frequently have music playing in my head. Will often wake up to some song on repeat.

For the Spoiled Harvest soundtrack, more than once, my writer brain told me, “Add this song.”

I had no idea why I was adding that song. What it meant.

Eventually, writer brain would explain how that particular song was indicative of this or that part of the plot.

The soundtrack for Spoiled Harvest really tells the story of the book. Which is why I’m not listing out the songs, not until after the book is published, and even then, with spoiler warnings.

Pan’s Pipes is another novel that I’ll write some year, that already has a soundtrack that’s pretty much the entire character arc of the bad guy. (It’s the sequel to Siren’s Call. And yes, most of the songs are Johnny Cash, the American albums. Starting with, “The Man Comes Around.”)

I can’t listen to the soundtrack for Spoiled Harvest while I’m writing. Almost all the songs have words in them. It’s far too distracting. What I’ll do instead is listen to it while I’m making/eating breakfast, to get me in the mood for the novel. Or sometimes in the evening.

Another novel that had a complete soundtrack was The Raven and the Dancing Tiger. (In fact, all three books in the trilogy had soundtracks.) It included songs like, “Birds” by Elton John, “Dance with Me” by Orleans, “Learning to Fly” by Pink Floyd, “All the Trees of the Field will Clap Their Hands” by Sufjan Stevens. Plus a lot of jazz and swing–Peter was a Lindy Hopper…

The Guardian Hound soundtrack had a lot more instrumental pieces in it–George Winston, Zoot Sims–and even some classical.

The War Among the Crocodiles soundtrack included some Edith Piaf (for Yvette, of course), more Sufjan, some Bela Fleck, and even some Journey.

For all three books, the soundtrack wasn’t about the plot, but just songs that reflected the characters.

If you’re curious about The Raven and the Dancing Tiger, you can pick it up now. It’s part of a story bundle. Pay $5, and get 5 stories. Pay $15, and get all ten (including my novel.) If you pay the suggested retail price of $20, you’ll be supporting a bunch of authors, as well as The Pearl Foundation charity.

You’ll find the bundle here: https://storybundle.com/fantasy

Go! Check it out!

 

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Wheee! New Bundle!

Yes! A new story bundle! And I’m in it!

It’s the Women in Fantasy story bundle, curated by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

One of the things I love about this bundle is something Kris points out in her description:

These writers build worlds, new worlds, worlds we’ve never seen before.

In my opinion, that’s one of the most important things not just about this bundle, but about this wonderful age of indie publishing that we live in.

As a reader, I don’t have to settle for the ordinary. For the expected. For the story to proceed on rails from start to end.

Instead, I get to find extraordinary gems, fiction that would never have made it past the gatekeepers of old. Stories that color outside the lines of genre.

And all of these writers have a body of work for you to go through. Try just a taste of their work. You may have found your next favorite author.

The bundle is available for a very limited time only. You’ll find it at https://storybundle.com/fantasy. So you need to act now.

For a mere $5, you can get the first five books in the bundle:

Book of Earth by Robin Brande
Miles to Go by Laura Anne Gilman
Night Calls by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel
Hex in the City by Fiction River
Marny: Feyguard Book 3 by Anthea Sharp

For a mere $15, you can get all 10 books, the first five plus these five more:

Hunt by Leslie Claire Walker
The Raven and the Dancing Tiger by Leah Cutter
Traitors by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Tides of Darkness by Judith Tarr
The Adventures of Myhr by P. N. Elrod

(You’ll note that I’m in both the first and the second five. I have a short story in the Hex and the City Fiction River anthology, and I have a novel in the second group. So really, you want the entire bundle, right?)

As I said before, this bundle is only available for a very limited time. But the stories that you read, and the worlds that these authors create, will stay with you for a very, very long time.

Thanks!

https://storybundle.com/fantasy

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Constraints

I have a confession to make.

I watch reality TV shows.

Not things like “The Bachelorette” or “Big Brother.” No, they’re shows where the contestants must have talent. Like “Face Off,” “So You Think You Can Dance,” “The Voice” or even “Project Runway.”

In the early days of “Project Runway”, when it was more about the creativity and less about the controversy or story, Tim Gunn talked about how the constraints for a challenge actually pushed the designers to be more creative.

I’ve thought about that a lot. How constraints can make you more creative. And I think that in some ways, it’s true.

For example, I’ve recently finished writing a bunch of short stories for a workshop. I would get the topic for the week Monday morning, then have to finish the story and turn it in by Sunday evening. The story had to be on topic, in word count range, and professional quality. Six of those, one week after another.

As my sweetie says, the people doing this workshop are stone cold pros. They can all hit that mark. It’s a skill set that I’ve developed over the years, and I work hard to keep up with the other pros.

The last story that I wrote for this workshop is certainly…different. Unusual for me. I would say unexpected.

I have no idea if other people will like it, if it will sell.

I do believe my sweetie when he says it’s a powerful story.

And I never would have written it if it hadn’t been for the constraints put on me, writing about a particular topic, with a specific length, with only a week to write it. I might not have written it at all. The fear that would have stopped me is the question, “Is this my story to tell?”

I tried to be true to the characters and their situation as I perceived it. And maybe it isn’t my story. But I swung for the fences, and we’ll just have to see.

Another way that I make constraints work for me is time. If I have all day to write, chances are, I won’t, or I won’t start until late in the afternoon.

