Owen's Journey

Life happens. We write novels and get weary.  And so I have been.  But now the need to write has be welling up within me again.  I've been browsing around my notes, tepid starts to stories and incomplete ideas.  Quite a while ago I began writing a story about an indentured slave.  I think this might be a good place to restart . . . and yet A Misspent god is calling my name, or maybe I hear the sound of Hortensia's footsteps, or was that the tinny noise of someone building a castle out of file cabinets.  I think really all of them are clamoring for me now.  More rightly it's that I finally hear them clamoring again.

A portion of Owen's Journey

The dog howled long and loud. It woke everyone in the house. A mass of restless turning and returning to sleep prevailed through the darkness until everything became stillness again. Owen's eyes would not close and he was angry. He knew he would not sleep again this night. He could hear the air whistling in and out of his nose. And that also made him angry.

Everything had made him angry for a very long time now and it felt as if it would always be this way—there was no way to undo this kind of rage. Susanna being taken was not even the worst part of it. His self loathing was the fuel for all other rages. A loathing without resolution was the worst kind of all. He felt soulless, empty and angry.

His feet lightly touched the floor. He wavered there for a moment. Then pushing himself carefully off of the bed he gathered his clothing and all his possessions holding them closely to his chest. His shoes bumped against the door frame. He froze for a moment to let the crisis pass. 

He could see the outline of the dog across the yard.  It was thrashing in its sleep like Owen often did. But Owen did not jump up suddenly to chase illusory rabbits in his sleep. The cool air of the pre-dawn was a ruse. In just a few short hours the sun would punish everything with its branding-iron heat and water would become the commodity of highest value.

Owen moved cautiously toward the wooded area at the east corner of the Proctor property. He would dress there then leave and leave and leave. As he passed the silo his stomach reminded him that he needed food for his journey. No one would miss the few things he would take. The door squeaked softly as he entered the building. With his hand still pressing against the frame he paused to listen if the hound had wakened and was now pursuing him. But no sound or movement was uncharacteristic of this early morning hour. 

As Owen closed the door he decided this was the better placed to dress.  As he pulled on his clothing he squinted into the darkness trying to discern the items he would need. He smelled Peter’s leather travel bag hanging near the door frame. In one knowing moment he seized it and began filling it for himself this time—not for Peter as hundreds of times he had done before. Peter would miss it but, cursing under his breath, he knew Peter could casually lay down some quick coin to replace it. 

Owen’s rage flared again. He had lost everything and had been indentured to the gluttonous, rich and comfortable Peter. No one deserved as much as this one man and his family had—no one. Owen's hand hit the rifle in the corner and for an infinitesimal moment he considered conscripting that as well. But the reality of an armed runaway was too much risk even for him. He would have to be leagues away by daylight and too much weight would slow him down. His faithful blade, having served him well for so many years, would not betray him.

The door rasped again as he closed it. His heart began to beat wildly. Nothing outside was moving. This was the moment. He could undo everything in this moment.  Once past the property line it would be undone. He was determined to undo this so-called life. Owen ran as quietly as possible toward the invisible line of freedom.  Everything indeed had come undone.

Copyright M.R. Hyde 2014

 

Another Post from "a Misspent god"

I'm working diligently on this story and trying to finish my second novel now titled Tall Pauley (instead of Saint Pauley)--thanks to my first readers.  The final drafts of both of these represent some serious toiling with words. There is much to do, much to do.  But I love it.

I thought that I had better post something, though, to help me push forward.  So, here's a bit more from a chapter entitled "The Metalworker."

__________________________________________

I wandered for several more cycles of the sun. I wandered in and out of villages and towns observing the work and the ways of the lower ones. Often I would hear the names of the gods invoked in prayer, cursing or woven into conversations such as this. "I was plowing the field three days ago when it rained, Gersemi be praised.”  It seemed everywhere I went they praised or invoked the names of a myriad of gods.  There were times I shook my head in disbelief. 

One time in particular, I must tell you, I was sitting near a fountain. Many lower ones milled around me. I overheard one sitting close by saying, "Honor be to Ogmios!" I cannot recall the context in which it was said, but I scoffed at his name. I thought I had done this under my breath, but the man who spoke heard me say this. He turned on me and cried out his displeasure, which gathered quite a large crowd. He leapt to his feet and cried out, "This man has no respect for Ogmios!" To which I cried out, unfortunately, "I have no respect for any of your gods!" This was not the thing to say, no matter how true it was to my thoughts. Within a very short time I was being drug out of the town and stones were being collected of which they intended to hurl at me.  Do they not understand that the very stones they picked up were the same stones that have fallen from the mountains? How one stone could be used as a weapon, another a part of the wall, another considered rubbish to be thrown out on the field and yet another to be a god is completely beyond my understanding! 

