chopper
Steven Poore - Epic Fantasist & SFSF Socialist
blimey, i haven't posted over here for quite a while!
so, since it's my Chroniversary, and also the occasion of my 2000th post, here's an excerpt from my current WIP, provisionally entitled The Fey Lock. it's a sort of urban portal fantasy boating holiday gone wrong, with a 60' iron-hulled narrowboat called the Ransom transported to the faerie realm after the two brothers who have inherited it from a recently deceased "Uncle" take it through a lock that isn't on the maps.
this particular section is set in the faerie realm. the Ransom's engines - as well as all the other electrically-powered technology - have stopped working, and Tom and Grim (Graham) have "borrowed" a horse to tow the boat...
“There's somebody up there, watching us,” Tom called into the cabin. He sounded nervous.
I came up from below and peered along the length of the boat to the bridge we were slowly approaching.
Here, the waterway had become a little wider, although never broad enough to allow us to turn about. The land had also turned hilly again, rising into the sort of cutting that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Shroppie. The towpath was little more than a muddy ledge, and even the poor horse was having trouble in places. If the engine had still worked, we wouldn't have been travelling at much more than idling speed. Still we kept going forward. There wasn't much else we could do.
Unlike many of the bridges we had encountered so far, this one was elevated high over the waterway. Impossibly slender, it was neither brick nor iron – as we came closer I thought it looked more like marble, which was quite incongruous in this setting. There were delicate carvings on the rail that faced us, and even a supporting column that dropped down into the middle of the canal. Thankfully it looked as though the cut on either side of that column would be wide enough to accommodate the Ransom, otherwise we would have been properly stuck.
And yes, there was a man leaning upon the rail, watching our approach. He suited his surroundings: like the bridge, he was tall and slender, with fair hair and a richly-coloured shirt. Not the sort of man to fade into the background.
I raised my hand, and waved at him.
“What are you doing, Grim?” Tom said.
“Being friendly,” I said.
“But we don't know who it is. Or what it is.”
“That's why I'm being friendly.”
The man didn't wave back. He just watched us. As we came closer, I saw that his shirt was loose and open-necked, and was patterned with a sort of vine and thorn motif that would be eye-wateringly dominant at any party. His hair was light and wavy, caught by even the faintest breeze. I couldn't tell for certain, but I hoped he was smiling.
I forced myself to look away for a moment, conscious that I was staring at him as much as he was staring at me. Tom was very determinedly not looking up at all, his attention focused entirely upon the front end of the boat. I wondered if he was actually aware of the fact that he needed to steer us past the bridge, not right through it – the Ransom was currently pointed right at the piling in the middle of the cut.
“Left span, Tom,” I said.
“What?”
“Left span. Unless you want the horse to swim.”
“I know that.” He jerked the tiller and steered us closer to the bank. The horse plodded along regardless of what we were doing, but I don't imagine it would have thanked us for pulling it into the waterway.
I looked back up at the bridge, but it was so close now that I could hardly see the rail above us. If he was still there, perhaps he had crossed to the other side.
The column that divided the bridge's two spans looked far too delicate to support the weight of the structure. I could reach out to touch it as we passed it, and I did so just to convince myself that it was real. It was smooth and cool, and definitely some kind of marble. I started to wonder who on earth would be rich enough, or mad enough, to transport marble out here to the middle of nowhere before remembering that we weren't really anywhere remotely normal at all.
We left the bridge behind as slowly as we had approached it. Our colourful spectator was no longer watching us. I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or disappointed.
“You want to take a break?” I asked Tom.
He gave up the tiller without an argument, a sure sign that he was struggling, and disappeared below. After a moment I heard him clattering in the small galley.
The cutting continued to rise up around us, taking the light and heat of the sun further away from the canal. My jacket was down in the cabin: I thought about asking Tom to fetch it up, but I had got the impression that he wanted to be alone for a while, to shut out his surroundings while he tried to deal with them. At least, I hoped he was trying to deal with them. It wasn't as if we could actually do anything about them for now; all we could do was keep going. A couple of miles every hour, and hopefully a couple of miles closer to a way out.
“He doesn't belong here.”
The voice was light, perfectly balanced, silvered, and sharp-edged. Just like a butcher's knife. Even a winter coat wouldn't have stopped the goosebumps crawling all across my skin.
