Chapter Thirty: Of Dark Interests
(Note: This is not official version and may be removed in the near future. This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter. I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that. This novel has since been rewritten.) James sat on one of the ridges along the edge of the octagon. None of the others bothered sitting. Darl took a position behind Bourlinch as if ready at any moment to beat the memories out. James watched the water as it flowed down the tunnel off somewhere unknown. He was getting used to the smell now. It had easily been twenty minutes of them setting around as Bourlinch argued with himself over which tunnel was the correct one. At one point Darl suggested they just split up into each of them, but that idea was quickly shot down as Iliad explained how unlikely it would be that they would find a way out doing that. James wondered what would happen to them if they never found a way out of the tunnels. Even if they were forced to turn back he wasn’t sure he could trust Bourlinch’s memory. What if he forgets? We’ll be stuck here forever. Darl spoke in hushed whispers to himself. James could tell they were angry, bitter words, each phrase coming as a snap. Iliad tried going down one of the tunnels to see if there was an air current to follow, or some change of smell, but when he came back his face was as grim as before and going down the other tunnels proved just as useless. James felt helpless again. He sat alone and listened. “What if you read his mind?” Pea suggested. Triska shook her head. “The memories are buried deep. I don’t think I can pull them forward. I’d likely hurt us both by doing so.” “Oh.” “Something will jar his memory. I hope.” James wasn’t convinced. Triska was lying again, a white lie, but still a lie nonetheless. He wasn’t quite sure how he could tell, but something about the way she spoke when she lied gave her away and he took far too much notice in it for his own good. Deep down he hoped he could just believe what she said. The time went from twenty minutes to thirty, to forty five, and then an hour. Darl was pacing, grabbing and releasing his sword rhythmically. Iliad tried going down the tunnels once more and came back empty handed. James started to think. He wondered what would happen to Laura if they couldn’t get to her tonight. He wondered what would happen to him if they were caught. Tonight, he knew, might be the only night they would have the opportunity to search for her. Luthien would know what he was up to and would be sending a message east. Then he thought about the power that Luthien seemed to possess. It occurred to him that somehow Luthien might get back to Teirlin’pur overnight using some power that nobody really knew about, or didn’t discuss. Do the people here know about it? Are they keeping it quiet? What about the other cities in Angtholand? Do they know anything? The questions came out of him in a hurry and he knew that neither he nor his companions would have the answer to them. When the second hour rolled by without a single bit of progress, Bourlinch let out a cough and a murmur of words that nobody understood. Darl said something and then Bourlinch knelt down and dipped his hand into the water. James started to protest, but before he could do anything the crooked man drank and made an echoing ‘ah’ sound. James pursed his lips in disgust and saw the same looks on the faces of his companions. Then Bourlinch clapped his hands together, flinging bits of water in every direction and said, “I know now! I see it. I see path. Yes!” Before anyone could speak Bourlinch tore off down the left hand path. James got to his feet in a hurry and followed. But Bourlinch was too far ahead. The others were behind him, but as he ran the sounds of Bourlinch hiccupping and making odd noises dwindled. Then all the sounds disappeared. He continued, sloshing and slashing. The water grew deeper and deeper. Soon he found himself in waste deep water. The tunnel had taken a dive in altitude at some point behind, bringing the water higher and higher. A giggle sounded as he pushed as fast as he could through the water. He glanced back. Darl gave him a look of triumph. James frowned. He moved on, pushing with all his might to get himself through the water as fast as possible. The waterline rose again. A pair of small arms wrapped around his neck—Pea. He let the little man climb onto his back. Then the water rose to his chest. He cursed to himself, under his breath. Darl cursed out loud. It felt like forever. He led the others along the tunnel with Pea attached to his back like a little animal, torch held up to provide light. He groaned as his feet slipped on something gross at the bottom of the tunnel and he didn’t ask himself what it could possibly be. Soon his shoes were being encased in the mud-like goop and he had to fight even harder just to keep moving. He knew he could swim a lot faster than he could walk, but he refused to get any more of his body in the water. At least I don’t have to worry about my armpits smelling, he thought. The water let up slightly some distance away from when it had reached his chest. He sighed out loud and smiled faintly. The others seemed pleased too, especially Darl who let out a curse that sounded more like a cheer. Then the water rapidly dropped to his knees
Point of View Gone Haywire
It has been coming to my attention more and more lately that it is becoming acceptable in the literary world to completely ignore all the little rules that have been laid down in regards to POV. Why has this become a good thing to do? I don’t get it. One of the biggest rules of writing, well, perhaps not a rule but a big know-how, is not to switch tenses. Not only am I seeing this in young writers–which is probably rather common–but also in professional, published literature. A novel I recently reviewed went from first person past to first person present, and even dared to go from first person past to third person past in the middle of a chapter. What exactly is spawning this sudden change? It’s destroying literature I think. Has anyone else discovered this issue in any particular books they’ve seen?