A prologue to start with

[MrBishop]

Yes...like thousands of other people out there...I write. Like most, I want feedback...so without further ado.

Prologue of

Confessions of a Lesser-Known god



The clouds rolled across the hills to the north of the city proper, sweeping the snow from it’s icy caps, like an old broom gapped from too many uses. The freshly fallen snow, chilled and accumulated into frozen grit, shook the wooden slats of the Inn’s windows and generally kept the tenants awake and grumbling. There was nothing to be done about the snow or the winds, and the Inn’s staff was starting to get edgy as well. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of merriment and the clanging of pots and pans, mostly being swung with the accuracy that comes with many a long and angry winter. The head cook ducked and shifted her monumental bulk sideways, to avoid a particularly heavy iron lid, keeping a steady rhythm in her mixing all the while trying to ignore the minor squabble going on that morning between the maids and the head of the Inn. It wasn’t really her business, and other than the occasional spill, didn’t affect her either. There had been several fights in the kitchen involving food being thrown around, which meant that the Inn’s guests were having to eat a kind of goulash for a few days…the only sensible way to hide bruised and broken vegetables, but that wasn’t her problem either. She was a cook and only the preparation of food was at issue here, not the eating of it. She had her own stash of food, cooked with loving care and placed gently in the stables to cool, and mostly to avoid the occasional accident. The tenants ate what was placed in front of them, or went to the next Inn, a good five hundred leagues away. The goulash was good for you, and quite spicy as well, thanks to the inaccurate aim of Gelda. Having missed the head cook’s head entirely and landed with a splash into that week’s pot, the spice jar had become incensed and had taken to a heated rebellion, fought mostly in the tenant’s stomachs. Yes, spring was back with a vengeance once more.
The cook’s merry glare shifted from her pots of goulash and onto the spit-dog’s wheel, occupied this morning by one of the maid’s sons. A weak boy, he barely kept up the pace that was needed to properly roast a ham, much less a half-cow that was being prepared for the spring equinox feast that night. It was a shame that the dog had been injured in that week’s staff party, having been fast enough to turn spits, but not fast enough to avoid the ‘big pot’ as it had rolled across the floor towards the head-maid. The pot was fine, of course, and the dog had earned itself a nice bone, a spot of gravy from the spilled pot and a vacation provided by the maid’s son. It was a good agreement all around, and the boy who had been sickly thin was starting to put on a bit of bulk thanks to the influx of the spit-dog’s meals and a healthy regimen of running from dusk ‘till dawn. The boy, whose name the head-cook believed was Roger or Robert, or perhaps even Roderick (the letter R being popular in his mother’s eyes to the point where all of her children had as many R’s in their names as possible), was just beginning the afternoon’s run thanks to a rather large order of chicken placed moments before by a group of wandering monks having the good life on the town, as it were. A short glimpse through the kitchen’s swinging doors was enough to show the cook that they were on the edge of their seats, not necessarily in anticipation of their meals, but most likely from a long night of self-flagellation and abasement. It was a good life being priestly and one that she would’ve sent her sons to if they hadn’t already set their career paths to thuggery.
Thuggery was a fine career, if not long lived, and the spare money that came in more than paid for their bandages and left a little over for her to buy clothing, and if it didn’t, her sons also had spare jobs as thieves. Glancing over at the boy on the spit-wheel, she pursed her lips suddenly and in the semblance of a smile. The selling of pets and small children wasn’t unknown of, nor even really frowned upon. There was always an abundance of both come summertime because of the long and boring winters. Sending one’s child to be someone’s apprentice was hardly considered a bad thing, and the gold Dinaras given as ‘finders fees’ came in handy as well. The cook’s husband had left her years before (ducking and weaving to avoid flying crockery all the while), so she was in short supply of small children of her own…almost bankrupt, and her older sons were enjoying thuggery too much to actually marry, settle down and become kinder, gentler thugs…lawyers. Selling grandchildren wasn’t her business either. She sighed and turned back to her pots. There was nothing to be done about it. The boy wasn’t hers, and she could hardly just sell him…could she?