It was the man from the bridge, of course. He had made his way down to the towpath and caught up to us. Now he walked effortlessly alongside, seemingly unbothered by the muddy path. Tight trousers emphasised the curves of his thighs, and his calf muscles were similarly distracting. As was the knife hilt that protruded from the top of his right boot, though for different reasons.
Now I had a better view of his face. A well-defined, smooth jaw; a face with no fat at all; eyes so blue that they could cut the clouds to shreds. And I really hoped that was a smile.
“I'm sorry?”
“You should not apologise to me – that is not my horse. Nevertheless, he does not belong here.”
Okay, this wasn't exactly how I had expected any conversation to go. I took a breath, used a moment to make sure I wasn't steering the Ransom at the bank, and tried again.
“Our engine died and we kind of needed some help. We thought he was just out to pasture. We're not mistreating him.”
“He is happy enough,” the man agreed. “He likes to work. But he knows where he belongs. What about you?”
I didn't like the question. “Look mate, if you know a way out of here, I'll be glad to take it.”
“I'm certain you would be.”
That wasn't helpful either. At this point I could have happily punched this bloke in his all-too-pretty face if I thought I could get away with it. Unfortunately my getaway vehicle could be outpaced by a troop of hiking boy scouts – and whoever this man was, he was actually talking to us. We needed information.
“This boat does not belong here either,” the man said.
“You're good at stating the obvious, I'll give you that.”
The sarcasm might have ruffled his hair slightly. “How did you come by it?”
“The boat?” I got a bit angry with him. “Alright, so we borrowed the horse. But the boat belongs to us. We've got the will to prove it.”
“He left it to you?” the man actually sounded surprised.
“We've got the will,” I repeated. “The boat's ours. Come aboard and check it if you want.”
“Aboard that?” A perfect eyebrow raised to underscore his incredulous laugh. “I think not.”
“Not good enough for you, are we? Okay, be like that. Your loss, not mine.” I shrugged and nudged the tiller again to keep the Ransom straight.
“I am beginning to like you,” the man said. “I think I shall keep you.”
I looked back around to tell him to f*ck right off – and he had gone. Just like that. Vanished into thin air, just as if he had never been there at all.
And then I thought about what he had said some more.
He left it to you?
sh*t.
so, since it's my Chroniversary, and also the occasion of my 2000th post, here's an excerpt from my current WIP, provisionally entitled The Fey Lock. it's a sort of urban portal fantasy boating holiday gone wrong, with a 60' iron-hulled narrowboat called the Ransom transported to the faerie realm after the two brothers who have inherited it from a recently deceased "Uncle" take it through a lock that isn't on the maps.
this particular section is set in the faerie realm. the Ransom's engines - as well as all the other electrically-powered technology - have stopped working, and Tom and Grim (Graham) have "borrowed" a horse to tow the boat...
“There's somebody up there, watching us,” Tom called into the cabin. He sounded nervous.
I came up from below and peered along the length of the boat to the bridge we were slowly approaching.
Here, the waterway had become a little wider, although never broad enough to allow us to turn about. The land had also turned hilly again, rising into the sort of cutting that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Shroppie. The towpath was little more than a muddy ledge, and even the poor horse was having trouble in places. If the engine had still worked, we wouldn't have been travelling at much more than idling speed. Still we kept going forward. There wasn't much else we could do.
Unlike many of the bridges we had encountered so far, this one was elevated high over the waterway. Impossibly slender, it was neither brick nor iron – as we came closer I thought it looked more like marble, which was quite incongruous in this setting. There were delicate carvings on the rail that faced us, and even a supporting column that dropped down into the middle of the canal. Thankfully it looked as though the cut on either side of that column would be wide enough to accommodate the Ransom, otherwise we would have been properly stuck.
And yes, there was a man leaning upon the rail, watching our approach. He suited his surroundings: like the bridge, he was tall and slender, with fair hair and a richly-coloured shirt. Not the sort of man to fade into the background.
I raised my hand, and waved at him.
“What are you doing, Grim?” Tom said.
“Being friendly,” I said.
“But we don't know who it is. Or what it is.”
“That's why I'm being friendly.”
The man didn't wave back. He just watched us. As we came closer, I saw that his shirt was loose and open-necked, and was patterned with a sort of vine and thorn motif that would be eye-wateringly dominant at any party. His hair was light and wavy, caught by even the faintest breeze. I couldn't tell for certain, but I hoped he was smiling.
