And now for something...

So, for the past couple of weeks, I've been busy with my coursework. I still can't say I totally enjoy being put on the spot in regard to what I'm writing, but I'm in hanging in there.

One thing that often happens to me, is that I'll be in the middle of doing one thing, when my concentration gets distracted by something else. If I can, I ignore the urge but it isn't always possible and I have to follow the new train of thought wherever it leads me, or I end up suffering from really bad writers' block.

My latest diversion was when I called into question why, for my novel, I write in third person. I thought it came naturally to me... now I'm not so sure. I generally don't read books in first person, I'm not sure how much of a coincidence it is then that I come to discover that two members, who are reasonably tolerant of my third person efforts, seem to prefer my first person take on the same material.

I did a little experiment and took the opening of my prologue and swopped from third to first just to see what effect it would have. I was pleased but what I really needed were the opinions of someone who digs reading and writing in third and someone who, generally, doesn't. To say I was uplifted by their reactions is putting it mildly. Thanks, guys. You know who you are. And so, rather than having it ripped into in the Workshop, I'm simply gonna post it here for posterity, my first unbridled effort with first person.


Excerpt from, as yet, untitled novel:



It was with a sense of relief that we navigated the misty channel into Lower Greystone. Three weeks of violent storms had taken their toll on us and The Spice Wind herself looked the worse for wear; sails tattered, foremast cracked and listing as she limped into berth and we dropped anchor.

I braced myself against the flurry of activity, swears and tuneless whistles, the gang plank at once besieged by those in the employ of the Guilds, their job to tally the cargo of aromatics, oils, and silks and make delivery to their respective Guild Masters.

Relief was short lived for some, as those with infractions drew straws, the losers forfeiting shore leave in favour of carrying out repairs. I was blameless so not held to account. Bad weather followed like a starved hound from the moment we departed Alhadian waters and the sky didn’t look like it was sated. Those same bruised and sullen clouds weighed down the acrid tallow house fumes that permanently hovered over the basin of the harbour, irritating my eyes, fouling up my lungs. Vapour hung heavy as tension held it an iron grip. Something was about to give.

A ragged flash of intense white light split the cloud cover, and danced among the merlons of the keep high on the hill, thunder echoing against the towering, hexagonal columns that gave the town its name. I raised my eyes to the heavens, as the first spatters of rain bounced off my shaven head, pulling the collar of my oilskin tight around my throat in a vain attempt to keep the deluge from soaking me through. Still, it could have been worse: no one had drowned, the cargo was secure, and payment had been settled. And there was always the Rusty Nail, the calm eye of the storm. Almost a tradition amongst the crew, we spent shore leave ensconced in one of the snugs, gambling and drinking before making merry with the whores. All except for me. The latter at least.

One by one, my mates emerged from below deck, clutching their packs and their money purses.

"Uli… catch!" Flynn’s hulking frame came into view as I snatched the coin purse from the air. "The Illustrious Sister ain’t far behind us. Maybe we should make a move and nab our snug."

"Nab Daisy, y’mean?" a mocking voice chided. "The amount of money you’ve handed over to that woman, you’d be better off marrying her."

It was all I could do to hold in the chuckle. I’d heard him murmuring her name in the small hours when he’d thought we were all asleep. That wasn't all he'd been doing.

Flynn took an exaggerated step off the plank and onto the quayside, muttering something about his land legs while giving the First Mate a look fit to curdle milk. "And what the fuck’s it got to do with ye? At least I’m getting my money’s worth… thon rake you were with last time? No meat on her bones at all."

"It’s not like I was planning to eat her." His cheeks became ruddy, spreading like a rash up through his temples to his pate. "You know what I mean." He gave a hard stare. "And less of the language."

"Bollocks to ye. I’ll speak how I damn well please."

"Enough, you two, before you start threatening swords at sunset. Dick, you just dropped something." Big Gero stooped to avoid taking off the top of his head as he exited the Captain’s cabin. "Is Canker Bill with you?" I shouted up. "Tell him to hurry, or the first round’s on h—."

"Uli Skarsen?"

A young boy sidled up beside me, face screwed up as if that in itself would ward off the rain, an ever growing raindrop poised to drip from the tip of his nose.

"That’d be me."

"A message for you."

So this was it. Time had finally caught up with me. I took the rolled up parchment noting the blood-red seal—a flaming dove. Without so much as cracking the wax, I deposited it in my pack. I paid the lad, sent him on his way and, without commenting, strode off in the direction of Lea Square, shipmates trailing along in my puddled wake. A lively step wouldn’t be enough to deflect Flynn’s questions but answers had to wait until morning. The news would only have scuppered the buoyant mood.

Overhead, another bolt lacerated the heavens and the town reverberated with a cacophony of growls and grumbles.

"Wait up! Are ye not gonna read that?" Flynn puffed and panted as he closed the gap between us.

"I don’t need to."

"Might be something important."

I grimaced. "I already know what it says."

"It’s not good news, then"

"No."

"Sorry, mate. Need an ear?"

Despite my annoyance, I summoned a smile. "Any more of that and I might start to think that you care."

His dense beard and moustache split apart like he’d been hit in the face with a hatchet. "Love the bones of ye, mate, but I wouldn’t go saying that too loud round here. Y’ know what they’re like."