Sometimes I tell myself, “Okay, you can write this morning. But you only have until noon. Then you have to stop and do other things.” That often gets me motivated to write.

It’s the same thing with ideas. If you have all these ideas, how to choose the right one? (A real writer never asks where do you get your ideas from. A real writer asks, how do you make the ideas stop coming so fast and furiously?)

I have a new novel to start on Monday. It’s the third Cassie novel, Spoiled Harvest. It takes place a little over a year after the events in Tainted Waters.

I may or may not actually start writing fiction on Monday. What I’d really like to do is to write up some kind of outline, first. I may spend my writing time on Monday reacquainting myself with the world and writing up an outline.

Not a detailed outline, that’s for certain. Just a vague, “this is what happens next.” Probably no more than 1000 words long.

Most of the time, I don’t write outlines for my novels. The last novel I wrote, The Glass Magician had a 126 word outline. This “outline” didn’t specify what happened in any of the chapters. Instead, it specified the emotional resonance of each chapter, where I wanted the characters to be in their emotional journey. How they got there was completely creative and surprising. I had no idea what I was about to write, how each chapter would go, what would happen to the characters.

But I knew where I wanted them to be, emotionally, by the end of each chapter.

For Spoiled Harvest I want an outline mainly because there are so many story lines that I have initially, and I want to get a better handle on when they’re going to collapse down into the main plot line.

I do not plan on writing any kind of outline for the next novel, the one I’ll write after I finish Spoiled Harvest. (It’s name is The Immortals’ War) I have a good enough idea of where that novel is going, how it needs to go.

I’ve written three short stories that make up the first third of what will be that novel: Dancing with Tong Yi, War on All Fronts, and The Sweet Shop. All together, they’re about 30,000 words.

With those three stories, I’ve set up a love triangle, a hate triangle, the conflict between the two brothers, as well as the war itself.

The next story in that series is called The Immortals’ War (which is also the name of the novel itself). It will be written like the others, kind of like a short story, with a beginning, middle, and end, though it won’t stand alone. I won’t bring in enough of the backstory to make it a stand alone piece.

The last story for that novel is called, Kiss. And Make Up. It’s the final long piece in the novel.

Then there’s the epilogue.

All together, I anticipate another 60K words. (20K, 25K, and 5K, respectively.) So about 90K total.

That’s all the outline I need for that novel. I kind of know what will happen. Vaguely. Sort of. But this world has made a habit of surprising me, of unfolding at its own pace. I’ll see what actually happens. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

After that, I have no idea what I’ll write next. I have a novella due come fall. More Uncollected Anthology stories between now and the end of the year. More novels, though I have no idea what. I still want to write, The Dwarven Wars and finish out the Clockwork Fairy trilogy. I’ve finished The Princess Troll—just need to get that into production. Then write the last of that triology. I have the next story after The Glass Magician that I need to write.

And other things too. Stories of the heart.

And this is one constraint I don’t miss. I don’t have an editor telling me what to write, generally. I don’t have a marketing department telling me that they can’t sell the latest novel. That I have to go write something else.

I get to write what I want. I get to write what I love. Hopefully, I write it well enough that it will sell. That other people will enjoy the tales I tell myself.

Some constraints aren’t good. At least not for me. And I’m so happy we now live in this brave new world, and I don’t have to worry about them, not ever again.

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Anti-Stodgy Campaign

So I had the one week in January when I felt awesome.

Followed by two weeks of yuck.

I still made my word count every week (10,000 words). Though they were mainly non-fiction words, they were still “salable” — I finished off the next Business for Breakfast book, and started writing the script for the next workshop I’m going to teach (all about how to create covers).

This week, I’m finally better again. Did yoga this morning.

I am not going to a yoga class—I purchased and have been following along with the Nerd Fitness yoga videos—https://yoga.nerdfitness.com/

I used to do yoga all the time. I started as a beginner, and by the time I quit doing it regularly, I’d say I was an advanced intermediate. (I could do handstands, but not unassisted—was working toward that. Could balance for a bit on my own but not for more than a minute. I could also go from standing into a full back bend. But again, I couldn’t do it consistently, and I always needed a spotter just in case.)

I stopped doing yoga because I got injured, then I had a couple bad experiences at the yoga studio where I always went, and they moved. Plus, I’d reached that part in my training where I really needed the guidance of a good yoga instructor, who would tell me, “This is what you should work on next.”

Since that time, I’ve quit the day job, and I really can’t afford them any more.

I’m doing the intermediate (Fire) level Nerd Fitness yoga videos. They’re almost too easy for me. I figure if I can do them consistently for four-six weeks, I’ll move up to the next level.

Today, I did the second of the Fire level videos.

They introduced a “yoga” move that I’ve never done before. The Ninja pose. (There are reasons why I love the Nerd Fitness yoga videos. That they talk about the Mario Brothers Star Pose, or the Assassin’s Creed swan dive, is just part of it.)

The Ninja Pose is a moving pose, not static, shifting from one foot to the other. I found myself frustrated with this pose, mainly because I kept thinking, “I should be able to do this.” Plus, I didn’t understand the “why” of the pose.

After I finished doing the entire video and was able to think about it, I figured out why this was such an awesome pose. Doing it regularly is going to greatly increase my hip flexibility. I also thought of how I should move through the pose, the muscles that I should use, how to better engage my core, so I can do it better, next time.

And I thought about how awesome it was that I had a new pose to learn.

Why is learning something new so important to me? Even if I sometimes complain about it, or get flustered by it?

