Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's a trip down the South End pier from my work in progress. (Draft text, subject to change.)

We departed the flat after perhaps twenty minutes delay, not overly impeded by Alice’s insistence that she was a big girl and didn’t need any help. Soon thereafter, we stood on the landward end of the pier. The tide almost at its high point, water stretched from under our feet to the misty outline of the Kent coast. After a few yards, the planking began to bounce a little as we stepped. Through gaps between the boards the waves could be glimpsed. Ahead, the walkway extended for more than a mile: ten feet wide to allow carts to pass one another, a fragile-looking rail on either side guarding against plummeting into the estuary.

“There’s a ship,” Hazel said, “but I think it’s only a collier.”

“It looks to me as though there are two ships,” I replied, right hand shielding my eyes, “and the second one doesn’t have the lines of a freighter.”

“Yes,” Hazel agreed, “I think there is a second ship, genny, but you must have jolly good eyes if you can see they’ve painted lines on it.”

“Not those sorts of lines, Hazel… I meant the shape of the hull.”

“It’s shipshape,” there was a note of triumph in Alice’s voice. “Shipshape and Brister fashion.”

“Brister’s in the west, Alice,” Willow corrected her, “and our geography teacher says that coal comes from the north.”

“It’s a saying,” Alice responded, “meaning just right.”

“You’re perfectly correct, Alice,” I confirmed, “shipshape and Brister fashion means just that. And your geography teacher, Willow, is right, too. Coal comes from the north.”

“And it is a collier,” Hazel added, “I’m sure of it.”

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later – confirming Hazel’s observation – a cartful of coal rumbled past, heading for the shore. A rising breeze whipped black gritty dust from its cargo. Fortunately, we walked on the windward side, and little of the filthy stuff raked our throats or spotted our clothes. Five or ten minutes afterwards, a cart heading for the pier-head kept pace with us for a short while. Glancing at the load, I saw a large cheese and several boxes of fresh vegetables.

“There you are,” I said, “there must be a second ship. They wouldn’t carry vegetables and cheese on a collier. Imagine the food all over coal dust. It would be horrid.”

“Horrid,” Alice repeated, “but not as horrid as…”

“Yes, Alice,” I chided her, “but I don’t think we need any suggestions for horrid food.”

“They might carry vegetables and cheese on a collier,” Hazel corrected me, “for the crew to eat.”

“A collier,” I said with more certainty than I felt, “carries a captain, a mate and three or four deckhands, at the most. They wouldn’t eat a cheese as big as that one… not this side of the New Castle.”

“Anyway, genny,” Hazel countered, “people sometimes eat coal. I think I saw mummy eating some.”

“Pregnant women sometimes eat queer things,” I admitted. “All the same, I don’t think a grocer would sell much cheese, if it was mixed with coal dust.”

“It might possibly be nice,” Alice revised her earlier opinion that it would be horrid. “You never know.”

“Well,” I conceded, “we’ll know for sure whether there’s a second ship when we get a bit nearer the pier-head.”

“Mummy” Alice said, “I’m a bit tired now… I’ve been a good girl, and…”

Her pace had slowed markedly during the last ten minutes. Smiling, I lifted Alice to my shoulders for a piggyback. Planking reverberated under our feet. White crested waves surged beyond the rails on either hand – and below gaps between the boards. The further we advanced, the stronger and colder the wind grew. On the shore, winter weight coats and scarves had seemed absurd; half way to the pier-head, they declared themselves as sensible, even necessary. Woolly layers rising to protect our teeth from the blast, we fell silent.

“There are two ships,” Willow said at last, lowering her scarf to impart the information. “And I think the second one is a warship.”

“Yes,” Hazel agreed, uncovering her mouth. “I thought that thing sticking up at an angle was a hoist for coal, but it’s not.”

“It’s a catapult,” Willow sounded excited, “to hurl rocks at the wicked kings’ sailors. And jolly well serve them right, too.”