At the moment that I was to feel the true effects of stone against flesh, I sensed some of my old powers return. Perhaps this happened because I was nearing the end of my trial period.  For whatever reason I was able to loose myself and ran from their midst. I ran for half of the day then became somewhat hungry. I would need sustenance for only a short while more.

On the outskirts of another small town I saw a small alcove with a small figure of a god tucked inside.  It was surrounded by dead and freshly picked flowers. There was an odd smell of decay and sweetness. What lay at the base of the alcove was the real find! There was quite a large pile of fruit and nuts. I took small bites of these at first, and finding them delicious, soon ate my fill, decimating the large pile of fruit. I left only pits and stems for the worshipers to discover. After all, they might enjoy some proof that what they gave to a god was indeed gladly received of a god. I believe I was fortunate that no one found me there. I imagine they would have picked up more stones to teach me proper respect for their tiny statue.

I wandered the streets for a time, exploring their marketplace. Soon after, I entered a shop that was very well kept. Inside were small and large images made of what I learned was silver, a precious material considered to be of great value. I recognized some of the images as similar to what the stonemason had been carving. This was a shop filled with the images of gods. I almost laughed out loud at their large eyes, protruding lips and strange clothing. It was apparent that the imaginations of the lower ones were quite crude.

A big voice behind me interrupted my reflections on this matter. I turned to see a rather large man. His eyes danced with the prospect of the exchange of coins for gods. His wide mouth was filled with teeth as white as snow. It reminded me somewhat of my father's smile, broad but without great brushes of ridicule.

Copyright M.R. Hyde 2013

"a Misspent god" Continues

I was back again last night at the CSWRS. Thanks to Mandy Solomon for her good leadership and bringing us wonderful writers to broaden our local horizons!

So, here is what I read aloud last night in the continuing saga of "a Misspent god."  Frankly, this story is not easy to write. It does not seem difficult because of the first-person perspective nor because of the content.  Rather, it is difficult to write because I want to be so very careful in building the plot to a phenomenal point of conflict.  Carefully, carefully I trod toward a resolution by which I am completely intrigued.

The Crone

I found a plateau nearby strangely vacant of vegetation and sufficiently flat enough for me to lay out full length.  Tiny deer fled from the nearby rocks as my shadow darkened their habitat.  Because the crone had ignored my calls I lay down and watched the clouds.  Presently a hawk flew overhead and I reached up and gently tapped its tail feathers and laughed when it careened through the air screaming at me to leave it alone.  Soon it flew out of my reach and I went to sleep in the hot sun.

The next thing I recall was the ground trembling.  I woke in a shadow—the shadow of my father walking toward me.  I did not know how I should or could react.  I was at his mercy as I lay there. The earth ceased trembling as he stopped near my side.  I blinked up at his aspect.  The sun crowned his head with its brilliance. This is what he said to me.  “Helgeror tells me you bested her at the library.”  There was a groundswell of challenge in his voice, but I did not respond.  “I would test you now in this matter.  However, your mother has told me she has sent you to the crone for a journey to the lower realms.  So, I shall test you later.”  And with that, and not waiting for any response from me, he turned and walked off of the plateau and into his chariot, a great cloud of dust in his wake.  I hated him even more then and determined that I would never permit him to test me.  I felt my feet slip off the edge of the plateau and realized that I had grown even taller as he spoke to me.  I was glad for this, for I had hoped that someday he might fear me as much as I feared him.  Then I slept again.

The crone woke me in the obscurity of twilight.  She stood by my ear which was as tall as she.  Her voice was gentle, but her aspect with harsh.  She had been legendary for her beauty.  But now her legend was made of other things.  She woke me with these words:  “So, this the son of Ogmios and Ernmos.  You have come at your mother’s bidding.  What does she want of me?”  I stretched and the plateau trembled.  I was in no particular hurry, so I sat up slowly.  The crone was behind me then and she had to shout up at me.  “You will have to lay back down, boy, if you want to speak with me!”  At this I reached around behind me and grabbed her in my fist.  I swung her up near my face.  “Or,” I declared to her in a small clap of thunder, “you will come to me!”

