Ocean Dust: a Novel - Chapter One: Steam

(Ah, the long-awaited Chapter One.  I have been waiting so long for this.

As I said before, I was going to wait until I progressed at least halfway through my first draft before publishing the chapters on my blog, but I decided that I would rather just start publishing them on here so I could get some opinion from you guys.  Feedback is much appreciated!

Anyways, before I get started, I'd like to give you a quick backstory.  This tale started out as a typical fairy tale about three girls summoned from our world into a fairy world where they are destined to save it from a terrible villain.  After a few years of holding onto the story and adding things here and there, I discovered that the general idea was too overused, so I threw it away, and several weeks later, I started it again with new settings, new characters, and new tales.  The only things I kept were the first names of my original characters!

The scribbles I vomited out soon became what I now call Ocean Dust.  Enjoy the first chapter!)

            Shadows loomed over the Midway from the surrounding skyscrapers.  Night had already enveloped the city of Londonne in a shrouded black veil as the bright lights of the skyscrapers reflected off the gathering storm clouds.  A powerful thunderstorm was beginning to arrive, as they generally did that time of year, but, as usual, the people of Londonne were not worried in the least bit; after all, cities could never be destroyed by only a thunderstorm with the modern technology of the highly industrial era of 1896, in that case, especially Londonne.

            Many steaming racs were crowded in the Midway system, their shiny, smooth shells showing deranged, twisted likenesses of the skyscrapers as they often did, but only when their drivers went through a racwash to cleanse the outer shell.  Otherwise, it was plastered in the gray dirt of the outlying countryside.  Sometimes there were unidentified leaves wedged in the crusty filth, which was all but seen as a disgrace in cities, as if anything living besides citizens was prohibited, especially in Londonne.

            Racs were often nicknamed “steam carriages” because they were like carriages except they were steam-powered by engines made of gears, pulleys, and levers instead of being pulled by a horse.  Lately, the production companies of racs gave the devices colored metal shells to replace the previous shells of wood traditionally painted black.  They were all the rage in the Skyway, yet the residents in the Midway rarely saved up enough Shells to buy even an older rac model.

            As the racs slowly slid on their black, rubbery wheels along the Midway and into the glittering, elaborate system of the Skyway, a man in a dark coat skidded between them on an antique clockcycle, which occasionally sputtered with a small cloud of steam.  The man was wearing a loosely fitting brown cap, more fitting for a factory worker but rather stylish nonetheless, and it so perfectly matched his graying russet hair that reached to just below his ears.  He had a thin moustache and a stubbly chin, and old gray eyes that were staring at the center of the Midway, glancing at the numerous watches on his left wrist every now and then.  The clock on the clockcycle, which was the headlight as well as the engine, was ticking slower than usual and inching towards the number twelve at the top.

            Dash it all, the man thought with a snort of annoyance.  I suppose I’ll have to wind up the old watch when I get back to the trapa.

            The clockcycle swerved past a corner and into a hazily lit Underway.  The man with the old gray eyes slowed his clockcycle down a bit as the tires splashed in a shallow puddle filled with murky old rainwater that still lingered from the previous gale.  He glanced briefly at an open door on a dark brown building where a little boy sat on the steps, only dressed in faded blue overalls and grubby boots that were too big for his little feet.  The man drove his clockcycle on as the Underway led on to another turn and into a darkened alleyway, which were merely narrower, darker variations of Underways.  The clockcycle skidded to a stop by a tall red brick T-nemtrapa building.  Trapa buildings are no more than a series of flats in a large structure often with several floors.  The man swung his right leg over the handlebars and onto the dampened asphalt, and he was just about to wind up the clock on his clockcycle before the faint echo of several pairs of feet reached his ears.

            “My most sincere greetings, Mr. Brackenbury.  I am Culverton Claudine.  You are a Hunter, yes?” a smooth voice said from the obscurity of the Underway.

            Hunters, in those days, were people much like bounty Hunters.  They would be hired for odd jobs, mostly involving tracking down and capturing or assassinating a certain individual that the employer wanted to be rid of.  The man with the old gray eyes had been a Hunter for many years, and was still known for being the best of his trade.  Well, the best in the Underways, that is.

            The man, Brackenbury, did not turn.         

            “Aye, that I am,” he said.

            “I am in need of your services,” the same silky voice said.

            He glanced up to see four dark figures, and the man at the front, the shortest, was the one who had spoken not a minute ago.  All four were dressed in elegant, gentleman-like black suits, but surprisingly, their polished black boots were not stained by the puddles made by the rainwater and the old grime that always lingered in the Underways.  The silken-voiced man at the front of the group, Claudine, smiled to show two rows of pure white teeth, almost too white.  The man with the old gray eyes knew that these men were from the Skyways.  People that clean and pure hanging in the Underways was never a good sign.

            Brackenbury’s eyes widened a bit when he saw a slinky, green-eyed Siamese cat perched on Claudine’s shoulders.  An identical cat, different to the other one only by its blue eyes, curled around the man’s ankle and rubbed its back against it.  Brackenbury’s nose wrinkled in restrained disgust.  He hated cats.

