Several people have asked for an update. So here it is.
I am currently at 189,000 words — well into the final third of the novel.
I am still thinking September for completion of the first draft.
Chapter 82 is essentially a short story. It can stand alone because it is sub-plot, is primarily narrative, and is told from a unique point-of-view. In other words, it is exactly the kind of chapter that a commercial editor would want to cut.
I’m including the first draft of this chapter here for anyone who is interested.
As always, please remember that this is first draft. Therefore it contains almost nothing about environment and has not received any dialogue treatments yet. So expect it to change significantly in second draft.
82 – FEAST OF FLOWERS (1st Narrative Draft)
His father was arrested for possession of untaxed sugar, a cache of which was found in a hollow near his cowshed. The fine was six times the value of taxes owed on the sugar. The price of freedom then was the total of the taxes owed plus the fine. Until such time as the full amount was paid, he was to be incarcerated – along with his wife and son – in the Company lockup beneath Chateau Devall.
If the fine was not paid within the year, his farm would be auctioned by the Company. The amount owed, plus interest, would be deducted from the proceeds. In the event of a surplus, it was to be given to the family upon their release.
Lacking means to pay the debt and lacking family to help him do so, the farmer, his wife, and his young son languished in debtor’s prison while the Company undertook to auction their property and collect the fine. During the day, the farmer and his wife were taken from their cages and put to work earning their keep. Their child was left behind in their cage, alone and bored.
The jailer, a lonely old widower with fond memories of his long dead grandson, pitied the boy. There wasn’t much to do in lockup. Food came once a day. Shit buckets were emptied at the same time. The cells were mucked out regularly. The boy was allowed to help while the lazy guards – whose work he was doing – turned a blind eye.
It was a clear violation of protocol, but nobody cared. The governor of the day never came down to cages. There were never any problems the guards couldn’t handle themselves. So what happened below was the business of those who worked below.
When the farm went to auction and money changed hands, the governor’s clerk was surprised to discover that the farmer was still alive. This was not a common occurrence. The following day, while earning his keep on the deck of the bridge in the chateau’s second layer of defense, the poor man fell to his death. With no one to pay the fine, the fine remained unpaid.
One year turned into two. Then three. Then ten. The boy grew up in prison. Every day he slopped food into bowls, emptied shit buckets, and mucked out a few cages. Every day, his mother left her cell to clean privies or help with the washing.
The only break in the monotony of prison life came when events happened in the Great Hall, part of which was directly above the chamber that held the cages. On these occasions, the jailer would sneak the boy out of the lockup, block the door open with a stone, and join the guards on the wall. From this particular vantage point, they could peer through one of the windows and mock the fancy guests eating their fancy food and dancing their fancy dances.
Then came the plague. A visitor brought it into the chateau. It spread first to the boy’s mother while she was washing the visitor’s sheets. When the visitor passed, the doctors advised extreme measures and every servant showing any sign of the malady was put down. Their bodies were promptly burned.
Orphaned, the boy’s only friend, the widower began showing symptoms just a few days later. Damp with sweat, shivering on his cot in a cage at the back of the chamber, the old man begged for help, begged for the young man’s silence.
The plague, meanwhile, continued its cruel work. It took servants. It took soldiers. It took the clerk who stole the family farm and, eventually, it even took the governor. The young man, now entirely alone, inherited the job for which he had been apprenticed.
The Haff-land territory was without a governor for several months. The new governor, Pieter Devall, knew nothing of the old jailer or his successor. The young man was the jailer when Pieter arrived and so he continued to be the jailer until such time as the new governor might have reason to remove him.
Life, such as it was, droned on. The new jailer inherited a ring of keys, the old man’s few possessions, and his cot in an open cage at the back of the chamber. Every day there was a knock at the door. Two guards escorted two servants with a cart into the chamber. The jailer locked the door behind them.
Working as a team, they approached each cell. One guard unlocked the door and pushed the prisoners back into a corner while the attendant emptied the bucket and mucked the cage. The other guard managed the cell door while the work was being done. A few cells were mucked every day. While this was happening, the other attendant took a bucket and filled cups outstretched through the bars.
The names and faces changed over time, but the rhythm of prison life remained steady. Events in the Great Hall provided his only entertainment. New construction under the new governor, his only challenge. The arrival of the goliath, his only real excitement.
This day appeared no different. A knock at the door. Guards entered with the servants. One attendant emptied buckets and mucked cages. The gimp filled cups.
