Out in the garden, Gravor was cradling a hoe in the crook of his arm and kicking the blade through the dirt with the side of his foot, but when he saw Vera Lilly coming down the lane, he decided to pretend to weed behind the hedge instead.
"Gravor," he heard her call from one house down. He crouched, motionless except for the phantom weeding of his bandaged hands. Vera's white-stockinged feet in polished white leather shoes appeared before him under the hedge.
"Hello, Gravor!" Vera's upside-down face appeared under the hedge as well. Her helical blonde tresses bounced like springs, and her cheeks flushed.
Gravor leapt to his feet and hid his hands behind his back. "Oh, good morning! Miss Vera!"
Though they had grown up together, even as a little boy he was taught to call her 'miss.' He always paused before saying it, though, as if daring himself to address her as an intimate.
Vera rose as well and put a gloved hand on the top of the hedge. "Good afternoon is more like it! We missed you at service this morning, so I wanted to come by and see if you are alright."
"Oh, yes, I must have forgotten what day it is. I'm fine, though. Everything's fine -- just a lot of work to do around the house."
"You must be very busy. No one has seen you come out of your house all week."
"Yes, very busy."
Vera smiled. "Then maybe I can help. I could cook and clean for you -- until you finish your work, I mean."
Never had Gravor hated anyone so much as he hated Blueberry that moment. "No, I couldn't. It's really not so much work. I should finish very soon. That really is so kind of you, though." Vera's eyes were swallowing him. Drawn to her, he leaned against the hedge. As soon as he approached, she leaped back and covered her mouth.
"What? What is it?" he pleaded, staggering backward himself.
"Your hands!" she gasped. "What happened?"
He had forgotten them. "Oh, nothing. It's not as bad as it looks." He hid them behind his back again, but when Vera reached over the hedge to him, he consented to submit them for her inspection. The warmth that diffused through her soft gloves against his wrists paradoxically sent waves of chills up and down his arms. Vera turned his bandaged lumps over and back, over and back, but said nothing. Gravor had to admit that his hands couldn't be much worse than they looked. He had insisted on dressing them on his own -- that is, without the use of hands -- and had made up for a lack of finesse with more bandage. Worse, he had not been able to stomach cleaning them properly, and he dreaded what the wounds might look like now. After five days, the bandages were bloodied, greyed with dirt and stained with a yellowish weeping.
"Please, please come with me right now to have this looked at," Vera's voice trembled. She couldn't take her eyes off Gravor's hands. He could do little but assent.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Chapter Seven: The Lie Blueberry Told
Beezy frowned. "You two don't seem very much alike."
"Well, we're cousins."
"Cousins?" Even that seemed improbable to Beezy.
"Distant cousins."
"Then there must be some other family he could stay with."
"Nope, we're all we got."
"Just you two distant cousins, living here in the same house. How'd that come to be?"
Lying was much more difficult than Berry had anticipated. Still, if he could get past this one small fib, his honor would remain untainted. "It's a long story," he said.
Beezy looked at him intently.
"Our family is real old. My side's from a place not too far from here. Called Lusnelk."
"I've never heard of any town called Lusnelk."
"That's because it's not there anymore. And it wasn't a town, it was a big castle, like, down at the mouth of the gorge."
"That's where I live in summer," said Beezy. "There's nothing there but forest."
"Well, it was right where the forest opens onto the plains, i mean."
"I've never seen any castle there."
"That's because like I said -- it's not there anymore."
"Not even ruins?"
"Nope, not one stone standing on another. Completely destroyed."
"Oh goodness! What happened?"
"Nobody knows for sure. Everyone disappeared."
"Gracious...but what about you? and your cousin?"
"Well, when my side of the family got wiped out, his side tried to take on a lot of the land my family owned, like this town here. But there wasn't enough of them to control it all, and all sorts of newcomers came and just took it over. My cousin's -- Gravy, I call him -- Gravy's ma and pa were the last of the line, and all they had was this one little house. It still hurts Gravy to talk about it, so you probably shouldn't ever bring it up."
"So it's his house?"
