Post by Sijjvravisz on Nov 5, 2008 20:19:35 GMT -5
(( This is an excerpt from a novel I have been working on for some time. However, I need help. I need input, advice, and critiques, as all writers do... and there's no one I know IRL who is "literature-inclined" or interested enough to do these things.
I would greatly appreciate any input. Also - though I suspect everyone here already knows and respects this golden rule - these are my own original creations and I would be very, very upset to see them used without permission. I'm actually a little nervous posting any original work online since I've read so many horror stories about people's stuff getting stolen, but I'll risk it in this case, because I really do need the help.
There is a warning here for violence and swearing. This is not a "nice" story nor is it a "nice" excerpt. Just so everyone who wants to read knows ahead of time. ))
Prologue:
Spring, 912a, the North Senbehian Peninsula
“How many have you hung now in my arms, Kaitar Besh? What number will this one be?”
A red droplet fell onto the rough wood of the tree’s trunk, leaving a smear that seemed to punctuate the question. Kaitar stared at the growing stain that darkened the pale bark but did not answer what had been asked, though he had been wondering much the same thing himself.
Perhaps he was mad to talk to this old knotted lump of dying wood. It would not have surprised him much to discover that he was. Who else but the mad would come to the middle of the Senbehi, with its empty silence and burning heat, to string a dead man up in the gnarled limbs of a solitary tree and then pretend the thing was prattling to him in conversation? From the eye slits in his ahnraka, the long, black veil traditionally worn by the particular caste of slaves he belonged to, Kaitar glanced sidelong at the tree. The branches gave a shuddering creak from the weight of the bloated corpse that hung like some macabre pendulum.
“Is he that heavy, old one?” Kaitar did not speak the words aloud, only thought them, but still the tree heard. It always heard, for it was as sly as any serpent and the creaking of the dry white wood sounding almost like a perverse cackling; perhaps the Acacia was truly amused by the fat body which hung by its bowels from the white, bone-like branches. Anything so twisted and ugly that had survived countless years in the Senbehi probably had a sense of humor even more malicious than the jinni that now stood before it.
“He is very much so, son of Besh, why do you insist on torturing me with the stink and the weight of these fleshy husks? Do you seek to decorate me with torment?”
Kaitar just shrugged, too busy trying to find the small length of hollow reed he’d slid into his sash to answer. It was filled with dried wild dagga that grew along the grassy plains of the Southern Senbehian peninsula; it was the traditional smoking herb of the slaves and even he had been allowed a share whenever it had been bought. Kaitar tapped the reed with his finger to make sure the dagga was packed tightly and would not fall out as he handled it. He always enjoyed a smoke as he watched carrion birds gather against a backdrop of a sunset. The way the smoke spiraled upwards in such graceful patterns had always intrigued him; humans said a jinni could turn to smoke and fly on the winds too, though the secret of that magic, if it had ever even been true, must have been lost generations ago.
“Heh. I wish I knew how.” The words were on Kaitar’s tongue, pressing against his lips, though he caught himself in time before saying such foolishness aloud. He busied himself with reaching for the ox horn tied at his sash, which was packed with dry grass and dung to feed the small, hot coal used to start a fire… or light a smoking reed.
“You wish you knew what, Besh?” The Acacia stopped its complaining about the stench and the flies that were beginning to buzz near, but didn’t wait for Kaitar’s answer. “Do you wish that you knew why you did this, year after year? What does it change, Besh, for you or me? Next year or perhaps the year after that, you will bring another to hang here, and then you will strike out over the dunes until you find someone else to put a collar around your neck. This is how it will be until you die, and you will die before me. All things die in due time, except me. I’ve been alive longer than you could imagine, jinni.”
Kaitar was not amused with the lecture. Nor was he very amused with the fact the hot cinder in the hollow ox’s horn that hung from his sash had gone out. He had not packed it carefully enough and now the ember was cold. His carelessness annoyed him, and he tossed aside the horn with a curse and then, with a flourish, he pulled the ahnraka over his head and hurled it downward to join the horn before putting the reed to his lips anyway, pretending to smoke it just to spite his ill luck. A scowl twisted his dark, sharp features. He had high cheekbones and a narrow jaw, thin lips and his nose resembled the beak of a hawk; the angry expression only served to intensify the raptorial qualities no longer hidden by the heavy ahnraka. He narrowed his eyes, which were almost the color of the sand beneath his feet, against the brightness of the day and sucked at the reed, tasting the raw herb inside. It was very bitter.
Kaitar was certain the old tree was laughing at him, amused at such a display of temper perhaps. He sneered, curling his thin, dark lips up in an expression that was so hatefully malicious it might have caused a person to cringe if there had been any to witness it.
