The Messiah Notebooks - first three pages
Posted: March 16th, 2010, 10:59 pm
Just a working title. I'm scrambling to find another but I've become attached. Anyway, since they say the first three pages are the most important...well, feedback seems to be in order. =) It's a YA fantasy, set in Venice, 1804-1020.
It's also the prologue. Read on, and please be honest. The book needs it. Thank you!
Prologue
It was an average theater, a dusky atmosphere cloaked in velvet and studded with oil lamps. A curious audience filled just enough rows to keep an entertainer’s show on. Before, them, on the stage, strode a man.
A cautious set of eyes watched the man’s back. He was a broad-shouldered, overly confident sort of person, decided Miss Trey. Her pale face, obscured by a large set of mirrors, peered out from the wings of the stage. Something pressed itself against her shoulder, and she jumped.
“Not very good, is he?” asked a second man, who had appeared behind her. He was tall, and had to have to bend forward to reach her ear.
“No, he’s good,” Miss Trey said. She looked about twenty years his junior. “He’s dislikeable. The audience doesn’t want to believe him.”
“Ah,” the man replied, straightening up to reposition his cravat. He twirled a top hat idly through two gloved hands. “A tough crowd in store for me, then?”
“You’ll manage,” Miss Trey said.
“Of course. Now, who am I looking out for?”
Miss Trey looked a little further around the folds of the curtain.
“That man, there,” she said, pointing. “Beard-face, two from the right in the fourth aisle. He thinks he’s got this one figured out.”
“Well, has he?”
“I don’t think so, he’s just trying not to look surprised. If you catch him off guard I think it’ll upset him enough to keep him quiet.”
“Anyone else?” asked the man.
“Ah, yes, him,” Miss Trey motioned to the other side of the audience. “He’s convinced the devil himself is in the house tonight.”
“What? But this show isn’t even that good.”
“You should have an easy time, then, Harking. It’s practice⎯for both of us.” The girl turned around, and patted Harking’s arm bracingly. “Good show. Break a leg.”
“Bloody stupid expression,” Harking said under his breath as a smattering of applause sounded from beyond the stage. The curtains alighted from the rafters; the previous performer hastened to the wings. Harking tossed his hat gently into the air and fixed it on his head as he slid out to his mark just beyond the curtains.
“From the Isles of Britain,” a voice thundered in German. “A man with a past that defies the law⎯secrets which reach into the heart of every God-fearing country! And here he is!”
The curtain retreated to reveal Harking. The audience murmured with bored anticipation. None of them knew what the magician was capable of, or what he was about to do now. They had no idea the power he possessed was very real. Miss Trey did, though, and watched anxiously from her place in the wings.
The new magician immediately began his own practiced opening lines, retracing them in English, then Italian, then German. The audience grew quieter with each repetition, until there was a definite hush over the crowd. Harking was lithe, and there was a sense of power entwined in his graceful movements. He flourished with confident ease, a glint in his eye that hinted at the dark arts and all sorts of superstition.
From the mirrors, the girl watched as doves erupted from around Harking’s coat. Birds were a good opening. People were always startled by the suddenness of their flight. It caught their attention. Proved a magician’s mettle right at the start of the act.
The magician was careful to turn in particular to those individuals the girl had pointed out to him. He kept an imperious, knowing look hitched on his face. The girl saw them quail inwardly. Confused, uncomfortable greens fluttered away from their faces. Their imaginations raced, they second-guessed themselves. By the time the magician had moved onto the next trick, whatever conclusions they had reached held them in check, astonished, prepared to be amazed.
The magician did not fail to disappoint. With every successive portion of his act, more and more attentions flared and gutted, falling wholeheartedly into a trance. Harking’s power was one prepared to transform all if Italy, and yet here it was, on display before some theatergoers.
Within five minutes, every person in the hall was under the magician’s control. The faces in the crowd were glazed and eager to believe. The girl imagined the magician’s movements directing a handful of invisible strings, tugging at expressions in the audience. Every twitch of his fingers drove his power in deeper. When, after fifteen minutes, he bowed and let the curtain fall before him, the crowd staggered to its feet in a standing ovation.
The magician strode back to the girl to the sounds of continued hoots and whistles. The audience came slowly back to its senses, and the cries became a mere smattering before stopping completely, as stagehands rushed out to clear the stage of all magical debris.
“How was I?” Harking asked, taking the girl’s elbow earnestly.
“You did well,” she said. “Show well done. Every one, I think.”
