And it's already time to post the next extract of As Winter Came and Went! I have to admit I'm finding it difficult to choose suitable ones, that do not give away too much, yet are understandable when taken out of the context of the novel. I should have probably choosen to publish the whole of the first chapter, in several installments...
This passage was taken from chapter 1. It is narrated by the main character, Dennys, like the very first extract (of the incipit) I posted. In this chapter, set in September 1820, he is on a boat on his way back to England after having spent two years in Africa. However, he had been thought dead during the last months of his stay and the circumstances of his reappearance were rather mysterious.
Feel free to comment and let me know if you like or dislike it, what you think work or doesn’t work, and if this taster makes you want to read the rest of the book!
Extract of chapter 1
Time stretches endlessly, a long thin thread always on the point of breaking. You can feel it sometimes. When it’s dark. And you can see nothing but time flowing in your mind. I was blind for a while. Not blind but I couldn’t see; I thought I’d become blind. I woke up. There were noises in the street, daytime noises. I remember a man was selling figs. Or was it dates? I remember well enough though, I remember the last days.
I woke up. Everything was dark and I was scared and I didn’t know where I was. There was nothing, not even a chink of light. I tried to open my eyes…I widened them…still I couldn’t see. There was someone, not very far from me, breathing. He was perspiring, I could smell it. I could smell the street too. Spices, horses, sweat, stale meat. It was so strong it sickened me.
My body wasn’t my own. I remember that well enough. I felt my face. My hands were heavy though nothing but skin and bone. Weak. I could barely lift them. They hurt too. I must have cut them at some point ‘cause the palms were burning. I felt my face. It was then that I realized that my eyes were bandaged. I was relieved, so relieved, and I tried to take it off…
A hand grasped mine, don’t, a voice said. I wondered why he’d not spoken before. It was definitely a man though he had a sugary sort of voice. “Your eyes have not healed yet.” I remembered how my eyes had hurt before. He let go of my wrist. His voice was both very close to my ear and very far away. Everything was disturbing. His hand had let go of my wrist but it was now pressing upon my chest. “Lie still,” he said. His voice was harsh and unpleasant beneath the syrup. “Who are you?” he said. I didn’t know what to answer, I didn’t know how to answer. His hand was impatient, like it wanted to shake some sense into me. He repeated, slowly, as if he was speaking to a small child. I felt like a child. Helpless. I just wanted to sink into nothingness and to not feel anymore ‘cause everything was so uncomfortable and queer and I wanted to be sick. I rolled on my side and was sick. There was a gasp of disgust and the voice called for someone else, who was brisk and efficient. He knew what to do. I was reassured ‘cause just now I wanted to burst into tears and I knew it wouldn’t do. The other person told me they wanted to help me. They guessed I was a white man, they told me. Who was I then? “Was I French? Was I English?” I nodded. I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t want to open my mouth for fear of being sick again. They told me to rest. They told me I’d feel better once my eyes were healed. They told me they understood I was confused. Confused? I just wanted to sleep.
Time stretched endlessly.
I woke up. Everything was dark and I was scared and I didn’t know where I was. There was nothing, not even a chink of light. I tried to open my eyes…I widened them…still I couldn’t see. There was someone, not very far from me, breathing. He was perspiring, I could smell it. I could smell the street too. Spices, horses, sweat, stale meat. It was so strong it sickened me.
My body wasn’t my own. I remember that well enough. I felt my face. My hands were heavy though nothing but skin and bone. Weak. I could barely lift them. They hurt too. I must have cut them at some point ‘cause the palms were burning. I felt my face. It was then that I realized that my eyes were bandaged. I was relieved, so relieved, and I tried to take it off…
A hand grasped mine, don’t, a voice said. I wondered why he’d not spoken before. It was definitely a man though he had a sugary sort of voice. “Your eyes have not healed yet.” I remembered how my eyes had hurt before. He let go of my wrist. His voice was both very close to my ear and very far away. Everything was disturbing. His hand had let go of my wrist but it was now pressing upon my chest. “Lie still,” he said. His voice was harsh and unpleasant beneath the syrup. “Who are you?” he said. I didn’t know what to answer, I didn’t know how to answer. His hand was impatient, like it wanted to shake some sense into me. He repeated, slowly, as if he was speaking to a small child. I felt like a child. Helpless. I just wanted to sink into nothingness and to not feel anymore ‘cause everything was so uncomfortable and queer and I wanted to be sick. I rolled on my side and was sick. There was a gasp of disgust and the voice called for someone else, who was brisk and efficient. He knew what to do. I was reassured ‘cause just now I wanted to burst into tears and I knew it wouldn’t do. The other person told me they wanted to help me. They guessed I was a white man, they told me. Who was I then? “Was I French? Was I English?” I nodded. I didn’t want to explain. I didn’t want to open my mouth for fear of being sick again. They told me to rest. They told me I’d feel better once my eyes were healed. They told me they understood I was confused. Confused? I just wanted to sleep.
Time stretched endlessly.
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