I forced myself to look away for a moment, conscious that I was staring at him as much as he was staring at me. Tom was very determinedly not looking up at all, his attention focused entirely upon the front end of the boat. I wondered if he was actually aware of the fact that he needed to steer us past the bridge, not right through it – the Ransom was currently pointed right at the piling in the middle of the cut.
“Left span, Tom,” I said.
“What?”
“Left span. Unless you want the horse to swim.”
“I know that.” He jerked the tiller and steered us closer to the bank. The horse plodded along regardless of what we were doing, but I don't imagine it would have thanked us for pulling it into the waterway.
I looked back up at the bridge, but it was so close now that I could hardly see the rail above us. If he was still there, perhaps he had crossed to the other side.
The column that divided the bridge's two spans looked far too delicate to support the weight of the structure. I could reach out to touch it as we passed it, and I did so just to convince myself that it was real. It was smooth and cool, and definitely some kind of marble. I started to wonder who on earth would be rich enough, or mad enough, to transport marble out here to the middle of nowhere before remembering that we weren't really anywhere remotely normal at all.
We left the bridge behind as slowly as we had approached it. Our colourful spectator was no longer watching us. I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or disappointed.
“You want to take a break?” I asked Tom.
He gave up the tiller without an argument, a sure sign that he was struggling, and disappeared below. After a moment I heard him clattering in the small galley.
The cutting continued to rise up around us, taking the light and heat of the sun further away from the canal. My jacket was down in the cabin: I thought about asking Tom to fetch it up, but I had got the impression that he wanted to be alone for a while, to shut out his surroundings while he tried to deal with them. At least, I hoped he was trying to deal with them. It wasn't as if we could actually do anything about them for now; all we could do was keep going. A couple of miles every hour, and hopefully a couple of miles closer to a way out.
“He doesn't belong here.”
The voice was light, perfectly balanced, silvered, and sharp-edged. Just like a butcher's knife. Even a winter coat wouldn't have stopped the goosebumps crawling all across my skin.
It was the man from the bridge, of course. He had made his way down to the towpath and caught up to us. Now he walked effortlessly alongside, seemingly unbothered by the muddy path. Tight trousers emphasised the curves of his thighs, and his calf muscles were similarly distracting. As was the knife hilt that protruded from the top of his right boot, though for different reasons.
Now I had a better view of his face. A well-defined, smooth jaw; a face with no fat at all; eyes so blue that they could cut the clouds to shreds. And I really hoped that was a smile.
“I'm sorry?”
“You should not apologise to me – that is not my horse. Nevertheless, he does not belong here.”
Okay, this wasn't exactly how I had expected any conversation to go. I took a breath, used a moment to make sure I wasn't steering the Ransom at the bank, and tried again.
“Our engine died and we kind of needed some help. We thought he was just out to pasture. We're not mistreating him.”
“He is happy enough,” the man agreed. “He likes to work. But he knows where he belongs. What about you?”
I didn't like the question. “Look mate, if you know a way out of here, I'll be glad to take it.”
“I'm certain you would be.”
That wasn't helpful either. At this point I could have happily punched this bloke in his all-too-pretty face if I thought I could get away with it. Unfortunately my getaway vehicle could be outpaced by a troop of hiking boy scouts – and whoever this man was, he was actually talking to us. We needed information.
“This boat does not belong here either,” the man said.
“You're good at stating the obvious, I'll give you that.”
The sarcasm might have ruffled his hair slightly. “How did you come by it?”
“The boat?” I got a bit angry with him. “Alright, so we borrowed the horse. But the boat belongs to us. We've got the will to prove it.”
“He left it to you?” the man actually sounded surprised.
“We've got the will,” I repeated. “The boat's ours. Come aboard and check it if you want.”
“Aboard that?” A perfect eyebrow raised to underscore his incredulous laugh. “I think not.”
“Not good enough for you, are we? Okay, be like that. Your loss, not mine.” I shrugged and nudged the tiller again to keep the Ransom straight.
“I am beginning to like you,” the man said. “I think I shall keep you.”
I looked back around to tell him to f*ck right off – and he had gone. Just like that. Vanished into thin air, just as if he had never been there at all.
And then I thought about what he had said some more.
He left it to you?
sh*t.