"Oh, wait -- no! It's my house, because all of this belonged to my side of the family, but -- see, and this explains why i'm around, too -- nobody even knew about me." Blueberry paused to gauge Beezy's credulity, but she wore a serious pout that may have spelled either annoyed disbelief or an honest attempt to assemble the unwieldy pieces of Blueberry's puzzle. So he dove in. "My grandpa was the youngest son of the Baren of Lusnelk, and he was in charge of the mill. He lived there, outside the castle walls, with my grandma and my dad, but one day, when my dad was just a little baby, a big snow-melt came swooping down the canyon and washed away the mill with my grandma and dad inside it. My grandpa was out at the time -- he was working in the fields. I mean, overseeing the workers. So he survived, but they found my grandma's body down the river."
"Oh, how awful!" Beezy's concern for the woman and her baby superseded her concern for making sense of it all. When Blueberry saw he had won her, his words began to chase each other out of his mouth, one after another.
"Yep. And they thought my dad was gone, too, except he wasn't. Somehow he rode the flood, safe and sound in his bassinet, straight out of a second floor window, down into the river and about twenty miles south to a little village called Eustace."
"I've been there," Beezy approved.
"That's where I was born and raised. My dad grew up there and married my ma. But see, my grandpa never believed my dad was dead, and he never stopped looking for him. And so one night, he shows up at my parent's house out of nowhere. He told my dad all about everything, and that Lusnelk was destroyed years back. They left together before sunrise the next morning, didn't say where they were going. Dad never came back." A real tear rose up and blurred Blue's eye.
"Awful, awful," Beezy muttered. She kissed him on the forehead. "How old were you?"
"Only a baby, but Ma told me about it all when I was old enough, and I set out to get my inheritance."
"This house?"
"It's all that's left. I searched for years and years, but I didn't even find out about my cousin here until just last week."
"Last week? And your cousin just gave it up, no questions asked?"
"That's a real good question." He felt like he was stitching up holes in a hot-air balloon midflight. The job was almost done, but it was a long way down. "You see. . ." he began. "You see this birthmark?" He flipped over onto his other side and pointed to an area on his back with a large, bean-shaped mole. "Looks like a little moon?"
Beezy frowned. "That doesn't look healthy."
"Well, all the men in my family have it. That was the proof."
"All the same, maybe you should get it cut off."
Berry shrugged and flopped back over. "So anyhow, that's why I can't kick old Gravy out. Besides, he was born here! What kind of guy would I be to kick a man out of the house he was born in?" He pinched at Beezy's rump, but she slapped his wrist.
"And you didn't find out anything about your family? I mean what happened."
"Nope. Nobody knows what happened. Except my grandpa, and he disappeared, too, with my dad." Everything was tying itself up nicely.
"What about your mom? Didn't she hear about it from your grandpa, too?"
"Well, she didn't hear much -- had to take care of me, since I was a baby back then. But she did overhear little bits. Something about some real old trouble with another family."
"Who?"
"I don't know who. Some other family, from far away. Out west. I think."
"So that's it? Now you just live here with your cousin?"
"Not much I can do. I've been wandering around for a long time; I'd like to enjoy myself for a while. Now that I've found my long-lost cousin and all. You know -- live life." He grabbed a handful of Beezy's thigh, but she shoved him away. She lay for a long time, just staring at the ceiling. Berry closed his eyes and marveled as he tried to recall exactly how such a massive yarn had unraveled. "Not a bad job at all," if he said so himself.
"Well, we're cousins."
"Cousins?" Even that seemed improbable to Beezy.
"Distant cousins."
"Then there must be some other family he could stay with."
"Nope, we're all we got."
"Just you two distant cousins, living here in the same house. How'd that come to be?"
Lying was much more difficult than Berry had anticipated. Still, if he could get past this one small fib, his honor would remain untainted. "It's a long story," he said.
Beezy looked at him intently.
"Our family is real old. My side's from a place not too far from here. Called Lusnelk."
"I've never heard of any town called Lusnelk."
"That's because it's not there anymore. And it wasn't a town, it was a big castle, like, down at the mouth of the gorge."
"That's where I live in summer," said Beezy. "There's nothing there but forest."
"Well, it was right where the forest opens onto the plains, i mean."
"I've never seen any castle there."
"That's because like I said -- it's not there anymore."
"Not even ruins?"
"Nope, not one stone standing on another. Completely destroyed."
"Oh goodness! What happened?"
"Nobody knows for sure. Everyone disappeared."
"Gracious...but what about you? and your cousin?"
"Well, when my side of the family got wiped out, his side tried to take on a lot of the land my family owned, like this town here. But there wasn't enough of them to control it all, and all sorts of newcomers came and just took it over. My cousin's -- Gravy, I call him -- Gravy's ma and pa were the last of the line, and all they had was this one little house. It still hurts Gravy to talk about it, so you probably shouldn't ever bring it up."
