A warehouse? Thought Maggie. What kind of weirdo lives in a warehouse? Maggie had received the call not half an hour ago. Had she envisioned the derelict state of the address she had been summoned to she probably wouldn't have come. Still she was here now and she'd be damned if she was going to waste her precious time by turning tail now.
The alley she'd just turned into was damp and smelled like wet socks, left too long between washer and drier. It was dark too. Of course it's dark she mused it was nearly midnight. She felt like a call girl in this horrid bleak place. I bet the cab driver thought I was a hooker she thought to herself.
To make matters even worse Maggie was lost. The directions, which had seemed so simple on the phone, just didn't seem to translate to the place in which she now stood. She rounded the block again and began her third circuit, when finally she saw the door.
A single buzzer, the colour of nicotine, adorned the steel door and without hesitation the young girl pressed it hard. It made a slight moaning sound like a creaky door in an old house and trembled slightly under her finger.
"Hello?" Said the voice from the phonecall.
"Hi its Maggie from the agency, you called earlier?" She replied into the rusty intercom.
"Yes! Yes! Come in, Come in," The little box blurted.
A split second later the sound of deadbolts being thrown heralded the opening of the steel door.
Friday 19 June 2009
The Descent Of Micheal O'Dowd. By Neil D Campbell... Chapter One
Micheal O'Dowd was falling. This was not a new sensation for him, he'd been plumetting for as long as he could remember. His memory however was not what it once was and he couldn't exactly be sure how long his current descent had been in swing. He was certain of one thing though. Falling was supposed to be a vertical thing.
Micheal was absolutely certain that he'd seen the bridge he was falling over before. Not under, not past and not even from, no Mr O'Dowd was in the midst of tumbling over the Hammersmith bridge. A sudden sense of queasiness overtook him and he tried for a moment to find something to grab hold of as the great fairy lit bridge raced past him. Like one of those art student photos or cheap car adverts, where the lights blurred into one and all motion becomes just a haze of neon.
He was utterly sick of his current condition. So far today he'd plunged across most of central London. He'd dived along Hyde Park corner and plummeted past Buckingham Palace. He was not only tired of falling he was actually getting tired.
There comes a point in most good crisis', where despite one's own sense of mortal peril, exhaustion will nudge you into a good deal of slumber. Micheal O'Dowd was well beyond this point. Promptly he fell asleep.
Micheal was absolutely certain that he'd seen the bridge he was falling over before. Not under, not past and not even from, no Mr O'Dowd was in the midst of tumbling over the Hammersmith bridge. A sudden sense of queasiness overtook him and he tried for a moment to find something to grab hold of as the great fairy lit bridge raced past him. Like one of those art student photos or cheap car adverts, where the lights blurred into one and all motion becomes just a haze of neon.
He was utterly sick of his current condition. So far today he'd plunged across most of central London. He'd dived along Hyde Park corner and plummeted past Buckingham Palace. He was not only tired of falling he was actually getting tired.
There comes a point in most good crisis', where despite one's own sense of mortal peril, exhaustion will nudge you into a good deal of slumber. Micheal O'Dowd was well beyond this point. Promptly he fell asleep.
While I'm waiting... Some more feedback from my editor and a new novel from scratch...
So... First the news... The Tramp Steamer is, as you may know, currently being proof read and edited by a colleague of mine. Its a big undertaking and the lovely lady in question is doing it on her own time and for gratis. Thus it would be unthinkable to rush her. I have had some feedback though and the latest snippet is my favourite to date. Here's the qoute.
"The book's a great read and I have to keep stopping myself from skipping to the end to find out what happens. It's a great story and well written any publisher would be mad not to put it into print."
After reading that I developed a sudden rosey glow which I seem to have some difficulty in shifting.
Impatience is one of my greatest virtues however and as such I have decided to start writing a brand new unrelated story exclusively here on my blog. I intend to write as often as possible in short bursts and from scratch. What follows next is anyone's guess...
"The book's a great read and I have to keep stopping myself from skipping to the end to find out what happens. It's a great story and well written any publisher would be mad not to put it into print."
After reading that I developed a sudden rosey glow which I seem to have some difficulty in shifting.
Impatience is one of my greatest virtues however and as such I have decided to start writing a brand new unrelated story exclusively here on my blog. I intend to write as often as possible in short bursts and from scratch. What follows next is anyone's guess...
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Travel Stories...
I thought I might post some of my old travel logues from my days as a travel writer...
This is my favourite...
The Last Train From Bangkok.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, stuff is so easy to put off when the sun blazes at a steady 40 degrees. When eventually we decided to make a break from the sweltering city of Bangkok and head for the coast I guess we should have expected the trains to be full. Having already experienced the white-knuckle ride affectionately known as the V.I.P. bus trip I had no intention of braving death once more to save a few bucks. So when our ever-resourceful travel agent found us four beds in the slightly extravagant air-conditioned compartment of the night train out of Bangkok that evening we jumped at the chance.
Getting to the station was its own adventure. We'd left ourselves plenty of time, so we thought, but as the taxi honked its horn for the twenty-fifth time in twenty-five yards we realized that we'd vastly under-estimated Bangkok's rush hour traffic. I think it may have taken us about two hours to travel the five or so miles to the station and as we arrived the other passengers were already scurrying around the platform in anticipation of the train's imminent departure. We had just enough time to stock up on supplies whilst playing a variation on the old game what's the time Mister Wolf, sprinting back and forth along the platform to the various stalls and stands while all the while keeping an eye on the last train out of Bangkok which would periodically roar and hiss it's readiness for the off, sending us scrambling back to our seats.
Once on board we settled in to our spacious and comfortable seats armed with enough books and games to see us through a nuclear winter. Our exclusive carriage was at the very rear of the train and as promised air-conditioned. Our traveling companions for the trip were a strange lot. We had Will and Emma from Swindon in England; although Bristol was far better they continued to tell us. Will, relatively new to traveling, was as excited as a puppy at almost everything he saw, heard or touched. His enthusiasm was certainly infectious and before long we were all gawping at the night-lights of Bangkok as our orient express rumbled through the city. Emma, Will's partner, by contrast had been traveling for years and exuded a sense of confidence, which could bring calm to the wildest of storms and instantly put us all at ease.
Roan and Mona from the sunny shores of Australia were also on hand to offer tales and whisky to ease the long trip. Mona worked as a tour guide in the north of Thailand, although she confessed that to do so was illegal for anyone not a native of Thailand. She got round the problem by working officially as an entertainer and hoping no one put her on the spot. Her tour guiding had given her a base understanding of the language which she spoke with enthusiasm if not particularly well.
Mona had recently been bitten by a wild dog in the northern regions of Thailand and had been following what was almost a scavenger hunt to get the next installment of her Rabies injection. From expensive resort doctors to the local clinic in a hut on a mountain she was always planning her next fix. If you haven't had your rabies inoculation then you have to have five injections over the course of a week if you're bitten by an infected animal and don't seek attention immediately. Once the symptoms start there's no cure and a death from rabies is slow and terrible.
Whilst in Bangkok Will, Emma, my girlfriend Felicity and I had been playing with the children and a little kitten in the grounds of our guesthouse. After the cute yet slightly surly little ball of fluff had grown bored of the constant attention and had opted for a quick escape by biting Will on the arm and scratching Emma on the lip. After the little seething lump of claw and fang had secured his freedom we thought no more about it, until that is we met Mona and Roan. Roan didn't really say much but seemed to like whisky and bridge, which he, Mona, Felicity and I played for about four hours. The game of bridge whilst easing a good portion of our journey also helped conjure images of Agatha Christies Orient Express and as our own train rumbled through the jungle between Bangkok and Surat Thani I couldn't help wondering if the huge packs that Mona and Roan had chained and bolted to their seats contained more than just clothes and books, I mean surely you could stuff a dozen corpses in just one of them. Anyway Mona's tales of rabid dogs and slow and sure death had caught the attention of Emma, who didn't believe in co-incidence, and plans were made to visit the nearest hospital or doctor as soon as we arrived at our destination.
As dawn broke over the rainforests of Thailand we were all children again locked into our own little worlds of exploration and sheer awe at the natural feast that was unfolding in every direction you could see. The trip itself had been anything but relaxing, as I mentioned before our carriage was at the very end of the train and as such it didn't seem to be connected to the tracks rather just dragged along by the violent force of the train in-front as such it bounced and careered along like a tin can attached to the back of a wedding car. Having been on sleeper trains in Thailand before this experience was unusual as normally they're as calm as a Hindu cow.
When we arrived in Surat Thani, a town that surely only exists because the trains terminate there and the ferries begin, we were bundled into the back of a pick up and driven at high speed past various other pick ups each also filled with intrepid explorers, some heading for the beach, others heading for full moon parties, still more heading for the South and Malaysia.
Having recently recovered from a nasty car crash I managed to survive the bus journey to Phuket only by closing my eyes and swearing a lot. I can't really tell you much about the bus journey as I've managed to erase most of it from my memory.
Upon our arrival in Phuket town, as promised, we headed straight for the hospital and after a few minutes Will and Emma were whisked off to see the doctor regarding their life threatening encounter with the savage beast of Bangkok. After about half an hour a very embarrassed couple emerged from the hospital minus a thousand Baht and feeling a little silly. Turns out that there hasn't been a case of rabies from a cat in Thailand for thirty years and when Will was trying to explain why they felt they were in danger from the animals bite the doctors were asking all kinds of questions about it, like how big it was. After he explained that the monster concerned was in fact a kitten about six inches long the doctor responded with the line "You must have been very scared." The Thais have a wicked sense of humour.
The moral of the story I guess is that while taking care in the wilder regions of Thailand is very sensible. You can pretty much relax in what is a very safe and very civilized country. Rabid dogs in the hill tribe regions are not unknown but don't fear your next encounter with Tiddles, or take the precaution of ensuring you're armed with a ball of wool to keep the beast entertained. Giant centipedes however, well that's another story...
This is my favourite...
The Last Train From Bangkok.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, stuff is so easy to put off when the sun blazes at a steady 40 degrees. When eventually we decided to make a break from the sweltering city of Bangkok and head for the coast I guess we should have expected the trains to be full. Having already experienced the white-knuckle ride affectionately known as the V.I.P. bus trip I had no intention of braving death once more to save a few bucks. So when our ever-resourceful travel agent found us four beds in the slightly extravagant air-conditioned compartment of the night train out of Bangkok that evening we jumped at the chance.
Getting to the station was its own adventure. We'd left ourselves plenty of time, so we thought, but as the taxi honked its horn for the twenty-fifth time in twenty-five yards we realized that we'd vastly under-estimated Bangkok's rush hour traffic. I think it may have taken us about two hours to travel the five or so miles to the station and as we arrived the other passengers were already scurrying around the platform in anticipation of the train's imminent departure. We had just enough time to stock up on supplies whilst playing a variation on the old game what's the time Mister Wolf, sprinting back and forth along the platform to the various stalls and stands while all the while keeping an eye on the last train out of Bangkok which would periodically roar and hiss it's readiness for the off, sending us scrambling back to our seats.
Once on board we settled in to our spacious and comfortable seats armed with enough books and games to see us through a nuclear winter. Our exclusive carriage was at the very rear of the train and as promised air-conditioned. Our traveling companions for the trip were a strange lot. We had Will and Emma from Swindon in England; although Bristol was far better they continued to tell us. Will, relatively new to traveling, was as excited as a puppy at almost everything he saw, heard or touched. His enthusiasm was certainly infectious and before long we were all gawping at the night-lights of Bangkok as our orient express rumbled through the city. Emma, Will's partner, by contrast had been traveling for years and exuded a sense of confidence, which could bring calm to the wildest of storms and instantly put us all at ease.
Roan and Mona from the sunny shores of Australia were also on hand to offer tales and whisky to ease the long trip. Mona worked as a tour guide in the north of Thailand, although she confessed that to do so was illegal for anyone not a native of Thailand. She got round the problem by working officially as an entertainer and hoping no one put her on the spot. Her tour guiding had given her a base understanding of the language which she spoke with enthusiasm if not particularly well.
Mona had recently been bitten by a wild dog in the northern regions of Thailand and had been following what was almost a scavenger hunt to get the next installment of her Rabies injection. From expensive resort doctors to the local clinic in a hut on a mountain she was always planning her next fix. If you haven't had your rabies inoculation then you have to have five injections over the course of a week if you're bitten by an infected animal and don't seek attention immediately. Once the symptoms start there's no cure and a death from rabies is slow and terrible.
Whilst in Bangkok Will, Emma, my girlfriend Felicity and I had been playing with the children and a little kitten in the grounds of our guesthouse. After the cute yet slightly surly little ball of fluff had grown bored of the constant attention and had opted for a quick escape by biting Will on the arm and scratching Emma on the lip. After the little seething lump of claw and fang had secured his freedom we thought no more about it, until that is we met Mona and Roan. Roan didn't really say much but seemed to like whisky and bridge, which he, Mona, Felicity and I played for about four hours. The game of bridge whilst easing a good portion of our journey also helped conjure images of Agatha Christies Orient Express and as our own train rumbled through the jungle between Bangkok and Surat Thani I couldn't help wondering if the huge packs that Mona and Roan had chained and bolted to their seats contained more than just clothes and books, I mean surely you could stuff a dozen corpses in just one of them. Anyway Mona's tales of rabid dogs and slow and sure death had caught the attention of Emma, who didn't believe in co-incidence, and plans were made to visit the nearest hospital or doctor as soon as we arrived at our destination.
As dawn broke over the rainforests of Thailand we were all children again locked into our own little worlds of exploration and sheer awe at the natural feast that was unfolding in every direction you could see. The trip itself had been anything but relaxing, as I mentioned before our carriage was at the very end of the train and as such it didn't seem to be connected to the tracks rather just dragged along by the violent force of the train in-front as such it bounced and careered along like a tin can attached to the back of a wedding car. Having been on sleeper trains in Thailand before this experience was unusual as normally they're as calm as a Hindu cow.
When we arrived in Surat Thani, a town that surely only exists because the trains terminate there and the ferries begin, we were bundled into the back of a pick up and driven at high speed past various other pick ups each also filled with intrepid explorers, some heading for the beach, others heading for full moon parties, still more heading for the South and Malaysia.
