Chapter One Rewrite

OK gang, I’m calling a do over. While the feedback for Clockwork & Old Gods has been generally positive, the constructive criticism I’ve received boils down to the fact that the opening doesn’t quite work. Thanks to the wonder of electronic self publishing I have an opportunity to rectify this. Below you will find two versions of COG Chapter One – the rewritten version and the original (provided for easy reference and for those who haven’t read the book). If you’ve got the time and inclination, I’d like your opinion on if the rewritten version works better than the original. You can either leave me a comment on this post, shoot me an email, or use the website’s contact form.

Version Two Point Oh:

It seemed like he must have been walking for days, but it might have been weeks or hours or minutes. The fog that pressed against his mind manifested physically as a heavy, misting rain which chilled him to the bone even through the long leather coat he wore. Though water clung uncomfortably to his clammy skin and matted his unkempt black hair he trudged through the dark of night, heedless of his surroundings and unconcerned with a destination.

Noman, a whisper floated through the mist. Listen, Noman.

Slowly the fog lifted from his mind, and the world resolved into sharper focus. It was as if he’d been sleep walking and been abruptly awoken. He stopped mid stride and frowned, suddenly unsure. Confusion threatened to explode into panic. “No,” he told himself, the word raw in his throat. “No. Get control. Think it through. Where am I?” He turned in a slow circle. Cobbled street, brick buildings, lamp posts. A city, certainly. But which one? The answer to that question eluded him. Where had he been going? No idea. He must have come from somewhere. Eyes closed, he concentrated on trying to remember where he’d been before.

A whirlwind of death and violence exploded into his consciousness, a rapid barrage of images that physically staggered him. A lake, and a village that sat on its shores. Bodies in the streets, ripped to shreds. Creatures, strange vicious beasts with slicing claws and rending teeth, too many limbs, eyes that glowed unnaturally. Throwing something into the lake, skin slick with blood. Once it was gone the creatures would be too. It was all his fault. All his fault. Walking away from the lake. And then, nothing. This street, in a city he couldn’t name.

His balance left him and he fell to his hands and knees, muscles trembling. One thought remained, running through his mind over and over again – he was to blame. Eyes wide, he looked desperately at his hands and found them clean. Not even a stain of blood was upon his coat. It hadn’t been real. It was a nightmare, a hallucination, that was all. He clung desperately to that explanation, hoping it would keep the crush of terror at bay.

Noman, a whisper slithered up to him from the night. He recognized the word as his name, and the breath caught in his chest. Be at east, it told him. All is well. You did what you had to do.

Like a taught wire suddenly cut he recoiled from the words. “No,” he rasped, eyes searching for the source of the voice. Cold brick pressed against his back as he pushed up against a wall, eyes staring wildly into the misty night. “I didn’t,” the weak denial croaked from his throat.

Movement caught his eye through the rain, a glimpse of something monstrous, with too many legs. Its black body glistened with slick, slimy moisture. Even from a distance he could feel it, and his skin crawled as his guts twisted around themselves. The creature’s eyes, a pair of sickly green glows emerging from the fog, focused directly on him.

Without a second thought he pushed away from the wall and ran without caution. His feet tripped over themselves and he stumbled awkwardly, nearly falling before righting himself. Puddles splashed loudly as he fled carelessly through them, soaking his pants so they clung like icy hands to his legs. “It isn’t real,” he gasped as he ran. “Just a nightmare. It isn’t real.”

Then why are you running?

He took a corner blindly, barreled into a heap of garbage and went sprawling among it. Panting amid the refuse he squeezed his eyes shut and wheezed out a steady mantra, “Not real. Not real.”

At last his racing heart calmed. Silence. Blissful, sane silence. Rain pattered down upon the ground and danced on his back as he lay still, carefully listening for any sign that he might not be alone. The silence dragged on, minute by minute. A sense of dread slowly began to infuse itself into his stomach, growing until it overpowered the stench of the garbage. The hairs on the back of his neck began to lift.