“Mm. Good call on the priestly one. I don’t know what he finally decided I was, but it must have been impressive.” His gaze grew distant for a moment before continuing, “It’s the cynics that are getting more difficult to get on with. They turn it upside-down. They’re looking for proof, or something like it; if I show them something amazing, it only helps them along.”
“If they’re going to be like that, they shouldn’t be at a magic show,” said Miss Trey.
“They shouldn’t be at the theater in general. They shouldn’t be trying to entertain themselves. They should be happy with their own soulless lifestyles.”
“It’s becoming as much a game to them as it is to you. You’re going to have to be careful,” said Miss Trey. Harking was collecting his birds from the rafters and stowing them in collapsible crates. When he had finished, there was a small stack of cages ready to be loaded into the carriage. The previous performer had an immense load of contraptions, and he stared down through a thick mustache to ogle at Harking’s tiny arrangement.
The taller man merely touched a finger to his hat and replied:
“The scientists, those churchmen, it doesn’t matter. I’ll always be two steps ahead.”
As Harking turned to speak to one of the porters, the girl saw his notebook set innocently on top of the crates. It was Harking’s constant companion, and as much as a mystery to her as the man himself. She’d think it a diary if Harking had been the sort of man with enough truthfulness in him to be emotional.
But Harking was not that sort of man, and as he saw her looking, he swept it off the crate and into a sleeve. There, it disappeared.
The darkened room was totally silent. Most things lay strewn about, evidence of the ransacking which had swept through the house only the day before. Miss Trey had worsened the mess by searching desperately for the battered and very sorry little notebook, which she held now in her lap. It had been almost two years since Harking had swiped the little thing away from her at a magic show. Now, holding it before her should have been some sort of crowning achievement. But there was nothing about it worth celebrating, not yet: she hoped it would be the key to saving a man, who, by nature, should be impossible to save.
“17 April 1820
This is the last time I shall write in this notebook. This page marks the end of a long and twisted story, and it isn’t one anyone will ever read. Or I should hope nobody will ever read. Miss Emily Trey, if you are reading this, I beg that you put it down immediately and forget about it. Forget about me, forget about Warwell, and try to keep yourself safe until...
I know you won’t, though. This book is my life. It is everything from when I began my work at Oxford to the present day. I’m sorry about what I’ve had to write about, but really it’s worse that you should have to read it.
(Is this a place for apologies? I am sorry for what I’ve done. I’m sorry for what you need to do.)”
It's also the prologue. Read on, and please be honest. The book needs it. Thank you!
Prologue
It was an average theater, a dusky atmosphere cloaked in velvet and studded with oil lamps. A curious audience filled just enough rows to keep an entertainer’s show on. Before, them, on the stage, strode a man.
A cautious set of eyes watched the man’s back. He was a broad-shouldered, overly confident sort of person, decided Miss Trey. Her pale face, obscured by a large set of mirrors, peered out from the wings of the stage. Something pressed itself against her shoulder, and she jumped.
“Not very good, is he?” asked a second man, who had appeared behind her. He was tall, and had to have to bend forward to reach her ear.
“No, he’s good,” Miss Trey said. She looked about twenty years his junior. “He’s dislikeable. The audience doesn’t want to believe him.”
“Ah,” the man replied, straightening up to reposition his cravat. He twirled a top hat idly through two gloved hands. “A tough crowd in store for me, then?”
“You’ll manage,” Miss Trey said.
“Of course. Now, who am I looking out for?”
Miss Trey looked a little further around the folds of the curtain.
“That man, there,” she said, pointing. “Beard-face, two from the right in the fourth aisle. He thinks he’s got this one figured out.”
“Well, has he?”
“I don’t think so, he’s just trying not to look surprised. If you catch him off guard I think it’ll upset him enough to keep him quiet.”
“Anyone else?” asked the man.
“Ah, yes, him,” Miss Trey motioned to the other side of the audience. “He’s convinced the devil himself is in the house tonight.”
“What? But this show isn’t even that good.”
“You should have an easy time, then, Harking. It’s practice⎯for both of us.” The girl turned around, and patted Harking’s arm bracingly. “Good show. Break a leg.”
“Bloody stupid expression,” Harking said under his breath as a smattering of applause sounded from beyond the stage. The curtains alighted from the rafters; the previous performer hastened to the wings. Harking tossed his hat gently into the air and fixed it on his head as he slid out to his mark just beyond the curtains.
“From the Isles of Britain,” a voice thundered in German. “A man with a past that defies the law⎯secrets which reach into the heart of every God-fearing country! And here he is!”
