Tag: Books

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 7

Today’s information is further advice, advice that I was given right back at the start when I was thinking about writing beyond the essays required at school.

The school librarian, yes our school had quite a large library of both fiction and non-fiction books, had a fully fledged librarian, and I quickly discovered was happy to teach those who were willing to learn, the tricks of the trade.

Her advice was that writers must read.

In a way, it was not until later that advice became more focussed, that writers of a particular genre must read books of that genre in order to get some idea as to what the readers are looking for.

I already had a passion for adventure, spy, thriller, and mysteries.

At that age, a lot of them were young adult books like The Secret Seven or The Famous Five, and others that kept you hanging on until the last page. For me, I had to read the book from cover to cover.

It was always on my Christmas request list to get as many books as possible to read.

That advice was also good for writing non-fiction books, if I ever decided to, which up till now was not a priority. But the non-fiction books I read back then were geographic and history.

These days I use the internet, but I still do a lot of reading.

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 6

We’re still exploring the theme ‘it’s all in the detail’.

I’m guessing that this means that we are going to set the scene in such a manner that the reader is going to feel like they are there.

Like, for instance, that day I left the hotel at Lake Louise in Canada and drove just up the road to the gas station to fill the tank before setting out for Calgary.

It was cold, so cold it hurt to breathe. So cold, I started to lose feeling in my cheeks. I’d never felt so cold since I was out for a walk in Chicago.

I was reminded of a story I once read, where the protagonist hid a gun in a petrol tank on a base in the Arctic because petrol didn’t freeze.

And on a holiday in Canberra, Australia, the water in the car’s radiator froze overnight.

But these are my experiences and not necessarily those of the reader who more than likely has never been to any or all of those places, so there’s no relevance to them.

Everyone knows what it’s like to be cold, but not necessarily freezing cold. I will have to work on my scene-setting details so they are relevant for everyone.

…

It was hard to tell whether it was the cold or fear that made me shiver. It certainly was cold, I’d been out in the rain, and once when it was snowing, but then the wind had not been blowing, nor had the droplets of rain, or the flakes of snow insidiously found their way down the back of my neck.

I had left in such a hurry I had no time to find my anorak, or my scarf, and the rollneck jumper would have to suffice. it was a pity all I had under that was a T-shirt, and was regretting not taking my brother’s advice that morning and wearing a thicker shirt or thermal underwear.

A sudden gust, and a spray of sleet in my face, made me shiver. Perhaps the cold would kill me long before the men hunting for me.

…

It needs refinement, but it’s a start.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 4 and 5

Understandably it will take two days to do some planning, not that I generally do any planning.

I usually start with a sentence and the idea grows into a story   More often than not I have no idea where it is going to go, and for me, that’s half the fun of it, I am like the reader, being taken on a roller coaster ride.

But…

This is by the calendar.

The questions are…

What is it about?

I’ve been thinking about a story for my ‘The cinema of my dreams’ series titled ‘ The One that Got Away’.

It might not necessarily be exactly that but it is a first love, a mismatch socio-economically, and given her parents, a battle he was never going to win.

But, the bottom line, neither didn’t stop loving the other, but left it too late to do anything about it.

What happens after that?

We will all be hanging on a knife edge…

What kind of book is it?

Murder mystery.  Sorry, but not sorry, my stories often veer off into any or all of murder, mystery, or espionage.

Why do you need to write it?

I don’t.  It’s not like trying to write that second book after being told everyone has one book in them.

But for me, this is just another story that’s running around in my head with a dozen others but it’s finally at a point where I can put words on paper to flesh out the ideas.

How many pages can you get done today?

That’s the same as asking how long is a piece of string.

But this is a weekend task, so I’ll let you know tomorrow.

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 3 continued

A few thoughts are running around in my head, none of them good about Will.

Why is it that there is sometimes a feeling that a star football player at the college level, has something about him that might be suspect?

Perhaps it’s just his age, and we know that in some cases when stardom hits at an early age, it can affect them in unexpected ways.

Of course, in a male, there is possible gender bias, perhaps in a home environment where there is an alpha male who may unintentionally pass on those beliefs, in words and in actions.

Or that leadership, drive, and continual reinforcement that he is the team, not the playing collective, can also alter the mind.

Or that he is simply a bad seed, and those traits are ignored in the pursuit of the ‘prize’.  History has shown that we have a tendency to ignore the obvious for the sake of something else.

