The sample chapter below earned me a Dan Brown on the Who I Write Like test. Ive never actually read any Dan Brown so I dont know ... However, my stories are written in a variety of different times and places and states of being so there cant be just one monochromatic style. Thats not very fun either, for me or the reader. 33 YURIMAN IBN LAM—Venice - 1670 Yuriman Ibn Lam stares intently at the tiny fly that has just landed on the sleeve of his coat. He marvels at the minute armored body of such a dark shade of green it appears to be black. He sighs as golden light tumbles from a small window high above, pouring through the delicate membranes of the insect’s wings and throwing a momentary illumination upon the large jewel-like eyes. The creature poises motionless for less than the beat of its own heart, antennae arched, trembling almost imperceptibly, glancing about—back and forth, back and forth—the hairs of its eyes fluttering in perfect unison. And then it is gone. Yuriman draws his finger tip slowly over the faded rust-colored velvet where the insect had stood but a moment before. Then he raises the finger hesitantly to his nose, then to his lips. A fine dust—almost not even there, but musty, spicy against his tongue like an oily powder, and oh so delicate—clings to the tip of his nose, and he smiles, delighted by its fragrance. Then a slight rustling catches his ear. It is a flea making its way across the top of his shoe. Advancing quickly, not pausing to look around, the flea proceeds with purpose and then it too is gone. Yuriman wonders absently if it carries the plague. More skittering activity, everywhere, as first one mouse and then another, and soon many of its tribe gather to scuttle past in a tight parade, creating a frenzied blur of small brown bodies. Yuriman recognizes an intricate pattern in the scattered dust of their course across the floor. They remind him of the markings the old Jew inscribes upon the yellowed parchments that fill his room. The mice rush past, brushing against his toe, scurrying over his feet in a wave and then they too have disappeared from sight. A cat has suddenly appeared nearby, unseen in the darkness. Yuriman can feel its presence, its hunger, the deep bitter cold that bites painfully into its meager flesh despite thick winter’s fur. He looks down again at the sleeve of his coat. It had once been such a magnificent garment; velvet and gold, black with crimson brocade on the wide collar and deep pointed cuffs; a hundred small finely etched silver buttons down the front; slit at the sides and belted by an embroidered sash. Most of the buttons have now fallen off and he hasn’t seen the sash in a long time. He strokes the fabric on his arm again. The cloth has lost much of its nap but is still quite soft. Yuriman isn’t sure where he got the coat or when. He can’t remember anyway. He can no longer remember many things, far more important things than where he got this coat. Perhaps he had stripped it from a corpse, some sad unlucky victim of the plague, wrapped tight in a shroud and placed in a gondola for later burial. Yes, that must have been it. But there are many more pressing matters to attend to now. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps then he will remember what they are. Like his name. Yuriman Ibn Lam. The merchants and traders, the sailors at the docks, this is what they call him—and the children who taunt him in the alleys, the old women too, who always tease him when he comes to their wells in search of water. Yuri, that’s what the old Jew, Zalman Ben Elias, calls him. He goes to this man’s small room each night where Zalman shares with him his simple meal and long conversations by the fire. But Yuriman Ibn Lam is not his name. He is sure of that. He lost his own name long ago. How long? He cannot recall that either. This is one of the things he seeks, something he must find. It’s what drove him over the waters to this church. He loves the smells of this place: the incense, benzoin, storax, myrrh and frankincense. His mind soars on heavy pungent clouds that thicken and hang in dense waves above the altar and call to him. He loves the heady fragrant candles fashioned of beeswax and the dancing liquid light that falls upon his skin like a silk veil, hiding him from narrowing eyes that glance furtively toward him from the darkness nearby. But most of all Yuriman loves the intoxicating breath of prayer that infuses the air of this place like heated wine. He comes here every day with first light, his feet tracing the uneven steps of the intricate mosaic entry hall. Each crack in the old stone floor, each uneven dip is a familiar friend recognized by a caress so soft and clear he senses it through the bottoms of his shoes. The long wooden benches, black with age and smooth as ivory, worn hard by the touch of countless robes over the centuries, each is known to him by touch as an old friend. Taking his accustomed place among the neat rows of benches, Yuriman sits alone; watching as heads bow in prayer and men in royal vestments of unimaginable wealth and beauty solemnly intone litanies and chants, hymns and supplications. He comes to this place, St. Mark’s it is called, to feast upon the soul of sacred words as another would gorge himself upon a sumptuous midnight banquet. Gazing at the congregants—the hopeful murmurs and longing whispers, the silent, anguished prayers that caress his ears like poetry and break his heart—Yuriman Ibn Lam weeps. Today, like every day, he is early, embraced within a heavy silence that quickens with a thousand minute sounds and secret gestures that only he can percieve. And the prayers, passionate vibrations of desire ride upon the air like salvation for a man drowning in his own dreams. But Yuriman fears he may have lingered here too long. He is on a quest. He has lost his name. Knowing that all things have their names, he must regain his own. Yuriman notices the old priest is looking at him. The man is stooped and bent beneath his grand robes; white hairs now sparse and feathery upon his head; his thickly veined hands are huge and gnarled now with age as they rest heavily upon an old stick he uses to walk. It makes Yuriman uncomfortable, the way the old man looks at him, wary, suspicious, always watching, his eyes darting back and forth and then looking away. Yuriman had been sitting here, in this very spot, on the day this old priest had been baptized as an infant. Perhaps this is why the man watches him: he remembers. Suddenly Yuriman rubs his arms. They are burning hot and moving uncomfortably within his sleeves. Oh yes, the marks. He pulls back the fraying velvet and brocade to reveal the flesh beneath, a swirling mass of red tendrils forming tongues of flame that cover his arms and legs, his torso and the tops of his feet. They are moving now, pulsing with a life of their own, driving him to a wild abandon. Quickly he pulls his sleeve back down. The old man cannot be allowed to see these marks, he’s sure of that. But what are they? Tattoos? He has no memory of ever receiving any such tattoos. And how is it that they move with such unnatural force he’s afraid they will rip themselves from his body and ignite the world? He looks again at the sleeve of his coat, noticing the fine flecks of dust hidden in the folds of thin, faded nap. There are crumbs there as well, and something else—hard and dried—clinging obstinately to the weave. It is dark, almost black in places. He begins picking at it, his fingers working desperately to dislodge the unsightly patch. Why has he not noticed this spot before? He brings a fleck of the matter to his nose. Blood, dried blood. Very old dried blood. Not his own, certainly. The old man is watching him again, motioning him sharply away with a broad sweep of his arm as he always does. It’s time for the Mass to begin. Many more people are flooding in now and Yuriman must move to the back, out of the way, out of sight. He retreats, finding his place within the shadows where he stands watching, listening eagerly to voices that rise and swell, filling the church with the sweetness of pure devotion. This joy spills over Yuriman like a cresting wave, a crashing gale that washes away the world. He will move on soon, find his name and discover the meaning of these marks that must stay hidden, but which fill his soul with fire and his mind with dread. And then the wave of prayer is renewed, it rises, washing over him once more. His mind vanishes and for a few moments, he is at peace.
Posted on: Sat, 29 Mar 2014 17:59:48 +0000
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