Bull Island: Sample Chapter · 3:36pm Dec 29th, 2012
After the positive notes I received yesterday about Bull Island, my current novel, I've decided to post a piece of the book so more of you can get a sense of what it will be like and a taste at another genre I can write.
This section picks up with Harold Hendricks, a teen living in the late 1800s, having just ran away from home. He is out in the woods with his horse Nibbler when a pack of wolves attack.
Nibbler reared, Harold losing his grip as the horse let out a panicked cry. He fell hard upon the ground, his shoulder throbbing and his head swimming. He watched through haze-filled eyes as Nibbler ran out of sight, the trees swallowing him up and leaving Harold all alone.
No, not alone.
There was something else with him.
It was a primal sense long lost to man when he began to dominate the creatures of the globe; or perhaps merely his mind piecing together the terror he dared not name. Whatever it was, Harold knew he was not alone.
A growl came from his left.
He whipped around, aiming his gun and firing at the flash he saw between two trucks. Bark exploded. The growl was quiet but still there. It was answered by a second, then a third, Harold quickly raising his gun as the pack emerged from the forest like phantoms from the mist, circling him.
Wolves.
Their pale hides looked almost green in the cold moonlight, like grass caught in a bitter frost. Their fur was like the quills of a porcupine, their hackles raised as they ensnared him. They seemed to fade in and out, Harold losing sight of them every time they moved into the shadows. It made it impossible for him to track them; at times he would think he would see an opening, only for one of the great canines to emerge before him like a wraith, lips curled back and fangs dripping. He had no hope of sighting up a shot and was forced to keep his gun impotent in his hand, not wanting to waste a single bullet.
They were larger than any wolf Harold had ever seen; 3 and a half feet tall at the shoulder, long thick body coiled with muscle, with a massive head and powerful jaw lined with teeth that put most knives to shame. Even with their great bulk they had a speed and grace that, under any other situation, would have left Harold in awe.
They stalked about him, driving him back like he was ewe they’d been sent to herd. The pack never attempted to get too close, only snapping at him if he moved in the wrong direction. Even standing several feet from them Harold could feel their hot breath on his face. It smelled of rotting meat and death.
The tree branches parted and Harold found himself bathed in moonlight. It was as if God was shining his light upon him, except instead of salvation Harold was receiving a slow death. The wolves snapped and growled to one another, tightening ranks and leaving the darkness to join Harold in the light. He cocked the hammer of his gun, his left hand retrieving his bowie knife. A strange calmness settled upon him, any fear he may of felt washed away in a wave of peace. The wolves would not get an easy meal out of him, Harold was damn sure of that. He would take down enough of them to make this meal costly…and make them think twice about longing for man-flesh ever again.
The alpha wolf reared back, head practically vibrating as it prepared to strike. Harold turned his gun towards it, lining up his shot.
One of the wolves to his right sprang, Harold realizing belatedly that they had been drawing his attention to the alpha so he would fail to see the attack to come. He spun, knowing even as he did so it would be too late to take down the beast and within moments those sharp fangs would be in his throat.
Thunder cracked in the cloudless sky. The attacker’s body jerked in midair, as if caught by an invisible force, and fell to Harold’s left in a blast of blood. The other wolves began to circle as their brother yipped in agony, twisting his head this way and that as his lifeblood spilled from the hole that adorned its side. The pack was confused and falling into disarray and Harold was not about to look the gift horse in the mouth. He darted forward, leaping over the fallen wolf, its teeth trying to clamp down on his ankle in a futile act of revenge. He got several yards, the wolves howling in outrage and regrouping, only for his progress to be halted when he slammed into a hard surface.
“Watch it,” the hard surface snapped, raising his rifle and taking aim, felling another wolf as it approached. Harold was hauled back to his feet, his rescuer pulling him towards a thick oak. “What the hell are you doing out here?” Harold opened his mouth to answer, only for the man to cut him off. “Son of ya…Harold?”
“How do you…how do you know my name?” Harold panted, hands pressed against his knees, nearly doubled over.
The man smirked, dark eyes alit with humor as he took aim and fired, adding a third wolf to his bag. “You look just like your mama described in her letters…and ya got the Gregger eyes.”