With exaggerated care Noman pushed himself from the ground and slowly turned over. Shadows swirled around him, seemingly alive. They seemed wrong – oily, visceral, and more real than ever before. Inhuman things danced at the edges of his vision, dissolving into nothing if he tried to look directly at them. They were everywhere, crawling over everything. Heart pounding in his chest he pushed along the ground, scrabbling to get away. His back it a wall and he jumped, throat tightening. Innumerable green eyes peered out at him from every darkened corner.

“Please,” he all but whimpered. “Leave me be.” The shadows and their glowing eyes pressed in on him heedless of his pleas, filling the night with an insectile hum. “What do you want from me?”

Want? The voice seemed to come from within his own head, fueling the fear that he was going insane. They want you, Noman.

“Me? Why?”

The object you carry, of course. Surely you haven’t forgotten it? It’s just there, in your pocket.

Almost against his will Noman’s right hand went to his coat pocket. A strange, cold, irregular lump of something was there. It was hard and rough against the skin of his fingers, like rock or metal, yet it seemed to weigh hardly anything as he drew it forth into the rain. Despite the coldness of it steam rose from between his curled fingers, accompanied by an ethereal green glow which matched the eyes in the darkness almost perfectly. He relaxed his grip and let the object sit in the palm of his hand, billowing steam as raindrops evaporated before ever touching its surface. Not rock, nor metal, it looked to be some sort of rounded crystalline formation.

The shadows danced around him, drawing nearer before darting quickly away, eager to get close yet afraid to be near. He caught flashes of strange multi-jointed legs, thought he saw claws and mandibles and chitin, always implied but never coming into focus. The backs of his eyes felt like they were on fire.

“I can’t,” he gasped, flinching at memories that rose to the surface before quickly vanishing, like bubbles in boiling pitch. “Not again.”

You can, the voice told him flatly. And you will, because I command it.

Under that command he found himself compelled to stand, to gather himself and set out once more through the city streets, stone in hand. Thunder rumbled angrily among the clouds as the rain began to intensify.

The cold that radiated from the stone was beginning to crawl up his wrist. Whatever preternatural force lived within it had taken hold in his flesh, and its influence was growing. Icy tendrils wound their way through the veins in his forearm. A vague recollection told him it had happened before, and that it would continue. It would spread to his elbow, eventually passing his shoulder and engulfing his chest like some foul plague intent on devouring his very soul.

Had he tried to fight the spread before? The dense fog that was his memory offered no answer. Whenever he tried reaching into it everything seemed to draw away, there but just out of reach. It was infuriating. The more rebellious side of him urged him to resist this time, to try and fight the unknown influence that dominated him. But even as the thought occurred he rejected it. While he couldn’t grasp specific memories he felt with an unexplainable certainty that he would fail, and be worse off for having tried. Better to just find out what his part would be this time and get things over with. Once the voice was finished with him he would be free again, his soul restored – the promise of it shone like a distant beacon of light in the fog of his mind. All he had to do was obey.

Noman came to the top of a hill and stopped as the city spread out below him. The whole of it glowed softly with the light from thousands of windows and lamp posts. But not around him. If anything the darkness seemed to coil more tightly around him. The haunting shadows were beginning to become almost mundane, accepted if not welcome. He barely flinched at their half seen movements.

They no longer respect the old ways, the voice hissed in his ear. For a moment he thought it was speaking of the things around him, but as it continued he realized it spoke of the city. To many of them, the Old Gods are dead and gone. Myths, and nothing more. It was annoyed, and its annoyance made him shift his weight uneasily. Whenever the voice was unhappy he ended up killing somebody, the fact came unbidden to his mind. But you know differently, don’t you Noman?

Mute agreement seemed the best response, so he stood quietly as the rain ran did its best to drench him.