#
​

The giant oak in Lea Square was the biggest I’d ever seen; the trees back home were hardy but constrained by lack of rain and poor soil. An obvious landmark, dwarfed only by the basalt columns and the Lightning Keep, it stood sentinel over the trade district, ever watchful of the austere stone buildings and guano encrusted roof tiles. On special days it bore witness to livestock auctions and wine tasting. On very special days, puppet shows for the children, musicians, jugglers, acrobats and, as the main event, public execution. I clenched my teeth at the thought.

The tree served as shelter to huddles of people beneath it—not as dangerous a practice as it seemed. On asking, I’d been told that, in its centuries of existence and despite the inclemency of the weather, it remained wholly untouched by lightning, the keep taking the brunt. As we passed, a pretty girl with an attractive smile and rats tail hair stared out at me from between the low hanging branches. My appearance garnered fascination and her eyes told a tale; I’d seen that particular look often enough. The Dark-Skinned, Painted Primitive, I offered up a generous smile to feed her night time fancies. Even with several extra inches added, she wouldn't have been my type but, still, I aimed to please.

"She likes the look o' ye," said Flynn as he gave me a nudge. "We may make this night a good’un. It’s the only'un we’ve got."

I glanced over my shoulder at the stragglers. I was going to miss them. Nearly a year to the day since first coming aboard, I’d got to know them well; Flynn and the First Mate’s constant bickering, Gero and his near miraculous ability to make something useful out of next to nothing. Bill’s rations were about the best I’d ever tasted and Dick could raise a smile from a corpse without even trying.

And then there was Flynn, uncouth, foul-mouthed brute of a man. I’d miss him most of all.

#
​

The familiar driftwood sign bearing the establishment’s name with the particularly large, oxidised nail rammed through the ‘a’, was being viciously buffeted back and forth as we approached, the hinges shrieking. The door was thrown open and I had to feint sideways as a buckets worth of water fanned out and hurtled toward me.

"That’s some welcome for a weary sailor." I said, his attention suddenly fixed on me. "Still not got those slates fixed?"

The Landlord gave what could only be described as a look of relief, then pointed to the dark clouds overhead. "It’s been pissing down nearly nonstop since you were last here. What do you think?"

"I’d say not."

"We’d just about given you lot up for lost. Joyce has been bending my ear for two days now."

We filed inside, carefully tip-toeing around stray buckets. Whilst the lads doffed their cloaks and hung them on pegs behind the door, I helped the Landlord empty the rest of the pails. Flynn and the First Mate’s voices carried out into the courtyard, a crescendo of curses and rebukes.

The Landlord and I just looked at each other and shook our heads, no doubt thinking the same thing. Worse than an old married couple, those pair.

Despite arriving after the lunchtime rush, the common room was buzzing with chatter, as the Landlord fought the sodden gusts and shouldered the door closed behind us. I sloughed my oilskin and took a seat with the rest of the lads, in the corner snug by the door.

"A flagon of ale, to start you all off?"

Enthusiastic nods all round.

"And a tot each," Flynn added as he shifted up the bench to make more room.

"And what about food? We’ve got quite the selection today but, if were me, I’d have the mutton stew."

"Sounds perfect." I said. His wife had worked in the King’s employ before they’d wed. Suffice to say, she knew her way round a kitchen.

"For you, Uli, I think we can do better." He gave me an enigmatic smile but Gero didn’t give me time to interrogate him on it.

"How come he gets the preferential treatment?"

"You may take that up wi’ Joyce, not me. How about a game of Spots while you are waiting?"

At that Canker Bill looked ready for business. He rolled up his sleeves, sat down his coin purse and leaned across the table giving Flynn his best eagle-eyed stare. "I haven’t forgotten last time."

"D’ye think I have? Sure, I have the weight of this t’ remind me." Flynn cast down his own money pouch, the clunk resonating through the table as it landed. His face lit up like a beacon. "Daisy’ll be thanking ye for it later."

A disgruntled snort flew out Bills’s nostrils, followed by, "You’re a bloody cheat! Should we be checkin’ your pockets?"

"Ye wouldn’t fucking dare! Cheater, me arse! It’s not my fault I have a head fer strategy."

We all stared him down. To quote the man himself: Flukey as fuck, more like.

When the Landlord returned with ale and cups, he gave me a nudge and had me follow him back behind the oak counter. As I waded through the peat and pipe smoke toward the kitchen, some other aroma started to take precedence, something reminiscent of home. Joyce was ladling up steaming chunks of mutton and root vegetables into trenchers with brisk efficiency, but that wasn’t it. On seeing me, she downed tools and gave me an affectionate hug. "So good to see you, Uli. I was starting to think something had happened. Has Will had a chance to tell you about the crew of the Gull?"

"Not yet," I said. Unease washed over me. So much for steering clear of bad news. I’d served on three runs to the Indiccan Archipelago, and knew most of the crew. "What happened?"

"Near as I can tell, a freak wave hit when rounding the Pinnacle, forced her onto the rocks. They were due two days before you. Some of the crew survived but there’s been eighteen bodies accounted for, all told, and as many unaccounted for."

I had to ask. "What about John Bowery?"

"Uli, I’m sorry. Con, too."

A whoosh of air. A sigh or the sound of my heart deflating?

I’d never known my Father. Any question was met with evasion, so in the end I stopped asking—or caring—at least that was the lie I told myself. I met John on my first voyage, an eight month round trip to the Indicaan Archipelago and back. For a short time, he was the father I never had.​