She was unimpressed and her eyes were as dark as midnight.  She closed them slowly and her aspect grew larger in my eyes.  In the next moment I realized that she was not growing, rather I was becoming smaller.  Soon my grip around her was strained and I could no longer hold on to her.  She laughed at me and cried out with delight, “How small do you wish to be, little god?  How small?!”  I only called out to her when I saw her ankle bones at the bottom of her tattered skirt.  Then everything stopped.  She leaned over and one dark, black eye blinked in my face.  Her breath was hot and heavy like a summer’s day at the seashore and it reeked of garlic.

 

She told me three things.  The first was that by sunrise I would be the size of a man of the lower realms.  The second was that I would remain in that form for only six turns of the sun.  And, finally, I was to have no powers except that of the lower ones.  I protested loudly, especially on that last measure.  But, she laughed and said that my father had made this so.  Then with a blink of that terrible eye she was gone.

Copyright M.R. Hyde July 12, 2013

New Story Start: the Misspent god

Ever since I read Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis I've been ruminating on a story about a god or a king or a queen or someone with incredible power.  And I'm still intrigued and challenged to write something in first-person.  I took a mythology course in High School that has stuck with me, am fascinated by Norse mythology and love the movie Thor (of all the superhero movies, one of the most Shakespearean --Thank you, Mr. Branagh).  So, it just seems like the natural next step to take up the subject in earnest.  Enter stage left:  Oldenvort.  Here is the beginning of what may be a short story, a long short story or another novel.  Who knows how far it will go?  This is what I love about writing fiction! (And yes, the missed caps are intentional.)

the Misspent god

I died on the third floor of the library, facing west—wonderful, oceanic west, with the sea sparkling as I had forgotten that it could.  Shall I tell you how I came to such a place of death?  It comes to mind that the beginning would be a good place to start, although I am far more intrigued by the ending of things than their beginnings.  Where I now reside has no beginning and no end. But, I do think that you may need a beginning.  However, the middle of things tends to be much more dramatic than the beginning or the end—ah, I diverge as I am prone to do. 

The beginning was full of my unthrottled cries and my mother’s heavy and newly unburdened sleep.  The midwives, I was told repeatedly, were nearly as exhausted as my mother.  So, few words were spoken as they cleaned my flailing body.  “This one will be great in the midst,” said one midwife to the other.  A wink and a nod were the only other two parts of the weary conversation.

Bound, but this time in coarse cloth and not my mother’s fleshy belly, I fought as Prometheus to loose myself from the woven fetters. Soon, through much writhing and wrestling, I freed myself with such zeal that the golden cradle that held me tipped to one side and I rolled free of its clutches. Having rolled several times, I then lay beneath a large, rustic table obscured by shadow and hidden from any searching eye. You may find it incredible that I neither cried out nor suffered any pangs of hunger and that I recall this event in its entirety. I was born a god, remember everything and have suffered much from both.

For seventeen cycles of the sun I lay there silently beneath the table. I remember feet the better part of that time. The feet of the nurse-maids, filthy and rough, the boots of the guards, stolid and polished, the loose and scuffed shoes of the conscripts searching for me, and the boots of my father. These were great boots with bronze scales reflecting any light by day or night. The leather soles were as thick as my leg and the straps were as wide as my hand. The ground shook as he walked and all souls quaked at his entrance.

I believe this was the first time I hated him. I could hear the trembling in their voices as he questioned and accused. And I comprehended his power that could bend the heavens and the earth to his will. In my infancy, in my beginning, I vowed that I would not wield that power. And thus my journey began—a journey of diminishment. It was a journey solely designed to dismantle the power of my father’s voice. I am Oldenveldort and this is my tale.

Copyright M.R. Hyde 2013

The Rabbit Man (Excerpt from Saint Pauley)

I'm nearing the end of my second novel Saint Pauley.  It's exciting to be so close to the end, but there is much work ahead.  Part of the fun of this novel is trying to capture regional vernacular in words.  I keep reworking some of these sections to render them perhaps more phonetically.  A good challenge!  

 The Rabbit Man's Message

A man with a strange looking hat entered the clearing near the Mother's House.  The lookout guard at first thought he saw a very tall lop-eared rabbit. Upon thinking twice he recognized the apparatus on the man’s head as a hat with long side flaps. The hat was filthy and looked as if it had never been removed.

