What a Novel concept, part 1

Posted by :Richie On : September 13, 2013

Category: Novel

This rendering in 3D Studio is at least 10 years old!

“Each person has at least one book in them,”
..but in my case it may be two or three.

I started my literary journey some time into the middle of the last decade and writing it has been like carving the Basilica from a solid block of stone with nothing but a hammer and chisel. It is slow, labour intensive and sometimes all-consuming.

I seem to take regular months-long breaks as the activities of daily living take front seat or I find my spare time being taken up by various readings on the Internet, gaming, watching movies and TV series or spending time with friends and family. Still, over the last 8 or so years I have managed to compile over 88,000 words and almost 200 pages spread over 9 chapters. And I’ve barely scratched the surface!

Proofing copies of my work so far have been given to a couple of people nearest and dearest and I’m encouraged by their brutal and honest feedback. I don’t expect after all that this will be well loved or well read once it’s finished; it’s more something I just feel I have to do – to get out of my system. If it makes me a humble income one day, well then that would be alright too 🙂

We can always dream. Indeed, this is where it all comes from; the darker (and lighter) recesses of my imagination resolved into the black and white. In so many words I have managed to spill out what I think of as less than a tenth of the entire first novel.. let alone the rest of the series and potential other spin-offs. Who knows if I’ll ever really finish it but it’s these sorts of blogging exercises that get me back into a writing head and for that reason alone I will share some snippets of my current work along the way.

Comments are of course welcome and be honest. Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings. This is after all a work in progress in both content and ability!

So dive now into the deep end of the darker recesses of my imagination….

On a flattened mound next to the bed was a small clay drinking bowl and a large jar made from the egg of some large reptile. Assuming it to be water, he sat up and first downed the entire cup and upon refilling it, downed a second helping into his parched neck. He gulped hard and painfully, as though he hadn’t been sated for a week; wiping away the excess from his mouth and neck as he panted hard.

His body quickly absorbed the first two cups so he poured himself a third, which he sat sipping; thinking.

He searched his memory. Flickers, flashes. He felt detached from them, like they were not his own. He remembers the mushrooms on the bench. Berkit. The pool and the blood. A knuckle in a boys throat. Sitting and closing his eyes. Silence.

Then.. emptiness. Struggle. Oblivion. He clutched at his stomach. Was it all the water he just drank? His bowels surged and he leapt from the bed, spied a bucket with a lip in the corner of the room and he pulled aside his robe just in time to meet the lip before squeezing out warm liquid. Hot flushes racked his sweaty body as his whole body contracted, as if pumping out a sickness. His head span and swelled before he spun around to meet his face to the bucket; retching and heaving into the filthy container. The smell hit his face like a smack and he heaved more and more until he was empty and spent; groaning long and hard.

He sank to the floor and shuddered, gripping his sides. The silent candles flickered in witness to his noisy proclamations of illness and he pulled himself onto his haunches, making his way across the tiled floor. He lifted a shaking arm and managed to spill some water into his mouth before finally passing out on top of the bed; prone and sprawled.

Some time later he awoke, tucked in under the sheets. Fresh bed clothes and a change in the smell of incense. His bowl had been refilled and he quickly took a sip. This time a pleasant taste met his tongue and it tingled in his mouth, taking away the foul dry taste of stale vomit. For some time he sat there, slowly sipping half-awake; not wanting a repeat of his last waking state.

Though still weak, his limbs ached for movement and he stretched; limbering towards his next move. His mind swam with delusional fears and recollections of Villimus’ words; his uncertain tone and unusual demeanour. He dwelt on his masters hesitation and a seed of doubt took root in an unstable mind, spreading roots of fear and distrust. This illness that racked his young body and untrained mind brought with it an instinctive urge of animal survival and he ached to flee this cage; to escape this nightmare.

Summoning what little courage and strength remained in him, he searched the room for anything that might aid him. There was little in the way of ornaments or objects of daily living save the most basic and without pockets, he instead took a gulp of his drink and made for the doorway. Pressing his ear against the door and without a keyhole to spy through, he braced himself to open it and greet whatever lay beyond.

