The Blood Gate - chapter three extract

‘Is this it?’ Suraya looked unimpressed. ‘You dragged me all the way through the desert for this?’

            ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Roscoe. ‘I rather like it.’

            ‘It’s a shack.’

            ‘It’s not what’s on the outside that matters, my dear,’ he took her by the shoulder and drew her closer.

Suraya looked at the ramshackle lean-to. Nestled in a crevice half way down the sheer rock wall, it clung to a crumbling squat of a building.

            ‘The roof looks like it’s going to fall in on us. I hope you know that. Bringing your only goddaughter to this death trap.’

Roscoe rolled his eyes.

Image from http://www.wildabouttheworld.com/gallery/showphoto.php/photo/7142/size/big

‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ Suraya kicked at the red dust on the desert path. A buzzard screeched overhead, and Rianya flinched beside Roscoe.

            ‘A lunatic. A collector. A wise man. And if I remember correctly, he also knows a thing or two about maps. Now, I know my own work, but I wouldn’t put anything past the good Caliph.’

            ‘A forgery?’ Suraya questioned.

            ‘Possibly. Who knows? Now come along, we cannot keep him waiting.’

Roscoe ushered them through a heavy faded red curtain, which swept across the entrance of the timber-framed construction. A cockroach scuttled out from under the curtain, sniffing for crumbs of food. Myriads of brass and copper teapots and little cups were hanging dubiously over the doorway, huddled around a wooden plaque that read ‘Livingstone’s’.

Suraya, Roscoe and Rianya stood close together in the cramped space as their eyes adjusted to the darkness within. The air was hot and stifling, and Suraya could feel boxes and chests and bookcases all about her, squashing in at all angles. Rianya grasped at her sleeve in fear, but Suraya roughly swatted her away.

Slowly, emerging from the blackness, flecks of gold began to materialise. Gold, silver, rubies. Everywhere she looked. The dim light bounced off green glass bottles lining every bookshelf, crammed with parchments and trinkets. Baskets filled with pottery shards to Suraya’s left, and to her right was a polished globe sitting in a brass cradle. She reached out to touch it, and it span slowly, rudely awakening a cantankerous parrot in a dusty cage by her feet. The bird squawked irritably. At the end of the room, under a cacophony of saucepans attached to the roof with string, sat a hunched man in an oversized armchair. He squinted though round glasses at a compass, the entire room lit by one small stub of a candle beside him.

‘Livingstone?’ asked Roscoe.

            ‘My father’s name,’ the hunched man said mildly.

            ‘Sorry, Alcester.’

The man looked around, his round face dominated by a large red noise and whiskers of feathery hair that crept over his ears.

            ‘Can it be? Captain Wells! How? When? What? Why? Oh, it is nice to see you, my very old, very dear friend! Nice to see you, yes. Come, come! Sit with me, long time it has been! And friends, yes. Sit! Mouse?’ He gestured to a plate of dormice beside him, their tails plaited together. ‘Very tasty.’

            ‘No, thank you,’ Roscoe replied quickly. He picked his way delicately forward and perched on a bookcase edge. ‘It is good to see you again, old friend,’ he clasped Alcester’s hand warmly. ‘It has been many years. How are you?  Is life kind? This is my goddaughter, Suraya, and her cousin, Rianya.’

            ‘Come, sit, kin of Captain Wells. All welcome, most welcome,’ Alcester gestured to a pile of books with a gnarled old finger, and Rianya went forward to sit. Suraya hung back, not wanting to be cramped too closely with the princess.

‘What brings you to my humble abode, after all this time, my southern friend?’ Alcester chuckled to himself.

            ‘I came to you because you are the best, even after all this time, still the best.’ Roscoe gave Alcester a friendly pat on the shoulder and grinned.

            ‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Alcester chuckled again.

            ‘Do you remember the map I made the last time I was here?’

            ‘For the king? Yes, yes.’

            ‘Well, I need you to authenticate it for me,’ Roscoe pulled the rolled parchment from his satchel and spread it carefully across the cluttered desk.

            ‘I thought caliph a friend of yours? Perhaps not. No. Not new caliph. Tricky. Treachery afoot, me thinks.’

