It's been a while since I last posted a snapshot of my novel but it has progressed steadily, if not spectacularly. Nights of success in which I have written 3,000 words or more have been followed by days of inaction. But I have calculated it has now reached about 60,000 words and the expedition is embedded deep in the deadly heart of war torn Africa.
After another 10,000 words it will reach viable novel length and I'm guessing it will end up above that. Still there are plenty of reminders of the prosaic world around me that would divert me from my course. My novel, still nameless, is a means of escape to world of the explorers, that was long since vanquished. Even the conquest of the moon was eons ago and the first man to set foot on that lonely satellite is now dead. Without our dreams we are dead also.
They were only half a mile from the dockside
but the city was deserting them and the jungle again slithered into the
suburbs. There were abandoned houses which had been filled with thick creepers
and burrowing ants and wicked looking razor wire fences that rusted into the
jungle but could inject their corrosion into anyone unlucky enough to fall into
them.
Henri Rousseau
But although many years had passed since Salida had taken this path, he
seemed to instinctively know each kink through the trees. He even found a small
wooden bridge. After leaving the city with the small light afforded by flicking
strip lights, they plunged into a teeming darkness where webs and
creepers brushed their face. They put on the infra red goggles of the kind
Moriarty had used years earlier in the Falklands War and the trees were
transformed into quivering white mushrooms glowering out of a fuzzy green backdrop.
For two hours they negotiated the vines and
thickness of the forest, feeling the sweat gathering on their bodies even in
the early hours, brushing off hairy spiders and other nefarious creatures with
their gloved hands. Then unexpectedly the trees petered out and they found
themselves on a scrubby plain that crunched under foot.
The early momentum was
fading. Fighting through the thickness of the jungle had sapped their energy
but the trees had protected them from the realities of a war torn country. Here
they were in open ground and exposed with just the darkness to protect them.
And a small milky light over the distant eastern mountains shone like a warning
of time running out.
After stumbling over roots the party made quick
progress across the open ground but stopped abruptly when a huge metal object
reared up from the grass.
“Down” hissed Moriarty.
In front of them the gun of a tank had risen up
against the sky. They lay embedded in the grasslands but there was no movement.
Salida inched around to the right and finally stood up and gave them the all
clear to move. The back of the turret had been blasted off and the tank still
gave off a sharp tang of seared metal.
“If there’s a tank here we need to be aware of
other hazards,” said Moriarty.
“Check the ground carefully,” said Michael.
His advice was cut short by small scream to his left.
Moriarty made out Rebecca in his night vision goggles, an arm raised
desperately in the air.
“What is it?” he said, moving quickly toward
her. He felt something desperate in her manner and thought of the night in the
cabin before he reached her.
“Look. I don’t know I stepped on something.
There was a click.”
Moriarty breathed deeply.
“OK. You think it’s a landmine.”
“I think it’s a land mine.”
“You’re probably OK. That’s what happens in the
movies. They click and when the pressure is removed they explode but that makes
no sense. Actually you just step on them and they explode.”
“Right. I’m sure you’re right, but I’m not 100
percent,” she said, Her words were coming at him fast.
“I don’t want you to take the chance. Just stay
there.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Right.”
Moriarty got on his hands and knees and crawled
toward her.
“Moriarty get back. I’ll take my foot off it.
If it’s a mine there’s no point in both of us dying.”
“Don’t do anything,” replied Moriarty, an edge
coming into his tone. “I’m coming to you. Don’t argue.”
He could see something metal gleaming under
Rebecca’s left foot. Smooth and round. It could be ordinance. Moriarty was
almost certain it wasn’t but the small margin for error was making him sweat.
He got down under her boot. He could see an edge and something else; possibly
writing.
“OK take your foot off it, Rebecca.”
“I shouldn’t jump as far as I can.”
“No. Just take your foot off it.”
There was no explosion or crunch of bone
leaving tendon. Rebecca raised her long leg and Moriarty pulled a piece of
metal from the ground and waved it in the air.
“You were right to be concerned. It’s diet
Coke. Aspartame is a very dangerous additive,” he said.
The party giggled at the landmine scare but it
made them think very carefully about their next step.
At 5 a.m. they found a dirt road. Salida
paused. “It’s better to go across country but the light will catch us in open
country. We should probably take the road but there may be government or rebel
forces. If there are just one or two we take them out. If not we think of a
Plan B fast,” he said.
By now a grey light was creeping over the land
and it would be possible for a sentry to make out the party. Moriarty also knew
war bred fatigue and complacency and it was common to see ragged bands of armed
men roaming around.
The low road took a straight path across the plain and
disappeared over the ridge of a hill. An indistinctness glazed the hill that
worried him slightly. The men could make out the black line of more trees
beyond it. Salida said they were heading for the trees and had just a couple of
miles to cover down the road, but they could be two dangerous miles out here in
the open.
Everywhere they saw tank tracks as well as other detritus of war such
as abandoned carts and boots.
Salida stopped and looked at the tracks. “There
was some heavy artillery here very recently,” he said. “And look at this.”