They call it progress, the voice seemed to mock the very idea. They think what they cannot see cannot hurt them. Out of sight and out of mind, they say. You will show them that the shadows can hurt them. That the dark of night still holds terrors beyond their imagination. For their own good, you will show them.

“For their own good,” he echoed hoarsely. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe it. Maybe it was to save them, or to make them stronger, or some other noble sounding goal. Whatever it was, he had his purpose. Armed with it he started down the hill into the city below, only to pause after a few steps. He looked back and watched the shadows slithering like a black mist where he’d been standing. His hand went into his pocket and closed on the green stone. “Come,” he snapped.

The night swam after him.

———-

Original:

A man walked along darkened streets, the collar of his long coat turned up to protect against the rain. It wasn’t helping, but he didn’t care. The things he’d seen, the things he’d done… He shook his head violently, as if trying to eject the memories by force. Water sprayed from his matted black hair in all directions, adding ever so slightly to the general dampness of the area.

Had it even been real? It all felt like a dream. No… a nightmare. He looked at his hands. The blood was gone, but had it been washed away by the rain or had he done it himself?

Be at ease, a voice murmured in his mind. You did what you had to do.

He recoiled and looked all around for the source of the voice. When he didn’t see it he pressed his back against the wall and stared wide eyed into the darkness. “No,” he rasped. “I didn’t…” his voice caught in his throat, choking off the words.

Shhhhh, the voice soothed. Hush now. All is well.

His panicked eyes darted from side to side. There! He caught sight of something back the way he’d come – something monstrous, with too many legs, its body black and glistening with slick, slimy moisture. He could feel it even from a distance and his skin crawled from the sight of it. The creature’s eyes, a pair of sickly green glows in the darkened night, focused directly on him.

He ran. His feet tripped over themselves and he stumbled awkwardly down the street. Puddles splashed loudly as he fled carelessly through them, dampening his legs and making the fabric of his pants grasp uncomfortably at his already clammy skin. He had to get away. It wasn’t real.

Then why are you running?

He took a corner blindly, barreled into a group of trash bins and went sprawling among them. He lay there panting amid the garbage. “Not real,” he wheezed into the refuse. “Not real.”

Silence. Blissful, sane silence. The rain pattered down upon the ground and danced on his back as he lay still. The silence dragged on, minute by minute. A sense of dread slowly began to infuse itself into his stomach, growing until it overpowered the stench of the garbage. The hairs on the back of his neck began to lift.

He pushed himself from the ground and turned over slowly. The shadows swirled around him, seemingly alive. Inhuman things danced at the edges of his vision, dissolving into nothing if he tried to look directly at them. The shadows themselves seemed wrong – oily, visceral and more real than ever before. They were everywhere, crawling over everything. His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed himself back, scrabbling to get away. His back hit a wall and he jumped, throat tightening. Innumerable green eyes peered out at him from every blackened corner.

All is well, the voice repeated. They won’t hurt you. Won’t touch you. And you know why, don’t you? Some part of you remembers why they’re drawn to you.

A shaking hand went to his coat pocket and felt a hard lump of – what, stone? Metal? He didn’t know, but his gut insisted it shouldn’t be there. He’d thrown it… where? He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Somewhere… He was sure he’d thrown it somewhere, after… yet here it was.

Show it to them, the voice commanded.

Feeling helpless to do otherwise he put his hand into the pocket and closed his fist around the strange, cold lump. It was nearly too big for his hand to close around, yet it weighed almost nothing as he brought it out into the rain and held it up at eye level. Steam was rising from between his fingers, lit by a sickly green glow that pulsed from the stone. Every shadow in the alley seemed to come alive. They moved closer, pushing close to him in anticipation.

Let them see it.

Himself transfixed he peeled his fingers away and winced as the light grew unexpectedly brighter. The thing in his hand was rough, almost crystalline in nature, a pure green substance that felt like it was probing the back of his head as he looked at it. Despite the coldness he felt against his skin raindrops vaporized before ever touching the stone, and the steam seemed to perpetually rise from it.

