Recently, I’ve been both distracted by events out of my control and guilty of procrastination in regards to the writing of my novella. This was bothering me a little bit, until I was reminded about this post by Robert Hruzek.
As such, I made a pledge on Twitter that I would have either the prologue or first chapter complete by Tuesday. Well, two days before that, I’ve managed to complete my prologue for what will act as the prequel to my ‘main’ novel I’m working on.
And below, you can find that prologue in full. A teaser, if you will, for the rest of the book. Please give any feedback, as that will be more than welcome.
The room was alive with activity as the midwife went about her work. She nervously prepared buckets and bowls of warm water; whispered orders to her aides, hoping that the young women would be able to perform the tasks given them with the proficiency she expected. Men bustled around the doorway, kept from entering the room by two stalwart guards - The mother and grandmother of the young woman laid on the bed. Both had cudgels in hand, and had already been forced to use them on at least one occasion each.
“Just relax, dear.” Bethak, the midwife, spoke in calm, soothing tones as the girl began to wail in agony. The contractions had been getting progressively worse over the past two days but still no child arrived, something which concerned all in the village of Vejar.
“How do you expect me to…” A scream overpowered all other noise, and the midwife sighed as she waited for the girls to return from the other room. “Just do something! I can’t take this!”
“I will, child, I will.” Rubbing hands together and pacing back and forth, the grey haired, plump woman allowed an acidic glare at the door each time she faced it. Stopping when the kettle began to whistle, she poured the dark fluid into a wooden mug. “Here.”
Lifting the girl’s head, Bethak began to pour the thick mixture into her mouth. “This will ease the pain, Kendre, so drink.”
It was a few minutes of more pacing and glaring until the young assistants returned, carrying clean sheets, clothes, and a wooden box. They quickly laid them out on the table, returning to their positions against the wall to watch, with a visible unease, Kendre continue to writhe in pain. Shuffling feet and wringing hands, casting fleeting glances one to the other, they dared not to speak.
For so short a woman, her grey hair wrapped by white cloth into a bun, Bethak carried a presence that filled the room as she opened the box, giving a shake of her head. Taking a bottle of Trelanich wine and a thick cloth, she moved back to the girl. “This will be over soon, my child. I promise.”
She lifted the thin dress to reveal the belly of the girl, poured the wine on the cloth, spilling no small amount on the floor in excess, and rubbed it all over the swollen torse of Kendre. Needless to say, the two guards had closed the door to prevent ogling eyes from gazing in at their kin’s exposure.
A knife was pulled from the wooden box then, which too was wiped with the cloth. It was a nasty looking tool which, when Bethak lightly ran a finger against the edge, cut her finger neatly. Sucking on the wound, she turned back to the girl, knife in hand, a sadness in eyes grey as her hair. “This is the only way.”
The three against the wall gasped, mouths agape, and Kendre’s eyes widened as her face turned a deathly white. “What, what are you doing?!” She shouted in panic, struggling to move herself from the bed.
“Hold her down.” The apprentices moved quickly, hastened by the sharp tone from their teacher, grabbed Kendre’s shoulders and forced her to lay on the bed. A moment or two later, Kendre began to stop writing. “Good. The medicine is starting to work. Keep her still.”
By the time Bethak had finished, the night had matured and most of the men had left the doorway of the house. A small cry was heard, and the two guards, no longer caring for their duty, rushed into the room. They were followed by two men: Kendre’s father and husband. The blacksmith and the miller’s son.
“It’s a boy. Though, I’m afraid the long birth may have done him harm.” With the child in her arms, not yet washed, Bethak turned to show the new entrants.
All gasped. Kendre’s mother collapsed to the floor, to be quickly cradled by Jont, her husband, who had turned a nauseous green colour. Jurane, the eldest of the women, lowered her head and closed her eyes. Flen rushed to his wife, stroking her sweat-covered pretty face in fear. “What happened?” He avoided looking at the still open belly of his wife as he pleadingly asked for explanation from the midwife.
