This last month I've stepped back, reassessed my goals, and started again. I'm fresher, more optimistic, but no less over-worked. I am a third of the way through my newest novel, and very near the publication of a short story.
The Einhjorn will be my first stab at episodic fiction. To divulge the truth, I don't like short stories. I don't like reading them, and I don't like writing them. Twenty thousand words is rarely enough for me to find my character's groove. I want to slip into my character's voice, and accompany them through all the adversities I can throw their way. But in this short, I've tried (and hopefully succeeded) to give only the beginnings of a potentially great character. I wanted a fully contained event (a.k.a. episode) within a larger over-arching plot. Concluding the story so soon was uncomfortable. I'm not used to finishing a story that's only fifty pages long. I'm not sure I enjoy leaving my character when she's only getting started. These feelings of unease make me nervous. I'm not sure how it will work out, but I can say I tried. If it doesn't well... it'll suck. But I can learn from my mistakes and improve the series over all.
Umbra is where I have regained my stride. To anyone familiar with my work (most of you), Umbra exhibits many of my stylistic hallmarks: stark, single-person narration, megafauna, deeply troubled characters, and a unforgiving plot. Exploring this new universe and familiarizing myself with this new set of characters has provided me the opportunity for significant growth. The format of this story allows me to switch between three different characters. Umbra allows me to unravel three different cultures and perspectives side by side. My three main characters see the world differently. They have different cultural norms and baselines against which they compare everyone and everything they encounter. They're each distinct and flawed and wonderful.
So here is the opening to Umbra. Seeing as this is a rough-draft, do not be surprised if the finished version looks much different). Consider this your introduction to one of the three main characters that star in this action/adventure/horror.
The calendar never lies. It has served me, my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather without fail. The stone carvings on its face plate have prepared us for every disaster that has ever befallen my people.
Drought. Famine. Disease.
Today it warns of death.
I realign the circular rings not because I distrust it, but because I don't want to believe it. The moon rotates. The sun spins. Once again they meet above the monstrous face carved in the center.
The coming eclipse is not annular, not partial. The coming eclipse shall cast a more complete shadow, and I have not the heart to warn the others. In the marsh they rake salt from the surface of the evaporation pits. In the village they stoke the smoke house fires. Further down the coast they cut great chunks of crystalline salt from the pock-faced rocks.
I do not tell them what the calendar says. I cannot stand to put the fear in their otherwise peaceful minds. I cannot tell them that today one amongst us will die.
My hand grips the outermost ring of my calendar – the sun. I spin it and spin it and spin it, but it always comes to rest above the scaled face, above the moon.
Total eclipse.
It will be soon. To the east the sun sails over the opaque sea, and coming up from behind, the moon, a pale gray shadow against light blue skies, rushes to catch it.
The calendar never lies. Today someone will die.
I cross my legs and set the calendar upon my thighs. It’s heavy and cold. The carvings on its surface are as familiar to me as the lines on my palm. Its head points out over the empty sea. We watch the undulating waters together: milky whiteness, salt, and the gentle ripples of perch finning in the shallows.
Nothing lives in the waters but fish and monsters. Nothing grows on the sea’s banks but rubber weeds, little red cases filled with salt water. The morning breeze has departed, taking its cool, fresh air with it. Now there is nothing but stillness and dread.
The moon and sun overlap. The former swallows the latter, and the revolving sky seems to freeze.
The sun vanishes behind the moon. My chest itches, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There is static energy without a storm. There is darkness without night.The shadow arrives. It engulfs the coast. It skates out across the still water.
Minutes pass, but my heart has slowed and time seems hardly to pass. The sun and the moon lock together, and I look directly up at the dark circle looming over us.
It shouldn't be, but it's beautiful. The craterous moon is an imperfect fit for the sun’s perfectness. Beads of sunlight peak around the moon’s rough edges. A void framed by drops of light.
the villagers must see it. They must realize what it means. Has the void claimed someone already? Could it take me?
My hand drops from the calendar’s dials to the harpoon at my side. I curl my fingers around its wooden shaft and force myself to take a few measured breaths. The moment will pass. The sun and moon will break apart. Then I will convene with my people. We will bury the dead. We will curse the moon’s cruelty and the sun’s apathy together.
I wait for the eclipse to end, but it lasts minutes, many, many minutes.
I am still watching, waiting, when the sound draws my attention from the shadowy skies: a ripple, a splash, a gurgle.
Harpoon in hand, I spring to my feet. The calendar, my calendar, falls upside-down on the salty shore.
They rise from the water, gray skin drooping, fanged mouth hanging open. The creatures. Our curse and our greatest fear. Their gills flap, their webbed-fingers flex, and their lidless eyes stare up at me. They teeter on spindly legs. They unsheathe knives made of black glass. They advance.
Dozens of them rise at first, and then more appear until there must be hundreds. They stagger out of the water and gulp down their first breath of air.
I do not wait to see the end of the eclipse. I am not a fighter, and no amount of salt magic can stop the horde. I wish I could claim bravery, but what I do next is not an act of bravery. I run for the animal pens. I run for the protection of villagers bigger, stronger, and braver than myself.
Behind me, they clamber over the rocks and struggle to find footing on their wet toes. An army marches on us, on our little village perched on the top of the bank. Our little huts of elk hide and mammoth bones will not stop them. Our men are too few, our harpoons too clumsy.
By the time I’ve reached the village, the cry has gone up. My friends and my neighbors and my family are racing for safety.
Overhead, the eclipse ends but it has taken more than it was owed.There you have it, a taste of what I've been up to in the last few weeks. You will hear from me soon.
Keep writing, keep growing!
Arreana
