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This is first two chapters of SEA RISE, a crossover of science fiction and family saga novel of 163,000 words filled with political intrigue, conspiracies and revenge, all set against the backdrop of a world in the midst of change due to global warming and sea rise.
A family is the main character of SEA RISE, and like a true character it grows over the nine hundred year future-history: a faltering child, a rebellious adolescent, an ambitious adult, a prolific progenitor and finally, a benevolent sage.
Most chapters also contain a vignette dealing with the effects of sea rise, large and small, on individuals, families, regions and nations to illustrate the effects of global warming. These range from the lighthearted, a race from Tallahassee to Savannah through the Florida Straits; to the exploitive, a tour company with exclusive rights for guided tours of abandoned world seaside cities; to the extreme, India using nuclear missiles to stop an invasion by millions of Bangladeshi peasants.
SEA RISE
2161 C.E.
0.92 Meter Sea
Rise above 2000 C.E. Norm
He clasped his
hands together behind his head and leaned back, barely stopping himself from
joining his tumbling chair. Then
sitting down beside it he started to adjust the spring tension: anything to do
other than what he knew he must do.
There was a knock
at the door and
Gunther came in and
halted, “Father?”
Gunther stuttered a
bit, “The…the Cousins on site are waiting in the conference room and those
not here are connected by televid.”
“We thought you
would like to consult with the Grand Counsel about what tack the Family would
follow now.”
Gunther bowed his
head slightly, “Sorry I presumed.”
“Gunther,”
When he heard the
door close,
The office was
nothing more than a portal to what was above, up the hidden stairway; only a
select few other than the Fathers and Mothers knew of its existence.
He keyed a code in
his computer but didn’t key ‘enter’. Then
he walked to one panel on the fourth wall of dark oak and stroked a small knot,
the real ‘enter-key’ for that code; a panel slid back exposing the stairway.
He paused and looked back at the desk and chair, “To sit in that chair
I need to know how those before me sat in it.”
He started up and the panel closed.
The room at the
head of the stairs was made of nothing but old dark oak from the Family’s
Great Hall in
Although any member
of the Family could read edited versions of the journals on the televid, only
the Fathers and Mothers were allowed to read them directly.
Even those slated to become the Leader could not; they were only allowed
to sit on the stool and be read to by the Father or Mother.
958 C.E.
He slowly pushed through the door and crept forward as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The sound was clearer now, scratchy, unfamiliar. Then he saw at a small bench and table against a thin window, a diminutive figure hunched over a parchment. Jens came forward and raised his sword. The figure said without looking up, “Please, let me finish this.”
The surprise of hearing his native tongue staid the blow long enough for Jens to identify the figure as a tonsured monk. “And why should I wait to end your miserable life? You heard the call for everyone to come outside when we arrived. And you have deserted your people and your native land to be here.”
“I need to write what has happened here today.” The monk turned and quavered slightly at the sight of the scarred face of Jens.
“Why? No one will be here, and that parchment you are scratching on will not survive the fire.”
The monk seemed to gather a bit of strength and courage, “It may survive and someday someone may find it.”
“What good would that do, you will still be dead.”
The monk actually smiled, “And that is why I must finish this: to tell whoever comes next what has happened here.” The monk moved a bit too quickly as he got up from his bench, and Jens flicked the sword slightly nicking the monk’s neck. “This is not the first time I have shed my blood on a scramæsax.”
“It will not be the last.”
“I was just getting a book to show you.”
Jens pulled back the sword, “Be careful, little man.”
The young monk smiled again as he
laid an ancient tome on the table so the light would fall upon its pages.
“See. This was written by
Brother Joshua over a hundred years ago.”
He grinned pridefully and turned to the book, translating: We have
traveled four days up river and found by God’s Mercy a sheltered ledge with
fresh water flowing from a stone, a sign from Moses.
There is an abundance of river stone for building.
A copse lies to the south and east for timbers.
The southern slopes of the hill are gentle and the very soil is pregnant
with the promise of grains for our bread and grapes for our wine.
We thank thee Oh Lord for this our new house of worship.