He picked up a dog tag and wiped off the mud.
“This is from a soldier in the national army. If he lost his tag, he’s almost
certainly dead.”
Half a mile down the road they stopped where a
maelstrom of tracks and marks in the mud seemed to indicate a frenzied event
that was out of the ordinary. Then they heard a distant muffled noise, a “bop,
bop, bop” low against the hulls.
“Gunfire,” said Moriarty. “I would guess
there’s a front line of sorts but it’s some distance from here.”
“Moriarty,” said Michael. He was pointing to a
dark object by the road side.
They looked and saw what appeared to be a pile
of old clothing. They looked more closely and saw teeth. His eyes were as vacant and as white as the
sky above the mountains and his body was kinked and convulsed. He was not much older than 15 but a rifle lay useless next to him in the road. Someone
emitted a sharp gasp when they saw the lower half of his legs were blown,
mutilated and bled into a sump of blood that had filled a ditch by the side of
the road.
Moriarty felt Rebecca’s hand touching his arm
lightly. “Moriarty. He’s alive.”
The boy had moved his position. Moriarty remained
silent, but Rebecca saw his expression and understood they could do nothing.
The boy was far beyond the help of armies now. Moriarty put his water bottle on
his mouth. He wasn’t sure but thought he made out a flicker of
recognition as
much of the water flowed away down his chin to join the rivulets of blood.
They walked on in silence after seeing the boy.
Half an hour later a pall of dark smoke coiled its way across the path.
Moriarty remembered the haziness he had noticed earlier. They smelled a terrible rottenness like a stench
from the core of the earth. On the plain to the north of them a large mound
rose from the scorched grass and smoke drifted from its innards. The path wound
ever closer to it and although they could see no soldiers around, they dreaded
every step forward.
Finally the details became apparent. They made our forms,
now grotesque and scarecrow-like, bloated and mutilated, abject hands and
scraps of uniform. Moriarty felt a low clanging inside of him. He had guessed
from half a mile away but he knew from the low sob that emanated from Rebecca
she had only just realized.
The bodies of the defeated burned up there high
above the path. They didn’t know if they were government troops or rebels or if
they died on the field of battle or were rounded up and executed later.
Moriarty ignored Rebecca’s instructions back on the boat. He threw his arm
around her and turned her face away from the pyre. He felt the sobs wrack
through her and she fell slightly and leaned on him. Only when they had rounded
a corner and were back in the trees did she move from his grip but it was less
defiant than hopeless. He felt they were circling the very heart of the
darkness.
It was light by the time they found a concrete
house hidden by trees on three sides with a long dirt track that connected it
to the outside world on the other. This was the home of Mariba, Andy Salida’s
cousin and they place where they would recuperate before setting out on the
next leg of their journey.
Mariba was a sad eyed woman who confirmed the
war had come very close. Two days ago there had been a battle down on plain.
She had hid in the forest with her children while rebel forces ransacked her
home. But while the rebels had been firing their guns into the trees and
shouting victory songs, they had been ambushed by government soldiers on the
plain. Many people had died on both sides but the rebels had been driven back
and their bodies littered the battlefields.
“We saw many bodies burning down there,” said
Salida. “Were they the rebels?”
“Who knows?” the woman replied with a long
sigh. “Just the dead. So many dead. And Marcel went to fight the rebels but
never came back.”
You have a very nice writing style, David. Keep going. You're in the zone, and that's a good place to be.
ReplyDeletexoRobyn
Thanks a million Robyn - always good to be in the zone xo
DeleteCongrats on making it so far, you are definitely very talented. :)
ReplyDeleteyou are too kind but not published like you Alyson :)
DeleteWonderful job with this, David. It is fast-paced and suspenseful, and once again I felt pulled along in the story. Congratulations on hitting 60,000 words! That's a significant amount of writing.
ReplyDeleteThanks Daisy - it's kind of rough draft but am happy to have written another 3,000 words or so over the last two nights..
DeleteAnything about Africa gets my attention. More to the point, your writing grabbed me. A tinge of Heart of Darkness suspensful melancholy and a dash of South African charm -- you're definitely well-read and know your subject matter. I want to be the first to purchase your book when it comes out.
ReplyDeleteThe problem with health care in the States is too many people can't separate politics from hard stats.
for real Kittie - didn't you live there? Well I hope but my country is fictitious - I'll let you know when it's published..
DeleteThat's wonderful David. Especially the bit about not knowing whether she had stepped on a mine or not. 60,000 words is quite a feat - congrats on getting this far! Keep going... :-)
ReplyDeleteThanks Li - you are a great writer so it means a lot :)
Delete"Aspartame is a very dangerous additive." Ha! Wow, David, 60,000 words! Gosh that must feel so good. Better when it's done, yes, but it's coming along nicely. Very engaging, and the imagery, well, it stays with you! I hope you find more nights of success for those last 10 or 20 thousand words! Very exciting. :)
ReplyDeletethanks Jayne - now completed - yeah aspartame is badass :)
ReplyDelete