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Down The Rust Shelf Road (El Camino, Chapter Two)
🕑 Added 2022-01-16 21:10:25 +0000 UTC~ The continuing, improvised story of three adventurers and their beloved car, under the working title (and Patreon tag) "El Camino." ~
( Chapter One > )
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CHAPTER TWO.
Eyman wanted to demonstrate that he was fit to hold The Traveller’s keys. If he hesitated any longer in choosing which of his brothers would join him in the front of the car, though, they would notice, and it would not instil confidence in them.
He waved Faris into the car, saying, “okay, get in.” If he left the choice open, he figured Faris would call shotgun and Susa would concede with his usual quiet acceptance of such things. That was often how it went. Eyman thought he might as well take credit for it.
Faris slammed the door behind him, a solid, reassuring sound. Susa vaulted into the bed, brushed snow from one of the seats, and perched on it with the kind of casual ease that said I am at home here. He raised his scarf to cover his chin and nose.
Faris opened the sliding window between the front and the rear bed and said to Susa, “give us a knock if your fingers start to fall off.”
Thumbs-up from Susa.
Eyman said, “that’ll be hard to do if his fingers fall off,” wanting to lighten the mood after his frightening brush with almost having to make a hard choice.
“Listen for the clunk, clunk, clunk, of my icy stump on the glass,” said Susa.
As Eyman revved The Traveller’s engine, each man held Ranulf’s frail little sapling in their mind, perhaps saying a silent goodbye, perhaps hoping to hear one in return.
“Do we know how to find him again?” Faris asked.
“Forty-three kilometres from the east fork,” said Susa. “And you can count the kilometres to the west fork, since you’re so warm and free from distraction in there. Not a lot of spruces along the Rust Shelf road, though. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Does it look like it will survive?” Faris said.
“I chose well,” said Susa.
“And it’s growing in a good spot,” said Eyman, thinking of Ranulf beneath it, feeding it. “It’ll be the strongest tree in the forest in a year’s time. We come back in a year, there’s no question, everyone will say, wow how does that forest grow in the shadow of such a massive spruce? It will be a wonder of the world.”
Faris laughed a small laugh of agreement. “No doubt.”
Eyman let up on the clutch, and The Traveller sent muscle down its length, into the rear axle.
The wheels spun. In the mud and snow, the car was not gaining traction. Eyman wondered if Ranulf was reluctant to let them leave. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll take good care of him,” meaning The Traveller. To Susa, he said, “jumpstart, please.”
Susa hoisted Faris’ heavy chestplate armour onto his back, because he would need the extra weight. Usually, when they gave the car a jumpstart, there were two of them. Now, it was solely up to Susa, who was the slenderest of the three. He held onto one of the crossbars in the back. When Eyman sent power to the wheels again, Susa jumped, landing directly above the axle. The wheels sunk their claws into the ground and The Traveller scrabbled forward, kicking and tearing, growling triumphantly, getting itself back onto the road.
They tore down the Rust Shelf road, heading toward Pristine Valley. Ranulf’s sapling receded into the winter forest behind. Each man kept at least one eye on it, holding it in their sight, until their beloved friend was swallowed by a bend in the road.
After an hour, they began to descend from the hills, and the crusty, frost-mangled surface of the dirt road gave way to muck and slush and slop. The Traveller splashed through all of it. Susa (whose fingers did not freeze off) sunk low in his seat to shelter from the thin rain in the lee of the cockpit, bobbing along with the jolts and jangles of the rutted road, patiently mending a tear in a pair of his breeches. He hummed a traditional Wood Elf song to himself, though he knew only part of it. In the front, the two brothers were silent, perhaps still thinking of Ranulf, perhaps chewing over the fresh troubles that awaited them at the end of the road. Their endeavour was complete, but despite everything that had gone wrong, despite Ranulf’s death, collecting their payment might be the hardest part.