"So it's his house?"
"Oh, wait -- no! It's my house, because all of this belonged to my side of the family, but -- see, and this explains why i'm around, too -- nobody even knew about me." Blueberry paused to gauge Beezy's credulity, but she wore a serious pout that may have spelled either annoyed disbelief or an honest attempt to assemble the unwieldy pieces of Blueberry's puzzle. So he dove in. "My grandpa was the youngest son of the Baren of Lusnelk, and he was in charge of the mill. He lived there, outside the castle walls, with my grandma and my dad, but one day, when my dad was just a little baby, a big snow-melt came swooping down the canyon and washed away the mill with my grandma and dad inside it. My grandpa was out at the time -- he was working in the fields. I mean, overseeing the workers. So he survived, but they found my grandma's body down the river."
"Oh, how awful!" Beezy's concern for the woman and her baby superseded her concern for making sense of it all. When Blueberry saw he had won her, his words began to chase each other out of his mouth, one after another.
"Yep. And they thought my dad was gone, too, except he wasn't. Somehow he rode the flood, safe and sound in his bassinet, straight out of a second floor window, down into the river and about twenty miles south to a little village called Eustace."
"I've been there," Beezy approved.
"That's where I was born and raised. My dad grew up there and married my ma. But see, my grandpa never believed my dad was dead, and he never stopped looking for him. And so one night, he shows up at my parent's house out of nowhere. He told my dad all about everything, and that Lusnelk was destroyed years back. They left together before sunrise the next morning, didn't say where they were going. Dad never came back." A real tear rose up and blurred Blue's eye.
"Awful, awful," Beezy muttered. She kissed him on the forehead. "How old were you?"
"Only a baby, but Ma told me about it all when I was old enough, and I set out to get my inheritance."
"This house?"
"It's all that's left. I searched for years and years, but I didn't even find out about my cousin here until just last week."
"Last week? And your cousin just gave it up, no questions asked?"
"That's a real good question." He felt like he was stitching up holes in a hot-air balloon midflight. The job was almost done, but it was a long way down. "You see. . ." he began. "You see this birthmark?" He flipped over onto his other side and pointed to an area on his back with a large, bean-shaped mole. "Looks like a little moon?"
Beezy frowned. "That doesn't look healthy."
"Well, all the men in my family have it. That was the proof."
"All the same, maybe you should get it cut off."
Berry shrugged and flopped back over. "So anyhow, that's why I can't kick old Gravy out. Besides, he was born here! What kind of guy would I be to kick a man out of the house he was born in?" He pinched at Beezy's rump, but she slapped his wrist.
"And you didn't find out anything about your family? I mean what happened."
"Nope. Nobody knows what happened. Except my grandpa, and he disappeared, too, with my dad." Everything was tying itself up nicely.
"What about your mom? Didn't she hear about it from your grandpa, too?"
"Well, she didn't hear much -- had to take care of me, since I was a baby back then. But she did overhear little bits. Something about some real old trouble with another family."
"Who?"
"I don't know who. Some other family, from far away. Out west. I think."
"So that's it? Now you just live here with your cousin?"
"Not much I can do. I've been wandering around for a long time; I'd like to enjoy myself for a while. Now that I've found my long-lost cousin and all. You know -- live life." He grabbed a handful of Beezy's thigh, but she shoved him away. She lay for a long time, just staring at the ceiling. Berry closed his eyes and marveled as he tried to recall exactly how such a massive yarn had unraveled. "Not a bad job at all," if he said so himself.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter Six, which is a day late because I was very tired yesterday
Apparently oblivious to everything, Blueberry lay with one foot caught between the rungs of the headboard and arms draped over the foot of the bed, like a corpse that had washed up from the bedroom floor. So Beezy squealed when he suddenly grabbed her passing ankle. She jumped on top of him, squishing the air from his lungs in a gutteral "wuff," and delivered a buffet of not-so-light punches across his back.
After a playful quarter-hour or so, Beezy rolled off Berry. She mussed his oily hair and scratched at his dandruff as he began to doze off again. "You should find a new roommate," Beezy said, making no attempt to lower her voice. As it happens, it didn't matter -- Gravor had remembered some work he had to do in the garden as soon as savage noises began emanating from the bedroom.
"Hum?" Blueberry asked without opening his eyes.
