Post by Princess Pear on Oct 20, 2007 19:15:57 GMT 1
Well, I'm a tad reluctant to do this, but whatever: I'm posting the beginning of my novel on here.
The novel is called Treasure Alcove© and here's the prologue:
[The following extract is strictly copyrighted].
Prologue – One Mysterious Night.
The beach lies calm in the stillness of night. The light of the crescent moon shines on the silky water, the golden sand, and the mighty rock cliffs, which tower over the sea and the beach. Across the calm surface of the water, small schools of fish weave between the gentle waves that come to lick at the shoreline. A young girl sits on the beach, four or five years old if that. She is wearing a long silver dress, embroidered with sequins, which reflects the moonlight onto the sand. She sits gazing out to the sea with her deep and attentive eyes, her dark hair trailing back in the wind, and she is clearly waiting for something or someone. There is an air about her that suggests great sorrow.
She is not alone, and she knows it. A lion stands behind her, close enough to touch her by extending his paw, but he does not. He has only just arrived, but the girl knows that this is exactly when he had intended to arrive. To say that she knows him would be giving her rather too much credit, but she knows enough of him. She turns and pats his head in a simple gesture of greeting, before she returns her gaze to the sea. The lion sits besides her, his head resting on his paws, his eyes closed. They both wait.
Then, the ground begins to shake. From the water, something emerges. It is a large castle, made of stone. As the castle fully emerges it comes to a halt and sits still upon the surface of the water, with only the slightest ripples daring to reveal its magic. The doorway is opening, and someone steps out. It is a woman, with long, wavy hair, which sways in the breeze like the branches of a willow tree. The woman stands in the doorway hesitantly, her eyes gazing up into the sky almost expectantly. She is holding something, a small, tender bundle that she cuddles passionately to her chest. The young girl and the lion on the beach watch as the woman walks to the edge of the jetty outside the castle, then she stops at the water’s edge. She steps onto the water. She does not sink. It is as if the water has solidified at her command. She glides over the surface of the water gracefully, without even a flicker of unease, until she reaches the beach.
“I presume there is no sign of him yet?” she asks the girl, who shakes her head slowly. There is a hint of nervousness in the woman’s voice, and the girl notices it.
“Impatience will not serve you,” she says. “Savour our final hours with the treasure that you hold in your arms.” There is wisdom in her voice and her words far beyond her years. She turns back to the sea, gazing beyond the veiled horizon, and is silent.
The lion glances from one to the other of them, then recites:
“When three of might and three of stone,
Shall all donate one gift alone,
A gift of flesh, of blood, of bone,
Our futures will at last be known.
Through battle we shall appreciate,
That when shields shatter and dissipate,
A cry from no one’s lips will dictate,
The calling of our world’s true fate.
And finally we shall realise,
The truth behind long treasured lies,
With which we murder all disguise,
As knowledge flashes in our eyes.”
His voice is odd: sliding from memory the moment it halts. His words, however, linger profoundly in their minds. “What was that?” the woman asks, surprised and yet filled with inexplicable sadness.
“A prediction, of sorts,” he replies, rather idly – as if he has no real knowledge of why he has said it.
“I didn’t know you were one for poetry,” the girl says slyly, scorning the attempt. “Or do you just prophesy pain?” Her voice seems weighted by a burden of deep knowledge.
“Neither and both,” he replies, irritating her.
“That’s nonsense,” she retorts, rather sulkily.
“Of course it is. Your words demanded such a response.” He stands and paces the length of the beach, as he has nothing left to say.
The woman shifts uncomfortably: the lion’s prediction has unsettled her. The girl ignores the lion, feeling that he is mocking her, and continues to gaze out to sea, trailing her fingers in the sand. The woman stands where she is and watches the sky, longing for the time to pass although she craves every silent second. The lion seems to notice, and stands beside her comfortingly. They wait for a long time. An hour, maybe two. The chill of the night heightens, and the tide drifts slowly inward, as if it dulled from having nothing else to do. The girl does not move, allowing the waves to wash over her gently, but she does not get wet. The woman begins to pace to and fro in impatience, clutching the bundle close to her chest to keep it warm, but the lion does not follow her. Still the time passes. The long hours of night seem to ache all the more, and the woman considers abandoning the situation. The girl remains unmoving, as still as the cliffs around her, and equally devoid of life.