            “Well, that depends on what kind of work it is you want me to do,” he responded to Claudine with a quiet chuckle, ignoring the quiet felines.

            “It is the work you were trained for,” said Claudine.  “There is a large colony of rebels in the old forest a few miles out of Mirrorville.  They have been making trouble in all towns and cities in Inglande, and they are a disgrace and a serious dilemma to the Inglish economy.  We require that you hunt them down and eliminate them.”

            Brackenbury glanced away for a moment.  He had heard of Mirrorville.  It was a small city not far from Nottingham, which was around central Inglande.  Mirrorville was famous for the many buildings that were continuously adorned with mirrors.  Sometimes even the interior walls of a trapa, house, or business would be completely covered in shiny mirrors.  It often made one consider that perhaps they were really the mirror, and the reflection they saw was the real image.  Mirrorville played with one’s mind as if it was only a game of chess.  Brackenbury knew that if he was to agree to this employment, he would probably have to stay the night in Mirrorville before doing the job.  He wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

            “What kind of trouble have these rebels been making?” said the man with the old gray eyes, turning his head back towards Claudine.

            “Culture; they are trying to stay true to the old ways of the Inglish Empire.  With the growing modern revolution happening all over our world, they believe that it’s happening too fast.”

            “I see.”  He paused.  “How much are you willing to pay?”

            “We’ll pay you 200 shells now and another 600 when you finish the job.”

            “600 when I’m done is fine. 400 now,” Brackenbury interrupted.

            Claudine raised his eyebrows a bit.

            “Isn’t that a little high for a Hunter’s service?” he said skeptically.

            The man with the old gray eyes laughed again and glanced at a watch out of habit.  “You guys are from the Skyways. Nothing should be too high,” he said with an undecided half-grin.

            Claudine tried to chuckle a bit, but because he nearly never did so, it did not sound like a chuckle in the least bit.

            “Besides,” said Brackenbury, “a thousand shells is good enough for eliminating an entire rebel colony, right?  It’s not like I’m just getting rid of an old gypsy woman that casts spells on naughty kids.”  One side of Claudine’s mouth turned upwards in mocking amusement, but inside, Brackenbury knew that he was supposed to be serious.  Important people from Skyways weren’t like important people from Underways.

            Brackenbury glanced at the dampened pavement.  “Who’re your friends?” Brackenbury suddenly inquired, referring to Claudine’s two Siamese cats.

            “Ah, I nearly forgot to introduce them,” said Claudine.  He scratched the green-eyed cat on his shoulders behind its ears, followed by a loud purr.  “This is Lord Bumblesnip, and this,” he said, bending down to blue-eyed cat to stroke its cream-colored back, “is Count Corfickle.”  Brackenbury snorts softly in ignorance.  They were such odd names for pets, and for that matter, cats.

            One of Claudine’s bodyguards handed Brackenbury a silver briefcase holding the four hundred shells that would be his pay until the job was done.  He took the briefcase wordlessly and shook Claudine’s hand, afterwards which Claudine wiped his hand on his pants.  Skyway people tend to have a fetish for keeping their hands clean.

            “When do you want the work done?” said the man.

            “We’ll give you a month, but if it’s not done within then you’ll have another week to finish it.  We’ve heard that you are the best Hunter in the Underways and that you don’t back down on a well-paying job.  I do hope that you take this offer sincerely, sir.”

            “Of course I do,” said Brackenbury.  “It’s what I do for a living, you know.”

            “The information you need for the colony’s location is inside the case.  I will contact you in two weeks,” said Claudine.  And with that, he left with his three bodyguards, disappearing into the misty shadows of the Underway like a deadly wolf pack on the hunt under the invisible protection of the storm clouds.  Claudine’s two slinky cats followed right behind them, looking entirely identical from the rear view.  The green-eyed one -or as Claudine called him, Lord Bumblesnip- turned and looked at Brackenbury with stealthy, watchful green eyes.  After a moment he turned tail on Brackenbury and followed his colleague, Count Corfickle, into the shadows.

            Brackenbury sighed pensively and picked up the silver briefcase holding his current pay.  He looked up for no apparent reason, and, as usual, saw nothing but gloomy gray clouds, from which the occasional thunder roll could be heard.  Strangely, even though the sky was cloaked in dark storm clouds, there was a star among wind’s invisible fingers.  Not a faint star far away, but a gleaming, shining star that made the sky almost seem like dawn.  But it was scarcely midnight.  Holding out his hand, which was grubby with old dirt and dotted with the occasional blister, he felt the first few raindrops of the storm.      It had arrived.

                  And in more ways than one.

(Well, there you have it.  Please, please please tell me how I can make this better!  Of course, it might take more chapters to know how it can be edited, but if you have a thought, please let me know.  I want to make this book perfect!

Merry Christmas everyone!

With love and wishes of happy holidays, 

-Snowprincess)