Alcester looked carefully at Suraya. She tried not to catch his eye, and busily ran her fingers over the graceful curve of a short bow, propped up against a dusty bookshelf. The wood was stained dark, almost black, and the ends were capped in gold. It had been a long time since she had held a bow, but even as she touched it, it seemed familiar to her. All the calloused fingers and bruised arms she had gotten as a child practicing with Roscoe’s weapon seemed to come flooding back, as vivid in her mind as they had ever been in real life.

She looked back to the strange old man with Roscoe, who was now caressing a cockatoo he had pulled out from under the tablecloth.

‘Ahhhh, I look at map for you,’ Alcester said winking, a wide grin spreading over his face, and plonked the cockatoo down onto the table.

Pulling out reams and reams of maps and charts from the bookshelf behind him, he stared thoughtfully through a giant magnifying glass at Roscoe’s map.

‘Yes, lugal amar, yes I see it now. Hmm, pesh didly. Or was it didly pesh? I always forget the grammar. Yes, here. Old, old, old it is.’

            ‘Not so old’, replied Roscoe a touch indignantly. ‘Is it real?’ he said, careful to keep one eye on Suraya as she wandered through the myriad of objects in the shop.

            ‘Hmm, nita kalaga. Yes, yes here it is! Just like this, or that, or maybe this one,’ Alcester said, flinging pieces of parchment up at Roscoe. ‘Not seen one like this for long long time. Most interesting, lugal. Yes yes, I think. Most real, I am sure. And here, see, the seal,’ he whispered most urgently to Roscoe.

‘In tact?’ he asked, one eye on Suraya to make certain she did not hear him.

‘Yes. Most certainly. Stupid caliph did not know what he had. But friend Roscoe, it is far, very long way to go. Dangerous,’ Alcester said in a low voice, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. ‘Not safe!’

            ‘Thank you, Alcester. You are, as always, a most brilliant mind to know,’ Roscoe drew the map back into a scroll, and slipped it into his bag.

            ‘Dangerous!’ Alcester hissed. Roscoe looked at him earnestly, and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Alcester sighed heavily. ‘Map is true, Captain,’ he said at last.

            ‘What seal?’ Rianya suddenly asked.

Roscoe and Alcester both whipped around at the sound of her voice, apparently having forgotten she was sat so close.

            ‘Er..seal…of approval!’ Roscoe stammered.

            ‘Yes, authentic, yes!’ Alcester chimed in, trying his hardest to sound genuine. ‘Very complicated to decipher. You would not see. Too…small.’

            ‘Don’t you think it’s hot in here? Why don’t you and Suraya step outside? She looks impatient,’ Roscoe suggested buoyantly. Rianya looked uncertain, but Suraya was already making her way out.

            ‘Go, go,’ encouraged Alcester. ‘We only talk of old times. Very boring.’

As soon as she had left, Roscoe breathed a sigh of relief.

            ‘Thank you, Alcester. I am most obliged. And I’ve also brought you a bag of your favourite biscuits.’

            ‘Biscuits, I like. Yes, glad to help! I have plate somewhere. Just let me find it. Under many books…’

A Beautiful Corpse - short story extract

I make a beautiful corpse. I watch from above as the walker’s dog finds me. And then the police, discovering my body amongst the tall grass on the golden hillside. It takes them two days. I lie as if posed, a picture from another time. Pale as snow, my dark hair flowing around my shoulders. I wear a black velvet cloak, white silken dress. Clothes I never wore in life.

In my hand is the empty packet of pills that I took. I thought about opening an artery in my wrist, but the pain of doing it with a badge pin put me off. This is so much neater. Quieter. No fuss.

The police officers take my photo. From where they stand, they can see what I saw. The big hill with the sheep farm on the top, the ruined boiler house at the bottom of the valley, the little red brick village.

The sun is setting. No one but me sees the way the tall grass is set on fire by the dying sun. No one but me sees those vibrant purple flowers that light up the field where I died. No one but me remembers the tears that soaked the ground.

S J Menary 13/03/2013

Image from wikipedia.org.uk (orginal paining Ophelia by J. Millias held at Tate Britain, London)

The Angel Girl

          ‘Listen up, you’ll never believe this!’ he said in a gruff whisper.

