Chantal Boudreau's Blog, page 37

Love and Hawthorne – A Short Story Valentine

I’m skipping the Hawthorne part today, and just offering up some love in honour of Valentine’s Day. Just to warn you, this is not fantasy romance, horror romance or anything sci-fi. This story is straight-up mundane romance, not my usual fare, so read at your own risk. I wrote it at the request of a friend for another blog, but she ended her involvement with that blog before I could get the final product to her. Since I have nothing else planned for it, I figured I’d make it this year’s Valentine’s Day card.

So here you go J

Waiting in the Wings

I still remember the first time I met Eric. He didn’t strike me as much at first. He wasn’t particular tall and he didn’t have the build of an athlete or a male model. He also wore glasses, but then again, so did I until I got my contact lenses and then laser eye surgery. Besides, the glasses gave him that intriguing intellectual look.

But three things did manage to catch my eye. The first were his hands – he had perfect hands, wide with long powerful-looking fingers, hands that spoke along with his mouth, although they used gestures instead of words, hands that charmed me with their expressiveness. The second was his smile, sometimes only a hint of mirth when his mouth curled up slightly at the corners in a really suggestive way, like he had a secret that he wasn’t about to share with you. Sometimes that smile would broaden into something much warmer and more alluring. When he smiled like that I found I couldn’t look away, but I didn’t think he ever noticed me staring. His attention was usually elsewhere.

And then…he had those eyes. They weren’t particularly blue, more of a blue-grey actually, but when he looked up through his glasses, from underneath just that little section of bangs that hung over his face, he had such intensity to his gaze, like he could see everything well beyond the surface and would be able to look deep inside your soul if he chose to. If that was what he wanted to do, there wasn’t anything you could do to stop him.

Eric and I were very young when we met, both still in high school and we were happy to be friends at first. Okay…honestly? He was happy to be friends at first. My heart tended to start racing whenever he was around me. Even just hearing his voice, as soft spoken as it was, made my blood rush and my cheeks flush, but I tried to hide it. At the time I knew he wasn’t interested me, and I didn’t want to risk our friendship, so I resorted to playing pal.

How did I know he wasn’t interested in me, you might ask? Because he had made it quite clear he was interested in Lisa. All the boys in our high school theatre troupe had a thing for Lisa. She was pretty, blond, perky, curvy and had big boobs. I, on the other hand, had glasses, plain brown hair and was a little on the thin, flat side. So I got to hear all of his lamenting about how much he liked her and how she didn’t know he existed – go figure. I resigned myself to being his buddy, and left it at that.

Things stayed that way until the last day of high school, which also happened to be our final cast party. I was going to stay with relatives for the summer, working a job on their farm that paid better than the average fast food joint, and then after that I was headed to the local college, about three hours drive from my home. I hadn’t had the courage to apply to any of the big theatre schools, but Eric had and he had gotten in. His travels would require a plane flight, not just a three hour car ride. I didn’t know how long it would be before I would see him again, if ever. Because of that, I did a very daring thing, perhaps something I’d have considered foolish at the time.

Our cast party turned out to be a beach party. It happened to be a very dark night, so the bonfire was a welcome addition for more than just roasting weenies. Without it, we wouldn’t have been able to see our own hands in front of our faces, let alone anyone else. Despite this, Eric still asked me to take a stroll with him down the beach, in the pitch black. Of course I said yes, there’s no way I would have refused him. As we strode off into the darkness, listening to the soft sounds of the rolling surf, I came up with one of my craziest ideas ever. I would wait until we got far enough away from everyone else and then I’d just kiss him. If I embarrassed myself too much in the process, what did it matter? We both would be going our own separate ways the very next day anyway.

Once I had made this decision, my heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear him confessing how nervous he was about going away, the reason he had asked me to walk with him in the first place. He vented about how frightened the idea of living in a big city made him, and he wondered if he had taken on more than he could handle. I tried to sound reassuring and told him it was just jitters and that he would settle in soon enough. This was hard to do as my own nerves made my knees knock, my heart flutter and my mouth go dry. I chewed on my lip a little once he fell silent. We were completely surrounded by darkness and far away from the crowd. It was “now or never.”

I reached out for his hand in the blackness and he let me take it, thinking it was just a gesture to comfort him. It wasn’t that at all. I need to know exactly where he was or I could end up kissing empty space, it was that difficult to see. In one quick gesture I pulled myself in towards him and put my hand on his cheek to guide me. I didn’t want to end up kissing his nose or ear. Then I lurched in his direction and did it. His lips were soft and warm and surprisingly relaxed. I had been expecting him to tense up the moment he realized what I was doing. I held my breath as I kissed him, and was still holding it when I drew away, waiting for a response.

When I didn’t get one right away, my heart dropped into my stomach and a horrible panic struck me. I assumed he was trying to find a kind way to reject me, Eric being that kind of guy. I couldn’t face that; I dropped his hand and turned, running off down the beach the way from which we had come. I didn’t worry that I couldn’t see where I was going. I was grateful I hadn’t been able to see whatever shocked expression I believed he must be wearing on his face. He called my name out, but by then, I was too ashamed to turn back. I didn’t even bother to say goodbye. I grabbed my things from beside the bonfire, without saying a word to the rest of my friends, and drove away. I didn’t want them to see my flaming cheeks, burning with embarrassment, or my tears of shame. At that moment, flush from the encounter, I truly was a “Lady in Red,” Eric’s and my favourite song at the time.

And that was it – we both went our separate ways. I pretended the kiss had never happened, my own coping mechanism. We e-mailed one another but the conversations were strained and mostly just small talk. Eventually, he made new friends and stopped e-mailing me as often. I figured he had just gotten bored of me, a mousy high school friend who had crushed on him – a small town girl in a lowly theatre program at a small town college.

I didn’t end up dating anyone else. People either weren’t enough like Eric, and just didn’t live up to what I was looking for, or they were too much like him and made me homesick and miss him all the more. My poor romantic life was in a bit of a bind – a no-win situation.

When I finally finished college, my work life followed a similar unsteady path. There weren’t exactly that many jobs out there for a wannabe actress without moving to a big city. Where I was located, there were a couple of dinner theatres, a single full-programmed theatre which often brought in established outsiders to fill their roles – a bigger draw – and a few summer programs that ran out of the parks and tourist venues. I worked a couple of the latter, and made a bit of money, but as summer came to an end those venues closed, and suddenly I didn’t have a job.

It soon became clear that if I didn’t take a job waitressing or as an office clerk or the like, I wouldn’t have enough money to pay my rent. None of those options would leave me with enough left over to save for a move to the big city, to try and get a real break. My parents offered to allow me to move back home. I could get a similar job there and pay far less in rent if I were living with them. It would only be temporary, I promised myself, just until I had what I needed to move onward and upward. I didn’t want to be another one of those failures to launch.

At the same time, working a menial job wasn’t going to keep my acting skills up, so I added my name to the volunteer list at the local theatre. If they were looking for something to audition for a part, I wanted them to keep me in mind. Better a free gig then no gig at all.

I got a call much sooner than I was expecting. One of my high school theatre troupe friends, Joey, was directing the latest production at the theatre. Unlike me, he had never gone away to college and had stayed very active in the town’s lone theatre.

“Shelly? You don’t know how glad I was to see your name on the volunteer list. I have this crazy part, in this romantic comedy, and I just can’t seem to find the right girl for it. We’ve held multiple auditions and gone through twelve girls already, but it’s a very challenging role and they all left for one reason or another. You have to take this part, no audition required, but the script only involves four parts, two leads and two minors, and you’ll have just a month to learn your half of the script before the show opens. Tell me you’ll do it – please. I’m begging you. You’re the only person I know who could pull this off.”