The curtain retreated to reveal Harking. The audience murmured with bored anticipation. None of them knew what the magician was capable of, or what he was about to do now. They had no idea the power he possessed was very real. Miss Trey did, though, and watched anxiously from her place in the wings.
The new magician immediately began his own practiced opening lines, retracing them in English, then Italian, then German. The audience grew quieter with each repetition, until there was a definite hush over the crowd. Harking was lithe, and there was a sense of power entwined in his graceful movements. He flourished with confident ease, a glint in his eye that hinted at the dark arts and all sorts of superstition.
From the mirrors, the girl watched as doves erupted from around Harking’s coat. Birds were a good opening. People were always startled by the suddenness of their flight. It caught their attention. Proved a magician’s mettle right at the start of the act.
The magician was careful to turn in particular to those individuals the girl had pointed out to him. He kept an imperious, knowing look hitched on his face. The girl saw them quail inwardly. Confused, uncomfortable greens fluttered away from their faces. Their imaginations raced, they second-guessed themselves. By the time the magician had moved onto the next trick, whatever conclusions they had reached held them in check, astonished, prepared to be amazed.
The magician did not fail to disappoint. With every successive portion of his act, more and more attentions flared and gutted, falling wholeheartedly into a trance. Harking’s power was one prepared to transform all if Italy, and yet here it was, on display before some theatergoers.
Within five minutes, every person in the hall was under the magician’s control. The faces in the crowd were glazed and eager to believe. The girl imagined the magician’s movements directing a handful of invisible strings, tugging at expressions in the audience. Every twitch of his fingers drove his power in deeper. When, after fifteen minutes, he bowed and let the curtain fall before him, the crowd staggered to its feet in a standing ovation.
The magician strode back to the girl to the sounds of continued hoots and whistles. The audience came slowly back to its senses, and the cries became a mere smattering before stopping completely, as stagehands rushed out to clear the stage of all magical debris.
“How was I?” Harking asked, taking the girl’s elbow earnestly.
“You did well,” she said. “Show well done. Every one, I think.”
“Mm. Good call on the priestly one. I don’t know what he finally decided I was, but it must have been impressive.” His gaze grew distant for a moment before continuing, “It’s the cynics that are getting more difficult to get on with. They turn it upside-down. They’re looking for proof, or something like it; if I show them something amazing, it only helps them along.”
“If they’re going to be like that, they shouldn’t be at a magic show,” said Miss Trey.
“They shouldn’t be at the theater in general. They shouldn’t be trying to entertain themselves. They should be happy with their own soulless lifestyles.”
“It’s becoming as much a game to them as it is to you. You’re going to have to be careful,” said Miss Trey. Harking was collecting his birds from the rafters and stowing them in collapsible crates. When he had finished, there was a small stack of cages ready to be loaded into the carriage. The previous performer had an immense load of contraptions, and he stared down through a thick mustache to ogle at Harking’s tiny arrangement.
The taller man merely touched a finger to his hat and replied:
“The scientists, those churchmen, it doesn’t matter. I’ll always be two steps ahead.”
As Harking turned to speak to one of the porters, the girl saw his notebook set innocently on top of the crates. It was Harking’s constant companion, and as much as a mystery to her as the man himself. She’d think it a diary if Harking had been the sort of man with enough truthfulness in him to be emotional.
But Harking was not that sort of man, and as he saw her looking, he swept it off the crate and into a sleeve. There, it disappeared.
The darkened room was totally silent. Most things lay strewn about, evidence of the ransacking which had swept through the house only the day before. Miss Trey had worsened the mess by searching desperately for the battered and very sorry little notebook, which she held now in her lap. It had been almost two years since Harking had swiped the little thing away from her at a magic show. Now, holding it before her should have been some sort of crowning achievement. But there was nothing about it worth celebrating, not yet: she hoped it would be the key to saving a man, who, by nature, should be impossible to save.
“17 April 1820
This is the last time I shall write in this notebook. This page marks the end of a long and twisted story, and it isn’t one anyone will ever read. Or I should hope nobody will ever read. Miss Emily Trey, if you are reading this, I beg that you put it down immediately and forget about it. Forget about me, forget about Warwell, and try to keep yourself safe until...
I know you won’t, though. This book is my life. It is everything from when I began my work at Oxford to the present day. I’m sorry about what I’ve had to write about, but really it’s worse that you should have to read it.
(Is this a place for apologies? I am sorry for what I’ve done. I’m sorry for what you need to do.)”