Wow, are you guys lucky....

....or not. Well. Instead of working on something to put up on my blog, I spent the last two days taking tests, buying books and devouring "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara (which, by the way, is the inspiration for one of my favorite films on the Civil War). So tonight you get the first chapter of my NaNo 2010 unedited and unfinished novel, Reapers. Oh, joy. This isn't the absolute beginning of the book--there's a prologue, too, but it's slightly new and I was hesitant about posting it. I pretty much loathe this first chapter, but I love Reapers' characters, and hopefully you will, too =)

<3, Elisabeth




Reapers: Chapter One

The water buckets were not heavy, but Twink crept along the empty dirt road as if he was walking on graves. He glanced constantly over his shoulder at the well, licking his lips in anticipation. I’ll bet my entire beetle collection that Bross and his thugs are hiding in those bushes. Well, let ‘em come; I’m ready!

            He turned his attention back to the road just in time to see Bross and his accomplices jump out from behind the broken-down wall on the side of the road. Twink shrieked right before they fell on him, flattened him, and spilled his hard-earned water across the road.

            Twink lay, face-down, in the dust. He sneezed. Maybe I wasn’t as ready as I thought. He felt hands on his back, then fingers in his ribs as he was hoisted to his feet. He stared dumbly into Bross’s tiny eyes before he was dropped, kicked, and flattened some more.

            “So.” Bross, done with beating Twink into the ground, set him down to lecture him instead. “You think a no-good orphan slave like you can hang around with my Yunny?”

            Twink would have gagged, but his mouth was still full of dust. He coughed instead. Yunny, the baker’s daughter. He knew her, but he had a strong aversion to any kind of girl, even one who was heir to a bakery. ‘Sides, he thought with a hint of offense, every airhead in Carper’s Creek knows she’s Bross’ girl.

            “Well?” Bross crossed his arms and stood with his bare feet splayed like a fat goose’s. His cropped brown hair hung down to his eyelids and he had to blink often to keep it from obstructing his view. “What’d you have to say for yourself?”

            Twink spat out the dust in his mouth. “I’m not a slave.”

            Bross’s fist landed neatly in his stomach. “About Yunny, dolt.”

            “I didn’t see your dumb sweetheart today,” Twink wheezed.

            “Not today. Yesterday.”

            “Yesterday? I didn’t even pass the bakery yester—”

            Another finely-placed punch ended Twink’s defense prematurely. Bross hoisted Twink and slammed him down, adding a few kicks. “I’ve had enough of you acting like you belong here,” he growled with a menacing tone to his scratchy voice. “You’re nothing but an orphan and a slave, and what I aim to don’s gonna help you remember your place.”

            “I ain’t no slave!” Twink protested as Bross’ fellows grabbed his arms and legs. Laughing and hooting, they hefted Twink above their heads. He howled and kicked, but their meatloaf-sized hands wouldn’t loosen. Since brute force wouldn’t help him, Twink craned his neck and tried to see where they were headed. Oh, the well. A dunking’s for sure, just like the one last week. He held his nose in anticipation.

            But they marched past the well, crashed through the prickly bushes and onto the open land. Twink stopped pinching his nose and began to struggle again. The tiny village of Carper’s Creek was disappearing and a thin green line was visible on the horizon, a line which no one from the village ever approached. Even the land around it wasn’t farmed. As the boys trooped closer, they began to make less noise. Twink noticed, but he continued to shout loudly. Maybe they’ll get scared and turn back, he thought optimistically. Even Bross was treading carefully as they stepped into the shadows of the giant trees.

            “You’d better turn back,” Twink cried noisily. “The spirits’ll get you!”

            “No,” Bross replied, putting on a face of bravery. “The spirits’ll get you.” He waved the boys onward. “Come on, lads! Let’s hang Twink out to dry!”

            Twink’s optimism vanished. “You’re gonna do what?” he demanded as they rushed into the forest. Branches clung to his clothes like skeletal hands and scratched at his face. “Bross, what did you say?”

            Bross only laughed. The boys wouldn’t go far into the forest; they talked Bross into stopping by a short, white tree which was within view of the forest’s end. “Fine,” Bross growled. “What’s the difference where we do it?” He produced a vine from his ample pockets and motioned to the others.

            “You’re making a big mistake!” Twink screeched. But he was flipped over the branch all the same. They bent his knees so that he hung upside-down, then quickly tied the vine around his legs. When they stepped back, he hung suspended in the air. They laughed uproariously when he swung his fists at them. “Lemme down, you fly-faced cockroaches!” Twink shouted. “When I don’t come back tonight, my—” He stopped, ashamed at what had almost come out of his mouth. 