Joey was right. I had a great memory for lines, but what would essentially be a half of an entire play in that amount of time seemed a stretch even for me. I decided it was going to all depend on who would be the male lead. If it was someone I had worked with before, someone familiar with whom I was comfortable, I could do it. Being at ease would be especially important with a romantic comedy.

“Who’s the male lead?” I asked.

“Your old friend, Eric. Good incentive, right?” Joey sounded hopeful.

My breath caught in my throat and I practically choked on my words.

“But Eric’s still supposed to be in the city.”

“Yeah. He’d still be there, but his father has cancer and is going through treatment. Eric came home to help out his mother until his father is better. Eric needed something to help him take his mind off of things, so he auditioned for this show. That school taught him so much, Shelly. He was good before, but he’s really good now. So you’ll do it, right?”

“Who are you talking to?” my mother asked. “Whoever it is, have they ever got you blushing.”

Mom was right. My cheeks were almost as hot as they had been that night at the beach. I was flustered and feeling a little faint. How could I face up to Eric, after all this time? I certainly wouldn’t be at ease playing opposite him in a rom-com. I’d probably even be expected to kiss him at some point in the play. Then again, after all the time we had spent together as friends, how could I let him down if they truly needed me?

“Okay,” I told Joey, in barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do it.” I was pretty sure I’d regret saying that.

Joey brought over the script and I spent every waking moment between shifts memorizing it. It was funny, quirky, raunchy and for the female lead, embarrassing at times, which explained why they had gone through so many actresses. Local girls weren’t the type to stray very far outside of their comfort zone. I, on the other hand, welcomed a challenge.

Before I knew it, with only a week of memorizing under my belt, the first rehearsal was upon us. I wouldn’t have time to go home and come back in again after work, so Joey dropped the key off with me so I could let myself into the theatre early.

“Your primary costume will be waiting for you in the dressing room, for fitting. You might want to put it on so you’ll be ready when Janice arrives. Be a doll, would you, and get coffee going in the urn, too. Then you can check out the stage – they’ve made a few changes while you were off at college. I think you’ll like it,” he informed me.

The dark empty theatre was kind of eerie, my footsteps echoing around me as I walked in. Shivering slightly, I made a beeline to the dressing rooms. I got coffee going in the urn there, like Joey had asked. Then I poked around until I found the room they had selected as mine. A red lace dress was slung over the chair. Thinking of Eric, the colour made me smile.

I slipped into the dress and glanced at myself in the mirror. I was surprised at how mature I looked. I had filled out a little, and fit into the dress quite nicely – Janice wasn’t going to have much work to do. The glasses were gone, exchanged for contact lenses at the time, and my hair had been permed and highlighted. I laughed quietly to myself and pressed a hand to the mirror. If I was lucky, Eric wouldn’t even recognize me and all awkwardness could then be avoided.

Breathing in the invigorating smell of the coffee, I left the dressing room, my copy of the script in hand, and wandered out to the stage. As I approached from the seating area, I could see Joey was right. They had expanded it, and there were now larger curtained wings on either side as well as a loftier space overhead. I started climbing the steps onto the stage, when a voice made me freeze at the very top.

“I picked that dress out for you, you know. The red makes a bold statement.”

“Eric?”

He had been waiting there in the wings. He stepped out once I spoke his name, as if I had just summoned him. He had changed too. He wasn’t wearing glasses either. He looked taller, even though he wasn’t – he just held himself with much more poise and confidence. But he did still have that way of looking out at you with that intense stare from underneath his bangs. My pulse raced and my fingers went numb. I couldn’t bring myself to keep looking at him and I dropped my gaze.

“Still can’t look me in the eye, eh?” he said. “That was cowardly, that thing you did at the beach party. It was cowardly, and it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give me a chance to react. You didn’t give me the time to let it sink in. Why would you do that?”

I just shook my head, not really knowing how to answer that. This was a confrontation I had been hoping to avoid.

“Don’t clam up on me now. If we’re going to do this thing, we have to clear the air. Talk to me, Shelly. Answer my question.”

“I didn’t have the nerve to stick around. I’m sorry,” I admitted, my voice hoarse.

He took a couple of steps towards me.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner if you felt that way about me? Why did you leave it until the point where you knew I couldn’t do anything about it anyway?”

“You liked Lisa…”

“Everybody liked Lisa. That was infatuation – teenage lust. But I didn’t love her, and you didn’t give me the chance to see if I could love you. We were already close. We already had so much in common.”

I turned away with a shrug, feeling guilty now as well as embarrassed.

“And then the cold shoulder afterwards. What was that? You pushed things, you made me think of you differently, and then you shut me out. You hurt me, Shelly. That hurt.”

I was starting to think that agreeing to help Joey was a big mistake. My inner being was in complete turmoil now, a chaotic mixture of frustration, misery and regret. I wanted to walk away, but I couldn’t move. I sighed.

“I was scared,” I murmured. A single tear rolled down my cheek, one I hadn’t managed to hold in.

I heard him approach and despite the fact that I was staring at the stage floor, he got close enough to come into my line of sight.

“That’s not fair either. Now you’re making me feel like the bad guy.” Eric gently clasped my chin and lifted my face, forcing my eyes to meet his. He brushed away the tear with his other hand. I almost melted right there on the spot, and not because of the hot stage lights. I almost dropped the script I clutched, too. “None of that,” he said.

I trembled under his touch, my face burning again, feeling both frightened beyond words and thrilled at having him so close and making contact with me.

“You’re not the bad guy,” I whispered, barely able to speak. “You never were. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

He smiled, the slight mischievous smile, with the barest curling of the corners of his lips.

“And you call that a kiss. You hardly made it to my mouth, but that’s what happens when you try to kiss someone you can’t even see. You’re supposed to look at someone when you kiss them, Shelly. You can close your eyes to savour it, once it starts, but you don’t go in blind. If that’s how you think it works, we’re going to have to rectify that. We can’t have you fumbling through the kisses in this play. I’ll show you.”

Before I could protest, his arm was around me and he had swooped me up into a kiss. It was a million times better than that first kiss on the beach, his lips meeting mine, with a sense of warmth and urgency, his blue-grey eyes offering passion and his perfect hands stroking my back sensuously. I was tense at first, both startled and excited, but I eventually relaxed into his grasp. Then it felt like I imagined it should be: a thrill running through me and my entire body tingling, his tongue massaging mine leaving me with the desire to just pull him into me, my breath coming in tiny little aroused gasps once he pulled away. My cheeks were on fire again, but not out of shame this time.

Eyes bright, he locked my gaze with his own, still holding me tightly in his embrace.

“See,” Eric said. “That’s the way you’re supposed to do it.” His smile had broadened into that full-mouth smile that had always been able to bewitch me.

Speechless, I nodded. I could still feel his warmth on my lips. An even stronger hunger for him had been ignited inside me than the one on that nerve-wracking day at the beach. I wanted more than just a kiss, now.

“So now that we have that out of the way,” he said with a sigh, as he nuzzled at my neck. “How about we do a bit of catching up on what we missed since we both went our separate ways? We can go up to the green room and practice our lines until the others get here. I vote we start with scene four, act two.”

And with that, he released me, disappearing into the wings again.

I stood, like a statue, watching after him for a few seconds before I fumbled with my script. I flipped it open to scene four, act two of the script. It was our very first love scene, one that included a passionate kiss.

Now it was my turn to smile, as I hurried after him, as eager to rehearse that scene with him as ever.

I can’t find the words to explain what it meant to me that day, finding him there, waiting for me in the wings. I’ll treasure that moment forever.

