In my latest novel, Saltpans, for the first time I have had a cross-over of characters from another story. Most of my novels are set in my imaginary coastal area with small towns, little ports and harbours, bigger post-industrial towns in the hills, the small city of Strand, and the seaside town of Easthope.
Places are mentioned across several books, a large pub with a big function room, the Bolton Spanner, a night club called Needles, the very old forest of Camel Wood, Elgard’s Books, various restaurants, cafés and other pubs… But now, in Saltpans, characters from a previous book have an important rôle. Neil and Beulah Cameron are the main characters in ‘night vision‘, and now five years on from their story, they feature in Saltpans.
I have begun to publish and republish my books as paperbacks, which were originally only available as e-readers. My intention is to publish them all, but it does take work editing them of course; I have published Radwinter, the first in the series of that name and was intending to publish Magick which is the second… now I am wondering whether to publish ‘night vision’ to follow on from Saltpans…
Here is the opening scene…
Beulah realised she was lost and had a flash of fantasy about being totally lost and Neil, anxious and concerned, coming to find her… But of course that really was nonsense, she thought unhappily.
She wandered on, climbing slightly and hit a track and followed it until it disappeared and she was wandering aimlessly once more. The trees were in full leaf, but a sombre and dreary green in the grey afternoon light. There was no wind and fancifully it seemed to Beulah that she was watched. She had no notion of time, and didn’t care.
There were rocky outcrops now as she walked into an ancient and long abandoned quarry, and it was here she saw the tree, the tree she was moved to climb. It had branches at just the right inviting height and she smiled to herself as she reached to catch hold and pull herself up.
She had a rush of excitement, a sort of thrill she hadn’t had for so long that it seemed it was when she was young. But I’m not old! her inner child cried, forty-seven, that’s old, her real self replied.
It was a wonderful tree to climb and soon she was eight foot off the ground and she stopped and smiled and wondered when she’d last done that. She could see the rocky walls of the quarry more clearly, covered with ivy and unfurling ferns and long trails of some sort of vine.
Beulah began to climb again, not looking up, enjoying the feel of the bark, the smell of the leaves. Sun shafted through the branches, the weather clearing at last and she glanced over at the cliff and then back again in disbelief.
There was a sculpture of a hanging man suspended on the rock in an impossible place. It was carved out of wood but she couldn’t quite see it because a branch hung down. It was difficult to climb higher but she had to get a better look at the figure on the rocks.
Beulah reached for the next bough and had to stretch for it, a broken off stump protruding awkwardly. She still couldn’t see the carving and lacing her fingers together, pulled herself up awkwardly, bumping her breast and grazing her face. The discomfort made her feel alive and she smiled as she wedged her foot on the broken stump and pulled herself onto the next branch, swung her legs over and sat peering at the figure.
It was not a carving at all; it was a stunted trunk of a tree growing out of the side of the quarry, she could see that now, but its natural provenance made it even more remarkable. It still looked exactly like a hanging man, the rounded chest straining above the concave belly; a swelling of some canker round the hips suggested he was swathed in cloth, or wearing britches, or as if he had a satyr’s fleecy legs or was Pan himself.
A grooved channel running down the lower part of the twisted trunk marked his legs pressed together and then a splay of aerial roots gave the impression of cords binding the ankles and hiding the feet or cloven hooves.
Above the swelling chest, the head lolled forward, the top of the tree pollarded or deformed by some growth. The face was hidden but the sun highlighted a bent nose, parted lips and the line of the brow; gnarled protuberances, lumpy and knotted looked like curls of shaggy hair. On either side, twisting branches, like bent arms, came together as if the wrists had been bound, and tangled vines of ivy hid the hands.
It was the most amazing thing and Beulah stared at it, mesmerised. It was strangely moving, a primitive god unexpectedly revealed, sacrificed for some dark magical mystical reason. She looked down; she was nearly thirty foot above the ground. From below the hanging man would look like a twisted and deformed tree, growing out of the rock face. Only from here was the mystery revealed.
Here are links to these books – I hope you enjoy them, please let me know what you think!
night vision: http://amzn.eu/d/2yUnb9B
… and do you think I should bring out night vision or Magick next?