High Andes about to see light of day
My excellent editor persuaded me to eliminate material she considered superfluous to the action in this novel. It was like asking me to drown my baby! However, she suggested I allow readers to take a look at what (if it were a movie) ended up on the cutting room floor. Or, more generously, is an outtake that makes it to the DVD version of a movie.
In what follows, called The Storm, mother nature deals with a wealthy Scot who bought a child mummy, Cocohuay, illegally smuggled from Peru to England.
All of Western Europe braced for the storm, forecast to be very serious, gaining energy from warm Gulf Stream waters as it plunged toward the east coast of Scotland. Gale winds buffeted Ardtornish bay, creating huge waves that crashed against the slender promontory supporting McTavish’s castle. He stood near the windows facing the bay and observed a band of oily black clouds spewing toothed lightning march across the visible width of the horizon. The power of the sea sucked hapless boats from their moorings and crushed them against the cliffs descending into the roiling water. Jagged streaks of lightning struck ocean and land. McTavish wondered what the fanciful spirit of Good John of Isla was making of all this turmoil.
A scrubby tree nearby exploded as its sap was superheated by a flash of lightning. The bolt of electricity continued to ground and dislodged a portion of the cliff top. McTavish watched as the constantly illuminated rocks and soggy earth plunged slowly to the foamy water below.
The wind intensified. In the distance, he saw that the controversial wind turbine mounted on a ridgeline was not turning. It had been stopped as a precaution against the storm. Its massive silver blades shuddered as gusts of rogue air currents probed their surfaces. The wind strained the gearbox atop the tower and it twisted upward, forcing the blades into a horizontal position. The gearbox snapped and a massive, crazed Mercedes emblem took flight. It whirled across the ridgeline and came to rest a thousand yards away, one blade impaling the electrical transmission building. A shower of bright sparks, like an earthbound comet, exploded from the building, joining the advancing lightning strikes across the bay.
That same wind roared against the ancient bulwarks of Ardtornish castle, howling like an army of lost souls, searching for chinks in stone and mortar, trying to shatter glass. McTavish felt a change in air pressure; the flames in the large fireplace guttered and faded, then sprang back to life with a roar. Clusters of lightning moved like aged dancers toward him across the bay. Where they struck the water, fiery orange explosions atomized seawater. A path of hot coals, simmering in the water, marched toward the base of the promontory supporting the castle. Wind and hail scoured the castle; massive waves crashed against the base of the headland just below the castle. The Gods cracked their cheeks and blew forth a tempest never before seen on the Scottish coast. Wind speeds exceeded two hundred miles an hour.
His factotum entered the hall to report that an uprooted tree had struck the roof of the stable McTavish had converted into a garage. It appeared that one of the cars was damaged. Tiles on roofs of other outbuildings had been blown off and glass in one of the greenhouses had been shattered. As he spoke, electricity cut off, and the fire briefly illuminated the room until the generator system started up. Not accustomed to being thwarted by man or weather, McTavish asserted that they were “safe as houses,” and offered the other man a drink of whiskey. He stood next to the sideboard as McTavish wandered toward the great window and looked again across the bay – now dark as midnight and boiling like a witch’s cauldron.
Over the eons, normal movement of the earth and assaults by wind, weather and sea had gradually expanded fissures in the volcanic basalt that comprised the peninsula on which Ardtornish castle stood. No probing of the earth as required to determine the structural integrity of the castle’s foundation would reveal underlying weaknesses in the rocky mass beneath the building. Those basalt cliffs had yielded themselves to time and elements for millions of years, sloughing off from time to time and plunging into the ocean below. The black cliff on which McTavish’s castle stood had been preparing to slip into the sea for thousands of years. The advent of the phenomenal storm now blasting the coast served to advance the time of that geological mishap. The huge basalt chunk underlying the castle was beginning to split the seam that held it to its neighbor and tumble slowly into Ardtornish Bay.
That seam was a few feet away from the eastern end of the castle; the bulk of the building was located atop the basalt mass preparing to relocate itself. Amid the thunderous turmoil of the storm, a sickening groan from the earth was unheard, certainly not by McTavish who had climbed up to the oval chamber where Cocohuay rested. Lightning flashes flickered in her room, washing out her sallow skin, making her face paper white. Her teeth gleamed among intermittent shadows. The storm pushed against the bay window, which bowed but held. The wave of lightning passed and moved inland. The wind, rain and hail no longer disguised the sound of grinding movement in the bowels of the earth. Unseen in the black night, turf, rocks and dirt tumbled from the tip of the promontory, followed by great shards of basalt disturbed from their equilibrium by the weight of the oncoming monster behind.
McTavish felt a slight movement under his feet, which expanded as caulking around the bay window popped into the room. Then the window fell forward, letting in the storm outside. The western wall of the building began to move outward and down. Fat rectangles of newly applied mortar fell from the ancient stones. The laird of the castle, astonished, gathered his wits and began to run down the stairs to the floor below. But there was no floor below. Or a floor above. He stood transfixed on the remains of a stairway that held tenaciously to the inner wall and watched as the towers of his castle, illuminated by internal lights, tumbled into the opening abyss below. Then the stones under his feet fell away and he followed them down to the sea.
Cocohuay’s chamber tilted forward, dislodging her glass encasement, which shattered on the stone floor. The little mummy rolled forward and settled in a sitting position. She held that pose as the stones beneath her settled slowly, dropped toward the opening below. Then she became entwined with the rubble of the once grand castle and descended to the waiting waters of the bay.
