Last weekend I was at the Writers Workshop Festival in York where some 400 writers, agents and publishers gathered. On Saturday evening I showed the front cover of Eden's Revenge on my I-Phone (kindle app) to a lady sitting next to me. She then proceeded to start reading and wouldn't give the phone back, and would not say anything. Ten minutes and a glass of red wine later she handed it back to me and said "Wow!"
Needless to say it made my day, LOL. Here is what she was reading, for those who haven't seen it yet. It is the first half of the Prologue, called Origins, and concerns a certain young girl called Esma...
1563 AD, the Himalayan
Kingdom
No birds ever
approached the Fortress of Alessia. This was the first thing Esma noticed when
she arrived after her long trek into the barren Tibetan foothills. The second
was the architectural precision of the gothic castle, its steep black ramparts,
towers and twisting spires rising skywards, as if uprooted from the earth by
the stars themselves. Its cruel beauty went beyond anything she’d ever seen.
Although it was over four hundred years old, Alessia’s Fortress looked as if it
had been built yesterday.
Archers’
slits in its three tall towers stared out over the surrounding land, unblinking
eyes daring anyone below to step onto the path to its iron gates. The guide had
left a mile earlier, unwilling to proceed further, and in the end had begged
her to return with him to the safety of his village. But Esma turned her back
on him, as she did on the rest of humanity, and continued alone.
A
savage wind scoured her sheepskin coat, leather face-mask and gloves as she
walked with a measured gait under anvil-shaped clouds threatening winter’s
first snowfall. Atop the towers, red and gold pennants displaying bloodied
eagle’s claws whipped and crackled, the emblazoned talons seeming to grasp at
the air. Prayer wheels, adapted from naïve Buddhist ideology to worship another
entity, one altogether more sublime and not of this world, whistled like
banshees across the bleak countryside.
Esma
had left her family for good this time, after one beating too many, and had not
told her bitter mother or sickly brother where she was going. They would not
understand, and she no longer cared. For two years Esma had secretly followed
the Order of Alessia as an acolyte-in-waiting, after being noticed by a
wandering monk visiting her home city, Padua. He made a speech in the central
plaza, addressing anyone who would listen, and asked what they all saw when
they raised their eyes to the night sky. Most in the lingering crowd talked of
God and his marvels. Esma waited till the throng dispersed and approached him
on her own; she had often looked up, craving an alternative to the misery she
and others endured.
“Our
star, the sun, has worlds around it,” she said. “I believe, and I pray, that
other worlds are up there too, better ones.” She glanced around to ensure no
one else was listening. “With a God less tolerant of human depravity.”
Within
a year she had a job working with a scribe, learning to copy and translate
theological documents; a cover for her induction into the Alessian Order. Esma
had to endure two more years at home, but each time her father’s hand raised
above her, she knew that revenge would come, and never once cried out in voice
or with tears, which only angered him further. On the night she left, Esma slit
his throat with a razor clutched in tremblng hands, where he lay snoring,
drunk, in the kitchen. Only then did the tears come, as she watched the life
bleed out of his bloated, twitching body. She knew that her mother, despite
being regularly beaten herself, would never forgive this act, but after Esma
had finally stopped shaking, she left a note for her mother and brother that
simply said, “My parting gift.”
On
her way to the mountains, she passed through a village where the very same
wandering monk who had first inspired her three years earlier had been arrested
for heresy. As an outsider sheltering against the winter at a local inn, she
was questioned by men in scarlet cloaks, witchfinders. Seeing his battered,
tortured body chained in the market place, scorched eye sockets in his listless
head, and beholding the faces and shrieking accusations of the local villagers
filled with rage and bloodlust, fear seized Esma. When dragged before the monk,
she vehemently denied knowing him, adding her voice to those crying out for him
to be burned at the stake.
Once
released, she fled the village. Huddled in her coat on the hillside that
evening, she watched the smoke rise from the pyre, occasionally catching the
shrill screams of the monk’s voice that had so entranced her in Padua, and the
jeering of the crowd. Afterwards, Esma wandered for five days and nights, not
eating, punishing herself for being so weak, vowing it would never happen
again. On the months-long journey, she studied hard, always dwelling on the
words of Alessia, promising a better life than Esma had known.
Now
she would finally meet the High Priestess herself, or at least glimpse her. As
she strode against the wind, up the winding cobbled pathway and endless granite
steps, she spied something from the corner of her eye – a blue-black beast, its
carapace shining like that of a beetle. It had a strangely shaped head, not quite
a rectangle, more like the silhouette of a half-open book. But this creature
was the height of two men, and moved so fast it was gone almost before her mind
could paint its picture. Esma had heard the rumours. So, it was true, they were
here. She quickened her pace.
