Sneak preview

So, I guess I'm writing a book now

This is the second draft of the prelude and first chapter of the book I’m apparently going to write. I was laid down in bed the other night trying to fall asleep when I realized I hadn’t taken my pills. When I returned from the bathroom I had this weird idea for a story. I was about to go to sleep, but then remembered that it would all be a foggy memory in the morning. I think this was as far as I got that first night.

The story is changing as I write it, so this is like one of those trailers they make before they know what happens in the movie. I did go back after I started to get a grasp on the world and its characters, so it should be more or less consistent with the other 11 chapters I’ve written so far.

So, in honor of crossing the 10,000 word [that was April 3rd: it’s 48,000 as of April 11] milestone I present you… the book I’m writing

With no further commercial interruptions

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Prelude

Late one evening as the Sun-Sow settled down to rest, the Great Songweaver eased himself down into a sturdy but well-worn chair in the corner of the small tavern where a rudimentary story circle was sketched on the ground in white paint that was not so subtly chipping away. The Sow was heavy with child and her progress across the sky had gradually slowed causing her light to linger much later than it had weeks earlier when the Songweaver had departed the Lily Court. Now as the Umbral Boar took her place in the sky, the Songweaver waited as the patrons slowly made their way to the circle.

He did not know how much of the Court’s influence reached this far, but certainly news of his exile must be known even here in the outlands. His voice, no longer as strong as it had been when he entertained the Falconer King half a century previous, had faltered in the annual recitations for the Marchioness, and within days the incoming Songmistress had assumed his post. Far younger, a beauty, and blessed with a wit and a talent for poetry not seen since the greatest days of the Isellyan Empire, the former Songmaster bore her no ill will: indeed it was with sincere admiration that he passed his auric master-robes to her and took up the argent weaver-mantle. Without so much as a mule or supplies for the road he’d been expelled from the Court.

The policies of the Courts were complex, but the title of Songweaver, even one in minor disgrace, bore a considerable amount of weight, especially here in lands belong to the cousins of the Marchioness. The Songweaver himself had been well-known throughout the regions he’d passed heretofore, and the journey had been mostly uneventful. He had enjoyed the farewells and generosity of the midland folk many of whom shed tears as he left these lands never to return, but the further he traveled from the great court the less his reputation held sway. Nonetheless, the sight of the silvery cloak accorded respect and had little to worry about in terms of food and shelter wherever he chose to stop.

The tavern had piqued his interest as he passed through the wooden gates of the town of Oleander--gates which hadn’t been shut in the many seasons of peace that had reigned in the outlands since the mountain bandits had been subdued. Its wood beams and bright plaster promised a meaty stew in the great pot and a soft bed in one of the few rooms above the common hall.

The Songweaver had not been disappointed in the former and eagerly awaited the latter. Nonetheless, his duty forbade him from slumber; at least, until he had repaid the tavernkeeper’s succor with a reading from the Early Tales. As he adjusted his sore legs beneath him in the thinly stuffed chair he counted the fellow travelers and the few villagers able to get away from the work before the Boar had fully claimed the sky. There were eight in the circle: not a great showing, but he imagined more would trickle in as the Boar climbed higher and his umbral light turned the skies dark.

With one last drag on the old curved pipe he carried with him--empty of course: his voice was his last remaining gift—he closed his eyes and began the story.

Chapter 1 – The Last Days of the Progenitors

Once in her celestial manor long ago, when the fertility goddess Agnaweha still lived, the leaves on the ivory trees in her sanctuary began to turn. From vivid white, she had watched them turn a barely noticeable soft pink. The goddess, well-knowing the meaning of the change set her jaw and went about her business. The seasons continued to pass, and soon the brilliant pink leaves left no doubt anywhere in the grounds of the Manor, that Agnaweha’s remaining time was short.

The leaves were not yet red, and none had begun to fall; there was time yet to ensure the continuity of her demesne. In the Manor in those days, Agnaweha maintained a lively court of lesser goddesses and gods. Some like the Muse Celivian had been there longer than she herself, and now it appeared all but one would outlast her. Agnaweha had long before decided the consort with whom she would conceive the next generation of gods: Markellod, the Stellar Warrior, had always been a favorite and none would provide safer passage to the mortal lands below. Even among her closest consorts, the Lady Miral and the genderless Hol, it was no surprise when the Goddess took his hand over theirs and led him up the grand staircase in the center of the Great Manor.

When they emerged a season gone, both visibly aged, they began the preparations for their descent into the mortal realms. Agnaweha took with her the ancient manuscripts of the Elder Kings as well as the enchanted maternal vestments guaranteeing a healthy delivery; Markellod brought only the hunting bow “Marsein.” The full coterie assembled to bid them safe travels as they left beneath the mulberry-tinged leaves of the ivory grove; all assembled knowing that the pair would likely not return.

