The original opening of Raging Sea by Kim Headlee is now Ch 1/Sc 4 #SundaySnippets #Arthurverse

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Today's contribution to #SundaySnippets takes us to the scene in Raging Sea that was its original opening sequence when I first started writing it ... more than a decade ago.

The earliest version of its outline dates to June of 2002.

There are a number of reasons why I still haven't finished this terrific story, headed by the near-fatal car crash in April 2003 that left me with pins in my neck for the rest of my life. What matters now is my decision to press forward to The End.

Two items are important about this snippet: it begins to explain the book's title, and it ties Angusel more closely to the Lancelot legend by introducing the Scottish Gaelic version of "du Lac": Dubh Loch (pronounced doo lock). The meaning of the full phrase "a Dubh Loch" referenced in today's snippet--in case you don't feel like conducting an Internet search--will be revealed in scene 5 next week.

One further note about my language choices. In inventing "Pictish" (i.e., "Caledonaiche") words and phrases, sometimes I adapt them straight from Scottish Gaelic, sometimes I hack words together to invent entirely new ones, and sometimes I tweak them just a little bit to suggest an ancient variant, as in the case of "Sasunach" in this snippet, which in my series refers to Saxons. The present Scottish Gaelic word, which today means "Englishman" (and "of or belonging to the English(man)" depending on context) is spelled Sasunnach. I've done a lot of double-consonant dropping in my language adaptations!

Previous #SundaySnippets of Raging Sea Chapter 1:Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 |
Raging Sea Chapter 1, Scene 4©2015 by Kim HeadleeAll rights reserved.
HE STOOD on the bluff, staring at the gray-green sea churning against the Manx beach a score of paces below. The Sasunach funeral pyre at his back enveloped him with its draconic heat and eye-stinging smoke and gut-wrenching stench. As dizziness washed over him, the sandy ground felt as insubstantial as the cloud-laced sky. Hand to sweating temple, he tossed off the surreal sensation with a shake.

Earth, sky, fire, water... as if he were a god imprisoned at the convergence of the elements.

He snorted.

He was no god.

No longer did anyone address him by his given name, which meant “raging sea.” Even on the official duty roster he was listed as Optio Aonar, a junior officer not of command rank. No matronymic, no clan, no country; physically, emotionally, spiritually alone.

With a dry chuckle, he gave himself a nickname: “a Dubh Loch,” a poetic description of the condition of his soul.

He drew his sword. The blade bore mute testimony in myriad notches and scratches to the Sasunaich he’d consigned to today’s pyre during last night’s battle, but it gave him no satisfaction. He had prevented the death of the most important person in his life, and in return she had displayed more care for that thrice-cursed battle trophy he had helped her capture.

If not for him, it would have been her head gracing a Sasunach spear, and yet she had rejected him. Again.

Rage swept through him, making his hands shake. Tightening his grip, he lowered the sword to heart height, as though she was standing captive before him, but he couldn’t enjoy that fantasy either. She had stripped him of his place, his kin, his clan, his country, his very identity, but he could no sooner harm her than cut off his hand. His oath forbade it.

But the gods alone knew how much longer it would restrain him.

The soldiers moved on to build a new pyre, leaving him, indeed, alone.

Aonar.

He studied his sword. No sense in taking it with him when a smith could hone it for someone else’s use. Too bad his life couldn’t be salvaged as easily.

As he considered dropping the sword where he stood, the thunder of the sea gave him an idea.

The warrior who had named himself Aonar a Dubh Loch cocked his sword arm and launched the weapon into the heavens. He tracked its progress toward an outcropping of boulders near the water’s edge... and swore.

“You, down there!” he shouted in Breatanaiche, hands cupped to his mouth. “Watch out!”

Cursing his ill luck, he summoned strength he didn’t realize he possessed and raced for the path leading down to the beach.


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