Or have we simply ignored the most rational description, that Will is the lovable cuddly bear type, and all we’re doing is pandering to Jeremy’s jealous thoughts.

Don’t we all tend to think badly of a rival simply to make ourselves feel better?

…

Let’s go in one direction and see where it takes us.

…

Will dragged his chair closer to Sally, put his arm around her shoulder and dragged her close to him.

“How’s my girl?”

He looked at her with lust in his eyes, or what she thought was lust.  She was not exactly an expert in that field, but that night three weeks ago, in the back of his car, it was go-to-whoa in three minutes.  He had that same look now.

Her first time though, after the prom, with Freddie was a long slow burn followed by a gentle experience that almost left her floating on a cloud, an experience that had lingered for days, weeks afterward.

Until she discovered Freddie had left town, never to return.  And more devastating, Freddie had seduced her in a bet.

“I am not your girl.  You do not own me.”

It was spoken in anger, surprising herself more than Will, who let her go as if she had struck him.

“Whoa.  It was only an expression.  Did I do something wrong?  I thought we were good.”

She sucked in several deep breaths and tried to calm herself.  Had just a small part of her screaming match with Jeremy registered?

“We are.  I’m just feeling stressed.  Sorry.”  She put her arms around him and snuggled closer.

Will could see Jenny looking in Jeremy’s direction and remembered being told about their argument.  He had heard they’d been combatants since grade school and that he was always annoying her.

“You want me to sort Jeremy out, once and for all?”

A shudder went through her, a distant memory of someone else saying the same thing to her, that had tragic consequences.

It was reinforced by a rumour that Will and some of the football team had bullied wannabe players and some of the cheerleaders, a rumour no one would substantiate, but she knew two of the girls and they chose to leave and go to school elsewhere.

“No.”

“You secretly like him?”  Will tried to make it an off-hand question but his tone and demeanor meant something else entirely.

Just that look scared her.

“No.  He’s an old friend that doesn’t understand the friend zone.  He will though, but that’s my battle, not yours.”

“I can make it mine.  if it’s making you unhappy.”

“I can fight my own battles, Will.  I’m not a helpless female.”

The grunt he made was enough to make her believe otherwise.  Being his girl meant being his possession and woe betied anyone who messed with his property.

“As you wish,” he said.

“Now let’s talk about something else.”

…

Of course, there are just as many controlling women as there are men, and sometimes they are hard to pick. 

And there are just as many of each who use a wrong turn of phrase, leading to misinterpretation and assumptions.

Have we one here? 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 3

It’s all about the nuances of mood, of feeling, the little things that bring a character to life, that convey an emotion that we have all felt one time or another.

And if we’re lucky, be able to convey exactly what is going on in the mind of the protagonist, or any of the characters for that matter.

I thought I might write the same story as yesterday from a different point of view.

…

Sally could see Jeremy, sitting in the corner looking decidedly miserable.

Why didn’t he give it up?

Ever since grade school, he had clung to this notion that they could be friends, perhaps more than friends.

Nothing could be more abhorrent.

He was one of those people whom her father despised, the poor who refused to make something of themselves.  Everyone had the same opportunity to make something of themselves.

That’s why it surprised her that Jeremy had elected not to follow his father into plumbing and decided to go to college.

Her college.

“Do you think he’ll give up now?”

Jenny, her best friend and often co-conspirator, saw her glancing in Jeremy’s direction, not for the first time.

“No.”

“But you wish he would?”

Sally’s hesitation spoke volumes.

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re going to have to decide what it is you want because Will isn’t going to wait forever.”

Will was the most eligible of all the boys in college, the boy all the girls swooned over, and out of all of them, he had singled out Sally.  She was flattered, but there was something about him.

Jeremy had told her Will was not all he seemed to be but refused to explain why.  What other reason would he have if not out of pure jealousy?

And she had finally told Jeremy once and for all to leave her alone or she would have him removed from the college.  Her father was a huge donor and could make it happen.

Maybe she still would.

Just then Will, and three of his teammates arrived and filled the remaining seats at the table. 

Time to take her mind off the annoying gnat and focus of what was important.

…

Once again there is a myriad of paths for this story.

But the seeds are there:

– Does Sally have feelings for Jeremy?

– What is it about Will that worries Jeremy, other than jealousy?

Stay tuned…

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 2

We get to write today, 200 words, though the subject is pretty straightforward, it could take me in any direction.

