As the trucks came to a stop, Kingsley watched the Kark climb off the back before slinking himself out from underneath the canvas and around to the coach. He tugged the door open, and pulled down the ladder tucked inside. Slowly, a man with a thick moustache poked his head out of the coach. He tossed Kingsley a large bag then leaped from the cab, landing with a crooked wince, then straightening up, fists on his hips.
He peered around for a few moments, hands raised to his eyes as though shielding them from the sun. "This camp doesn't look like much, Kingsley. I expected there to be, I don't know, fewer trees. More people. More equipment! I didn't know I was being hired to some..." He trailed off into gestures and meaningful eyebrow spasms, then finally settled on glaring down at a small field surrounded by trees and inhabited by a single tent, a herd of alpacas, and a sleepy-looking sheperd dressed in a chullo and woolen cloak.
Kingsley nodded in what he imagined to be a stoic fashion as he struggled to heft the bag onto his frail shoulder. The truck pulled away and he followed it for a moment with his gaze, still struggling with the rucksack.
Tents came into view past the departing truck. Then shanties with multicolored standards. Then, rising out of the side of the mountain a huge and decrepit mansion loomed, posed like a roosting vulture above what Kingsley slowly began to recognize as the camp of his employ. Linen-wrapped coolies hustled away from parked caravan trucks laden with supplies. Smartly dressed academics crowded with roughshod laborers to collect their supplies, dismantling crates here, piling sm
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Chapter One: Life in the Camp
The truck rocked gently, lulling Kingsley to doze. The crates jostled as one of the truck's wheels hit a bump in the road, and Kingsley stood to steady one. He glanced dull-eyed around the canvas-covered bed that had been his home for nearly two days. Over the back gate, the bored looking driver of the next truck in the caravan raised a disapproving eyebrow, and the truckbed's only other human occupant turned his neverending watch to peer back at Kingsley.
The Kark stood, and leaning carefully over the boxes he'd stacked so carefully in Kinsport, shoved the errant crate back into a groove on the cart below. As the crate settled, the twitchy valet ducked behind it, hidden again from the Kark's gaze. The burly coolie smiled and scratched his beard with his knuckles; he found it entertaining that frail manservant was so unnerved by him and had refused to speak more than a handful of mumbled syllables during two days in the caravan. Of course, the Kark was a rough-looking sort, with huge square hands curled into skull-sized fists, and huge square eyebrows cocked into a look of calm skepticism. Assured that the boxes weren't going to crush the skinny, long-armed valet, he settled back against the gate, his eyes closed.
Kingsley peered over the crate. The hulking laborer was sitting again, and Kingsley cautiously climbed over the cargo and stood over him awkwardly. Kingsley opened his mouth, but as he did, the truck struck another bump, jostling crates. One slipped backwards and nudged the tall valet in the back of the knees; they buckled and he tumbled forward onto the mountain road, his face scraped to a line of gory redness ending in a neck, his body unserviceable even to the morticians... Kingsley opened his eyes, and was met with his shadow flickering over rapidly moving road. With a jerk, he was pulled back into the truckbed, and met with the Kark, who eyed him casually for a second, then shoved a crate back into its position and folded his hands atop the gate of the truck.
"I'm Kingsley. You can call me King for short. I'm Master Jones' valet. And, uh, barber. Who're you?" Kingsley offered a hand, and the Kark met him willingly. "The Kark. Manual labor with the caravan. I put the boxes on the truck."
Kingsley stood, embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. "Thanks for saving me." The Kark shrugged, and Kingsley abashedly returned to his spot in the front of the bed.
The Kark stood, and leaning carefully over the boxes he'd stacked so carefully in Kinsport, shoved the errant crate back into a groove on the cart below. As the crate settled, the twitchy valet ducked behind it, hidden again from the Kark's gaze. The burly coolie smiled and scratched his beard with his knuckles; he found it entertaining that frail manservant was so unnerved by him and had refused to speak more than a handful of mumbled syllables during two days in the caravan. Of course, the Kark was a rough-looking sort, with huge square hands curled into skull-sized fists, and huge square eyebrows cocked into a look of calm skepticism. Assured that the boxes weren't going to crush the skinny, long-armed valet, he settled back against the gate, his eyes closed.
Kingsley peered over the crate. The hulking laborer was sitting again, and Kingsley cautiously climbed over the cargo and stood over him awkwardly. Kingsley opened his mouth, but as he did, the truck struck another bump, jostling crates. One slipped backwards and nudged the tall valet in the back of the knees; they buckled and he tumbled forward onto the mountain road, his face scraped to a line of gory redness ending in a neck, his body unserviceable even to the morticians... Kingsley opened his eyes, and was met with his shadow flickering over rapidly moving road. With a jerk, he was pulled back into the truckbed, and met with the Kark, who eyed him casually for a second, then shoved a crate back into its position and folded his hands atop the gate of the truck.
"I'm Kingsley. You can call me King for short. I'm Master Jones' valet. And, uh, barber. Who're you?" Kingsley offered a hand, and the Kark met him willingly. "The Kark. Manual labor with the caravan. I put the boxes on the truck."
Kingsley stood, embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. "Thanks for saving me." The Kark shrugged, and Kingsley abashedly returned to his spot in the front of the bed.
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