I have decided to continue the story of Gibbon, set 1000 years from now. The first entry, which took place in far future Tasmania, was a mostly enjoyable process to write, although at times it was hard going. The catalyst for writing that story was a competition hosted by John Michael Greer on his old blog. My story, The Cupertinians was not selected but it did later get published in the quarterly magazine Into The Ruins. Another writing competition, this time hosted by Greer and Zendexor over at Solar System Heritage was a lot of fun and the result, Arden Archer will be published shortly. It was a lot easier to write Arden Archer then The Cupertinians (helped in part by discovering a word processing program called 'FocusWriter') and I wondered if maybe I could write an actual novel rather than a short story. Furthermore, could it actually be any good?
Greer has yet again prompted more writing, this time by posting scenes and analysis as he writes them, and encouraging others to follow. Below is the first scene:
1. The Stranger
Gibbon awoke into
total darkness with a cracking headache. He was lying on a hard
wooden floor that creaked and groaned in time with a gentle rocking.
There was a strong smell of timber, hemp and pitch with just a faint
hint of salt. Nearby, he could hear the gentle sound of waves and
somewhere above a gull cried as it circled overhead. Gibbon relaxed
slightly, he must be still on board the Wanderlust, enroute to
Shinano. Gibbon slowly became aware of two muffled voices nearby.
“So how did it
happen?”
“I don’t know,
but the Captain seemed pissed didn’t he?”
“Jojen watched her
come in last night. Couldn’t believe it when she ignored the
channel markers. Must have had a right fool behind the wheel.”
A disturbing thought
crept into Gibbons consciousness. He tried to situp, but couldn’t
move his arms and was rewarded for the attempt by a hard thwump and a
wave of pain in his head. The nearby talking was now laughter.
“Haha, you aren’t
going anywhere matey. It’s old betsy for you!”
After their laughter
had died down, the two men were silent and other sounds became clear.
The crunch of gravel under a wheel. The movement of a leather harness
and occasional snort of a mule or horse. Lying next to him a large
animal snored and grunted. Gibbon groaned, realising he was trussed
up and blindfolded in the back of a wagon. He had no idea who or what
old besty was, but it didn’t sound at all like the state cabin he
had on the Wanderlust.
The two men started
talking about the various merits of the female passengers now
stranded in their town and Gibbon stopped listening, his thoughts
wandering. This sad state of affairs was a worrying development and
required addressing. Clearly someone was to blame for his unjustified
imprisonment, but who? And perhaps more importantly, what happened to
his possessions? Were they still on board the Wanderlust, or
appropiated by some corrupt and peevish official as restitution for
imagined crimes? Gibbon thought of the strange book-sized energy
panel he found in an abandoned compound in the remote mountains west
of New Hobart. There too he had being accused of poor conduct and
ungentlemen like behaviour. In all his travels, thought Gibbon, the
one constant was the petty jealousies and baseless accusations he
encountered all across the Pacific Ring. Was humanity always this
way? Was another factor at play? Gibbon had no time for such
self-defeating philispohosing. In the here and now the situation was
immediate and required no reflection. Escape his bonds, locate and
reacquire his possessions, deliver justice if necessary. The path
before him was clear even if his vision was not.
A short while later,
after Gibbon has considered and rejected several unsuitable
stratagems for escape the cart came to a stop. He was rudely dragged
upright and temporarily blinded by the strong morning light as a
hesian bag covering his head was removed.
“It’s gonna be a
hot one today matey. Hope you remembered your hat.” The two guards
laughed, jumped down from the cart and began poking at something on
the ground just out of Gibbons line of sight. They had stopped at the
top of a large bay, the overcast skies giving an uninviting grey and
foamy look to the waves. There was only a few metres separating the
dusty road from a rocky coastline and in places an occasional larger
wave had thrown spray across the road leaving a muddy puddle. It was
into one of these that Gibbon was now unceremoniously pushed. Cold
mud ran down his back. Yet another injustice for which there must be
an accounting! Gibbon painfully stood up and took in his
surroundings. To the north, the bay swept up into a dramatic
headland. The green slopes covered with a scattering of white sheep
and carved by rows of poplars. Here and there a fine house or manor,
surrounded by low hedges and stone fences. Looking back south, the
bay continued for a kilometre, terminating at a rocky quay and a
small town. Squat grey buildings clustered along the quay, which had
several sailing ships tied up alongside. A few hundred metres
offshore lay a large four masted ship with sleek lines and a sharp
bow. It was a clipper ship - the Wanderlust. But something
didn’t look right. It took a moment for Gibbon to realise it wasn’t
moving on the swell. The waves washed and broke against the sides, it
was aground. From this distance Gibbon could just make out the stern
windows and balcony of the state cabin he had booked in New Hobart.
How long ago was that? His last memory was losing sight of Van
Diemens land. Everything since then a confusing blur, for sure this
land was not Shinano, the destination he had booked and paid for! In
truth, Gibbon didn’t recognise this place at all. Inland from the
bay, the fields were rich, green and productive. But looking further
inland Gibbon noted the cultivated fields ended well before the
horizon, which was dominated by tall snow-capped mountains with
steep, dark green slopes. This place was prosperous, but only
recently settled and no doubt subject to frequent predations by hill
tribes and coastal raiders. Such places typically took a hardline
approach to dispensing justice. Appeals for leniency would fall on
deaf ears here.
Gibbon continued his
turn, his shoulders sinking as he saw their destination. A sturdy
frame of thick, dark timber rose from the ground at the roads
intersection. Hanging from this frame were three, large cages. Each
was large enough to hold a person and made from thick iron. The first
cage already had someone in it, dressed in black and watching them.
The other two cages were empty and lying on the ground. Before Gibbon
could formulate a plan, in truth he still felt nauseous and his head
was swimming, the two guards shoved him into the second cage, locked
the door and winched the cage into the air.
“There you go
matey” said the first guard, “delivered safe and sound to old
Betsy just like we said.”
“There must be
some sort of mistake” stammered Gibbon.
But the guards just
laughed and walked back to the cart and began prodding a rotound
shape lying in the back. It wasn’t an animal at all, but a rather
large person. The first guard, not too unkindly, removed his club and
prodded him in the stomach a few times.
“Come on Garjo,
you know the drill.”
The large man
groaned and rolled off the cart, then crawled into the third cage
still on the ground. The second guard threw in a full bladder and
some bread.
“Here you go. Once
the Sharif has cooled down a bit and you’ve dried out we will come
back for you.”
But Garjo didn’t
hear them, he was already snoring again as they hoisted the cage.
Chatting to themselves, the conversation had now turned to the
subject of lunch, the guards ignored Gibbons protests and turned the
cart back towards town. Gibbon could only watch as the cart left. A
seal sunning itself on a nearby rock was awoken by the cart as it
rolled past. It gave a questioning bark at the two guards, then
briefly stared at Gibbon before sliding back into the water and
disappearing in the frothy wake of a breaking wave.
