The Girl from a Thousands Fathoms, Chapter 84 – Origin

An early draft of this story started with the question ‘Where does anything really begin?’ This weeks chapter offers at least one suggestion. It’s a longer read than in recent weeks, but there is quite a lot going on! Enjoy.

Chapter 84 – Origin

Copyright David Bezzina, 2017

Blown like thistledown by the dream-winds Tim sensed Asklepios’ location in the blustering blue-grey clouds as nothing more than a sense of rightness in one direction more than any other. He swept closer, Mrs Woosencraft a growing weight on his back. When they had set out she had been no burden beyond a slight inertia, the further they travelled the greater her weight had grown.

Asklepios resolved into the same pinpoint of blue-white light Tim had seen on the beach during his first dream-flight. His light rose to meet them, hung steady then plummeted like a falling stone. Tim dropped down after it and broke free of the mists. Above him stars glittered in a moonless sky, far below a double-walled city stood beside a broad river on a winding plain, the very place he had brought Asklepios. Free of the mists that had plagued him on his first journey Tim saw the city was on a grand scale with wide, brick-paved avenues, two and three story buildings, and towering stepped temples. Temples were everywhere.

Asklepios’ soul light glowed inside a room at the base of one of several buildings around a plaza. To the west a bridge with a dozen arches spanned a wide energetic river. Immediately to the north an enormous stepped pyramid thrust into the sky.

With no sense of transition they were inside the room beside Asklepios’ sleeping form. Mrs Woosencraft dropped from Tim’s back though her weight, the effort of carrying her, did not. She looked around in wonder, especially at the table.

Tim reached for Asklepios’ hand and drew him out.

Asklepios and Mrs Woosencraft’s spirits recognised each other immediately.

Asklepios thrust out his splayed hand. ‘Servant of Bez! Begone from this dream. I cast thee out!’

‘You can talk, interfering meddler. I’m glad to finally clap my eyes on you.’

‘You know each other?’ Tim was dismayed at their mutual hostility.

‘She is the root of all my troubles,’ Asklepios said.

‘He broke my teapot.’

Tim clutched his head. ‘What?’

‘Remember the bee and the glue? That was this idiot,’ Mrs Woosencraft said.

‘I was helping Tim,’ Asklepios said with affronted dignity.

Mrs Woosencraft looked at the two men in sheer amazement. ‘You two were working together?’

Asklepios bowed serenely. ‘Indeed we were.’

‘Foxy was plagued by cats,’ Tim said. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’

‘Oh–!’ Mrs Woosencraft clenched her fists, opened her mouth and struggled to find the right words. ‘Just forget it. Water under the bridge.’

‘A gracious offer I gladly accept.’ Asklepios turned eagerly to Tim. ‘Have you come to take me home?’

‘This isn’t it?’

‘Sadly, no.’

Mrs Woosencraft cleared her throat. ‘I can only apologise.’

‘All right, we’ve been working at cross-purposes, but I can put things right,’ Tim said. ’Asklepios, I can take you home but I’m not strong enough to carry you both.’

‘Leave me here,’ Mrs Woosencraft said without hesitation. ‘It’s the simplest way.’

‘I’ve only done this once before. It’s not easy–’

‘Nothing worth doing ever is.’

‘If something wakes me up–’

Mrs Woosencraft folded her arms. ‘I’ll take my chances. You and Foxy, you’ve made it all worthwhile, see? I want to look around. Especially at that table.’

Reluctantly Tim agreed. If he did wake then she could end up marooned here like Asklepios. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘I’ll be fine, bachgen.’

‘The people here have been kind to me. I would like to say goodbye,’ Asklepios said.

Tim opened the door and saw a shaven-headed man with a long, plaited beard dozing at a table. He was neither fully asleep nor awake. Tim tried to draw him out and to his surprise the man’s spirit emerged and stood in front of them.

‘This is Banipal, the man who saved me.’ Asklepios raised his hand and Banipal returned the gesture.

‘Goodbye, my friend. May your gods bless you,’ Asklepios said but Banipal gave no sign he understood.

‘He’s in his own dream, he cannot hear you,’ Tim said.

Asklepios accepted the fact calmly. ‘I shall miss him.’

‘Are you ready?’

‘To go home?’ Asklepios beamed with pleasure. ‘Always.’

He was not as heavy as Mrs Woosencraft but heavy enough. In a trice they were high above the city, then higher still. Asklepios cried out and clung on. Mist enfolded them and he relaxed.

‘I see you wear my pendant.’

‘I had to use the last charge.’

Asklepios’ disappointment was palpable.

‘It helped save people’s lives.’

‘Then I am glad.’ Asklepios became thoughtful. ‘Now it is uncharged please be careful when you remove it.’

‘What will happen?’

‘I have no idea.’

