Agents Welcome
The following is from my first novel, which I recently retitled The Secret of Things. I'm in the process of doing a tight rewriting and line editing of it. Give it a read and let me know what you think.
The Secret of Things
“The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and forepaws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.”
from Walden, Henry David Thoreau
Chapter I
Shivering, he stretched his legs into the blackness and tried to touch bottom. The river had narrowed, slowing the current, but the water was deeper. And colder. On either side the banks were black with tag alder. He guessed that he was at least half a mile or more downstream, farther than he’d ever been before. Could June still be waiting? He hoped she was all right. For the past few minutes he’d just floated, thinking about her, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Could she have been his chance at something closer to normal?
He hadn’t really thought about anything since he’d dove in, and it was only recently that his curiosity about when he might get out turned into something more urgent. Still reaching, his toe finally touched the gravel bottom. Then he lost it again. Finding it seconds later, he tried to root himself. He was only able to keep light contact. Panicky, he felt how badly he wanted to stand and move towards shore. The urgency burned under his skin. The banks felt miles away. Ahead lay only more flowing blackness. He’d lost the feelings he had earlier, when he didn’t care, when more than anything he had wanted to escape June and her questions: “What will you do now?” He still heard her voice, but the question had more immediate relevance.
For a time, he’d drifted with the current. He slowed when the river slowed and crawled over the bottom when it went shallow. He never thought of stumps, partially submerged logs, boulders just beneath the surface, shallow runs of rapid water, or any of the structures that Fish and Wildlife had put in. He’d moved thoughtlessly, easily, and couldn’t recall having felt fear. He’d let himself drift, naturally, and what he’d experienced was like the feelings he’d had at the cabin for the last three months. When he wanted to get out -- as soon as he knew that he couldn’t just drift -- every possible way of harming himself rushed into his head. Skimming the bottom with his foot, he imagined jamming a toe against a log or rock. He began to torment himself with the thought that the hole would never shallow out. He had visions of the river getting deeper, going into a reservoir. Thoughts like these seized him, and he began to thrash about. In his panic, he went under a few times. Getting back to the surface he coughed and spit out mouthfuls of water.
Despite his panic, the bottom rose to him. First he tiptoed, then walked on the balls of his feet, and finally moved normally up the slope and into water only three feet deep. The river widened and the tag alder thinned out. He could stop, and the current worked around his legs, hissing, instead of carrying him downstream. His heartbeat slowed.
Angling toward the shallow water near shore, he was soon knee and then shin-deep. The pebbly bottom eventually gave way to mud as he neared the bank. He sank in past his ankles. The muck was colder than the water. Reeds and water grasses tickled against his legs. The ooze bubbling up around his calves smelled musky and rotten. He recalled the smell of diapers.
Wrenching his feet out, he then stepped forward gingerly, fearing sharp branches that might be embedded in the mud. The moon shone benevolently above him, and everything on the water glowed in its light. He peered downstream. The river kept going without him, ghost-lit and gliding, until it finally turned around a bend. Out of its pull, he saw it as beautiful again – something he wanted back. He stood and watched, and as he did he thought about June. If he’d done this differently, he could probably be with her right now, maybe lying naked with her in the darkness of the cabin. It might have easily gone that far. There was something about her – a hunger he could sense. She wanted him, maybe more than he wanted her. She’d reached out almost desperately.
He would have had a fire in the fireplace. It would have cast romantic, leaping shadows. He would have had sex. It had been a long time. She hadn’t been asking him anything that anybody else wouldn’t have asked. Her questions had been fair, even obvious. Why did he run away? His body shuddered violently. He turned from the water. Even with the moon, the land away from the river was much darker. He didn’t know where to go.
A tree lay in the water, its roots upended on the shore. It was as good a place as any to rest and figure out his next move. The surface spun in a slow eddy against the tree trunk. Nearby fish popped after bugs on the surface. Intermittently the heavier slurping of a big brown feeding downstream of the tree drowned out everything else. Part of him suddenly wanted to dive in again. Glowing as it was in the moonlight, the river seemed his only path. It was at least moving somewhere. The relief he had expected to feel closer to shore was not there. He was anxious and, thinking ahead, saw a future as dark as the black landscape of trees ahead of him. Still. He couldn’t dive in again. He didn’t even know where the river went. South. He knew that much. Eventually it would pass under a road. He’d seen it on a map. But what then? He couldn’t very well try to hitchhike.
The tree was solid under his searching hand, its bark rough. Turning, he sat on it, and felt its coarse, and in some places, picky surface against his bare ass. He had no clothes on. Naked. He wondered what he could have been thinking. That morning, when he’d been fishing, he’d had no idea that the day would come to this.
