Speak to the king within the man...

My first novel (The Silo) came out so easily. I wrote the first draft in all of two months. I spent another six editing. During the process, I kept telling myself, surely this writing thing isn't normally this easy. Turns out I was right. Since I finished the Silo, I have yet to produce a submission ready draft of anything. I have three novels in process and this one, Changing Creed, is closest to completion.

I've been working on this novel for about four years and have finally finished the first draft. It has been a struggle as the subject matter is rather heavy and a bit out of character for me. As a matter of fact, when I read it I think, "man, whats wrong with me. Where did this come from?" Never-the-less, I have invested so much time into it, I feel I need to complete it. I plan on posting a chapter a day until it is all out here, in all it's glory. Not that anyone really reads this blog anyway, but if you happen upon it, please post a thought or two on this and if it is well received, I will spend the time on edits and then pursue publication.

disclaimer: This is merely a first draft. There may be some continuity, spelling and grammatical errors. Please ignore them and post any questions you may have.

Thanks.

Chapter 1

Creed crouched in front of the marker, soaked in rain, and consumed by grief. The world as he knew it was gone, and he was ill fitted to handle the change that had been forced upon him.

Moments earlier, the thickest of clouds had forced its way over the top of the mountain and rolled powerfully down the other side, consuming the sky above Creed. It brought thick darkness and heavy moisture as it released its downpour. The mountain welcomed the heavy drops as they pelted the ground and pollen filled tree needles. The strong scent of rain joined the damp air, and Creed breathed in as best he could through his stuffed head.

His shaking hands held tightly to a small bouquet of dripping wet wild flowers. Wrapped around the stems was his fathers good luck charm, a piece of twine with a button attached. He knelt down in the soil above his father and felt his knees sink slightly into the earth. Gently, he placed the flowers against the cross and whispered a prayer, a prayer for his father who was now in a far better place, a prayer for his widowed mother, and a prayer for himself. Creed knew that his burden was suddenly heavier than he was ready to bear. He now had to fill the shoes of his father at the young age of fourteen.

Creed lifted his face and let the rain tap at his closed eyes for a moment. He reached in his soaked corduroy pant pocket and pulled out a small picture of he and his father holding freshly caught trout. He placed it at the base of the flowers as the rain slowed to a drizzle. The welcoming sun soon parted the dark rain clouds, radiating through the massive spruce trees, glistening on the wet marker. Creed sat patiently and waited as the warm rays began drying his clothing and unkempt hair. The minutes turned to ten, then fifteen. His uncertainty grew with the passing of time, yet he remained as his father counseled. Masked behind the sorrow, a slow forming nervousness lurked inside. Who was this man whom his father spoke of? Why wait for him?

He suppressed his concerns and let his thoughts turned to the accident that stole his father from him. No son should have to be the one to hear his father's last words as Creed had to. No boy should have to feel the warmth of his father’s last breath on his cheek. He knew that working as a high rigger didn’t come without a certain level of danger, but Creed never once considered it would be a means to his fathers end. He closed his eyes and felt once more the sting of the entire ordeal. One snap of a leather harness, a mighty fall, and Creed was a boy without a father. Creed sobbed as he relived the horror of that day. The day that forever changed who he was and what he was to become.

In an instant, his lament was driven off by a faint whistling sound hitting his ears. The tune carried through the quite cemetery. The source of the whistle was out of sight for a time, yet becoming more distinct. Finally, Creed caught a glimpse of what he was waiting for.

Creed squinted through the mist, trying to make out what was before him. "Are you him?"

In a slow deliberate stroll, the figure of a man cut through the dampness. He approached with his hands deep in his pockets, whistling a tune that Creed found vaguely familiar. His broad chest was covered in a ratty brown three-piece, accented with a bow tie, tied loosely around his piped neck. His weather worn face sat beneath the tallest hat Creed had ever seen, while his white hair dangled freely around his ears and neck, resting at home on his collar. His stern eyes gleaned with a pale blue hue. They pierced right through Creed.

"Awe my boy, you waited." His voice was deep and accented in Yorkshire.

"I did as my pa said," replied a shaken Creed.