Tim smiled to himself. ‘I’m going to miss you, Asklepios.’

‘And I, you. In the past few days I have lived an entire lifetime of enlightenment and adventure. Now I am ready to go home.’

‘Then show me where.’

Asklepios fell silent. Far across time, distance, and possibility, a dim red light shone. ‘There.’

Travelling the mists was not getting easier. Tim struggled against a rising wind – a growing pull to wakefulness. Unbidden thoughts of Mrs Woosencraft’s back room intruded. He saw himself asleep there clearly, it would be such an easy thing to open his eyes. He pushed onwards, determined not to let Asklepios down a second time.

The winds grew contrary, gusting hard in one direction then the other. ‘Think of home, Asklepios. Remember the street, your rooms, your family, every little detail.’

‘My doorstep has a chip where my son dropped the bucket.’

‘Yes.’

‘My room– My dearest wife–’ Asklepios’ voice dropped a tone. ‘I shall bathe more.’

It worked. A steady breeze built behind them first countering then cancelling the push against Tim. For Asklepios there was a rightness to this direction of travel. He was going home.

At long last the dream-mists parted. The two men stood in a monochrome alleyway of tapered arches in mud-plaster walls. Nearby stood a particular doorway familiar to Asklepios.

‘I am home.’ Asklepios dropped to the ground, knelt, and kissed the packed earth.

Exhausted, Tim leaned on the wall, the urge to wake almost overwhelming. To wake and sleep again –

Asklepios gestured apologetically and backed away. ‘Master, my children, I am anxious–’ Colour bloomed around Asklepios as he stepped into the waking world, red-mud plaster on the walls, a patch of blue sky, a waft of orange blossom.

‘Farewell.’

Colours faded and with them Asklepios and the alley. Tim was alone in the mists.

Wind slammed against him. Asklepios had brought him close to the waking world. Tim pushed increasingly vivid memories of his own home from his mind and began the wind-torn journey back to Mrs Woosencraft, each moment an act of sheer will.

She shone far brighter than Asklepios and for this Tim was grateful. It was so very far…

Brighton. The shingle beach front, happily screaming children, music on the pier, the sunshine on his face. Morse asleep on his bed.

Thunderheads of black and grey cloud piled in front of him, the winds against his chest like a forbidding hand. In the far distance a scatter of bright motes blew – dreamers like himself. Most went with the winds but one drove headlong into the dream-winds towards some far destination on a dream-quest like himself.

That brief moment of kinship gave him strength. He drove on through air so dense it felt solid. Grab and pull, grab and pull. Mrs Woosencraft was still far away. A trembling fear built in him, the growing certainty it had been a big mistake to leave her. Dark clouds circled all around, the wind a soundless hurricane. Weary beyond measure Tim veered and swooped towards her beacon light.

When he finally breached the mists she was terrified.

All that remained of the city was Asklepios’ room. Outside there were no buildings, no city, just a windswept charcoal-black tornado through which pinpoint lights whirled tore round and around.

The corners of the room sloughed into smoke. Mrs Woosencraft clung to the table, the last item of furniture in the room.

Then the walls of the room were gone, rubbed away into nothingness. They stood on a corroding circle of floor within black storm-winds spattered with bright motes.

The look she gave him was half gratitude, half incomprehension. ‘Leave me. Wake up, be safe.’

All around was a maelstrom of dark dreams, nightmares and terror.

‘Out there – its madness.’

He was right and she knew it. If he left her, even if she woke. Her face set hard, she tried to push him away. ‘Save yourself.’

He did not need saving, this was still his dream and he would always be safe from his own nightmares. But her–? They would tear her apart.

The power of the dream-storm was daunting. They climbed onto the round table and clung to each other. If they were going to go it had to be right now. Tim lifted Mrs Woosencraft onto his back. His knees buckled, her weight was astonishing. The idea of going into those winds with her on his back an impossibility.

He couldn’t do it.

Mrs Woosencraft climbed down. ‘It’s all right, Tim.’

‘I’m sorry.’ What else could he say?

She squared her shoulders and looked down at her feet. ‘I never thought I’d go out like this. Look after the cats, won’t you?’

‘I’m here to the end, Mrs Woosencraft–’

She took his hand. ‘Dorothy.’

‘I won’t leave you. Dorothy.’

The dark winds touched the table and it resisted. It resisted and even here, even now, Mrs Woosencraft gave a great laugh. ‘I knew it! That Asklepios, he’s the bloody one.’