Having recently recovered from a nasty car crash I managed to survive the bus journey to Phuket only by closing my eyes and swearing a lot. I can't really tell you much about the bus journey as I've managed to erase most of it from my memory.
Upon our arrival in Phuket town, as promised, we headed straight for the hospital and after a few minutes Will and Emma were whisked off to see the doctor regarding their life threatening encounter with the savage beast of Bangkok. After about half an hour a very embarrassed couple emerged from the hospital minus a thousand Baht and feeling a little silly. Turns out that there hasn't been a case of rabies from a cat in Thailand for thirty years and when Will was trying to explain why they felt they were in danger from the animals bite the doctors were asking all kinds of questions about it, like how big it was. After he explained that the monster concerned was in fact a kitten about six inches long the doctor responded with the line "You must have been very scared." The Thais have a wicked sense of humour.
The moral of the story I guess is that while taking care in the wilder regions of Thailand is very sensible. You can pretty much relax in what is a very safe and very civilized country. Rabid dogs in the hill tribe regions are not unknown but don't fear your next encounter with Tiddles, or take the precaution of ensuring you're armed with a ball of wool to keep the beast entertained. Giant centipedes however, well that's another story...
Monday 4 May 2009
Why am I awake at 6am ? I used to think that this time in the morning only existed as a safety net, just enough time to see you back in bed. To me the period between 6am and 10am were make believe creations like Father Christmas and Ausrralia. Before anyone has a go, until I set foot on the golden sands of Bondia Beach it's still fiction to me. A vast conitnent with a tropical climate, a fine standard of living and full of weird beasts that hop about on their hind legs? Go on pull the other one!
So... the proof reading is underway and hopefully soon I'll have a complete draft and the submissions will begin. It's been a rollercoaster week too. My business is booming, my love life is just getting interesting again and Alex and I won the last tournament with a resounding victory. I am afraid I can't elaborate too much on this as it would destroy my rock star persona.
So hopefully I'll have some news on the book soon...
Oh yeah, before I forget. Climbing Mountains has been picked up by some reading list or something? I have no idea how or why but I'm secretly a bit pleased.
So... the proof reading is underway and hopefully soon I'll have a complete draft and the submissions will begin. It's been a rollercoaster week too. My business is booming, my love life is just getting interesting again and Alex and I won the last tournament with a resounding victory. I am afraid I can't elaborate too much on this as it would destroy my rock star persona.
So hopefully I'll have some news on the book soon...
Oh yeah, before I forget. Climbing Mountains has been picked up by some reading list or something? I have no idea how or why but I'm secretly a bit pleased.
Friday 24 April 2009
Today is a good day...
Dolly hasn't got cancer, Lisa's due a promotion and I've shifted some baggage. My brother's new book God Of Clocks has arrived and its increadible. I'm working on a new book at the moment too and the sun is shining... Oh and at long last I have a brand new electric cigarette, which is actually working. It may just be my Karma rebate has finally arrived...
Friday 17 April 2009
Some days weigh more than others
Today weighs more than most. I don't mind a little exercise but my shoulders aren't what they used to be... Some one very wise once told me it doesn't matter how deep the water gets as long as you're on top... Well today I am not on top and the waters very deep...
Call the coast guard I may well need them today. Wish me luck!
Call the coast guard I may well need them today. Wish me luck!
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Proof Reading... Check!
So firstly some news on the book. I'm having it professionally edited/proof read at the moment... Today I received this message...
"Hiya, proofreading of the book is going swimmingly although it took me an hour to work out where the new Word keeps its page number and cover page formatting thingy, darned new software! But all looking good & 'tis rather a corking read if I may say so. :) Nicely done!!"
So basically I am in an excellent mood today...
"Hiya, proofreading of the book is going swimmingly although it took me an hour to work out where the new Word keeps its page number and cover page formatting thingy, darned new software! But all looking good & 'tis rather a corking read if I may say so. :) Nicely done!!"
So basically I am in an excellent mood today...
Saturday 11 April 2009
Slightly nervous...
Got to be honest. I am not easily frightened, except in cars but that's another story. However... Each year arround this time my loving friends spend far too much time making up new and interesting ways to publicly humilate me. In the past this has invovled revealing speeches, strippers and my own personal favourite the five semi naked firemen. Yeah they went there...
Tonight the joy of facebook, or as I like to call it life wrecker, has revealed a fragment of what may well be their darkest design to date. Am now actually considering bolting my door. It may well take an angry torch bearing, pitchfork weilding mob to oust me.
Wish me luck, god knows tonight I may really need it...
Tonight the joy of facebook, or as I like to call it life wrecker, has revealed a fragment of what may well be their darkest design to date. Am now actually considering bolting my door. It may well take an angry torch bearing, pitchfork weilding mob to oust me.
Wish me luck, god knows tonight I may really need it...
Friday 10 April 2009
in the event of fire? or... in the vent of ire?
So you want to know which apparently....
Mmmm? depends on my mood to be honest...
Today is a strange day. I woke to discover I'd stolen someone's phone, purely by accident I assure you. I am so hungover I can't even begin to trawl through it looking for Paris Hilton's number.
Anyway I have arrranged a KGBesque drop off and have demanded coca cola as my reward.
My ex girlfriend Rosi called, who dumped me on valentines day, somewhere on the M25. We're speaking again now which is nice and brings the number of ex girlfriends I don't speak to down to a respectable one.
Appart ftom the phone, I have no horrid feeling of remorse about last night. Which is a good thing. There simply is nothing worse than awaking to the clanging chimes of doom. If i had a penny for every time I'd slapped my forehead after waking up, thinking what the hell did I do. I'd probably have enough for my own coca cola and march the offending nokia down to the nearest cash convertors and trade it for an XBOX....
I still have three days of mayhem to contend with. So my 'apologies in advance card' is valid till Sunday...
Anayway many thanks to every one who's read and reads my blog. I had a great birthday.
Be seeing you,
Neil D Campbell
ps. Am starting to like the D
Mmmm? depends on my mood to be honest...
Today is a strange day. I woke to discover I'd stolen someone's phone, purely by accident I assure you. I am so hungover I can't even begin to trawl through it looking for Paris Hilton's number.
Anyway I have arrranged a KGBesque drop off and have demanded coca cola as my reward.
My ex girlfriend Rosi called, who dumped me on valentines day, somewhere on the M25. We're speaking again now which is nice and brings the number of ex girlfriends I don't speak to down to a respectable one.
Appart ftom the phone, I have no horrid feeling of remorse about last night. Which is a good thing. There simply is nothing worse than awaking to the clanging chimes of doom. If i had a penny for every time I'd slapped my forehead after waking up, thinking what the hell did I do. I'd probably have enough for my own coca cola and march the offending nokia down to the nearest cash convertors and trade it for an XBOX....
I still have three days of mayhem to contend with. So my 'apologies in advance card' is valid till Sunday...
Anayway many thanks to every one who's read and reads my blog. I had a great birthday.
Be seeing you,
Neil D Campbell
ps. Am starting to like the D
Thursday 9 April 2009
My birthday blog post...
So.... I am another year older. Still none the wiser. I have decided not to post any more of The Tramp Steamer here until the fat cats at some publishing house cross my palms with silver...
I did recently rediscover my first attempt at a novel hiding on a three and half inch floppy. So as soon as I discover a computer still able to retrieve the archaic files I'll stick it up here... It's called Once Was King and is a factious biograghy... I think there's about 32000 words or so....
Anyway I now plan to spend the next few days in blissful oblivion...
Oh and in typical prolific and optimistic style I am already on to chapter three of The Tramp Steamer's sequel....
If in the coming days I offend anyone... My apologies in advance...
Kind regards,
Neil D Campbell
I did recently rediscover my first attempt at a novel hiding on a three and half inch floppy. So as soon as I discover a computer still able to retrieve the archaic files I'll stick it up here... It's called Once Was King and is a factious biograghy... I think there's about 32000 words or so....
Anyway I now plan to spend the next few days in blissful oblivion...
Oh and in typical prolific and optimistic style I am already on to chapter three of The Tramp Steamer's sequel....
If in the coming days I offend anyone... My apologies in advance...
Kind regards,
Neil D Campbell
Friday 3 April 2009
So only another 60 chapters to post and I can basically put my book up here...
Chapter 3
"To Samson and The Western Dream!" Captain Grey announced. "A fine captain and a finer friend." He added and held up a glass.
The new crew all returned Grey's toast. They sat at the huge mahogany table in the rear of the wheelhouse. Lochlann took a moment to survey the charts adorning the walls, hoping for the briefest moment that they might return with something to fill the obvious gap to the east
"I took the liberty of investigating the hull," the shimerall chirped in. Her voice had a strange metallic ring that gave the impression the creature was actually speaking from another room. "There's a bit of rust, a lot of barnacles and sabre eels nesting by the moon pool. They've taken up residence on the submersible's mooring lines. Wretched beasts,” she spat as she spoke.
“It wouldn't be so bad if you actually had any submersibles. I recommend strongly everyone stays well away from the moon dock. They have fine eyes and would most certainly strike anyone careless enough to wander in to their reach." The mermaid's report brought silence to the meeting.
Sabre Eels were prolific killers and would take anyone unfortunate enough to go overboard in seconds, not to mention anyone unlucky enough to wander too close to the moon pool. The ship's undersea dock was a pointless room now, the sub long gone to cover some debt.
"I can clean the barnacles and patch the rust," she went on, "but we'll need to shift those eels and I can't do that alone."
Lochlann looked round the table at his ragged crew. The bravado had gone from the peacocks. Despite Laila's lithe body, cruel scar and cutlass, she was no use in the water.
"Old Getty's got a clockwork sub, he denies it but I seen it once. I'll bring him some rum and a hand of cards, he'll give me a turn I'm sure. We'll clean them nasty snakes off the boat or I'll sink it. Either way better than sitting here." Albert, the old sea salt had spoken about the voyage with interest for pretty much the first time since he'd drunkenly hollered his loyalty back at the rostrum.
Lochlann was somewhat relieved having pretty much decided the old bluff was as useful as a net hull.
Departure was set for four days time on the twenty forth of Middle Springtide, Saviours Day which traditionally guaranteed all sailors safe passage. The meeting over, the small crew of the old steamer bid each other good night and made their way to their cabins. Only Albert lingered in the wheelhouse. He measured his bottle with calloused fingers, sighed disappointedly and drew a fresh bottle from the depths of his oilskins. He hard work to do tonight and thirsty work at that.
“Fives! Again?” Exclaimed Getty. “There's a devil in you Albert Grim. I swear to it.” The old man felt like a fool but he'd enjoyed the company. Without any reluctance he handed Albert an ornate pewter key. Their game over Albert thanked his host, packed away the cards and tidied up the last of his glass.
“You sink her... you bought her.” Getty shouted at the door after the departing sea dog.
“If I sink her. I'll have bought my ticket for the long journey old friend.” Albert replied closing the door with as much care as his drunken limbs would allow.
He walked from Getty's shack on the far edge of Havant's Western Beach. Stumbling over the shingle, crashing into the eroded groynes. He had counted them wrong three times now. Eventually during a moment of sobriety, brought on by a mouthful of cold salt air, he found the right one and then eventually the tiny bollard.
It was low tide and nearly dawn. His old, yet, sharp eyes could just make out the brass wheel just below the waterline. He stumbled over the mooring rope and fell head first into the bitter water. He emerged a moment later shivering but in hysterics.
“I do believe.” He said to no one “I may be drunk.” His brief swim had sobered him alarmingly and he managed to haul himself out of the water with ease. Albert Grim sat there for a moment on the cold stone groyne, tugged a brown bottle from somewhere in his oil skin and took a long swig.
It took him twenty minutes to drag the sub to the water line. Her ballast had been set to keep her under. Out of the gaze of thieving eyes or worse yet joyriders. He'd managed to winch the little iron sub just high enough to reach her valves. As carefully as he could, he reached out at arms length and tried to get purchase on her release cog. It took him a few goes but soon enough his hand found the stiff little tap and he twisted it with all his might.
The sea around the submarine wobbled like an underground spring and she bobbed to the surface like an apple. Albert untied her lines and climbed aboard. He somehow managed to keep his balance probably aided by, if anything, his drunken state. The Submersible was in a shameful state. She was the colour of the brown pebbles below her and beaten and warped in a dozen places. Albert wondered how the thing was able to float at all then paused to consider his old friend Getty and his rust barge. The council had condemned the thing every year for the last ten. Yet Old Getty had always ignored them and had continued to sail the derelict out into open waters twice a week.
“If you'll do for Old Getty.” Albert grim whispered to the little tub. “You'll do for me.” He patted the iron hatch as if he were petting a dog. The pewter key fit the lock on the subs hatch easily enough but it took him ten minutes to get the bloody thing to turn. Eventually though the lock clicked open and he released her hatch. Her name plate was barely visible but he traced with calloused hands what he could not read. Elizabeth Harvey, the name struck a chord with Albert Grim. So he thought to himself that's why you hide her! You named it after your lost love.
He just managed to squeeze his portly form through the tiny hatch and sealed himself in. He'd piloted a sub only once before and was no expert. The old girl groaned and creaked in a moody manner as he kicked her clockwork motor into gear. He kept her on the surface for the majority of the voyage into port. Anxious not to lose his way in the open water. Once he'd reached the port Albert adjusted her ballast valves and the little boat began to descend. She hissed and groaned like a steam fair wheel as the pressure shifted. Slowly the craft began to descend into the deep.
Jumpy already, his heart leapt when he heard the tap on her fore porthole. He relaxed a little at the sight of the shimerall who had evidently decided to join in the hunt. He watched in awe at the graceful way the creature glided through the water. By the time they reached the hull of The Western Dream Albert had come to terms with most of the controls. The Elizabeth Harvey had no torpedoes but she did boast a pretty decent harpoon. Abert fiddled a bit with it's corroded mechanism and discovered he could reload it from inside the vessel. He rummaged around the boat and discovered eight usable spears and a dozen others rusted and bent beyond repair. He also found a pocket watch, a horde of empty rum bottles and a diary. He thumbed the leather book for a moment then set it back where he had found it. No old friend, he thought, whatever pain you saved in these pages is not my right to know.