The jailer went to the slop cart, picked up a small bucket, and ladled it full from the larger bucket. He then carried the small bucket past the cages into the interrogation room and set it on the floor next to the plated steel door. Taking a lantern from a nearby hook, he made sure that nobody was in position to see through the doorway once it was opened. He then opened the door, picked the bucket up, stepped inside, placed the bucket on the floor, and closed the door behind him.
When the lock was secured, he walked to a nearby table and set the lantern down. The children in the cages stirred, shielding their eyes from the light. As always, he gave them a few minutes to adjust. There were three now, which meant the one strapped to the table was soon to pass on. The others were replacements. The governor would take what he learned from this death and the others that preceded it. He would add it to his notes, assess which of the two living subjects was best suited to his needs, and begin a new experiment.
As the jailer exited the room and closed the door, he heard clanging on the steel door at the top of the inside stairs. He recognized the code immediately.
“It’s the governor,” he said to the gimp as he tossed the small bucket into the cart.
Delaying as long as he dared in order to give them time to finish, the jailer carried his lantern up the stone staircase into the small room. He set the lantern on the table and slid aside the panel covering the door’s viewing slot. As expected, it was Governor Devall. Unexpectedly, he had company. In addition to several guards, the jailer spied three women he had never seen before. Two had horns; a smaller one had grey hair.
Nobody appeared to be under duress. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. So he closed the window and twisted the locking mechanism one way, then the other, listening to its clicks, and responding to feedback. Several heartbeats later, a final chunk sounded and the mechanism disengaged. The door squealed open and the guards streamed in heading straight for the stairway.
The governor instructed the jailer to lock the door and remain upstairs. The lady-in-waiting instructed an assistant to stay with the jailer then accompanied her mistress and the governor down the stairs.
As far as he could recall, only two people had ever used the chair in the small room at the top of the stairs. He was one and the other was long dead. But as there was only one chair and the visitor was a lady, the jailer offered it to her with a polite gesture. Smiling, she accepted and took a seat.
What to do next was unclear. Talking to people above his station was not permitted – unless it was necessary to complete whatever work they were assigned to do. So he leaned back against the wall and waited patiently for whatever might happen next.
As the jailer wondered silently about the matron, their eyes made contact and he quickly looked away. Fearful of consequences that might befall a man in his position for gazing at a woman in hers, he made a deliberate effort to fix his gaze on the opposite wall. At first, he was comfortable with his plan. Then it began to unravel.
Rummaging in her bag, the woman withdrew something and extended it toward him. Reluctant to move his gaze from the wall, his brain searched the dim light using only his peripheral vision. Whatever she was holding out to him, it was small enough to fit into her hand. Beyond that, he could say no more. Finally, when she began to wag her hand to draw his attention, his gaze broke from the stone wall and he beheld a tiny bottle.
Surprised, he looked instinctively at her smiling face and smiled back reflexively. Accepting the bottle, he nodded his gratitude and stuffed it into his pocket.
“My name’s Darjen,” she said softly, startling him. “I suspect we’re going to be here awhile.”
The sound of her voice dissipated much of his tension. Understanding that speech would not result in punishment changed the tone of their situation entirely. Now that they were speaking, it felt more like work. Their only assignment was to wait there. Not difficult, but an assignment nonetheless.
Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the bottle and examined it. “Liquor?” he asked curiously.
“A gift,” Darjen replied softly, “from our homeland.”
Pushing off from the wall and standing upright, he walked to the top of the stairs and listened intently. Their superiors were in the interrogation room, engrossed in conversation. Turning his back to the stairs, he took a step forward, and removed the tiny stopper. He was about to take a sip, when he remembered his old master and suddenly became wary.
“Ma’am,” he said, offering Darjen the bottle, attentive to every detail of her reaction.
“Oh my,” he sensed her flush in the lantern light. “How very stupid of me – yes – absolutely,” she tacked, reaching for the bottle and taking a swig before handing it back to him. “Please. I assure you. I meant nothing by it.”
“We’ve never met,” he explained, justifying his behaviour. “I have to be careful.”
“I understand,” Darjen agreed. “It was very inappropriate. To tell you the truth, I’ve never been in a prison before. So, I wasn’t thinking. I hope you can forgive me.”
The remainder of their time at the top of the stairs passed quickly. Sharing the small bottle back and forth, they quickly finished it. She quizzed him about his job, finding it fascinating; he quizzed her about hers, considering it glamourous. When the party returned up the staircase, they both stepped aside to clear the way for their superiors. As Darjen exited the room, the last of her party, she passed him another small bottle along with a coin with a lingering touch on his hand.
