The Weight of a Voice/Responding With Tea
12 August 2010
Not much to waffle about today. As promised, I’m going to commence putting my novel The Weight of a Voice on here in installments, starting below. The other thing I want to mention again is the recording that I’ve been doing – today I added the finishing touches to six tracks, recorded under my musical persona Responding With Tea (perhaps an explanation of the name is best saved for another time…..). If you’re on Facebook then I have set up a ‘band’ page here, although the tracks that are on there at the moment are much older.
Anyhow, on with the first snippet of the book, which is the prologue. Hope you enjoy…..
It was yet another pristine darkness; there had been a seemingly endless string of mild, still nights. The valley lay moonlit and silent, the silver river snaking away towards the city being the only source of sound and movement. Away to the river’s east, rows of stone houses were darkened, their occupants sleeping. To the west, the thick, sloping woodland was unidentifiable amongst the ocean of black.
Yet at the centre of this gloom, something moved.
A fox?
No, those were definitely human footsteps. Heavy, weary, purposeful.
But was that a light?
Yes – it looked like the flicker of a candle, vanishing from sight, and then reappearing a little further along what must have been a pathway. A lone figure was making his way towards the cluster of buildings nestled amongst the trees.
He reached a clearing. As misfortune would have it, he chose this moment to stumble; the light from the candle was inadequate, and its flickering flame threw dancing shadows that disguised the uneven surface. He whispered a curse as he dropped what he had been carrying. A shaft of light caught the blade of a shovel as it rang noisily against the hard ground.
He froze, ears alert for the sound of pursuing footsteps or an angry voice. All he could hear was the deep throb of his accelerated heartbeat.
Picking up the shovel he moved on, reassured. The silence was part of the fabric of the place he was about to enter.
At last. There it is, he thought to himself. The wrought iron fence, and the gate, just as he had left it at the end of the working day. He trudged through the thick, summer grass, and took hold of the rusty metal, lifting slightly as he pushed; he knew it would creak angrily if he simply swung the gate open. The ornate main entrance gates were well oiled, and glided open smoothly. Indeed, ensuring this ease of access was one of the many tasks that the figure carried out regularly. But this entrance was barely used, and had become overgrown, forgotten by all but a few. It was the perfect point of entry for his current purpose.
He moved quietly, carefully parting overgrown branches to avoid them rustling as he brushed past. Suddenly, he broke free from the tangle. He felt the cropped grass underfoot, and knew that he was nearly there. Although weak, the candlelight was enough to illuminate the first gravestones a few feet away. Now it became easy for him; he had his bearings. Checking first that he had the means to re-light it when necessary, he snuffed out the candle. The moon would be enough to light his way for the next few minutes. He would have to pass within sight of the buildings, and although it was the middle of the night, he knew there was always a chance that someone would be watching.
Within a short space of time, he was taking a moment’s rest, sitting with his back leaning against a modest looking headstone. He had passed the chapel, cottages and coach house without detection, and the spot in which he now paused was out of sight of those within. He had checked this carefully when he had a spare moment during the day’s labour.
As he sat gathering his strength, a sneer crept across his face. All the hard work would soon be worth it when he held the money – as it always was in this line of work. After re-lighting the candle, and hanging it from the headstone, he hauled himself to his feet and took up the shovel. He paused to take in the chiselled inscription borne by the stone.
“You were a young ‘un,” he cackled quietly, before forcefully plunging the metal deep into the turf.