Many thanks in advance to anyone who tackles this.
Below are two excerpts with a common theme. They might be a bit tricky to crit, since they come from halfway through the second book in my series. So, some background: in a world roughly equivalent to our 1900, Orc and Cass (not their real names) were found washed up on a beach two years ago, without any memories. Recently, Orc’s sense of self and identity has been eroded further by his repeatedly being confirmed, unwillingly, in the magical role of Sun King: sacrifice, husband and son of the ancient vegetative goddess of life and death, the Mother. It’s what this does to his perception of himself and wider reality that I want to try to get right in these two excerpts.
In this first one, he and Cass (and three others) are being quizzed about events in the first book (a magician physically manifested a death-goddess) by Prelate Astrasis, a theocrat of Kurassia, an imperial, patriarchal culture vehemently opposed to the Witch (their version of the great goddess, and which they see as a very real threat).
Orc’s identity issues have been made worse by the fact that he and Cass have had to construct a fake past to replace their missing one.
I’m interested in whether his “madness”, both descent and recovery, comes across credibly. Plus any other comments of course.
****************************************
‘Could he be raising more of these abominations?’ said the Prelate. ‘What is Sundara’s plan? Why a goddess? Have they made some alliance with the dark power of Golgomera, with the Witch? Are the End Days truly upon us?’
The words sent a prickle of dread down Orc’s spine.
‘We were their prisoners,’ said Cass. ‘They didn’t tell us their plans.’
‘A shame you didn’t seek more assiduously to find them out. To think we had spies in the camp of the greatest enemy faced for centuries, and they proved too incompetent to look for anything.’
Orc had only half an ear on the insult. So the Kurassians, too, believed She would come. Even in their city of gold and iron, they feared Her.
‘Your Grace.’ His throat felt dry. ‘These “End Days”? What form would the Witch’s power take?’
The Prelate appeared surprised to have been asked a question, and unsure at first as to whether it merited an answer.
‘That has been a matter of speculation for some centuries.’
‘Do you think it might come through the ground?’
‘Through the ground?’
‘Softening it. Making it marsh. Buildings will sink. Railways.’ Just speaking the words sent a clammy chill across Orc’s shoulder-blades.
‘Some have predicted similar horrors,’ said Astrasis, regarding him more carefully. ‘The consensus is that corruption would spread from Golgomera, weakening the resolve and rationality of men. The world would revert to forest, and we would be reduced to savages. But this magician’s plot suggests the very distinction between thought and matter might break down, and nightmares be brought to physical life.’
‘Might?’ said Orc. ‘We saw it happen. And She’ll use it.’ The panicky conviction swelled in him. ‘She’s coming, right now.’
Cass elbowed him. ‘Orc …’
‘Alarmism,’ said the Prelate. ‘Empyreus would warn us of imminent attack. Our scientists are examining the evidence even now, and will devise a defence.’
‘Defence?’ The futility of it almost made Orc laugh with terror. ‘You’re next to the Great North Sea. All that mud, salt-marsh, estuaries — that stuff between land and water, that’s where She’s strongest. What defence can you make if that mud starts to rise and flow?’
‘Orc,’ hissed Cass.
‘No, let him speak.’ The Prelate strode to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘He interests me.’
Orc looked at his own forearms; he could almost feel creepers growing along his veins, under his skin, as though his body was made of the mud over which She ruled, was already one with the ground into which it would inevitably rot. He stood from his chair — Cass tugged his arm, but he pulled free. He needed to look into the gilt-framed mirror. The face that stared back seemed obviously a mask. He half-expected the gilded leaves that surrounded it to spring to green, growing, deadly life.
‘You think this gold will save you?’ he said, as understanding powered through him. ‘Don’t you realise? We’re all the Sun King, and she’s coming back to claim us! We are her rightful sacrifice!’
‘By God.’ The Prelate pulled out a pistol. Cries and protests erupted. Orc was yanked back down into his chair. Cass stood in front of him.
‘He didn’t mean anything,’ she told the Prelate. ‘What happened at the island affected him too.’
‘Evidently.’ The Prelate stepped towards them. ‘Sit down!’ he ordered Cass. ‘He’s in no danger if he answers well.’
He stood before Orc, the gun held ready. ‘What’s your name? Who are you?’
A laugh almost broke from him at the nonsense question. But a steel needle in his mind told him he must not laugh. These people all needed to cling to the world of surfaces as thin and bright as the gold-leaf on the mirror-frame. His life depended now on swimming back up to that transitory world, against the suck of the eternal deep.
He made himself speak. ‘Orc Strandborn.’ Meaningless syllables: the name of a mask.