One of core concepts of my life is the “anti-stodgy” campaign.

There was a scientific study done once, that showed that most people’s taste in music, clothes, food, etc., settles when they’re in their late twenties, and then stagnates. Their tastes never change. They stop trying new things.

I read this study in my mid-forties. I made the decision right there and then to create the “anti-stodgy” campaign. I would try something new at least once a month. I would try a new food. I would eat at a new restaurant. I would take a class in something I’d never done before.

I would try a new yoga move, as I did this morning. I would learn something new.

Learning new things is uncomfortable. I sometimes get impatient with myself. It’s too hard. I’m too old.

But then I remind myself that it’s better to try new things than to stagnate. Learning keeps me young. It keeps my mind flexible and open.

Sure, there are going to be bad weeks. Particularly since I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m in my 50s.

I keep getting back up on that damned horse.

And that’s the most important thing I can do. Besides, you know, learning ninja moves.

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Rebound

You might be thinking that title refers to rebounding back to health after being sick for a week.

Nope.

I was feeling great by last weekend. Was looking forward to kicking butt again this week.

Monday was fabulous. Got a tremendous amount done and was moving forward again.

Yesterday and today have been full of migraines.

For those of you playing at home, I’ve had migraines since I was 18. However, I used to get them 0-2 times a month.

Starting in June 2015, I suddenly started getting 10+ migraines per month. As far as the neurologist can tell after MRIs, etc., it’s just because I’m old and almost post-menopausal.

Today, I woke up with a bad migraine. Pain rated a 7 on a scale of 1-10.

But I’m stubborn. And I made the call that I was going to write this morning, come hell or high water.

So I got up and took things like Excedrin and my Headache-Less herbs (which come from The Herbalist: http://store.theherbalist.com/).

The combination of these, plus some stretching and some meditation got the pain down to about a 2-3.

Which means ignorable.

I wrote 2300 words. Non-fiction. While I can write fiction with a migraine, it’s even more difficult. Would have been much fewer words. Probably only 500-700.

However, I’m paying for that now. Pain is back up, pretty high. I’ve taken my prescription medication and will go lay down for a while in a dark room with an icepack as soon as I post this.

Probably sometime this evening the pain will be gone. I won’t have a brain, however, because of the medication. (Even if the pain isn’t gone, I still won’t have a brain. And that truly sucks.)

That was the choice I made this morning. Live with the pain, and know that it would get bad, rather than have no brain and no words.

I’m forced into this choice too often right now. Sometimes I have to choose to take the pill first, and be somewhat brain-dead all day, so that I can do client work in the afternoon.

Which means no writing.

Those days, quite frankly, are the hardest, because it’s money before art. I’d rather have the pain and still have words.

I’m not posting to get sympathy.

I’m posting this as information.

This is how I choose to live my life. How I will continue to write.

How badly do you want it?

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Reading a Print Book

As y’all may or may not remember, I’m offering a brand new print interiors workshop starting in January. (http://www.KRPWorkshops.com)

To create the interiors for your print books, I recommend using the InDesign software. That’s what I use for the workshop. Yes, there’s a learning curve for InDesign. But if you use some other program, like Word, you are braver than I am.

However, that part of the workshop is merely technical. It’s a lot of instruction about how to do things, select Edit, Find, Change all, etc.

I personally believe the most important lesson of the workshop is lesson one, where I try to teach you how to look at a print book, what the pieces are, and what these pieces do.

That way, as print styles change (and they will!) you’ll be able to stay current, and your books won’t look dated.

For example:

For all print books, one of your main concerns is readability. How easy is it for a reader to read your book? Or how difficult?

Think about how you read a book. You start in the upper left hand corner and end in the lower right hand corner of every page.

Is there a page number at the top of the page? Is it distracting? Is it going to bump the reader every time they turn the page? Do you want to bump your reader? Is that bump deliberate? Do you have a very disturbing or difficult subject manner, and do you want the reader unconsciously unsettled?

There are some literary books that deliberately make it more difficult for the reader to get through the book. They do this on purpose, so that the reader feels a greater sense of accomplishment for having gotten through the book.

Genre books tend to be easy to read and get through.

Young adult books are even easier. The print is generally large and friendly. The space between the lines is wider. Etc. (This may be one of the reasons why young adult books are so popular with older adults.)

There are other tricks that book designers use to make books more or less readable. This is, in my opinion, some of the art of creating a print interior, and why I continue to enjoy it so much.

Yes, there are are technical, craft aspects. And those need to be mastered.

But learning the art can go on forever.

So if you’re interested in learning more, consider signing up for my workshop!

http://www.KRPWorkshops.com

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Drips to trickles to streams

About a year and a half ago, I quit the day job to become a full time…entrepreneur.

I’m not writing full time. I only write in the mornings, as well as a couple of evenings per week. I did not write as many words this year as I would have liked. I wrote more this year than any previous year. But still…

This is the time of year when I look back, ponder, see what and where I went right and what needs a course correction.

When I quit the day job, one of the adjustments that I’ve had to make, that I think I’ve finally gotten a good hold on, is the concept of “streams of revenue.”

Instead of a huge river of money coming in from the single day job, a single revenue source that could support me, I have multiple streams. Not one of them is enough for me to live on. And that’s okay. All together, they make a relatively good income.

(Am I making enough money to be 100% in the black? Not in 2015, though I was close. 2016 may be another matter all together. Depends in part how the workshops go.)