Love and Hawthorne – Kindred and Complementary

In Nathaniel Hawthorne’s letters to Sophie, he suggests they are kindred spirits (but not like brother and sister.) On several occasions he also notes their differences and how much he appreciates them. I think the best romances capture this effect in its protagonists. They are kindred spirits, and must have something in common to bring them together, but they are also opposites in some ways, in order to be complementary personas as well. Often one of the pair is physically strong with a more dominating presence while the other, despite being more submissive, has more spiritual strength and a nurturing nature. Perhaps one half of the pair is very analytical and logical-minded, while the other is the creative half, more attuned to emotion – or one is serious and responsible while the other tends to be playful and light-hearted. A mix of characteristics can prove to be a boon to a relationship, allowing the couple to support each other’s weaknesses by means of their own strengths. These differences can also result in conflict from time to time, adding some interest to your tale. Resolving those conflicts, finding an area of compromise, can in turn bring those characters even closer together.

Here’s an excerpt from the next in my Masters and Renegades series to be published, Prisoners of Fate. The story brings together two characters who are very opposite in nature but who discover more than one area of common ground as events unfold. By the end of the story, once they have resolved any points of contention, they find themselves sharing a bond neither of them would have anticipated. Here’s one of their moments of conflict:

Anna and Ebon stood in front of the ornate doorway to the Inner Sanctum, large, dark and intimidating. By stepping part way through the doorway, they had been able to determine that there were five locks of varying complexity on the door, each one bearing a physical trap, and three magical traps set on the door in general. While the physical traps were not a threat to the golden man and his apprentice as long as they remained in contact, the magical traps, on the other hand, were a different situation.

“So much for scouting ahead,” Ebon said. “Sure, we can tell Urwick what to expect, what will keep us from moving forward. How’s that going to solve our problems?”

“You should give Urwick more credit than that. He’ll be able to figure something out. He always seems to have an answer for everything.”

Anna re-examined the door. The intricate carvings that adorned its surface had been etched with care and particular attention to detail.

“He never had an answer for me,” Ebon replied coolly.

Anna felt the rush of rage as it rose within him, a common occurrence. He was always so angry. It had been difficult enough to deal with Ebon before she had shared in his emotions. Now, as his anger travelled through her, her eyes flashing red and her heart racing, she wanted to shake him, to scream at him to let it go. She had become numb to her own rage many years ago. Having to share his feelings threatened to undo everything she had struggled to repress, to uncork years of frustration and despair. Terrified by the idea, she released him.

“No.” He seized her wrist, not allowing her to withdraw. “It’s about time you should be angry. You are always running from it, or trying to hide it. You need to feel it.”

“This isn’t my anger, it’s yours.”

“Then show me yours. Let me feel your rage. I know you must be angry about something.” His ire pushed at her like a forceful wind, and after multiple attempts of trying to evade him, she finally pushed back – hard.

“Is this what you want?!” she asked, her hostility bludgeoning him like a fist.

Anna was angry about many things, and the most recent of them involved Ebon. Those were the ones she allowed to surface. Anna re-experienced her rage at Ebon’s cruelty, the cruelty he had exhibited upon her realization that her attempts at rescuing him had turned her into something less tangible than he had been. She relived the moments of fury when he had continuously pushed her away, hateful and repulsed, until he had decided that he needed to use her. She manifested her wrath in response to the fact that he was quite willing to sacrifice her for the sake of preserving his own powers, just as he had indicated to Shetland.

Their bond worked two ways, and as Ebon had sensed her longing and despair that still lingered from past events, Anna was also aware how he had gone from wanting nothing to do with her, to objectifying her completely. If she had allowed it to, his total disregard for her would have destroyed her. And now Ebon understood that she knew that too.

Surprised by her backlash even though he had asked for it, Ebon let go, stepping back a pace. By bullying her, as he often had in the past, he had opened the lid on something that wasn’t about to go away just because he had tired of it. Anna seethed before him, and the crimson flames of her eyes burned into him.

“I want my life back,” Anna demanded. “I will not exist simply to feed your need for power, or to fuel your ego. You may not care about me. You may have never cared about me, but there are others who have, and there will be others that will. You may need me, but when this is over, I won’t need you anymore and that’s how I want it to be.”

Ebon glared at her, not sure how to react to her outburst. This was not the Anna he knew. He had expected her to be so weak, so pliable. He had been depending on it.

“You are always so spiteful,” Anna continued. “You push everyone away like they intend you malice, whether they deserve it or not, and you torment anyone who tries to get close. I know it’s a defence mechanism, but that doesn’t make it right. Hurting others to protect yourself is wrong. I won’t be your victim anymore.”

In response, Ebon was tempted to make a sarcastic comment, or to say something hurtful to crush Anna’s spirit and to get her to back down. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. She really had taken the upper hand here. While she did need Ebon to communicate with others and to manipulate physical objects, that did not carry with it the same importance for her as accessing his magic carried for Ebon. She was only isolated without him. He was helpless without her. Instead of offering a counter argument, he wordlessly turned and started back towards the others.

The Blurb on Other People’s Words – Spooky Showcase

Spooky Showcase by Alan Draven

This collection included the following:

The Paradigm – This story has a nice noir flavour, its narrative is smooth and most of the dialogue, while a little cliché at times (I suspect intentionally) is good. The one quirk that irked me a little was that the boy, Terrence Graves, does not always speak like the 12-13 year old he is supposed to be (adult vocabulary and phrasing). I do like the play on words with character names and the characterization in the story really builds on that noir ambiance. A few sections dragged a little for me because noir is not one of my preferred genres and the goons and guns and snarky banter lose my interest after a while – I was hoping for more “spooky”. I think a diehard noir fan would really enjoy this, however. I was a little disappointed that there were still many unanswered questions at the end, but overall it was a decent story.

Beyond the Doomed Cave – The title of this sounded more my style – proper horror. It does, however start out with a fairy-tale air, the cautionary kind, with misbehaving children choosing to ignore warnings and talk of a Baroness involved in witchcraft. Once again, while the story was fun, spookier this time than the first story, and the characters were interesting, the dialogue for the children wasn’t always very realistic. For example, the average child won’t use a sentence like “Do you think it’ll sustain our weight?” I’d expect them to say something more like “Do you think it’ll hold us?” – simpler language when communicating with their peers. In all, it is an entertaining story with a ghostly tale at its core.

The Rattling Man – A bogeyman tale set during Halloween and probably the spookiest of the stories in this collection with a focus on kids, although still not hardcore horror (more like the kind of scary story you might tell around a campfire.) The dialogue was good in this one and the plot suspenseful. I particularly liked the ending.

A Madman’s Atonement – My favourite in the collection, it was a good mix of crime and horror with serial killer elements and a hint of noir flavour. Characterization was well done and the story held my interest, even though it was fairly long.

Vengeance is Mine – This was a story rife with historical references regarding Jack the Ripper. I normally wouldn’t expect to like this story that much because I think Jack the Ripper has been done to death in genre fiction, but I was surprised at the combination of both analytical detail and gory suspense, as well as some added twists and turns, so it actually worked for me. I did really like the vengeance element implied in the title. It gave the story an interesting spin.

While it had its quirks and a few editing issues, overall, this was a collection worth reading and could easily appeal to readers of varied taste. If you enjoy noir, crime thrillers, horror and historical fiction, there’s something in here that may be right for you.

Women in Horror Month

I’m taking a break from love and Hawthorne to commemorate Women in Horror Month. I consider myself fortunate to not only be published in the genre, but to know so many wonderful women who also write horror. There are more of us than you might expect, just as chilling and terrifying as out male counterparts. I’ve been lucky enough to participate in three women only genre productions, one of which come out later this month, an anthology called Mistresses of the Macabre from Dark Moon Books. The editor has organized series of interviews with all eighteen of the talented and spooky contributors and you can check them out along with editor, Lori Michelle’s remarks at the Last Writes blog.