The silver coin was the first gift anyone had ever given him. That it was a gratuity for service was beyond his limited life experience. The coin therefore touched him – personally – in a way he had never been touched before. Late at night, he would lay on his cot in the lantern light rolling it through his fingers, examining every detail, wondering why she gave it to him.
One side of the coin featured the bust of a woman. He wondered if it was her. Did she have horns when she was young? Did she lose them when her hair turned grey? The other showed a man. Was he her father? Her husband? A hero of her homeland? The gimp didn’t know and he dared ask no one else.
Every time the mistress came to visit the goliath the lockup would fill with guards. Darjen was always with her and he longed to ask her about the coin, but they were never alone. With every visit, Dargen brought him a treat – wondrous morsels that delighted his mouth. Before long, he considered her the most wonderful creature in the world, a new friend, sent from heaven.
As the weeks rolled on, the mistress’ visits to the dungeon decreased in frequency. Opportunities to see Darjen dwindled. His happiness began to fade and loneliness crept back into his life. Now, however, he felt it more acutely than before. Life in Darjen’s absence was not merely monotonous, it was increasingly unbearable.
One night, as he was doing his final rounds, checking the locks on all of the cages, a knock at the door announced the arrival of the fiendling. The knock, however, was at the wrong door, it was not the correct sequence for that particular day, and whoever was knocking was definitely not a guard. While it was not at all unusual for someone to be confused about the codes, it was unusual for a knock that soft to be coming from the outside door. So he treated the incident with an extraordinary amount of caution.
Sliding the view guard slowly to one side and keeping his eyes well back from the slot, he peered warily into the night. “Raise your lantern,” he shouted through the door. A small hand reached up from below, illuminated by the lantern it was holding. Realizing it was Darjen, he reoriented himself and looked down at her through the slot.
“Here,” she said, pushing some cookies up to him. “I brought you these. I can’t stay, but I couldn’t imagine you going to sleep without them. They were brought today from Sioux. They’re amazing.”
The following night and every night thereafter, Darjen brought him treats. When her mistress didn’t visit the goliath, the haff-ra would appear at the outer door alone. Her code was always wrong, but that was OK: he knew exactly who it was. Her knocks rang through his memory like a melody. It hummed in his mouth like a lovesong filling the monotony of his day with a comfortable feeling he had never experienced before.
He wanted to give her something, a token of their friendship, something to demonstrate his genuine appreciation for her being. But as a man with nothing and little experience with friendship, he knew not where to begin. The gimp suggested flowers, which he thought a fine idea, but that would not be possible until spring. In the meantime, he racked his brain trying to think of something else.
Then came a miracle. It began, as did all unexpected events in his life, with a knock at the prison door. The guards, accompanied by the gimp and the other attendant, arrived for work as usual. But this time their work was accompanied by a twist.
“Be careful with this,” the gimp whispered, handing him a small piece of folded cloth as he headed toward the governor’s private cell with the small bucket. “One of the maids found it in the lobby. It fell out of the baskets they were delivering for the party.”
Alone, behind the secretive steel door, he carefully unfolded the bundle to find a stunning fresh flowerhead. His heart pounded in his chest as he examined it. His hands trembled as he rewrapped it, taking great care not to damage the delicate, fragrant bloom. He wanted to take it to his cage and hide it beneath his cot, but he feared the guards might see him with it and ask questions. So he chose instead to leave it on the counter and lock it in the cell with the children, where it would be safe until the guards were gone.
The rest of the day crawled by at an excruciating pace. Music from the Great Hall penetrated the chamber’s ceiling and hinted at a looming event. Normally, this would have captured his imagination. Normally, this would have given him reason to look forward to sunset. But this day only one thought filled his mind. Soon, he would see Darjen and present her with his gift.
A knock at the outside door just past midday threatened to upset all of his plans. Given the time, it could mean only one thing. A new prisoner was being deposited in his care. On one hand, a new prisoner would offer a welcome distraction. On the other, a new prisoner might interrupt his evening plans. As he approached the door, he prayed for something simple. The last thing he needed today was a prisoner that required additional guards who would spend the next few days underfoot.
His heart stopped the moment he slid the window open and saw the governor’s face. Why is he at this door, he wondered as he turned the locking mechanism? Why is he here at this time of day? Searching his memory, he could not recall him ever visiting lockup before dark. Then panic – as he remembered the flower on the counter in the governor’s chamber of horrors.
The governor pushed by him with neither a word nor a look. Using his own key, he opened the door to his private cell and closed it behind him. The heartbeats pounded by as the jailer ran through as many explanations for the flower as his imagination could concoct. How much trouble would the flower be in and of itself? Probably not much at all, he decided. The larger issue was explaining where it came from.