He had made good time and within half an hour he caught sight of his prey. Lord of the Deep, he thought, they're monsters. The first eel he saw, hung by its tail from a berthing hook in the moon pool. Two others lazily clung to the ships anchor line. The one by the moon pool was immense. A full forty feet from tail to terrifying maw. At its widest the beast was as deep as a rowing boat. The serpent's were attracted to light. Their source of amusement seemed to be the moon pool itself, from which there was a constant low illumination like a skylight at dusk.
“Damn the bloody sea, all we had to do was turn the bloody gas lamps off.” Albert cursed to himself. The shimerall tapped the porthole once more and motioned below. She would go no further. Albert nodded understanding her concern. He nudged a another lever and the ship began to creep forward.
The sub's engine seemed to dull a fraction. Silently Albert cursed Old Getty for its lack of maintenance. Just like Old Getty to lend him a sub with a half wound motor. He prayed the boat would make it back to shore if he survived the coming encounter.
Albert pulse began to quicken. It wouldn't be long before the sub's own spotlight became more appealing than the slight radiance of the moon pool. He had to get a good shot in before that happened or the Eels would begin to take too keen an interest in his boat. He'd loaded a harpoon and cranked the clockwork firing mechanism as much as he was able. Slowly he took aim. He knew he had to get a fair shot at the head of the beast. The short barbed spears would do little but anger the sea snakes if he hit them anywhere else. An angry sabre eel would be more than a match for the beaten Elizabeth Harvey.
Albert Grim fought the rum back and desperately tried to focus. For what seemed like forever he sighted his target. Sweating uncontrollably, unable to breath, suddenly he was more aware than he had ever been of his mortality. He flinched and fired his first shot.
KLANG! It had gone wide by yards and bounced loudly and harmlessly off the hull of his new home. Bugger! He thought. Fortunately if the lazy serpent had even registered the shot, it didn't react. Sweating now Albert Grim reloaded and rewound the gun. He compensated for the horrific inaccuracy of the weapon and fired again. His heart stopped the silence of the sea was the only thing he could hear as the missile raced toward its target.
A direct hit, he'd skewered the eel through the mouth. It writhed and spat, even from his position, some ten yards away, the old man could see the creatures horrible foot long fangs. The other two serpents and then a third that he hadn't noticed, struck with lightning speed, fuelled by the sweet scent of blood. Wounded and writhing in agony, the largest of the four was defenceless as its companions gorged upon its bloody flesh, tearing it to pieces with their vile teeth.
He fired twice more. Albert scored another two hits on the second largest of the beasts. They were torso shots but still mortal wounds to the lesser beast. The two smaller serpents evidently thought better of their plight. Before Albert could blink they had departed into the deep.
It was only then Albert realised how lucky he had been. The barbed spears he had thrown which such abandonment were tethered to his ship by steel wire cable. Had he struck his first quarry anywhere but the head. Albert would certainly have spent his last minutes fighting for air as the beast dragged him to the abyss.
He wondered for a second whether the sub would have enough power even to surface. Particularly now he was dragging nearly a hundred feet of sea serpents.
Fortunately she had and minutes later Albert Grim returned to daylight smiling, successful and frankly still drunk.
"To Samson and The Western Dream!" Captain Grey announced. "A fine captain and a finer friend." He added and held up a glass.
The new crew all returned Grey's toast. They sat at the huge mahogany table in the rear of the wheelhouse. Lochlann took a moment to survey the charts adorning the walls, hoping for the briefest moment that they might return with something to fill the obvious gap to the east
"I took the liberty of investigating the hull," the shimerall chirped in. Her voice had a strange metallic ring that gave the impression the creature was actually speaking from another room. "There's a bit of rust, a lot of barnacles and sabre eels nesting by the moon pool. They've taken up residence on the submersible's mooring lines. Wretched beasts,” she spat as she spoke.
“It wouldn't be so bad if you actually had any submersibles. I recommend strongly everyone stays well away from the moon dock. They have fine eyes and would most certainly strike anyone careless enough to wander in to their reach." The mermaid's report brought silence to the meeting.
Sabre Eels were prolific killers and would take anyone unfortunate enough to go overboard in seconds, not to mention anyone unlucky enough to wander too close to the moon pool. The ship's undersea dock was a pointless room now, the sub long gone to cover some debt.
"I can clean the barnacles and patch the rust," she went on, "but we'll need to shift those eels and I can't do that alone."
Lochlann looked round the table at his ragged crew. The bravado had gone from the peacocks. Despite Laila's lithe body, cruel scar and cutlass, she was no use in the water.
"Old Getty's got a clockwork sub, he denies it but I seen it once. I'll bring him some rum and a hand of cards, he'll give me a turn I'm sure. We'll clean them nasty snakes off the boat or I'll sink it. Either way better than sitting here." Albert, the old sea salt had spoken about the voyage with interest for pretty much the first time since he'd drunkenly hollered his loyalty back at the rostrum.
Lochlann was somewhat relieved having pretty much decided the old bluff was as useful as a net hull.
Departure was set for four days time on the twenty forth of Middle Springtide, Saviours Day which traditionally guaranteed all sailors safe passage. The meeting over, the small crew of the old steamer bid each other good night and made their way to their cabins. Only Albert lingered in the wheelhouse. He measured his bottle with calloused fingers, sighed disappointedly and drew a fresh bottle from the depths of his oilskins. He hard work to do tonight and thirsty work at that.
“Fives! Again?” Exclaimed Getty. “There's a devil in you Albert Grim. I swear to it.” The old man felt like a fool but he'd enjoyed the company. Without any reluctance he handed Albert an ornate pewter key. Their game over Albert thanked his host, packed away the cards and tidied up the last of his glass.
“You sink her... you bought her.” Getty shouted at the door after the departing sea dog.
“If I sink her. I'll have bought my ticket for the long journey old friend.” Albert replied closing the door with as much care as his drunken limbs would allow.
He walked from Getty's shack on the far edge of Havant's Western Beach. Stumbling over the shingle, crashing into the eroded groynes. He had counted them wrong three times now. Eventually during a moment of sobriety, brought on by a mouthful of cold salt air, he found the right one and then eventually the tiny bollard.
It was low tide and nearly dawn. His old, yet, sharp eyes could just make out the brass wheel just below the waterline. He stumbled over the mooring rope and fell head first into the bitter water. He emerged a moment later shivering but in hysterics.
“I do believe.” He said to no one “I may be drunk.” His brief swim had sobered him alarmingly and he managed to haul himself out of the water with ease. Albert Grim sat there for a moment on the cold stone groyne, tugged a brown bottle from somewhere in his oil skin and took a long swig.
It took him twenty minutes to drag the sub to the water line. Her ballast had been set to keep her under. Out of the gaze of thieving eyes or worse yet joyriders. He'd managed to winch the little iron sub just high enough to reach her valves. As carefully as he could, he reached out at arms length and tried to get purchase on her release cog. It took him a few goes but soon enough his hand found the stiff little tap and he twisted it with all his might.
The sea around the submarine wobbled like an underground spring and she bobbed to the surface like an apple. Albert untied her lines and climbed aboard. He somehow managed to keep his balance probably aided by, if anything, his drunken state. The Submersible was in a shameful state. She was the colour of the brown pebbles below her and beaten and warped in a dozen places. Albert wondered how the thing was able to float at all then paused to consider his old friend Getty and his rust barge. The council had condemned the thing every year for the last ten. Yet Old Getty had always ignored them and had continued to sail the derelict out into open waters twice a week.
“If you'll do for Old Getty.” Albert grim whispered to the little tub. “You'll do for me.” He patted the iron hatch as if he were petting a dog. The pewter key fit the lock on the subs hatch easily enough but it took him ten minutes to get the bloody thing to turn. Eventually though the lock clicked open and he released her hatch. Her name plate was barely visible but he traced with calloused hands what he could not read. Elizabeth Harvey, the name struck a chord with Albert Grim. So he thought to himself that's why you hide her! You named it after your lost love.
He just managed to squeeze his portly form through the tiny hatch and sealed himself in. He'd piloted a sub only once before and was no expert. The old girl groaned and creaked in a moody manner as he kicked her clockwork motor into gear. He kept her on the surface for the majority of the voyage into port. Anxious not to lose his way in the open water. Once he'd reached the port Albert adjusted her ballast valves and the little boat began to descend. She hissed and groaned like a steam fair wheel as the pressure shifted. Slowly the craft began to descend into the deep.
Jumpy already, his heart leapt when he heard the tap on her fore porthole. He relaxed a little at the sight of the shimerall who had evidently decided to join in the hunt. He watched in awe at the graceful way the creature glided through the water. By the time they reached the hull of The Western Dream Albert had come to terms with most of the controls. The Elizabeth Harvey had no torpedoes but she did boast a pretty decent harpoon. Abert fiddled a bit with it's corroded mechanism and discovered he could reload it from inside the vessel. He rummaged around the boat and discovered eight usable spears and a dozen others rusted and bent beyond repair. He also found a pocket watch, a horde of empty rum bottles and a diary. He thumbed the leather book for a moment then set it back where he had found it. No old friend, he thought, whatever pain you saved in these pages is not my right to know.
He had made good time and within half an hour he caught sight of his prey. Lord of the Deep, he thought, they're monsters. The first eel he saw, hung by its tail from a berthing hook in the moon pool. Two others lazily clung to the ships anchor line. The one by the moon pool was immense. A full forty feet from tail to terrifying maw. At its widest the beast was as deep as a rowing boat. The serpent's were attracted to light. Their source of amusement seemed to be the moon pool itself, from which there was a constant low illumination like a skylight at dusk.
“Damn the bloody sea, all we had to do was turn the bloody gas lamps off.” Albert cursed to himself. The shimerall tapped the porthole once more and motioned below. She would go no further. Albert nodded understanding her concern. He nudged a another lever and the ship began to creep forward.
The sub's engine seemed to dull a fraction. Silently Albert cursed Old Getty for its lack of maintenance. Just like Old Getty to lend him a sub with a half wound motor. He prayed the boat would make it back to shore if he survived the coming encounter.
Albert pulse began to quicken. It wouldn't be long before the sub's own spotlight became more appealing than the slight radiance of the moon pool. He had to get a good shot in before that happened or the Eels would begin to take too keen an interest in his boat. He'd loaded a harpoon and cranked the clockwork firing mechanism as much as he was able. Slowly he took aim. He knew he had to get a fair shot at the head of the beast. The short barbed spears would do little but anger the sea snakes if he hit them anywhere else. An angry sabre eel would be more than a match for the beaten Elizabeth Harvey.
Albert Grim fought the rum back and desperately tried to focus. For what seemed like forever he sighted his target. Sweating uncontrollably, unable to breath, suddenly he was more aware than he had ever been of his mortality. He flinched and fired his first shot.
KLANG! It had gone wide by yards and bounced loudly and harmlessly off the hull of his new home. Bugger! He thought. Fortunately if the lazy serpent had even registered the shot, it didn't react. Sweating now Albert Grim reloaded and rewound the gun. He compensated for the horrific inaccuracy of the weapon and fired again. His heart stopped the silence of the sea was the only thing he could hear as the missile raced toward its target.
A direct hit, he'd skewered the eel through the mouth. It writhed and spat, even from his position, some ten yards away, the old man could see the creatures horrible foot long fangs. The other two serpents and then a third that he hadn't noticed, struck with lightning speed, fuelled by the sweet scent of blood. Wounded and writhing in agony, the largest of the four was defenceless as its companions gorged upon its bloody flesh, tearing it to pieces with their vile teeth.
He fired twice more. Albert scored another two hits on the second largest of the beasts. They were torso shots but still mortal wounds to the lesser beast. The two smaller serpents evidently thought better of their plight. Before Albert could blink they had departed into the deep.
It was only then Albert realised how lucky he had been. The barbed spears he had thrown which such abandonment were tethered to his ship by steel wire cable. Had he struck his first quarry anywhere but the head. Albert would certainly have spent his last minutes fighting for air as the beast dragged him to the abyss.
He wondered for a second whether the sub would have enough power even to surface. Particularly now he was dragging nearly a hundred feet of sea serpents.
Fortunately she had and minutes later Albert Grim returned to daylight smiling, successful and frankly still drunk.
Sunday 29 March 2009
Ok here's Chapter Two
Chapter Two
There was already a crowd around the rostrum when Lochlann arrived. Without hesistation and with the calmest voice he could muster he stepped onto the natural pedestal and began his motion.
"I Lochlann West, am departing Havant for the Eastern Ocean. I am seeking crew for The Western Dream. She is surest boat on the western seaboard," Lochlann said. "You all know that's true."
The crowd had already begun to disperse immediately after Lochlann's first boast, but one greybeard continued to eye the young man who had just spoken.
"Four this year so far," Old Getty murmured to one of his fossilised cronies. "Madness is certainly in fashion this season."
There had already been three attempts to depart Havant by the time Lochlann took to the rostrum. The small crowd had thinned to hecklers, gossips and a handful of young peacocks all desperate for something to take the boredom out of the dreary early spring days.
"Insane! You're a mentalist Lochlann," Jasper retorted, drawing a few laughs from the assorted peacocks. "You couldn't sail that boat of yours through the school pond." yelled another. More retorts followed they were openly mocking him now but despite their rebuffs Lochlann suspected that they secretly all wanted him to try.
Kaleb had been gone a week and despite his renown as a sailor and the reputation of his fast schooner, his name was already in stencil on the side of the stone. Sarah Gray had gone the day before Yesterday. The sea had stayed serene and peaceful until the next morning when a legendary storm had sent half her sloop The Waymaker back in pieces. Her name was now complete and final, albeit below Kaleb's.
Kathy Dean was due to sail tomorrow, having spent a month readying her clockwork cog. She and her crew had cranked the motor to incredible lengths and the buoyant, fat little ship had won much approval amongst the islands inhabitants.
Lochlann's steamer, The Western Dream, was the unlikeliest of vessels to face the raging Eastern Ocean.
Lochlann had inherited the old girl from his uncle, whose love of adventure and lack of nerve had led him to a slow and bitter end at the bottom of a rum bottle.
Lochlann loved the ship almost as much as he had his uncle. She was a fine legacy but like the other steamers the isle still claimed. Her heydays were gone now. Costly on fuel and too slow to chase the valuble shoals that formed the majority of the island's economy the dwindling steamer's served mainly as restaurants, homes and even as the odd warehouse.