One of my revenue streams is my writing. What I sell to anthologies, to magazines, at Book View Cafe, or on my own.

Another is my publishing. At Knotted Road Press (and Flying Books Press) I publish people other than myself. I make money on their royalties.

I offer production services, such as covers, ebook interiors, print book interiors, web site design, etc.

And of course, there are the workshops that start next year.

One of the streams that I’m considering adding next year is a Patreon. Again, this isn’t a revenue stream that I’d try to live off of. This is another small stream, flowing in toward the bottom line.

If I go ahead and jump on this, one or two of the reward levels will be all about coffee: sponsor me at a specific level and I’ll send you some of my specialty roasted coffee beans once a quarter.

As part of trying to keep up all these revenue streams (and because I’m in search of new clients!) I’m making a commitment to blog once a week.

Of course, there will be some weeks when I’ll miss. Life happens. Or, like in February, I’ll be at a workshop and will be too busy. But I’ll try to hit most weeks–say 50 out of 52.

Is there anything that y’all would like to hear about? More ramblings on coffee and searching for that elusive roast? Musings on current cover trends and what I see coming? More pictures of the kitty? (Of course, there always need to be more pictures of the kitty.)

I’d also like to take a moment and thank each and every one of you who’s read my books, my stories, left a review, has commented on a post, or even just liked a post. It means a lot to me. I appreciate it.

I hope that you’re all having as stress-free of a holiday season as you possibly can.

Cheers!

Leah

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Print Workshop now taking signups!

Starting January 11th, 2016, Knotted Road Press is proud to offer its first workshop on creating print books. And I’ll be teaching it!

Are you interested in learning how to create beautiful book interiors?

This workshop teaches you the basics of font and layout, as well as what goes into the front of a book, the back of a book, and the body of a book.

More importantly, this workshop teaches you how to look at a print book so that you can continue to learn and teach yourself new techniques as book styles change.

This workshop lasts three weeks. It is taught using InDesign, which is the industry standard for creating print interiors. The cost is $200.

To read more about the workshops, click here.

To sign up for a print workshop, click here.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ping me.

 

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

War Among the Crocodiles now Available!

Wheeeee!!!!!

My next novel, War Among the Crocodiles is now available!

I really like this novel, though I didn’t necessarily enjoy the process of writing it as much as I generally do.

I wrote this novel out of order. I had to follow one character’s story, then another, then another. Even after they started interacting, I still would end up just following one character, then writing in the next one. I’ve never written a novel out of order before. I hope my muse never makes me do that again.

Part of why my brain did that to me, however, was because the ending is still so very emotional for me. My brain lied to me about how the book ended.

When I finally got to the ending, I realized it was good that my brain had lied to me. I wouldn’t have been able to write the end with the depth that it needed. I would have shied away.

This is the first trilogy that I’ve ever finished. It will not be the last. I have another Cassie book planned, as well as another Franklin. And a Princess Troll to go along with the changeling one. Plus Dwarven Wars and Immortals’ War.

SO MUCH TO WRITE. Not enough time.

But go! Check out War Among the Crocodiles. It’s available at your favorite retailers.

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.

Free Fiction — Prophesy in Shadows

If you saw the previous post, you’ll know that Knotted Road Press is having a “Going to Grandma’s Sale.”

The Raven and the Dancing Tiger is on sale for one week only for $0.99. Auberon and Darklady’s Carnal Archives are also on sale.

—–

This last weekend was Orycon. It was lovely to see all the people we did manage to see, though I know I missed a lot of people as well! Orycon is always lots of fun for us, though we also did a lot of networking as well.

And for me, that’s a lot of the reason why I go to cons. I do like to give back to the community, to help others along this path that I’ve been going down, as well as to learn what other folks are doing. But I also network, gaining friends as well as potential clients.

Also spent a lot of time on the drive home looking ahead. Knotted Road Press is a lot bigger than it used to be. I’ll have a year-end post at some point. And there are plans, yes, plans! on how to make it bigger still. (Insert cackling laughter here.)

—-

The story this week is, “Prophesy in Shadows.” It’s another story from “The Guardian Hound” detailing the birth of the shadows. I really liked this story. I had a lot of fun telling it, exploring the world of the clans, in particular, the viper clan.

It’s on sale for $0.99 from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and iBooks. Enjoy!

Prophesy in Shadows

Bernardo serves at the primary temple of the Viper clan, in Guatemala, taking care of the mystics who read the sacred smoke.

When Bernardo’s lifelong dream of having his own vision comes true, he must go on a long and dangerous journey, from the high mountains to the sea, and beyond.

Can he trust his traveling companion to get him there safely? Or will the shadows in his vision stop them both?

This story is set in “The Shadow Wars” series, and is part of the novel, “The Guardian Hound.”

Guatemala, 1947

Bernardo woke early, as always, before the singing of the chickens, as his friend Olan had jokingly described their noise. He rose from his simple cot and walked directly across the dirt floor to the porcelain bowl in the corner, not stumbling, though the sun hadn’t yet broken past the horizon. He splashed a little water from a cracked pitcher into the bowl, splashed the sleep out of his eyes and the corners of his mouth, then knelt down on his prayer mat in the center of his room with the ease of habit to start his morning meditations.

