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.

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.

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!