When
the great gate opened, uncreaking and seemingly of its own accord, three men in
full-length grey robes faced her, their hands hidden in long sleeves, eyes intense,
uncompromising. While the tallest asked questions concerning the Order’s
scripture, which Esma had to answer without reflecton or error, the other two
walked and stood close behind her. After what felt like half an hour of
relentless examination, she faltered, unsure of the answer, and rather than
give a wrong one, bowed her head. She heard a blade slipping from its sheath
behind her. The man in front paused, his deep blue eyes scrutinizing her. “And
what if you are called upon to kill those of your own flesh, Esma, your
family?”
She
raised her head high as she slowly pulled out the curved knife from her coat
pocket, showing him the dried blood on its blade. “I already have.”
The
man before her gave the barest of smiles. “I am Brother Tilgar. Welcome, Esma,
to the abode of Alessia.”
Life in the
fortress was hard, its rules strict and unforgiving, but Esma endured it, doing
whatever was asked no matter how menial, without question or complaint. Tilgar
was stern with her in front of others, gentler when it was just the two of
them, as he instructed her in the Order’s ways and in her chosen specialism,
the study of written scripture. With his quiet but sharp mind and constant
attention to detail, and his patience with her, he became the father figure she
had never known.
When
she had a spare moment she would approach the narrow windows where the wind
howled, and stare out, hoping to catch sight of the beast, but to no avail.
Esma told no one what she had seen; in the Order, it was dangerous to know more
than one should. She did however catch rare glimpses of Alessia, easily
recognised by her mane of flowing red locks as she swept across the inner
courtyard from the base of one stone tower to another.
Early
one morning, Esma had to fetch a bucket of water for her master, Tilgar, for
his morning ablutions. Ice with a dusting of snow covered the surface of the deep
well, and she had to lean down precariously and hack at it with her knife, chopping
hard. The ice suddenly cracked, and her foot slipped and she lost her balance, tipping
forward, arms flailing as she tried to grab onto anything to save her from an
icy death. A firm hand seized her ankle and hauled her back from the brink,
another yanking her back out of the well’s embrace by the shoulder, turning her
around with deft ease and power. Esma landed on the frosted ground, panting, by
Alessia’s feet. Aghast at her mistake, she got to her knees in front of the
High Priestess of the Order, though she maintained eye contact: in the Order,
deference was never blind. “I am sorry for my foolishness, Your Eminence.”
Alessia
at first said nothing, the hint of a smile playing across her lips. Her jade
eyes fixed on Esma, the smile evaporating. “Once is a mistake, twice is a
fault.” Alessia turned and continued in her whirlwind fashion towards the
principal tower where the Order’s Council met regularly. Esma watched Alessia
go, feeling as if she had just been touched by an Angel of God.
Esma
had never been interested in boys, or in the sinful pleasures of the flesh, but
she was still young, and that night she found herself unable to sleep, and with
a gnawing sense of disgust, she exorcised the bad thoughts in the only way she
knew. But it was different this time. Instead of trying to conjure up enthusiasm
in her mind’s eye for the handsome young groom other girls fantasized about,
Esma imagined Alessia’s beatific face, her slim but strong hands caressing her.
In her ecstasy Esma cried out in the female dormitory. But in the morning her
shame at this profane, animalistic activity bubbled to the surface like acid on
skin. She had been disrespectful to Alessia, and Esma vowed never again to
demean herself or another by proxy. She threw all her energy into her work.
Months
passed, and Esma progressed in her duties – she could write well, and Tilgar
had been teaching her a challenging new script, one with serifs, barbs and
jagged points, an aggressive rune alphabet that looked sharp enough to draw
blood. But she didn’t just copy, and learning more, Esma began to translate,
occasionally finding herself staring at these words and their unfolding concepts
like none she had ever heard, even inside the Order. Her ability to fathom
meaning behind the alien language didn’t go unnoticed by Tilgar. Esma did not
know if this was good or bad news.
One
night Tilgar woke her quietly – she had been summoned to a room at the top of
the second tower, where the elite lived. Once there, Tilgar ushered her inside
and then left, closing the heavy oak door behind him. A flaxen-haired knight in
chain-mail armour sat upright in a high-backed wooden chair. Silburn: she had
seen him occasionally in the fortress, often with Alessia. He was second-in-command.
Silburn rose.
“Come,”
he said, walking out to the balcony where flurries of snowflakes swirled, in no
rush to reach the ground. She stood a little behind him but he gestured for her
to stand at the edge, a knee-high stone wall separating them from a sheer drop
into darkness. Silburn’s hand went to the small of Esma’s back. She stiffened.