"Your roommate," she repeated. "He really brings this place down."
"Well, it's not like I can kick him out!" he laughed.
"Why not? Just tell him he has to find someplace new. Bossing everybody around like he owns the place...."
Blueberry took pride in telling the truth, especially when it was embarrassing for the listener. Part of him knew that Beezy would be most impressed by the true story of how he saved Gravor's life, then managed to spin it into a pretty boss living situation. Still, he liked the idea of owning a real house with a roof to offer lady guests instead of trying to lure them into the brush or an abandoned barn. Intoxicated by the toasty dreams of a languid morning in bed, he lied.
"I can't kick him out because he's family."
After a playful quarter-hour or so, Beezy rolled off Berry. She mussed his oily hair and scratched at his dandruff as he began to doze off again. "You should find a new roommate," Beezy said, making no attempt to lower her voice. As it happens, it didn't matter -- Gravor had remembered some work he had to do in the garden as soon as savage noises began emanating from the bedroom.
"Hum?" Blueberry asked without opening his eyes.
"Your roommate," she repeated. "He really brings this place down."
"Well, it's not like I can kick him out!" he laughed.
"Why not? Just tell him he has to find someplace new. Bossing everybody around like he owns the place...."
Blueberry took pride in telling the truth, especially when it was embarrassing for the listener. Part of him knew that Beezy would be most impressed by the true story of how he saved Gravor's life, then managed to spin it into a pretty boss living situation. Still, he liked the idea of owning a real house with a roof to offer lady guests instead of trying to lure them into the brush or an abandoned barn. Intoxicated by the toasty dreams of a languid morning in bed, he lied.
"I can't kick him out because he's family."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter Five, which features nudity
The following Sunday morning, Gravor climbed down from his loft, careful not to put any pressure on his bandaged hands as he descended the ladder, to find a naked woman in his kitchen. She was squat, and tan all over, with a mane of wild, black hair. She was frying something on the stove, and as she did, she swayed her sagging, dimpled bottom to an inaudible rhythm. She heard him and turned just as he was about to back away.
"Hey," she chirped and trotted over to offer him a pudgy hand. "You must be Blue's roommate."
Blueberry had moved in to Gravor's home without discussion. As soon as they had begun walking back toward town after the brush with death in the gorge, Gravor had seen Blueberry's mind. Every step that Blueberry remained by his side, only breaking his jubilant monologue about the day's events to hoot with laughter, drove the realization in deeper. When they arrived at Gravor's house, Gravor didn't even attempt to see Blueberry off at the front gate. He just walked straight inside, leaving the door open behind him.
"I'm Beezy!" the woman announced as if declaring a victory. Her eyes were bright and honest in her lemon-shaped face. Gravor would've been ashamed to meet them even if she were swaddled from head to toe. He held out a limp hand, his gaze planted on the pendulous breast that swung softly under her proffered arm. Like her entire body, her breasts were dark amber and covered in faint wrinkles. Much of their considerable surface was covered by two enormous nipples that lent them an embarrassing but tantalizing oddness. Beezy winced, and a network of wrinkles to leap across her face. "Goodness, what happened to you?" She took his wrist gently between her fingers and gave it a gentle shake.
"Hi, um, Beezy, would you mind...?" Gravor trailed off in the hope that Beezy would finish his thought on her own. Beezy flashed an inquisitive smile.
"...getting dressed, please?" he finished.
A storm passed behind Beezy's clear eyes, and her lips grew tight. "That's the way it is, is it?" Drawing up her mighty chest, she shouldered past Gravor and out of the kitchen. "You better turn those eggs, or they'll burn!" she warned as she stomped into Gravor's erstwhile bedroom, which Blueberry had made his roost.
"Hey," she chirped and trotted over to offer him a pudgy hand. "You must be Blue's roommate."
Blueberry had moved in to Gravor's home without discussion. As soon as they had begun walking back toward town after the brush with death in the gorge, Gravor had seen Blueberry's mind. Every step that Blueberry remained by his side, only breaking his jubilant monologue about the day's events to hoot with laughter, drove the realization in deeper. When they arrived at Gravor's house, Gravor didn't even attempt to see Blueberry off at the front gate. He just walked straight inside, leaving the door open behind him.