Doesn’t everyone have an aggravating friend?

For a woman, it could be that friend with a heart of gold but an acid tongue, who sometimes doesn’t have any filter.

For a man, the first girl he ever fell madly in love with but it was unrequited, who parked him in the friend zone, well, the outer rim, and not averse to throwing him under the bus.

Been there, and you don’t learn but keep returning for more, hoping one day…

So, let’s run with it.

…

“When will you ever learn?”  Larry slid into the seat next to me with another odd assortment of dishes he would call ‘sampling the wares’.

The cafeteria was abuzz with lunchgoers.  I was sitting in a corner, as far away as anyone I knew, licking my wounds after the latest humiliation.

“She just isn’t worth the effort.  Just look at the fool she has as a boyfriend.”

He was right.  He had always been right, but it was that old adage ‘hope springs eternal’ that kept me going back to the well.

We could both see her and three of her friends flirting with members of the football team. 

He patted me on the back.  “Time to go in a new direction.  Eloise’s cousin is over from San Francisco and Wendy and I are taking her on a tour.  You’re welcome to come with us, and to be honest, I would make a lousy tour guide.”

Perhaps it was time to give up those foolish notions and move on.

“OK.  When?”

“Tomorrow.  We will pick you up at eight.”

If I could have predicted the consequences of that single offhand decision, I would have stayed in bed and wallowed in that sea of self-pity.

…

This story can go in so many different directions.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a novel in 365 days

Day 1

As a Christmas present, I received a calendar with a difference, one you might say all writers should get.

Writing a novel in 365 days.

Today is day one, and it is an advice day.  Some would say they don’t need advice, just a writing prompt, to get the juices flowing.

But…

It’s New Year’s Day!  Who works on New Year’s Day? Here in Australia, we are watching the countdown in New York on CNN.

It’s literally 4 hours of writing prompts and sheer lunacy.

Perhaps their advice would be to have shots, though not tequila, definitely not my cup of tea. 

Rum, Bacardi, and ice, lots of it.

Yes, here it is over 30 and 100 per cent humidity.

Tomorrow, hopefully, we will get to do some writing…

Oh, yes, the advice…

Do not attach a conversation after an action, like,

Pouring tea for the small group surrounding her, she said, “Some like it hot!”

The advice is mainly about the many ways to have conversations, instead of the same thing over and over.

I guess that means we have to get inventive. 

Writing a book in 365 days – 16

Day 16

Today we have a writing exercise – at last.

The theme, nothing like anything that will fit the outline of the story I have in mind, but maybe I can use a little poetic licence.

It is: “I never liked rain, so I moved to the desert. The clouds followed.”

Metaphorically speaking, and not literally the clouds followed, or I would be feeling like Charlie Brown who says it always rains on the unloved, which to him was a daily occurrence.

So…

A friend of mine once said if I did not like the rain, move to the desert. I never quite understood what that meant until I saw my name in the newspaper and a not-too-flattering profile.

Then, when I spoke to him a few days after reading the profile, he said, “You can run but you can’t hide.”

OK, enough with the metaphors.

When pressed he told me that going to another town no matter how remote from the last did not guarantee me anonymity, not when I used my real name, and fabricated the rest. Not too many white lies, but just enough.

Of course, he said, it was the internet, that juggernaut of information, good and bad, that follows us everywhere and destroys a good person and extols a criminal.

I tried to tell everyone that what was written about me was wrong, a distortion of the facts, but it seemed people wanted to believe what they wanted to believe, not what was true. I had done nothing wrong. People had lied to save themselves and when you throw mud, some of it sticks. Even when it’s proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was lies.

And, like all good newspapers, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

The pity of it was the journalist who wrote the story was someone I cared about, and not without reason decided to do a check on the new guy who moved into town and seemed too good to be true. I realised that was the case the moment she said it.

I also knew that whatever relationship we may have had was over.

It taught me a valuable lesson and one that took nearly six months in a remote cabin in the wilderness to rectify.

I changed my name, changed everything. I had read a dozen different spy novels and followed the guide to changing who I was. Finding a small place in the middle of nowhere that had a graveyard with someone my age who had died in their first year. Started with a birth certificate, and went from there, until I had a whole new identity.

And then, and only then, did I come out of hiding, remembering the cardinal rule, keep to myself, do not entertain having a relationship, and at the top of the list, don’t date a journalist.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 350 – new

Day 350 – Writing exercise

He had never liked the desert, or anywhere hot, if he was telling the truth.

