I'm having a look at the arc and thread of Sand, one of the POVs for HITS, and I'm toying with this chapter as the opening to the book. I previously posted a chapter from the POV of Grub, which could also act as the opening chapter. As it's a SF/fantasy crossover (with Sand's being the fantasy thread) I'm not sure which opening serves the text best. Having Sand first will seem like a kind of prologue (even though it's not) because it feel so different to the other POV chapters which come after it (such as Grub's). So would this work as an opening in an SF novel? This is around half of Sand's first chapter.
Sand I
Sand plunged his hands deep into the wet clay surrounding his ankles and wiggled his fingers, exploring its sticky pliability, searching for the unformed ideas that might lurk in there. His head throbbed brutally with the hope that he might find something worth forming. In the clay his fingers clicked hard, aching, fatigued, and yet, he was unable to withdraw them for fear of a beating, so he held firm, seeking what had to be sought, what had to be made, what had to be sacrificed.
The clay moved like a thousand eels merging and unmerging, as it always did, but his fingers were strong, and well-practised, and felt out what was there. He didn’t know why the Crucible, being self-contained, had currents and eddies and movements below the wet line, but it did. Sometimes he didn’t want to know. Knowledge was a burden the free had to bear. All he and his kin had to do was make.
Something moving in the clay found his hands, and he instinctively clamped them tightly around the clod. His hands made a wet sucking noise as he brought them above the wetline and to his face. Opening his left hand, he peered at the muck and fingered it with his right. Nothing formed, as of yet. He closed his eyes and focused upon the clay, moulding it with both hands, letting his fingers do what they knew how to do, hoping upon hope that it would be a something, a something that the Axidents would approve of. A spasm of fear tripped along his arm as he recalled the last beating he had taken; the imprints of Axident Shame’s fists were still imprinted into his flesh, and he winced at the memory of it. Squeezing that trauma from his mind, he refocused upon the clay and let his fingers do the work they were made to do.
Staccato chattering fell down from the upper reaches of the Crucible wall, and Sand jerked his neck up to view its source. From the corner of his eye he saw his neighbour do the same, and his neighbour’s neighbour, all the way along the line until all the Sands in the Crucible had turned their gaze from the half-formed, wet messes in their clutches towards the palatial balcony overlooking the Crucible, to see which of the Axidents would emerge. Sand’s legs prickled as they sensed the nervous twitching of his neighbour. Whenever one of the Sands moved, with their legs ending at the ankle in the clay soup, the ripples could be felt across the Crucible, so that tremulous fear spread like a rash to all the slaves tethered in that gruesome place.
Upon the balcony appeared two figures, slender, robed in green and grey, talking animatedly with one another. Next came a much larger figure, taller by over a head than the former two, and broader to boot, with arms that could uproot trees. Sand had to strain his eyes to see them all, but even from this distance, the leathery, reddish copper skin of the third, larger Axident put that familiar feeling of loathsome sickness into his throat. Axident Shame. He peered at the half-thing in his hands: it looked like part of a tail, as he might have seen on a two-legged beast, or perhaps a four-legged beast of his own creation. He tapered out the clay to give it greater shape.
I hope you are worthy, little tail, he thought.
The tail, grey and slimy, wriggled in his palm as if in response.
“Sands!” barked the first Axident from the balcony, his voice slow and croaking, as if he were sucking in air as he spoke. “I bear a message from The High One. He says he is dangerously sick. You slaves must show your worth by the value of what you can produce in that sea of sh*t you know as your home. Your offerings may save The High One by showing the worthiness of our world to the Sky Dwellers. The time is now for an Appraisal. Show us what have you mustered. If it is worthy, you will have saved not only the High One, but yourselves.”
The three Axidents made their way down into the Crucible, wading sloppily through the clay in their sandals, hitching their robes up but not avoiding getting them covered in muck. Sand watched as they made their way to the first row of sands, and took the offering from the first sand in that row.
Sand couldn’t see what his brothers and sisters had made in the lines ahead of him; all he would know was whether it would be deemed acceptable. Through the rows of his spindly, backbroken kin, all stuck in the clay by their ankles and bent double like withered vines, he could see the first two Axidents looking over the first offering. Sometimes he wondered how big the Crucible was. He had once looked over his shoulder and seen nothing but more sands, all different in form and shape, but all locked into the clay, and all with the same wilted, forlorn look of the slave. He never looked behind himself again. The Sand next to him had told him the Crucible was as big as the whole world, but he knew that could not be true, for while the Crucible was part of the High One’s Palace, not all of the Palace was part of the Crucible. The day he had grasped this concept had made him sad, for he had acquired knowledge, and could do nothing with it.
