Here is an excerpt from the novel that I am working on. It is a first draft so pardon some of the more technical missteps and please let me know what you like and what you don’t like, and yes, feel free to correct grammar and spelling errors as well. I welcome the help. Be brutal, it is for my own good. Thanks a lot for taking the time to read it and to tell me what you think. I will be posting some more of the story from time to time. You decide whether that is a promise or a threat:)
He would have to break camp soon. He could feel it coming. Too bad, this had been a good place, a profitable place. The natives were friendly and willing to trade, and game was plentiful. And he’d acquired quite a taste for the local salmon jerky that was such a staple here throughout the winters. The winters, while wet and grey and infinitely depressing, were actually quite mild and, with proper preparation and a little Indian know-how, he managed quite nicely through the colder months, thank you.
His idyllic little world here was about to be lost to him, lost forever and eternally tainted with hatred and death. He was powerless to stop it. Even worse, he didn’t want to stop it. A part of him actually reveled in it. The rage was freedom. Within the rage there were no constraints, no holding back. No conflict between good and evil. That always came later. In the rage, evil held sway. Pure, mindless, unadulterated.
He couldn’t recognize its approach on his own, but he’d learned to read the signs in the eyes and the actions of those around him. People would begin to shift uneasily and look to the side as they did business or exchanged greetings or other social formalities. He had never been much of one for social niceties, but he recognized the value of gaining the trust of the party that you must deal with, and he also understood that in these small villages, how you treated one was how you were perceived to have treated the entire community. Their connection to and empathy for each other was beyond belief. If more people understood that fact there might be a lot more commerce occurring and a lot fewer natural hairpieces on the market.
None of that mattered now. He would be moving on soon, and he’d better be ready for it because there would be no time to pack. There never is.
He took a long look around and breathed it in, as though he could preserve this moment and this place like the future breathes in the present and expels only the past. Things were about to get very complicated, and you can bet that his face would find its way onto a few more wanted posters. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. This was as much a part of him as was the voodoo that his grandma taught him in the islands when he was a little boy, before hopping onto the merchant ship at twelve and began learning the cruel but enlightening lessons that life holds for a boy brave or foolish enough to run away to sea. Ultimately, those lessons in the dark arts as well as the harsh life at sea had served him well.
His camp was set up with both comfort and portability in mind and as such would not take long to roll up and load onto his mules. If he didn’t want to lose everything and have to start over again with nothing he would be best served by packing it all up now and have all but his bed-roll next to the pen and the mules and horse geared up and ready. The rage was already building and he knew that it would be only a matter of time and opportunity. If opportunity presented itself soon, he could perhaps deal with it and be on his way, with no one having any reason to look for him until he was well out of the territory. If it did not present itself soon, the rage would build to an uncontrollable level and he would then make his own opportunity. At that point, he would not care or even be aware that anyone was witness to the gruesome appeasement to the rage. At that point the rage and he would be one and woe to any who might be in its path.
© Ron Buedefeldt September, 2010