One small shove and she would depart this world.
“Look
up, girl, and tell me what you see.”
Esma’s
heart raced. “Stars,” she said, the word barely escaping her lips, her mind
trying to ignore the hand that could end her life so easily. A snowflake entered
her left eye, ice cold, making her blink rapidly. She was not dressed for
outside, and the chill air bit through her woollen dress. She ignored it, tried
to focus, unsure what was required of her, or which answer would spare her
life. But the Order was not about closing minds; that was why she had joined.
She remembered Alessia saving her from a messy, futile death in the well, and
cleared her throat. “Stars,” she said again. “But they do not circle us, for we
are not the centre of the universe.”
The
hand remained firm, a judge deciding her fate. “Continue.” Silburn’s voice was
as unfeeling as the stone wall at her sandaled feet.
Esma
tried not to shiver. “Somewhere out there is another life, another way, more
than us.” She paused, then decided to say it. “I saw one. When I first arrived.
Barely a glimpse. But what I saw… impressed me. Such grace and power.” She
waited, then continued. “I know they are not gods, yet it seems to me – from
what I have read – that they are closer to God than we.” She dared to glance
across to see Silburn’s reaction, but his face was as unmoving as the granite
walls. Her own face turned downwards, to the oblivion below.
“Have
you told anyone else?”
“No,”
she said, a shiver breaking through despite her best efforts.
“Not
even Tilgar?”
She
had hinted several times, asked Tilgar questions that might have given away
what she had seen, but Esma didn’t want to get her master into trouble; he had
been kind to her. She shook her head. Esma knew that words held deadly power in
the Order, especially secrets. Sometimes acolytes disappeared, and no one asked
questions afterwards. The line between savant and heretic was of a hair’s
breadth.
“Esma,
would you die for the Order?”
The
words echoed in her head, like the eddies of snow before her, making her feel
giddy. “Yes,” she said, swallowing, guessing she had over-stepped the mark. For
the first time in months she visualised her mother, sneering, saying that Esma
had always had too much to say, had never accepted her place, and would now pay
the price. She would end her life gashed open on the rocks below, leaving
carrion birds and insects to pick her bones dry. Esma thought of her sickly
brother, Arnault, surely by now taken by the plague ravaging the land. At least
he would be sad for her fate. So be it, she and her sibling would comfort each
other in whatever came after.
Silburn’s
face turned to her. “Then will you
die for the Order, Esma?” He removed his hand from the small of her back.
Esma
found her hands shaking, her lips quivering. She stared into Silburn’s eyes,
but they were pitiless, they had probably seen and dispatched such death that
there was no mercy remaining in his soul. Bracing herself, she squeezed her
lips together, clenched her fists against the biting pain of cold in her
fingers. She lifted one foot on top of the low wall, then pushed up and stood
atop the slippery, uneven stone. Her mind, awash with fears and inner cries,
suddenly cleared, as if she had broken through its surface ice to clear water
underneath. The shaking stopped, and she felt at peace. She wanted to say some
last words, and then it came to her, the only two things she cared about. “I do
this for Alessia, and for the truth that cannot yet be known or spoken.” Eyes
wide open, she sucked in a deep breath, leaned forward and took a step.
Silburn’s
large hands snatched the waist-band of her dress and held her in place, Esma’s
right foot stretched out over the abyss. “You will indeed die for the Order one
day, Esma, but not this night.”
Meeting
his eyes, she stepped back down cautiously, the shaking returning with a
vengeance, her breathing ragged. A single tear escaped. She brushed it away as
if it was snow, and in her mind’s eye her mother was silent for once, while her
brother beamed.
To
her surprise, Tilgar joined them on the balcony, wearing a look somewhere
between shocked admiration and pride as he wrapped a blanket around her
trembling frame.
Silburn
patted her on the back. “Go with him. From now on you are no longer an acolyte,
you are Sister Esma. You will have
new chambers, and new duties. Oh, and Tilgar, I know it is late, but give her
some ale to warm her, or else she will not sleep.”
Esma found she needed Tilgar’s arm to steady herself as she walked to the door.
Esma found she needed Tilgar’s arm to steady herself as she walked to the door.
The Eden Paradox - Where we are betrayed... "Best science fiction of the year"
Eden's Trial - Where we are judged and sentenced...
"Amazing ideas I've not heard of in 55 years of reading Scifi"
Eden's Revenge - Where it gets personal...
"Masterful science fiction"
Eden's Endgame - Where it must all end... [Coming 2014]
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