The Acacia, however, was not a person and it did not cringe. It just kept smirking.
“I hope his filthy blood stains your trunk and your roots become rotten with it.” Kaitar spat at the insolent, twisted trunk and then muttered, almost apologetically, “He stinks so much because all he did was eat and fuck; his body was poisoned with it. I don’t know the last time he walked more than a few feet in his own palace. ”
The Acacia’s soft, whispering voice became sly. “How did you get the esteemed Madev Al’Daree out so far from his guards to slit his throat and drag him to me?” It seemed to Kaitar the tree was watching his every movement as he leaned back against the tree and looked up at the sky. It was going to be dark in a few hours, the sky had that strange rich color to it which would soon begin to brighten to brilliant reds and gold before the utter blackness of night fell over the desert. He saw a vulture gliding lazily high above the dunes, and then watched as it begin to circle as it caught the scent of the dead thing far below. It was so high that it seemed hardly more than an obscure little black smear against the sky.
“It can smell the blood. Soon it will go back to its brothers and bring them all here to feast.” Kaitar muttered this fact to himself in a thoughtful manner, chewing on the end of the unlit reed and tasting more of the dagga inside. “And it is not your business how he has come to be in your branches. That’s for me to know, as always. You should have learned by now to stop asking.”
“Maybe I’ve already guessed the answer.”
Kaitar spat out the reed and kicked sand over it, impatiently. He was tired of pretending to argue with the Acacia; it was only his own voice talking back at himself and he felt stupid, as he always did when he spoke to the tree.
He picked up his ahnraka and wrapped it around his head and face again while glancing dispassionately towards the grotesque, discolored body in the tree. The swelled face of Madev Al’Daree was contorted into an expression of sightless horror and flies were crawling to and fro across it to feed at the moist areas near the mouth, nose and eyes. A pair had joined together at the corner of Madev’s mouth, mating on a dried smear of pink spittle. Kaitar thought the sentiment of two flies fucking on the face of Madev Al’Daree a fitting eulogy for the perverse, camel faced merchant. There it was, the epitaph of another slaver, unchecked filth and lust, and that last sentence had been written yet again by a Besh with the usual bloodstained, ugly accuracy.
Kaitar turned from the corpse in the withered old tree and looked towards the western horizon where the dunes seemed to reach out to meet the sunset. So many people thought the Senbehi a dead, empty place with only a few scattered anomalies, such as the lone Acacia, to mark any change in the landscape, but Kaitar felt the desert was more alive than any city or palace he’d lived in. The wind never ceased to blow and the desert changed into a new place every day, the sandy dunes shifted as if they were walking across the vast expanse like a silent, deliberate caravan. For a moment, Kaitar Besh forgot why he had turned to look towards the west and only stared intently, trying to imagine what it might have been like to walk away from his life and his name forever and join the dunes in their ceaseless roaming.
And then he heard the buzz of flies amidst the stench of blood and he remembered why he had turned his feet and gaze towards the western skyline. With a careful, sidestepping stride, he began to walk towards the nearest ridge, holding one hand up occasionally to shield his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. It would be cold soon with the coming of night; the desert was a place of extremes in that way. Kaitar knew he had a long way to go before he reached his destination and he had no desire to wander too long in the dunes if he could help it, much as he loved the temporary joy of freedom that the open expanse of the Senbehi offered. If he was lucky, he could make it there by tomorrow before the sun was midway in the sky and the day too hot for travel, for the Senbehi was a merciless place for those creatures that tread the sands in the full heat of the day.
As Kaitar Besh reached the summit of the first dune, he glanced back over his shoulder to see the tracks he had left in the sand as he always did when leaving the Acacia. Already the wind was blowing across the marks his sandals had left, burying them. Within an hour’s time, any unlucky traveler to come across the tree and its gruesome décor would not have seen any trace of the jinn who had left Madev Al’Daree swinging from his torn bowels. But it was Kaitar’s custom to look and make sure that the mark of the Besh was being printed in the sand as they might have been in the old days, when other jinn would have been there to see it and take heed.
The print left an unmistakable pattern of a serpent biting at its own writhing body. This was the crest of the Clan of Besh and was always carved into their sandals to mark their comings and goings. It mattered not to Kaitar no one would see this mark; it pleased him just the same to know it had been there and that he had done something to leave an imprint that was uniquely his own in the world.
A faint creaking of the Acacia in the distance made him look upwards from his footprint towards the outline of the tree against the sunset reddened sky. It seemed to be cradling the corpse with one branch and, Kaitar thought with some sort of grim amusement, waving goodbye with the other limb. He almost gave in to the urge to lift a hand in a likewise gesture, but instead he swore softly under his breath at his own eccentricity as he turned towards the west once more.