There followed the imagined sounds of discharged boulders and splintering timbers. Joyously, Alice joined her sisters in creating the cacophony. Having once ridden as a passenger on a warship engaged with the enemy, I knew that the noises bore little resemblance to reality. For a mixture of reasons, I failed to correct our daughters. For one thing, I preferred to keep the scarf over my mouth until we reached the windbreak formed by pier-head structures. Also, I strongly doubted whether I could reproduce the correct sounds. And, should an adult overhear my attempting to do so, I wouldn’t seem a fit person to take charge of three young girls. The first and third of these motives appearing very grownup – but not in a good way – I shuddered, although failing to uncover my mouth.

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Tonight, I thought of the titles and main themes for the two remaining Warriors of Love volumes that had, hitherto, remained mysteries to me. The series should run:

1) Jane (already published)
2) Margaret (already published)
3) Daisy (projected for 2012)
4) Jane and Eaquellety (work in progress, completion and publication projected for 2011)
5) Tuerqui (already published)
6) Daisy Explores (projected for 2014)
7) Jane and Education (projected for 2013)
8) Margaret Again (already published)
9) Daisy Settles (projected for 2016)
10) Jane and Expansion (projected for 2015)
11) Tuerqui Again (already published)
12) Daisy Returns (projected for 2017)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I've just published a new novel:

Jane and Eaquellety by P F Jeffery in Science Fiction Fantasy

:)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here's the cover:

http://www.ligotti.net/picture.php?a...pictureid=2495

Re: Warriors of Love
 

The day after publication, I notice that the back of the title page could with tidying up. It contains a full list of Warriors of Love novels (written, and projected) in which "Jane & Eaquellety" is said to be "projected for 2011". I really ought to change "projected for" into "published". :o

Re: Warriors of Love
 

The copyright page has now been corrected.

There will only ever be three copies as originally published... maybe one day they'll be collectors' items and change hands for more money than has passed through my hands in my entire life... perhaps... ;)

Re: Warriors of Love
 

I think that I have decided to replace (with something quite different) my draft for the start of the next book to be written ("Daisy").

These are only very rough drafts, but... My first attempt began:


The flickering desk lamp bathes this page in shadow. Burning oil scents the room, almost like rissoles frying. Beyond the window, three or four lanterns in the darkness: students or staff returning to the halls of residence. Singing, decidedly out of tune, seems to betoken an excess of alcohol in the vicinity of at least one bobbing light. Taking another sip tea, blackcurrant rolls across my tongue. This desk seems a little small, my legs slightly cramped.

It’s the evening of Mistream the fourteenth in Year Twenty-Six.

“That’s a queer way to write the date,” Beatrice – my roommate – just said, looking over my shoulder. “If it was me, I’d put it into figures, separated by slashes.”

“It seems more literary, the way I’ve done it,” I reply.

“In any case, I’m pretty sure that’s not the sort of thing we’re supposed to write.”

“Wait and see,” I hold my finger to my lips, enjoining silence.

“Is that what it’s doing?” Beatrice continues to read, as I write. “What if I’m not enjoying silence?”

“Whatever.” The play on words didn’t seem worth a more considered response.

Very well… My name is Daisy Diamond. The circumstances of my conception made me a pioneer: part of the first age of gynogenesis girls. For uncounted generations, children had fathers: a male second parent. From my time onwards, we have genetrices, our mothers fertilised by another woman.

“I don’t think there’s any need to write all that,” Beatrice said, having collected her tea and biscuit from the other desk. “Everyone knows all that… well, not necessarily that you’re part of the first gynogenesis generation, but…”

“If people are reading my book…”

“Book?”

“It may grow into one. Stranger things have happened. And, if people are reading my book in a thousand years’ time…”

“As if!”

“I don’t say they will be…”

“And, even they are, they’ll know all about gynogenesis, and genetrices, and…”

“Yes, but they may have forgotten about fathers.”

“In any case,” Beatrice shifted our dispute, “you’re bigging yourself up. You’re not really one of the first gynogenesis girls. In fact you’re a month or so younger than me, and…”

“Yes, Beatrice, but we were born in year eight… not so very long after…”

“You should know that Berenice II was born in year one, and…”

In case this really is read in a thousand years, I’ll explain that Berenice II has shared her genetrix’s throne for the last eight years.