The Western Dream was among the largest on the island and, although his boast about her stability was justifiable, she drank almost as much as his uncle had and she moved more slowly than almost any other vessel on the rock. It seemed to Lochlann that only Old Getty's rust barge could claim to be less graceful in the water, and she at least had a purpose.
"Lad, I've no wish to see yer name on the lonely rock," Master Chambers said. "I know you've got a heart for the voyage but why not sail the old gal to Catsport in the west. She'll likely fetch a good price on the markets and you can begin your adventures there?" Chambers scratched his well shaven chin as he spoke but Lochlann refused to even acknowledge his question.
He had a point though. Lochlann knew his old steamer would be a highly fashionable commodity in the western imperial port. Where travellers from all over the Western continent fought to gain passage on all manner of ships, bustling round the kiosks and the steamer docks seeking escape to the west, the north and even to the sandy hills of Mshmeer and beyond. He could even carve himself a career as a captain.
But he had already dismissed the idea partially for the love of his uncle and the old mans dreams. But mostly because of his hatred for his father who had taken the easy route north and west with his sister ship and the families entire fortune. Truly though, Lochlann had decided on the journey East because he loathed Havant. He would happily sail to of the end of the world if he could escape it.
"You can have me rust run lad when I'm gone," Old Getty suggested. "Taking ma boat with me, you know. I'll no last forever." Lochlann doubted this. Old Getty had been old before he was born and he was sure the ancient sailor would linger longer than the island itself. It was a kind offer, and heartfelt. Lochlann sighed, he would rather join his uncle than take up the repetitive rust run towing out the old hulks to drown when they were no longer able to float unaided.
The trip to the Iron Isle where the old metal ships had all began and would eventually return was, Lochlann decided, possibly the the dullest voyage one was able to make on the Island. The thought of repeating the process day in and day out made him sicker than the thought of a month of highwater.
"I leave in a week," Lochlann declared. "I've space for crew. Divvies are all I can offer but the rewards are sure to be worth it." He straightened his back and tried to appear calm, although his heart was crumbling as the meagre crowd thinned even more.
He did have two others prepared to make the voyage with him: his oldest friend, Miranda a tall and fiery haired navigator with eyes as green as the sea itself. her natural beauty, so striking that lochlann found himself wondering if more than one of the assembled dandies may have been contemplating signing up just to be near her. Secretly he hoped not. Miranda and Lochlann's bond was so strong that she'd pretty much sail into hell with him. By her side as always was her brother Caspian.
Blind from birth Caspian, had grown up strong to hard labour and despite his affliction he was cheerful as always. He was a giant amongst the local population standing more towards seven feet than six. His wiry mop of auburn hair was dishevelled as usual but his sister had at least seen fit to keep it in the latest style. Between the three of them they could pretty much sail the ship, although they would have no time for rest and exhaustion would certainly take them before the first storm even set in.
"I'll sail with you, lad," Master Gray announced. He'd been studying the young sailor from the start and had moved to stand in front of the throng. "Your uncle was a friend a good one. With Sarah gone I've nought left here but sorrow." Master Grey was an imposing figure one of the most renowned sailors in the Isles. His beard was full but neat and he was dressed in the latest style of the gentry with a long woollen frock coat and cravatte. His hair was shorted than the Isles current style. Lochlann imagined his estranged father dressed in a similar fashion. He wondered if the two had ever sailed together, they were certainly of a similar age.
Master Grey was a fine catch for his crew. He crossed his fingers and held his breath while this news percolated through the suddenly noisy and slowly growing crowd. Gray's brave offer had put the others to shame.
In the end he had head nine, his original three, Master Grey, and five others. Two young peacocks, named Chance Illford and Stephens McKay, stocked full of bravado and a wish for glory. Albert Grim a rusty old sailor wired on rum and worm smoke. There was a feisty red haired girl with a cruel duelling scar and wicked curved cutlass. She addressed herself as Laila. She was a stranger from the west. She quite obviously had no love of the dreary island and no means to return. Finaly, a rare catch indeed, a shimerall. The amphibious creature resembled a young woman but with a greenish hue to her skin. A great dorsal fin began at her crown and ran to her buttocks. Her legs were long and also finned.
She seemed to appear from nowhere. Lochlann tried hard but failed to remember her in the crowd when he had made his declaration. Despite the rarity, Lochlann knew the shimerall took the least risk of them all in the voyage and would almost certainly survive whatever befell them.
The briefing would begin at dusk. Lochlann quickly and gratefully exchanged thanks and instructions with his newly assembled crew. Tradition dictated he relinquish his command should he accept a more experienced crew member into the fold. Master Grey was among the most experienced sailors in the entire community. As such Lochlann would now become the expedition's chairman.
The meeting began after sundown on the bridge of Lochlann's ship. Its great red hull was sparkling in the fading light as if she'd been launched the day before.
With little to do but worry and drink, his uncle had kept the steamer in impressive condition.
Lochlann had inherited the ship from his Uncle Samson. He remembered the day well, when he found out his uncles intent.
He had been just twelve years old when Samson had summoned him to the ship's state room. He'd been drunk as always. Lochlann could smell the stale scent of rum.
“This ship was given to me by my Mother.” Samson told his nephew. “I was so proud. I didn't care that it was smaller than Tony's boat, somehow she seemed nobler. I watched them build her too! I wasn't supposed to but I was young and you can't keep secrets this big on an island this small. When I was about your age they called me to the docks I had been loitering in the gardens by the church I seemed to recall. We were on some scheme of your father's. He was always a rogue that one. Anyway, they summoned me to the docks and I knew what it was for.”
Samson's eyes grew misty as he talked, it might have been the rum, his nephew considered. But as lochlann listened he could hear the joy in his uncles words.
The ship had been covered in bright yellow cloth like ribbons. She really looked something on that sunny day. Tony was with him. It wasn't often he'd freely choose to follow his wheezing little brother on any adventure but somehow he felt obliged. Today Samson was the leader of the escapade. He knew, as usual, it was jealousy that had prompted his big brother to tag along. He'd been too young to remember the launching of The Northern Star but there was no way Anthony could miss this.
Tony managed to stay in the back ground for once, as the speeches were made. He had even followed respectively behind his brother as the tours were conducted. This was Samson's day and not even Tony could ruin it.
It was early evening when the ceremonies finally concluded and Samson was ushered to the ships bow. He could feel the chill from the silver cup as the chalice was presented to him. He took it gracefully from his mother and bowed to the Monovernite Priest. He was terrified of spilling the wine as he inched his way to the edge of the deck. Too scared to hesistate, the young man litterally threw the goblet into the sea with neither grace nor style. His brother Anthony was actually the first to cheer.
“He never did much I asked but he couldn't miss the unveiling. He even tried to look happy for me for once but I could smell the envy, I always could. Even with the flagship of the fleet, faster bigger better he was still jealous of The Western Dream.” He looked back at Lochlann as he talked, pride evident in his eyes.
“Oh he made some quip about her colour and told me she'd been made cheap but I could tell he secretly he wanted her. I'm leaving her to you lad. You should have had The Northern Star truth be told but The Western Dream is a prouder ship. I'll be proud knowing whatever you do with her will be the right thing.” Before Lochlann could even respond Samson had fallen fast asleep, dreaming again of the day he'd hurled the silver cup.
Lochlann left him sleeping there pausing only for a second to touch the great silver wheel, imagining himself her captain. He stood there for a moment daydreaming about adventures on the high seas before heading off on his errands. No mention of their exchange was made afterwards but true to his word when Samson died a year later. He had left the boat to his nephew.
There was already a crowd around the rostrum when Lochlann arrived. Without hesistation and with the calmest voice he could muster he stepped onto the natural pedestal and began his motion.
"I Lochlann West, am departing Havant for the Eastern Ocean. I am seeking crew for The Western Dream. She is surest boat on the western seaboard," Lochlann said. "You all know that's true."
The crowd had already begun to disperse immediately after Lochlann's first boast, but one greybeard continued to eye the young man who had just spoken.
"Four this year so far," Old Getty murmured to one of his fossilised cronies. "Madness is certainly in fashion this season."
There had already been three attempts to depart Havant by the time Lochlann took to the rostrum. The small crowd had thinned to hecklers, gossips and a handful of young peacocks all desperate for something to take the boredom out of the dreary early spring days.
"Insane! You're a mentalist Lochlann," Jasper retorted, drawing a few laughs from the assorted peacocks. "You couldn't sail that boat of yours through the school pond." yelled another. More retorts followed they were openly mocking him now but despite their rebuffs Lochlann suspected that they secretly all wanted him to try.
Kaleb had been gone a week and despite his renown as a sailor and the reputation of his fast schooner, his name was already in stencil on the side of the stone. Sarah Gray had gone the day before Yesterday. The sea had stayed serene and peaceful until the next morning when a legendary storm had sent half her sloop The Waymaker back in pieces. Her name was now complete and final, albeit below Kaleb's.
Kathy Dean was due to sail tomorrow, having spent a month readying her clockwork cog. She and her crew had cranked the motor to incredible lengths and the buoyant, fat little ship had won much approval amongst the islands inhabitants.
Lochlann's steamer, The Western Dream, was the unlikeliest of vessels to face the raging Eastern Ocean.
Lochlann had inherited the old girl from his uncle, whose love of adventure and lack of nerve had led him to a slow and bitter end at the bottom of a rum bottle.
Lochlann loved the ship almost as much as he had his uncle. She was a fine legacy but like the other steamers the isle still claimed. Her heydays were gone now. Costly on fuel and too slow to chase the valuble shoals that formed the majority of the island's economy the dwindling steamer's served mainly as restaurants, homes and even as the odd warehouse.
The Western Dream was among the largest on the island and, although his boast about her stability was justifiable, she drank almost as much as his uncle had and she moved more slowly than almost any other vessel on the rock. It seemed to Lochlann that only Old Getty's rust barge could claim to be less graceful in the water, and she at least had a purpose.
"Lad, I've no wish to see yer name on the lonely rock," Master Chambers said. "I know you've got a heart for the voyage but why not sail the old gal to Catsport in the west. She'll likely fetch a good price on the markets and you can begin your adventures there?" Chambers scratched his well shaven chin as he spoke but Lochlann refused to even acknowledge his question.
He had a point though. Lochlann knew his old steamer would be a highly fashionable commodity in the western imperial port. Where travellers from all over the Western continent fought to gain passage on all manner of ships, bustling round the kiosks and the steamer docks seeking escape to the west, the north and even to the sandy hills of Mshmeer and beyond. He could even carve himself a career as a captain.
But he had already dismissed the idea partially for the love of his uncle and the old mans dreams. But mostly because of his hatred for his father who had taken the easy route north and west with his sister ship and the families entire fortune. Truly though, Lochlann had decided on the journey East because he loathed Havant. He would happily sail to of the end of the world if he could escape it.
"You can have me rust run lad when I'm gone," Old Getty suggested. "Taking ma boat with me, you know. I'll no last forever." Lochlann doubted this. Old Getty had been old before he was born and he was sure the ancient sailor would linger longer than the island itself. It was a kind offer, and heartfelt. Lochlann sighed, he would rather join his uncle than take up the repetitive rust run towing out the old hulks to drown when they were no longer able to float unaided.
The trip to the Iron Isle where the old metal ships had all began and would eventually return was, Lochlann decided, possibly the the dullest voyage one was able to make on the Island. The thought of repeating the process day in and day out made him sicker than the thought of a month of highwater.
"I leave in a week," Lochlann declared. "I've space for crew. Divvies are all I can offer but the rewards are sure to be worth it." He straightened his back and tried to appear calm, although his heart was crumbling as the meagre crowd thinned even more.
He did have two others prepared to make the voyage with him: his oldest friend, Miranda a tall and fiery haired navigator with eyes as green as the sea itself. her natural beauty, so striking that lochlann found himself wondering if more than one of the assembled dandies may have been contemplating signing up just to be near her. Secretly he hoped not. Miranda and Lochlann's bond was so strong that she'd pretty much sail into hell with him. By her side as always was her brother Caspian.
Blind from birth Caspian, had grown up strong to hard labour and despite his affliction he was cheerful as always. He was a giant amongst the local population standing more towards seven feet than six. His wiry mop of auburn hair was dishevelled as usual but his sister had at least seen fit to keep it in the latest style. Between the three of them they could pretty much sail the ship, although they would have no time for rest and exhaustion would certainly take them before the first storm even set in.
"I'll sail with you, lad," Master Gray announced. He'd been studying the young sailor from the start and had moved to stand in front of the throng. "Your uncle was a friend a good one. With Sarah gone I've nought left here but sorrow." Master Grey was an imposing figure one of the most renowned sailors in the Isles. His beard was full but neat and he was dressed in the latest style of the gentry with a long woollen frock coat and cravatte. His hair was shorted than the Isles current style. Lochlann imagined his estranged father dressed in a similar fashion. He wondered if the two had ever sailed together, they were certainly of a similar age.
Master Grey was a fine catch for his crew. He crossed his fingers and held his breath while this news percolated through the suddenly noisy and slowly growing crowd. Gray's brave offer had put the others to shame.
In the end he had head nine, his original three, Master Grey, and five others. Two young peacocks, named Chance Illford and Stephens McKay, stocked full of bravado and a wish for glory. Albert Grim a rusty old sailor wired on rum and worm smoke. There was a feisty red haired girl with a cruel duelling scar and wicked curved cutlass. She addressed herself as Laila. She was a stranger from the west. She quite obviously had no love of the dreary island and no means to return. Finaly, a rare catch indeed, a shimerall. The amphibious creature resembled a young woman but with a greenish hue to her skin. A great dorsal fin began at her crown and ran to her buttocks. Her legs were long and also finned.
She seemed to appear from nowhere. Lochlann tried hard but failed to remember her in the crowd when he had made his declaration. Despite the rarity, Lochlann knew the shimerall took the least risk of them all in the voyage and would almost certainly survive whatever befell them.
The briefing would begin at dusk. Lochlann quickly and gratefully exchanged thanks and instructions with his newly assembled crew. Tradition dictated he relinquish his command should he accept a more experienced crew member into the fold. Master Grey was among the most experienced sailors in the entire community. As such Lochlann would now become the expedition's chairman.