In the small town of Cherry Springs—a town, by the way, which was not within a thousand kilometres of the nearest cherry tree nor a natural spring of any sort—a group of Concerned Citizens had posted a dangerous assignment, perfect for the sort of workers who were well-practiced at accomplishing such assignments. Ranulf had accepted it on behalf of his party. They had completed it. Now, the severed head of the leader of a distinctly, particularly, unpleasantly savage mob of goblins rode—packed in snow, Eyman’s idea—in a chest at Susa’s feet. True, to those who respect the inherent value of all living creatures this was a distasteful outcome, but that is the way it is with goblins, sometimes.
Cherry Springs was a human town, as they all were in the province of New Sweetwater, within the prosperous and harmonious Land of the Great Kings. What Cherry Springs lacked in pleasant smells, modern conveniences, and an informed populace, it also lacked in basic, common-sense decency, which is not to say this was a feature that distinguished it from any other human town in New Sweetwater. They were all like that.
Which meant that Eyman, his brother, and their brother-in-name-if-not-in-blood would not be welcome behind the wheel of an automobile. Not for any of the obvious reasons; tightly-knit parties of resourceful men who had (just between you and I: unfortunately) slaughtered more goblins than was strictly necessary were always welcome within Cherry Springs and the surrounding environs.
However, Cherry Springs would not embrace half-breeds. Under no circumstances would the town’s weak-minded imbeciles permit the day’s bright sunlight nor the night’s pure moon to shine upon an individual of mixed-race ancestry behind the wheel of a car, no matter how many goblins he or she may have (unfortunately) slaughtered. The way the humans figured it, all the other races had their natural-born blessings, but humans—burdened by short lives, dull senses, bad smells, and weak singing voices—had only their cars and guns. Thus, they guarded these things for themselves, savagely.
Each man in The Traveller happened to be of mixed-race ancestry, though you wouldn’t know it, to look at them. If Eyman and Faris told you they were half-Myrmidon, you’d see it. They were ever-so-slightly keener of eye, their shoulders were wider, their gait more precise, and gravity seemed kinder to them. If Susa told you he was half-Wood Elf, you’d see that, too. His ears were pointed, only they weren’t, not really, and his skin only had the quality of a starry night when you held him in your peripheral vision. You might easily chalk up his pale complexion to the amount of time he spent beneath a hooded cloak. If you wanted to see them as human, your eyes would let you. If you didn’t, they wouldn’t.
Ranulf was the only one of them whose both halves had been human (even though he seemed very dwarfish). As such, he was perfectly free to drive The Traveller, which he did whenever the party was beneath the public eye. He accepted the assignment on behalf of the party, as well. It was always easier that way. He should have been the one to collect the payment, as well. Instead, he was providing nourishment for a growing tree.
Pristine Valley opened up before The Traveller, a wide expanse of dust and steel-wool shrubs, painted in shades of grey by the rain. Eyman saw the thin scar of the road wind its way toward a smudge on the horizon, the town. He noticed, also, another scar which met the Rust Shelf road twenty kilometres this side of Cherry Springs. It led north, into the Gristle Hills.
Eyman questioned whether it was worth taking the risk of returning to Cherry Springs to collect their payment. If the town caught the slightest whiff of their backgrounds—if they ginned up the least bit of suspicion—the best case scenario is that The Traveller would be taken from them. Ranulf had always warned them against that. Would they have to fight? Would they have another slaughter on their hands? Eyman was so tired already, from the goblins and the grave-digging. His muscles were weary and his sword was dull. And the violence would have disappointed Ranulf. His sapling would wilt.
Susa would want to collect, based solely on the principle that a deal had been made, and so it must be followed through to completion, regardless of who might risk what. Faris would want the same because they had secured their accumulated savings in a vault in the town (even the dimmest of enterprising assignment-accomplishers knows better than to travel with a chest full of silver coin, especially if there is a chance of it falling into the hands of goblins, an outcome that is both embarrassing and universally frowned-upon). Nervous, Eyman squeezed the steering wheel, hard.
On the other hand, they could take the road into the Gristle Hills and forget all about Cherry Springs and its bigots. They had a can of fuel in reserve, knocking around next to the goblin head on ice. They could drive until serendipity or cleverness delivered new opportunities to them. They would be cowards, which would be difficult to live with, and Ranulf would have died in vain, but The Traveller would be safe and they would preserve this part of him that remained, that lived on, for the time being.
