First Words Of A New Novel
The year is 1917 and the first World War is raging. Meanwhile, our protagonist has seen too much and prefers escaping to Northern Ontario than serving in the military. Here then is the beginning of the sequel to Seven Stones, tentatively titled Shell Shock:
Steam rose from the backs of four horses that struggled to pull their load up a snow-covered hill. On either side of them, and as far as the eye could see, trees too small to harvest were left standing interspersed with gaps where towering pines once stood. Behind the horses was a sled piled so high with the timber of such trees that even sitting at the lower end of the hill it still stood taller than the magnificent beasts. One would have thought the task impossible, but the horses worked in unison with what the loggers would have recognized as pride. Both man and beast tested their limits in this wilderness, and those that were not broken grew hard in strength and endurance. Within the muscles of the straining horses surged the very essence of life, the urge to test itself against whatever the outside world demanded of it. They were horses at the nexus of youth and experience at their task. And they pushed towards the summit without any conception of failure, nostrils flaring to release steamy breath into the cold morning air. An occasional whinny came forth like a grunt of affirmation as they pulled. A man stood atop the pile of logs, holding the reigns. He shouted encouragement, but the horses needed no external motivator: their task was clear. And so they lurched, gaining inch by inch, until the first two horses stood upon the crest, and then the others. A final effort pulled the sled over the hump. But there was no resting place upon the top, no slow transition to a gentler labor. No sooner did the sled reach the apex than the very gravity they had fought to overcome now moved the sled on its own. Slowly at first, so slowly that it gave the horses an instant of relief, a brief sense of triumph. But quickly the horses realized the situation had changed. Now their burden became a pursuer, like some predator from their primordial past. Now they needed not to pull but to flee. And because they were harnessed together, they could not afford to give in to the urge to panic. Behind them a rope was connected to the back of the sled, attached to a pulley that would slow its descent. Now the driver needed to pull back on the reigns in order to keep the horses from giving into their instinct to panic, the powerful compulsions that had kept their species alive for untold generations. His was the hand that would keep them functioning as a unit. Their pride and discipline held, although nervousness could now be seen in their wide-open eyes and the involuntary tics that made their ears twitch and their tails tuck. This was more of an effort to them than the hauling, more against their nature. Large hooves found solid footing on the path that had been well prepared for them by new hires who tended the ice road. Dirt and sand had been thrown upon the fresh fallen snow. Behind them a group of men struggled with all the pride and animal intensity the horses had shown, intent on keeping the sled under control. The horses were perhaps a third of the way down the hill that was a not so gentle twenty foot decline when the first sign of trouble with the rope could be heard. Strong men stared helplessly at the quickly unraveling cords as the horses sensed the danger. The men released the rope more quickly, hoping it would hold until the sled reached the bottom. But the fiber continued to uncoil until with a quick snap it let go.It was as if no time passed between the noise and the look of terror that alit in the horse’s eyes. Panic arose in them all but was checked by experience and an awareness of the situation. Perhaps such knowledge resided not in thought but in muscle memory, still they were reacting to their predicament. They would have to run but they would have to do it in a controlled manner. They would have to keep pace with the load bearing down on them from behind without straining at their harnesses. They would have to use all the energy panic provided without surrendering to it. The driver sought to help them in this, sought to provide direction and control. But the initial snap of the rope had launched the sled forward, so that he was facing his own battle to remain atop the sled.It was a single misplaced hoof that did them in, a slight break of the rhythm that kept them operating as a single entity. Even then they might have recovered had it not been for one of the horses in the back that was a little younger and newer to the job. Panic arose in him, its intensity silencing any other concerns. Abandoning teamwork, he strained against his harness with all the life that was in him. The other horses still struggled to keep unity but it was futile. There was no unity, no time to react as a team. Panic spread amongst them all. In the mindless jostle of animals attempting to flee it was a short time before one of them went down. It almost managed to regain its footing but by that time he had brought the horse next to him to the ground as well. The two front horses continued pulling madly, each in a different direction. Before the rear horses could get their legs back under them, the sled was upon them, the runners slicing effortlessly through muscles that short moments ago had provided movement to the sled.
The driver had already been thrown, or else had judged the situation hopeless and jumped from the impending disaster. The sled did not get past the fallen horses before the reins tightened, tipping over the already top-heavy sled. Amidst the noise of the crash of the sled, of men hurling curses and logs breaking free, the cries of the horses still pierced through it all. For all their pride and vitality they were in the end nothing more than brief lives destined for violent deaths. Cursing and shaking his head as he walked down the path towards the horses, the foreman reached into his Mackinaw jacket and pulled out a pistol.