"I'm Beezy!" the woman announced as if declaring a victory. Her eyes were bright and honest in her lemon-shaped face. Gravor would've been ashamed to meet them even if she were swaddled from head to toe. He held out a limp hand, his gaze planted on the pendulous breast that swung softly under her proffered arm. Like her entire body, her breasts were dark amber and covered in faint wrinkles. Much of their considerable surface was covered by two enormous nipples that lent them an embarrassing but tantalizing oddness. Beezy winced, and a network of wrinkles to leap across her face. "Goodness, what happened to you?" She took his wrist gently between her fingers and gave it a gentle shake.
"Hi, um, Beezy, would you mind...?" Gravor trailed off in the hope that Beezy would finish his thought on her own. Beezy flashed an inquisitive smile.
"...getting dressed, please?" he finished.
A storm passed behind Beezy's clear eyes, and her lips grew tight. "That's the way it is, is it?" Drawing up her mighty chest, she shouldered past Gravor and out of the kitchen. "You better turn those eggs, or they'll burn!" she warned as she stomped into Gravor's erstwhile bedroom, which Blueberry had made his roost.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Chapter Four, which is very short because i don't feel like writing today
Overlooked in day's drama was the cliff itself, which had been formed from ocean sediment millions of years earlier and contained the remains of billions of organisms. Creatures many times more numerous than the present and past human populations of the Earth combined had left their impressions in that sediment. If we were to look at the rock strata after another few million years, Gravor and Blueberry's era would be very dull in comparison.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Chapter the Third, in which i formally introduce the second character
The face belonged, naturally, to Blueberry, who had been strolling down the mountain path and enjoying the apparent isolation by singing as loudly as he pleased, when his voice was unexpectedly joined by a hoarse, bestial harmony from down in the ravine. At first he was terrified, imagining some demon or harpy waiting to ambush him, but when he got onto his knocking knees and forced himself to peer over the dropoff, he saw the paunchy body of a man slouching off the edge of the cliff.
At Blueberry's shout, Gravor scrambled onto his stomach and clawed at the rock. He tore the nails and flesh from his fingers, but through his furious efforts managed to pull himself up the slope to where he had been.
Reassured that there were no demons or harpies and invigorated by the chance for heroics, Berry untied the rope that secured his pants -- wrapped several times around his waist just for emergencies like this -- and kicking his legs out from the legs of his pants, headed down the small goat track that Gravor had followed down the cliff and into his present predicament. Blueberry was quickly stymied by the segment of the trail that had collapsed under Gravor's feet and sent him sliding down the rock face. Gravor's current position was not far down, but there was no way to reach him. "How're you doing?" Blueberry called to the man. The body on the rock below remained silent. "I've got this rope here, but there's nothing to tie on to."
The body was silent for several seconds, then rasped a simple, "Help."
A few shrub roots protruded from the eroded bluff along the goat path, but nothing that would secure the rope. He scuffed the ground at the edge of the path to test its solidity, and a spray of grit spattered into the ravine. A timid groan rose from below. "Sorry," said Blueberry.
Berry sat on the ground and tied one end of the rope around his bare ankle. "I'm throwing you the rope," he yelled. He tossed the rope, but thought better of it the moment it left his hand. "Wait," he cried, pulling the rope back up. "I'm going to double-knot it."
Once confident the knot would hold, Berry tossed the rope again, just into Gravor's reach, and flopped onto his stomach. He entwined his hands in the roots at the side of the trail and braced himself.
At the other end of the rope, Gravor managed to rip one hand away from the face of the rock and grab hold. He twisted it several times around his forearm and clutched it so hard in his shredded hand that the blood saturated the rope fibers and streamed down his arm. "OK," he called up through gritted teeth.
"OK," Blueberry called back.
"OK," Gravor shouted again.
Blueberry waited a few moments. "OK, ready!" he yelled down.
"OK, pull me!"
Blueberry quickly assessed his situation. To pull on the rope, he'd have to let go of the roots, sit up, and thus be pulled over the cliff. "I can't!"
Gravor was beyond weeping. He lay slumped like a saddlebag against the incline, his entire weight suspended by the one arm and threatening to wrest it from its socket.
The weight on Blueberry's ankle was no less of a burden, and Berry began to wonder if he hadn't done something rash. He blinked away the beads of sweat that dripped from his eyebrows and yelled over his shoulder, "OK, together now!"