Chapter 1


Rudderick woke up the next morning, or perhaps it was the afternoon. It was fairly difficult to tell what time of day or night it was from the inside of a rucksack. At least the sack was comfortable, and not too itchy at all, except where it rubbed against his cheek. The rubbing scratched at the itch, so that was a good thing all around, or so he thought. He was lying down on his side, on some sort of wagon with at least one bad wheel, which threw him softly to one side every second or so. Rudderick was just beginning to wonder where his mother was taking him, when he realized that the sack that he was in wasn’t hers. Her sack was considerably rougher, having been bought second hand, but it was special to him anyway. She had only used it on him, as a special favor given for his birthday. Rudderick began to wonder if his birthday had come once again. It only came around every two or three years or so, budget permitting, and he hoped that he hadn’t slept through it. The sack was nice though, and warmer too. Rudderick stretched as much as the sack would allow him and rolled over to his left. It was really a shame that his left wasn’t there, or rather, that it had been replaced by a large amount of empty air.

Friar Siriat had been enjoying the walk, it was really good exercise, not only because of the walk itself, but because he’d finally managed to regain his rhythm an hour prior. Two steps and then his arm, firmly holding onto his studded rope, would swing over his right shoulder to strike his left side, another two steps and over the left it would go. The sting came on the intermediate step along with the end of the first verse. The following verses were easier to remember that way, and there were only one hundred to go before it all began again. Yes, flagellation was a regimented task, but one that he enjoyed. Friar Siriat was coming into the forty-third verse of this psalm when his step faltered. It wasn’t really his fault though, he thought as he toppled forward, the verses had never included a hop as long as he could remember them, and the sack in his path wasn’t mentioned in any of the psalms either. Blasphemy, he thought as he continued falling. Actually, ‘Blasp..’ was as far as he got before striking the ground. The ‘hemy’ came out in a gust, into the dirt of the road. The other Friars skipped a step and came to a stop almost in unison, a most pious thing to do, and instantly began arguing.

A committee was formed within instants, and then a sub-committee to oversee the first committee, followed by an ombudsman and his assistant. Within four heartbeats, the argument was well on its way. Two junior monks ran quickly to the back of the wagon to fetch the scripts and books needed to properly resolve the issue within the set rules, which in turn, was being fetched by a third monk of a more reliable nature. This monk stepped over the sack, which was somehow groaning, and stopped to meditate on the nature of the Gods’ wills, that such a wondrous portent as this singing sack would present itself at a time when he could properly admire it.

Pushing the book of rules aside, he reached deeper into the wagon and fetched his quill, his inks, his papyrus and folding table and chair, and began sketching the sack in all of its glory. Truly, the singing would inspire a new psalm to add to his repertoire, and so he tossed the drawing aside and began to write the lyrics coming from this wonderous sack. The words were obscure, but the rhythm was about right for a good flaggelatory psalm, coming in a brisk 2/2 beat and excellent for sloping roads, and the words could be interpreted in the Gods’ will at a later time.

Rudderick groaned a few times and then began using some of the few swear words that his older brother allowed him to use. [DM4]The best words were pattented, Roger had told him, and couldn’t be used by Rudderick until all of his fees were paid up. Suddenly, someone kicked him in the side and Rudderick had to stop swearing and start thinking. Had he used the wrong word?

He’d stopped moving for a few moments, and began thinking that they’d finally gotten to their destination, wherever that might have been. Every other year or so, Rudderick and his family were forced to move by some whim. Occasionally, that whim came in the form of a constabulary or three, usually at the end of a staff. His mother would declare that the winds were wrong and the earth was too dry for her seeds. She never really planted the seeds though. There never seemed to be enough time for it.

There were always rooms to be cleaned, day and night, or visits from guests of the inn. Rudderick and his brothers, if they could be found, were given a few hours of play time to themselves, usually far from earshot whenever his mother entertained guests. It wouldn’t do to have children underfoot when important guests arrived, or left for that matter. Rudderick was sure that his mother was only thinking of her guests at such times, and although her guests wasn’t expected to be sleeping there that night, his mother always made them feel at home, by sweeping up a bit, turning down the sheets of the bed and tossing a log to the fire. Perhaps one day, she used to think aloud to herself, one might invite her into their home for a longer visit.

