I have been debating between Roland and Jakob as a main POV character in my current project “The West Wind.”  Both have strong stories to tell.  A little nod here to one of my favorite authors.

Roland Pritchard watched a towering storm cloud as it crept slowly toward the estate against the backdrop of a ruddy evening sky and felt a slight motion beneath his feet.   Odd, he thought, that the leading winds of the approaching storm would affect an estate this size.  Jakob Hardy had indeed told the truth though–   the view from his estate at this altitude was truly astounding.

“Jakob, I disagree with you.  You are being hasty,” Roland said still looking out the window.  “I think the prices could easily go higher.”

“It doesn’t matter.  We have him Roland.  We have him” Jakob said.

“Think about it Jakob.  Your reserves are still not large enough to move the market far enough in your favor.  You will make handsome profit certainly, but Whitley will just ride it out and we will have accomplished nothing.”  He heard the squeak of the leather chair Jakob sat in behind his large mahogany desk.

“Even you must see the truth in this Roland.  He owes too much. Selling now will crush him.”

There was a quiet tap at the study door.  Roland turned from the window to see a man in a well-tailored black frock coat and matching leather gloves enter carefully carrying an unpresumptuous black valise.  Roland was relieved to see Jeremiah Wilkins wearing his gloves; the appearances of those wretched hands were deeply disturbing.  Jeremiah carefully placed the black valise on Jakob’s desk.

“We caught up with him in an Overland Stage outside of Wyattville” said Wilkins.  He was traveling with a Grounder woman and boy.  “We searched the Stage and found the valise with the money and watch making tools just as we were told we would.”

“Where is he now?”

Jerimiah pointed at the valise.  Jakob opened it and then quickly snapped it shut.  He raised his eyebrows and gave Jeremiah an appreciative nod.

“And the woman and boy?”

“They were not a problem.”

Roland turned back to the window to hide his dismay.  The storm was growing closer.

Another couple of characters in my current project “The West Wind.”

Eli Hardy slouched in a rear pew of the old stone church; a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a loaded colt revolver in the other.  A small balding priest approached in whispering robes through a strong odor of whiskey mixed with horse manure and a sour sick smell that hung in the hot still air.

“Please my son, think this through” the priest raised his hands in a pleading gesture. “This is not a path you should choose to travel.”

Eli could see the priest’s hands shake and absently wondered how much of the man’s calm exterior was a lie.

“I am not your son preacher man.”  Eli said.  “I am Jakob Hardy’s son.”  Eli’s voice trailed off, “though I wonder if even he realizes that at times.”

“Jakob is a good man,” the priest said.

“A good man?  Ha!  That’s what you think.”  Eli could feel his anger burning through the haze of the whiskey.  “His money built this town.  Built this church.”  The gun in his hand forgotten as he waved it around pointing for effect.  “Probably even paid for the fancy robes on your back.”  Eli said in a slurred voice as he pointed the gun at the priest.  Eli looked over the barrel of the revolver and saw the priest’s eyes go wide and his face drain of color.  Time froze.

Bang!

Eli heard the door of the church flung open and the spell was broken.  He turned and squinted at a tall man silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

Eli blinked and the man was next to him.  It was Jeremiah Wilkins.  Wilkins’ anger revealed by the livid purple scar that crawled from the right corner of his mouth back to a missing ear lobe.

“Eli!” Wilkins’ voice boomed in the small church.  “Put that gun away.  Stop being foolish.”

“Oh Wilkins, what a surprise” Eli said then laughed. “He couldn’t bother to come himself then.  Couldn’t pry himself away from that mahogany desk.”

“Eli.” Wilkins voice softened. “Put that gun away, you are scaring the priest.”  Wilkins dismissed the priest with a slight nod.  The priest scuttled away without looking back.

Eli watched at a distance as Wilkins gently took the bottle of whiskey and gun with his mechanical hands, precision gears whirred quietly within the protection of the brass framing of his hands and forearms that protruded from the pressed linen sleeves.  Wilkins set aside the bottle and tucked the gun into the back of his trousers in the process revealing his own well-oiled holster and revolver beneath a crisp black jacket.  Eli was suddenly embarrassed by his own grubby appearance.

Eli let himself be half lifted out of the pew.  The unnatural strength of Wilkins augmented arms assisted him through the door of the church and into a hydrogen powered carriage that waited outside in the bright desert sun.  Wilkins mounted the driver’s seat and the carriage soundlessly pulled away from the church.

The carriage passed a small two-wheel horse drawn cart driven by a boy that seemed large for his age with a happy expression and a vacant look, the reins held in his meaty hands.  An attractive woman with long black hair tied smartly at the back of her head rode with the boy.

Eli turned his head as he watched the two-wheel buggy pass and was surprised to see the woman staring back at the carriage with a shocked look of recognition.  Eli could not recall having met the woman or her large companion.  He puzzled over this briefly before sleep overpowered him.

More yet to come…

A short sketch of a couple of characters in my current project “The West Wind.”

Rachel West leaned forward on her stool watching through the broad store window as rich coaches clattered by on the cobblestones.  The occasional passerby hurried past with scarves and collars held tightly against the wind.  The activity on the street stood in stark contrast to the emptiness of the clock shop.

The early fall chill seeping through the poorly glazed windows was barely being held in check by the heat from a small stove.  The smell of the anthracite coal would always remind her of the hours she spent learning the craft of watch making from Hamilton.

The ticking of the hundreds of clocks lining the walls filled the shop with sound; each clock a distinct voice in the small crowded shop.  Twice a day Rachel would make the rounds winding each clock with great care.  It was a solemn ritual that Hamilton had conducted with great pride.  With Hamilton gone, Rachel wondered why she still kept this vigil.  Perhaps it would be better to let them run down.  It certainly would be quieter.

Rachel turned and watched Clarence completing his chores in the workshop behind the store.

“I finished sweeping Rachel.  I also straightened up the tools just the way Papa and you like.”  Clarence smiled brightly at her.  “I am really good at that.”

“Yes you are Clarence.”  It was strained, but she couldn’t help but smile at Clarence’s sunny mood.  Rachel doubted the tools needed his attention.  They had not been used in the weeks since Hamilton had passed away.

“I am hungry.  Is it time to close the shop?” Clarence asked.

Rachel looked at the clocks on the walls, then at the empty store.

“Yes Clarence” she said.  “It is time to close the shop.”

More to come…