This wasn’t the first all female anthology in which I’ve participated. While Mistresses of Macabre offers a variety of horror tales, my first venture into an all female anthology was also an all zombie anthology, Hell Hath no Fury from May December Publications. I can thank this publication for some enduring friendships with sisters in spirit who share a love of the genre, such as Rebecca Snow and DA Chaney. It also contains some kick-ass zombie – I enjoyed the read.

My third all female romp has been competing in the annual Wicked Women Writer competition, hosted

by Horror Addicts. It has been a fantastic experience, my first with podcasting. Writing to an odd theme has proven challenging, and my results, “Rats” and “Thanksgiving Special” were certainly interesting. I’m actually looking forward to trying my luck again in 2013. I’m also hoping WWW will attract even more participants this year.

It’s nice to see a growing presence of women in horror and the chance to celebrate female contributions to the genre. If you have a favourite Woman in Horror, use this opportunity to let her know how much you enjoy her work.

Love and Hawthorne – Soul Connections

“Soul mates” is a term you’ll hear in connection with people in love who consider themselves made for one another. In Nathaniel Hawthorne’s love letters to Sophie, he implies that they are already bound by the soul. He refers to her letters to him as “spiritual food” that helps keep his soul alive. He also compares her love to religion, “purifying his aims and desires”.

Considering true love is supposed to take root in the soul, it’s hard not to make some reference to the soul when writing a romantic relationship into your plot that is far deeper than warm fuzzies or simple infatuation. It is difficult to explain otherwise, that kind of all-encompassing connection between two people.

I’m guilty of resorting to describing a soulful bond between characters on more than one occasion. Here are a few examples (the first one involves telepaths):

Camille raised her eyes to his, digging that hole for him even deeper. Then, to make matters worse, she flung her mind wide open to him, so that he was aware of every raw thought and feeling there. She had been wounded by this warped lottery, although she had hidden it well, and she desperately sought comfort, but the hardest part for Royce about this sudden exposḗ was her current state of arousal and how much she did want him. That was too much for him to resist. This abrupt move drove all thoughts of Katrina temporarily out of his mind, and there was a cascade effect, as their mutual attraction reinforced itself when they delved into each others’ psyche. His thoughts interlocked with hers, sweeping away any remaining reservation like it was a fine layer of dust. Straying beyond the point where he could deny impulse, he found himself kissing her. The tendrils of her thoughts teased at the inside of his head, exploring everything that he was the way that her tongue explored the interior of his mouth.

-Elevation

 

But Addy was older now; she was becoming a woman, and she yearned for something more than friendship, just as Lee did. For some inexplicable reason though, she wanted that from Javan and no one else … Javan – intangible, unreachable and only real to her. It didn’t make any sense, but nothing much ever did in her messed-up, frustrating life. Maybe it was his words: “you’re my purpose, my reason for being. You’re my heart.” Those were the sentiments she couldn’t let go of. They had gripped a part of her soul that was now his and his alone.

-When You Whisper

 

After commiserating with Finch, Clayton made his way to Dee’s room. She did not try to stop him from coming in, but she was completely non-responsive when he tried to communicate with her. He stayed there with her, speaking with her gently and soothingly about little mundane things that had happened around the Academy over the past couple of years, despite the fact that she ignored him completely. He watched her the whole time he spoke to her, refusing to let the soulless look of her grey eyes dissuade him from his efforts. This would be one of many days he would have to do this, he knew that, but he would persist, and remain constant. That was what she needed, so that was what he was prepared to do.

He stayed with her until he had to go teach his classes, but he returned at every opportunity. He continued to sit and talk with her until he ran out of things to say, and then he would stay there anyway, just holding her hand. This was the way it was for many days.

-Lines of Opposition (Masters & Renegades #5)

 

I have enough of these references to fill many blog posts because that is the type of connection to which many of us aspire…finding that soul mate.

Love and Hawthorne – Pet Names

You have to wonder why pet names are so common with lovers.  Nathaniel Hawthorne refers to Sophie as “my Dove” in his letters and plays with the notion of wings, flight and a lightness of being, teasing that if she leaned upon his arm as they walked together, rather than him supporting her, she would lift him up.

The metaphors and similes Hawthorne’s letters use are enchantingly romantic, with poetry to his prose. As you read the letters you can’t help but smile. Flowers, birds, sweets, warm, fuzzy animals and celestial bodies are often used as pet names – things with fragile allure, delightful comfort or permanent beauty. The dove reference is not a surprise, a bird often associated with romantic love.

While lovers may choose a pet name at random or vague association, this is not always the case. It can be interesting to write the origins of a pet name into a story.

I offer another excerpt from the sixth book of Masters & Renegades. After this book, as the series continues, one of my characters, Dee, refers to her love interest as her “Moon”. This is where that pet name came from:

With a sigh, Clayton released his spell on Dee and tried to relax, a difficult thing to do because of the agony that still burned in his calf. Free to move again, she approached him.

“I’m sorry, Clay,” she said, settling onto the pier next to him. “I think you were right. If I had gone in there, I probably wouldn’t have come out again. I managed to fight the pull for a while though. I got you out. Thank you for coming back for me. If you hadn’t been there, I think I would have walked onto that burning stage. The draw was so strong.”

She noticed Clayton was smiling with great enthusiasm, despite his injured leg.

“You fought the pull for me, Dee. You did it. You came for me. I wasn’t sure if you could manage that. I wasn’t sure if I meant that much to you. I was hoping I did, especially considering the other bits and pieces I had seen. I had to live through this after all. Logan hasn’t thanked me yet.” The clairvoyant chuckled, and then grimaced in pain.

“You didn’t think you meant that much to me? What would ever make you think that?” Dee said, looking hurt by this statement. “You mean everything to me, Clay. I may not always be the best at showing it, but I thought that you knew me better than that by now.”

“You just have so much going for you,” Clayton mumbled, his face reddening. “Sure, you have a few issues to deal with, and you have to keep working on your controls, but you’re so strong, and so capable. I’m weak, Dee. I don’t have that much to offer. My clairvoyance is as much a curse as it is a gift and I’m useless in a fight. That – and I know you still think about Nolan, and that you still miss him. I’m not surprised, you told me that you would, but I can’t help feeling like I’m living in his shadow.”

“Oh, Clay,” she exclaimed, exhaling heavily, and then reaching over and giving him a hug.

“The leg,” he whimpered. “Watch the leg.”

“Nolan was kind of like a supernova,” she said quietly. “He shone very briefly and very brilliantly when my sky was very dark. He left an impression that will never go away. Anything that shines that bright always does. But using the same type of analogy, you’re my moon, Clayton. No matter what happens, I can always depend on you being there, glowing softly, whether my sky is dark or filled with stars. A supernova is special. They aren’t something you see every day, but they aren’t something that you can rely on either. On the other hand, I need my moon – it’s not just special, it’s essential. I count on it. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

Clayton nodded, savouring the moment. He would rather be her sun, shining with his own light rather than merely reflecting hers, but at least it was something he could hold onto for now.

The Blurb on Other People’s Words – Robert Dean

In the Arms of Nightmares by Robert Dean

If I had to describe this in one sentence I would call it American Psycho mixed with Apocalypse Now and a hint of Hannibal Lecter, backdated (ranges from world war II to the post-war era.)

I liked the events set with gritty realism in war-torn Philippines, post-war Paris and US. Characterization is strong, horror is gripping and for the most part ambiance and imagery is vividly described. Unfortunately, it was the nightmares that are mentioned in the title which I enjoyed the least. The dreams and surreal musical interludes proved to be my least favourite. The author does surreal well, and I like the way he shows Arthur’s obsessive nature is tied to music and food, but while I enjoy a taste of surreal, I found these scenes excessively long at times, to the point where the scenes started losing my interest and detracting from the story. Then again, I prefer substance to style and someone who delights in highly-detailed, lengthy descriptions with vague connections to the body of the plot might love the nightmares– they certainly did reflect a strong aspect of horror. I also found some of the metaphors where the author was trying to be complex and artsy just didn’t work for me – I much preferred it when he kept it simple and real.