I would greatly appreciate any input. Also - though I suspect everyone here already knows and respects this golden rule - these are my own original creations and I would be very, very upset to see them used without permission. I'm actually a little nervous posting any original work online since I've read so many horror stories about people's stuff getting stolen, but I'll risk it in this case, because I really do need the help.
There is a warning here for violence and swearing. This is not a "nice" story nor is it a "nice" excerpt. Just so everyone who wants to read knows ahead of time. ))
Prologue:
Spring, 912a, the North Senbehian Peninsula
“How many have you hung now in my arms, Kaitar Besh? What number will this one be?”
A red droplet fell onto the rough wood of the tree’s trunk, leaving a smear that seemed to punctuate the question. Kaitar stared at the growing stain that darkened the pale bark but did not answer what had been asked, though he had been wondering much the same thing himself.
Perhaps he was mad to talk to this old knotted lump of dying wood. It would not have surprised him much to discover that he was. Who else but the mad would come to the middle of the Senbehi, with its empty silence and burning heat, to string a dead man up in the gnarled limbs of a solitary tree and then pretend the thing was prattling to him in conversation? From the eye slits in his ahnraka, the long, black veil traditionally worn by the particular caste of slaves he belonged to, Kaitar glanced sidelong at the tree. The branches gave a shuddering creak from the weight of the bloated corpse that hung like some macabre pendulum.
“Is he that heavy, old one?” Kaitar did not speak the words aloud, only thought them, but still the tree heard. It always heard, for it was as sly as any serpent and the creaking of the dry white wood sounding almost like a perverse cackling; perhaps the Acacia was truly amused by the fat body which hung by its bowels from the white, bone-like branches. Anything so twisted and ugly that had survived countless years in the Senbehi probably had a sense of humor even more malicious than the jinni that now stood before it.
“He is very much so, son of Besh, why do you insist on torturing me with the stink and the weight of these fleshy husks? Do you seek to decorate me with torment?”
Kaitar just shrugged, too busy trying to find the small length of hollow reed he’d slid into his sash to answer. It was filled with dried wild dagga that grew along the grassy plains of the Southern Senbehian peninsula; it was the traditional smoking herb of the slaves and even he had been allowed a share whenever it had been bought. Kaitar tapped the reed with his finger to make sure the dagga was packed tightly and would not fall out as he handled it. He always enjoyed a smoke as he watched carrion birds gather against a backdrop of a sunset. The way the smoke spiraled upwards in such graceful patterns had always intrigued him; humans said a jinni could turn to smoke and fly on the winds too, though the secret of that magic, if it had ever even been true, must have been lost generations ago.
“Heh. I wish I knew how.” The words were on Kaitar’s tongue, pressing against his lips, though he caught himself in time before saying such foolishness aloud. He busied himself with reaching for the ox horn tied at his sash, which was packed with dry grass and dung to feed the small, hot coal used to start a fire… or light a smoking reed.
“You wish you knew what, Besh?” The Acacia stopped its complaining about the stench and the flies that were beginning to buzz near, but didn’t wait for Kaitar’s answer. “Do you wish that you knew why you did this, year after year? What does it change, Besh, for you or me? Next year or perhaps the year after that, you will bring another to hang here, and then you will strike out over the dunes until you find someone else to put a collar around your neck. This is how it will be until you die, and you will die before me. All things die in due time, except me. I’ve been alive longer than you could imagine, jinni.”
Kaitar was not amused with the lecture. Nor was he very amused with the fact the hot cinder in the hollow ox’s horn that hung from his sash had gone out. He had not packed it carefully enough and now the ember was cold. His carelessness annoyed him, and he tossed aside the horn with a curse and then, with a flourish, he pulled the ahnraka over his head and hurled it downward to join the horn before putting the reed to his lips anyway, pretending to smoke it just to spite his ill luck. A scowl twisted his dark, sharp features. He had high cheekbones and a narrow jaw, thin lips and his nose resembled the beak of a hawk; the angry expression only served to intensify the raptorial qualities no longer hidden by the heavy ahnraka. He narrowed his eyes, which were almost the color of the sand beneath his feet, against the brightness of the day and sucked at the reed, tasting the raw herb inside. It was very bitter.
Kaitar was certain the old tree was laughing at him, amused at such a display of temper perhaps. He sneered, curling his thin, dark lips up in an expression that was so hatefully malicious it might have caused a person to cringe if there had been any to witness it.
The Acacia, however, was not a person and it did not cringe. It just kept smirking.