They stood inside a dream-tornado of black wind spattered with whirling motes of light – other dreamers blown by the dream-winds wherever they took them. The thought shook Tim like a thunderclap. He had brought Mrs Woosencraft with him, her spirit was connected to his dream. Therefore– Those lights were dreamers, if he could attach himself to one of their dreams–

The mad black winds were close enough to touch. Tim clutched Mrs Woosencraft’s hands and flung himself towards the nearest light.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 83 – A Ghost

Super busy this week, it’s good, but days feel a little breathless at the moment. I made it ! Here’s this week’s chapter. Hope life is good!

Chapter 83 – A Ghost

Copyright David Bezzina, 2017

Banipal stretched out the ache in his back. After Asklepios’ failure he had returned to his own studies and spent longer than he intended bent over his bench inscribing clay tablets.

He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. He was avoiding the obvious question – was Asklepios a fake? Was the man he had pulled from the river, the man now sleeping beside the expensive round table in the other room, making a fool of him?

If so then he was being tricked by a well-educated man. Banipal had already incorporated some of Asklepios’ number secrets into his own work and solved problems he had previously struggled with. No, to doubt Asklepios was to doubt the Gods. Ishkun was right, this was a test of tests. If the Gods so chose they would reveal their purpose when it suited them.

The last time he hunted with Ishkun the lion had taken their final quarry. It was a clear message from Ninurta, Lord of the Hunt, that they had hunted enough. So far there had been no such sign from wise Marduk.

The strangest feeling came over him. Unbidden, he found himself looking towards the door of the room where Asklepios slept.

The feeling grew and grew. He felt oddly separated from the room in which he sat. Somehow he had become distanced from it, yet remained within.

The door drew his eye powerfully. Still seated, Banipal simultaneously felt himself rise up and move forwards. He passed through the door without opening it. Three ghosts stood there.

Charcoal grey and semi-opaque, the apparitions stood braced against a wind Banipal could not feel. For a moment he was frightened, certain they were three of Anu’s terrible demons. Then he saw one was Asklepios. And here was another wonder for Asklepios’ body lay sleeping on the mat. The second ghost was a tall, dark-haired young man. The third had the form of an old woman.

The ghost of Asklepios turned to Banipal and solemnly raised his hand. Without quite knowing why, Banipal did the same, and realised Asklepios was filled with a great joy. He wanted to speak but before he could Asklepios faced the tall ghost and they both vanished.

The ghost of the old woman turned her cold grey gaze on Banipal. Their eyes met and –

Banipal lay at his scribing bench, his face pressed on the desk. One of the fired clay blocks pressed uncomfortably into his cheek.

He stood, filled with a transcendent sense of connection to his vision. This had been no simple dream. As he opened the door into the other room he was certain what he would find. He was right, Asklepios was gone.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 82 – Moving On

You’re probably not supposed to have favourite bits but this week’s chapter of the Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, is one of mine. I hope you like it too.

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms. Cover art by David Bezzina (c) 2017

Chapter 82 – Moving On

Elsewhere in Brighton an overweight middle-aged man became aware of someone sitting beside his hospital bed. It was a young woman, one who now wore her hair in a black rooster-cut with a red fringe.

‘Hey,’ Gabby said.

‘Jeez,’ Troy struggled to sit up and not to let the pain show as the stitches pulled. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘You visited me.’

Jarglebaum winced, gave up and lay back. ‘I was interviewing you.’

‘Seven billion people in the world and I had one visitor. I don’t care about the reason.’

Troy looked at her narrow face with its too wide mouth and too long nose, her pipe-cleaner arms and her really quite lovely brown eyes and wondered why someone like her would go out of the way to visit a copper old enough to be her father.

‘Pass me some of that water, love. These hospitals are too damned hot.’

She carefully poured water from the jug and handed it to him with her left hand. She saw him watching. She held her head up and looked right back.

‘How are you doing?’ Jarglebaum said as gently as he had ever said anything.

‘I’m meant to say that.’

‘So tell me.’

Gabby looked down. ‘OK, I guess.’

‘The shop going all right?’

‘I’ve hired a manager. I went back for a bit but every time the door opened–’

That was all it took. Troy was back on the Sea Cucumber. It was dark, the ship was sinking and Imelda was kicking nine different types of hell out of him.

Gabby touched his arm. ‘Troy? Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Troy breathed hard, sweat prickled across his back. ‘It comes and goes. How’s the hand?’

Gabby tried to make a fist with her right hand but it wouldn’t close. ‘I can’t hold a mug, I can’t write. I don’t think it will ever be the same.’

‘I’m proud of my scars, you should be too.’

‘At least I can tell when it’s going to rain.’

‘That’s my girl.’

Gabby tried a smile. ‘All I ever wanted to do was run a pet shop and sell fluffy little animals and goldfish to nice people.’

‘Yeah, well, you shouldn’t let God hear your plans. I always fancied a bar on a beach somewhere hot. Babes in bikinis queuing for pina-coladas. That’s why I ended up in the public sector with three-quarters of fuck all for a pension.’