The metal door moved slowly against all his weight; creaking lightly until he was able to peer through with an extended neck. Before him lay a great hall with what appeared to be many bare stone beds lining the walls; some thirty or so and at the far end there seemed to be another door. The smell of formaldehyde and old blood clung at his nose. On several of these stone slabs lay motionless humanoid forms and between each was a table with several metal tools. He saw big metal pots at the foot of each slab and some sort of drainage from the slab into it.

Suddenly he saw a robed figure on the far end of the room working on one of the dormant figures, applying tools to its body and removing flesh. From the distance between them the boy was unsure what he was doing but he immediately perceived a threat and moved quickly to shrink his profile; creeping to the nearest slab.

On the table beside it he saw many pronged, hooked, sharp and serrated tools, knives and picks; some with stains of old blood on their bone handles. They almost looked like tools one might find in a kitchen except they were larger and much more foreign and fear-inspiring. His stomach churned and he struggled with a paralyzing fear, beginning to shake and sharply suck air in and out; his eyes wide and darting. He thought for a moment the other figure in the room was coming closer and he hid further behind the slab before waiting to hear of his movements. Gathering his thoughts and stealing himself against the threat, he slipped a hand up the side of the table and carefully gripped a tool. He held it close to his chest and perceived its alien use to be some sort of digging or prying device; a small pick perhaps.

His breathing slowed and as he held his weapon, a mad grin flashed over his pale face. He had never before felt so weak and this angered him; taunted him. Cursing quietly to himself, he broke his fear and began to creep from slab to slab towards the far end of the room and an exit; an escape.

What had they planned for him? Were they going to work on him like the other figures in the room? Would they have drained him of his blood and gutted him, examining his organs as though part of a grim experiment? His mind reeled and his anger grew, carrying him towards the hunched silent figure. As he neared closer and closer his movements became ever slower and more deliberate, wanting desperately to avert the mans attention. Hoping that his back would remain turned, he spied from the shadows what sickening procedure this robed man was performing. He appeared to be reaching into the chest cavity of a corpse, carefully cutting and removing individual organs before weighing them on a set of scales and holding them up to a series of lenses; examining their surface anatomy before further slicing them apart.

Some he had already placed into jars filled with a clear fluid and labelled; thoughtfully making notes in a journal each step of the way. Oltice crouched there, bracing himself against a slab as he wavered with weakness and disgust. The thought of sneaking up behind this vile creature and slipping his pointy tool between its ribs crossed his mind but he had not the energy nor resolve to follow it through. Stepping off to creep past him though he knocked the nearby table of tools; rattling it a little while slipping behind the slab.

The man swung around and in a brief moment of terror, Oltice held his breath and closed his eyes; gripping his pick hard.

“Gah, damn rats. Always scaring poor Hharga!”

The next breath to come out of the boys lips was so slow he almost suffocated. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he flushed with heat, almost collapsing under the weight of his dread. Several minutes passed in silence and in fears that quelled, joints that stiffened and breathing that slowed back to normal. He tried not to gulp nor even lick his lips though the orifice was so dry he almost contemplated sneaking back to his room and towards the cool fluid in the jug.

The urgent need to press on bore down on him and he resolved again to move along, this time with even greater care. His next move would be successful and he made it to the next slab, then the next and then the next; picking up his determination. The door was now beyond a short threshold and if he picked his timing right, he could make it to the next room. He waited for the robed figure to turn his attention back to the corpse before picking himself up and slinking towards the door; the smell of some freedom beginning to overpower the terrible stench of the hall.

He made it through the door without incident and as he did, he suddenly became aware of his heart pounding in his chest; so loud he thought that the man must surely have just heard it also. Stepping into a long hallway he turned back and instead of hearing footfall come towards him, he heard the same frail voice exclaim,

“Ah! The incense! The-the door! Oltice!”

He must have seen the small chamber door ajar at the far end of the morgue; a small steady stream of incense smoke leaking forth. The boy gasped and took flight down the hallway upon weak and stiffened legs; legs that had not known much use in the last week.