Chapter 5 excerpt

Lydia finally decided to go into Elaine’s room after about twenty minutes and looked out of the window to see what her cousin was up to.  She was utterly amazed to see Elaine working on a musket and chatting to one of the soldiers as though she had known him for years.  She saw Elaine sight the gun in a professional manner before handing it to a soldier and picking up another.
        It dawned on Lydia that just as there was much of her own life that was outside Elaine’s experience, so there was much about her cousin’s life that she did not know.  Up until now Lydia had, for all her genuine friendship, felt some degree of superiority over her cousin.  She knew that Elaine’s family was very poor and that Elaine would be very lucky indeed ever to be much better off than her parents.
        Watching her now, Lydia wondered for the first time whether or not it might be Elaine who had the better deal.  She was relaxed and chatting to a rather good looking young man in a manner which Lydia would certainly never be allowed to do.  She was also doing something useful.  Elaine’s hands, though useless at tapestry, were amazingly skilled at practical tasks.  The repairs to SKYLARK could not have been carried out much better by the most expensive of Perth Cathe’s shipwrights.  Elaine could mend sails, tackle carpentry, make nets and, so it seemed, repair guns.
        The thought occurred to Lydia that her cousin’s horizons in life might be broader than her own whatever material hardship it might contain. To Elaine, the school and all its irritations were just an unpleasant interlude. For Lydia, the school’s regime and lessons represented the rest of her life; a life of etiquette, marriage and unproductive use of her time. And babies, of course.  Her thoughts were interrupted by the slamming of the front door as Captain Skelder strode out into the yard.
        The soldier with Elaine hastily hurried across to join his officer.  They exchanged words briefly before Captain Skelder returned into the house.  A flurry of orders followed which saw one soldier mount up and leave at the gallop.  Shortly afterwards Elaine slipped away from the yard to rejoin Lydia.
        “You managed to tear yourself away then!”  Lydia was shocked to hear the bitterness in her voice.  “Sorry, Elaine, don’t mind me. I’m just being a grump today.”
        “I didn’t mean to be so long, I just sort of got chatting,” Elaine said, dismissing the tension with a smile.  “I’ve found out heaps.  I think that the sergeant quite likes me.  I guess he’d have been for it if those muskets hadn’t been fixed.”
        “I couldn’t help noticing how well you two were getting along,” Lydia remarked mischievously. “Rather handsome isn’t he?  Married?”
“Lydia!  Honestly!” Elaine blushed as intended.  “He’s a nice chap but not my type at all.”
“Well, what is your type?  You’ve never said.  I’d have thought a handsome young army sergeant would be ideal.  You seem to have a fair bit in common – guns for instance.  What could be better?”  Elaine picked up a pillow and buffeted her cousin with it.
        “Leave it out would you? I’m not thinking of marrying just yet, alright?  When I do, which won’t be for a while, I’ll start worrying about what type of man to find.  ‘Sides, he’s engaged to someone over Pathmeet way.  He told me.”
“Oh, you did discuss it then?  Ow!”  Lydia received another energetic whack.  “OK, I’ll drop the subject…. for now.  What did you find out then?”  Elaine replaced the pillow and sat down on the bed.
“Loads.  They’re setting up an ambush to catch some smugglers.  An informant – I’m guessing Mr Creep - has told your father there’s going to be a landing tonight a few miles south of here.  The militia are going to be waiting for them.  Captain Skelder has sent one of his men to Perth Calran to get HMS Hunter to come down. She’s moved up there from Perth Cathe I gather.  Anyway, it all sounds very serious!”

Chapter 4 Excerpt

            The hall was in almost total darkness when she got to the bottom of the stairs with just a little light spilling out under the door from the waiting room to her father’s office.  Lydia was barefoot and so moved silently across the polished boards towards the dining room.  She had scarcely taken a few steps, however, when a shadow moved suddenly, from the deeper darkness under the stairs.

            “Miss D’Shan!”