Eventually, however, they are rewarded. A great eagle, king of all birds, swoops down to the beach, his majestic feathers rustling softly. As he slows to land in front of the woman, his wings swirl aside the sand on the beach and the woman shelters her bundle instinctively. The eagle lands, lowers his neck into a gesture of recognition, and is silent. He is late, but it does not matter. All that matters is that he has come. The woman holds onto the bundle, and the girl gets to her feet and touches the bundle fondly with a sweet farewell. The eagle turns into a man, in front of their eyes. They do not mind: they have seen it so many times that it bores them. The man looks at the woman and then he stares a question at her. She nods; she has planned it, now she must let him carry out his part of the bargain. The man turns into an eagle again, content. He and the lion glance at one another briefly: both are uneasy about the events of the night, but it is not their decision what happens here. The woman presses the bundle close to her heart, in a final and loving farewell, and then she places it in the eagle’s talons. The eagle takes a firm, but gentle, grip on it. Then he soars up into the air, beating his majestic wings against the soft, sweeping wind, rising until he is out of sight. He has gone.
The woman stands on the beach, heartbroken. The tears are running down her cheeks, warm against her icy cold skin. The girl turns and wordlessly walks away, not to return for many years. The woman watches her go, before she turns to the lion for comfort. Not in any winter that she has ever seen has a night seemed as cold or as bleak as this. There is a throbbing pain in her chest, and a lump in her throat that threatens to cut short her breathing. For a moment she wishes that it would. It is as if there is nothing left for her now, no purpose to which she must live. The wise look in the lion’s eye tells her that this is far from over. She turns away: almost afraid to think about the future. There is nothing left to do now except go home. She glides back over the water, not stopping or looking back at the lion or the beach. She reaches the castle and she enters, closing the door behind herself. Then the castle shudders and sinks down to the sea below, and the beach falls back into the silent cover of night.
So any comments or criticism?
[This may not be the draft that goes forward to the publishers, as I am writing an alternative version at the moment].
The novel is called Treasure Alcove© and here's the prologue:
[The following extract is strictly copyrighted].
Prologue – One Mysterious Night.
The beach lies calm in the stillness of night. The light of the crescent moon shines on the silky water, the golden sand, and the mighty rock cliffs, which tower over the sea and the beach. Across the calm surface of the water, small schools of fish weave between the gentle waves that come to lick at the shoreline. A young girl sits on the beach, four or five years old if that. She is wearing a long silver dress, embroidered with sequins, which reflects the moonlight onto the sand. She sits gazing out to the sea with her deep and attentive eyes, her dark hair trailing back in the wind, and she is clearly waiting for something or someone. There is an air about her that suggests great sorrow.
She is not alone, and she knows it. A lion stands behind her, close enough to touch her by extending his paw, but he does not. He has only just arrived, but the girl knows that this is exactly when he had intended to arrive. To say that she knows him would be giving her rather too much credit, but she knows enough of him. She turns and pats his head in a simple gesture of greeting, before she returns her gaze to the sea. The lion sits besides her, his head resting on his paws, his eyes closed. They both wait.
Then, the ground begins to shake. From the water, something emerges. It is a large castle, made of stone. As the castle fully emerges it comes to a halt and sits still upon the surface of the water, with only the slightest ripples daring to reveal its magic. The doorway is opening, and someone steps out. It is a woman, with long, wavy hair, which sways in the breeze like the branches of a willow tree. The woman stands in the doorway hesitantly, her eyes gazing up into the sky almost expectantly. She is holding something, a small, tender bundle that she cuddles passionately to her chest. The young girl and the lion on the beach watch as the woman walks to the edge of the jetty outside the castle, then she stops at the water’s edge. She steps onto the water. She does not sink. It is as if the water has solidified at her command. She glides over the surface of the water gracefully, without even a flicker of unease, until she reaches the beach.
“I presume there is no sign of him yet?” she asks the girl, who shakes her head slowly. There is a hint of nervousness in the woman’s voice, and the girl notices it.