Steam rose from the backs of four horses that struggled to pull their load up a snow-covered hill. On either side of them, and as far as the eye could see, trees too small to harvest were left standing interspersed with gaps where towering pines once stood. Behind the horses was a sled piled so high with the timber of such trees that even sitting at the lower end of the hill it still stood taller than the magnificent beasts. One would have thought the task impossible, but the horses worked in unison with what the loggers would have recognized as pride. Both man and beast tested their limits in this wilderness, and those that were not broken grew hard in strength and endurance. Within the muscles of the straining horses surged the very essence of life, the urge to test itself against whatever the outside world demanded of it. They were horses at the nexus of youth and experience at their task. And they pushed towards the summit without any conception of failure, nostrils flaring to release steamy breath into the cold morning air. An occasional whinny came forth like a grunt of affirmation as they pulled. A man stood atop the pile of logs, holding the reigns. He shouted encouragement, but the horses needed no external motivator: their task was clear. And so they lurched, gaining inch by inch, until the first two horses stood upon the crest, and then the others. A final effort pulled the sled over the hump. But there was no resting place upon the top, no slow transition to a gentler labor. No sooner did the sled reach the apex than the very gravity they had fought to overcome now moved the sled on its own. Slowly at first, so slowly that it gave the horses an instant of relief, a brief sense of triumph. But quickly the horses realized the situation had changed. Now their burden became a pursuer, like some predator from their primordial past. Now they needed not to pull but to flee. And because they were harnessed together, they could not afford to give in to the urge to panic. Behind them a rope was connected to the back of the sled, attached to a pulley that would slow its descent. Now the driver needed to pull back on the reigns in order to keep the horses from giving into their instinct to panic, the powerful compulsions that had kept their species alive for untold generations. His was the hand that would keep them functioning as a unit. Their pride and discipline held, although nervousness could now be seen in their wide-open eyes and the involuntary tics that made their ears twitch and their tails tuck. This was more of an effort to them than the hauling, more against their nature. Large hooves found solid footing on the path that had been well prepared for them by new hires who tended the ice road. Dirt and sand had been thrown upon the fresh fallen snow. Behind them a group of men struggled with all the pride and animal intensity the horses had shown, intent on keeping the sled under control. The horses were perhaps a third of the way down the hill that was a not so gentle twenty foot decline when the first sign of trouble with the rope could be heard. Strong men stared helplessly at the quickly unraveling cords as the horses sensed the danger. The men released the rope more quickly, hoping it would hold until the sled reached the bottom. But the fiber continued to uncoil until with a quick snap it let go.It was as if no time passed between the noise and the look of terror that alit in the horse’s eyes. Panic arose in them all but was checked by experience and an awareness of the situation. Perhaps such knowledge resided not in thought but in muscle memory, still they were reacting to their predicament. They would have to run but they would have to do it in a controlled manner. They would have to keep pace with the load bearing down on them from behind without straining at their harnesses. They would have to use all the energy panic provided without surrendering to it. The driver sought to help them in this, sought to provide direction and control. But the initial snap of the rope had launched the sled forward, so that he was facing his own battle to remain atop the sled.It was a single misplaced hoof that did them in, a slight break of the rhythm that kept them operating as a single entity. Even then they might have recovered had it not been for one of the horses in the back that was a little younger and newer to the job. Panic arose in him, its intensity silencing any other concerns. Abandoning teamwork, he strained against his harness with all the life that was in him. The other horses still struggled to keep unity but it was futile. There was no unity, no time to react as a team. Panic spread amongst them all. In the mindless jostle of animals attempting to flee it was a short time before one of them went down. It almost managed to regain its footing but by that time he had brought the horse next to him to the ground as well. The two front horses continued pulling madly, each in a different direction. Before the rear horses could get their legs back under them, the sled was upon them, the runners slicing effortlessly through muscles that short moments ago had provided movement to the sled.
The driver had already been thrown, or else had judged the situation hopeless and jumped from the impending disaster. The sled did not get past the fallen horses before the reins tightened, tipping over the already top-heavy sled. Amidst the noise of the crash of the sled, of men hurling curses and logs breaking free, the cries of the horses still pierced through it all. For all their pride and vitality they were in the end nothing more than brief lives destined for violent deaths. Cursing and shaking his head as he walked down the path towards the horses, the foreman reached into his Mackinaw jacket and pulled out a pistol.
No comments have been added yet.