"Good afternoon to ya!" shouted the rabbit man.

The guard flinched a bit at such a loud voice. The forest was typically very quiet and this had been like a bolt of lightning. "Hold their!" he cried out.

“Lessee here,” said the rabbit man, “I might expect a betta greetin’ from a brother in arms.”  At this he removed the sticky hat, revealing a bald pate with strands of blue hair strung across the top. "The color never really does come out once it's put in."

The guard looked only a bit relieved, still not trusting the strange man.

The rabbit man grinned, showing the dark gaps in his teeth without shame.  “Why don’t cha tell your commander that Rufus is here.  He’ll know who I am." The guard hesitated for a moment. "Go on an’ tell him, son.  Go on now."

The guard moved only his head to the side and spoke to someone out of the line of sight. After some minutes and while the rabbit man whistled a bold tune, which prompted a quick lineup of guards just within the gate, the commander appeared in the lookout tower.

"What brings you here, Mr. Rufus?" His voice was as sharp as a sword.

"Well, what kinda greetin’ is that commander?"

"It's enough of a greeting for you. What do you want?"

"Well, sir, I got a message for you and those City Fathers of yours. But, I ain't gonna yell it to ya.  I've come a mighty long way to deliver this here message and I was told to deliver it personal-like, face-to-face."

"You can do that at the gate. Meet me there."

"Well, alrighty.  But can ya throw me out some vittles first?"

"Meet me at the gate once you pick up your parcel."

"I thank you kindly, cap’n."

A few minutes later a rather large parcel was thrown over the wall and landed with a significant thud on the turf below. The rabbit man carefully placed his cap back on his head, spit on the ground and tromped over to the parcel. He grunted a bit when he picked it up because it was quite heavy. "Seems you don't want me back around here for while," he said to no one in particular. He sidled up to the gate and stuck his face up close to the bars. Grinning very broadly and wheezing with laughter, he stared at the young guards just inches away from him. "You boys look mighty purty.  I used to half one of those fine coats, too." Then with a whoop he jerked off his hat.  "An’ I used to half purty hair like yours, too!" He leaned back and laughed maniacally until he was winded. Then he doubled over to recover himself. The young guards were disgusted and unsettled.

By the time the rabbit man stood upright the commander was staring coldly at him through the bars of the gate. "I'm listening."

"Well, sir, yesiree." The rabbit man drew so near the gate that his horrible breath caused the commander to blink several times. "I'm supposed to give just you this here message. Tell your boys to back off."

"Fall back!" came the command. All the young guards were more than happy to oblige.  The commander lowered his voice just above a whisper. In a measured voice he said, “Give me the message."

"Lessee here.  Whatted he say? Oh, yes!  These womenfolk you keep needin’ ain’t going to be supplied no more ‘cause your pay is too low.  He’s gonna half to raise it, see?  He’s mighty near mutiny ‘cause his boys need more pay to keep your purty city goin’.  He’s gonna need fifteen per cent more."

The commander clenched his jaw. Talking angrily through his teeth, he glared at the rabbit man. "And what about your promise to bring us the Tall One?  He was supposed to be delivered months ago.  I also have a near mutiny on my hands here because my men are disgusted by having to take those women down the hatch.  They come out stinking and their hair is ruined."

"Oh my, my!" The rabbit man started howling with laughter. "Your purty hair getting all mussed up!  I'd put money on them being more willing to go down that hole than to come out in this here forest.  What kinda tales you tell ‘em to keep ‘em from bolting out this here gate?  Must be some kinda teeeerible thing!"

"You're the only kind of terrible thing my men need to see to understand what it means to leave the City!" he hissed.

The rabbit man doubled over as he laughed hysterically again. Holding his sides he hooted and hollered into the courtyard. "Hey boys, don't want to end up like me, eh?!   Good luck!" With that he trotted toward the forest only turning back to yell out, “Fifteen percent more by New Year’s or this all goes down the tunnel!"

The commander cleared his throat and straightened his jacket before he turned around to face his troops. He took the time to look each one in the eye. Then he spoke with confidence and reassurance. "Gentlemen, there is nothing to fear. He is an unstable man who has never been a part of the City of Promise.  Return to your posts."

The young men stood stunned, not knowing who to believe. The commander immediately became enraged. "Resume your posts!" Hundreds of young, blue-haired men raced to their posts with their thoughts tumbled and confused.

Copyright M.R. Hyde 2013