There were a few minor editing issues as well, particularly in Chapter 17 (Example: “a part ” vs “apart”, little things like “the” in where it shouldn’t be and “a” not being where it should,) and a few instances of redundancies and repetition in Chapter 24. If these types of things bother you as a reader, you may find them distracting.

One thing I did especially like was the progress of the story, the way certain events exacerbate the degradation of Arthur’s psychological condition (no surprise that they would) and how the decline of his mental state continues with the influence of alcohol and anger management issues (probably the result of PTSD). Some of the later scenes in the story really tap into that.

Where this story was good for me, it was exceptional and definitely well worth the read if you enjoy horror, enough to look past the few things that didn’t sit as well with me.

Love and Hawthorne – Words to Woo

Today I started reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s love letters to the woman he would eventually wed, Sophie Peabody. I was really curious to see what his words would be like when he wasn’t story-telling and his intentions weren’t publication but rather to win the heart of a woman the letters suggested he greatly admired. I think what I found truly charming was where he suggested she was stronger in spirit than him, and while he wished her physical health better strength, he hoped the same would not apply to her spirit or she might outpace him.

That’s not the type of focus you see in modern romance novels. It rarely seems to be about admiring another person’s character. The hero will often go on about how beautiful the heroine is and how he can’t live without her or the heroine will comment on the hero’s physical strength, and how he makes her feel safe, but you typically won’t hear them praising each other’s strength of spirit. It’s sad, really. Modern romance is more about lust and less about love, but I think this is in response to popular demand – hence the popularity of 50 Shades of Grey. People just don’t value strength of spirit the way they used to.

Not that physical attraction isn’t important, we have to acknowledge our physical inclinations when choosing a mate, but if you’re going to spend the rest of your life with that person, it should certainly be about more than just that. We all age and beauty fades.

Here’s my excerpt for the day, a little something from The Enemy of my Enemy: Masters & Renegades #6. I like this relationship because this couple truly does strengthen each other’s character. Logan starts off selfish, ego-centric and insecure, and Angellica is cynical, overburdened by choice, and fighting alcoholism, but they bring out the best in each other, partially because they recognize the best in each other where others don’t, and in the process they come to conquer these flaws:

Knowing that there would be no one else around, the Master mage wandered into the seating area and sat with a sigh, staring at the empty stage. He still wished that Clayton had never compelled him to make this trip, and longed for Anthis and the Academy. That was when he noticed the occasional shifting shadow in Angellica’s loft over the stage.

Logan was curious. Angellica was likely up there, considering that she had made few appearances anywhere else during the course of the day, but he could not help but wonder at the movement. Even from where he sat at the highest point at the rear of the rows of seats, he could only occasionally see the top of her head in the dim light of the loft. He glanced behind him at the only spot in the theatre that would give him a better vantage point, the technician’s booth. Acting on impulse – not a thing that Logan was prone to do – he rose from his seat and quietly walked over to the ladder leading up into the booth.

The Master mage clambered up the ladder and settled into place behind the open window of the booth, now having a much clearer view of Angellica in the loft. The acoustics of the building also worked in his favour there, and he was able to hear the gentle notes from the colourful music box that lay open on the chair next to her bed, despite the distance between them. He also understood the reason for her movement. Angellica was dancing.

It was nothing like the wild gyrating she and Shasta had performed the night before around the bonfire, spinning and leaping to the drumbeat. This was delicate, and refined, filled with passion. Logan was not sure he had ever seen anything more beautiful. It was also, however, filled with sadness, and the Master mage could swear it looked like she was actually dancing with somebody, even though no one else was there.

The ghost, he thought. Shasta had mentioned something about competing with a ghost, someone by the name of Sammy. That was with whom Angellica was dancing. He felt as if he could sit there and watch her for hours.

That was when Logan realized, shamefully, that Shasta might have been right about something else. Maybe he truly was one of Angellica’s so-called strays. He had already done a few things, since meeting her, which he never would have imagined himself doing before now. The thing he was doing at that very moment was but one example. Normally, he would have considered this kind of spying unethical and invasive. Instead, he found it strangely acceptable and highly rewarding. As opposed to chastising himself and leaving Angellica to what appeared to be some sort of ritual to deal with unpleasant emotions, the Master mage stayed where he was and continued to observe, wondering how often this Harv, who had been returned to the FFP the day before, had sat there and watched her go through similar motions.

Eventually, after winding up the music box several times, Angellica finally exhausted herself and allowed herself to collapse onto her bed. The dancing had not seemed to help her state of mind, however, Logan noted. She looked crushed – defeated. He found it difficult to see her look that way. Once again, impulse took over.

He clambered onto the ladder again, half sliding, half jumping back into the seating area, and silently jogged down the centre aisle. Defying her instructions as he had before, the Master mage scaled the ladder to her loft, something he figured that Harv had never had the nerve to do. Arriving at the top, he climbed into the loft and stared at her, not sure exactly what to say first. Angellica noticed him there before he could say anything. She barely lifted her head to look at him.

“Go away,” she muttered, and then let her head drop back down on the bed. This helped to propel him to speak.

“I think you owe me a dance,” Logan said softly.

He expected her to resist, maybe to even get angry with him, but he could not hold himself back. Instead she sat up with little energy, as if the fire had gone from her. She perched on the edge of the bed, with her hands in her lap and her shoulders sagging.

“I don’t dance – except at parties,” Angellica claimed, staring at the floor.

“And now you owe me a dance, and the truth,” he insisted.

“The truth?” she laughed half-heartedly. “The truth is, this place is going to burn down, and there’s nothing that I can do to prevent it. The truth is, everyone here expects me to come up with a solution, a way to save us all, and I have nothing. The truth is, I’m just as scared as the rest of them, but I’m not allowed to show it.”

Logan drew closer. He hated seeing her this way. He had to offer a solution.

“We’re going to find a way to handle this. We’ll come up with a plan, tactics to deal with the Jadorans, and the Redsuns and the dogs, when they get here. We’ll set out ways for everyone to escape, when the time comes. Shasta can help – you know that she’s more than capable. Clayton and I will do everything within our power to assist Emrys in getting that law overturned, and when the moment arrives that this place does go up in flames, we’ll retreat, we’ll rejoin and then we’ll rebuild,” he assured her. “It’s not over yet, Angellica.”

“We? Why would you say we? You don’t owe us anything. You don’t need to be here. When you’ve done whatever you promised the prince that you would do, you can just go home.”

“If it were only that simple. A few days ago, I would have agreed with you. I don’t think I can do that anymore.” The words slipped out of the Master mage’s mouth before he could stop them. This was not the kind of thing that he would have been saying a week ago.

Angelica got to her feet and faced him, wearing an expression of confusion.

“So that was the truth,” he murmured. “How about allowing me that dance, then?”

She crouched and wound up the music box, setting it back on the chair afterwards. Without any reluctance, she strode over to Logan and took his hands in her own, glancing up at him expectantly. He was frowning slightly, and did not move at first.

“It’s kind of hard to dance while you’re standing still,” she suggested, smiling.

“Wait,” he responded.

Logan released her hands and walked over to the music box. At that point, he made use of a novice spell that he had learned many years before. He cast the incantation and the melody from the music box changed completely.

“There,” he whispered. “That’s better.”

Angellica glanced back at her keepsake, a gift from Sammy. She turned her gaze to Logan, puzzled.

“Why did you do that?” she asked him.

“Because I want you to dance with me, not Sammy,” he answered honestly. “No more dancing with ghosts.”