The shadows danced around him, drawing nearer before darting quickly away, eager to get close yet afraid to be near. He caught flashes of strange multi-jointed legs, thought he saw claws and mandibles and chitin, always implied but never coming into focus. The backs of his eyes felt like they were on fire.

“I can’t,” he rasped, flinching at memories that rose to the surface before quickly vanishing, like bubbles in boiling pitch. “Not again.”

You can, the voice said, smooth as silk. He felt invisible hands close around his. You will. And I will show you how.

He stood atop a hill in a city he didn’t recognize and looked out at its rain slicked expanse. The streets were aglow with light, and from this vantage he could see the outer wall. It had long since lost its importance as a bulwark against invading enemies and the city was starting to grow past it.

It was still raining, and at intervals thunder rumbled angrily among the clouds. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the alley. Time had been a little fuzzy since the moment he’d opened his eyes and found himself in the city. It was still night, though. Whether or not it was the same night he had no way of knowing.

His hand remained cold. Whatever preternatural force swam within the green stone had taken hold in his flesh. A distant memory told him this had happened before, but revealed nothing more. When he reached for its vague outline it darted away like a startled fish. He was left only with the certainty that the stone’s cold grasp would grow beyond his hand, up to his elbow and then his shoulder. From there it would spread into this chest, like some foul plague devouring his very soul. He could feel it happening – already icy tendrils were winding their way through the veins in his arm. Eventually he would feel nothing but the icy touch from within.

He couldn’t remember if he’d tried to fight the cold decay of his soul before. He could extract little from the dense fog that was his memory. Whenever he tried reaching into it everything seemed to draw away, there but just out of reach. It was infuriating. He thought briefly about fighting it this time, just to show that he was no mere slave to the voice’s will.

He pushed the thought away. While he couldn’t grasp specific memories he knew it would be futile. Better to just find out what his part would be this time and get things over with. Once the voice was finished with him he would get his soul back – the promise of it shone like a small beacon of light in the fog. All he had to do was obey.

The darkness seemed to close ever more tightly around him, illusions scuttling and hissing at the edge of his sight. He was getting used to them again, no longer flinching at each half seen movement. They no longer respect the old ways, the voice hissed in his ear. For a moment he thought it was speaking of the things around him, but as it continued he realized it spoke of the city. To many of them, the Old Gods are dead and gone. Myths, and nothing more. It was annoyed. He shifted uneasily. Whenever the voice was unhappy he ended up killing somebody, the fact came unbidden to his mind. But you know differently, don’t you Noman?

He remained mute, still as a statue as the rain ran off of him in sheets. The voice’s use of his name rang true. Noman. That’s who he was. He clung to that truth as the voice continued. Soon it would come to the end of its monologue and his purpose would be made clear. He’d learned to be patient.

They call it progress, the voice seemed to mock the very idea. A slow, terrifying chuckle welled up from some horrible corner of the night.

“Progress,” he rasped. He remembered a little about progress, about factories that belched smoke into the sky, where children toiled from dawn till dusk so their families could earn enough to live like human beings. And weapons… he remembered what progress had brought to weapons. Now a man could kill another from a hundred yards away and not have to get his hands bloody.

They think what they cannot see cannot hurt them, the voice continued. Out of sight and out of mind, they say. You will show them that the shadows can hurt them. That the dark of night still holds terrors beyond their imagination. For their own good, you will show them.

“For their own good,” he echoed hoarsely. It didn’t matter that he didn’t believe it. Maybe it was to save them, or to make them stronger, or some other noble sounding goal. Whatever it was, he had his purpose. Armed with it he started down the hill into the city below, only to pause after a few steps. He looked back and watched the shadows slithering like a black mist where he’d been standing. His hand went into his pocket and closed on the green stone. “Come,” he snapped.

The night swam after him.