Dead Gods Weeping: The Prologue

OK, finally, we have arrived at some actual novel writing!

The working title of this novel is "Dead Gods Weeping", like I mentioned in a previous post.  I won't rehash what the book is about.  I'll just let you read it for yourself, starting with the Prologue!



PROLOGUE

    On a silent, dead planet orbiting a lonely yellow sun on the outskirts of the galaxy, a prophet was having a vision.   
    He was tending the fire in the river rock fireplace of his weather-beaten shack when he felt the signs.  His tired, old body suddenly tingled with warmth and energy as it always did on these occasions.  Placing the hardwood poker back on its rack, he stood, and cocked his head as he listened to the voice that he knew only he could hear. 
    “Yes, Orrin my Lord,” he answered when the voice had finished, and hurried to his heavy oak table and cushioned chair.  Taking up his reed pen and checking to make certain his inkwell was full, he opened the large, leather-bound codex before him to a fresh page.  “Ready, Lord.”
    The prophet’s eyes went glassy as the voice spoke again, his mind filling with images and sounds.  To him it seemed as though he was being transported to another place and time, as though his spirit had been whisked away, cradled in the arms of the Creator.  He knew he was still within his body, but for the moment he was entirely consumed by the vision.  His little shack with its river rock fire place and wood-shutter windows vanished; he no longer even felt the pen in his hand.
    The prophet had no idea how long the vision lasted.  It might have been seconds, hours, or days.  But when the vision did finally end, and he found himself back at his table with his pen still in his hand, he knew that some lengthy amount of time had passed.  All his joints ached more than usual, and his limbs were stiff and numb.  The fire had long burned itself out, and the morning sunshine was peeking through the cracks in the shutters of his east window. 
    “Now write the vision I have shone thee,” the voice in his head commanded.
    “Yes, my Lord,” the prophet said.  He obediently dipped his pen in his inkwell and began to write.  As the sharpened point of his reed pen scratched across the page, the vision replayed itself in his mind, allowing him to remember and record it as precisely as possible.  Again, he was unaware of exactly how much time passed, but by the time he set his pen down, he had filled several pages of the codex.  The sun had crossed the sky, and was now beginning to show through the cracks in the shutters of his west window.  He sighed deeply and stretched his sore fingers.
    But the voice had not finished.
    “This is the last vision which I shall show unto thee, my son,” the voice said.  “Thy work is done, and I shall take thee unto myself, to rest for a time in my kingdom.”
    The prophet felt tears spill from his bloodshot eyes, and run like little rivers down his deeply lined cheeks.  He smiled.  “Thank you, my Lord Orrin.  My soul is yours.”
    As a warm glow of light began to surround him, the prophet could not help thinking about what the Creator had just said.  “Lord,” he said.  “Thou hast said I shall rest in thy kingdom ‘for a time’, yet thou hast also said my work is done.  Hast thou more for me to do?”
    The glow of light around him intensified until all around him was obscured.  “My son,” the voice said, only this time, the prophet did not just hear it in his head.  “Thou hast long been faithful, and hast obeyed my every command, even when all around thee fell, and the jaws of death snapped at thy feet.  The work which I had called thee to do is finished, and thou hast earned thy rest.  And when thou hast rested, and have been prepared, I have another work for thee.”
    As the light carried him away, the prophet felt his mind enlightened, and he began to understand.  “The One Who Comes,” he said eagerly.  “Like in the vision.  I am to instruct him?”
    “You shall guide him on his way.  He shall have many temptations, and much trial and tribulation.  He shall live in a time when all of my children throughout the galaxy shall be at war.  His friends shall become his enemies, and it will be as though all the world is against him.”
    “But when shall this be?”  He could hardly contain his excitement.  He had learned patience in his long years alone, but at the moment he was bubbling with questions.  Life was returning to his old bones, as if his age were melting away, leaving him once again young and new.  “Will it be soon?  And when shall the End Battle be, when Vardaxis is released from his bonds the final time?”
    A kindly gentleman was walking toward him now, through the light, dressed in flowing white robes.  He smiled, and placed a warm hand on the prophet’s shoulder.  “The time is not far distant, my son, and thou hast much to learn.  For now, it is time for thee to rest.  Come.”
    The prophet reached to embrace his Lord, but stopped.  He couldn’t help it.  “But, my Lord, what about my codex?  How shall thy children receive my words as thou hast promised?  How shall they be carried to every heart and soul before the End comes, as thou hast said, when I am the last of this world?”
    “Fear not, Zambeezee, my son,” Orrin said, still smiling.  “I have many servants.  Thy words shall be found.”

*

    A sleek, silver starship landed on the windswept mountain, next to an old, rickety shack nestled in a copse of scraggly trees.  The hatch opened, and a man stepped out.  He hesitated before descending the ramp, checking numbers and figures on a handheld device.  Pressing a button at his belt, his personal force field lowered from around his head, and he sniffed the air.
    Climbing down the ramp, the man made his way toward the small shack, wondering for the hundredth time why he had come to this tiny, godforsaken planet.  A hundred light-years from the nearest civilized world, with the heart of the empire a thousand times further, he was in the middle of nowhere.  But, somehow, it felt right.
    The man could not image anyone living up here.  According to his instruments, this mountain was the highest point on the entire planet.  Nothing grew this high up, and the air was thin.  But there the shack stood, rooted to the edge of the cliff as though it had grown there.  The small, weathered structure stared innocently back at him, proof that someone had not only been here, but had once lived in these impossible conditions.
    “Sweet Orrin,” he said.  Just like in the dream . . . .
    As the man approached the shack he realized just how small it was.  The washrooms back in the imperial parliament building were probably larger.  Whoever had lived here was not concerned with comfort.  The structure was almost perfectly square, and no more than eight or nine feet to a side.  Just enough space to fit a bed and maybe a table, but not much else.  He placed a gloved hand carefully against the door, and pressed ever so slightly, half expecting it to crumble to dust.  But it held firm, and when he felt certain the little house would not come tumbling down on top of him, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. 
    It was like stepping back in time. 
    Everything was still in place, as though someone still lived here.  Fireplace tools sat neatly in their rack, worn sheets and blanket sat neatly folded on the small cot in the corner; the only thing that seemed out of place was the large, leather-bound book which sat on the old, heavy wood table in the center of the room.  A thin reed pen had been laid on the table next to it, and an ink bottle still stood open on the table, as if the former inhabitant had been in the act of writing when he left.  The only bit of physical evidence that this shack was not still in use was the thick layer of dust which coated everything.
    Working the controls on his handheld device, the man ran some numbers, and tested some air samples.  When finished, he gave a low whistle.  “Remarkable,” he said out loud.  If his numbers were correct, everything in this little shack had been undisturbed for more than four hundred years. 
    On the one hand, this was not terribly surprising, when one took into consideration the dryness of the climate at this altitude and on this planet.  Everything had stayed pretty well preserved.  On the other hand, he actually expected the time to be longer.  Earlier tests taken while he had still been in orbit showed that the entire world had been devoid of human life for at least a thousand years, if not longer.  How, then, could one man have survived on his own for more than six hundred years?
    As the man thought about this, his eyes fell again on the large book on the table.  He suddenly felt warm and tingly all over.  He smiled.  “This must be what I’ve come for,” he said, and reached for the book.

Yeah, it's a little rough, but it's a good beginning, I think.  But don't take my word for it...what do you think?