When do you know?

[David]

When do you know if you're going to like a book? Straight away, or does it take you a while to decide? First sentence? Paragraph? Chapter? Sometimes it takes me a full 1/3rd of a book to become hooked. I'm hoping you'll be pulled into my book faster than that. Here's the first chapter.

I hear a voice. Could it be God? Am I dead? I try to open my eyes. It should be easy, yet my eyes will not open. What is the voice saying? It seems nearby and far away at the same time. I don’t understand the language. It dawns on me that there are several voices.

I try to recall where I am. I remember dragging my boat ashore and falling to the ground. How long ago did it happen? I should get up. I wonder if the voices mean danger or assistance. My body seems unwilling to move―not so much as a finger or toe obeys my command. Perhaps I should be glad that I am not in pain, yet feeling nothing is terrifying.

Something touches my mouth. My lips separate and I realize that someone’s fingers are holding my mouth open. A trickle of water moistens my lips, crosses my teeth, and wets my tongue. It tastes like mana, better than I imagine the nectar consumed by God would taste. I feel a hand beneath my head, lifting me slightly. A little more water causes me to swallow. My head is gently set back on the ground. I try to wiggle my toes.

Water splashes on my face. I gasp for air. The shock of cold, salty water on my skin brings back the pain, and I instinctively curl into a ball.

I feel a pair of hands at my back, beneath my shoulder blades. I’m swiftly lifted in the air. Someone must expect me to stand, but my legs fail to find support beneath me and I crumble to the ground once more.

I am lifted and tossed into the water. The voices are louder. I feel the hands of several people dunking me swiftly, then I’m back on the ground again. Sensation has returned to my body.

My lips are parted once more. Something has been placed between my cheek and gums. My mouth waters and I sense the faint taste of meat.

I feel fingers on my face. Slippery hands rub something slimy on my skin. It still feels dry. I picture a mud puddle at the end of a dry day. I recall being in the sun for days, weeks, perhaps a month or more. Then I remember being lost at sea. An accidental voyage that began with a sudden storm.

Greasy fingers pry my eyes open and I see the face of a stranger. Intense brown eyes are surrounded by shiny blue skin. The man releases his hold on my face and my eyes remain open. I blink rapidly, aware of a dozen men and half as many canoes on the flat bank of a wide river.

A couple of the men hoist my body into the air with as much care as they would provide a fallen deer that they planned to butcher. They drop me into the center of one of their slender canoes. One takes the front and the other gets into the back. My little fishing boat is tied with a short rope to the back of their canoe. The men paddle steadily, keeping pace with the canoes ahead of them.

The nourishment provided by the dried meat and water have my senses functioning again. I’m now aware of how weak my body is. I’m barely strong enough to hold up my head or move to a sitting position. Instead I lie here quietly staring into the sky as the canoe moves steadily against the river current. I spend the day trying to recall how I came to be in this predicament and trying to figure out where I am.

I don’t know how long I was on the riverbank. I don’t remember reaching the shore or seeing land from the expanse of open ocean. I recall day after endless day of floating wherever the current cared to take me. It could have been weeks. It could have been months.

I try to distract myself from worrying about whether the men who paddle the canoe have rescued or captured me. I am glad that I can recall my homeland, but I keep returning to thoughts about one fateful morning and the events that brought me here. That morning, I took a few hours off from chiseling steps on the cliffs of my island mountain. I wished to try my hand at some fishing. A storm gathered, so abruptly that I was unable to paddle back to shore. The harsh wind blew so forcefully, it was all I could do to keep my boat afloat. I quickly lost my oars and was left with the lunch I had packed in a pail and my fishing gear.

As a result of my fateful fishing trip, I spent countless weeks floating in despair, tossed around by the whims of wind and waves. I despise my memories of those endless days and nights while lost at sea, yet my mind keeps returning to those bleak and perilous times.

Oh, how I long for the majestic island of emerald and stone. I regret having dodged Lector Beccán, taking his long green robe and the small boat. In my seventeen years, I had been permitted to go fishing only once. The ocean seemed full of promise and adventure, but everything changed after being lost at sea. I no longer feel drawn to the ocean; I despise it. Perhaps riding in a canoe is better. It helps to know there is land on either side of the river.

My head feels so fuzzy, I can hardly think, but concern pushes through. I know that my survival is a miracle, but I have plenty of concern about my current situation. The men who rescued me from drought and starvation look like demons and carry all manners of weaponry. It’s just the sort of scene that Lector Beccán’s readings described. I can picture the Abbot, the Prior, and the Sub-Prior nodding behind my proctor as he reads. I wish I had the strength and energy to sit up in the canoe.

After paddling all day, the men stop an hour before sunset. They argue and fight well into the evening before it gets quiet. I lay among ferns outside of the light of the fire, forgotten until morning.

[Amanda]

Great opening! I don't necessarily need a book to start off with a bang, but once I am invested I need it to finish strong.

[David]

Thank you, Amanda.

I agree, and it doesn't have to be a happy ending. I like how you put it, "Finish strong."