            “What?”  The word came out almost as a short scream.  In the bedroom upstairs, Elaine stirred. The sense of uneasiness returned with a sudden, desperate urgency.

            “Ah!  Do not be alarmed.  I startled you.  I do apologise.”  The voice was smooth and polite.  The figure of a man Lydia had seen a few times before emerged further into the half-light.  As he spoke, he bowed apologetically in a perfect display of good manners.  Lydia took a deep breath to regain her shaken composure but remained slightly on guard.

            “You are forgiven,” she assured him, wanting to get the meeting over as swiftly as possible.  Any thought of the kitchen had gone, but the figure was between her and the stairs.  “You are?”  The question hung in the air.

            “Here to see your father, my dear,” the man replied smoothly.  “How you have grown!  There is much of your mother about you.  You have become quite a young lady I see.”  The tone was very familiar, like that of an uncle or close family friend.  As he spoke he took another step towards her.  On pure instinct, Lydia took another step back.  “But schooling helps, I daresay, and Miss Drake is an excellent teacher.  You had a pleasant trip to Perth Calran I gather.  I trust you got home without further incident?”

            “Indeed,” Lydia replied, desperately trying to think of a way to escape.  “My father is expecting you?”  This was intended as a prompt to end the conversation but it failed.

            “Keeping me waiting as ever!” the man replied with a dry laugh.  “Thus am I reminded of my humble position.  Your father likes to make a point, Lydia.”  This use of her first name brought a slight flush of colour to Lydia’s cheeks.  It was utterly impolite of the man, since she hardly knew him.  He had taken another step towards her, which she mirrored with a step back of her own.  The cold panelling of the wall was against her back now and there was nowhere to go.  “Such games can be dangerous,” the man continued.  “They have two players you see.  Your father should remember that!  I can make a point too.”  

The man’s bearing changed subtly.  He was very close to her now.  He seemed to bring a shadow of darkness with him and Lydia began to feel real fear.  “Everyone has their weakness,” he spoke softly and deliberately.  “For some, it is money.  For your father it is you.”  His hand reached out to touch Lydia on the cheek and she was so paralysed by the sudden cold terror this man’s presence seemed to cause that she remained utterly still.

Chapter 3 Excerpt - Perth Cathe

The view from the top of the mast was so fascinating that “a minute” turned into ten.  From there Elaine had a view of the entire harbour from the merchant wharves, through the general shipping to the navel yards.  Three tall ships were in loading with wool, wood and ale; the three main exports off the island.  The navel yard was empty but for a few small supply vessels. Out in the centre of the bay a small frigate was swinging heavily at its anchor.  It seemed to be the centre of remarkable activity with boats plying from it to the main waterfront and back again.


The smells of the port were all familiar to her: tar, rope, fish, seaweed and that curious salty shoreline smell which carries out to sea and is so welcome to sailors returning from a long voyage.  The sounds of the port were distinct to her ears, though to Lydia they mingled into a general cacophony:  the chanting and stamping of men working to a rhythm, shouts of men calling from one ship to another seeking news or information from others of their cargo, a fair bit of cursing as the waters were busy and smaller craft often got in each others’ way, singing and music from the taverns on the waterfront, laughter from a party of sailors who had already had a few drinks too many.


This was a different world to Wescliffe, but it was Elaine’s world.  This was where her father and she brought their catch on those rare and precious occasions when they were able to put out of CovTol and fish.
    “Are you staying up there all day?”  Lydia’s call broke in upon her thoughts and brought her back into the here and now.

What Happens Next?

There’s an amazing quote from a Tom Clancey novel (Debt of Honour I think): “Days of fire and death start like any other....”.

A particularly timely thought this month as we look back ten years to an event that shook the world and, for the majority of people, happened on what started out like any other day.  For the writer too, this truth is worth remembering because it is an important factor in how you manage the suspense and impact of large events in a story.

You make a decision to what extent the reader has a little bit more information then the characters about what is to come.  There is no right or wrong, really, but the reader experience differs with the approaches you take.  