…

It started out a joke and ended up as the reason for defunding my project, but irrespective of the reason given, it was not unexpected because of the lack of progress, and cost overruns.

And the fact that I had suffered a minor breakdown, having laboured day and night, in very hot, dusty, trying conditions for longer than I expected.

Of course, the fact that I had assured the Management team that I would be available 24/7, and was forced to go on indefinite sick leave, was probably the final nail in the coffin.

That, and the fact that I had participated in an interview where I had confessed, in a moment of reflection, that I preferred to live in the cooler climate of the mountains than in the middle of the desert, the place where I had been running a major investigation into underground rivers.

Or, as my hard-working and cynical assistant project manager had put it, they didn’t want a woman taking my place, and worse, they didn’t want anyone to know they had run out of funding.

In the end none of it matered.  They shut down the site.

…

Melanie, Acting Project Manager, resident cynic, and all-around conspiracy theorist, had dropped in on her way home, or as she put it, a welcome deviation before returning to a ‘rat hole’ at her sister’s residence while in transit between jobs.

I had just left the hospital, and arrived at my ‘Shangrila’ the day before.  She had just wrapped up the operation in Mexico.  She looked as exhausted as I still felt.

When Melanie watched the replay of the post-project interview, curious to see what had been said, she realised one very important point.  “You were led. The interviewer had a definite plan to lead you down a particular path, and then took a run with it.”

“I was tired and wanted to get it over with.”

“You didn’t ask for the slate of questions ahead of time?”

“I did and was given a folder.  There was nothing about climate preferences, or the possibility of exhaustion, in them.”

“There you are.  It was nothing less than a set-up, clearly designed to derail your project.”

Melanie always suspected the organisation that funded the projects to be exactly the sort of people they portrayed to the outside world, and she had been very vocal at the first meeting, and several since, citing the world needed water, not geo-thermal energy.

In the beginning, it had been a hard sell.  Until suddenly they changed their minds from a hard no to a three year deal.

That was until the two board members who agreed with her had retired in the last six months.

“If they hadn’t retired, we wouldn’t be here.”

Actually, we would.  We had not found irrefutable evidence that there was water under the impenetrable rock.  It was somewhere near there, I just wasn’t sure exactly where, and drilling bores wasn’t cheap.

I had been assured they’d come back to it later.

Meanwhile…

I was on administrative leave.  Melanie was supposed to go to Peru, or Chile.  Instead she stayed with me.

…

Melanie had also suspected the Project Management organisation of having ulterior motives.  I had also heard the rumours that somewhere of the projects had two purposes.

The most recent, an archaeological dig turned into a search for oil, in a place where the local government had been prevented from prospecting.

Our project had the security team ‘enhanced’ because of ‘perceived’ threats to our safety, which, in the end, didn’t materialise.

Just before the funding dried up.

It was not as if they didn’t have a reason.  Suddenly, we found it difficult to bore through the hard rock to get down to the suspected cavern where an underground river ran from the Arctic to the north to the equator.

We had found what was believed to be the entrance in northern Scandinavia, but not the outlet, other than ancient evidence of water feeding a flourishing Aztec city, not just dry dusty ruins.   It had been paradise.

And as much as I would like to also give my archaeological skills a run, that hadn’t been our focus.  We just had to work around the archealogical aspects of the site.

Even so, I had a feeling someone was poking around the ruins, with people going missing, and strange noises at night.

Melanie was adamant that the ghosts of the city’s once-inhabitants were rising up to protect their final resting place from us invaders.

It became the subject of a conversation one morning, after about a week, the amount of time it took for Melanie doing nothing to start getting bored.

She had just latched onto the archaeological aspects of the site, just arriving at a conclusion I had considered a possibility, but unlikely given the local government’s stand on exploration of the ruins.

“It’s an unjustified cost to bore through impassable rock, especially when we cannot prove an outcome.”

“What if it wasn’t and they’re just telling you that?”

I looked at her over the conference table with surprise.  Melanie was my guru for superstitions and conspiracy theories, and was often closer to the bone than most.

She had said once after a few too many margaritas that the site we were working at had been an old Aztec temple and place of worship and sacrifice, and more than one ghost had been seen at night.