This time when he returned to her, he did start moving with her, enjoying the subtle harmonies of this new music. He welcomed her interest in dancing with him this time. In fact, he revelled in it, and found that it stirred something in him that nothing else had ever awakened before.

Love and Hawthorne – Where to Start

February is the month of love, so I’m dedicating my blog posts for the month to the notion and emotion. I’m also starting my new effort to improve my writing by researching and analysing some of my favourite classic writers. I’m going to start with Nathaniel Hawthorne because he wrote across multiple genres and I was surprised by just how much I loved his work when I first started reading it. I’ve read his classic novels, The Scarlet Letter, The House of Seven Gables, and collections like Twice-Told Tales and Tanglewood Tales, but I discovered, with his work being in the public domain, that there are oodles of free novels, essays and short stories available for my Kindle that I have yet to read – legitimately free, not pirated. Since it ties in with my theme, I’m going to start with his Love Letters and move on from there.

I also plan on posting excerpts from my own work that matches the theme, excerpts with elements of love and romance. I figured I’d begin with this one, from The Blood Is Strong. It is a good example of young budding love, the kind that comes with the approach of adulthood:

As Alder crested the hill by Ice River, he caught sight of Willow, sitting on a log amongst the reeds. The strawberry-blonde was fishing, and singing to herself. She had a sweet voice, but not very powerful, and was too shy to sing in front of others. It was accidentally coming upon Willow one day, carelessly trilling away with the mistaken impression that she was all alone, that had first captured Alder’s attention.

Of course, he was also drawn to the fact that Willow had a sylph-like quality to her, unlike her little troll of a friend, Clover. The taller slender girl was warm, receptive and brimming with positive energy, also nothing like the cranky little she-bear she spent the majority of her time with. He had chastised Clover for leaving Willow alone, and while he was serious about worrying over the blond girl’s safety, he was pleased at having the opportunity to spend some time with Willow without Clover present. He had been working at winning the sweet girl over to his point of view, and he believed that he was succeeding, slowly but surely.

    He considered approaching her, but decided that he wanted to wait and just watch her for a little while. Observing the girl brought the kind of thoughts to Alder that were supposed to be reserved for adults. It was the only rule he had seriously considered breaking, his own instinct winning over his logic. He had already convinced himself that Willow would be his mate someday, so it didn’t really matter if they chose to break that rule. She would be the perfect chieftain’s mate, loving and supportive, yet still wielding a will of her own. With less than a week to the Rites of Passage, perhaps he could convince her to surrender to this notion too.

    Alder gazed upon her for a few moments longer, not wanting to disturb her obvious reverie. She seemed pleasantly lost in thought, casually bobbing her line in the river and dangling her toes in its cold water. That’s when Alder caught sight of some movement on the far bank. The person who crept there, well camouflaged in greens and browns, could not be seen by Willow, completely hidden by the tall reeds. But from his perspective, perched near the top of the hill, Alder could see the black haired man easily. He thought for a moment that his heart would stop beating. He recognized all too well the tattoos that marked the prowler as one of the Black Talon Tribe. The man began to stand, so he could see over the top of the reeds well enough to aim his blowpipe at Willow. Without another moment’s hesitation, Alder threw himself down the hill.

Ah – young love…anyway, I’m looking forward to a month lost on thoughts of love and Hawthorne. I’ll also be settling on what to work on for my next novel before I start my vacation on the 11th. Until next time J

An Intro to Earth-Breather

Here’s a teaser tale to the Blood Runs Deep, the second book in my Snowy Barrens Trilogy (available in February 2013). Earth-Breather has a significant supporting character role in the book after a brief appearance in the first book, The Blood is Strong. This tale describes how he got his name and became a medicine man.

The Hole

    Bone-Cracker roused to darkness and pain. Disoriented, he tried to remember where he was and why, but shock clouded his thoughts and dirt clogged his mouth and nose, preventing him from thinking much at all. He gagged and choked, digging blindly at the musty earth that threatened to suffocate him. Eventually, he cleared away enough to breathe freely again, but his sides ached terribly with each inhalation. To make matters worse, his mouth was too dry to allow him to clear the taste of rancid soil from his tongue simply by spitting and swallowing. He felt as though the ground had opened up and swallowed him, only to partially regurgitate him again.

“Hello! Can anyone hear me?!”

Bone-Cracker’s voice echoed around him, like a doppelganger hiding in the darkness and mocking his plight. He managed to lift his head a couple of inches and caught the barest hint of light from overhead. Apparently, he wasn’t entirely submerged in the dirt.

Nobody answered.

Fuzzy memories gradually began to return. He had been on a solo hunt, hoping for his first tattoo. He wanted to earn some status in his tribe, and he would never find any respect as long as he remained unmarked. They had just let loose a slave who had been deemed undesirable and Bone-Cracker had been hot on her trail, reaching her before any of the other hunters-in-training. He had been lifting his blowpipe to his lips, inching forward in the brush, when suddenly there had been only emptiness beneath his feet, and he had fallen. He couldn’t recall anything beyond that moment – until now.

His prey had no doubt escaped and that made Bone-Cracker angry. There would be no tattoo for him this time.

He couldn’t understand how he had fallen. He had taken that pathway through the forest and there had never been a hole there before. Somehow, it had miraculously just appeared there, an unexpected hazard where none had existed

Bone-Cracker called out several more times, as loudly as he could muster with a throat gratingly dry and hoarse, but he still received no response. Nobody necessarily would happen upon him. He had been all alone on the trail of the frail woman, an older slave who had been mistreated and malnourished – an easy win until his fall. She would be long gone, grateful for chance to get away. It wouldn’t last. Someone would catch up with her before she reached the border of Black Talon terrain and claim the mark that should have been his. He gritted his teeth and tensed his fingers at the idea.

Since no one was likely to come to his rescue, Bone-Cracker decided he would have to scale his way out of the darkness and back to the surface, not that far above him. But as soon as he made his first move to try to get to his feet, his body was wracked by the severest agony he had ever experienced in his life. His leg feeling like it was on fire, the darkness claimed his senses again.

###

Bone-Cracker was horribly dizzy when he came around the second time. His face was pressed into the dirt again and he was fairly certain he had both swallowed and inhaled some of the earth this time, the inside of his throat lined with gritty residue. His tongue lay swollen and dry within his mouth like an old piece of hardened leather, and his lips were beginning to crack and bleed.

His hole had grown frigid and when he lifted his head, he could no longer see any light above from where he shivered in the dank cool soil. Night had fallen. They might have already noticed him missing back at the village.

Two thoughts dominated all others, aside from just being grateful that he was still alive. He had to locate his water-skin and get some water back into his dehydrated system, and he had obviously injured his leg in a serious way as a result of his fall. He edged his fingers along in the blackness, down to his belt. A torrent of relief flood his shivering body when he found the cured-hide vessel was still where it was supposed to be, undamaged and two-thirds full. It took great effort for him to remove the cap without seeing what he was doing and lift the water-skin to his lips with trembling hands. It took even more effort for him to stop himself from gulping down the full contents all at once. He took a few wary sips instead. It could be several more hours or even days before anyone might find him, and he had to make the water in that skin last, rationing it carefully.

When the tremors had stilled a little and he had managed to return the cap to its place, Bone-Cracker decided reluctantly that he had to assess the damage to his leg. He knew it was bad – a simple sprain or a bad bruising would not have caused him that much pain. He still wanted to gauge exactly how bad. Since he couldn’t see his leg, he would have to feel it in order to figure that much out.

Reaching forward, Bone-Cracker carefully slid his fingertips along his thigh, brushing the skin there ever so gently. When they met with the wound, even though it was only the slightest of collisions, the pain was so jarring that the Black Talon man almost fainted yet again. The bone was clearly broken, the point of the break jutting up through his flesh. With his leg in that state, there was no hope that he would manage to escape his earthy prison on his own. If nobody came to his aid, he was doomed.

