Glisterspeck
Frozen sea axe smith
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2007
- Messages
- 489
This is the introduction to my third POV character. I've gained a ton of insight from the first two critiques, so I thought I would post this, and next week, the last of the introductory chapters for feedback and then probably just huddle down with the story a bit, doing another pass on the MS to implement feedback.
The main question is the same: if you had gotten to this point, would you read on afterwords? I'm also interested in notes on voice, what's too ambiguous, thoughts on the character: anything really.
__________________________________________________________________
The Pilgrim
Ayos lurched awake. His hand fell against the gravel that tumbled down the shoulder of the final step. The gravel squirmed. It crawled over his fingers. Buried his hand. Ayos yanked his arm free and raised it to the moonlight.
Ants scrambled across his arm like scurrying freckles. They swarmed across his lap. Colored his cotton cloak a deep and bloody red. Ayos shot to his feet.
A brisk wind howled down the Heavenly Ladder. It battered Ayos. Tore clumps of ants from his cloak, whipped his ragged beard, tangled his matted locks. Ayos spun in the wind. He had once watched a swarm of lava ants climb a tree heavy with scute apples. A flock of dimbirds had flown from the tree. The sky had rained flesh and feathers and bloody red ants.
Ayos clenched his teeth. The ants would not pick the flesh from his bones. He had not climbed the Great Stair to die on the shoulder of the final step. He would climb the Heavenly Ladder. Be welcomed by the Hayom above.
He tugged at his ant-ridden cloak. A cord tied around his waist kept him from pulling the cloak over his head. Orderly and disordered, the ants massed only to break into streams, red rivulets flowing down the slope, toward a distant termite mound. The termite mound that Ayos, ravenous and starving, had smashed open when the moon was last new.
Ayos slid down alongside the river of ants. His feet, each bound in a scrap of fleece, scattered gravel down the shoulder. His right ankle twisted beneath him. Ayos fell against the rocks. He rolled down the slope. Tumbled through the ants.
A peculiar boulder split the flow of ants. Ayos toppled onto it. He winced and bit his lip. Pulled his right foot up, away from the ants. Broken ants wriggled all along the path of his fall. Tapping his fingertips against the boulder, Ayos frowned at the dead ants.
“I did not mean to kill them, father,” Ayos mumbled. “Did not mean to break my vow. I will not do so again.”
It did not matter that Ayos mumbled. The boulders never asked him to repeat himself. They rarely spoke at all. For that, Ayos was thankful. The termite mound rose from a pile of the odd boulders. A pile of old, withered men, petrified or carved from stone, knees curled against chests and heads bent between knees. The ants’ vanguard climbed a sloped tunnel that connected the mound to the boulder where Ayos crouched. The ants marched toward a breach Ayos had opened. A phalanx of termites lined the opening. Their jaws secured the breach, just as they had when Ayos first broke into the tunnel.
“They do not deserve to die, father,” said Ayos. “Not because of me.”
Ayos tore a strip of quilted cotton from the hem of his cloak. The red vanguard charged into the wall of termites. Jaws snapped. Termite soldiers tossed twitching bodies down the wall of the mound. More ants scrambled over the fallen, toward the breach.
Ayos shook his head. He reached beneath his cloak. Touched a satchel made of waxed burlap. His fingers crossed a circular ridge pressed in the burlap. The ridge felt like a part of him. A twisted sinew jutting from his flesh. An eager soldier, glowing in the moonlight, darted from the breach. Ants seized the termite.
From the satchel Ayos pulled a flint and steel. A bit of char cloth. A finger of sisal twine. The stranded termite writhed beneath a clump of ants. Ayos rolled the twine between his palms to spread the fibers.
“Fire will repel them,” said Ayos. “Turn them back, father. Such is their nature.”
The stranded termite stilled. Its abdomen swelled. Burst open. A yellow ooze splattered from its shell. Ayos scowled. He remembered the bitter taste of the ooze. Recalled its texture, sticky against his tongue. The ants struggled to escape the ooze, but the more they twisted the stickier it became.
Ayos held the char cloth on top of the flint. He struck the steel. Caught a spark in the cloth. Sheltering the spark from the wind, Ayos slipped the cloth into the nest of sisal fibers.
He breathed into the nest. His eyes darted across the final step. White tents pitched between a web of empty salt pits and the shore of a dry lake. Gray rock piled on all sides of the dry lakebed. Bright glaciers that split the gray of the step's shoulders from the black sky. The snowcapped peaks of the Celestial Pillars lost to the night on either side of the Heavenly Ladder.
The spark glowed. A red tide climbed the sides of the mound. Ayos held the nest to his lips and blew. The termites, jaws thrashing, drove the ants back. A flame shot up in the nest.
Ayos wound the strip he had torn from his cloak around the nest and sat it on the odd boulder’s head, between his feet. The cotton took the flame. Ayos ripped another strip from his cloak. He wadded the strip. Held it over the fire. The flames licked the quilted cotton.
“They are ruled by instinct, father,” said Ayos. “By primal fear. They will fear the fire.”
The cotton began to burn. It turned brown. Blackened. Shriveled in his hand. Ayos let the wind unfurl the strip. He dropped the charred cloth between the tide of ants and the breach. A gust fanned the embers that edged the cotton.
Ayos poked at the burning nest. He pushed it away from the boulder’s head. His hands trembled, his heart pounded, his ankle throbbed. He had not noticed until now. Flames flickered all along the cotton strip. The ants turned back against their ranks. A wall of fire now blocked the breach. Ayos grinned down at the boulder.