From earth to mountain heights to the depths of the sea Pachamama reclaimed little Cocohuay. Her earthly journey had ended.
In what follows, called The Storm, mother nature deals with a wealthy Scot who bought a child mummy, Cocohuay, illegally smuggled from Peru to England.
All of Western Europe braced for the storm, forecast to be very serious, gaining energy from warm Gulf Stream waters as it plunged toward the east coast of Scotland. Gale winds buffeted Ardtornish bay, creating huge waves that crashed against the slender promontory supporting McTavish’s castle. He stood near the windows facing the bay and observed a band of oily black clouds spewing toothed lightning march across the visible width of the horizon. The power of the sea sucked hapless boats from their moorings and crushed them against the cliffs descending into the roiling water. Jagged streaks of lightning struck ocean and land. McTavish wondered what the fanciful spirit of Good John of Isla was making of all this turmoil.
A scrubby tree nearby exploded as its sap was superheated by a flash of lightning. The bolt of electricity continued to ground and dislodged a portion of the cliff top. McTavish watched as the constantly illuminated rocks and soggy earth plunged slowly to the foamy water below.
The wind intensified. In the distance, he saw that the controversial wind turbine mounted on a ridgeline was not turning. It had been stopped as a precaution against the storm. Its massive silver blades shuddered as gusts of rogue air currents probed their surfaces. The wind strained the gearbox atop the tower and it twisted upward, forcing the blades into a horizontal position. The gearbox snapped and a massive, crazed Mercedes emblem took flight. It whirled across the ridgeline and came to rest a thousand yards away, one blade impaling the electrical transmission building. A shower of bright sparks, like an earthbound comet, exploded from the building, joining the advancing lightning strikes across the bay.
That same wind roared against the ancient bulwarks of Ardtornish castle, howling like an army of lost souls, searching for chinks in stone and mortar, trying to shatter glass. McTavish felt a change in air pressure; the flames in the large fireplace guttered and faded, then sprang back to life with a roar. Clusters of lightning moved like aged dancers toward him across the bay. Where they struck the water, fiery orange explosions atomized seawater. A path of hot coals, simmering in the water, marched toward the base of the promontory supporting the castle. Wind and hail scoured the castle; massive waves crashed against the base of the headland just below the castle. The Gods cracked their cheeks and blew forth a tempest never before seen on the Scottish coast. Wind speeds exceeded two hundred miles an hour.
His factotum entered the hall to report that an uprooted tree had struck the roof of the stable McTavish had converted into a garage. It appeared that one of the cars was damaged. Tiles on roofs of other outbuildings had been blown off and glass in one of the greenhouses had been shattered. As he spoke, electricity cut off, and the fire briefly illuminated the room until the generator system started up. Not accustomed to being thwarted by man or weather, McTavish asserted that they were “safe as houses,” and offered the other man a drink of whiskey. He stood next to the sideboard as McTavish wandered toward the great window and looked again across the bay – now dark as midnight and boiling like a witch’s cauldron.
Over the eons, normal movement of the earth and assaults by wind, weather and sea had gradually expanded fissures in the volcanic basalt that comprised the peninsula on which Ardtornish castle stood. No probing of the earth as required to determine the structural integrity of the castle’s foundation would reveal underlying weaknesses in the rocky mass beneath the building. Those basalt cliffs had yielded themselves to time and elements for millions of years, sloughing off from time to time and plunging into the ocean below. The black cliff on which McTavish’s castle stood had been preparing to slip into the sea for thousands of years. The advent of the phenomenal storm now blasting the coast served to advance the time of that geological mishap. The huge basalt chunk underlying the castle was beginning to split the seam that held it to its neighbor and tumble slowly into Ardtornish Bay.
That seam was a few feet away from the eastern end of the castle; the bulk of the building was located atop the basalt mass preparing to relocate itself. Amid the thunderous turmoil of the storm, a sickening groan from the earth was unheard, certainly not by McTavish who had climbed up to the oval chamber where Cocohuay rested. Lightning flashes flickered in her room, washing out her sallow skin, making her face paper white. Her teeth gleamed among intermittent shadows. The storm pushed against the bay window, which bowed but held. The wave of lightning passed and moved inland. The wind, rain and hail no longer disguised the sound of grinding movement in the bowels of the earth. Unseen in the black night, turf, rocks and dirt tumbled from the tip of the promontory, followed by great shards of basalt disturbed from their equilibrium by the weight of the oncoming monster behind.
McTavish felt a slight movement under his feet, which expanded as caulking around the bay window popped into the room. Then the window fell forward, letting in the storm outside. The western wall of the building began to move outward and down. Fat rectangles of newly applied mortar fell from the ancient stones. The laird of the castle, astonished, gathered his wits and began to run down the stairs to the floor below. But there was no floor below. Or a floor above. He stood transfixed on the remains of a stairway that held tenaciously to the inner wall and watched as the towers of his castle, illuminated by internal lights, tumbled into the opening abyss below. Then the stones under his feet fell away and he followed them down to the sea.
Cocohuay’s chamber tilted forward, dislodging her glass encasement, which shattered on the stone floor. The little mummy rolled forward and settled in a sitting position. She held that pose as the stones beneath her settled slowly, dropped toward the opening below. Then she became entwined with the rubble of the once grand castle and descended to the waiting waters of the bay.
From earth to mountain heights to the depths of the sea Pachamama reclaimed little Cocohuay. Her earthly journey had ended.
No comments have been added yet.
