I’ve been engrossed in writing “Quantum Conscience” lately, which is definitely a good thing, but also means it’s harder for me to switch gears and write a vignette! So today I offer an excerpt from an unpublished novel co-written by me and Malcolm Pierce called “Manipuli.” The only reason I haven’t released this novel yet is that I’m trying to hold out for a traditional publisher. These days, though, that sounds like saying I’m waiting for my fairy godmother to fly down and wave her magic wand. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the excerpt!
In a small cottage upon the foothills of Fairdalia, a baby’s cry pierced the heavy darkness. Howling winds rattled the brittle trees and tossed snow through the air like tiny shards of ice. Animals huddled in their nests or groped through the shadows for shelter. Even the critters with sharp, nocturnal vision failed to find their way home on this night, for not a single star shone in the sky. Pitch black clouds swallowed the light of the hidden moon. A sense of dread and panic seized the heart of every rabbit, wolf, griffin, unicorn, and other manner of beast to be found in the woods of Fairdalia, for this was the darkest night they had ever experienced.
But every living creature paused, ears twitching, when the baby’s cry rang across the land. Their dread did not release them; in fact, many of the animals suffered an increased sense of anxiety. Nonetheless, they all knew they heard something special, something that would change the world of Fairdalia for the rest of their meager lives.
Within the cottage, the baby’s father—a ragged peasant named Balthazar—struggled to keep a candle lit amidst the battering winds. Like prying fingers, the breeze forced itself through every crack and crevice of the log cabin. His wife, Agatha, held the newborn baby in her trembling arms and wiped the blood from its face with a cloth. Even Agatha, relieved by her successful childbirth and proud of the bundle of life in her arms, felt disturbed by the piercing cries coming from its mouth.
“Sphinx’s curses!” growled Balthazar, dropping the flint as he watched the candle sputter and shrink. “I can’t see a damn thing!”
Another gust of wind blew out the flame completely, plunging the husband and wife into darkness. Agatha clutched the squirming baby to her chest, but somehow this brought her no comfort.
“All is well, husband,” she said wearily. “The baby is born. We can rest until morning.”
“All is not well!” he cried. “I want to see my child!”
Suddenly, beams of silver light shot through the farmer’s window. A white glow filled the interior of the cabin. Awestruck, Balthazar moved to the shutters and opened them. In the heavens above, the moon filled the sky, so huge and heavy, it looked as if it would collide with their planet. Mixed feelings of fear and wonder stirred in the poor peasant’s heart. The brightness of the moon almost blinded him, but he could not look away.
The baby stopped crying, and silence fell over the kingdom of Fairdalia.
“Look, husband!” gasped Agatha.
He followed her gaze to their newborn child, now glowing in the brilliant luminescence. He could now see that he had sired a son. But that did not draw his attention so much as a strange mark on the infant’s chest. At first, he thought it a stain from its mother’s blood. But the longer he stared, the more detail he discerned on the baby’s skin. Like a tattoo, black marks intertwined around the area of his heart, then dispersed and faded like so many veins into his body.
Balthazar’s eyes grew wide with terror. “That mark,” he breathed. “I have seen that mark before. It is the mark of evil!”
He turned to his wardrobe and fumbled through its contents. Agatha knew what he was getting long before she saw the flash of moonlight against the blade.
“No!” yelled Agatha. “NO!”
The baby, sensing his mother’s dismay, wailed alongside her. Clouds swept over the moon, drawing darkness back over the world like a curtain. Balthazar dove for the baby, but could no longer see it. He tripped and fell upon the floor, cursing.
Weakened by childbirth, but driven by the need to save her child’s life, Agatha got up and fled.
She could see no better than her husband, but desperation guided her through the shadows, across the familiar floorboards of the cottage, and out into the biting snow. Cold clung to her feet and climbed up her legs, draining her weary muscles. She stumbled through the blackness.
Then a star twinkled above her, providing a surge of light over the field. Agatha followed the silver glow. It faded as she passed through, but then another star sparkled from the blackness. One by one, the stars winked above her, illuminating her path through the frosty fields and forests. It seemed as if some powerful force guided her, granting small pools of light wherever she needed it, but casting all else in darkness. The sound of Balthazar yelling from the cottage grew more and more distant until it faded completely.
Agatha hoped she was safe, for she did not have the strength to run any further. She wrapped the baby in her cloak and huddled into a small cove protected from the wind, relatively free of snow or ice. Here she clutched her son to her breast and prayed to All Sortilege, the source of all magical power. One look at her son made Agatha cease to care whether a good or evil force had marked him. She believed that any power could be directed in either direction. But she did suspect that magic of some sort had marked her newborn son.
“All Sortilege,” she whispered, “please protect us and lead us to safety. Pour your blessings on my dear son… Lucien.”
The name, meaning light, came effortlessly to Agatha as a result of the night’s events. The baby ceased squirming and relaxed against his mother. Agatha wondered if she imagined the sensation of warmth that suddenly seemed to wrap around them both. They fell deeply asleep as if nothing on earth could harm them—and perhaps nothing could.