Rudderick propped himself up on one elbow and tried to find the sack’s exit with a probing finger. His mother seldom knotted the sack except for special occasions where company had dropped in to quickly to hustle him out into the streets. After a few moments, he had found the hole and stuck his finger out as if he were checking the weather.

Friar Gilne continued to write the notes as quickly as possible, his ink-stained fingers nearly a blur, or as close to one as you can get when you stop for flourishes, eventually noticed that the sounds had stopped. Fearing the worst, that his gift had forsaken him, he dropped the quill and began praying quickly and in a soft murmur. The words rushing together, Friar Gilne began feeling fulfilled again and opened his eyes to a most wonderous sight. From this most miraculous of sacks, a finger was emerging. Pointing towards the setting sun, a true indicator of rebirth and the promise of darkness leading to enlightenment, such a finger nearly forced Friar Gilne’s eyes to follow it. Friar Gilne’s eyes began to water with the beauty of the setting sun and it’s myriad of colours. A strong portent indeed. Friar Gilne stood with his gaze unwavering and it took the voice behind him nearly three tries to pry his eyes from the natural beauty of the sun. His eyes ablaze and his cheeks tear-streaked, Friar Gilne faced whoever had taken him from his silent prayers. There, his face obscured as if by magic, stood a boy with a glow of sorts around his head.


“Why cannot I see your face?”, said Frair Gilne

“You’ve been staring into the face of the sun”

“The son?”

“Yes...you’ve been blinded by the light.”

“Yes...of course, my Lord. How silly of me to ask.”

“Lord? Am I your Lord, then?”


Frair Gilne didn’t know what to say anymore and merely mumbled to himself. He was being challenged; that part was abvious. A boy with a halo, speaking in proverbs, his face hidden to his sight was questioning his piousness. Friar Gilne’s world shook and he shook with it, his face turning ashen.



“You look weak.”, said the voice

“I - I - I”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be on your feet.”


Friar Gilne’s mind was racing now. He was weak. All people were weak. Suddenly, the voice’s meaning came through to him and he dropped to his knees. Of course! Who was he to stand before this vision.



Ruderick was getting really confused about a lot of things, but this had topped it all. Here was a man in a robe, obviously feverish and on his knees. Rudderick looked around and saw a jug on the wagon where he’d surely fallen from. Approaching the man slowly, he put his hand on his forehead, which didn’t seem all that hot to him, but he decided to pour a bit of water onto it just in case. It had always worked well for him or his brothers when they’d had fevers. The man gave a start as the water poured down his head and into his robe....and that’s when all heaven brook loose. The sound of the gasp coming from Friar Gilne, who was out of order and not really allowed to discuss anything at this point, turned every monk’s head towards him. All present saw the boy standing over the kneeling Friar, annointing his head with water. Then the sun set and ended the first day.

[MrBishop]

Listening to the crickets is so soothing.

Comments...anyone?

[Earniel]

Quite amusing. So cook sends a little boy off to have a better life and the monks think they have a god on their hands. Or will there be more committees to come to that conclusion?

You might add a few more paragraphs for easier reading in the prologue.

[MrBishop]

Originally Posted by Eärniel

Quite amusing. So cook sends a little boy off to have a better life and the monks think they have a god on their hands. Or will there be more committees to come to that conclusion?

You might add a few more paragraphs for easier reading in the prologue.

Cut/paste doesn't work well from MAC to BBS.. lost a lot of the <BR>.

The story has progressed somewhat...I've pushed back sunset a wee bit, that is, I've added some dialogue and some more misunderstandings. It now ends with Ruderick standing at their makeshift altar crying and wondering aloud "Mother, where am I?"

That, and the second chapter are sitting at home. Second chapter starts with the discovery of the missing child by him mom, some background filler on her life etc..

I'm seeing it going towards a commentary on the separation of monks from reality, the true knowledge and vision of children and the perseverance of motherhood. We'll see if it can work out that way. Humour is harder to write than I expected, but far more fun.

**For anyone who's worked with a committee or a church committee, this'll all seem too real **

[Tessar]

I'm afraid I haven't got a moment right now, but I pinky swear I'll read it this afternoon and review .

[Tessar]

It's quite funny, although it did get a bit tedious right around the 'middle-end' bit (meaning the end of the middle part, if that makes any sense ).

Good work! I'd really love to see more.