I thought I had seen one myself, but I didn’t believe in such things.  But I did suspect that there might be an element of truth in another myth she had uncovered, that somewhere within the boundaries of the site was a reputed entrance to a network of caverns and tunnels, where artifacts had been hidden from the Spanish conquerors, and which several items had been found nearby.

It would make more sense to think we had been shut down so that another cladescine expedition was being funded to locate the entrance, or determine whether there was any truth to the supposition of gold and or artifacts were hidden there.  That would make more money than finding underground watercourses.

“Then what are you telling me?”

“Those extra security staff sent to save us from the revolting masses would know one end of a gun from the other.  Did they look like mercenaries?”

After a few more margaritas she confessed her ideal man was that Hollywood stereotype mercenary, a stereotype that was not supported by the members of of security team, or the additional people sent.

“Not really, but do we really know that security people have a ‘type’?”

“Girls who look like they just came from a fashion show in Milan.  You remember Joanne and Louisa?”

I don’t think anyone could forget them.  She had a point, but by that time, I was almost overcome by exhaustion.

“You think they were archaeology students?”

“Isn’t that how digs work?  One or two experts and a dozen students are working towards their degrees.  You went through that process.”

I had, though, not been so lucky to find a dig so rich in history.  “We were strictly forbidden from any archealogical exploration.”

“And Management knew you’d assure them that nothing like that was going on.  They relied on your reputation, one of the main reasons the local government allowed the project.  That you’d run it and you’d find water.  Especially if you found water.  When I stopped at the office of the mayor to give him the keys, half a dozen of the newbies, including the girls, were still there.  They were supposed to be on a plane a week ago.”

“They don’t have permission to conduct archaeological exploration of the ruins.”

“Who needs permission to do anything, other than us good guys.  We’ve been running a distraction.  I think they’ve discovered the tunnels and caverns.  And they, more than anything else, might lead us to the water.  We were looking in the wrong place.  I think the city was built on top of the water outlet, and the Aztecs destroyed it themselves to spite the Spanish”

“But we were not in the business of treasure hunting.”

Or were we?

“Why don’t we go and find out?”

…

Melanie and I had worked together for nearly ten years and had know each other since university as struggling engineers.  My first choice of archaeology became my second choice out of practicality.

Melanie was fun, we had a brief fling, but it was at a time where serious stuff like study, then work, tore us apart.  Now we had gravitated back into each other’s orbit, and in the latest downtime it was a sign she preferred to stay with me than go home to her sister.

The bolt hole of a room filled with years of accumulated junk may have been a better reason to stay, but after three days of sleeping on the couch, she came out, took my hand, and told me we were finally too old to be making the same mistakes.

It was one of those things where you just knew instinctively that you should be together.  We finished each other’s sentences.  We knew what the other was thinking, but that thought was not expressed out loud.  It was scary sometimes.

Like sitting on the plane heading towards Mexico City, and seeing two of the Management team that had been at the meeting that shut us down.

It had been her idea to disguise ourselves, not with fake hair and props, but by getting her friend, a stylist who worked in a Salon, to give us both a makeover.

Even I didn’t recognise myself in the mirror.  And Melanie, well, I don’t think I ever looked at her other than as that sloppy eighteen-year-old who cared less for fashion and style than I did.

And we didn’t even have to try and act like we were on our honeymoon.

Off the plane and into secret agent mode, which felt strange trying to act like someone your not, was a little comical.

We followed the two ‘targets’ from the plane, to immigration, to the baggage hall and through customs, to outside the terminal building, where they were collected in a white van, the vehicle that delivered the new security team members a few months before, and their leader, who got out to greet them and stow their luggage.

“I was right.  Sneaky devils.”  Melanie might have had a complete makeover but her underlying personality was still there. 

What had seemed a lark back in the retreat where we were safe and cosy now took on a more serious aspect.  The idea of getting proof … of what, wasn’t exactly clear now … gave me second thoughts.

There was definitely something going on, but it might be legitimate, and we were just blowing smoke.

“How do you know any of this is suspect?  I mean, they could be here for something else?”

She looked me up and down.  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.  Besides, I asked Monty to bump into the Mayor’s assistant, you know, the one he’s keen on, and ask her if anything is afoot.”

Of course, Melanie had a network of spies. 

“She wouldn’t tell him anything.”

“After a few Margaritas, she’s worse than I am.  You really need to get out more.”

Perhaps I did, though trying to imagine Melanie as this whole other different person was a surprise.