“I hope his filthy blood stains your trunk and your roots become rotten with it.” Kaitar spat at the insolent, twisted trunk and then muttered, almost apologetically, “He stinks so much because all he did was eat and fuck; his body was poisoned with it. I don’t know the last time he walked more than a few feet in his own palace. ”
The Acacia’s soft, whispering voice became sly. “How did you get the esteemed Madev Al’Daree out so far from his guards to slit his throat and drag him to me?” It seemed to Kaitar the tree was watching his every movement as he leaned back against the tree and looked up at the sky. It was going to be dark in a few hours, the sky had that strange rich color to it which would soon begin to brighten to brilliant reds and gold before the utter blackness of night fell over the desert. He saw a vulture gliding lazily high above the dunes, and then watched as it begin to circle as it caught the scent of the dead thing far below. It was so high that it seemed hardly more than an obscure little black smear against the sky.
“It can smell the blood. Soon it will go back to its brothers and bring them all here to feast.” Kaitar muttered this fact to himself in a thoughtful manner, chewing on the end of the unlit reed and tasting more of the dagga inside. “And it is not your business how he has come to be in your branches. That’s for me to know, as always. You should have learned by now to stop asking.”
“Maybe I’ve already guessed the answer.”
Kaitar spat out the reed and kicked sand over it, impatiently. He was tired of pretending to argue with the Acacia; it was only his own voice talking back at himself and he felt stupid, as he always did when he spoke to the tree.
He picked up his ahnraka and wrapped it around his head and face again while glancing dispassionately towards the grotesque, discolored body in the tree. The swelled face of Madev Al’Daree was contorted into an expression of sightless horror and flies were crawling to and fro across it to feed at the moist areas near the mouth, nose and eyes. A pair had joined together at the corner of Madev’s mouth, mating on a dried smear of pink spittle. Kaitar thought the sentiment of two flies fucking on the face of Madev Al’Daree a fitting eulogy for the perverse, camel faced merchant. There it was, the epitaph of another slaver, unchecked filth and lust, and that last sentence had been written yet again by a Besh with the usual bloodstained, ugly accuracy.
Kaitar turned from the corpse in the withered old tree and looked towards the western horizon where the dunes seemed to reach out to meet the sunset. So many people thought the Senbehi a dead, empty place with only a few scattered anomalies, such as the lone Acacia, to mark any change in the landscape, but Kaitar felt the desert was more alive than any city or palace he’d lived in. The wind never ceased to blow and the desert changed into a new place every day, the sandy dunes shifted as if they were walking across the vast expanse like a silent, deliberate caravan. For a moment, Kaitar Besh forgot why he had turned to look towards the west and only stared intently, trying to imagine what it might have been like to walk away from his life and his name forever and join the dunes in their ceaseless roaming.
And then he heard the buzz of flies amidst the stench of blood and he remembered why he had turned his feet and gaze towards the western skyline. With a careful, sidestepping stride, he began to walk towards the nearest ridge, holding one hand up occasionally to shield his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. It would be cold soon with the coming of night; the desert was a place of extremes in that way. Kaitar knew he had a long way to go before he reached his destination and he had no desire to wander too long in the dunes if he could help it, much as he loved the temporary joy of freedom that the open expanse of the Senbehi offered. If he was lucky, he could make it there by tomorrow before the sun was midway in the sky and the day too hot for travel, for the Senbehi was a merciless place for those creatures that tread the sands in the full heat of the day.
As Kaitar Besh reached the summit of the first dune, he glanced back over his shoulder to see the tracks he had left in the sand as he always did when leaving the Acacia. Already the wind was blowing across the marks his sandals had left, burying them. Within an hour’s time, any unlucky traveler to come across the tree and its gruesome décor would not have seen any trace of the jinn who had left Madev Al’Daree swinging from his torn bowels. But it was Kaitar’s custom to look and make sure that the mark of the Besh was being printed in the sand as they might have been in the old days, when other jinn would have been there to see it and take heed.
The print left an unmistakable pattern of a serpent biting at its own writhing body. This was the crest of the Clan of Besh and was always carved into their sandals to mark their comings and goings. It mattered not to Kaitar no one would see this mark; it pleased him just the same to know it had been there and that he had done something to leave an imprint that was uniquely his own in the world.
A faint creaking of the Acacia in the distance made him look upwards from his footprint towards the outline of the tree against the sunset reddened sky. It seemed to be cradling the corpse with one branch and, Kaitar thought with some sort of grim amusement, waving goodbye with the other limb. He almost gave in to the urge to lift a hand in a likewise gesture, but instead he swore softly under his breath at his own eccentricity as he turned towards the west once more.