“Uncle John?” Harold whispered. This was not the thin, waif-like figure he had envisioned. John Gregger stood tall and unbent, his body lined with lean, hard muscle. Long blond hair hung down his shoulders like a lion’s man and dark stubble ran along his chiseled face. He wore a long brown coat splattered with mud and stains and along his waist were various guns and knives, each looking like they had seen plenty of action. “What are you doing out here?”
“About to ask you the same thing!” John slung his rifle back over his shoulder and pulled a long barreled handgun, though he did not make a move to aim it. “I’ve been tracking this pack for three days. Imagine my surprise when I found you about to become their next meal.”
The remaining wolves began their approach, letting out vicious howls that spoke of painful deaths. John stood his ground, a dark smile playing along his lips as he made no move to confront the pack. He was happy to just keep the tree to his back and stare down the beasts.
“We need to go,” Harold said, inching away from the wolves, not wanting to get any closer to them after his last skirmish.
John caught his shoulder and squeezed hard, dragging the teen back to the trunk of the oak. “Do not move.”
“They are going to eat us!” Harold hissed.
“No, they won’t. Trust me…just watch.”
“Okay…good bye,” Harold said weakly, preparing to run the moment his uncle was torn to shreds.
The alpha wolf approached them, lips curled back almost like a sneer. But the wolf never attempted to get any closer, choosing to merely bark and howl, trying to frighten the two into moving. The rest of the pack followed suit, encircling the tree and filling the air with their challenge.
“Yeah, keep howling ya big dumb dogs,” John mocked, leaning against the tree as if this were the most natural thing to do. “Look at the shadows, Harold. Look carefully.”
At first Harold did not understand. The entire forest was bathed in shadows, save for the few patches of moonlight that managed to break through, and that is where the wolves were taking up their sentry duty. One of the beasts turned his body and Harold could not stop the gasp that fell from his lips.
The wolf was split in two, right down the middle. His head and part of his shoulder stood separate from his rump and hind legs. Harold could see the beast’s organs and blood, but not a drop fell to the ground, as if held in place by some unseen force.
Then the wolf moved and his hind legs disappeared, while his previously vanished middle emerged from the shadows as if by magic.
“Canis lupus luna. The Moon Wolf.” John leaned down, whispering in Harold’s ear as the beasts continued to howl. Now that he was focused upon it, Harold could see how the wolves didn’t merely slip into the shadows…they disappeared within them. Sometimes it was just part of them, a stray branch’s shadow cast down on their backs or tails and making their bodies appeared severed. Now and again one would move back away and disappear completely, only to appear against yards away.
“There is a legend about them, you know,” John stated. “Long ago, the goddess of the moon asked all the wolf tribes to guard her flock of white deer whenever she took council with her brother, the god of clouds. Each tribe would take a turn, giving up the hunt to dedicate themselves to protecting the goddess’ prized does. But then, after many years, one wolf pack told the others that they would not do the goddess’ bidding anymore. They grew hungry and foolish. One evening, when the goddess’ sight turned from them, the wolves struck and ate the entire flock, down to the smallest babe. They gorged themselves and then lay amongst the bones, belly puffed out, their hunger slated.
“When the goddess was able to gaze upon them once more she saw the desolation the pack had brought and her rage made the skies tremble. She sewed the bones into the Earth and her sister, the goddess of the forest, turned them into the white elms, so that never again would the deer not have a place to hide from the teeth and claws of the meat eaters.
“She then cast her vengeance upon the wolves. She told them that because they could not be trusted to behave when she was detained, never again would they be allowed to roam the Earth unless she saw them. They would never know the warmth of the sun and the dark shadows would offer them no relief from their burden. It is only under the light of the moon that they are allowed physical form; without it they are only shapeless spirits with no form or weight, cursed to watch the world but be unable to be a part of it.”
“Is that true?” Harold asked softly.
“Hell if I know,” John admitted, gripping Harold tight when one of the wolves leapt at them. Harold stared in shocked horror as the beast flew through the air, only to disappear the moment it came under the shadows of the tree. Moments later it slinked back into the moonlight, tail down and head shaking in frustration.
