Capturing the Brontide
A short story from my novel-to-be
Writing this scared me.
It was a lesson in the Winter Writing Sanctuary from
and the task was to write a short story.It was the first task that specified fiction (at least in my eyes), and, to be perfectly honest, I was terrified!
I don’t know how to write short stories. Not well enough to write one and potentially put it out there, into the public eye. I’ve posted everything from this course and I don’t want to stop.
And so, the greatest lesson I learned from this task was to just bloody write. To not be attached to the outcome.
I didn’t know what sort of short story to write, and decided to focus on my main character from my novel-to-be. I think this is probably the first time Keelin has seen the light of day, and I’m equally excited and terrified of putting her out there. I found I had to restrain myself from worrying whether I’d gotten details correct, or the right setting, or the right order of events.
Honestly, this could all change by the time I have my novel written.
Which taught me another important thing. The process, the journey, of this piece, of any piece, is far more important than the outcome.
So here it is. One of the best writing lessons I learned.
She became the Bridge Between This and That, the Watcher at the Edge. Before she was known by these names, she was simply Keelin of the Black Mountains.
On an autumn evening, the sun edging towards peaks of purple and green, Keelin was at peace, sitting on the riverbank with her brother. Patrick, the Keeper of Stories and Things That Have Passed, was studying maps and books.
It came then, a gentle roll of thunder, far off in the distance. It went unnoticed by Keelin, so deep was she in her mind, questioning and wondering. Was she doing the right thing?
"Keelin," said he. Patrick had heard it. Patrick of the keen ears and keen mind. "It is time to ready ourselves."
She remained silent, for a breath, then rose, opened her eyes, and nodded once. Patrick set about gathering his books and packing them in his bag. There were moments of busy silence, Keelin checking her blades were in place, the rope was strong, her spear sharp. Things she had done before now, and would doubtless do again before the deed was done.
Patrick mounted his golden mare swiftly. Keelin missed her pony, looking at the horse she had now. Where he was broad-chested and headstrong, Flax had been slender and patient. She was sure this one would land her in trouble one day. Standing on a tree stump, she hauled herself up and he danced sideways, keen to move. She tightened the reins, checked everything was in place, and met Patrick's gaze.
"We have to do this, Keelin," said he, after a moment. "We need the Hunter."
She nodded. Her throat was tight. Looking at the mountain ridge above, Keelin said, "I know, but no one has ever caught the Thunder before."
"True," he said, nodding his head in concession. "But I've done all the reading, and we have the rope." He patted a small saddle bag behind him.
"And what if they're wrong? What if it doesn't work, Patrick?" Her doubt was choking her.
"Keelin, we have no choice. We have to do something."
She looked up, at the mountain ridge towering above. This was the Dragon's Back, the place to take a stand, to set into motion the beginning of the end. To the west, fire and steel started to mingle. Great storm clouds of deepest navy grey blossomed over the molten ambers of the sunset, seeming to grow from the valley floor below them. A low grumble rolled towards them, more felt than heard. The sound of Thunder, their target. Surely, she thought, not for the first time, they were insane. To catch the stallion of a god was risky at best, deadly at worst.
From the rise on which they stood, her horse flicking his tail, she turned and looked back to the ruin of the village they had passed through. Cottages reduced to crumbled walls, old concrete roads lost under the moss and nettles, and, standing sentinel, a human-sized box, the red paint faded, and an object inside that Patrick claimed was called a 'telephone'. Trees grew through rooves, the river had taken other houses, and old, dead electricity wires ensnared the feet of unwary travellers. Families had lived here once, she knew, with children and dogs and bicycles and dreams. But no longer.
Finally, Keelin set her jaw and faced her brother. "You're right. Let's go catch this horse." They heeled their mounts and headed for the mountain to catch the Horse of Thunder.