Sand I
Sand plunged his hands deep into the wet clay surrounding his ankles and wiggled his fingers, exploring its sticky pliability, searching for the unformed ideas that might lurk in there. His head throbbed brutally with the hope that he might find something worth forming. In the clay his fingers clicked hard, aching, fatigued, and yet, he was unable to withdraw them for fear of a beating, so he held firm, seeking what had to be sought, what had to be made, what had to be sacrificed.
The clay moved like a thousand eels merging and unmerging, as it always did, but his fingers were strong, and well-practised, and felt out what was there. He didn’t know why the Crucible, being self-contained, had currents and eddies and movements below the wet line, but it did. Sometimes he didn’t want to know. Knowledge was a burden the free had to bear. All he and his kin had to do was make.
Something moving in the clay found his hands, and he instinctively clamped them tightly around the clod. His hands made a wet sucking noise as he brought them above the wetline and to his face. Opening his left hand, he peered at the muck and fingered it with his right. Nothing formed, as of yet. He closed his eyes and focused upon the clay, moulding it with both hands, letting his fingers do what they knew how to do, hoping upon hope that it would be a something, a something that the Axidents would approve of. A spasm of fear tripped along his arm as he recalled the last beating he had taken; the imprints of Axident Shame’s fists were still imprinted into his flesh, and he winced at the memory of it. Squeezing that trauma from his mind, he refocused upon the clay and let his fingers do the work they were made to do.
Staccato chattering fell down from the upper reaches of the Crucible wall, and Sand jerked his neck up to view its source. From the corner of his eye he saw his neighbour do the same, and his neighbour’s neighbour, all the way along the line until all the Sands in the Crucible had turned their gaze from the half-formed, wet messes in their clutches towards the palatial balcony overlooking the Crucible, to see which of the Axidents would emerge. Sand’s legs prickled as they sensed the nervous twitching of his neighbour. Whenever one of the Sands moved, with their legs ending at the ankle in the clay soup, the ripples could be felt across the Crucible, so that tremulous fear spread like a rash to all the slaves tethered in that gruesome place.
Upon the balcony appeared two figures, slender, robed in green and grey, talking animatedly with one another. Next came a much larger figure, taller by over a head than the former two, and broader to boot, with arms that could uproot trees. Sand had to strain his eyes to see them all, but even from this distance, the leathery, reddish copper skin of the third, larger Axident put that familiar feeling of loathsome sickness into his throat. Axident Shame. He peered at the half-thing in his hands: it looked like part of a tail, as he might have seen on a two-legged beast, or perhaps a four-legged beast of his own creation. He tapered out the clay to give it greater shape.
I hope you are worthy, little tail, he thought.
The tail, grey and slimy, wriggled in his palm as if in response.
“Sands!” barked the first Axident from the balcony, his voice slow and croaking, as if he were sucking in air as he spoke. “I bear a message from The High One. He says he is dangerously sick. You slaves must show your worth by the value of what you can produce in that sea of sh*t you know as your home. Your offerings may save The High One by showing the worthiness of our world to the Sky Dwellers. The time is now for an Appraisal. Show us what have you mustered. If it is worthy, you will have saved not only the High One, but yourselves.”
The three Axidents made their way down into the Crucible, wading sloppily through the clay in their sandals, hitching their robes up but not avoiding getting them covered in muck. Sand watched as they made their way to the first row of sands, and took the offering from the first sand in that row.
Sand couldn’t see what his brothers and sisters had made in the lines ahead of him; all he would know was whether it would be deemed acceptable. Through the rows of his spindly, backbroken kin, all stuck in the clay by their ankles and bent double like withered vines, he could see the first two Axidents looking over the first offering. Sometimes he wondered how big the Crucible was. He had once looked over his shoulder and seen nothing but more sands, all different in form and shape, but all locked into the clay, and all with the same wilted, forlorn look of the slave. He never looked behind himself again. The Sand next to him had told him the Crucible was as big as the whole world, but he knew that could not be true, for while the Crucible was part of the High One’s Palace, not all of the Palace was part of the Crucible. The day he had grasped this concept had made him sad, for he had acquired knowledge, and could do nothing with it.