John plugged it in the skull with a well aimed bullet, sending the rest of the pack scattering away.
“Stupid dog.” John watched as the wolves poked their heads out into the moonlight, baring their teeth and growling at the two of them before retreating, only to reappear moments later yards away. "Oh, they are grumpy." John pointed his gun lazily at one particular beast that seemed to be foaming at the mouth at the sight of the two morsels just out of biting range. "They normally use their little disappearing trick to their advantage: circle around, snapping and making a big show of scaring the prey into a well lit spot before the entire pack bursts from the darkness and take them down. Moonies don't like it when their curse is treated as an actual curse and the meal is smart enough to hide."
Harold watched his uncle, fear dwelling in his heart even after seeing the protection offered by the shadows. He didn't understand how John could be full of such loose tension. He was still on guard; the fact that he kept his gun in his hand and made no move to holster it was testament to that, but he didn't act like someone under siege. While Harold continually glanced at the leafy branches, mindful of any cracks that might let the pale moonlight slip through, John was lax and full of bouncing energy, never giving mind to the fragile fortress they had built around themselves.
I will buy the shit out of this book, and you can quote me on that.
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Quote.
This confirms it. I am getting this at the first chance I get.
That's real good. Once it is published, I'd love to buy a copy.
Dude, that's awesome.
Eh, not a genre I typically enjoy, but I'll have to buy this when published.
... When can I preorder this?
Where is zeh book?! I must read zeh book!
TAKE MY MONEY NOW!
...pwease?
This looks like a great start, and I can't wait to buy the finished copy, whenever it comes out
Reading just your first sentence left me with one thing to say: If you tried you could write any genre, though some may suit you more than others.
Also, forgive me but I must notice a few little things. They are not meant to hurt you or even stunt your growth as a writer but more as a backing of an aspiring fan of yours, wanting to rid any misunderstandings or (dare I say it) even mistakes from your marvellous story!
You could use 'panicked neighing' but I guess you chose 'cry' for style rather than biological correctness, right?
You forgot a consonant there in your seventh sentence.
Maybe you could insert a bit there:
Even with their great bulk they had an air of speed and grace
I need to admit my english skills leave me at that point...what is it supposed to mean exactly? Did they stalk him towards something? Did they stalk over him (this one sounds rather silly, I admit), or did they stalk after him? I understand the sentence as a whole but well this little part...
Now, about my conclusion to your chapter. It was a damn nice one! The wolves sound scary at first and even scarier when explained but John shows us how little they can harm us if we know the trick to defeating them. It is a little like John Sinclair - that man is only as good with hunting any kind of demon or ghoul because he understands them or learns their tricks while clashing with them. He is neither stronger nor faster than most (if not all) of his opponents and there are times he has to face entire groups alone. Yes, Mr. Sinclair is certainly overpowered with a lot of little items and possible allies but the analogy still stands with him.
Staying with your John, the only impression I get from this chapter is that he knows his work. He fights hardly fair (although fairness will only get you killed in the wild so that's no big loss there) and he is calm despite being full of action. In short, he is a profi or at least experienced at what he does.
Harold seems like a typical newcomer to this kind of situation: Inexperienced, frightened, easily crowded by the beasts and lastly falling prey to them - or at least he would have fallen, had John not intervened. Insofar he fits his role perfectly with every little bit of fear or action. Also his calm before his imminent demise shows that he had accepted his end. In a way, 'old' Harold died that night: He owes a life-debt to John now and following your other blog about this he even learns his uncles work and travels with him. That will be the 'new' Harold so to speak. Of course any transformation from a beaten child that ran away to a hardened warrior battling abnormal creatures will take time and it will be a pleasure to read how it will happen.
(Assuming I can get a copy of your book delivered to Austria to read it of course.)
Yeah, that's about it. I will cross my fingers and hope to die, stick a...wait a minute.
I wish you for your career as a writer the best of luck. I hope you will find your publisher soon too.
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To stalk about is to circle. They are not approaching him but they are not retreating. Its just like saying someone is moving about... they are circling.
783399 Thanks