My mother is Lisa-Louise, the famous photographer. Once, inevitably, she had a surname, but it is no more. Her family name, she tells me, was Addal, but she prefers not to be addled. There is more to it than that. Her uncle, Wilfred Addal, served Usurper II of Lundin as a spymaster. Mum says that he was neither a pleasant nor an evil man. He did what he saw as his duty, and once did her friend Tuerqui a very good turn. All the same, her ancestry isn’t one that many women would wish to own.

My genny is a notable cavalry commander: Colonel Modesty Clay.

Both my mother and my genny were warriors of love. That, I suppose, makes me a warriors of love child. The pair of them clearly view that part of their lives with affection and pride.

“You called it a book,” Beatrice interrupted my flow. “But that’s just a pages or three of scribble.”

The second draft begins:


The scent of recently turned earth may well have been damage we’d inflicted on the lawn. After recent rain, my feet sank into the soft surface. Beyond the window, the room lay in darkness. Gritty dirt from the bin chafed at my fingertips. Manoeuvring the heavy metal object into place against the wall, it boomed loudly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked in reply. A slightly soapy taste from cheap whisky filled my mouth. In an upstairs window, somebody ignited a lamp – splashing light on to the grass at our feet.

“Someone’s up there,” Beatrice said, “do you think she’ll see us?”

“Not so loud,” Nerys whispered, “or she’ll certainly hear us.”

“She can’t have failed,” I replied, “to hear the bin bash against the wall.”

“Whoever it is,” Heather said, “she’s probably used to student pranks – won’t pay us much mind.”

“This is not a prank,” Nerys sounded indignant, “we’re looking for the place where…”

“We all know what we’re looking for,” Beatrice shook her head. “Who’s going to climb up on the bin, and try to open the window?”

It was the mid-evening of Mistream the fourteenth in Year Twenty-Six. Perhaps three hours earlier, Beatrice, Nerys, Heather and I had completed our first day as students in the Imperial University at Berenice. While I’m unable to speak for the others, it’s fair to say that I’d found the experience more bewildering than enlightening. Several hours, or so it felt, had passed in queuing. The seeming reason to standing in line was to register for a series of things, although I’d generally found myself only dimly aware – if that – of what, precisely, our object was.

“It makes a nice change,” I reflected “to know what I’m looking for. Half the day…”

“You climb up on the bin, Daisy,” Heather said to me. “After all, your mum’s a cavalry officer, and…”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

“You’re probably used to leaping on to horses.”

“We’ve all four of us ridden. In any case, I’ve spent more time – in recent years – at the Belle House School with you lot, than in camp with my mum.”

“You took a gap year,” Beatrice said, “in Victoria’s Land.”

“I didn’t spend it climbing up on to bins.”

“Yes, but you must have had all sorts of adventures out in the wilderness – marshes, forests, wild beasts…”

Re: Warriors of Love
 

This hasn't been polished into its final form, but I thought some of you might be interested that the name H P Lovecroft has popped up in "Daisy" (my novel in progress):

As before, the library tearoom proved very crowded. At first, I was unable to see a single familiar face. About to leave, and confront whatever horrors lurked in the refectory, my eye fell upon a mousy girl. She smiled at me, shifting a little, to show that she could make room. Smiling back, a little uncertainly, I placed her as Miss Page – the latecomer, who had dropped her books in Room two-oh-seven. After standing in a queue that seemed short for such a popular eatery, I bought a sandwich and a cup of blackcurrant tea. Returning to my classmate, she budged up, allowing sufficient space for my bottom.

“Thank you,” I said. “Crowded in here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t fancy fishing for soggy lumps in the sludge that passes for refectory soup… I’m going to look out a shop after classes, so I can use the student kitchens… My name’s Sally Page.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sally. I’m Daisy Diamond.”

“What a lovely name! I couldn’t help noticing… all that stuff you wrote during maths… it wasn’t lecture notes.”