I heard him over the bar. He didn’t know I was listening.

          ‘You’ll never in a million years guess what I’m about to tell you, Bill mate!’ he rambled on, grabbing Bill’s sleeve to make sure he’s paying attention.

          ‘Well? Spit it out then,’ Bill grumbled. He was a big bloke, slouched against the bar. He had a grizzled face, an eye with a squint, and dried blood in his beard. I’d seen him in here a few times. Thrown him out more than once.

          ‘I saw her!’ said the other one, with a theatrical wave of his hand. He was nothing like Bill. Short and skinny, fragile looking, like he might snap in two if the wind blew too hard.

          ‘Who?’ said Bill.

          

          ‘You what?’

          ‘The angel girl! The one everyone’s been talking about! Dear God man, have you got wax in your lug-holes?’

          ‘I dunno what you’re on about, Ed,’ Bill took a chug of his drink.

Ed huffed, leaning heavily onto my bar. His fingers trailed thick, greasy smears across the wood. I forced myself no to push him off and start polishing right then and there. Instead, I poured a slow pint of beer and let the froth settle. I nudged closer, trying to hear the rest of the conversation.

          ‘Alright then, Bill. You’re too stupid to know what’s going on anyhow.’

          ‘I am not stupid!’ Bill slammed his tankard down onto the bar, making Ed and I jump. ‘I just been out of town for a bit, s’all.’

          ‘Bill, I didn’t mean anything by it, you know that right, mate?’

          ‘A’right. Tell us about this gal then,’ Bill grumbled quietly.

          ‘Everyone’s been talking about it. Old Sal’s lad saw her first. There, in the wheat field just before dawn. Damn fainted at the shock, he did! But then, he was always a soppy one, Old Sal’s lad. No one paid it much mind, though. Not until Dunstable done saw ‘er too! Aint no one gonna argue the toss with a vicar, now, are they? He said he saw her at the lake. ‘A Vision from the Most High God’ ‘e said.’

          ‘Huh?’

          ‘Yep.’

          ‘Uh.’

          ‘And Larry the Baker. He saw her too. And Larry’s wife, ‘er mother, their six kids. Saw her at the fair, they did,’ Ed blabbered.

          ‘So when did you see ‘er?’ Bill took another swig.

          ‘It were that cold, frosty morning the other day. There she were, bold as brass! Standing by the well, all surrounded by mist and that. Just a girl. Young, like. Pretty. She had this, dark black hair all flowing and really pale skin.’

          ‘She have big…?’

          ‘Shurrup! I was visited by an angel from God, you moron!’

Bill stifled a laugh, blowing froth off his beer and flecking his beard with creamy bubbles.

          ‘Sorry, Ed. Carry on, mate.’

          ‘She were wearing this dress-thing, all made out of golden feathers, just floatin’ around her. Wings like an angel, gold and glittery. I ain’t seen nowt like it, Bill, I’m tellin’ ya!’

          ‘Pah! Bollocks! It was the sun coming up you numpty!’

          ‘No way! I saw her!’

          ‘It were last night’s mead.’

          ‘I swear it!’

          ‘Your imagination playin’ tricks. Bad meat. Fever. Delusions! A ghost?’

          ‘Bill, she were real! An apparition!’

          ‘And what would an apparition sent by the Almighty ‘imself be doin’ in our town, huh? Why would a divine angel o’ the Lord present ‘erself to Ed the local piss-head?’ Bill scoffed.

          ‘’How the ‘ell would I know? Cleanse me o’ my sins? Show me God’s true path?’ Ed spat.

          ‘You’re talkin’ outta your ass, man,’ Bill chuckled.

          ‘Yeah? Well, I’ll show you who’s talkin’ out o’ their ass!’

Ed hurled a punch. Missed, and cracked against my bar. There was a howl of pain. Bill, lifting Ed up into the air, threw him bodily across the bar to crash into tables, customers and flagons. There was a collective roar from the tavern’s customers, and in one breath the bar erupted into chaos. Ales went flying across the room, chairs snapped as they were broken across people’s backs, punches swinging left and right.