The reader being aware that something terrible is approaching whilst the character is blissfully unaware does create a certain type of suspense.  It engages the reader as a “third party” to the story - they are willing the character to “wake up” and see what to them is inevitable.  It’s an effective technique and can make compelling reading.

The other is to give the reader as much forewarning as the character themselves.  This approach is less about tension and more about impact.  Events explode off the page with an immediacy that allows the reader direct empathy with the character and their emotions as they too face the unexpected.

There’s a middle approach too, of course.  Give the reader just enough information to suspect something dramatic is imminent but not enough that they know what that might be!  Create several potential scenarios - conflicting influences that may impact upon the characters for tension.  Then have the thrill of the reveal when the characters are plunged into events and have to deal with them. Trying to build tension without sacrificing the direct empathy is quite a tough one to get right - but its a great challenge for any writer and if you nail it, you will blow the socks off your readers!

Outside of writing, I should add, the powerful truth of Clancey’s quote is that when you start each day, take some time for your loved ones.  Keep in touch with family. Because you don’t really know today will be “just another day” do you?

Chapter Two excerpt

As the household at Wescliffe was settling down for a quiet night, another household was being disturbed.  A cloaked rider, braving the cold and damp, arrived at the residence of Fain-Arn’s Governor at the gallop.

The rider sprang from his horse, ran to the door and hammered upon it muttering curses under his breath as the servants hurried to answer his summons.  The gentleman who opened the door to him was of advanced years.  He’d served as butler at Math Calran for just over forty years and little now could trouble him.

    “May I help you sir?”  The rain was heavy and the night dark so he raised the lamp to better see this nocturnal guest.

    “Indeed you may.  I wish to see my father.”

    “Master Tristan?”  The old man’s voice quavered and the lamp trembled.

    “Of course.  Did you think, or hope, that I had left for good?”

    “You are not welcome here!”  The door began to close but suddenly it sprang inward, trapping the servant behind it and slamming him against the wall.  The lamp tumbled to the floor, shattered and went out.

    “Then an unwelcome guest I shall be!” Tristan replied shortly and strode into the building.  A flick of his hand slammed the door shut against the night, and allowed the servant to slump to the floor where blood now mingled with the lamp oil.

Galvin D’Shan was in the library.  He looked up as the door opened suddenly without warning and met a pair of eyes as strong and unyielding as his own.  Gently, he closed the book.

    “Father.”  Tristan stepped into the room yet his face, like the rest of him, remained partially hidden within a cloak that appeared to generate a shadow all of its own.

    “Tristan.  You should not look for welcome here.  You left under a shadow of your own making.  Your time since has been spent in darkness of a worse sort, if I hear aright.”

    “You were always well informed, father,” Tristan replied evenly. “You cast me out, and I have been forced to find a path for myself.  I have learned much, and now I have decided to return.”

    “Why?  There is nothing for one of your kind here.”

    “There is everything for me here!” Tristan’s voice rang with anger.  “Am I not of your line?  The Governorship of this island is mine to claim.  And I feel the time is close when I shall do so.”

    “Indeed?”  The Governor rose to his feet slowly, wincing slightly as he did so.

    “Age lies heavy upon you, father, does it not?”

    “Not so heavy as you would wish, son.”  Galvin’s eyes met those of the son he had disowned with a mixture of sorrow and resolute anger.  “Your claim to my title was removed when you left.  The King would not recognise you, nor would he ever tolerate your presence here.  As your father, I give you leave to go free this night – but be warned that the sentence of banishment is upon you and if ere your face is seen again you will suffer for it.”  Tristan took a swift step forward, his hands raised to strike. “NO!”  The Governor of Fain-Arn raised his walking stick to protect himself and Tristan recoiled.  

“May you rot in eternal suffering,” the younger man hissed venomously as he backed away.  “Very well, father, you need time to think.  I say this to you.  I have returned and I am here to stay.  If you attempt to thwart me, if you set yourself against my will, then you shall pay a high price indeed.  I will break you.  I will bring sorrow to you and any who oppose me.  The King cannot aid you and there are non in the entire Kingdom with the power to set themselves against me.  I shall allow you a few days to consider this.  Good night – and take care until next we meet.”  He spun about and departed the house, leaving his father to discover the corpse in his front hall.