None can know what the descent from the Celestial manor entailed: the two never spoke of it in the few days left to them. Markellod was a mighty god though just a minor diety, filled with fiery passions and endless energy, and whatever trials they faced, he protected the great mother goddess. In a few weeks they had traveled the many leagues separating the realms above from where the rivers meet.

Parting there, Agnaweha walked East to the mighty kingdom of Varha, whose borders spread far beyond those of the current kingdom. Markellod traveled up into the mountains of Yavir where hillfolk had long hunted the great curly-wooled sheep with spiraling horns the length of a man’s leg.

The goddess wound her way East and North following the Hezod through the vassal-states of the mighty kingdom. Agnaweha, unmistakable wherever she traveled brought with her joy and delight, and the fields through which she passed burst forth into new life unusual for the season, with the Sun-Sow unburdened from her piglets dashing with all haste from the Umbral Boar.

When she reached the castle where the Varha monarchs held court, she was received as an honored guest proceeding directly to an audience with her devoted follower the Queen Elekote and her husband King Savar II. The king and queen had married a few years previous and as yet the Queen had no heir to pass her kingdom to. The Ferility goddess gave her blessing to the union and invested within the Queen her goddess’s divinity. She bestowed upon them the gifts she had brought and stayed in the castle for many blessed weeks of rest before returning to the spot where she had last seen Markellod.

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Markellod’s own journey was far more fraught with difficulties.

The mountains of Yavir are known even civilized as they are today for their hostility, and the two gods had come in a particularly foul year. None but the hillfolk tribes knew the deer trails that led to sheltered paths leading to the safety of the network of villages and outposts above. Climbing blindly into these storm-blown mountains, even Markellod’s divine resilience and vitality were inadequate to prevent frostbite from claiming half the toes on one foot. Many nights he slept without food, as even with the bow that never missed its target he could not catch prey that did not exist.

At last bedraggled and barely alive, his bright flaming passion reduced to a sputtering flame, Markellod reached the summit where he beheld the largest encampment of the Yavir hillfolk. In those days the tribes of the Yavir people were a nomadic people with deep ties of kinship. They still practiced the old ways, and though Markellod’s arrival came in the midst of that terrible winter, the hospitality and kindness of the hillfolk did a great deal to bring the Warrior back from the brink of god-death.

So exhausted and worn down he had been when they found him, there were few that recognized his divine presence. Even the shamanic priests of the tribe had doubts that this poor creature could be the Flaming Markellod. For weeks he was unable to meet the hillfolk leaders, Satagur and Filagre, who his destiny had caused him to seek out, and it was only by presenting the unmistakable arch of Marsein that convinced them of his identity. Along with the bow that had never missed a target, Markellod too surrendered his divinity to bless the leaders’ thus far fruitless union.

His return trip, aided by an escort of scouts and hunters, was a great deal simpler than the ascent, and before long he had rejoined Agnaweha where the rivers met. The two no-longer divine gods still maintained a modicum of the necessary power to return home, though once again the travails of their return home none can know.

Their homecoming was a truly somber occasion; the Ivory boughs of the grove were shedding blood red leaves and even the Great Manor was growing cold.The remaining divinities sheltered and gave succor to the dwindling goddess and her consort until the last leaves, now the purple of dark wine, fell and the two succumbed to the final god-death from which none have returned.

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April 11th update

The book has changed a lot since I started it. It’s now very much queer lit, but it also deals with big issues like consent, depression, imposter syndrome, permanence and change, fate and free will.

When I first started it was going to be low fantasy: magic and gods were just supposed to be stories. It’s still grounded in reality, but I was having too much fun exploring magic in a queer space to not include a little.

My greatest fear is that it comes off as inauthentic, preachy, or even insulting to marginalized groups. I’m exploring subcultures that I’m curious about, and the book is written from the perspective of members of those subcultures while I myself am an outsider who wishes she could be a member of all of them.

At its core though, this book is about me and some of my lived experiences as if they belonged to a range of characters who are supportive and respectful, and in general want what’s best for each other. There isn’t supposed to be a villain (though their are some horrible people), the antagonist of the book is the tense conflict between destiny, personal freedoms, our needs, and the boundaries of others.

This stack hasn’t published yet, but I’ve made massive changes since I scheduled this a week ago. It’s now only 6 chapters (down from 29!), but each chapter is made up of a handful of stories and interludes. I’ve crossed the halfway point (240-pages, 48000 words in roughly 10 days) and am solidly in Act III. Everything important has been nailed down and it’s proceeding towards the climax and denouement. I believe the story will be finished by the end of the month, but I’m already wondering if it’s going to need a sequel to cover everything I want it to while still being a publishable length.

The version above is now a historical artifact of what the book might have been, but I’ll probably do some more previews down the road that show what the book is actually about.

Thank you my readers and subscribers for going on this journey with me. Because I’m in the zone on this book right now, there may be an interruption in my substack cadence, but I believe it will be worth the wait.

You matter to me: take care of yourselves and anyone else you can.