“And…”

“It’s not what she said, it’s how she said it.  I think that there’s an undercover operation going on, like there was while we were there.  I suspect, given what Monte tells me, they closed our operation too quickly, on the basis of a discovery that was premature.  They found the entrance to a tunnel that had been covered over to look like a roof collapse, and everyone jumped the gun.”

“No tunnel?”

“Nothing but an empty cavern.”

“Someone else stole the treasure before them.”

“Doubtful.  They found bones.  One of the intrepid students said it was a place for rituals, like sacrifices to the gods.”

“They did that in temples on top of hills.  They’d more likely be the remains of captured Spanish invaders.”

She shrugged.  “Whatever they’re doing, time is running out.  Maybe they’ll ask us to come back and run interference for them.”

“Would you?”

“They know I wouldn’t.  It’s why they were sending me to Peru.  Purgatory.”

A battered van that had seen better days screeched to a halt in front of us, and I saw Monty through the grimy side window.  The last time I saw the van, he was taking me to the hospital.

He gave Melanie a hug, with far more affection than I expected for friends, and felt a tinge of jealousy.  I would have to get used to her affectionate and easy manner with everyone.

Then he shook my hand.  “You still look terrible.”

“Thanks.  I thought you were going to modernise?”

He had spoken about getting a new Toyota.

“Why mess with perfection?  It gets from point A to point B without a hiccup.”  He opened the side door, and we got in, then closed it with a bang.

Seconds later, we were on our way to the hotel, whatever cloak-and-dagger hotel Melanie had picked.  It was not going to be a five-star or even four-star.

We were, she said, flying under the radar.  I had expected to be given a new fake passport after the makeover. 

I found it hard to believe anyone would care what we did; now we were no longer working on any project.  I was still on Administrative leave, whatever that was.

“So, what’s happening.

“That is a long story and I think it’s better if I show you.  Settle in at the hotel, and I’ll come and get you at 8pm.  You will be … amused.”

Amused, then, it will be.

…

I spent the better part of an hour trying not to think about Melanie in a clingy black jumpsuit.

Our instructions were to dress in black, head to foot, for camouflage.  I didn’t look half as good as she did, and I had to readjust my thoughts.  It had been so long since I’d been that close to a woman, and I hadn’t really expected that I would feel this way.

I got the impression that she liked being admired, again, part of her persona that I would have to get a grip on.  I can’t be jealous of everyone and everything.

In the jalopy, my new name for Monty’s vehicle, he wasn’t telling us much, except…

After the site was closed down, an old man, a descendant of the Aztecs, he thought came to see him.

First it was to thank him for getting it done.

Second, he said he was the last of the custodians of the city, and having no one to pass it on to, asked Monty if he would.

Monty was curious as to what it entailed.

Making sure no one discovered the true power of the city.  It was dismantled when the invaders got too close.  For the elders, it meant they had to kill the city so the invaders would go away.

Of course, he agreed, if only to find out what this power was.

The man took him to a certain part of the city, some distance from where it was considered to be the southern wall line, the original city with four walls and four gates, all of which had only traces remaining.  The city was considered only within the walls.

The spot they were headed was out of view of the city, and, he was told, for a reason.

He ended with the fact that he had seen what the man wanted him to see, but decided to wait until we had returned.  It was what he had been told what there, well, he wanted the rights to the movie because this was going to be an instalment of Indiana Jones.

I was beginning to think he was completely mad.

…

It was a dark night with a cloudy sky and intermittent moonlight.  On the drive here, it had been reasonably light.  Near the bushes after parking, it was very dark, and Monty had been using a pen light to minimise exposure.

Monty parked the car in a spot that was practically concealed on three fronts.  It was clear the man who showed him had been there before, once recently.

From the parking spot, it was a short walk towards a copse of thick bushes that, for some reason, seemed to be growing very well when everything beyond twenty metres was dead or dying.

We watched Monty carefully pick his way through the copse, following equally as carefully.  The bushes were prickly and the thorns sharp.

With several scratches we made to the middle, where an area of the ground was covered in sand.

Monty went to the other side of the clearing and looked on the ground for several minutes before he put his foot into a bush.  That’s what it looked like.  Then, several seconds later the sand started sinking, then moving slowly sideways exposing and opening and steps going down.

Monty had brought a backpack and distributed three torches.

“I’ll go first.”

I noticed he also had a gun.  I’d never seen him with a gun before.