He didn’t bother trying to call out again. Nobody would be looking for him in the dark, if they would look for him at all, and he needed to preserve every iota of energy. He leaned forward to try to sniff at the wound. If it had already started to rot, he’d likely be dead before anyone reached him. Bone-Cracker could smell the sharp metallic tang of blood mingled with the musty odour of the dirt surrounding him, but nothing putrid – just the natural earthy scent of gradual decay. That suggested he at least had a couple of days to live, if thirst or the cold didn’t claim him first. He couldn’t even curl up into a ball to preserve heat and resist the latter. Any attempt to move his leg brought with it a wave of extreme pain and nausea.

He did his best to wrap his meager summer hides around him and with teeth chattering, he let sleep claim him.

###

Bone-Cracker awoke to a suffocating heat as opposed to the cold that had threatened him the night before. Once the sun had risen, summer’s warmth had turned his hole into a make-shift oven, baking him as much as it had chilled him during the evening hours. He was grateful that he had been unconscious for much of this time after his fall the prior day. It also explained why he had roused so parched.

His stomach groaned and gnawed at him as he greedily swigged rank and lukewarm water from his skin. He drank only a little at a time, but by the time the worst of the day’s heat had passed, he only had about a third of the water-skin left. He knew he could withstand the hunger pangs and associated weakness for quite a long time, but once he ran out of water, his thirst would claim his life quickly. If someone did not come to his rescue soon, he was a dead man.

Bone-Cracker could only hope his tribe had sent out trackers to find him. They might just assume him dead when he did not return with the others, or worse – they considered his retrieval not worth the effort. He had friends, but none of them exactly close. His father had died during an unsuccessful raid when Bone-Cracker was barely more than a boy. He had often wondered if the death had been truly accidental; his father old enough that a return without spoils meant he would be forced out of the tribe, to either perish or turn Rogue. Either path was considered shameful. Instead the aging man had died with some status still intact.

Upon his father’s death, Bone-Cracker’s mother had quickly arranged the mating of his two sisters to the first willing men she encountered, before finding a new mate for herself – becoming another man’s second. At that point she had discarded Bone-Cracker like yesterday’s bad meat. There wasn’t a man in the Black Talon who was willing to take on a dead man’s children unless, perhaps, they were family. Weak stock, they would claim, because of the parent’s premature death, even if that death was accidental.

So with no family to speak of, little status within the tribe and few friends who may or may not search for him, he had little hope to cling to. There was always the chance that someone might stumble upon his hole unintentionally, but the likelihood of that was even slimmer. He was as good as dead.

Gripping his mostly empty water-skin the way a mother might embrace a beloved child, he tried to push these dreadful thoughts out of his mind, waiting for the night’s cold to set in once again.

###

Bone-Cracker slept fitfully that night and he awoke feverish. He caught a whiff of rot as he roused that morning, sluggish and shivering. He was certain his leg, only achy and numb as long as he made no effort to move it, had become infected. He no longer noticed the emptiness in his stomach, but a desperate thirst plagued him constantly along with alternating bouts of sweats and chills and he could feel himself weakening from one moment to the next. By what he figured was mid-day, his water-skin was empty. Now it was just a matter of enduring his suffering until death released him from it. He allowed himself to doze a little, hoping it would come soon.

To his great surprise, Bone-Cracker woke again before night returned, this time to the sound of voices overhead. His heart surged with renewed hope; perhaps fate had decided to be merciful after all. He cried out as loud as he could manage to, the effort grating at his raw throat. A few seconds later, a silhouette moved to block out most of the meager light that spilled in above him.

“Is someone down there?”

It was one of Bone-Cracker’s tribe-mates, although he couldn’t tell which one. Someone had found him. He heard two others murmuring behind the man at the opening. With three saviours, they ought to be able to fetch him out of the hole fairly easily. Bone-Cracker’s excitement made him tremble, jarring his leg sufficiently to cause him pain, but he was thrilled enough that he could ignore it for the moment.

“Yes – yes!” he croaked as loudly as he could. “It’s Bone-Cracker…I fell in here while we were hunting that released slave the day before last. I wasn’t sure if anyone would find me in time.”

There was a heavy pause that made Bone-Cracker extremely uncomfortable.

“Why wait for anyone else to crawl out again, Bone-Cracker? I can see plenty of hand and footholds from here. Why not simply climb out again?”

“I – I couldn’t.” Bone-Cracker’s enthusiasm was deflating rapidly. “I broke my leg when I fell. My injury prevented me from climbing out on my own.”

More silence. Bone-Cracker’s mood shifted drastically from elation to dread. This wasn’t the reception he had been anticipating.

“Bone-Cracker…a hunter-in-training? Do you have any tattoos?”

Bone-Cracker’s heart sank. So this was the cause for hesitation. The only reason his potential saviour would ask if he was marked would be to check on his status. Even just one tattoo would have been motivation for rescue, ensuring the possibility of a reward on their return to the village. No marks meant Bone-Cracker would have nothing to offer. He wasn’t worth the trouble to whoever was perched above him, contemplating his fate. He could lie, he supposed, but as soon as this Black Talon individual could see the truth for himself, he would more than likely toss Bone-Cracker back down the hole again, if only to spite him. The injured man did not want to add that kind of agony to his already existing pain.

“No,” he confessed, the word barely more than a whisper.

“You’re already dead then,” the voice from above said. “We will carry word of your demise back to the village. The women will dance in your memory tonight, while those who knew you say their goodbyes.”

Bone-Cracker heard some quiet discussion from the surface before the three men left. He could have tried appealing to them, begged them to spare his life, but that would have been rather pointless. They more than likely would have just viewed that as opportunity to mock him for being weak. He couldn’t even offer himself up as a slave because an injured slave was a useless slave. If he kept quiet, at least his fairly uninspiring but clean reputation would remain intact. Instead, He fought back any desire to call out again as he heard them depart, squelching his despair as best he could.

In the moments that followed, where he teetered on the edge of insanity, Bone-Cracker cast aside everything he was that was Black Talon. Bone-Cracker might be dead, as far as they were concerned, but his animal essence, the part of him that was more beast than man, still wanted to live. His water-skin now empty, he sought moisture from the only remaining source. With a shuddering groan, he thrust his face into the damp earth beneath him, voluntarily this time, and tried to inhale whatever water could be found there. That was how The Old Man found him, trying to suck salvation from the soil.

“Hey – Earth-Breather – what are you doing? Your people…I saw them go. They just left you here to die?”

The person peering into the hole sounded decrepitly old and his words were heavily accented. He could be barely understood. This was no Black Talon, despite the fact he could speak their tongue.

Earth-Breather…that was what the Old Man had called him from the very start. A new name for him? Why not? Any name was fine with the man who had once been Bone-Cracker, as long as it was one that came with a second chance.

“They did not leave me here to die. As far as they are concerned, I am already dead. As far as I’m concerned, I’m dead, too.”

The Old Man chuckled softly.

“I know of no dead man who speaks, unless he is a spirit, and you, young fellow, are no spirit. Nature has not given you up to the worms just yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. I can’t leave this hole because my leg is broken. My wound is infected. I haven’t eaten in days and I ran out of water mid-day. I suspect I’ll have breathed my last by morning,” Earth-Breather said.

“Hmmm – all that going against you, and yet you still live. Perhaps this was not meant to be your time. Perhaps nature and fate have other plans for you. All of that can be fixed you know.”

Earth-Breather shook his head, even though The Old Man was not likely to see the gesture in the darkness of the hole. “Maybe, with the right resources. I have nothing…I am nothing.”