Chapter 1 excerpt

The Mageblades

The first scream broke the stillness of the dawn and brought back the vivid memory of a morning long ago. Daren turned away and stared grimly out to sea while the chosen children were roused from their sleep, torn from their tearful families and packed into the boats.  He turned again and looked past the close-packed warehouses and taverns to the high granite sea defences.  Behind them he could make out the slate roofs of the row of fishermen’s cottages where he had spent his early years.  

The fourth bollard from the right, presently being used to secure the aft mooring rope of a small crank-looking fishing boat, had been his.  Daren had been sitting there fishing, shrouded by white mist, when the tall ship had ghosted silently into the bay.  He remembered feeling no fear despite the fact that there was not a breath of wind to move a vessel of such size.  It moved nonetheless gliding silently between the moored merchant shipping, fishing craft and naval stores ships.  He had hardly been able to make it out, just a vague shape in the whiteness. Occasionally, dark figures could be seen about the deck and rigging.

Silence. That was what he remembered.  Never a call or a shout. No bell sounding to warn other shipping as port regulations required.  Even the anchor had slipped into the still water without a splash as the shape came to a halt in the centre of bay. 

He’d glimpsed the single boat for just an instant in a temporary opening in the mist with its cargo of cloaked figures being rowed steadily to the shore.  Daren had not waited for them to come up. Even at the age of ten he’d known what an ordeal it would have been for his mother.  He’d left his neatly coiled fishing line by the front door and trotted down to the main wharf with just the clothes on his back where he’d arrived just in time to tie up the boat for “the gentlemen”.

And now he was returning on a ship of his own, some twenty years later, with the same gentlemen on the same mission.  He had no stomach for what was to follow and his presence was a mere courtesy.  The sun was barely above the horizon before today’s boat, crammed with youngsters aged between 9 and 18 years of age, left the quay and their sobbing parents behind.

As for the cloaked men, their task had only just begun.  Within the hour the ship had weighed anchor and was already moving on to the next port down the coast.  In a few days time they would start to move inland.

Building A World

Storm on the Cathe is a fantasy but I want to create a world that doesn’t slip neatly or comfortably into a fantasy stereotype.  That’s partly a desire on my part to create something obviously “mine” but it’s also about giving the reader something new.  Of course I’m influenced by writing I’ve read and writers I admire.  I’m not sure any writer comes up with an idea that isn’t influenced just a little bit by someone or something else.

I’m trying to create a world that, whilst different from our own, is sufficiently comfortable that the reader can quickly feel at home there.  I want my world to be an interesting and colourful backdrop to the story and characters.  I don’t want it to “get in the way” or assert itself too strongly (except when it benefits the plot and reader of course).  Being comfortable in the world, the reader will be comfortable with the characters and that’s one of my main goals.

The first premise for the Storm on the Cathe world is that magic is commonplace.  Almost everyone has some ability and “craftsmen” routinely use enchantments or “blessings” to improve and protect what they create.  Medicine is as much about magic as science.  What is rarer, though, is The Gift.  Those who have a higher then average ability to change, control and manipulate their world using magic are said to have The Gift. It is these people the Mageblades seek out at the start of the book – because such potential cannot be allowed to develop without “correct instruction” and “guidance”.

Developing that premise, I have tried to imagine a world where the industrial revolution would not be necessary – because of the presence of magic.  Technology has only advanced so far because it is less necessary.  Steam power is not needed when the wind can be controlled, for example, so the society exists in a pre or very early industrial state.  Water is harnessed for wool and textile mills on a small scale.  Mass transport does not exist and the horse is still the beast of burden and transport.

If you imagine the early Napoleonic period, with a few Victorian elements intermixed, you’ll be about right!  It’s an interesting period to draw upon and the class structure and complex social etiquette that accompanies it features strongly in the story and influences the characters greatly.