When the cell door opened and the governor reemerged some time later, the jailer prepared for the worst. “You,” said the governor sternly, “come here.” It took a moment for him to convince his feet to move. It then took every step of the journey to convince his breath to hold steady and not to give him away. The governor stood in the doorway, neither inside nor out. Therefore, whatever he was about to say pertained to something inside that room.
“Take this one to the pigs,” he said to the jailer, indicating the corpse on the table. “Do it before dawn, but not until after the party tonight.”
The jailer nodded dumbly, afraid a shaky voice might give away his anxiety. As he looked into the room toward the body, his eyes scanned the countertop. His flower was nowhere to be seen.
“Do not fuck this up,” the governor warned him. “If anybody sees you do this, you’ll hang for murder. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Your Honor,” he swore.
“And clean this mess up,” the governor said, waving at the room in general.
Moments after opening the outside door to release the governor, the jailer returned to search for his flower. First, he searched the floors, hoping that it had been accidentally brushed off of the counter before landing safely near a table leg. When that search proved fruitless, he began a systematic scan of every section in the room. He started with horizontal surfaces. Perhaps the governor picked it up and then set it down somewhere. As that search too came up empty he suddenly had a horrible recollection. The governor had a habit of wiping his hands and then stuffing bloody rags in his waistband.
It was at that moment that he spotted the rag, stuffed under the left ear of the child lying dead on the surgical table. Just the corner was visible. It was poking out just below the spot where the governor had been attempting to fit the base of the animal horn into the hole he had drilled in the little girl’s skull. The jailer slid his hand under the corpse’s head and gently lifted it, being careful not to damage the contents of the folded rag.
Having withdrawn it, he set it on a clean spot a couple of feet from the child and began separating the layers. His weakened heart broke further with each passing moment. The flower head was not merely crushed, it was entirely flattened and thoroughly soaked with sticky red blood. His perfect present for Darjen could not be salvaged. It was ruined.
The party was well underway when her knock came at the outside door. Sadness gripped him as her smile came into view. Then it faded and the comfort returned. As always, she’d brought him treats. These – party foods smuggled from the kitchen: a few small pieces of bread, some exotic slices of cheese, a handful of sweets, and a bottle of wine. All passed neatly through the slot except the wine. The bottle was just a smidge too big. Twist as they might, turn as they might, changing the angle as many ways as either could imagine, every effort failed. The bottle would not fit.
Darjen apologized. She seemed genuinely embarrassed. She offered to find a smaller container and return forthwith. “Wait,” he said, sliding the window closed and unlocking the mechanism. For a few moments, they stood in the threshold regarding each other, unsure what to do next. Then she reached out to hand him the bottle. “Thank you,” he said, looking longingly into her eyes.
“I hope you enjoy it as much as I do,” she replied sweetly, turning to leave.
“Wait,” he said again, pulling the cork with his teeth and handing her the bottle.
As she smiled and took a sip, he realized they were being watched by a guard on the wall behind her. Accustomed to Darjen’s coming and going in the weeks since her arrival, her presence in the lockup was not an issue. But standing with the door open might be.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside before closing the door behind her.
Normally quiet, the lockup was filled with music leaking through from the Grand Ballroom above.
“Sounds like fun,” Darjen said, glancing up at the ceiling.
“You’re not going?” he asked.
“Oh goodness no,” she said. “I can’t get any closer than the kitchen.”
“Would you like to see?”
“I can’t go in there –”
“Through a window, I mean.”
“There’s a window?”
“I can show you.”
“Maybe just for a minute. But I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. We do it all the time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” he said, dashing toward his cage to stash his treats. “I’ll be right back.”
More than a dozen servants were gathered on the wall peering in through the window at the guests in the great hall when they arrived. Each was allowed to gawk for a few minutes before the guards sent them scurrying back to their work. As a guest, Darjen was allowed to linger. As her host, the jailer was permitted to linger with her.
Lingering at the window set the pace for a slow stroll back to the lockup.
“I got you a present,” he finally blurted out as the doorway came into sight.
“Oh,” Darjen was surprised. “Thank you.”
“It was a flower,” he explained.
She looked at him bewildered.
“It got crushed –,” he frowned. “And full of blood.”
Her bewilderment increased.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was an accident.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” she replied warmly as they descended from the battlements to the bailey.
The two dozen steps from the wall to the prison door passed in silence. He wanted to touch her, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to hold her, but didn’t know how to start.