He flexed his calf and, screaming with exertion, brought his encumbered ankle up to his butt, then looped his other foot twice in the rope and pulled up again with that foot. Below, Gravor tried to pull himself as best he could, wrapping the slack around his forearm. Berry extended his first leg again, twisted it into the rope and pulled again. Thus, like a slow-motion swimmer, Blueberry, his face as red as a cherry, towed Gravor's bellowing carcass inch by inch up the steep incline.
When his hand reached the top, Gravor clambered onto the goat path in a burst of fury. He lay on top of the wheezing Blueberry, not thinking or seeing, only breathing, until he'd caught his breath enough to cry. The two men moaned and sobbed and rocked together on the ground until they spent the very last of their reserves and passed out in the dust and goat stool, still locked in their mutual embrace.
Near sunset, Gravor started awake. Berry's eyes, about three inches from his own, shrugged dreamily open.
"Hey, I know you!" Berry exclaimed through a pungent yawn.
Gravor frowned. "Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.
At Blueberry's shout, Gravor scrambled onto his stomach and clawed at the rock. He tore the nails and flesh from his fingers, but through his furious efforts managed to pull himself up the slope to where he had been.
Reassured that there were no demons or harpies and invigorated by the chance for heroics, Berry untied the rope that secured his pants -- wrapped several times around his waist just for emergencies like this -- and kicking his legs out from the legs of his pants, headed down the small goat track that Gravor had followed down the cliff and into his present predicament. Blueberry was quickly stymied by the segment of the trail that had collapsed under Gravor's feet and sent him sliding down the rock face. Gravor's current position was not far down, but there was no way to reach him. "How're you doing?" Blueberry called to the man. The body on the rock below remained silent. "I've got this rope here, but there's nothing to tie on to."
The body was silent for several seconds, then rasped a simple, "Help."
A few shrub roots protruded from the eroded bluff along the goat path, but nothing that would secure the rope. He scuffed the ground at the edge of the path to test its solidity, and a spray of grit spattered into the ravine. A timid groan rose from below. "Sorry," said Blueberry.
Berry sat on the ground and tied one end of the rope around his bare ankle. "I'm throwing you the rope," he yelled. He tossed the rope, but thought better of it the moment it left his hand. "Wait," he cried, pulling the rope back up. "I'm going to double-knot it."
Once confident the knot would hold, Berry tossed the rope again, just into Gravor's reach, and flopped onto his stomach. He entwined his hands in the roots at the side of the trail and braced himself.
At the other end of the rope, Gravor managed to rip one hand away from the face of the rock and grab hold. He twisted it several times around his forearm and clutched it so hard in his shredded hand that the blood saturated the rope fibers and streamed down his arm. "OK," he called up through gritted teeth.
"OK," Blueberry called back.
"OK," Gravor shouted again.
Blueberry waited a few moments. "OK, ready!" he yelled down.
"OK, pull me!"
Blueberry quickly assessed his situation. To pull on the rope, he'd have to let go of the roots, sit up, and thus be pulled over the cliff. "I can't!"
Gravor was beyond weeping. He lay slumped like a saddlebag against the incline, his entire weight suspended by the one arm and threatening to wrest it from its socket.
The weight on Blueberry's ankle was no less of a burden, and Berry began to wonder if he hadn't done something rash. He blinked away the beads of sweat that dripped from his eyebrows and yelled over his shoulder, "OK, together now!"
He flexed his calf and, screaming with exertion, brought his encumbered ankle up to his butt, then looped his other foot twice in the rope and pulled up again with that foot. Below, Gravor tried to pull himself as best he could, wrapping the slack around his forearm. Berry extended his first leg again, twisted it into the rope and pulled again. Thus, like a slow-motion swimmer, Blueberry, his face as red as a cherry, towed Gravor's bellowing carcass inch by inch up the steep incline.
When his hand reached the top, Gravor clambered onto the goat path in a burst of fury. He lay on top of the wheezing Blueberry, not thinking or seeing, only breathing, until he'd caught his breath enough to cry. The two men moaned and sobbed and rocked together on the ground until they spent the very last of their reserves and passed out in the dust and goat stool, still locked in their mutual embrace.
Near sunset, Gravor started awake. Berry's eyes, about three inches from his own, shrugged dreamily open.
"Hey, I know you!" Berry exclaimed through a pungent yawn.
Gravor frowned. "Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Chapter Two, in which I employ deus ex machina
Steal a slice a bread
steal a bit a butter,
add a little piece of
something or another.
Slap it all together,
eat it on the sly,
just be sure to finish it off
with another swig of rye!
