Brae's meteorite, part 4
or, the beginnings of falling
“Are you trying to suggest, little boy, that I am of no use?”
If you are new, this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. I’m serialising it here on Substack. You’re welcome to jump right in, but my recommendation would be to head to the start. You can find all the previous entries here:
Time shifts. The season turns. And with it—oh wait, stop that. That sounds very The Wheel of Time1.
A new entry from Renn emerges, translated afresh from his diary2. The fleeting words have left traces of warmth on my keyboard, a welcome sensation as the cold of autumn begins to seep across Melbourne. Perhaps it is warmer where you are, dear reader. Perhaps it is colder. Whatever the case, I hope reading of Renn’s memories in this short entry will evoke the glow of a smile.
If you’re new here (Hi!), then this entry is standalone enough to jump right in—I hope. Otherwise, you can read (or reread) all previous entries over on this section: https://slake.substack.com/s/braes-meteorite
Each is a 5-10 minute read, a perfect snack to cosy up to.
Arando, 14-on-Rye, 568
I had known Brae since I was fifteen. Well, that is not quite true. I had known her from a younger age, but I did not notice her—properly, with a boy’s wandering eye—until my middle teenage years. She was twenty by then, and in the four years from when she had taken up the mantle of her father, Brae had acquired a certain weathered hostility that separated her from anyone else. It was something I found utterly entrancing. Her role, her fleeting presence, it all added to the air she commanded.
As a night ranger, she was sworn to patrol the dark, wander the forests, be warden to our surrounds. Growing up, I never felt we needed much protecting. Not in such a remote region. What danger was there to a village as ours? We seldom had merchants and travellers, and when they did grace our path they were greeted with warmth, any news from Kareth or beyond a welcome currency for exchange. On maps, Dusk’s Weald may as well have signified the end of the land, little reason to explore beyond. And though as a village we kept the fringes of that deep forest in check, if there were dangers to the south, none ever emerged from those woods. With the only ways to get to and from Toör the twin routes leading north and east, the roads were easy enough to patrol.
It was safe. The world felt safe.
Such were my naïve views.
Of course, I was idiot enough to voice these thoughts to Brae one time in The Patient Owl, the best and only tavern of Toör. I was sixteen myself that night, an evening that seems so vivid to me still. I’d had a full year to cultivate my fawning, and the power of ale lubricated my tongue quite readily into stupidity.
“What great perils have you saved us from this season, ranger of the night?” I had asked, resting my head against the back wall. I was sat across from Brae on the room’s long table, its dark wood stained through years of spilled ale. She had just returned from two weeks of ranging, skirting the forest, walking the routes in and out of Toör. Her boots were caked in mud and she wore her longbow across her back, the supple curve of hickory protruding from her shoulder like she had been born with half a set of wings. Brae was alone, and I had very much wished to keep things that way, sidling along the bench until I was opposite her.
She looked at me, taking a slow sip from her mug, the amber of each iris reflecting the room’s light; then her eyes narrowed, wrinkling and creasing at their edges for a mere moment. That is, at least, what I hoped I saw—the room had begun to swirl and faces had taken on a slight blur.
“What do you know of perils, Darrow’s son?”
That stung. A title was a step up from being completely unknown, but I’d rather it be my true name coming from her lips than that of my father.
I tried to smile. “Well that’s the thing. There are no perils. Not here. Not in end-of-the-land Toör. If anything, we need some perils, to get us up from no perils, otherwise a ranger’s ranging days are short-lived, their duties are, err, well they would be rather, they would …” by this point, I had no real idea what I was saying. The words kept coming until, thankfully, I trailed off.
The wrinkles—if they had ever been there at all—were gone.
“Are you trying to suggest, little boy, that I am of no use?”
I felt a deep rush of crimson flare through my cheeks. Brae raised an eyebrow.
“No, not at all, I …” I began, wondering just how I could recover. But I wasn’t given the chance. Brae stood up, downed her ale in two long gulps and walked away and out of The Owl. I watched her leave, the way she moved easily through the crowd, until she was swallowed back into the night.
From the corner of the room, seated with the other elders, I caught sight of my father watching. He was smirking and shaking his head.
As I lowered my head to the table, I made a silent vow to never let her walk away from me again.
As always, I am so grateful for your support. Simply reading this, making it this far, you seeing these very words, parsing them, understanding them and the fact that this sentence continues longer than it has any right to—it all warms my world. Not in some weird, homeostasis-altering way. In an emotional way. A nourishing way. Thank you. Please do leave a comment and a Like if you feel so inclined as to leave a comment and a Like …
I did not enjoy. I never made it past the first book. Perhaps I would have enjoyed it if I read it when it was originally published, but by the time I got to it it felt generic and cliched and the writing moved me not an iota. I’m always open to discussion, though.
This entry was twice as long in its original form. I think perhaps Renn forgot to place a date divider in there when he switched back to the narrative of his journey with Brae (i.e. what will now become the next entry), so I have cut this down to just his memory of being sixteen. It feels better this way, I think, but I am left wondering if it is too short, if I have wronged Renn and Brae by doing so.
It is not too short. So far, you have chunked the story in perfect bits. And if some bits are shorter, so be it. It works as a standalone bit, and I love it. Your novella gives me a feeling... I don't know how to describe it, but I love getting that feeling every time I read a new chapter. I read the first three in one go, butt looking forward to following along each new chapter at a time. I will definitely want to read this as a book when its done. I love, love your writing style.
Midjourney... I understand your concerns and I read several articles about people concerned about using it. Or who stopped using it. At the same time, I read that a lot of writers are using ChatGPT...
For me, I decided that I will never use any of the Midjourney images outside of Substack. They are not even how I imagine my worlds to be. But I need visuals for my stories and I won't use Unsplash or other generic stock images.
I am not a visual artist and I don't pretend to be one. I write. And I decided for myself that I will never use ChatGPT for anything related to writing.
But attempting to get an original piece of visual art created by an artist for each of my stories would be like commissioning a short story for each piece of visual art an artist produces. You can do it, given enough time and money. I will definitely look into getting original art for my stories down the road. But first, I want to finish my writing project.
I rather love that Renn's o'erhasty tongue and Brae's storming off all happened in a tavern called The Patient Owl. 😆 And I am very intrigued by the idea of a night ranger--what comes out at night in Dusk's Weald that is never seen by day...?