It seems to be a world in which there are a lot of possibilities, for the writer and the characters!

Little Things

This has been a strangely trying week for a lot of people in the office block I work in.  The main front door has always opened inwards – but not any more.  Walking through it is something so automatic that it’s somehow taking a lot to deal with the change.  Aside from the rather abrupt moment when you walk into the darn thing at speed, it’s just a bit bothering that something I’ve taken so much for granted has now changed.

This got me thinking about my characters a bit – since the story is very much about turning their worlds upside down.  If you really want to shake someone to the core you do need to present them with something that challenges, or upsets, what they take for granted.
 
That needn’t be a big thing – it could be something very insignificant in fact.  Often what we take for granted is little.  It’s in the background, it’s comforting and it’s always there.  Pull that away and your character will begin to worry and question.  It’s a very human reaction, and quite subtle, but one any reader can relate to.

When Elaine returns home, the first hint that all is not well is just such a small detail.  The vegetable patch outside the house is scruffy.  Not overgrown, just a little unkempt. It instantly tells her all is not well at home, though the detail is lost completely on Lydia for whom this is her first visit.  It’s the first whisper of the approaching storm and the first clue to the secret Elaine’s father is trying to hide.

If you’re writing yourself at the moment, why not ask the question “What are the little things my characters take for granted?”  When you have that answer, you’ll be surprised what you can do to unsettle them!

Hitting A Wall

I had my first properly negative bit of feedback today for the current draft.  It wasn’t about the plot (which they like) or about the structure, continuity, world, characters or believability.


It was the writing.  Or more specifically, the writing style - and that smarts!  That’s like hitting a wall because your style is personal.  It’s the bit of you that goes into the story and of all the things to take feedback on that’s what’s going to throw you onto the defensive.


“I wrote it like that on purpose because….” Was my instinctive response and I went very quiet whilst the matter was being “discussed”.  As any writer would I think (unless very experienced or exceptionally dispassionate).  Too wordy, overly contrived, unnecessarily complicated…  My writing isn’t any of those things is it?  


I’m not about to dumb down.  I’d rather a freak accident wiped the lot from hard drive and backup then publish a “Janet and John” level text.


Of course, the feedback is, emotion aside, completely valid.  I’m trying to paint a picture not inside my head but inside someone else’s head.  Their attention and their time is valuable so it’s not to be squandered in order that I can demonstrate the successful use of a sub-clause.  The crafting of a final draft is about painting a picture efficiently as well as vividly.  It’s about pace as well as impact.  Long sentences are fine and have their place but flow is just as important.


When I read my own work, or even write it, I do so with my own narrative voice.  I hear the flow, the emphasis and the pauses as I wish.  I am unable to step aside from that and read it with someone else’s “voice”.  That is why I asked for feedback in the first place.


So I'm back on page one again.  I’ll refine and ease back on the longer sentences.  I’ll make the telling of the story more efficient whilst trying not to water down the picture I’m painting or the atmosphere I’m trying to create.


Then I’ll hand it back and say “How is it now?”  It’s not personal when someone criticises your style.  It’s helpful.

Beginnings...

Where does any story begin? Even with a good idea of the plot and where you're going, picking the starting point for any tale is tough. Does it begin with your main characters? Is the time you pick the moment the characters are first aware of the events that will form your story?


Events seldom have a single, definable starting point. There is always something that happened before, that led to the now. The author needs to know what that is, even if the reader doesn't - but chasing that can lead to an ever-backward spiral taking you away from your plot and by the time you get back the reader may have lost interest!


Storm on the Cathe opens with an event the main characters do not witness. They are unaware of it. Yet it probably does, as near as can be defined, begin the process that turns their whole lives upside down.

"The first scream broke the stillness of the dawn and brought back the vivid memory of a morning long ago. Daren turned away and stared grimly out to sea while the chosen children were roused from their sleep, torn from their tearful families and packed into the boats."

What happens next? Keep reading the blog!