There was nothing in the song that spoke to Gravor; it was just the old, inane song that Blueberry sang every day as he slouched up and down the road looking for something to steal or a patsy to con. Now it came to him as clearly as if Berry himself were singing it into his ear, and Gravor thought of all the time he had spent working, saving, going to town hall meetings, suppressing his desires so he could one day live a life just slightly better than the one he had. Now all he wished was that he'd had more sex, drank more and swam naked in the creek every day. Blueberry had always seemed so repulsive exactly because he embodied those activities, and he would somehow perpetuate his louse-bitten life of poverty after Gravor was dead. Still, if Gravor hadn't attempted the fatal climb that day, all his investment toward his future self would seem perfectly rational, even though the potential for death lurked between every breath he took. If some benevolent god picked him up off that cliff and returned him to safety, would he live any differently? When Blueberry died, presumably of exposure or liver failure, would he hear Gravor's song just as Gravor heard Blueberry's now, growing ever louder as his grip grew weaker and his time drew toward a close?
Gravor laughed, or rather his tightened chest rattled sharply. He had no song. He never sang, except softly when the music was so loud not even he could hear himself. What's more, a dying Blueberry would never pick Gravor out from the crowd. Gravor was one of hundreds in town that lived, dressed, talked, and thought the same -- at least in comparison to Blueberry. Gravor tried to think of what his song might sound like. All he could imagine was a field-mouse beating a massive bass drum with a dandelion puff. So he decided to do what little could be done in his situation and put the last of his energy into a final, cracking and atonal chorus of Blueberry's song:
Well jail ain't nothing but a roof,
and rain ain't nothing but the sky,
i can swallow most anything,
with another swig of rye.
And with that, he closed his eyes and let the rock slip away under his hands.
Just above him, looking over the edge of the trail, a heavily-bearded face screamed out, "What the hell are you doing?"
steal a bit a butter,
add a little piece of
something or another.
Slap it all together,
eat it on the sly,
just be sure to finish it off
with another swig of rye!
There was nothing in the song that spoke to Gravor; it was just the old, inane song that Blueberry sang every day as he slouched up and down the road looking for something to steal or a patsy to con. Now it came to him as clearly as if Berry himself were singing it into his ear, and Gravor thought of all the time he had spent working, saving, going to town hall meetings, suppressing his desires so he could one day live a life just slightly better than the one he had. Now all he wished was that he'd had more sex, drank more and swam naked in the creek every day. Blueberry had always seemed so repulsive exactly because he embodied those activities, and he would somehow perpetuate his louse-bitten life of poverty after Gravor was dead. Still, if Gravor hadn't attempted the fatal climb that day, all his investment toward his future self would seem perfectly rational, even though the potential for death lurked between every breath he took. If some benevolent god picked him up off that cliff and returned him to safety, would he live any differently? When Blueberry died, presumably of exposure or liver failure, would he hear Gravor's song just as Gravor heard Blueberry's now, growing ever louder as his grip grew weaker and his time drew toward a close?
Gravor laughed, or rather his tightened chest rattled sharply. He had no song. He never sang, except softly when the music was so loud not even he could hear himself. What's more, a dying Blueberry would never pick Gravor out from the crowd. Gravor was one of hundreds in town that lived, dressed, talked, and thought the same -- at least in comparison to Blueberry. Gravor tried to think of what his song might sound like. All he could imagine was a field-mouse beating a massive bass drum with a dandelion puff. So he decided to do what little could be done in his situation and put the last of his energy into a final, cracking and atonal chorus of Blueberry's song:
Well jail ain't nothing but a roof,
and rain ain't nothing but the sky,
i can swallow most anything,
with another swig of rye.
And with that, he closed his eyes and let the rock slip away under his hands.
Just above him, looking over the edge of the trail, a heavily-bearded face screamed out, "What the hell are you doing?"
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Chapter One, in which I introduce a character
"This is the end," said Gravor Stilton to himself. Though he knew it was true, he had to say it aloud to force himself into recognition. Death was something that happened to other people. He was still relatively young, though old enough that he should start slowing down and taking fewer risks -- not, for example, trying to scale the side of a deep ravine instead of taking the safe, albeit longer, path that snaked around the hillside and back down a smaller canyon to the forest far below. Yet there he was, flat against a gritty sandstone incline, inching inevitably as the soft rock gave way beneath him in small bursts toward a sheer drop that would at best kill him instantly, at worst leave him broken on the forest floor to wait until nightfall for the scavengers to find him.
