James Huckaby…

the other morning about Ravel’s travels in the wilderness. It was really only a black and white pen drawing of his encounters with mutated children with Giant heads. It has prompted me to consider creating the Ravel Saga in comic form. Not that I’d not considered it before. I had. But dreams move me more than logic in the realm of art. As they should.

Also I read Stephen King’s last (7th) novel in his Gunslinger/Dark Tower series. While much of it is over-indulgent King B.S. as was the Song of Susannah (book 6), the constant berating he gives himself as a lazy author put a spur in my spirit to get restarted on Ravel when the Year of the Monkey is over.

I’m starting it. The air of disinterest is over. I’ve been writing a novel. It’s the reason behind the name raveller.com. I was the raveller because of Ravel. Ravel was because I thought of him. There were at least 3 sources for the character when I started. Now that I know more, there are more. But he remains the same. This is the story of Ravel. A man who has passed into manhood without knowing. A man who makes the decisions of a man thinking they are inconsequential, yet striving to make everything right around him. A man who knows nothing of the cycle he is breaking and the change he is creating in the world around. A man who doesn’t know that one random element that has been introduced into his life will be the one to destroy his way of being and his society’s. And this is how it begins. For now.

Not tonight

The party was nearly over when Glori left. She had said her say and more. The lamplight cast warm glows around the remaining huddled groups and Torm didn’t notice as she slipped out the latticework door. This was good since Torm always overplayed the host.

Starlight was all that illuminated her path. Night lamps had run out of fuel hours ago and the moon wasn’t due for a few days. The rock and clay buildings were easily navigable though, square-built and practical with wide-lanes in between, more than enough for even the traffic they would see in the morning. She was past the point of drunkenness where she had to consciously walk upright into that place where she automatically followed the path home.

What had he been thinking? To just stand over there and glare when he would be gone tomorrow. Best friends since childhood. To not even say anything and then try to slip out into the night. Into the wilderness.

Into the wilderness.

He always said what on his mind. Whether it was crude or eloquent or some twisted combination of the two, he always said what was on his mind. How utterly unlike him. How could he?

She could see his mark clearly despite her other trouble focusing. The ornate mass of threads interlaced like stylized ball of yarn almost gave the impression they were moving. She could hear his quick “Not tonight” when he ducked out the door as she tried to intercept him.

“Not tonight.” If not tonight, then what other night? He would be gone tomorrow. He would be gone into the wilderness.

Everyone else were just “maybes”. But he had that look since they had returned from the last retreat. His quick wit had given way to surliness and he seemed to spend every day working from sun-up to sundown. He never had any time to go swim in the river with the rest of them. Even Josiah went with them sometimes, but never him anymore.

Maybe she should have chased after him but then that would have made a scene. Not at all like her kissing on young Rolf and then slapping him for his audacity. Not at like her wishing Tanai a nice time in the desert. Not like a half a dozen ill-timed statements she wished she could have back with her two broken glasses on the Torm’s glaze-work floor. Her sobriety had certainly gone downhill after he left.

Staring at her surroundings she realized she was home. She fumbled at the latch and let herself in careful not to wake her parents and crept down the hall. Kicking-off her shoes, she crawled into bed.

“Into the wilderness” kept repeating through her head.