First, Bernardo spoke to the gods, big and small. He thanked Q’ukamatz—Plumed Serpent—and Itzanam—Grandfather Iguana—as well as the nameless Christian god and his son. He thanked Saint Lonrad for the thick jungle surrounding the temple, and Saint Patrick for leading the viper clan to safety here in the highlands of Guatemala. He asked the gods to keep his feet on the Green Road and to turn his steps away from the Road to Xibalba, harm, and death.

He also asked them to be kind to Olan, who’d just joined them in Heaven, to ease his friend’s way along the Unending Dagger and the Star Road, and not to play too many tricks on him.

Bernardo paused. Tears pressed against his eyes, but he was also smiling. He missed Olan more every day, but the memories of his friend were warm and bright. As Olan had promised him, Death hadn’t ended their relationship, just made it more complicated.

With a quaking voice, Bernardo sang a joyous hymn to the morning, thanking the gods for another day.

He ended his prayers as he always did, asking the gods to put him to service, to use him as they saw fit.

They had yet to answer that part, leaving Bernardo to chose his own path to duty.

Bernardo stood easily. Despite the age hanging off his bones—he’d been born in the previous century—he was still strong enough to do his share of the temple work. He quickly folded up the rough, handwoven mat and placed it on the foot of his cot so that when he went to bed, he’d remember to spread it out for the next morning’s prayers.

The smell of frying dough coated in honey greeted Bernardo as he stepped out of his cell. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance. The cooks were still trying to impress the new recruits with fancy, sweet dishes instead of what they usually served: Tamales with pork, hen soup, beef stew with potatoes and carrots.

The cooks didn’t realize it was hopeless. Few of the viper clan came to the temple anymore; even fewer of the young would stay. Just over a dozen lived there full time anymore.

The mystics had predicted that long ago, after the treachery of the raven clan that had decimated their people.

Still, Bernardo didn’t blame the cooks for trying. Didn’t he still petition the gods daily, asking for his fate?

A dull green canvas awning had been stretched from the squat building containing the kitchen to tall, wooden polls a few feet away. Half a dozen wooden tables with benches were scattered under it, with the students huddled around one.

They used to fill all of the tables every summer. Now, so few gathered.

“Buenos días, Diácono Bernardo,” called the students, using the polite term that referred to all the temple workers.

Bernardo nodded and waved at the students, though he didn’t stop; instead, he walked directly into the sweltering kitchen.

Rafe stood in front of the wood–burning stove in the corner, his long black hair braided, a stained white cap absorbing the sweat on his bronzed brow. He flipped the frying dough with a deft flick of his wrist, giving Bernardo only a nod while he sprinkled cinnamon and sugar across the pan.

Bernardo opened the tall wooden cabinets next to the squat icebox. At least the cupboards were fully stocked—the viper clan might not come in person to the temple anymore, but they still knew their duty, and they tithed.

“May I help you?” came the annoyingly smooth voice of Gezane.

Bernardo bit back his rejection. He didn’t trust Gezane, an American. Gezane was always looking for a way in, wanting to advance himself, insinuate himself in the elder council. Like all youth, of course he knew better than they did.

“Certainly,” Bernardo said, swallowing down his disapproval. He directed the young man to pour the grain for the porridge the mystics liked to eat, while he cut up plantains.

Gezane focused on his work, his tan face serious, his long, silky black hair pulled back. He wasn’t a handsome man—his cheeks were too broad, his eyes set too far apart, and his lips thin and miserly, as if he hoarded laughter and smiles.

After they’d assembled the trays and poured the xocolati, a cold chocolate drink made with vanilla and peppers, Gezane volunteered to carry a tray to the temple.

Bernardo knew what the young man was doing. He’d thought that way himself, when he’d been younger: If he were near the mystics, maybe a prophecy concerning him would suddenly materialize out of the sacred smoke.

But Bernardo had sacrificed his entire life taking care of the mystics, while fewer and fewer prophesies formed, waiting to be read.

He’d thought, once, that maybe he could become a mystic; the smoke had spoken to him, telling him to stay here, at the temple.

But the smoke told almost all to stay. Only a few obeyed.

The usual calm filled Bernardo as he walked from behind the kitchen, along the white road that wound through the thick jungle, to the gray stone temple. Brilliant macaws flashed through the green canopy, screeching their disapproval. Monkeys chittered from the edges, not drawing closer until after the meals when the temple would throw the remains to them. Small voles and mice scattered through the underbrush, the sound of rustling leaves like rushing water.

Dawn broke around the edge of the temple just as they stepped clear of the jungle, bathing the open air with a golden light. Bernardo paused, smiling, wondering if this was Olan saying hello.

The pyramid rose far above the tops of the trees. Bernardo had seen paintings from when the temple itself had been painted, and covered in murals of blue, red, green, and yellow, depicting stories of the gods and heroes, while lifelike vines had crept up the sides, with flowers that never faded bursting on the edges.

The only paint that remained were the names of viper clan’s heroes and saints, painted on the flat rise of the stairs. During the Festival of Remembering, in the autumn, the names would be repainted, and possibly repositioned, if there had been a recent hero.

Bernardo couldn’t remember the last time the names had been changed.

Gezane stood behind him, shuffling from one foot to the other, impatient as always.

Bernardo stayed where he was, breathing in the morning for another long moment, trying to show the young man patience. His viper soul rose up briefly, circling around him, as if basking in the light as well.

Then they walked into the cool pyramid. The thick stone held in the night’s chill and would stay cool all day. The songs of the four mystics floated through the air, harmonious for once. Bernardo paused, widening his eyes so he could see in the dimly lit outer hallway that circled the entire temple, then he led the way through a dark, narrow passage into the inner sanctuary.