The meeting began after sundown on the bridge of Lochlann's ship. Its great red hull was sparkling in the fading light as if she'd been launched the day before.
With little to do but worry and drink, his uncle had kept the steamer in impressive condition.
Lochlann had inherited the ship from his Uncle Samson. He remembered the day well, when he found out his uncles intent.
He had been just twelve years old when Samson had summoned him to the ship's state room. He'd been drunk as always. Lochlann could smell the stale scent of rum.
“This ship was given to me by my Mother.” Samson told his nephew. “I was so proud. I didn't care that it was smaller than Tony's boat, somehow she seemed nobler. I watched them build her too! I wasn't supposed to but I was young and you can't keep secrets this big on an island this small. When I was about your age they called me to the docks I had been loitering in the gardens by the church I seemed to recall. We were on some scheme of your father's. He was always a rogue that one. Anyway, they summoned me to the docks and I knew what it was for.”
Samson's eyes grew misty as he talked, it might have been the rum, his nephew considered. But as lochlann listened he could hear the joy in his uncles words.
The ship had been covered in bright yellow cloth like ribbons. She really looked something on that sunny day. Tony was with him. It wasn't often he'd freely choose to follow his wheezing little brother on any adventure but somehow he felt obliged. Today Samson was the leader of the escapade. He knew, as usual, it was jealousy that had prompted his big brother to tag along. He'd been too young to remember the launching of The Northern Star but there was no way Anthony could miss this.
Tony managed to stay in the back ground for once, as the speeches were made. He had even followed respectively behind his brother as the tours were conducted. This was Samson's day and not even Tony could ruin it.
It was early evening when the ceremonies finally concluded and Samson was ushered to the ships bow. He could feel the chill from the silver cup as the chalice was presented to him. He took it gracefully from his mother and bowed to the Monovernite Priest. He was terrified of spilling the wine as he inched his way to the edge of the deck. Too scared to hesistate, the young man litterally threw the goblet into the sea with neither grace nor style. His brother Anthony was actually the first to cheer.
“He never did much I asked but he couldn't miss the unveiling. He even tried to look happy for me for once but I could smell the envy, I always could. Even with the flagship of the fleet, faster bigger better he was still jealous of The Western Dream.” He looked back at Lochlann as he talked, pride evident in his eyes.
“Oh he made some quip about her colour and told me she'd been made cheap but I could tell he secretly he wanted her. I'm leaving her to you lad. You should have had The Northern Star truth be told but The Western Dream is a prouder ship. I'll be proud knowing whatever you do with her will be the right thing.” Before Lochlann could even respond Samson had fallen fast asleep, dreaming again of the day he'd hurled the silver cup.
Lochlann left him sleeping there pausing only for a second to touch the great silver wheel, imagining himself her captain. He stood there for a moment daydreaming about adventures on the high seas before heading off on his errands. No mention of their exchange was made afterwards but true to his word when Samson died a year later. He had left the boat to his nephew.
Monday 23 March 2009
Another extract from The Tramp Steamer
CHAPTER 1
Twenty Years later
Lochlann West hadn't been this near his grandmother's house for years. It had taken him most of the day to lazily meander up the hill from the western marina. As he neared the summit of the High Hill he paused. The wind had been playing havoc with his shoulder length throughout the climb. Finally here in the shelter of the Lost Rock he found some respite. He spat out the remaining mouthfuls of hair and surveyed his surroundings.
It seemed to Lochlann, even from this distance, that his ancestral home was even more imposing than the town's old cathedral. He laughed to himself, only here in this backwater city could the large iron church have been described as a cathedral.
He remembered the stories his late uncle Samson had told him of the great temples of Mshmeer and the foreboding monastries of The Monorvern Order. He tried to picture the great gothic structures perched high on the cliffs of the Monorvern Mountains but he could not. He had never left the Island but then neither had his uncle Samson.
Lochann was forced to follow the exterior walls of his estranged grandmother's manor. He stooped low on the gravel road and took his time choosing a particular rock from the hundreds that littered the verge. His rock was heavy and fit his palm well. Idly he tossed it end over end as if he were trying make it gain momentum.
Minutes after he'd begun circumventing the great house he reached the main gates. It was here that the mansion seemed most impressive. The gates symetrical and ornate were decorated like the cover of one of the Monovern texts he'd seen so often in the cathedral. The house was closer here too. Barely fifty feet from the rusting portal. He stared at it for as long as he could stomach.
The dark iron walls looked even uglier than the gargoyles which adorned them. The copper roof had leaked a tainted green residue all over the manors facade. He threw his rock waiting only long enough to hear the satisfying crack from what he hoped was an irreplacable stained glass window.
He pulled a antique pewter flask from a pocket of his frock coat and carefully took a swig. He coughed and wrecthed and spat the amber fluid out onto the wet grass. He was utterly unable to understand how his uncle had been able to drink the horible spirit let alone allow it to consume his life. Lochlann had spent most of the day ascending the High Hill and from here he turned and looked down at his home.
The long isle of Havant sat in the sea like some misplaced piece from a great jigsaw puzzle, a piece of emerald forest admist a scene of azure skies. White sand covered the western shore like a petticoat, and lush ever-green forest rose gently from the waterline to cling precariously to the island's hily interior. The island's capital, also known as Havant, boasted ports on both sides of the island. From here Lochlan could see the eastern and western shore. Havant's first city sat as if it were riding a huge wave perched on the Islands thinnest point.
The island was the only true haven between the riptides and whirlpools of the western seaboard and the foul and seemingly endless storms and tempest of the raging east ocean. Visitors to the rugged isle were few although not unheard of.
In the distance to the west he could make out the Iron Isle. As always it was shrouded in flocks of seabirds. Nothing but the puffins and gulls lived on the dead mountain of blood red rock. Lochlann even thought he could even make out the rusty waters that perpetually leaked from its ore rich shore. He was still amazed by the size of it. Every boat that had ever sailed from the fair Isle and most of the houses had begun their life here, yet the island was as vast as it had always been. Far to the northwest he could almost see the makings of the wash.
Traversing the Northern Wash, the dull never-ending placid canal that circled the turmoil of the Western Ocean, was time consuming and tedious, and few beyond the western seaboard thought Havant worth the effort. Adventurers and brigands occasionally did descend upon the sheltered little land looking for glory or refuge but rarely did they find either.
The people of Havant were a robust lot, used to the harsh life of their enviroment. They had little use for braggers or hoodlums. All but the sturdiest and maddest of adventurers had fled back the way they had come, and almost all of the privateers had been harried back out to sea. No one had ever come from the East. The few who did take sail into the maelstrom never returned.
The few maps of the East that did exist had likely been drawn from nothing but eyesight and the cartographer's own imagination.
Once a year or so, some wander-lustful youth would announce their attempt to paint new ink into blank map parchment. Despite warnings, scorn and the odd arrest, these brave idiots would plough their modified steamers, schooners and cogs into that furious blue expanse.
Weeks later their name's would appear on the Lost Rock on the High Hill. A great stone tablet that stood between the fort and the church. The great grey monolith was both a monument to the brave dead and a warning to the adventurous living. It was nearly two thirds complete with carefully carved obituries but it never stopped others from trying.
Twenty Years later
Lochlann West hadn't been this near his grandmother's house for years. It had taken him most of the day to lazily meander up the hill from the western marina. As he neared the summit of the High Hill he paused. The wind had been playing havoc with his shoulder length throughout the climb. Finally here in the shelter of the Lost Rock he found some respite. He spat out the remaining mouthfuls of hair and surveyed his surroundings.
It seemed to Lochlann, even from this distance, that his ancestral home was even more imposing than the town's old cathedral. He laughed to himself, only here in this backwater city could the large iron church have been described as a cathedral.
He remembered the stories his late uncle Samson had told him of the great temples of Mshmeer and the foreboding monastries of The Monorvern Order. He tried to picture the great gothic structures perched high on the cliffs of the Monorvern Mountains but he could not. He had never left the Island but then neither had his uncle Samson.
Lochann was forced to follow the exterior walls of his estranged grandmother's manor. He stooped low on the gravel road and took his time choosing a particular rock from the hundreds that littered the verge. His rock was heavy and fit his palm well. Idly he tossed it end over end as if he were trying make it gain momentum.
Minutes after he'd begun circumventing the great house he reached the main gates. It was here that the mansion seemed most impressive. The gates symetrical and ornate were decorated like the cover of one of the Monovern texts he'd seen so often in the cathedral. The house was closer here too. Barely fifty feet from the rusting portal. He stared at it for as long as he could stomach.
The dark iron walls looked even uglier than the gargoyles which adorned them. The copper roof had leaked a tainted green residue all over the manors facade. He threw his rock waiting only long enough to hear the satisfying crack from what he hoped was an irreplacable stained glass window.
He pulled a antique pewter flask from a pocket of his frock coat and carefully took a swig. He coughed and wrecthed and spat the amber fluid out onto the wet grass. He was utterly unable to understand how his uncle had been able to drink the horible spirit let alone allow it to consume his life. Lochlann had spent most of the day ascending the High Hill and from here he turned and looked down at his home.
The long isle of Havant sat in the sea like some misplaced piece from a great jigsaw puzzle, a piece of emerald forest admist a scene of azure skies. White sand covered the western shore like a petticoat, and lush ever-green forest rose gently from the waterline to cling precariously to the island's hily interior. The island's capital, also known as Havant, boasted ports on both sides of the island. From here Lochlan could see the eastern and western shore. Havant's first city sat as if it were riding a huge wave perched on the Islands thinnest point.
The island was the only true haven between the riptides and whirlpools of the western seaboard and the foul and seemingly endless storms and tempest of the raging east ocean. Visitors to the rugged isle were few although not unheard of.
In the distance to the west he could make out the Iron Isle. As always it was shrouded in flocks of seabirds. Nothing but the puffins and gulls lived on the dead mountain of blood red rock. Lochlann even thought he could even make out the rusty waters that perpetually leaked from its ore rich shore. He was still amazed by the size of it. Every boat that had ever sailed from the fair Isle and most of the houses had begun their life here, yet the island was as vast as it had always been. Far to the northwest he could almost see the makings of the wash.
Traversing the Northern Wash, the dull never-ending placid canal that circled the turmoil of the Western Ocean, was time consuming and tedious, and few beyond the western seaboard thought Havant worth the effort. Adventurers and brigands occasionally did descend upon the sheltered little land looking for glory or refuge but rarely did they find either.
The people of Havant were a robust lot, used to the harsh life of their enviroment. They had little use for braggers or hoodlums. All but the sturdiest and maddest of adventurers had fled back the way they had come, and almost all of the privateers had been harried back out to sea. No one had ever come from the East. The few who did take sail into the maelstrom never returned.
The few maps of the East that did exist had likely been drawn from nothing but eyesight and the cartographer's own imagination.
Once a year or so, some wander-lustful youth would announce their attempt to paint new ink into blank map parchment. Despite warnings, scorn and the odd arrest, these brave idiots would plough their modified steamers, schooners and cogs into that furious blue expanse.
Weeks later their name's would appear on the Lost Rock on the High Hill. A great stone tablet that stood between the fort and the church. The great grey monolith was both a monument to the brave dead and a warning to the adventurous living. It was nearly two thirds complete with carefully carved obituries but it never stopped others from trying.
Sunday 1 March 2009
Climbing Mountains
Ok I was asked to write this piece for the New Woody Allen film's PR campaign. It was too long for them so... I'm sticking up here rather than let it sit idly in my C Drive...
Enjoy or endure...
Climbing Mountains By Neil D Campbell
This tale begins the same way all great love stories do, in bed. It was 05:00, Thursday morning, a mere two weeks after the departure of my first true love. Her agoraphobia, so prominent in our first few years, had subsided; I like to think I had some part in that. Years of treading the eggshells had brought us to the point where her self-esteem had finally caught up with the rest of the world. She was ready to face the universe and the only thing stopping her was me. All I had to do was let her go for while. All I had to do was let her explore the exciting, and mundane world of sex and love, and she would have come back. If I had, I would probably be a family man now and this story would have ended before it had begun.
Needless to say I did not. My new love would cause me no such pain, and, I knew this after just three glorious days, and three sweat-filled nights. I had a plan. I collected the words in my mouth, braced myself, and with absolute confidence, I spoke. Leaning on the pillow, our eyes just close enough to focus, I told her my tale and finished with my sincere statement.
“If there is anything I cannot give you, anything you feel you need that I cannot offer, or anything that might later break us up later, tell me now and we can work it out.”
I spoke with absolute honesty, and to this day I believe that honesty is the only thing which makes any relationship work.
I had met Tanith on a night out. I had been dressed in my typical grungy attire; in comparison she looked resplendent in a shiny dress and knee length high-heeled boots. We exchanged numbers and I made a graceful exit, not ever planning to call her.
When we met for our first date we switched roles and I joked that we had come as each other. I had made the effort and gone all out. In my eyes I looked like Jim Morrison, although bohemian would probably have made for a more accurate descriptive. She, by contrast, had chucked on the clothes straight from her bedroom floor. Yet, despite this, she still looked amazing.
Tanith looked nervously at me for a while, and then she replied. “I like girls too.” she said.
My brain swung into gear and my heart lurched a little, but whilst I was trying to work out whether I could genuinely cope with the idea she added, “But I don't mind if you're involved.”
I tried to remain cool but the idea was dashing around my head. I have always maintained an open mind and frankly I liked this idea. Two years, and a number of successful dinners for three later we met our first girlfriend. To stop things getting out of hand we had invented a self-imposed code of conduct. We would only ever do it together and we would only ever do it once with each girl. Our conquests ranged from the plain, to the genuinely stunning, and our code held true throughout. That was the case, up until we met Jennifer.
Jennifer was a true beauty, auburn hair, delicate pale skin, freckles and deep green eyes. The only person who could, and did doubt her beauty, was Jennifer herself. We'd picked her up via a friend of a friend. Our exploits at this stage were no secret, and Jennifer knew exactly what to expect when we invited her home one cold, October night. We explained our rules and opened a cheap bottle of white wine. My girlfriend had a penchant for glamour; she loved to dress and fuss over our guests and so she took the shy, redhead into the bathroom. After bouts of giggling, and what seemed like an eternity, they returned. The girl that had left the room was gone forever, and in her place now stood a femme fatale, straight from the rushes of a Russ Meyer flick. She seemed taller and somehow stronger. As morning dawned Jennifer did not seem to want to go. She asked about the rules, and wondered if we minded her just tagging along. She enjoyed our company and had nowhere better to be. I spoke to my partner in private and she liked the idea.