“I do not know. I haven’t ever seen anything like this, this disaster.” She looked at the poor girl laid open and then snapped an order to the the older of the three apprentices. “Sew her up, you fool!”
A few minutes of silence followed as Kendre was sewed shut. Bethak washed the boy, then wrapped him in the sheets, her hands shaking as she did so. “Would you like to hold your son?” Arms outstretched, her eyes pleaded with Flen.
He took the infant, looking at him with disdain. Skin as pale as fresh snow allowed what seemed like every vein to be clearly visible and hair far too thick, was just as white. Matted still from birth, the hair looked a mess and as Flen ran his hand softly through it to try smoothing it out, his hand was left full of near see through strands. A tear fell down his cheek.
It took a few minutes for Flen to notice the strangest aspect of his newly born first child. His eyes. The irises were a pale red and he swore they glowed with a crimson hue. Even through his lids, the light was clearly noticeable. Flen started to cry.
Jurane laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder, also looking down at the child. “What are you naming him?”
“Look at the boy, Jur! Look at him! And all you’re concerned about is his name?!”
“Shh. Don’t make the poor child cry. I see him perfectly well, and while he is different, inexplicably so, he will need you and his mother more than any child ever has.”
Understanding the distress in the room, and the hardships ahead, Bethak ushered her three assistants out of the room and followed them, leaving Flen, Jurane and the others to recollect themselves. “How can I look at him when he’s like… Well, how he is?”
“You will learn.”
Months and years passed and Jurane had been right. Kendre and Flen did learn to love their son, and they showed the boy, who they had named Jerod, as much affection and love as had any other parents. Perhaps even more. They allowed him to learn the art of the blacksmith, and despite being young, he showed great prowess.
“Happy birthday, Jerod.” Kendre looked at her son as he entered the small lounge of the single floor home. He was now thirteen, and the past year spent at the forge had transformed him from a sickly whip of a child into what hinted at a strong man.
“Thank you, mother. Granpa let me take the day off, so I can relax all day.” His voice still held the pitch of a lad not yet approaching adulthood. As he sat down, he moved his hand to wipe at a stray hair, though stopped short. Even now, it had the tendency to fall out if touched and he had only a thin covering anyway, though still long.
“You should play with your friends today then.” Kendre had lost the youthful beauty she possessed all those years ago, and though still quite young, her appearance was that of a much older women. The years had played heavy on both her and Flen: People did not accept their child, seeing him as a freak, and on several occasions were they nearly thrown out of the village.
Jerod only nodded, and jumped up to leave the house. He had taken what ridicule and taunting his parents could not prevent with surprising resilience. Often he had not been aware of any such talk, but when he was, a simple shrug was all he gave; dismissing any and all insults.
When he got outside, the village was busy in preparation for the second largest event of the year: the Springtide Ball. A festival of the upcoming work and beauty; everyone would be dressed in their best and enjoying the company of each other in dances, food and merriment. Jerod was looking forward to the event this year. He’d finally ask Herryl for that dance he’d dreamed of so often.
“Jerod!” He looked to where the shout had originated, smiling widely when he saw the pig-faced Mical running towards him. Giving a wave, Jerod waited for his life-long friend.
“Look at it,” the veiny lad swept his arm grandly to take in the village green and all the preparations taking place, “Springtide Ball! It’ll be the best yet!”
“You’re still planning on asking her for a dance?” For a young boy so faced like a baby, Mical’s voice was surprisingly deep. Mayhap the extra year he had on Jerod made all the difference between their pitch.
“Without doubt. I can feel tomorrow is the right time.” He twirled a little, mocking a popular dance. “Then we’ll be dancing all night ’til dawn!” He laughed, which came out more like a giggle.
“Speaking of which, there she is.” Pointing off into the crowd, Mical signalled that Herryl was on the green. Jerod blushed.
“Shh, you dolt. I don’t want to draw more attention than necessary, and your pointing off at people won’t help.”