The sun had found its way through the high windows on the slanted walls of the four–sided pyramid, staining the air with its golden glow. Dust motes danced through the beams, weaving through the sweet smoke of sacrifice. Each long side held a carved seat, but the mystics weren’t at their places.

Instead, the mystics slid gracefully across the center of the open space, stepping lightly in the cool, beige sand, their plain robes stained with neglect. They danced with blind, white eyes, their faces turned toward the apex at the top, singing their wordless songs. They never touched each other, never spoke to each other, yet always seemed to be in wordless accord, weaving esoteric patterns around each other.

Bernardo didn’t know why the mystics sometimes danced, what it meant. Prophesies would come regardless if they sat or walked, slept or sang.

Gezane came closer behind Bernardo, then stood still for once. It occurred to Bernardo that few had seen this graceful dance of the mystics.

“We will wait,” Bernardo said softly, “for a little while.” There was no way to know how long the mystics would dance, but they wouldn’t eat until afterward.

Bernardo let himself be carried away on the high, soaring notes, floating with the song and the smoke, until he heard Gezane sigh. He took pity on the impatient young man and said, “Let’s go. We’ll come back with lunch.”

Bernardo turned around, ready to leave.

Gezane stood stock still, staring over his shoulder.

“What is it?” Bernardo asked, half turning.

The mystics had aligned themselves into a straight line, their eerie white eyes all staring at him. Their song continued, suddenly clashing, as they raised their left hands to point at him.

Bernardo felt himself falling to the ground in slow motion, the breakfast porridge spilling over his shirt as his feet dissolved in smoke.

He tried to tell Gezane, “This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I’m not the one supposed to have a prophecy.” He wasn’t certain if his mouth even contained a human tongue anymore, or if he spat venom instead.

Or maybe the gods had finally decided to use him, to make him of service at last.

Ξ

Shadows stalked the earth.

Bernardo saw a rich man, locked away in his house of a hundred rooms, with lights on in each. The shadows still slipped under the threshold, around the window sill, stalking the man until they surrounded him and sucked him dry, leaving behind a husk of darkness.

Fruit rotted in the orchards, while black blight swept over green fields, turning them barren overnight.

Soldiers shot their weapons into nothing, killing only their friends around them.

How could they fight a shadow? It had no form, nothing to grasp.

Even the brilliant light of mankind’s worst bombs couldn’t kill them.

The temple fell as shadows overtook the mystics. They spewed blackness over the jungle, killing the parrots, the monkeys, the iguanas, then the trees.

Soon the world was sucked dead, the mountains flattened, the oceans boiled dry.

And the shadows moved onto the next world.

To stop them, Bernardo had to stop a girl—no, a clan—from mingling the shadows with their magic.

The tiger clan.

Members of the hound clan were already infected with the shadows. But no matter how the shadows pushed, the hound clan didn’t, and never would, practice enough magic for the shadows to grow stronger.

But the tiger clan…they were the most magical of the clans.

Through them, the shadows could take hold and move from the clans out into the world.

Bernardo saw his chance with the tigers, as if through a peephole. It was slim, like a single beam of light through solid clouds. Just for an instant, a single day, would he be able to stop the shadows from mixing with all the magic from the tiger clan.

Just one chance to turn the tiger warriors away from darkness.

Bernardo saw his path: from the highlands of Guatemala to the coast, to a ship south to Panama City, where he would take another ship west to India and Calcutta.

If he delayed, even a day, the world might be lost.

Bernardo wept as he watched cities turned to ash, vile filth spewed over all things green and good, the chilled Road to Xibalba the only path to take.

He would find this girl. And stop her.

Before the shadows took over the world.

Ξ

Cold, gritty sand pressed against Bernardo’s fingertips, as slippery as the shadows he’d tried to grasp. The world was fading, eaten by darkness. Bernardo had to find his way back into the light. But where was it? He couldn’t see or taste it.

Then he heard the songs of the mystics, floating ahead of him as if they were walking in front of him through thick jungle. His viper soul rose, gliding along the melody, undulating through the air as if through water, leading Bernardo back to the real world.

Wet, slimy porridge slid from Bernardo’s shirt, up along his neck and dripped onto the ground. Golden light still poured through the windows set high on the temple’s slanting walls, and sweet traces of incense mingled with the smells of spilled plantains and xocolati.

Gezane popped into Bernardo’s view. “Diácono,” he said, relief in his voice. “Are you all right? You had a vision,” he added, awe making his voice breathy.

Bernardo nodded cautiously, though his head felt like a leaf fluttering in a breeze, attached to his body by the merest thread.

“Can you save us from the shadows?” Gezane asked.

Bernardo wondered how much of his vision he’d shared as he’d experienced it. The mystics sometimes spoke everything out loud; other times, they merely gibbered and could only explain later what they’d seen.

In reply to the boy, though, Bernardo carefully shook his head. All he could do was stop the spreading of the shadows. They’d still live on, and they’d try to attack the other clans.

Bernardo sat up slowly, Gezane coming to his side to help. He rubbed his hand over his chin, across his cheeks. They felt as numb as when the coals of Olan’s funeral pyre had grown cold and he’d found warmth in the local firewater.

“Do you have to go alone?” Gezane asked. While the tone of his voice was innocent enough, his face shone with hope. The boy desperately wanted to go with Bernardo, to be part of this vision, to maybe have his name written on the temple stairs.