We kept it simple, when she was free, Jennifer would come and spend the odd weekend; from time to time we'd go out as a triple. Going out like that felt really weird and the looks from stranger just added to the twilight zone experience. Jennifer, was of course, free to see whoever she saw fit, and slowly but surely, she began to come home with us less. As her confidence increased, so did her popularity. Eventually she stopped coming back altogether, and three months from our first night together, we parted ways with our first girlfriend but we remained friends.
My relationship with Tanith is stronger than ever and seemed to not be bound by any limits. I feel it’s important to note at this point it never felt like a three-way relationship, nor did it seem
like I had two girlfriends, it was more like Tanith and I had a girlfriend.
I met Australian Sarah at a nightclub. As we chatted it dawned on me, she really was quite stunning and had a charming way. Tanith was at work at the time and I was to meet her later. I took the liberty of inviting Sarah along. I explained a little about our relationship and she seemed intrigued. I told her that quite obviously, I was inviting her along for a late night drink, and that I was assuming nothing more from the encounter. Secretly, I hoped the two would get along; I was becoming more attracted to this feisty girl. My luck was in! The two girls hit it off straight away, and within minutes of returning home, the three of us were in bed. By the morning none of us wanted her to leave.
We spent the next year together. Sarah moved into the flat with Tanith and I. We were inseparable and, at first, the relationship was perfect. Nobody was ever lonely. We slept together in all possible combinations, and we'd go out as a triple, or as any one of three couples We even went on holiday together. I booked us a week on the Greek Island, Santorini; we relaxed and argued like all young triples abroad. Strangely, though, throughout the course of the affair, I was always quite reluctant to mention our status to strangers. Men generally tended to react with envy, or more often, utter disbelief, though I did find women generally more understanding. After a few months, the honeymoon season switched into nuclear winter and the cracks in the relationship became vast chasms. All relationships have their good days and their bad days; quite simply when it was good it was great but when it was bad, it was pure horror.
I remember the day vividly when I realised I had two girlfriends. It certainly was not in the throes of early passion, when the three of us were joined on some equal level. Back then it would be more apt to say I was in a relationship with two girls. But slowly and certainly, the balance shifted. The girls drifted apart and left me as some weird anchor. I felt more like the United Nations than a boyfriend. They would each make impossible demands and nearly every night one of us would end up sleeping on the couch. It gradually dawned on me that two girlfriends meant two rounds of PMT and two sets of neurosis. There was no help either! I can still remember trying to form the sentence. “My two girlfriends are not getting along, what should I do?” It looks as ludicrous now in type as it sounded back then.
There were other quite ridiculous problems too. I can barely write this without worrying I am going to sound like egomaniac, but there is no other way to put it. I was knackered. When they drifted from each other. Instead of one unit, we became two, they each had needs, and each demanded satisfaction. I know how it sounds, but believe me, I was exhausted. If Sarah wanted sex, then Tanith demanded it longer, and so on. I could not keep up in the end, it was insane!
Towards the end, the inevitable happened and jealously crept in. The jealously of others came first. The town peacocks would whisper, point or repeatedly try to intervene. It got to a point where if either one of the girls were sat on their own for thirty seconds or more, some young pretender would be at their side offering their undying love and offers of salvation. Tanith and I were immune to this behaviour by now, but Sarah was a long way from home, and in a relationship sense, the youngest of the three. In time, the stories and gossip got to her, and her own jealously crept in.
I have never considered myself to be a handsome man. I was born with a cleft palate and a hare lip and was tortuously bullied at school. But I have learned that for some reason girls find me attractive and sometimes that is enough. I wonder a lot whether the memory is worth it? Sometimes it is and sometimes it is not. Sarah proposed to me one night after the wild sex had subsided. She offered to take me to Australia and start a family, but only if I'd go alone with her.
Do I regret not going? Yes, sometimes. More importantly, I ask myself all the time, would I have been happier as the family man I mentioned previously? Yes, I am sure I would have been.
Sarah left us eventually and married soon after. I still think about her sometimes. The encounters still to come would drastically alter my opinions. The story does not end here, we met another girl, spent another year in chaos, but this time it would end spectacularly, five thousand miles away, with a documentary, a near death experience and even gangsters... but that's enough for now. I shall leave you, dear reader, with this thought: having two girlfriends is a lot like climbing a mountain. It is exciting and dangerous, hardly anyone has been there, and it's a challenge. However, when you get to the top it is absolutely freezing, incredibly high and the only way from there is down!
Enjoy or endure...
Climbing Mountains By Neil D Campbell
This tale begins the same way all great love stories do, in bed. It was 05:00, Thursday morning, a mere two weeks after the departure of my first true love. Her agoraphobia, so prominent in our first few years, had subsided; I like to think I had some part in that. Years of treading the eggshells had brought us to the point where her self-esteem had finally caught up with the rest of the world. She was ready to face the universe and the only thing stopping her was me. All I had to do was let her go for while. All I had to do was let her explore the exciting, and mundane world of sex and love, and she would have come back. If I had, I would probably be a family man now and this story would have ended before it had begun.
Needless to say I did not. My new love would cause me no such pain, and, I knew this after just three glorious days, and three sweat-filled nights. I had a plan. I collected the words in my mouth, braced myself, and with absolute confidence, I spoke. Leaning on the pillow, our eyes just close enough to focus, I told her my tale and finished with my sincere statement.
“If there is anything I cannot give you, anything you feel you need that I cannot offer, or anything that might later break us up later, tell me now and we can work it out.”
I spoke with absolute honesty, and to this day I believe that honesty is the only thing which makes any relationship work.
I had met Tanith on a night out. I had been dressed in my typical grungy attire; in comparison she looked resplendent in a shiny dress and knee length high-heeled boots. We exchanged numbers and I made a graceful exit, not ever planning to call her.
When we met for our first date we switched roles and I joked that we had come as each other. I had made the effort and gone all out. In my eyes I looked like Jim Morrison, although bohemian would probably have made for a more accurate descriptive. She, by contrast, had chucked on the clothes straight from her bedroom floor. Yet, despite this, she still looked amazing.
Tanith looked nervously at me for a while, and then she replied. “I like girls too.” she said.
My brain swung into gear and my heart lurched a little, but whilst I was trying to work out whether I could genuinely cope with the idea she added, “But I don't mind if you're involved.”
I tried to remain cool but the idea was dashing around my head. I have always maintained an open mind and frankly I liked this idea. Two years, and a number of successful dinners for three later we met our first girlfriend. To stop things getting out of hand we had invented a self-imposed code of conduct. We would only ever do it together and we would only ever do it once with each girl. Our conquests ranged from the plain, to the genuinely stunning, and our code held true throughout. That was the case, up until we met Jennifer.
Jennifer was a true beauty, auburn hair, delicate pale skin, freckles and deep green eyes. The only person who could, and did doubt her beauty, was Jennifer herself. We'd picked her up via a friend of a friend. Our exploits at this stage were no secret, and Jennifer knew exactly what to expect when we invited her home one cold, October night. We explained our rules and opened a cheap bottle of white wine. My girlfriend had a penchant for glamour; she loved to dress and fuss over our guests and so she took the shy, redhead into the bathroom. After bouts of giggling, and what seemed like an eternity, they returned. The girl that had left the room was gone forever, and in her place now stood a femme fatale, straight from the rushes of a Russ Meyer flick. She seemed taller and somehow stronger. As morning dawned Jennifer did not seem to want to go. She asked about the rules, and wondered if we minded her just tagging along. She enjoyed our company and had nowhere better to be. I spoke to my partner in private and she liked the idea.
We kept it simple, when she was free, Jennifer would come and spend the odd weekend; from time to time we'd go out as a triple. Going out like that felt really weird and the looks from stranger just added to the twilight zone experience. Jennifer, was of course, free to see whoever she saw fit, and slowly but surely, she began to come home with us less. As her confidence increased, so did her popularity. Eventually she stopped coming back altogether, and three months from our first night together, we parted ways with our first girlfriend but we remained friends.
My relationship with Tanith is stronger than ever and seemed to not be bound by any limits. I feel it’s important to note at this point it never felt like a three-way relationship, nor did it seem
like I had two girlfriends, it was more like Tanith and I had a girlfriend.
I met Australian Sarah at a nightclub. As we chatted it dawned on me, she really was quite stunning and had a charming way. Tanith was at work at the time and I was to meet her later. I took the liberty of inviting Sarah along. I explained a little about our relationship and she seemed intrigued. I told her that quite obviously, I was inviting her along for a late night drink, and that I was assuming nothing more from the encounter. Secretly, I hoped the two would get along; I was becoming more attracted to this feisty girl. My luck was in! The two girls hit it off straight away, and within minutes of returning home, the three of us were in bed. By the morning none of us wanted her to leave.
We spent the next year together. Sarah moved into the flat with Tanith and I. We were inseparable and, at first, the relationship was perfect. Nobody was ever lonely. We slept together in all possible combinations, and we'd go out as a triple, or as any one of three couples We even went on holiday together. I booked us a week on the Greek Island, Santorini; we relaxed and argued like all young triples abroad. Strangely, though, throughout the course of the affair, I was always quite reluctant to mention our status to strangers. Men generally tended to react with envy, or more often, utter disbelief, though I did find women generally more understanding. After a few months, the honeymoon season switched into nuclear winter and the cracks in the relationship became vast chasms. All relationships have their good days and their bad days; quite simply when it was good it was great but when it was bad, it was pure horror.
I remember the day vividly when I realised I had two girlfriends. It certainly was not in the throes of early passion, when the three of us were joined on some equal level. Back then it would be more apt to say I was in a relationship with two girls. But slowly and certainly, the balance shifted. The girls drifted apart and left me as some weird anchor. I felt more like the United Nations than a boyfriend. They would each make impossible demands and nearly every night one of us would end up sleeping on the couch. It gradually dawned on me that two girlfriends meant two rounds of PMT and two sets of neurosis. There was no help either! I can still remember trying to form the sentence. “My two girlfriends are not getting along, what should I do?” It looks as ludicrous now in type as it sounded back then.
There were other quite ridiculous problems too. I can barely write this without worrying I am going to sound like egomaniac, but there is no other way to put it. I was knackered. When they drifted from each other. Instead of one unit, we became two, they each had needs, and each demanded satisfaction. I know how it sounds, but believe me, I was exhausted. If Sarah wanted sex, then Tanith demanded it longer, and so on. I could not keep up in the end, it was insane!
Towards the end, the inevitable happened and jealously crept in. The jealously of others came first. The town peacocks would whisper, point or repeatedly try to intervene. It got to a point where if either one of the girls were sat on their own for thirty seconds or more, some young pretender would be at their side offering their undying love and offers of salvation. Tanith and I were immune to this behaviour by now, but Sarah was a long way from home, and in a relationship sense, the youngest of the three. In time, the stories and gossip got to her, and her own jealously crept in.
I have never considered myself to be a handsome man. I was born with a cleft palate and a hare lip and was tortuously bullied at school. But I have learned that for some reason girls find me attractive and sometimes that is enough. I wonder a lot whether the memory is worth it? Sometimes it is and sometimes it is not. Sarah proposed to me one night after the wild sex had subsided. She offered to take me to Australia and start a family, but only if I'd go alone with her.
Do I regret not going? Yes, sometimes. More importantly, I ask myself all the time, would I have been happier as the family man I mentioned previously? Yes, I am sure I would have been.
Sarah left us eventually and married soon after. I still think about her sometimes. The encounters still to come would drastically alter my opinions. The story does not end here, we met another girl, spent another year in chaos, but this time it would end spectacularly, five thousand miles away, with a documentary, a near death experience and even gangsters... but that's enough for now. I shall leave you, dear reader, with this thought: having two girlfriends is a lot like climbing a mountain. It is exciting and dangerous, hardly anyone has been there, and it's a challenge. However, when you get to the top it is absolutely freezing, incredibly high and the only way from there is down!
Friday 27 February 2009
Big Bruv's Blog...
www.anurbanfantasy.blogspot.com
I can't find the blogspot manual! How does one add links? Pick up groupies? Save the world?
Answers on a postcard please..,
www.anurbanfantasy.blogspot.com
I can't find the blogspot manual! How does one add links? Pick up groupies? Save the world?
Answers on a postcard please..,
Thursday 26 February 2009
The Tramp Steamer
Ok so I'm finally on my first draft... I thought I might try this blogging malarkey so here goes...
This is the prologue to my first novel...
THE TRAMP STEAMER
By Neil Campbell
Prologue
“Hurry man!” Anthony West's voice had a practised impatience the man he addressed was not about to question.
Two more figures emerged behind them from the dense fog straining to pull a cart better designed for oxen.
Ahead of the group the silhouette of a ship conjured itself out of the mist.
A silver flare lit the sky above the port like a comet, and for the briefest second The Northern Star shone like her celestial sister: Her hull, bluer than a late night summer sky, her main deck virginal white. She lay a full four hundred feet from bow to stern and her twin,signal red funnels graced her like cherries on a fine cake.
Anthony West stood on the dock, gazing up at the proud ship until the flare fizzled out and sudden darkness enveloped her once more. A short blast from her steam whistle signalled her readiness to depart. He had maintained a skeleton crew onboard in order to make their final preparations without drawing too much attention from the Port Authorities, and only a few meagre oil lamps burned within her port-holes and under the eaves of the hurricane deck. It seemed to him, and perhaps to the other men gathered on the dock, that the ship was brooding. It was after two in the morning when the four spectres appeared in the mist on the periphery of the dirty port.
The tallest shadow walked with ease and dignity, but his fellow shades struggled behind with their heavy burden. West's men had returned. Their captain winced with every rusty squeak, creak and groan.
The rest of his crew stood on the wharf behind him, wrapped in shadows like fugitives. A few men were casting uneasy glances back at the town, and West followed their gazes to see three silhouettes were appearing out of the mist at the landward end of the dock. The tallest shadow strode with a dignified gate, while his two fellows struggled behind, dragging a hand cart between them.