‘I think I’m going to sell up.’

Troy thought things through. ‘Look, Gabby, I know who hurt you and I reckon you’re safe. I know their names and I know what happened to them. I honestly don’t think they’ll be bothering you again.’

Gabby’s eyes widened. ‘That sounds heavy.’

‘It is, but not how you think.’

‘A long story?’

‘Yeah. For another day.’

Gabby sat on the end of the bed. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Take a break. I’m out of the service and there’s a rich guy who owes me a favour. Apart from that I don’t want to risk screwing it up by talking too much.’

Gabby looked out the window. ‘I’d like to hear that story when you’re ready.’

Look at her, Troy told himself. You’re such an idiot. She’s been through tough times and she’s all alone. You’re just some kind of father figure.

He tried to keep his voice light, conversational. ‘It’s a deal.’ He held up his arm with the saline drip attached. ‘I’m out of here tomorrow, looking forwards to a better drink than this.’

Gabby jumped to her feet. ‘I could get you something from the hospital café. How about a strawberry and banana smoothie?’

The thought of all those vitamins made Troy’s stomach recoil. ‘I was thinking of something stronger.’

‘Gooseberry and rhubarb?’

Oh Christ, this is never going to work, Troy thought, but he was laughing so much it hurt.

To be continued…

Writer not rich enough for a bursary.

Note: This is essentially the same as a recent Twitter thread I’ve posted. I decided to blog about it too because not everyone uses Twitter and it’s easier to cross-post from here to places like FB. Also, because I am incensed.

Briefly, some background: I am the current Chair of the Milford SF Writers conference, an annual, week-long event for critique & discussion. We’ve run in the UK since 1972.

Since 2017, thanks to the generosity of individuals and two EasterCon committees, we have been able to offer bursaries to BAME writers around the world, and currently are funded for a few more. We’ve always been pleased to offer two bursaries a year.

To date, as well as UK writers, this has allowed SF&F writers from Nigeria, Netherlands, and USA to attend Milford. Not this year.

For 2019 we were again delighted to be able to fill both places. Except – annoyingly, frustratingly, infuriatingly, one must now fall vacant. Because UK Visas and Immigration (UKVI) have rejected their visa application on the grounds of ‘financial capacity’.

One committee member is highly experienced in the problems the Hostile Environment policy causes musicians seeking visas, and has seen the refusal letter. It says there is no room for appeal, and in their experience it means exactly that. The writer we had been hoping to welcome to the UK says it is too heartbreaking a task to try again.

We’ve lost them. This is enormously disappointing. We are proud to be able to play our own part in increasing inclusion and diversity in our field of literature and the arts, immensely grateful to our donors. It is obvious that everyone benefits.

But this is where we now are with the poisonous Hostile Environment policy that Theresa May, our outgoing Prime Minister, introduced in her time as Home Secretary. It tells us low-income writers from other countries are not welcome, & we cannot help them with grants & gifts.

In short, this government thinks they are not rich enough to be given a bursary.

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 81 – To Sleep

An odd week. My life in most respects is ordinary, but this week has been strange. I’ve been deeply distracted but have managed to work hard, the main reason being the mutual support and encouragement of a couple of lovely people.

Equally important, old Mrs Woosencraft is about to take her afternoon nap in…

Copyright David Bezzina, 2017

Chapter 81 – To Sleep

It wasn’t easy to fall asleep when people expected you to. Although Tim was very tired and comfortably settled onto Mrs Woosencraft’s settee he just couldn’t do it.

Once Mrs Woosencraft drew the curtains she dropped off with no trouble. Now she lay in her chair with her hands folded over her tummy and her feet on a low footstool. Despite being asleep there was an air of expectation about her.

Tim’s mind was still full of the past day’s astonishing events: the sinking ship, the great swim, Jarglebaum and Koponen’s unknown fate, the shark women’s transformation and wild revelations.

A shadow passed over Tim’s face. Foxy kissed his forehead. ‘I’m going into the kitchen,’ she whispered. ‘Go to sleep.’

Tim found himself thinking about the flies under the lampshade in his room. During their swim to shore he had seen small shoals of fish circling under floating mats of weed, discarded fishing nets, waterlogged pallets and other debris. Foxy had said such places were refuges, the fish were hiding.

What were the flies hiding from, he wondered? They were safe, he didn’t mind them being there. They should land and have a rest. Maybe it was safer for them to keep on the move. He zoomed in closer and flew with the flies. His office expanded to became a titanic space filled with vast objects like the valleys of Colorado.

I think I’m asleep now, he thought.

And he was.

Tim opened his eyes into a room bled dry of colour. Mrs Woosencraft looked up at him from her sleeping body. He reached down and drew her out. She took one look at her own form, and nodded. In the kitchen Foxy sat colourless and still, both she and the room looked like they were drawn on pieces of paper in astonishing detail. Tim led Mrs Woosencraft into the garden.