‘And where are you from? Who are your parents?’
‘Does that matter?’ said Cass.
‘Don’t interrupt!’
Sweat tracked his temple. He’d been born at the margin of land and water, a no-place. He had no papers; he had no parents. Pretence was beyond him, and the idea of pretence affronted him — the truth meant more than his mayfly life. He leg muscles tensed, readying him. He would stand erect in the face of the gun and proclaim Her truth, declare Her coming.
Then Cass gripped his hand, and the shock of it — the flesh was warm, not like the thorned clasp of creepers, but her skin was damp. He suddenly understood that the pretence mattered, because it would keep her from fear, from hurt, and that mattered more than anything.
His back flushed with sweat. He squeezed, hard, her bones, her knuckles. Her strength, her belief in who he was. But who she believed him to be, that wasn’t what he must tell. With effort, he brought the rehearsed construction into focus. He spoke it out into the world of words: he told the gunman that he was the son of Kurassian immigrants to the Kymeran coast, his father an inventor of diving equipment. He rattled off the name of a school, his favourite teachers. He identified Cass and Tashi as children of his father’s sisters. All lies, a fabrication even in the world of surfaces — but the effort of trying to believe himself into the story brought that world out of eclipse again: shiny, detailed, defined as though by a bright sun.
‘Thank God.’ The Prelate lowered his pistol. Orc sagged, heart pounding, still fighting to firm up his fragile self. ‘For a moment, it seemed he might have the Bane.’
****************************************
In this short excerpt, I’m interested again in whether his shift in perception comes across as credible and vivid enough. I’m trying to get across the idea of a “lack of differentiation” without using anything like those words.
Stein’s department store occupied a wedge between two of the streets that ran into the five-way confluence of Haltspar Circus. Three policemen directed the traffic, but all the cabs and autos and drays and buses crawled so slowly that a constant stream of pedestrians walked between. It was the closest to real chaos Orc had seen in Bismark, and as he tiredly watched it all and smelt it all and heard it all, something shifted in his mind and a horrific perception attacked him — that only a flimsy barrier of order prevented all these people and animals from being crushed together into some … mass, of flesh and hair and wood and iron, like a wild and overgrown garden of bodies. And to his sick near-panic, he couldn’t remember what it was that prevented this happening. Something so flimsy it might be no more than thought.
Below are two excerpts with a common theme. They might be a bit tricky to crit, since they come from halfway through the second book in my series. So, some background: in a world roughly equivalent to our 1900, Orc and Cass (not their real names) were found washed up on a beach two years ago, without any memories. Recently, Orc’s sense of self and identity has been eroded further by his repeatedly being confirmed, unwillingly, in the magical role of Sun King: sacrifice, husband and son of the ancient vegetative goddess of life and death, the Mother. It’s what this does to his perception of himself and wider reality that I want to try to get right in these two excerpts.
In this first one, he and Cass (and three others) are being quizzed about events in the first book (a magician physically manifested a death-goddess) by Prelate Astrasis, a theocrat of Kurassia, an imperial, patriarchal culture vehemently opposed to the Witch (their version of the great goddess, and which they see as a very real threat).
Orc’s identity issues have been made worse by the fact that he and Cass have had to construct a fake past to replace their missing one.
I’m interested in whether his “madness”, both descent and recovery, comes across credibly. Plus any other comments of course.
****************************************
‘Could he be raising more of these abominations?’ said the Prelate. ‘What is Sundara’s plan? Why a goddess? Have they made some alliance with the dark power of Golgomera, with the Witch? Are the End Days truly upon us?’
The words sent a prickle of dread down Orc’s spine.
‘We were their prisoners,’ said Cass. ‘They didn’t tell us their plans.’
‘A shame you didn’t seek more assiduously to find them out. To think we had spies in the camp of the greatest enemy faced for centuries, and they proved too incompetent to look for anything.’
Orc had only half an ear on the insult. So the Kurassians, too, believed She would come. Even in their city of gold and iron, they feared Her.
‘Your Grace.’ His throat felt dry. ‘These “End Days”? What form would the Witch’s power take?’
The Prelate appeared surprised to have been asked a question, and unsure at first as to whether it merited an answer.
‘That has been a matter of speculation for some centuries.’
‘Do you think it might come through the ground?’
‘Through the ground?’
‘Softening it. Making it marsh. Buildings will sink. Railways.’ Just speaking the words sent a clammy chill across Orc’s shoulder-blades.