"They made it," said one of the crew.
"I told you I was lucky," West murmured.
The old cart moaned loudly as the trio hurried it along. West frowned. Hadn't the fools heard of stealth? He could hear their footsteps from here. They were nearly at the steamer's berth when the first bells sounded.
West cursed. “Get this on board and get the steam up," he snapped. "We're leaving immediately. I'll deal with the Port Authorities.” He drew twin etched silver pistols from his long leather coat, then paused long enough to light a wet amber cigarette with a broken match. All the better to let his foes see him. The orange light settled over his greying goatee beard, and the smoke from the match brought water to his cold grey eyes.
As he suspected, the solitary warning chime became a chorus. Deeper bells were booming now and others had taken up their song. A siren wailed over it all. West managed a wicked grin over his weather-etched face. He was handsome still and aging well. He stroked his strong chin with one calloused hand and made a mental log that he would have to shave again soon. The huff from the steamer's funnels began to deepen and quicken, as amber smoke clouds billowed into the darkness. He was so, so very close.
High on the city hill the assembly had already begun. Hundreds had come to see what the fuss was about. Standing by the alarm bell or as near to standing as the old lady could muster was Margaret West. The bells pierced her ears but she was lost to their ring. The gathering crowd descended on the scene like carrion crows and they were all jostling to get a better view of the Islands self appointed matriarch. Mageret West stood by the alarm bell, her tiny figure frail in contrast to her fearsome reputation. Even those in the crowd who openly despised the woman were touched by her sudden and vicious fall from grace. Despite her grief and the look of desperation that had set itself so finally to her normally stoic face. She was as well dressed as always, wearing one of her many furs and a plain but striking gown.
“He's taken everything!” Margaret West sobbed. There were few in the community who had ever seen the formidable old lady flustered, but here in view of everyone she was distraught and openly weeping. The Militia needed no further instruction. They knew exactly to whom she was reffering. The town marshall had already warned her about the true nature of her little prince. He dismissed the thought of reminding her now, allowing her some dignity despite the rebuffs and even anger he'd received for his accusations. While others were still arriving to enjoy the spectacle the Militia were already racing down the High Hill to the docks where Captain West's sleek steamer, The Northern Star sat.
The men were hauling the heavy cart over a makeshift gangplank. Struggling, one of its porters tumbled and a wheel slid off the precarious ramp. The cart shifted uneasily and arm fulls of precious pewter and silver metal ware fell ungracefully to the sea. Anthony's reaction was swift and brutal. His bull whip lashed out an impossible distance and caught one of the two deck hands hard across his back. The vicious strike tore through his cotton shirt and opened an eight inch wound from shoulder to spine.
“The next thing that hits the sea will be your lifeless corpse!” Anthony promised, his words as bitter as his whips stroke. They had righted the cart and it was stable once more. The two men were struggling more now, due to the attack and the added physical stress, but they had also become a good deal more careful.
Captain West's attention returned to the commotion on the docks. He gauged the confusion. The bells could have meant anything, as well he knew. He was trying to estimate how long it would take the militia to link the bells to his villainy. He could already see signs of action from the lower terraces of the high hill,where the fat merchants and traders kept their pretty villas and their prettier wives. They were on to him.
He replaced his pistols. He had no hope of standing against the mob that would be racing to accost him. The cart was finally safely on board. Captain West followed it over the hastily erected gangway. He paused briefly to look down into the cold dark water. How much he had lost thanks to the fumbling deckhand would annoy him endlessly during the coming voyage. He made a mental note to make sure the offending lackey would starve over the coming weeks for his incompetence.
He didn't have to give the orders to release the lines he could tell as he jumped the last few feet to the deck that the ship was already free of its moorings. The sway of the sea was obvious to the seasoned sailor.
“Full steam ahead!” He shouted to the bridge and instantly he could hear the first thrusts of the great blue wheels. In seconds their spokes were a blur and white water churned below them like a spring stream. The ship surged out of the port. She raced into the cloudy night and made for the Western Ocean. There could only be one destination now and everyone aboard and those behind who would surely give chase knew it. The Northern Star was making steam for the Northern Wash, the only safe passage through the tempestuous Western Ocean to the great empire of Mshmere.
“Felicity, bring him home please.” Margaret West had regained a little of her normally impressive composure and was in conference with her two remaining children. Samson West, the second eldest, was short at five foot six and portly like a stout barrel. Margaret West regarded him with her usual contempt. Felicity, the youngest by almost ten years was the first to speak. She resembled her Mother, a fact she secretly hated and she winced every time it was pointed out to her. She too had the piercing blue eyes that were a West family trait. She was taller than Samson by an inch and many considered her beautiful. Her mothers jealousy had all but stripped her own belief in her obvious attractiveness. Years of put downs and jibes had stripped her of any confidence she may have once had. If she was pretty she could not see it.
“We'll catch him mother and we'll bring him back to you. There'll be some explanation for his madness I'm sure of it.” She laid a gentle hand upon her mothers shoulder and the old lady smiled briefly.
“Yes, I'm sure you're right there will be a reason for all this. Thank you Felicity I know you can reach him.” The gesture was kind but Margaret West was desperately trying to disguise her clear doubt in the pair of them. There was no way her plain daughter and her little rotund son could catch The Northern Star . They had their own ships of course, All the West's had it was a family tradition. But neither Felicity's pretty little pleasure cruiser nor Samson's sturdy Steamer had the speed or the grace to catch the legendary ship. She coughed and stood up straight. She had to believe there was a chance they could succeed. Her family name and fortune relied on them.
“I'll catch the bastard mother, you'll see.” Samson did his best to ignore the fact his mother hadn't even included him in her plea for assistance but he could not. She'd wounded him yet again. Samson's hatred for his braggart brother was open and well known. He'd waited for the perfect moment to deliver his pledge and noted with some glee the discomfort his particular turn of phrase caused his mother. The contempt was clear not only in his words but also in his tone. His mother Margaret could not even raise a smile for her second born and merely nodded slightly and then dismissed the pair of them to their preparations.
The Southern Swell was also docked in the tiny capital and most of Felicity's crew had joined the show by the lost rock. The more senior of them had taken their place by her side. Being the more experienced of the captains the crew of Samson's ship The Western Dream were already on board the vessel and making haste for her departure. Samson had long suspected his brother was planning some unthinkable act and had done his best to ensure what ever his intent his ship The Western Dream would be ready to respond. Samson had learned not to wait for his mothers approval which for him at least never seemed to come. He was more aware than most of his brothers drinking and gambling habits. He was the closest sibling to Anthony in age and mindset.. Though truly the only real emotion that bound the brothers was jealously. Samson's envy at the love his mother showered upon her little angelic boy and Tony's resentment over his younger brothers easy way with others. Where Anthony was cautiously respected, Samson was loved.
He raced back to his ship, rage overwhelming him as he ran. He tore down the cobbled road from the High Hill. As he passed the shacks and shanties that clung to the church wall he slowed to a wheezing trot. When he reached the town's gardens he was forced to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The sweet smell of lavender stung his lungs as he started off towards the docks again. He was nearly at the waters edge now. He could see his ship clearly now The Western Dream. She was slighter than her sister ship but she was still a formidable boat. She was a flurry of activity.
Samson eventually arrived at her berth breathless and beaten. It was all he could do to clamber aboard and collapse. His well trained crew needed no further instruction and as soon as his feet hit the deck she was under way. It took him a full five minutes before he stopped hyperventilating and the first officer gave him his report.
“As you instructed we have been primed for departure for the last fortnight. We are already full steam into the pursuit. She has two hours on us at best and we're approaching twenty knots” The first mate seemed pleased but Samson head instinctively fell to his hands. There was no way they would catch The Northern Star even at twenty knots and she had a two hour head start. The first officer continued his report ignoring his captain's concern. “The Southern Swell is approaching fast from the rear. She must be running in the red sir, she's definitely gaining on us.”
“Then we'll have to run the red ourselves. Its the only way we stand half a chance. Have the engineers by the boilers I want even blown rivet re-bolted and any gaps resealed. We'll catch the son of a bitch even if it means tearing ourselves apart” Samson's order was acknowledged and the bosun hollered flank speed into the com pipes. Satisfied Samson made his way to the bridge. He paused briefly to look out over the ships stern and caught sight of his sister's ship. He paused for a second considering her current course then dismissed his thoughts as poppycock, she couldn't be heading west? Every child on the Isles who had just learned to speak their own name knew also that to sail into the West was to sail into death itself. He continued to the Bridge but made a mental note to plot Felicity's heading just in case the crazy witch was contemplating such recklessness. As he arrived on the bridge he took his place at the head of the large oval mahogany table and addressed the senior crew.
“Any sign of her yet?” Samson didn't need an answer he had already known they had no chance of catching even a glimpse of the wayward ship, not yet at least. A room full of down turned faces were his only answer. Not one of his trusted crew had the courage to look him in the eye their shame only confirmed his suspicion.
“She's armed sir, We...” The helmsman looked at his cremates for support as he spoke. “Well, we just wondered if you knew? We haven't any guns as you know sir, just the mortars. If we catch her how will we take her?” The question was fair and in truth Samson hadn't even considered that there would be a fire fight. He had been so intent on the pursuit he hadn't even thought of what would happen if they succeeded.
“We'll have to board her. He's left more than half his crew on Havant. If we can reach her it'll be over swiftly.” In this Samson was correct. Anthony West paranoid and penniless had trusted only a handful of his shipmates with his recent plan. The others had been left behind. Their advance notes now empty promises as useless as the paper on which they'd been scribbled.
“Helmsman, can you plot the current heading of the Southern Swell? I have a feeling my sister maybe planning something rather dangerous.” The man nodded, took out a brass eyeglass and made his way to the port porthole. The task took him a minute or so but when he returned his report was flustered and stammered.
“She's heading West sir, into the breach. She's awash sir and taking on water.” with his words he brought utter silence to the room. Samson leapt into action.
“Stupid bitch! Where did she find that crew? Change course we'll have to stop her.” The helmsman nervously surveyed the bridge searching for someone else to bring reason to his captain. But Samson was well loved and the pilot knew there would be no objections to their planned suicide. Anxiously he swung the great silver wheel and the ship slowly began to veer to the left heading into hell after its sister.
The Southern Swell was in trouble already. All sailors knew about the Northern Wash. The placid canal that ran like a border for a thousand miles between the wild and unpredictable Western Ocean and the Ice flows of the North. It was the only safe passage to the empire from the little Island communities of the Fair Isles. In a bid to head off the faster vessel Felicity was attempting to traverse the Breach. The little ship was an ocean going vessel and could easily have managed the month long trip through the wash. But no ship had ever successfully crossed the breach. The little steamer had over taken The Western Dream and was now a hundred leagues ahead but she was struggling badly in the heavy seas. There was no boundary between the calm waters of the Wash and the white water of the breach just a steadily worsening sea.
Samson's ship had barely shifted course and already she was being forced to cope with twenty foot waves. By comparison however The Southern Swell was riding mountains. Samson stared hard into the night. Rain pelted his ship and visibility was terrible. For a second or two the little white ship would appear ahead cresting a great wave taller then the deck of his own ship and then she would be gone again.
“Sir! I respectfully request we change course we cannot survive these swells.” The helmsman was terrified, his voice barely a whimper. But Samson would not abandon his sister to the sea.
“How far off is she?” He asked.
“Too far sir, she's on her beam ends, see for yourself she's foundering sir. There's nothing can be done.” The helmsman handed Samson the brass eye glass and he looked out over the dark sea. The ship had keeled over and was sliding down a mountain of water on her side like a bucket on a gravel pile.
“How close can we get.” He asked gingerly but the heart was gone from his question. Samson held the telescope aloft again and saw his world end. She was gone.
“How many?” He asked with a voice he'd borrowed for a moment from someone stronger and braver.
“Full compliment sir. Fifty sir maybe more. I'm so sorry.” The Helmsman replied.
“Life rafts!” Samson nearly screamed. “I want every man aboard with a pair of eyes on the port side. Launch the flares dammit! We will not let them all die!” The Captain's orders began as an address to the room but within seconds he'd bellowed them into the compipes and the entire ship heard and obeyed his pleas. By the time he made the outer deck the flares were already reaching their apex. A hundred men clung to the port rail. Frantically scouring the nightmare sea for life.
The minutes that followed were cruelly slow. There was nothing out there in the black night but cold killing sea. The Western Dream rolled and lurched and clung to the surface as long as it was able but the choppy sea was taking its toll.
“We must turn back sir. We're taking on water. The bilge pumps are having no effect. Please sir think of the men.” The first mates voice was a roar yet only just audible over the howl of the gale. Samson could only nod and dismissed his crew mate with a wave.
The pilot swung the great wheel back to starboard and slowly The Western Dream returned to the wash. Samson looked out into the now placid dark water. The cloudy night made the sea the colour of midnight. He looked to the North and saw the Northern Star not his quarry but its bright namesake which even now shone like a beacon through the foggy sky. This would be as close as Samson would ever get to the Empire and the last night he would ever see his brother or sister.
Samson and his crew returned to Havant that night but the shame and grief would never leave them. As they inched their way back to the island, Samson discovered that half the able ships on Havant had joined the chase but one by one they too had abandoned the race. The Western Dream became the flagship of a failed fleet limping sadly back the way she had come with nearly fifty beaten cogs, sloops and clockwork launches crawling behind her each one with its colours flying at half mast.
This is the prologue to my first novel...
THE TRAMP STEAMER
By Neil Campbell
Prologue
“Hurry man!” Anthony West's voice had a practised impatience the man he addressed was not about to question.
Two more figures emerged behind them from the dense fog straining to pull a cart better designed for oxen.
Ahead of the group the silhouette of a ship conjured itself out of the mist.
A silver flare lit the sky above the port like a comet, and for the briefest second The Northern Star shone like her celestial sister: Her hull, bluer than a late night summer sky, her main deck virginal white. She lay a full four hundred feet from bow to stern and her twin,signal red funnels graced her like cherries on a fine cake.