Gale-winds blew out to sea, the monochrome sky streaked with tattered clouds streaming like wind-torn banners. Mrs Woosencraft jumped up onto his back, lighter than a feather. Tim thought a single word – Asklepios. For a moment he struggled against Mrs Woosencraft’s inertia then surged up into the sky. The ground fell away below their feet. The wind whirled them in four directions – then one.

To be continued…


The Girld from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 80 – All She Needed

I really do need to pull my finger out and start prepping the print/e-book versions. With the edits all done, and new cover art I just need to do- everything else! Have great weekends, and I hope you like this sweet little chapter.

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms. Cover art by David Bezzina (c) 2017

Chapter 80 – All She Needed

His parent’s front garden was exactly as Smith remembered. Shoulder high dahlias flanked the path; blue pansies, pink daisies and orange marigolds still clashed in the flower bed.

Why shouldn’t it be the same? Had had  only been away a few days.

It felt like forever.

The garden gate clicked shut behind him. ‘My, what a lot of flowers,’ Heidi said. ‘They’re so, um, colourful.’

Smith pressed the doorbell. Soft chimes rang in the hall. I’m not nervous, he told himself as he reached for Heidi’s hand. I’m excited.

A slightly stooped female figure swam into view through the hammered glass of the front door. She stood still for a moment fumbled the catch and flung the door wide. Violet Smith looked joyfully up at her son.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ Smith said.

‘Who is it?’ Albert Smith called from upstairs.

‘Derek,’ Violet said quietly. She called out louder: ‘Albert, it’s Derek. He’s come home.’

Furniture bumped upstairs, a door slammed. Unbuttoned cardigan flapping, bifocals swinging from the cord round his neck, Albert Smith erupted onto the landing and thundered down the stairs. ‘By God, my lad, where have you been? Your mother’s been worried sick.’

‘Albert,’ Violet cautioned.

‘Whatever you’ve been up to, my lad, it was not Good Thinking.’

Violet’s voice carried an edge. ‘Albert. Derek has a friend with him.’

‘Actually, it was very Good Thinking indeed,’ Derek said. ‘Hello, Daddy, this is Heidi.’

Albert Smith lurched to a halt, reassessed the situation and stuck out his hand. ‘Hello, my dear. Won’t you come in?’

It didn’t take long. Violet knew she could be good at this sort of thing if only she had the chance. She’d waited such a long time.

‘So tell me, where did you meet Derek?’ Violet said.

‘In the office where I work. Del helped me out with some calculations.’

She calls him Del, Violet thought happily. ‘He’s always been good with numbers. Lists and timetables, things like that.’

‘Did you come over on the bus?’ Albert said.

‘No, in Del’s new car.’

Albert looked through the lace curtains, gaped and turned back. He managed a rather high-pitched, ‘Derek, where did you get that car?’

‘It’s not mine, I borrowed it.’

‘When did you learn to drive?’

‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

That wasn’t the answer Albert had been looking for. He opened his mouth, lifted a finger.

‘I like your front garden,’ Heidi said a little loudly.

It was all Violet needed.

‘Come out back and see what I’ve done. Derek, go and show your father the car.’

She’s nice, Violet thought to herself as the two women toured the garden. Her top is cut a bit low, but I expect that’s just me being old fashioned. It’s not every girl who’d pretend to be interested in flowers to please her boyfriend’s mum.

Later in the front room the two women looked out the window at the men. Albert knelt beside the wing of the Imperial making circular motions with his palm over the dented bodywork. Derek helped him up and they stood back, arms folded, heads nodding slowly.

Violet took a deep breath. ‘You and Derek get on well.’

Heidi smiled to herself. ‘We’ve really only just met.’

‘I know, dear. I can’t help it, I’m his mother.’

Out by the car Derek said something. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Albert roared with laughter. Watching them, Violet felt her feet were about to leave the ground. She blinked hard, it had been a long while since she had last felt this happy.

Albert and Derek came inside. Violet put her arm round her husband’s waist and gave him a hug. ‘I’d like to go to the garden centre. Heidi suggested I put a purple clematis over the trellis,’ Violet said.

‘Derek and I need to go to the car shop.’

‘Why don’t we go together,’ Heidi said.

‘I’ve decided to become an explorer,’ Derek said.

To be continued…

Beginnings, Middles, and Ends

Almost all stories have beginnings, middles, and ends. Not necessarily in that order, and sometimes there are more than one of each. Each one is as important as the other.

Beginnings

The vast majority of advice I received about novel structure was focused on the opening, and it was all about getting published: your opening needs to be vivid; it needs to be engaging; that engagement must be immediate. The reasons given being that these things help get you past the slush reader and/or agent and/or commissioning editor to the desired goal of acceptance, contract, and publication. Yay!