Shifting his weight up onto the palms of his hands, Gravor tried to dig his fingers into the sandy rock, but the rock crumbled and offered no hold. The bits that he scratched away cascaded down the face of the rock and tumbled over the edge. Watching them, Gravor's chest seized. He felt the blood drain from his face and hands and heard a tinny hum begin to crescendo in his ears, and knew that in only a few seconds he would black out. Then it would be the end.
A song drifted into his mind. He absorbed its familiar, whiny tenor without regard at first, but then something in the words caught his attention.
Shifting his weight up onto the palms of his hands, Gravor tried to dig his fingers into the sandy rock, but the rock crumbled and offered no hold. The bits that he scratched away cascaded down the face of the rock and tumbled over the edge. Watching them, Gravor's chest seized. He felt the blood drain from his face and hands and heard a tinny hum begin to crescendo in his ears, and knew that in only a few seconds he would black out. Then it would be the end.
A song drifted into his mind. He absorbed its familiar, whiny tenor without regard at first, but then something in the words caught his attention.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Beginning
Once upon a time, when someone wanted to begin a story, they began at the beginning. That is, they began at the earliest point in time. Then the storyteller would incrementally stack events, one atop the other, until they reached a critical height and all came tumbling down to rest. This is no longer the case. It's become old hat to begin with a man's dying breath, or that of his great-grandson blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, and then proceed in both directions. A storyteller may begin in the near future with the discovery of a long-deceased politician's diary, whose facts will illuminate the true cause of a coming catastrophe that can only be averted by the chance actions of the protagonist in the present. I could begin this story by listing the origins of every ingredient in a particular woman's meal on October 19, 1983, and only in the end of the ninth chapter get around to telling you that the final ingredient was strychnine. And I bet you would read it, too, so long as I filled it with compelling trivia.
This is because you know the old beginning to be a lie. First, it is a lie because it presents a false sense of time, with an origin, a series of resulting effects and a final conclusion. While there is a profound harmony between actions and reactions, we can not say that event x caused reaction y just because x is at t = 1 and y is at t = 2. If we look at time as running from t = 5 down to t = 0, y appears to cause x. Excepting the most clinical of examples, if you placed x at t = 3 instead of t = 1, would you get the same result? If you moved x from point A to point B? What if you simply turned back time and started the original scenario over again at t = 1? Would y follow x 100% of the time? Given a story as complex as the ones we live every day, the answer is almost definitely, "No."
Second, the old beginning is a lie because it already existed in the author's mind long before the reader heard the first word. It probably started as a visionary fragment, a compelling scene near the end of the progress, from which the author built forward and backward, stringing together fragments by sweat or serendipity, until he or she was ready to present to you, finally, the beginning.
In contrast, this beginning is the beginning for us both. Like you, I don't know what will follow, and I will discover it as you do. Thus we begin -- I a few steps before you, but nevertheless together. Once we begin, we may find ourselves at any point at all in time, and we may go forward or backward or jump wildly between, but we won't know until we take a step inside. So I place the first step before you and set the course for the rest of our voyage with this simple, one-word title:
This is because you know the old beginning to be a lie. First, it is a lie because it presents a false sense of time, with an origin, a series of resulting effects and a final conclusion. While there is a profound harmony between actions and reactions, we can not say that event x caused reaction y just because x is at t = 1 and y is at t = 2. If we look at time as running from t = 5 down to t = 0, y appears to cause x. Excepting the most clinical of examples, if you placed x at t = 3 instead of t = 1, would you get the same result? If you moved x from point A to point B? What if you simply turned back time and started the original scenario over again at t = 1? Would y follow x 100% of the time? Given a story as complex as the ones we live every day, the answer is almost definitely, "No."
Second, the old beginning is a lie because it already existed in the author's mind long before the reader heard the first word. It probably started as a visionary fragment, a compelling scene near the end of the progress, from which the author built forward and backward, stringing together fragments by sweat or serendipity, until he or she was ready to present to you, finally, the beginning.
In contrast, this beginning is the beginning for us both. Like you, I don't know what will follow, and I will discover it as you do. Thus we begin -- I a few steps before you, but nevertheless together. Once we begin, we may find ourselves at any point at all in time, and we may go forward or backward or jump wildly between, but we won't know until we take a step inside. So I place the first step before you and set the course for the rest of our voyage with this simple, one-word title:
Westerners
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