Anthony West stood on the dock, gazing up at the proud ship until the flare fizzled out and sudden darkness enveloped her once more. A short blast from her steam whistle signalled her readiness to depart. He had maintained a skeleton crew onboard in order to make their final preparations without drawing too much attention from the Port Authorities, and only a few meagre oil lamps burned within her port-holes and under the eaves of the hurricane deck. It seemed to him, and perhaps to the other men gathered on the dock, that the ship was brooding. It was after two in the morning when the four spectres appeared in the mist on the periphery of the dirty port.
The tallest shadow walked with ease and dignity, but his fellow shades struggled behind with their heavy burden. West's men had returned. Their captain winced with every rusty squeak, creak and groan.
The rest of his crew stood on the wharf behind him, wrapped in shadows like fugitives. A few men were casting uneasy glances back at the town, and West followed their gazes to see three silhouettes were appearing out of the mist at the landward end of the dock. The tallest shadow strode with a dignified gate, while his two fellows struggled behind, dragging a hand cart between them.
"They made it," said one of the crew.
"I told you I was lucky," West murmured.
The old cart moaned loudly as the trio hurried it along. West frowned. Hadn't the fools heard of stealth? He could hear their footsteps from here. They were nearly at the steamer's berth when the first bells sounded.
West cursed. “Get this on board and get the steam up," he snapped. "We're leaving immediately. I'll deal with the Port Authorities.” He drew twin etched silver pistols from his long leather coat, then paused long enough to light a wet amber cigarette with a broken match. All the better to let his foes see him. The orange light settled over his greying goatee beard, and the smoke from the match brought water to his cold grey eyes.
As he suspected, the solitary warning chime became a chorus. Deeper bells were booming now and others had taken up their song. A siren wailed over it all. West managed a wicked grin over his weather-etched face. He was handsome still and aging well. He stroked his strong chin with one calloused hand and made a mental log that he would have to shave again soon. The huff from the steamer's funnels began to deepen and quicken, as amber smoke clouds billowed into the darkness. He was so, so very close.
High on the city hill the assembly had already begun. Hundreds had come to see what the fuss was about. Standing by the alarm bell or as near to standing as the old lady could muster was Margaret West. The bells pierced her ears but she was lost to their ring. The gathering crowd descended on the scene like carrion crows and they were all jostling to get a better view of the Islands self appointed matriarch. Mageret West stood by the alarm bell, her tiny figure frail in contrast to her fearsome reputation. Even those in the crowd who openly despised the woman were touched by her sudden and vicious fall from grace. Despite her grief and the look of desperation that had set itself so finally to her normally stoic face. She was as well dressed as always, wearing one of her many furs and a plain but striking gown.
“He's taken everything!” Margaret West sobbed. There were few in the community who had ever seen the formidable old lady flustered, but here in view of everyone she was distraught and openly weeping. The Militia needed no further instruction. They knew exactly to whom she was reffering. The town marshall had already warned her about the true nature of her little prince. He dismissed the thought of reminding her now, allowing her some dignity despite the rebuffs and even anger he'd received for his accusations. While others were still arriving to enjoy the spectacle the Militia were already racing down the High Hill to the docks where Captain West's sleek steamer, The Northern Star sat.
The men were hauling the heavy cart over a makeshift gangplank. Struggling, one of its porters tumbled and a wheel slid off the precarious ramp. The cart shifted uneasily and arm fulls of precious pewter and silver metal ware fell ungracefully to the sea. Anthony's reaction was swift and brutal. His bull whip lashed out an impossible distance and caught one of the two deck hands hard across his back. The vicious strike tore through his cotton shirt and opened an eight inch wound from shoulder to spine.
“The next thing that hits the sea will be your lifeless corpse!” Anthony promised, his words as bitter as his whips stroke. They had righted the cart and it was stable once more. The two men were struggling more now, due to the attack and the added physical stress, but they had also become a good deal more careful.
Captain West's attention returned to the commotion on the docks. He gauged the confusion. The bells could have meant anything, as well he knew. He was trying to estimate how long it would take the militia to link the bells to his villainy. He could already see signs of action from the lower terraces of the high hill,where the fat merchants and traders kept their pretty villas and their prettier wives. They were on to him.
He replaced his pistols. He had no hope of standing against the mob that would be racing to accost him. The cart was finally safely on board. Captain West followed it over the hastily erected gangway. He paused briefly to look down into the cold dark water. How much he had lost thanks to the fumbling deckhand would annoy him endlessly during the coming voyage. He made a mental note to make sure the offending lackey would starve over the coming weeks for his incompetence.
He didn't have to give the orders to release the lines he could tell as he jumped the last few feet to the deck that the ship was already free of its moorings. The sway of the sea was obvious to the seasoned sailor.
“Full steam ahead!” He shouted to the bridge and instantly he could hear the first thrusts of the great blue wheels. In seconds their spokes were a blur and white water churned below them like a spring stream. The ship surged out of the port. She raced into the cloudy night and made for the Western Ocean. There could only be one destination now and everyone aboard and those behind who would surely give chase knew it. The Northern Star was making steam for the Northern Wash, the only safe passage through the tempestuous Western Ocean to the great empire of Mshmere.
“Felicity, bring him home please.” Margaret West had regained a little of her normally impressive composure and was in conference with her two remaining children. Samson West, the second eldest, was short at five foot six and portly like a stout barrel. Margaret West regarded him with her usual contempt. Felicity, the youngest by almost ten years was the first to speak. She resembled her Mother, a fact she secretly hated and she winced every time it was pointed out to her. She too had the piercing blue eyes that were a West family trait. She was taller than Samson by an inch and many considered her beautiful. Her mothers jealousy had all but stripped her own belief in her obvious attractiveness. Years of put downs and jibes had stripped her of any confidence she may have once had. If she was pretty she could not see it.
“We'll catch him mother and we'll bring him back to you. There'll be some explanation for his madness I'm sure of it.” She laid a gentle hand upon her mothers shoulder and the old lady smiled briefly.
“Yes, I'm sure you're right there will be a reason for all this. Thank you Felicity I know you can reach him.” The gesture was kind but Margaret West was desperately trying to disguise her clear doubt in the pair of them. There was no way her plain daughter and her little rotund son could catch The Northern Star . They had their own ships of course, All the West's had it was a family tradition. But neither Felicity's pretty little pleasure cruiser nor Samson's sturdy Steamer had the speed or the grace to catch the legendary ship. She coughed and stood up straight. She had to believe there was a chance they could succeed. Her family name and fortune relied on them.
“I'll catch the bastard mother, you'll see.” Samson did his best to ignore the fact his mother hadn't even included him in her plea for assistance but he could not. She'd wounded him yet again. Samson's hatred for his braggart brother was open and well known. He'd waited for the perfect moment to deliver his pledge and noted with some glee the discomfort his particular turn of phrase caused his mother. The contempt was clear not only in his words but also in his tone. His mother Margaret could not even raise a smile for her second born and merely nodded slightly and then dismissed the pair of them to their preparations.
The Southern Swell was also docked in the tiny capital and most of Felicity's crew had joined the show by the lost rock. The more senior of them had taken their place by her side. Being the more experienced of the captains the crew of Samson's ship The Western Dream were already on board the vessel and making haste for her departure. Samson had long suspected his brother was planning some unthinkable act and had done his best to ensure what ever his intent his ship The Western Dream would be ready to respond. Samson had learned not to wait for his mothers approval which for him at least never seemed to come. He was more aware than most of his brothers drinking and gambling habits. He was the closest sibling to Anthony in age and mindset.. Though truly the only real emotion that bound the brothers was jealously. Samson's envy at the love his mother showered upon her little angelic boy and Tony's resentment over his younger brothers easy way with others. Where Anthony was cautiously respected, Samson was loved.
He raced back to his ship, rage overwhelming him as he ran. He tore down the cobbled road from the High Hill. As he passed the shacks and shanties that clung to the church wall he slowed to a wheezing trot. When he reached the town's gardens he was forced to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The sweet smell of lavender stung his lungs as he started off towards the docks again. He was nearly at the waters edge now. He could see his ship clearly now The Western Dream. She was slighter than her sister ship but she was still a formidable boat. She was a flurry of activity.
Samson eventually arrived at her berth breathless and beaten. It was all he could do to clamber aboard and collapse. His well trained crew needed no further instruction and as soon as his feet hit the deck she was under way. It took him a full five minutes before he stopped hyperventilating and the first officer gave him his report.
“As you instructed we have been primed for departure for the last fortnight. We are already full steam into the pursuit. She has two hours on us at best and we're approaching twenty knots” The first mate seemed pleased but Samson head instinctively fell to his hands. There was no way they would catch The Northern Star even at twenty knots and she had a two hour head start. The first officer continued his report ignoring his captain's concern. “The Southern Swell is approaching fast from the rear. She must be running in the red sir, she's definitely gaining on us.”
“Then we'll have to run the red ourselves. Its the only way we stand half a chance. Have the engineers by the boilers I want even blown rivet re-bolted and any gaps resealed. We'll catch the son of a bitch even if it means tearing ourselves apart” Samson's order was acknowledged and the bosun hollered flank speed into the com pipes. Satisfied Samson made his way to the bridge. He paused briefly to look out over the ships stern and caught sight of his sister's ship. He paused for a second considering her current course then dismissed his thoughts as poppycock, she couldn't be heading west? Every child on the Isles who had just learned to speak their own name knew also that to sail into the West was to sail into death itself. He continued to the Bridge but made a mental note to plot Felicity's heading just in case the crazy witch was contemplating such recklessness. As he arrived on the bridge he took his place at the head of the large oval mahogany table and addressed the senior crew.
“Any sign of her yet?” Samson didn't need an answer he had already known they had no chance of catching even a glimpse of the wayward ship, not yet at least. A room full of down turned faces were his only answer. Not one of his trusted crew had the courage to look him in the eye their shame only confirmed his suspicion.
“She's armed sir, We...” The helmsman looked at his cremates for support as he spoke. “Well, we just wondered if you knew? We haven't any guns as you know sir, just the mortars. If we catch her how will we take her?” The question was fair and in truth Samson hadn't even considered that there would be a fire fight. He had been so intent on the pursuit he hadn't even thought of what would happen if they succeeded.
“We'll have to board her. He's left more than half his crew on Havant. If we can reach her it'll be over swiftly.” In this Samson was correct. Anthony West paranoid and penniless had trusted only a handful of his shipmates with his recent plan. The others had been left behind. Their advance notes now empty promises as useless as the paper on which they'd been scribbled.
“Helmsman, can you plot the current heading of the Southern Swell? I have a feeling my sister maybe planning something rather dangerous.” The man nodded, took out a brass eyeglass and made his way to the port porthole. The task took him a minute or so but when he returned his report was flustered and stammered.
“She's heading West sir, into the breach. She's awash sir and taking on water.” with his words he brought utter silence to the room. Samson leapt into action.
“Stupid bitch! Where did she find that crew? Change course we'll have to stop her.” The helmsman nervously surveyed the bridge searching for someone else to bring reason to his captain. But Samson was well loved and the pilot knew there would be no objections to their planned suicide. Anxiously he swung the great silver wheel and the ship slowly began to veer to the left heading into hell after its sister.
The Southern Swell was in trouble already. All sailors knew about the Northern Wash. The placid canal that ran like a border for a thousand miles between the wild and unpredictable Western Ocean and the Ice flows of the North. It was the only safe passage to the empire from the little Island communities of the Fair Isles. In a bid to head off the faster vessel Felicity was attempting to traverse the Breach. The little ship was an ocean going vessel and could easily have managed the month long trip through the wash. But no ship had ever successfully crossed the breach. The little steamer had over taken The Western Dream and was now a hundred leagues ahead but she was struggling badly in the heavy seas. There was no boundary between the calm waters of the Wash and the white water of the breach just a steadily worsening sea.
Samson's ship had barely shifted course and already she was being forced to cope with twenty foot waves. By comparison however The Southern Swell was riding mountains. Samson stared hard into the night. Rain pelted his ship and visibility was terrible. For a second or two the little white ship would appear ahead cresting a great wave taller then the deck of his own ship and then she would be gone again.
“Sir! I respectfully request we change course we cannot survive these swells.” The helmsman was terrified, his voice barely a whimper. But Samson would not abandon his sister to the sea.
“How far off is she?” He asked.
“Too far sir, she's on her beam ends, see for yourself she's foundering sir. There's nothing can be done.” The helmsman handed Samson the brass eye glass and he looked out over the dark sea. The ship had keeled over and was sliding down a mountain of water on her side like a bucket on a gravel pile.
“How close can we get.” He asked gingerly but the heart was gone from his question. Samson held the telescope aloft again and saw his world end. She was gone.
“How many?” He asked with a voice he'd borrowed for a moment from someone stronger and braver.
“Full compliment sir. Fifty sir maybe more. I'm so sorry.” The Helmsman replied.
“Life rafts!” Samson nearly screamed. “I want every man aboard with a pair of eyes on the port side. Launch the flares dammit! We will not let them all die!” The Captain's orders began as an address to the room but within seconds he'd bellowed them into the compipes and the entire ship heard and obeyed his pleas. By the time he made the outer deck the flares were already reaching their apex. A hundred men clung to the port rail. Frantically scouring the nightmare sea for life.
The minutes that followed were cruelly slow. There was nothing out there in the black night but cold killing sea. The Western Dream rolled and lurched and clung to the surface as long as it was able but the choppy sea was taking its toll.
“We must turn back sir. We're taking on water. The bilge pumps are having no effect. Please sir think of the men.” The first mates voice was a roar yet only just audible over the howl of the gale. Samson could only nod and dismissed his crew mate with a wave.
The pilot swung the great wheel back to starboard and slowly The Western Dream returned to the wash. Samson looked out into the now placid dark water. The cloudy night made the sea the colour of midnight. He looked to the North and saw the Northern Star not his quarry but its bright namesake which even now shone like a beacon through the foggy sky. This would be as close as Samson would ever get to the Empire and the last night he would ever see his brother or sister.
Samson and his crew returned to Havant that night but the shame and grief would never leave them. As they inched their way back to the island, Samson discovered that half the able ships on Havant had joined the chase but one by one they too had abandoned the race. The Western Dream became the flagship of a failed fleet limping sadly back the way she had come with nearly fifty beaten cogs, sloops and clockwork launches crawling behind her each one with its colours flying at half mast.
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