This made me wonder about who the audience actually was, especially for newer or less well-published writers. Was it yourself (you should always, always write for yourself), your (prospective) agent, your (prospective) publisher? Where were the people you were really writing for? Sometimes it feels like a readership is a long way away but it’s also worth remembering that any reader is free to put down your story, and when a submission reader, agent, or editor does that your story proceeds no further down that particular path.

One thing a good beginning does is make a series of promises: this is where we’re going, and why; we’re going with these characters; this is their world. Of course not all promises need to be kept, but they should never be dishonestly broken.

Geoff Ryman’s The King’s Last Song has a superb, beautiful and engaging beginning. As a writer I still remember thinking ‘Why do I even bother? I shall never be this good.’ As a reader I was compelled and excited to read on, the promise of a good book was terrific and it led me deep into:

The Middle

There’s also much advice on how to get through the great swampy middle, where plot wanders in circles, tension withers and dies, and characters stand in empty rooms and discuss what they should do next.  When that happens I believe they are not really talking to each other, they are asking the writer for directions.

Often I’ll put a book like that down, or skim to the end. More rarely I’ll keep reading because the quality of the writing keeps me engaged. Then, even more rarely, all that seeming wandering turns out to be deliberate, it draws into sharp focus, and you realise the writer really did know what they were doing. The brilliant The Old Ways, by Robert MacFarlane, a book about the ancient footpaths of Britain, is a very good example. Truly, not all who wander are lost.

Usually though, it’s best not to wander. Where is tension, where is pace and forward movement? An agent once wrote that they could not remember ever having put a book down because it had too much tension. This is top advice, and really is worth paying a lot of attention to. Without it your reader may never reach:

The End

A good ending is essential but I’ve not read much advice on how to do that, or even what one is. An ending needs to be as good as you can make it for several reasons and a key one is that a reader remembers how they feel when they put your book down. And that determines how they talk about it, and even if they will ever read another book by that author. Word of mouth is incredibly important – I once had a long fantasy series recommended to me on the basis that ‘after book three it gets quite good’. Reader – I never started.

I’ve read many reviews of books in series that complained about how the end was not an end, just a pause in the tale, and how disappointing that was. I seldom had the impression they were giving up on the story, and actually, it’s wonderful that the reader continued to trust the writer. Or maybe it was just hope, because clearly the story wasn’t over. I too hate to leave a story unfinished.

The End depends on the Middle and the Beginning.

If the beginning is about making promises to the reader, then the middle is about trust, and the end is how you reward that trust.  An ending needs to pay back in some way on the promises you make to the reader in the course of the story you have told.  Whether your ending is full of blood and thunder or quietly introspective, whether those promises were directly kept, or subverted, the end should summon memories of the journey we’ve shared, author, reader, and characters. In a word, it should be satisfying.

I remember the tears in my eyes finishing Pratchett’s A Hat Full of Sky, the ‘sensawunda’ of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, and the open and unresolved end of Zelazny’s Jack of Shadows. I am sure you have your own favourites.

I think this is important enough to say again – People remember how they feel about a book when they put it down. Ideally this should be at the end.

~

(This is an edited version of a post that first appeared on the Milford SF web site in April, 2019. )

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 79 – In his Dreams

Hello! It’s been a while since I’ve posted a chapter. There’s good reason for that, it’s nothing bad but it’s also something I don’t want to go in to here, though I might blog about it later.

Meanwhile, mysteries are being resolved and some questions at least are being answered in…

Chapter 79 – In His Dreams

Copyright David Bezzina, 2017

The more Mrs Woosencraft explained, the more intrigued Foxy became. As her hostility faded she occasionally interjected comments of her own. She even went out to the kitchen to refill the kettle.

‘Why don’t you sit in your chair?’ Foxy said on her return.

Gratefully Mrs Woosencraft sank into the cushions.

‘Move up, Tim,’ Foxy said.

Tim lifted Morse onto his lap. The cat’s eyes never left Foxy and she frowned back at it.

‘Never mind him,’ Mrs Woosencraft said. ‘He’ll get used to you.’

Tim didn’t find Mrs Woosencraft’s explanations all that easy to follow. There were long stories and there were long stories, hers seemed to be recapitulating most of human history. He had a few questions of his own.

‘You still haven’t said why you really wanted to find Foxy.’

Mrs Woosencraft pursed her lips. ‘Because I’m old. I’m the last keeper of Deg Naw Wyth, and only an average one at that. I’ve never seen Deep Magic and this felt like my last chance before I well, you know – cark it, brown bread, pushing up the daisies.’

‘Deg Naw Wyth. What does that mean?’