‘Some have predicted similar horrors,’ said Astrasis, regarding him more carefully. ‘The consensus is that corruption would spread from Golgomera, weakening the resolve and rationality of men. The world would revert to forest, and we would be reduced to savages. But this magician’s plot suggests the very distinction between thought and matter might break down, and nightmares be brought to physical life.’
‘Might?’ said Orc. ‘We saw it happen. And She’ll use it.’ The panicky conviction swelled in him. ‘She’s coming, right now.’
Cass elbowed him. ‘Orc …’
‘Alarmism,’ said the Prelate. ‘Empyreus would warn us of imminent attack. Our scientists are examining the evidence even now, and will devise a defence.’
‘Defence?’ The futility of it almost made Orc laugh with terror. ‘You’re next to the Great North Sea. All that mud, salt-marsh, estuaries — that stuff between land and water, that’s where She’s strongest. What defence can you make if that mud starts to rise and flow?’
‘Orc,’ hissed Cass.
‘No, let him speak.’ The Prelate strode to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘He interests me.’
Orc looked at his own forearms; he could almost feel creepers growing along his veins, under his skin, as though his body was made of the mud over which She ruled, was already one with the ground into which it would inevitably rot. He stood from his chair — Cass tugged his arm, but he pulled free. He needed to look into the gilt-framed mirror. The face that stared back seemed obviously a mask. He half-expected the gilded leaves that surrounded it to spring to green, growing, deadly life.
‘You think this gold will save you?’ he said, as understanding powered through him. ‘Don’t you realise? We’re all the Sun King, and she’s coming back to claim us! We are her rightful sacrifice!’
‘By God.’ The Prelate pulled out a pistol. Cries and protests erupted. Orc was yanked back down into his chair. Cass stood in front of him.
‘He didn’t mean anything,’ she told the Prelate. ‘What happened at the island affected him too.’
‘Evidently.’ The Prelate stepped towards them. ‘Sit down!’ he ordered Cass. ‘He’s in no danger if he answers well.’
He stood before Orc, the gun held ready. ‘What’s your name? Who are you?’
A laugh almost broke from him at the nonsense question. But a steel needle in his mind told him he must not laugh. These people all needed to cling to the world of surfaces as thin and bright as the gold-leaf on the mirror-frame. His life depended now on swimming back up to that transitory world, against the suck of the eternal deep.
He made himself speak. ‘Orc Strandborn.’ Meaningless syllables: the name of a mask.
‘And where are you from? Who are your parents?’
‘Does that matter?’ said Cass.
‘Don’t interrupt!’
Sweat tracked his temple. He’d been born at the margin of land and water, a no-place. He had no papers; he had no parents. Pretence was beyond him, and the idea of pretence affronted him — the truth meant more than his mayfly life. He leg muscles tensed, readying him. He would stand erect in the face of the gun and proclaim Her truth, declare Her coming.
Then Cass gripped his hand, and the shock of it — the flesh was warm, not like the thorned clasp of creepers, but her skin was damp. He suddenly understood that the pretence mattered, because it would keep her from fear, from hurt, and that mattered more than anything.
His back flushed with sweat. He squeezed, hard, her bones, her knuckles. Her strength, her belief in who he was. But who she believed him to be, that wasn’t what he must tell. With effort, he brought the rehearsed construction into focus. He spoke it out into the world of words: he told the gunman that he was the son of Kurassian immigrants to the Kymeran coast, his father an inventor of diving equipment. He rattled off the name of a school, his favourite teachers. He identified Cass and Tashi as children of his father’s sisters. All lies, a fabrication even in the world of surfaces — but the effort of trying to believe himself into the story brought that world out of eclipse again: shiny, detailed, defined as though by a bright sun.
‘Thank God.’ The Prelate lowered his pistol. Orc sagged, heart pounding, still fighting to firm up his fragile self. ‘For a moment, it seemed he might have the Bane.’
****************************************
In this short excerpt, I’m interested again in whether his shift in perception comes across as credible and vivid enough. I’m trying to get across the idea of a “lack of differentiation” without using anything like those words.
Stein’s department store occupied a wedge between two of the streets that ran into the five-way confluence of Haltspar Circus. Three policemen directed the traffic, but all the cabs and autos and drays and buses crawled so slowly that a constant stream of pedestrians walked between. It was the closest to real chaos Orc had seen in Bismark, and as he tiredly watched it all and smelt it all and heard it all, something shifted in his mind and a horrific perception attacked him — that only a flimsy barrier of order prevented all these people and animals from being crushed together into some … mass, of flesh and hair and wood and iron, like a wild and overgrown garden of bodies. And to his sick near-panic, he couldn’t remember what it was that prevented this happening. Something so flimsy it might be no more than thought.