I ducked below the bar as a bottle hurtled towards me, smashing in a cascade of liquor and shattered green glass. Time to make a sharp exit, I thought, and scurried away in a rather undignified arse-in-the-air crawling run.

As I broke out into the crisp night air, I breathed it in deeply. That story about the angel girl. It had gotten me thinking. I wondered out into the dark streets, past the well, the church, the taverns.

What if it was true? The mists were slinking in again, and my shoes were wet from the moist air. What is there was an angel, here, in this town? To show us the true path to goodness?

I walked a little further, until I reached the square. And I stopped.

Breath caught.

Blood ice.

She was there. Standing on the far side of the square, shrouded in grey fog, grown dark blue in the midnight shadows.

But that dress. It shimmered like the sunset, bright, burnished gold. Long, delicate feathers lightly caressing her cold, pale skin. Flowing raven locks cascading over her shoulders.

And those eyes. Black as the sky above. Piercing. Staring right at me.

I felt entranced. Transfixed. Paralysed with awe and fear and love. She moved silently, floating towards me until I could almost reach out. Touch that alabaster skin, those soft golden feathers, those glittering eyes. She moved closer, until I was breathing the same breath as her.

In those few seconds, I was hers. Complete, perfectly, and without hesitation.

She pulled closer, reaching for me with those delicate, exquisite lips. Inching closer, closer, closer. Until, with agonising ecstasy, she kissed me.

          ‘Oh, Bill, man, I am so hung over!’

          ‘Don’t Ed. Just don’t.’

They staggered through the square, blinking in the harsh, burning light of the unforgiving morning.

          ‘What did we drink last night??’

          ‘Mede, ale, beer, cider…’ Bill growled.

          ‘Uh, I’m gonna throw up…’ Ed clutched his stomach.

          ‘Fry up?’ Bill whacked Ed forcefully on the back, a small smile creasing under his beard as his friend turned a pale shade of green.

          ‘They keep a special place in Hell for people like you, Bill.’

          ‘C’mon, you’ll feel better.’

          ‘You know, It’ll all come back upppparrgh!’

Bill looked back to see Ed, crumpled on the floor where he had tripped.

          ‘Look, we don’t have ta eat, man’ Bill replied apologetically.

          Ed clawed his way back up, dusty and confused. They both looked down to see what he had tripped over.

          ‘Bloody Hell,’ Ed cursed quietly.

Staring up at them from the cobble stones were the glassy dead eyes of the bartender.

S J Menary 13/03/2013

Author-in-training

Being an aspiring writer is hard work.

It isn’t how it is in the movies. Magical opportunities DO NOT drop out of the sky, and no one bumps into a strangely co-operative publisher in their local book shop.

If you are serious about wanting to me a writer, it will take blood, sweat, and tears, and even then you may not succeed. No one will tell you this at school, or as you get older. It is an unpleasant thought, but more true than you realise.

 

I knew I wanted to be an author from the moment I could form a story in my imagination. Who wouldn’t want to live their dreams for a day job?? But, if like me you started out your life with a less than basic state-funded education, you will have been woefully underprepared for your literary career path. The sad fact is most over-crowed school rooms across the country, with overworked and underappreciated teachers fighting just to keep their pupils heads above water, are not the breeding grounds of literary genius.

That, you have to create for yourself. There is no magic manual, or instant quick fix. It is built up over years, though reading, writing terrible first drafts (and second, and third drafts…), writing pieces for free, for anyone that will take them. Learning your craft takes time, effort, and money. And fitting it around your full time job, life, children etc. makes it even harder.

There is a reason that most new writers don’t make it onto the shelves of Waterstones.

 

But, don’t despair. The craft of writing is just a tool. A vehicle to showcase the more important thing. That being your story.  Because this is the most important thing about being a writer. It is the heart and soul of what we do. Without it, words are just markings on a page. They mean nothing without the story to interpret them.

I am by no means an expert (in any particular field), but I hope to give authors-in-training an idea of the many dangers and pitfalls that will befall them on this VERY long road ahead to publication. Not everyone will make it to the end. But I hope that some of us will.