‘It means Ten, Nine, Eight, and the name is a trick because all of those numbers can be broken. It came up from Africa centuries past and took root here. Once– Oh, that was just once and an age before my time. All that’s left are a few fragments – lucky seven, everything I say three times is true.’

‘Un Deg Naw,’ Tim said thoughtfully. ‘You named your cats after numbers?’

‘Well, yes. It was tempting to be clever and call them things like Hilbert and Keith and Heegner, but to be honest it made them easier to remember.’

‘It’s not very affectionate.’

Mrs Woosencraft shook her head. ‘They don’t mind, and they’ve got their own names. Secret ones like ‘Scrwch’ or ‘Yrowl’ they don’t want us to know about. We were all in this together. They wanted to see a mermaid. Don’t ask me why, cats just like looking at them. Me ? All I wanted was to meet someone who knew one of the old ways.’

Foxy took over. ‘Our magics don’t overlap, we’d lost contact. My mother warned me about cats but she didn’t know why, it was just something we knew. We had forgotten they could be a sign, a request for a meeting.’

‘Such a shame.’ Mrs Woosencraft shook her head sadly. ‘Poor little scrap.’

‘What happened to her?’ Tim said.

‘I did,’ Foxy said regretfully. ‘I’d only just come ashore and straightaway she was there, following me. I decided better safe than sorry.’

Tim could believe it. He remembered her reaction to finding Morse in her flat and shifted uncomfortably. It was a difficult thing to discover the woman you– He had to know. ‘Did you–?’

Foxy shook her head emphatically. ‘I scared her off. A lot.’

Mrs Woosencraft squeezed Foxy’s hand. ‘We’ve both made mistakes. I want you to call me Dot. All my friends do.’

‘All right.’

Despite their reconciliation Mrs Woosencraft was exceedingly glum.

‘The skill is gone. Nobody is interested in the old ways. I don’t have a student, not even a chubby little goth girl in black lace, purple hair and a nose ring. Soles on their boots like breeze blocks, some of them. Nineteen isn’t very far to go at all. Ethel managed twenty-three and a bit of twenty nine. Her tutor mastered thirty-one. These days hardly anyone even knows their thirteen times table.’

‘There isn’t enough room in our minds for everything,’ Foxy said. ‘New things push aside the old. Then the new becomes old and the very old ways return in a new form.’

‘I think she’s right,’ Tim said. ‘Foxy and I managed a divination with maps. And I–’ He became self-conscious under Mrs Woosencraft’s suddenly penetrating gaze. ‘I can make things happen in my dreams.’

Mrs Woosencraft cocked her head. ‘Tell me more.’

Tim narrated his experiences with Asklepios.

‘That’s right,’ Foxy said.

‘You knew all this too?’ Mrs Woosencraft exclaimed.

‘I was going to get around to it.’

Mrs Woosencraft flapped her hands with excitement. ‘Show me his pendant.’

Tim pulled it out from his shirt. Mrs Woosencraft cupped her hands around it without touching.

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Whatever was there, it’s gone.’

‘You don’t believe me,’ Tim said.

‘I do, but I’d like to see you do it.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ Tim said. ‘I have to be asleep.’

Mrs Woosencraft settled back into her chair. ‘Well, I think it’s just about time for my nap.’

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms – Chapter 78, The Ritual

In which a goat makes the ultimate sacrifice to help a time-traveller marooned in ancient Babylon find his way home.

Chapter 78, The Ritual

Copyright David Bezzina, 2017

The white-haired goat gave a strangled bleat, kicked against its bonds and lay still. Assisted by Ishkun, Asklepios hung the animal by its back legs from a hook set into a roof beam. The animal struggled briefly then hung still. Asklepios placed a deep bowl under the goat, took Ishkun’s proffered knife, and cut the creature’s throat.

Asklepios looked at the dying animal with some regret. He knew he did not need all this paraphernalia and that simpler was better, but couldn’t bring himself to give up on the ornate ritual. Not yet. For now it helped at least as much as it hindered. Experiment could come later, today was not the time for change.

While he collected the goat’s blood Banipal cleared away the rushes and gouged a shallow trench all around the table in the packed earth of the floor. He cleared the debris from the trench and swept the waste outside.

‘I shall send a simple message to my master,’ Asklepios said. ‘If he wishes to respond in person he will come. If not, his answer will reveal itself in a secondary divination.’

Banipal noted Asklepios had been careful not to mention his master’s name.

Now the incense was smouldering, the lamps were lit and the correct herbs placed in the seven equidistant positions around the table. Using the table was a joy, Asklepios’ insight had been vindicated and he felt his confidence grow. Already he could see how improvements could be made by adding division marks of thirds and fifths for simpler rituals, and sevenths for the more complex like the one he attempted now.