“The termites will not die, father,” he said. “Not because of me.”
The main question is the same: if you had gotten to this point, would you read on afterwords? I'm also interested in notes on voice, what's too ambiguous, thoughts on the character: anything really.
__________________________________________________________________
The Pilgrim
Ayos lurched awake. His hand fell against the gravel that tumbled down the shoulder of the final step. The gravel squirmed. It crawled over his fingers. Buried his hand. Ayos yanked his arm free and raised it to the moonlight.
Ants scrambled across his arm like scurrying freckles. They swarmed across his lap. Colored his cotton cloak a deep and bloody red. Ayos shot to his feet.
A brisk wind howled down the Heavenly Ladder. It battered Ayos. Tore clumps of ants from his cloak, whipped his ragged beard, tangled his matted locks. Ayos spun in the wind. He had once watched a swarm of lava ants climb a tree heavy with scute apples. A flock of dimbirds had flown from the tree. The sky had rained flesh and feathers and bloody red ants.
Ayos clenched his teeth. The ants would not pick the flesh from his bones. He had not climbed the Great Stair to die on the shoulder of the final step. He would climb the Heavenly Ladder. Be welcomed by the Hayom above.
He tugged at his ant-ridden cloak. A cord tied around his waist kept him from pulling the cloak over his head. Orderly and disordered, the ants massed only to break into streams, red rivulets flowing down the slope, toward a distant termite mound. The termite mound that Ayos, ravenous and starving, had smashed open when the moon was last new.
Ayos slid down alongside the river of ants. His feet, each bound in a scrap of fleece, scattered gravel down the shoulder. His right ankle twisted beneath him. Ayos fell against the rocks. He rolled down the slope. Tumbled through the ants.
A peculiar boulder split the flow of ants. Ayos toppled onto it. He winced and bit his lip. Pulled his right foot up, away from the ants. Broken ants wriggled all along the path of his fall. Tapping his fingertips against the boulder, Ayos frowned at the dead ants.
“I did not mean to kill them, father,” Ayos mumbled. “Did not mean to break my vow. I will not do so again.”
It did not matter that Ayos mumbled. The boulders never asked him to repeat himself. They rarely spoke at all. For that, Ayos was thankful. The termite mound rose from a pile of the odd boulders. A pile of old, withered men, petrified or carved from stone, knees curled against chests and heads bent between knees. The ants’ vanguard climbed a sloped tunnel that connected the mound to the boulder where Ayos crouched. The ants marched toward a breach Ayos had opened. A phalanx of termites lined the opening. Their jaws secured the breach, just as they had when Ayos first broke into the tunnel.
“They do not deserve to die, father,” said Ayos. “Not because of me.”
Ayos tore a strip of quilted cotton from the hem of his cloak. The red vanguard charged into the wall of termites. Jaws snapped. Termite soldiers tossed twitching bodies down the wall of the mound. More ants scrambled over the fallen, toward the breach.
Ayos shook his head. He reached beneath his cloak. Touched a satchel made of waxed burlap. His fingers crossed a circular ridge pressed in the burlap. The ridge felt like a part of him. A twisted sinew jutting from his flesh. An eager soldier, glowing in the moonlight, darted from the breach. Ants seized the termite.
From the satchel Ayos pulled a flint and steel. A bit of char cloth. A finger of sisal twine. The stranded termite writhed beneath a clump of ants. Ayos rolled the twine between his palms to spread the fibers.
“Fire will repel them,” said Ayos. “Turn them back, father. Such is their nature.”
The stranded termite stilled. Its abdomen swelled. Burst open. A yellow ooze splattered from its shell. Ayos scowled. He remembered the bitter taste of the ooze. Recalled its texture, sticky against his tongue. The ants struggled to escape the ooze, but the more they twisted the stickier it became.
Ayos held the char cloth on top of the flint. He struck the steel. Caught a spark in the cloth. Sheltering the spark from the wind, Ayos slipped the cloth into the nest of sisal fibers.
He breathed into the nest. His eyes darted across the final step. White tents pitched between a web of empty salt pits and the shore of a dry lake. Gray rock piled on all sides of the dry lakebed. Bright glaciers that split the gray of the step's shoulders from the black sky. The snowcapped peaks of the Celestial Pillars lost to the night on either side of the Heavenly Ladder.
The spark glowed. A red tide climbed the sides of the mound. Ayos held the nest to his lips and blew. The termites, jaws thrashing, drove the ants back. A flame shot up in the nest.
Ayos wound the strip he had torn from his cloak around the nest and sat it on the odd boulder’s head, between his feet. The cotton took the flame. Ayos ripped another strip from his cloak. He wadded the strip. Held it over the fire. The flames licked the quilted cotton.
“They are ruled by instinct, father,” said Ayos. “By primal fear. They will fear the fire.”
The cotton began to burn. It turned brown. Blackened. Shriveled in his hand. Ayos let the wind unfurl the strip. He dropped the charred cloth between the tide of ants and the breach. A gust fanned the embers that edged the cotton.
Ayos poked at the burning nest. He pushed it away from the boulder’s head. His hands trembled, his heart pounded, his ankle throbbed. He had not noticed until now. Flames flickered all along the cotton strip. The ants turned back against their ranks. A wall of fire now blocked the breach. Ayos grinned down at the boulder.
“The termites will not die, father,” he said. “Not because of me.”
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