We went down.  And down.  And down.  There seemed to be a lot of steps built into the walls of a hole that had been dug out of the rock that we apparently drilled through.

Until we reached a large, very deep hole that seemed to go down into the depths of the earth.  At the top, there was a wooden structure that looked like the top of an elevator, though that was impossible.

On the side, more steps, heading down.

And in the background, a very faint but familiar sound.  Running water.

“So, this person knew all along we were looking for water in the wrong place?”

Monty nodded.  “He’s a guardian.  I’m surprised he told me, but he seemed to think I had a hand in sending you lot away.  He asked me to be the next guardian.”

“He has no interest in reviving the city?”

“The city is in ruins.  Nothing can revive it.”

“Is there anything of value?”

“If there is, he didn’t tell me about it.”

It was not that difficult to see what had been used in this well.  A system of buckets taking the water from below up to an intermediate reservoir, then redirected to the city, and elsewhere.

The real treasure here was the water.

“Now you know, what are you going to do?” Melanie gave me one of those sideways looks of hers, the one that said, There’s a right and a wrong decision.  We found the waterways, but it didn’t end here.  That was somewhere else, and I could plot it.

They shut the project down, and as far as I could see, it might as well stay shut.  I didn’t think they’d find any treasure, and even if they did, they wouldn’t tell anyone.

I looked at Monty.  “You want to become this guardian character?”

“If Juanita will have me.  What are you going to do?”

“I told them I want to find the endpoint.  This is not the end.  I’ll be going further south, Chile, Peru, Argentina, or find something else to do.  Maybe I’ll write a book about the Aztecs.”

“Good choice.  That old man I was telling you about.  He takes his job seriously.  Those treasure hunters, they’re on borrowed time.  I told him you’d do the right thing.”

“And if we hadn’t?”

“I told him you would do the right thing.  You didn’t make a liar out of me.  Now, let’s go eat.  All this stumbling around in the dark has made me hungry.”

…

Writing about writing a book – Day 21

I’m back to writing Bill’s backstory, and how he got mixed up in the war, and a few other details which will play out later on.

This will be some of it, in his own words:

…

I think I volunteered for active duty in Vietnam.

It was either that, or I had been volunteered by my prospective father-in-law.  I was serving under his command in an Army Camp for some time, and unbeknownst to me for a time, I had been dating his daughter.

The daughter of a General.  It was like that adage, ‘marrying the boss’s daughter’.  Only this boss was the bastard of all bastards.  When he found out, my life became hell.  As a Corporal, he told me I was far beneath his expectations of the right man for his daughter.  He thought she would be better off with a Colonel.

Then I got my orders.  I was to join the latest batch of nashos on their way to the latest theatre of war.  But before that, Ellen, a woman with a mind of her own, and sometimes daring enough to defy her father, said we should get married, and I being the young fool I did, in a registry office, the day before I left for the war.

I promised to be faithful, as all newly married men did, and that I would come back to her.  We had all heard the stories coming out of Southeast Asia, where the war was not going so well, for us, or the Americans, and that this was a final effort.

When we landed, we were greeted by the men leaving.  They were glad to be going home.  And I chose not to believe some of the stories.  Nothing could be as bad as they painted it.

Could it?

 

I’d been trained for war.  I could handle a weapon, several actually, and I could if I had to kill the enemy.  After all, it was my job.  I was defending Queen and country.

I was a regular soldier, not a nasho.  Not one of the mostly terrified boys who’d hardly reached anything approaching manhood, some all gung-ho, others frightened out of their minds.  As a regular soldier, this was where I was supposed to be.

But being sent to a war to fight, and having to fight, I soon discovered were two very different things.  On the training ground, even training with live ammunition, being shot at, mortared, and chased through the jungles of North Queensland, it was not the same, on the ground in Saigon.

It was relentlessly hot, steamy, raining, and fine.  Or dry and dusty.  But in any of the conditions, it was uncomfortable being hot all the time.  During the day, and during the night.

Then we were sent out to join various units.  Mine was north, where, I wasn’t quite sure, where the motley remains of the group were bolstered by us, new people.  Morale was not good, as we arrived in the torrential rain in an air transport that had seen better days, and notable for two events, the fact we were shot at several times and taking out the first casualty before we arrived, and the near-crash landing when we did.

I soon learned the value of the statement, ‘any landing you walk away from is a good one’.

 …

Yes, seems like a good start to a bad end.  More on this tomorrow while I’m in the mood.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024