            “Your what?” Bross stuck his face close to Twink’s. “Your master? Is Old Bartholomew gonna come after us? It’s not like he’s your daddy. I’ll bet he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

            “No,” Twink whispered, averting his eyes. I’m not a slave. Already he could feel his face becoming red as the blood gushed to his head. The boys traipsed off, leaving him alone.  

            Leaves rustled around him and he heard birds cry strange, warbling calls, sounding as if they were gargling water in their tiny beaks. He pulled himself up and scrabbled at the vine, but it was as thick as it was rough, and he only succeeded in cutting his bare legs. Exhausted, he swung back down. The world looked strange upside down. He remembered that the forest was called the Everlasting Forest in Carper’s Creek because the trees never died. Now the frowning trees stood on their heads; the barely-visible sky was where the ground should be. Or at least he thought it should be. He blinked. His vision blurred, refocused, blurred again. He put his hands to his face and could not feel his fingertips. He cried feebly for help.

            A cloud of black began to devour the world from the outside in. Then, only a hazy circle was left. He saw the leaves on the ground and small, bare silver feet. Strange. They were upside down, too.

            Then the world descended into darkness.

Twink’s eyes cracked open. The world was dark, but a different kind of dark—a natural dark. He glanced up—or rather, down—at the sky. It was totally black. Great. That makes my being caught in a tree at night in a haunted forest all the more creepy. He shivered as he remembered Bross’ words about the spirits. But those are just wives’ tales. Leaves rustled again over his head, and he looked quickly around. I think.

            With a grunt, he raised his arms and caught the tree branch with groping fingers. He heaved and huffed his way into an almost-sitting position, with his legs tied uncomfortably on the other side of the scratchy branch. He felt light-headed for a long moment; then warmth began to seep into his cheeks and sent his head swimming. He sighed with pleasure.

            Something snapped behind him. He turned around and peered into the darkness, frowning. Maybe it’s Bross, come back to flatten me some more. Or it could be Old Bartholomew looking for me. When he finds me, he’s gonna flatten me, too. He swallowed and stared harder, trying to force the darkness to give up whatever it was hiding. Then he saw something move.  

            A shadow, even darker than the night, was moving slowly past him. Its feet were almost silent on the dry leaves. Its face was hidden, but its hands—long, bony and sickly white—were clearly visible against the gray trees. Twink’s throat closed, and he froze. Either that’s a spirit, or I’m still knocked out.

            More dark shapes came, until the forest writhed with them. They dispersed, slinking through the trees like foxes ready to rob a bird’s nest. He couldn’t breathe when one approached a tree which stood right next to him. It stopped, raised its huge hands, and placed them firmly on the tree’s side.

            Twink’s whole body jolted and he nearly fell over backwards when the first scream sounded. It was a long, painful, lilting scream, almost like the strange bird songs he had heard earlier. He clapped his hands over his ears with a shout as more screams sounded. What’s happening? All the people from Carper’s Creek swore that the sound they heard on moonless nights was only the wind howling through the trees, but no wind could have made that sound. The shadows moved from tree to tree, and the screams turned to wails. Twink cried with them, and he realized that the tree under him was shaking.

With unsteady hands, he tried to undo the knot which Bross had tied. Come on… come on! He yelped as a dark shape darted past, lost his balance, and whipped around the tree’s limb to his usual upside down position. The dark shapes moved to and fro, back and forth. They brushed past him, their touch cold and hot at the same time.

            “Hey! Help!” Twink shouted at the top of his lungs. He clutched at the tree’s side, trying to sit up once more. His hands touched something soft, and it moved. He shrieked and recoiled.

            A girl had appeared next to him on the branch, a girl with moon-silver hair and white skin. Her large, gray eyes shone even though there was no light. He gaped at her, speechless. Then a dark shape began to approach, and he shouted again. “Help! Please!”

            The girl moved closer to him and found the vine. Twink felt her cold fingers on his knees as she struggled to untie the knot. Then, all of a sudden, the vine snapped, and Twink landed on his head in the underbrush.

            “Flee!” The girl leapt down from the tree, pulled him to his feet and shoved him towards the open land. “Quickly, flee!”

            He tripped and fell and scrambled and crawled to the fields beyond the forest. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. His knees ached, and his head throbbed along with his heart. But he pulled himself up and spun around anyway. He caught a glimpse of the girl, rushing like a shaft of starlight through the dark shapes. She reached the white tree and disappeared—it was as if she had melted into the tree before his very eyes. The last thing he saw of her was a small, silver bare foot; then it, too, was gone.

            Twink’s bravery snapped. He bolted pell-mell across the field, past the bushes, around the well, up the dirt path. The wails faded until they really did sound like the wind. He slowed, stopped, tried to keep moving. The lights of Carper’s Creek danced before his eyes like a million fireflies. He reached out towards them.

            Then he fell to the dirt road, and tasted dust in his mouth. Funny, he thought before the fireflies disappeared. This taste seems familiar.