“You are wrong there. Until nature is done with you, you will continue to be something, even if it is only food for the bugs and nourishment for the soil. But I think you have a lot more to offer than that. I see something of value in you. I can help you, if you will help me.”

Even in his totally helpless state, as was typical for the Black Talon, Earth-Breather couldn’t bring himself to trust this stranger. He had never met anyone not Black Talon who could speak their tongue, other than slaves. Was The Old Man a released slave who had actually survived, or even worse, a runaway who had succeeded in escaping?

“What do you want from me, Old Man? For that matter, maybe you can explain how you can speak our tongue and why you travel within our borders like you are free to wander as you wish.”

“I travel all over,” The Old Man replied. “And because of this, I insist on learning every language I can. I’m a medicine man, and I have leave to pass through your territory because I have done your chieftain many a favour. But…I can’t do all of the things I used to do when I was younger. I still have all the knowledge required for my skills but I just can’t properly apply it. That’s why I need someone like you. I’m willing to help get you out of that hole, but in exchange you have to serve me. Be my wary eyes, my steady hands and my strong back, since these things have otherwise left me. I’m not talking slavery like the way things work with your tribe. I’m talking learning new ways – student and mentor.”

That certainly appealed to Earth-Breather. He had already discarded his identity. Why not take on a new lifestyle along with a new name? Besides, his only other choice was death. This led to his next question. “No wary eyes, steady hands or strong back? If I take you up on your proposal, how exactly are you going to free me from this hole?”

“Agree to my terms and I’ll show you. I have nature working on my side.”

It sounded impossible to Earth-Breather, but what more did he have to lose?

“Fine…you get me out and I’ll do your bidding, whatever that happens to be.” He would do it too; it wasn’t idle talk in hopes of escape. He never offered any promises he could not keep. “Although I haven’t the slightest idea how you plan on freeing me.”

“In a few moments, I’m going to lower a rope down to you with a bundle on its end. Then I’ll give you instructions. Be ready for that – stay alert and as tempting as it might be, don’t nod off to sleep.”

The Old Man moved away from the opening and Earth-Breather could hear him shuffling around up above. The injured man was about to lose patience when true to his word, the stranger returned to the space above hole and began lowering down a braided-hide rope. The bundle at its end was a tangle of sticks and leather strapping. Earth-Breather couldn’t see how this was supposed to be useful.

“What do I do with this?”

“Untie it and set aside the sticks and strapping for now – those will be for your splint. There’s a small bundle of herbs and dried fungus at the centre. You need to chew that before we can proceed.”

He did as he was told, suspicious that this was just a trick. Perhaps the mixture was poison, a more humane way of sending Earth-Breather to his grave. He chewed it despite his inhibitions, hoping if it was poison it would be merciful, mostly painless and fast-acting.

Within a few moments of consuming the mixture, a sense of euphoria enveloped the fallen man. The darkness and all of its shadows shifted and swayed, strange colours dancing before his eyes. His entire body went numb. He knew the pain was still there, but it felt completely disconnected, as if it were someone else’s pain, and body for that matter, rather than his own. His thirst no longer bothered him nor did anything else. The Old Man spoke to him, but it sounded like he was underwater, his words muffled and slightly garbled.

“I can’t get down to you, so you had to take the drug. You’ll need it to dull the pain and reduce the shock when you set the bone and splint your leg. I can’t get down there to do it for you. When you’re done, you’ll have to force yourself to your feet and together we’ll drag you out of there. Your younger, sprier tribe-mates could have fetched you out easily. It’s a shame they thought so little of you that they couldn’t be bothered to spare you. Their loss, my gain.”

Highly suggestible because of the drug, Earth-Breather readily followed The Old Man’s instructions, jarring the pieces of bone back into place with one swift movement. Somewhere, the injured man’s leg screamed and he fainted again, briefly, even though the pain of the experience seemed like a separate entity. When he roused once more, Earth-Breather felt giddy, and he giggled continuously as he heeded The Old Man’s directions in order to put the splint in place. More disjointed agony accompanied his efforts, something Earth-Breather could easily ignore.

Once his leg was secure, it was then time for him to get to his feet. He wobbled and shook as he did so, the pain threatening to overwhelm him despite the drug. His limbs were barely willing to do what he asked of them, a constant tremor running through him. At the point where he was on his feet, the mouth of the hole was almost within arm’s reach. He tied the rope around his waist and his ascent began.

The effort to actually get Earth-Breather out of the hole was a terrible struggle, neither man in any position to offer much in the way of strength or endurance. The Old Man had secured the rope on his end and looped the rope around a small stump as they made progress. That way, if Earth-Breather lost his footing, or the grasp of their hands and arms failed them, the ailing man would not slip back into the hole. It took much longer than it should have, but eventually, Earth-Breather made it out. He collapsed into a dizzy, hurting heap at the top, unable to rise with any prompting. Relieved to be finally free of his earthy prison, he lost his hold on consciousness yet again, one of many times in the last three days.

    ###

When Earth- Breather returned to the world of the living it was dusk, with a gentle chill to the air. He could smell smoke and hear a fire crackling as his blurred eyes tried to focus on everything surrounding him. His head had been propped atop a bundle of soft brushed hides and a blanket had been draped over him. While his throat still ached from a lack of water, he no longer felt feverish or nauseous. Finally, he picked out the outline of The Old Man, sitting across from him beside the campfire.

Seeing that he was awake, the medicine man approached and passed Earth-Breather a cured-hide canister filled with cool water. With great urgency, he drank, drawing immense satisfaction from the liquid that both quenched his thirst and soothed his raw throat.

“Don’t hold back,” The Old Man said. “There’s plenty more where that came from. We need to get you rehydrated.” He paused, giving Earth-Breather a crooked, semi-toothless smile. “I treated your leg while you were unconscious. It was probably a good thing you weren’t aware of what I was doing – that was quite the mess you had there. But the infection is subsiding and I leeched the blood poisoning out of your system. I think you and your leg will make it, once it has finished healing.”

Earth-Breather’s drinking slowed after the first few initial gulps, and now he was swallowing carefully measured sips. He lowered the canister for a moment, brushing excess water from his cracked lips with the back of his hand.

“You spoke of spirits while I was in the hole. Are you a shaman?”

The Old Man shook his head. He chuckled.

“No – I know what you Black Talon think of shamans. I wouldn’t be here if I was one. I do believe in spirits, I’ve seen them for myself, but I don’t work with them. My magic’s strictly rooted in nature.”

This made Earth-Breather relax a little. The idea of travelling with this man and learning his ways was both intriguing and frightening, but less so if there would be no spirits involved. It wasn’t as though Earth-Breather had any ties left to his tribe. Far as they were considered, Bone-Cracker was dead. He wouldn’t even be considered Rogue.

“So I’m to be your student. I’m going to learn from you? In exchange for my assistance when you need it?”

The Old Man nodded, a calculated gleam in his warm brown eyes.

“You’re resilient and you look hale enough despite what you just endured. You’ll do fine. And you’ll learn. We’ll linger around these parts until your leg’s good to travel. Then we’ll set off. I think we’ll head east to visit the Reindeer People. I have friends there, but I could no longer make the trip all on my own.”

Returning to sipping his water again, Earth-Breather shivered. This time, it was not from fever or the cold, but from anticipation. The idea of leaving Black Talon territory, other than for a hunt or a raid, would have seemed ridiculous to him before now. Instead, he found the notion exhilarating as well as terrifying.

Then again, he was a new person. He had suffered from a fall that should have essentially spelled his end, but he had emerged from the hole with a new identity and a new life, a man reborn. It didn’t seem so horrible to be shrugging off the restraints of what it meant to be Black Talon. It hadn’t really offered him that much in the first place. The Old Man on the other hand was offering him the world, in all its natural glory.

And Earth-Breather was ready to embrace it.