“Impatience will not serve you,” she says. “Savour our final hours with the treasure that you hold in your arms.” There is wisdom in her voice and her words far beyond her years. She turns back to the sea, gazing beyond the veiled horizon, and is silent.
The lion glances from one to the other of them, then recites:
“When three of might and three of stone,
Shall all donate one gift alone,
A gift of flesh, of blood, of bone,
Our futures will at last be known.
Through battle we shall appreciate,
That when shields shatter and dissipate,
A cry from no one’s lips will dictate,
The calling of our world’s true fate.
And finally we shall realise,
The truth behind long treasured lies,
With which we murder all disguise,
As knowledge flashes in our eyes.”
His voice is odd: sliding from memory the moment it halts. His words, however, linger profoundly in their minds. “What was that?” the woman asks, surprised and yet filled with inexplicable sadness.
“A prediction, of sorts,” he replies, rather idly – as if he has no real knowledge of why he has said it.
“I didn’t know you were one for poetry,” the girl says slyly, scorning the attempt. “Or do you just prophesy pain?” Her voice seems weighted by a burden of deep knowledge.
“Neither and both,” he replies, irritating her.
“That’s nonsense,” she retorts, rather sulkily.
“Of course it is. Your words demanded such a response.” He stands and paces the length of the beach, as he has nothing left to say.
The woman shifts uncomfortably: the lion’s prediction has unsettled her. The girl ignores the lion, feeling that he is mocking her, and continues to gaze out to sea, trailing her fingers in the sand. The woman stands where she is and watches the sky, longing for the time to pass although she craves every silent second. The lion seems to notice, and stands beside her comfortingly. They wait for a long time. An hour, maybe two. The chill of the night heightens, and the tide drifts slowly inward, as if it dulled from having nothing else to do. The girl does not move, allowing the waves to wash over her gently, but she does not get wet. The woman begins to pace to and fro in impatience, clutching the bundle close to her chest to keep it warm, but the lion does not follow her. Still the time passes. The long hours of night seem to ache all the more, and the woman considers abandoning the situation. The girl remains unmoving, as still as the cliffs around her, and equally devoid of life.
Eventually, however, they are rewarded. A great eagle, king of all birds, swoops down to the beach, his majestic feathers rustling softly. As he slows to land in front of the woman, his wings swirl aside the sand on the beach and the woman shelters her bundle instinctively. The eagle lands, lowers his neck into a gesture of recognition, and is silent. He is late, but it does not matter. All that matters is that he has come. The woman holds onto the bundle, and the girl gets to her feet and touches the bundle fondly with a sweet farewell. The eagle turns into a man, in front of their eyes. They do not mind: they have seen it so many times that it bores them. The man looks at the woman and then he stares a question at her. She nods; she has planned it, now she must let him carry out his part of the bargain. The man turns into an eagle again, content. He and the lion glance at one another briefly: both are uneasy about the events of the night, but it is not their decision what happens here. The woman presses the bundle close to her heart, in a final and loving farewell, and then she places it in the eagle’s talons. The eagle takes a firm, but gentle, grip on it. Then he soars up into the air, beating his majestic wings against the soft, sweeping wind, rising until he is out of sight. He has gone.
The woman stands on the beach, heartbroken. The tears are running down her cheeks, warm against her icy cold skin. The girl turns and wordlessly walks away, not to return for many years. The woman watches her go, before she turns to the lion for comfort. Not in any winter that she has ever seen has a night seemed as cold or as bleak as this. There is a throbbing pain in her chest, and a lump in her throat that threatens to cut short her breathing. For a moment she wishes that it would. It is as if there is nothing left for her now, no purpose to which she must live. The wise look in the lion’s eye tells her that this is far from over. She turns away: almost afraid to think about the future. There is nothing left to do now except go home. She glides back over the water, not stopping or looking back at the lion or the beach. She reaches the castle and she enters, closing the door behind herself. Then the castle shudders and sinks down to the sea below, and the beach falls back into the silent cover of night.
So any comments or criticism?
[This may not be the draft that goes forward to the publishers, as I am writing an alternative version at the moment].