SUCCESS!

So I finally finished a short story. I am to the point where my editor (well, not really, but I am calling him that) is reading it and so are my friends. I will then do final edits and send it off to F&SF Magazine, praying for the six to ten weeks it'll take them to get back to me that they like it and want to publish it. Anyway, I promised in Twitter I would post some of it here, and so here it is....the first little bit...



Ananndor was to become legendary amongst his fellow Historians, by the importance of his written histories, the greatness of his deeds, and the mysteriousness of his disappearance. This is a tale of his mid-life, before his name was spread to the farthest reaches of the world.

The world beyond is replete with fogs and vapors, wisps and mists, physical forms of the spirits that inhabit it. They swim in a vast, all-consuming sea of blackness, vast and cold like the universe itself. They cannot be heard by humans, except as a perpetual, unintelligible whispering, and then, still, it is a rare human indeed that can distinguish that whispering from the general static of the world. These spirits cannot reach into the living world of their own desire; only when called upon by a human medium can they break free of their realm, and though it is often into a life of servitude they enter upon forming a contract with that medium, always it is a better choice than a forever of darkness.
It was one such medium, though in this particular case the title Historian is more accurate, carrying three such spirits, or revenants, rather, as they had been to and come back from the world beyond, that wandered into Verdant, the town at the foot of the mountains, in the beginning of autumn. He walked out of the forbidden forest on the opposite side of the sweeping valley, or so the rumor went around Verdant town, for all the men knew the forest was impassable to all but the strange, twisted creatures that dwelled within it. And he crossed the plains and the lower river, which was a half-mile wide and twenty feet deep at its middlemost point, in a single day; again it was all gossip, for none in Verdant had ever made the same journey in twice such a span.
The townsfolk were in awe of him as he crossed into Verdant from the west, dressed as any traveler in autumn might be: loose clothing in warm grayscale, mostly darks to absorb the sunlight. His pants were tied to his ankles with heavy thread, the thick twine twisting up his legs, overlapping itself as it climbed to his knees; his heavy boots covered his legs from his shins down. His shirt was bound with bone buttons that had been hastily, and not very skillfully, carved, obviously as replacements for those original to his costume. To his back was strapped a sturdy leather pack the shade green of the last leaves of summer, rectangular in shape and eight inches deep; whatever it might conceal was what kept the town in awe, for travelers, in general, were common. Though they had many visitors come through as a waypoint between great Vylld to the east and sacred Hallorad to the northwest, rarely did one come so heavy-laden on foot.
By its size, the pack was obviously an apothecary’s case, made travelable by the addition of the straps that circled his arms, but the man himself looked like no apothecary the townsfolk had ever seen. It was when one of the merchants, who sold his goods at the western road, remembered hearing once of strange folk that traveled about with spirits trapped in jars, which gave them special powers, and mentioned the story to his neighbors, that the rumors truly began to fly around town. People came out of their homes then, mothers clutching their children tight against them on their doorsteps, farmers just done with a day’s work, to watch him pass.
The traveler moved without a word to anyone, though he did nod at any brave enough to initiate the same greeting. He noticed as he looked side to side at the town that he had gathered some followers. Two men, each carrying long-handled scythes from their farms, walked ten feet behind him, and six small children, who had escaped their mothers’ watch, followed closer behind, playfully daring each other to run closer and closer to the stranger, trying to provoke a reaction. The traveler wondered vaguely if the farmers followed him out of simple curiosity or of fear or of anger. He could never be certain upon entering a new town how familiar its inhabitants might be with men in his profession, and it paid to be conscious of everyone. Too many times in his youth had inattention almost ruined him.
The traveler walked on, past the poor houses of the farmers and the fields they bordered, then into the center circle, around which were situated affluent shops and inns and a pub, which drew his particular attention. Culture was what his business entailed and it was never so apparent than on the lips of a drunken man.
Verdant was picturesque, all stone and brick and weathered wood, though was nothing to the tall spires of Hallorad, the Holy City, from which he had just come, but it served its purpose as waypoint well. It was perfectly prepared to receive any number of passers-through; there seemed to be more inns than houses and no end of restaurants and street-vendors.
The traveler entered the pub, the stout cherry-colored building between the tall Appleridge Inn and the orchard from which it took its name. He left the door to be caught by his followers, whose number had more than doubled; they continued after him, approaching him even as he took a booth in the corner. Some of the townsfolk stood inconspicuously against the far wall, standing on tip-toe to catch their glimpse of him, while others, the braver ones, walked up to his table and introduced themselves with a nervous bow or an anxious curtsey. Those that were visitors themselves to Verdant wondered why they had not received such a welcome.
The traveler met them all with a polite nod, but still did not introduce himself or say a word to any of them, though he finally began to understand them and feel more secure in regards to his safety. These people had heard only rumors of people in his profession and were frightened of him. Elsewhere, that would be enough to make him nervous, for fear often drove men to extraordinary reaction, but these people were less frightened he would hurt them than that they would offend him. And so he let them be polite, keeping himself unattached by maintaining his silence; tenet one of traveling was to keep to oneself. Many a Historian had found himself lost amidst the delights of a village here or a city there and had retired into a life of mundanity; the traveler wanted none of that.
He ordered a drink from the uneasy barman and paid him with some coins from the pouch he kept in the pocket made by his cloth belt against his waist; with the pouch he kept a small skinning knife, carefully sheathed, a silver case of cigars and a box of matches. The traveler’s whiskey was set on the table and there it remained. Occasionally he would turn the glass, leaving fingerprints in the condensation, but he never drank from it. He waited for the questions that would inevitably come. Can you heal my mother? Can you prescribe an herb for the pain in my knees? Can you find my sister in the world beyond? He waited and he dreaded. It was the same everywhere. Of course he could heal the sick and the wounded, and of course he could reach into the realm beyond to find the spirits of the long-deceased, but his trade was history and the recording of it. He only deigned to do the bidding of others when he was out of capital or there was a particularly lucrative trade involved.
At the door, a sudden clamor, the bang of someone rushing in and slamming it against the adjacent wall, distracted him from his introspection. The traveler could not see through the crowd what was the matter, or who it was that was in such a hurry, but he heard one of the townsmen exclaim as he was shoved aside.


Hope you like it so far. Comments and critiques (especially critiques) are most welcome!

See you space cowboys!