If it had been Olan asking, Bernardo would have gleefully agreed. They would have driven each other crazy—Bernardo planning every aspect of the trip, setting timetables and packing with care, while Olan would travel with whatever he’d thrown into his pack the morning they left, then talking Bernardo into abandoning his plans for shortcuts or adventures.

But Olan wasn’t there.

Bernardo’s viper soul stirred. Did he not trust Gezane? Or was his viper half merely anxious to go?

Gezane had spent his life in the outside world. He knew how to navigate it. Maybe he could be a good guide.

And maybe Bernardo could teach him some things as well, like patience and prayers.

Slowly, Bernardo replied, “I don’t have to travel to Calcutta alone,” his voice full of gravel.

The young man’s glee was as bright as the golden light still streaming through the temple windows, bright enough to dim Bernardo’s questions and regrets.

Ξ

The sound of a great crowd floated above Bernardo and Gezane as they approached the market. When they turned a corner, the noise exploded into a cacophony greater than the jungle during the growing season. Everywhere Bernardo looked strode the people of Guatemala City: grandmothers with their loaded baskets, young mothers riding herd on their passel of children, even packs of young men on the prowl.

“Why are there so many people?” Bernardo asked Gezane, stopping in the middle of the street. He was disgusted by the quaver in his voice. When had he turned into this querulous old man? He tramped down on his fear, but it kept rising back up, like a boiling pot with an ill–fitting lid.

“This is a normal crowd,” Gezane said derisively.

Bernardo flinched, but he kept his hand wrapped around the young man’s biceps. Gezane’s pulse fluttered under his fingertips, and the young man kept starting and looking over his shoulder.

He was nervous as well, though he’d never admit it.

Bernardo had no idea what Gezane could be scared of here. But he knew better than to say anything. Gezane would just push him away, maybe abandon him here amidst all this chaos.

They walked ahead through the crowded street, bypassing the market and going directly to the docks beyond. The tall buildings made of brick with grand windows and stonework gave way to squat wooden sheds and the stench of open sewers. Automobiles roared on the next street. As if in response, the lone wail of a train called out. Long piers ran out into the water, with great ships, large and angular, waited like floating temples, accepting their acolytes and their tithed goods.

“Which way?” Bernardo asked, looking up and down the waterfront. Their boat, heading down to Panama City, was docked at pier fifteen.

“How should I know?” Gezane snapped. Then he turned and looked at Bernardo. “I’m sorry, Diácono,” he said softly. “I don’t know why I keep saying things like that.” He looked scared, pale under his tanned skin.

“We are neither of us ourselves,” Bernardo said. He’d felt an uncomfortable pressure, as if his skin was too tight and needed to be shed, since they’d left the temple.

Gezane looked up and down the street, taking a deep breath, then he flashed a grin at Bernardo. “Let’s ask,” he said.

Bernardo shook his head but followed after Gezane, who’d been adamant that they never ask anyone for help for most of their trip.

When they inquired which direction their dock lay with a pair of day laborers who were slopping whitewash on a decrypted store front, they were directed further north.

Bernardo heaved a huge sigh upon sighting the faded, weathered sign for their dock. “We made the first leg,” he said. He felt a smile crack his face, and realized the good humor had recently been as rare as sunshine during the rainy season.

“We did,” Gezane said. “The ship should be easier,” he added quietly.

Bernardo nodded. He paused, then made himself ask, “Do you feel it too? The pressure?”

Instead of snapping at him, Gezane gave a sharp nod. “As if the air fights us.”

An involuntary shiver passed across Bernardo’s shoulders, as if cool vines were suddenly drawn against his bare skin. He’d thought it had been only him, out of his element, traveling so far from his home.

Suddenly, Bernardo’s viper soul rose and twined around his human soul. He stopped and looked around. Was there something on the pier? Something threatening?

No one was close enough to see, so Bernardo encouraged his viper soul to rise more. Color drained out of the world and the broad wooden boards beneath his feet grew gray like driftwood. The smell of salty water and dusky seaweed rose, overwhelming the scents of the unclean city.

Horror slammed into Bernardo, as solid as Olan’s fist, when the darkness near the entrance to the ship resolved into wisps of shadows, wrapped around the raised stumps decorating the edges of the pier.

They were waiting for them—watchers. Scouts.

Bernardo glanced behind him. No, not scouts. Shadows pressed in, all around him.

Had he opened the door to them with his prophecy? Is that why they hounded him, unseen, unbeknownst to him?

And Gezane, he amended, when he saw the young man looking back at him, his fear as dark as the shadows draped over his shoulders.

Bernardo sent a quick plea to the gods to help them both.

But he knew that the gods rarely answered anyone’s prayers.

Bernardo shook off his viper’s gaze and marched down the pier. The fear and age he’d been feeling weren’t his. They came from his enemy, the shadows, who were trying to cloud his mind, distract him from his mission.

“It’s going to be all right,” he assured Gezane, his old strength returning. Seeing the shadows—knowing they were there, that it wasn’t just him—had helped him return to himself.

Gezane stood up straighter, the cruel lines leaving his face, the cunning returning. “Yes, it will be,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

They were going to have to fight off the shadows, who were watching their very thoughts.

Though he couldn’t see them, Bernardo knew the shadows had drawn back. They were all right, now.

But for how long?