Banipal and Ishkun stood to one side. The priest held a flask of wine, the hunter his bloody dagger.

Asklepios went outside, changed into a short-sleeved knee-length shirt of clean white linen and re-entered the room. He took up the bowl of blood and carried it slowly and carefully to Banipal, who poured in a measure of wine. The he turned to Ishkun, who stirred the mix with his knife.

He poured the mix of blood and wine into the channel, put the bowl aside, went to his allotted place, raised his hands palms upwards and began to chant.

Time passed. Banipal’s feelings of awed anticipation gradually changed to the bored tension he often felt during the longer rituals in the temples at Esagila. Beside him Ishkun shifted his feet and Banipal knew his friend was itching to move.

Asklepios finished his chant and knelt on the spot he had marked on the ground, intermittently prostrating himself. As he repeated the move for the umpteenth time one of the lamps went out.

Ishkun sighed in exasperation and walked from the room.

To be continued…

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms, Chapter 77 – The Truth

Author’s note: A day late, but it’s still the weekend and it’s only a day. This week’s chapter from The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms is called ‘The Truth’. So i suppose the question is – can you handle it? More to the point, can Heidi?

The Girl from a Thousand Fathoms. Cover art by David Bezzina (c) 2017

Chapter 77 – The Truth

There she was, dressed in another variation of lace-up boots, a long skirt and scoop top in black and purple. His heart in his mouth, Persistent Smith hurried towards the Kylma Kala main entrance.

‘Hello. It’s me,’ Smith boomed anxiously.

‘So I see.’

Smith grimaced unhappily. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Heidi was incredulous. ‘Late? It’s not even the same day.’ She headed off along the pavement. ‘It’s my lunch hour, I need to do some shopping.’

Smith hurried after her. ‘I could buy you lunch.’

‘No, thank you.’

Nonplussed, Smith fell back. ‘Help me,’ he begged the Hand.

‘He was kidnapped!’ the Hand shouted. ‘Locked in the boot of a car and driven to Southampton.’

Furious, Heidi spun on her heels. ‘No you weren’t. Don’t you dare lie to me.’

‘Yes, I was. Honestly,’ Smith said.

‘It’s the truth, honest to God,’ the Hand cried. ‘Sure as the fact that I’m just a stupid hand pretending to be a person. Or am I a person pretending to be a hand? I don’t know any more. You’ve got to help me!’

Lunchtime crowds pushed around them. ‘Really kidnapped? Really?’

‘Only by accident. I escaped.’

‘Well, yes, I can see that.’

Smith grimaced uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t that difficult.’

‘You’re impossible, do you know that?’

Heidi walked away. Smith bounded in front of her. ‘I’m persistent.’

‘Do you know how long I waited for you? I felt like a complete idiot.’

‘I don’t know where you can get one of those around here,’ Smith said. ‘I’m only part of an idiot, will that do?’

Despite herself, Heidi smiled. ‘What really happened?’

‘I was on an adventure.’

Heidi shook her head. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘I was following someone and hid in the boot. Then they drove the car away.’

Heidi jerked her head towards the offices. ‘You don’t work here do you?’

‘As well as being a bit of an idiot I’m a bit of a detective too.’

Heidi absorbed the information. ‘Which bit?’

‘The bigger one.’

They started walking.

‘Then what happened?’

‘They got out the car. I escaped and we drove back to Brighton.’

‘We?’

‘My friends. They actually really were properly kidnapped, on a ship. They escaped and swam to shore.’

It all sounded utterly implausible. On the other hand this was Derek Smith. ‘So where’s the car?’

‘Just around the corner.’

Smith showed her.

‘Oh Lord, where did you get a machine like that?’

‘I just said.’

‘What about the owner?’

‘He drowned when the ship sank.’

‘I don’t know whether to believe anything you say.’ Heidi ran her hand over the crumpled rear wing. ‘What a shame this happened.’

‘I’m going to get that mended,’ Smith said.

Most of the damage was from Tim’s sideswipe of the Mercedes. There were also fresh knocks and scrapes on the front bumpers. On the drive back to Brighton Smith had leaned over the front seat and studied how Tim moved his feet across the pedals and moved the gear stick. It hadn’t looked difficult. When they pulled up in Tim’s street he said he would take over and drive home. And they let him.

Something beeped in Heidi’s handbag. ‘Dammit. Look, I’ve got to go,’ she said but didn’t move away.

‘OK.’ Smith shuffled his feet and stared at his shoes.

The beeper sounded again, louder. ‘That stuff you helped me with on the computer was really important. Thank you.’

‘All part of the service, ma’am,’ the Hand said.

Heidi took a step away. ‘I really have to go.’

Smith took a deep breath. ‘I could pick you up after work.’

To be continued…