The man gazed around the area, and then changed his focus to the marker in front of Creed. His head bowed slightly and a look of sympathy crossed his face then morphed into pensiveness. "Creed Linden. I understand you knew I was coming?”

"Yeah, Pa said you was.” Creed paused. “It must have been important.”

The man looked hard at Creed. “He was a good man, your father, a good man indeed. You have his strong shoulders you do.” The big man smiled delicately.

“That’s what momma says all the time.”

A moment passed and pleasantries turned to seriousness.

“I have something for you.” He reached into his vest pocket and removed a small corked vile, the contents of which were a dark blue. He took a few steps closer to Creed and handed him the vile. “When you feel you are ready,” he said gesturing at the liquid.

“I’m supposed to drink this?” Creed held the vile up to the sky, gazing on the clear blue juice inside.

“That’s right,” he said softly. “It’s a subtle solution, oh sure, but what power…”

“Power for what?” Creed asked.

The man folded his arms snug beneath his chest, and paused for a long while, gathering his thoughts. “Your grandfather had a gift. So did your father. And you Creed, I would bet you possess it as well.” He looked curiously at Creed who was gazing on the ground afraid to make eye contact.

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then continued. “Let me back up a bit. Everyone born to this earth is given gifts of sorts. I suppose to Handel it was musical ingenuity that found its source in another realm. To Monet it was the eye’s to see and hands to create images to last lifetimes. To your dear mother, the gift of love and compassion matched by few. Gifts such as these are rare. They are the source of inspiration for the ages. You, Creed Linden, can count yourself among the great few who can use the gift you have to change lives. You and your fathers before you have something rare indeed.

Creed looked up at the burly man with sensitive eyes. The words spoken sounded important and sincere, and even though he knew nothing of anyone named Handel or Monet, the message resonated inside him. Creed burned with confusion. “What gift?” he asked, not really wanting the answer.

“Let me give you a hint. A little while back you had a horrible thought cross your mind while swimming in the pond. You told your father about it. Do you remember?”

Creed nodded. “I thought of a boy drowning there.”

“You did, didn’t you? Very well. Now, there will come a single moment in the future that will require the use of that potion you’re holding. I’ll say this one time. Use it only in that moment."

Creed went to speak, but the man cut him short. “Shh. You’ll know, son.”

The Englishman walked toward him and spoke sure and strong. "One more thing and I’ll be on my way. I want you to listen careful. You will soon have the misfortune to experience first hand the worst in mankind. Right here in Robbinsville lays a festering evil that is consumed by greed. This is where your gift will change the fortune and future of the Linden name. Be perceptive young Creed. Listen to your instincts. And above all, look after your family, trusting none other." The Englishman was upon him towering over Creed. “I will say this as one last counsel to you. Take this as a forewarning. True compassion can conquer any evil. Never forget this.”

Creed felt his inferiority as he coward beneath the hulking man. He stepped back and the man let the distance between them remain. Evil? Creed thought. His father said nothing about evil in Robbinsville.

The Englishman sighed. "I am done here. The gift is yours. You know the charge that has been given you." With an odd wink of his deeply sunken eye and a nod of his head, he removed his hat and smiled once more. “The name is Collin Bradbury. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Creed gave a half hearted hand gesture, still lost on all that was said.
The man turned to depart in the direction he came. Without looking back, he said, “find the good in this, Creed.”

Creed watched bemused as Collin walked away. His mind was clouded and his heart still ached as the weight of his new found burden fell hard upon him. A moment later, he heard the soft voice of his mother, climbing the hill toward him.

"Creed sweetie? Time to get home. Supper is on."

Creed turned to face her and it was in that moment that he saw her in a different way. She was strong in her step and her face was stoic. He knew the pain she felt inside, and yet he knew she didn’t want to let on. Creed could see her swollen, bloodshot eyes. Her mourning was present in her face yet she was as beautiful as ever. Her black hair, pulled tightly in a bun, lifted her thin face.

"Momma, I saw him. He came. The man pa told me about."

“Is that so?” she asked, hardly showing concern. Her gaze drifted away. Creed could see the pain in her absent face. He knew how deep her love was for his father.
“We better get home. My stew is about done.”

He flung his arm around his mother’s shoulder and the two of them headed down the hill toward home.