Ξ

Bernardo’s stomach rolled with the ship, feeling unmoored in his body, empty and adrift. However, the smell of the rice from this morning’s breakfast made his nausea rise and his mouth flood with bile. He could barely manage even a few mouthfuls of water.

Another wave splashed against the bow. Bernardo couldn’t contain his groan.

“Shut up, old man,” Gezane snapped.

Bernardo focused on the young man, grateful for the distraction. “What do you know of suffering? You’re too young to know anything.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. They were fueled by sickness and shadows.

But the journey on the ship seemed like an endless road through the dark underground world of Xibalba, with no stars to guide his way, his viper soul drowned by the endless water surrounding them.

“I know enough to enjoy life. To live it. You didn’t have the cojones. You stayed locked away like a delicate flower behind the thick walls of the temple.”

“I wish I’d never left it,” Bernardo groaned as the ship heeled over again. They were staying close to the coast, never really leaving the sight of it, which meant the ship was in constant motion.

“Then go back! I can finish the mission.” In the dark of their tiny room, Gezane’s eyes took on a strange gleam. “Let me do it. I can see out your prophecy. Alone.”

“No,” Bernardo said, shuddering. He made a feeble attempt to push himself up on his bunk bed. “Don’t you see? That’s what they want. The shadows.”

Gezane shook his head. “No. It’s you. You don’t want to be an afterward when they teach the children of our journey. Just a footnote.”

“I don’t care about fame,” Bernardo protested, swaying with the ship. “I just want to help. To be of service to the gods.”

“You’ve done your part. You saw,” Gezane said.

“And I must finish it,” Bernardo said stubbornly.

The vision had shown only him warning the tiger clan. Not Gezane.

“If it doesn’t finish you first,” Gezane said, pushing himself off the wall where he’d been slumped. He walked over to the door of their room and opened it.

“Wait, where are you going?” Bernardo asked, hating the quiver in his voice.

“Out. Into the fresh air.” Gezane paused, his dark eyes still flashing that odd glow. “Smells like death in here,” he added cruelly, slamming the door.

“No, wait,” Bernardo said, shivering and afraid. He wanted to get up to follow, but he couldn’t hold himself up anymore; instead, he fell back onto his bunk.

The shadows were eating them alive, here. Bernardo could see them now, even without his viper soul.

They were determined to stop Bernardo from reaching the tiger clan in time.

But Bernardo was just as stubborn. Seasick or not, with Gezane’s help or not, he’d make the journey.

Though he’d come to realize what happened afterward no longer mattered. Gezane had been right: It did smell like death in their room. Bernardo would never survive the trip back up the mountain to the temple. His ashes would be scattered far from his home, and never mingle with Olan’s.

Ξ

Bernardo woke again to blessed stillness and quiet. Even after a week off the ship, he still marveled at it. Golden morning light filtered by white lace curtains splayed across the foot of his bed. The viper clan had paid for a luxurious hotel after the elder living here had seen how ill Bernardo had become.

Bernardo stretched, satisfied. The bed was soft and the room was full of heavy, dark furniture. It weighed Bernardo down; he didn’t understand the need to possess so many things.

But they were leaving that day, at dawn, and Bernardo wanted to savor every moment on ground that didn’t shift with the waves. Plus, the elder clan leader had provided Bernardo with a charm to help him fight his illness. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time.

Bernardo stretched again, enjoying the light, comparing how weak it looked to the light in the temple, up the mountain, closer to the sky, when it finally occurred to him: This wasn’t dawn light, but mid–morning.

The trunk that the elder had provided Bernardo no longer sat next to the door.

Bernardo sprang out of bed and raced to the desk. The leather wallet with the money, tickets, and papers was still sitting there, but instead of being plump with purpose, it was hollow and empty.

Quickly, Bernardo slid on light, drawstring pants, a striped shirt, and sandals, then raced out the door. The laborers were no longer in the streets; they’d already all gone to their jobs. Instead, it was just the idle folk, with time on their hands, strolling to the market or the park.

Bernardo pushed through them, the inevitable crowds of the city, racing to the docks.

The pier looked empty, but still Bernardo ran on, all the way up to the edge of the water.

Nothing waited for him there. The ship was gone, with Gezane, corrupted by shadows, on it.

The next ship to Calcutta wouldn’t leave for a week or more.

The shadows had won.

Bernardo would never get to Calcutta in time, would never be able to warn the tiger clan. Adrian couldn’t fulfill Bernardo’s prophecy, but in his arrogance and clouded mind, he thought he could.

Old man tears rose to Bernardo’s eyes, futile as age. He’d wasted his life at the temple, and now, he’d killed them all. He was a disgrace. Olan would be ashamed of him.

Bernardo turned to go…and felt himself crumbling to the ground, the smoke of prophesy rising.

A second vision, one of Gezane, filled Bernardo.

Gezane had ruined this chance with the shadows. He’d have to give his own life to remove the disgrace from his name, his family’s name.

But he couldn’t be told the entire vision.

Gezane had betrayed them to the shadows. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t do so again.

Then another vision attacked Bernardo as he lay drooling and gasping on the pier, showing him the end of his own days. Sailors would find him and lock him away in a cell for the insane, mumbling prophesies to himself until the elder of the viper clan found him, much too late.

Bernardo would die in that cell.

Gezane would carry a cup of Bernardo’s ashes back to the temple, to mingle them with Olan’s, as Gezane sentence was laid out, spells cast upon him, the fate of the world resting no longer with them, but with a hound prince yet to be born.

Crossposted from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so here or there.