“Well, look who’s snappy today. Your birthday doesn’t give right to act like a thorn-footed mule.”
Jerod playfully punched at his friend’s arm with feigned anger. Then he ran down towards the green and all the preparations: They were just as much fun as the Ball itself. At least, for the younger ones who could simply watch and have their excitement build up.
Reaching the crowds with Mical only a short distance behind him, Jerod gave hellos to a few of the people he knew, and started to look around at all the activity. Cloth pavilions striped red and blue were organised with tall poles between them, rope hanging for the lamps that would be placed at the various loops, tables being set beneath their roofs where food would be laid out for all to feast upon, and food was being cooked. The smells of potatoes, parsnips and chickens filled the air, boiling in large cauldrons that Jerod himself had helped to make at the forge, roasting over open spits that were guarded by the young men of the village against dogs.
Conversation filled the air: countless discussions about the food and dancing to come; orders being shouted; hands being hit by wooden spoons and protestations at not yet being allowed to taste what was in the pots; happy playing of the younger children who simply were soaking up the enjoyment, still too young to fully understand the event; whispers of discontent as people noticed the white haired boy with glowing red eyes, unhappy at his presence here - at an event intended for decent folk.
Herryl. He would have noticed her in a crowd of thousands, but today Jerod was entrapped inside the beauty he saw. A slim girl with brown hair that bounced as she walked, loose curls framing a pretty face that was slightly tanned.
“Jerod? Jerod!” Micah pushed the younger boy who then jumped a little. “Welcome back to the real world. Stop staring, donkey mind, it’s weird.”
“What are you talking about? I only glanced at her.” A mild frustration was in his voice as he returned the push.
“A five minute glance?” Micah stuck out his tongue and laughed heartily.
“Leave me alone.”
“I think I will actually.” Micah then whipped around the corner of a pavilion, disappearing into the crowd. Jerod once again found himself sighing.
For a while longer the boy stood around, taking in the buzz of activity, then found himself face to face with Herryn. He hadn’t ever been able to blush, but the veins on his face seemed to grow, as did a lump in his throat. He simply stared at the girl, not able to form words.
“What?” Herryn’s voice was musical, and yet held a biting tone. “This is what a normal person looks like, do you not understand? No one wants to see your face. It’s offensive.” She walked off with a strut.
Jerod fell to his knees. As his hands hit the grass beneath him, tears began to fall and his body shook violently as he tried to absorb the words spoken to him. He’d received the taunts before, been told that he was unwelcome, yet he had never reacted to them. All of a sudden, however, it was as though the pain of all those other occasions had been let loose. He let out a scream as he saw, quite literally, red. “Damn you all! Might a curse be left on all your heads.”
Flen, who had been putting up yet another pole, heard his son’s wail and ran to him. People in the green watched the boy, his face contorted with anger, and backed away. “What’s wrong son?”
“Leave me alone!” Jerod shouted again, and as he looked at his father, even he shifted, quite unwillingly, away from his only child. Eyes no longer had just a crimson glow to them, it was as though they were aflame. He screamed again, tears still running down his face, though it sounded more like a roar: animalistic, predatory, angry.
Then it began. On his clothes fire burst forth, as though a physical manifestation of anger. Of hatred. Of pain. Then it exploded. The sound was deafening, and a moment later the green was wrapped inside a fire that burned near white-hot. Screams were heard faintly behind the roar of the destructive dance of flames; people being burned alive as a thick black smoke rose over Vejar.
Quickly the fire spread, expanding to the houses, engulfing all within its ever-growing mass. As it grew, it became hotter, searing through wood and brick like a knife through butter. Until, after only a matter of seconds, it was gone.
And with it, so was the village, its people, its buildings, the pavilions and all the grass. No sign was left that this small area of land had been a village; except for the large scorch upon the earth, leaving a black-brown scar on the land.
It was an end. It was a beginning. It was death, and it was birth.
Saladin Akara General, General Writing
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