As they bore down on the fork in the road, Eyman slid open the window so that the three of them could confer. He was not so desperate to demonstrate his leadership abilities that he would make this choice on his own.
TO BE CONTINUED…
- - - - - - - Footnote - - - - - - -
1) My goal was to keep these instalments between 600 and 1000 words in length. On this—only the second instalment—I have failed! Ranulf would be disappointed.
2) Please consider the quality of this writing as very “first draft.” That’s just the nature of the constraints right now. I don’t intend to be making excuses, but if you’re thinking “hey there’s a really foolish typo here,” know that I would think the same thing, if I found it on a subsequent draft.
Comments
Tealin
TBH I'm hardly the reader I ought to be myself, so I hadn't noticed a gradual slide in the direction of present tense simply because I'm not keeping up with new books. It first occurred to me when a friend sent me a curated list of fanfics she thought I'd like, and easily 90% of them were present tense; from what I know of online fandom, I assumed this was a consequence of non-native English speakers finding the present tense easier to work with. But then I started seeing it EVERYWHERE, and hearing it in the books read aloud on R4, like when you learn a new word and suddenly everyone's using it. Maybe it's screenwriting? But there isn't much overlap in screenwriting and literary fiction worlds, AFAIK. When my sister first moved to LA, she was living with a lady who worked in live action, and was told that if you wanted a job in Hollywood, there was always a demand for script readers, as so few people could get their head around them. The format was one thing, but the present tense threw a lot of people. I wonder if that's massively changing, now. Absolutely first-person narration has to be better writing, or at least more personal and 'voice'-y – I'm happy to read someone talking about themselves but they have to be a compelling narrator in that case!
Tony Cliff
Ha ha ha, poor Ben.
Tony Cliff
Oh, this is a good question. In this case, I hadn’t really thought about it. For the previous writing project (“witch project”) I stuck to a strictly limited third-person past-tense voice. Of course, in revising it, I found a bunch of sequences accidentally written in present-tense. I dunno why, except brain farts. I have NOT noticed a trend one way or the other, but I also read too slowly to get through too many books. I am carrying a general disdain for present-tense voice in fiction, probably thoughtlessly grabbed from someone’s old-fashioned writing advice. But I can’t think why one would be better or worse than the other. Maybe ppl like the sense of immediacy in present-tense. Maybe it’s the influence of screenwriting (which is commonly present-tense, right??). Two things on this topic: 1) I feel like past-tense omniscient third-person is something I hadn’t read a lot lately, until Saunders and all his old Russian short stories. It feels more storyteller-y to me? More all-around-the-campfire? 2) I think I demand that the quality of writing be better for first-person narration? If you’re telling me “I” did this and that, you better be a charming narrator.
Tealin
P.S. I am also really loving this, sorry, I should have led with that ... Didn't know High Fantasy/Red State Grunge was a thing I was here for, but it turns out I am.
Tealin
I have a potentially stupid question, but: Tenses. All my life I've been reading fiction in the past tense. It makes sense (recounting a story that happened), is easy to parse, and although describing something that has already happened, does not impede my 'living in the moment' when immersed in the drama. But lately – I'd say in the last three years – it seems as though present tense is taking over fiction. Have you noticed this? Do you have any idea why this might be? There are a few books (thinking mostly of Light Perpetual, which is snapshots through time) where this is an artistic decision with direct bearing on the storytelling, but mostly it seems to be arbitrary. It's become so ubiquitous that I actually *noticed* your story being written in the past tense, with a jolt of unfamiliar familiarity like seeing 1994 fashions on the street again.
Ben Hatke
wow what a confusing reply I made. I just liked that line. But then here I go typing "it's" instead of "its."
Paul Gesting
I don't get it. "its" with the apostrophe is correct...
Tony Cliff
Yes, Ben? AND???
Ben Hatke
"Cherry Springs and it's bigots..."