“No,” I replied, with an upsurge of pride, “I was starting to write a book.”

“You’re a writer, too? That’s great! I don’t suppose you like goblin tales?”

“I’ve read a few,” I admitted.

“I’ve written one… well, it’s an experimental goblin tale… called Phaedra… I think I’ve got it in my bag.”

“Lovely.” This was insincere, but seemed the thing to say.

Rummaging in her bag, Sally retrieved three sheets of crumpled paper. Glancing at them in distaste, I saw that they were covered in a rats’ nest of untidy scrawl. The idea of reading them tipped from disinclination to despair.

“Of course,” Sally said, “the writing’s a bit scribblesome.”

“Yes it is,” I agreed eagerly, “I don’t think I could…”

“Tell you what, I’ll read it to you. I’ve finished my sandwich.”

“It’s a bit noisy in here.”

“I’ll manage, don’t worry. Phaedra by S L Page. The golden gleam of Solstice sunset gusted, spinning, pouring, whirling in helixes – filling the grisly alleyways, the dreary dwellings, the muddy watercourse, the contorted copse – as colossal bats fluttered above…”

Eventually, she reached the end of her bewildering recital. Sally looked me, smiling, clearly expecting some kind of comment. Expressing my incomprehension seemed too cruel. In the midst of an adjective-clotted passage, she had used the word Lovecroftian. In the Belle House library, there was a book called Dragon by H P Lovecroft. Falsely linking the name with the Warriors of Love – I think – I’d read the book, and found it to contain some splendid goblin tales. When I’d asked after the author, Tuerqui – Nerys’ mother – had told me: She lived in the Old Time: an obscure writer, but permissible. Don’t worry, in spite of when the book was written, it isn’t blasphemous.

“Does Lovecroftian,” I asked, “refer to H P Lovecroft?”

“You know her goblin tales?” Sally sounded delighted by my response.

“There was a book of them in the school library.”

“I wish I’d gone to the sort of school that would have such a book.”

“What kind of books did your school have?”

“History, and geography… maths… and there was a book on gynogenesis science dumbed down for kiddies… and…”

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Yesterday, I was in the inadequate shelter of a gazebo during a thunder storm which was, in itself, an interesting and enjoyable experience. Better still, perhaps, listening to the thunder gave me a simile which today I've incorporated into my current novel ("Daisy"):

"like a muck cart trundled across a cobbled sky"

Re: Warriors of Love
 

Here, before its final polishing, is the end of "Daisy" Ch 5. Soldier Girl is a brand of whisky. The girls are camping, a storm rages... Is there something familiar about the goblin tale Sally tells her friends?

“There’s something very cosy,” Carol said, “listening to the rain, while we’re dry – almost, but not quite, exposed to the storm.”

“Make the most of it,” Bea replied, “things won’t be so cosy tomorrow, when it comes to folding up wet canvas.”

“And” I added, “it’ll be heavy for the poor pack horse to carry.”

“Did we bring the tents?” Sally asked. “I had an idea Liz got them out of a shed.”

“If that’s right,” Bea said, “it’ll be hard to stash them back so they don’t get mildewed.”

“Anyway,” Sally shifted the subject, “that’s tomorrow’s problem. For tonight, like Carol said, this feels really cosy.”

“Might be even cosier,” Bea added, “with a mouthful of Soldier Girl.”

“Better wait,” Carol said, “until Liz gets back, for even dibs.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “we can wait.”

“You know what’d make this moment perfect,” Bea suggested, “Sally telling us one of her goblin tales.”

“Something really spooky,” I added.

“If you’re sure,” Sally said…

“We’re sure,” Carol, Bea and I chorused.

“It’s not word perfect, but this is one of Lovecroft’s… Sylvia-Jean is a mangled corpse, and I alone know why…”

Lightning rendered my friends suddenly vivid, before we sank back into darkness. Thunder pealed, the loudest yet, rain thudded. My last small swig of Soldier Girl continued to tingle upon my tongue. The rumpled sleeping bag under my bottom felt soft, warm and comfy.