The Secret of Things
“The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and forepaws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.”
from Walden, Henry David Thoreau
Chapter I
Shivering, he stretched his legs into the blackness and tried to touch bottom. The river had narrowed, slowing the current, but the water was deeper. And colder. On either side the banks were black with tag alder. He guessed that he was at least half a mile or more downstream, farther than he’d ever been before. Could June still be waiting? He hoped she was all right. For the past few minutes he’d just floated, thinking about her, wondering if he’d made a mistake. Could she have been his chance at something closer to normal?
He hadn’t really thought about anything since he’d dove in, and it was only recently that his curiosity about when he might get out turned into something more urgent. Still reaching, his toe finally touched the gravel bottom. Then he lost it again. Finding it seconds later, he tried to root himself. He was only able to keep light contact. Panicky, he felt how badly he wanted to stand and move towards shore. The urgency burned under his skin. The banks felt miles away. Ahead lay only more flowing blackness. He’d lost the feelings he had earlier, when he didn’t care, when more than anything he had wanted to escape June and her questions: “What will you do now?” He still heard her voice, but the question had more immediate relevance.
For a time, he’d drifted with the current. He slowed when the river slowed and crawled over the bottom when it went shallow. He never thought of stumps, partially submerged logs, boulders just beneath the surface, shallow runs of rapid water, or any of the structures that Fish and Wildlife had put in. He’d moved thoughtlessly, easily, and couldn’t recall having felt fear. He’d let himself drift, naturally, and what he’d experienced was like the feelings he’d had at the cabin for the last three months. When he wanted to get out -- as soon as he knew that he couldn’t just drift -- every possible way of harming himself rushed into his head. Skimming the bottom with his foot, he imagined jamming a toe against a log or rock. He began to torment himself with the thought that the hole would never shallow out. He had visions of the river getting deeper, going into a reservoir. Thoughts like these seized him, and he began to thrash about. In his panic, he went under a few times. Getting back to the surface he coughed and spit out mouthfuls of water.
Despite his panic, the bottom rose to him. First he tiptoed, then walked on the balls of his feet, and finally moved normally up the slope and into water only three feet deep. The river widened and the tag alder thinned out. He could stop, and the current worked around his legs, hissing, instead of carrying him downstream. His heartbeat slowed.
Angling toward the shallow water near shore, he was soon knee and then shin-deep. The pebbly bottom eventually gave way to mud as he neared the bank. He sank in past his ankles. The muck was colder than the water. Reeds and water grasses tickled against his legs. The ooze bubbling up around his calves smelled musky and rotten. He recalled the smell of diapers.
Wrenching his feet out, he then stepped forward gingerly, fearing sharp branches that might be embedded in the mud. The moon shone benevolently above him, and everything on the water glowed in its light. He peered downstream. The river kept going without him, ghost-lit and gliding, until it finally turned around a bend. Out of its pull, he saw it as beautiful again – something he wanted back. He stood and watched, and as he did he thought about June. If he’d done this differently, he could probably be with her right now, maybe lying naked with her in the darkness of the cabin. It might have easily gone that far. There was something about her – a hunger he could sense. She wanted him, maybe more than he wanted her. She’d reached out almost desperately.
He would have had a fire in the fireplace. It would have cast romantic, leaping shadows. He would have had sex. It had been a long time. She hadn’t been asking him anything that anybody else wouldn’t have asked. Her questions had been fair, even obvious. Why did he run away? His body shuddered violently. He turned from the water. Even with the moon, the land away from the river was much darker. He didn’t know where to go.
A tree lay in the water, its roots upended on the shore. It was as good a place as any to rest and figure out his next move. The surface spun in a slow eddy against the tree trunk. Nearby fish popped after bugs on the surface. Intermittently the heavier slurping of a big brown feeding downstream of the tree drowned out everything else. Part of him suddenly wanted to dive in again. Glowing as it was in the moonlight, the river seemed his only path. It was at least moving somewhere. The relief he had expected to feel closer to shore was not there. He was anxious and, thinking ahead, saw a future as dark as the black landscape of trees ahead of him. Still. He couldn’t dive in again. He didn’t even know where the river went. South. He knew that much. Eventually it would pass under a road. He’d seen it on a map. But what then? He couldn’t very well try to hitchhike.
The tree was solid under his searching hand, its bark rough. Turning, he sat on it, and felt its coarse, and in some places, picky surface against his bare ass. He had no clothes on. Naked. He wondered what he could have been thinking. That morning, when he’d been fishing, he’d had no idea that the day would come to this.
posted by Jeff Vande Zande at 1:02 PM
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