The monk looked up to see Jens in a more relaxed stance.
Jens, scratching his chin, asked, “And this was put down a hundred years ago?”
“Yes, one hundred and seven to be exact.”
“I have heard of such. South of our fjord, five days sail, there is a big village. It is said that there are those who could see the meanings of these scratches.”
“Yes, there are many who can read…and write.” The monk was beginning to show a bit more nervousness than before.
“If you could scratch…”
“Write…”
“…write for me, would those who come after see the meaning? For hundreds of years?
“Yes.”
Jens approached life as he did fighting, no hesitation, “Take what you can carry; you’ve but minutes before we sail homeward.”
Jens saw the monk turn white as a shadow fell over the door. Jens turned to the figure holding a fire brand, “Let it stand. Those who come afterward should know of this place and of these men.” Jens motioned to the monk as he went through the door.
The monk stumbled after Jens, not wanting to be far from his savior among these vicious men. He watched as his brothers were forced to their knees; he could not bear to witness what was to come next and averted his eyes.
Jens yelled at the three Norsemen surrounding the eleven monks, “Only kill those who resisted. Let the men of peace be.” With that, Jens boarded the ship that had been pulled up on the river sands.
Soon the long-ship was away from the shore, and the little monk watched as the life he had known disappeared with the current. He strained to burn into his mind the familiar sights as the sea welcomed the long ship to its waves.
For years afterward, Jens and the monk would sit before the fire each night with the monk writing down the stories Jens told him of his own life and what he knew of his father, grandfather, and other ancestors going four generations back. There were other stories written down, legends and myths of Gods, and battles long lost to all but a few with long memories. Parchment and ink became required items from the raids across the seas.
Jens Gudmundsen died in 973, and his son Koll Jenssen kept the monk, although he seldom wanted anything written down. The monk became the favorite entertainment as he read the sagas of Jens. As years passed Koll’s son, Hauk, would sometimes tell the monk of his own experiences on the raids or trading excursions. Then in 1002 with the death of Koll, the role of the monk returned to that of a recorder as he inscribed the history of the small village as seen by Hauk Kollsen.
The monk’s life had been relatively easy as a favorite of the village leader, but even that span must end someday, and on a warm summer’s day in 1014 the monk wrote his last. Hauk named his next son for the monk, Lars Hauksen.
Literacy came to a few in the village in 1154, and once again the old sagas from the leather chest were the preferred entertainment around the great meeting hall. In 1178, another writer began to add to the history, but that ended with his death in 1193. Over the centuries an occasional historian was born into the hereditary line of village leaders, but in 1626 Jens Olsen began his journal in earnest and then passed the task to his eldest, telling him that the sword of Jens Gudmundsen was merely rust, but the ink on parchment was still there to read, to take meaning from. From that year forward the journals became the responsibility for each new generation of Olsen leaders.
The hereditary head of the village slowly became known as Father or Mother Olsen, and after several generations many wondered how many Fathers and Mothers had gone before. No one knew with certainty; the only record was in the journals themselves. Years passed with many efforts to draft a family tree that was complete, but no one could agree until Iwona, Mother Olsen, suggested that the count should reflect those who had shown a concern for the future by writing their own journal or having one written for them.
In 1804, Iwona Olsen was proclaimed the 14th leader of the Olsen Family. An ivory tusk, half a meter long, was carved with the names of the Fathers and Mothers spiraling around it. When it was presented to Mother Iwona, she ran her fingers over the carved names and then thinking of the first Father, Jens Gudmundsen, she grasped the larger end and brought the flat of it down hard against the trestle table like a gavel; she proclaimed loudly, “By the Hammer of Jens, let it be known!”
***************
And so the first two chapters end. What follows is a future history that starts in 2055 when a fisherman in Norway trips on his dock because the higher seas have caused a higher step than what he had expected. This simple accident starts Jens Olsen on a course for his extended family that will end 900 years later when their efforts to "provide a home for their descendants" comes full circle to aid the combined Scandinavian people in protecting themselves from a chaotic world full of warlords, disease and anarchy.
With luck, one day you maybe able to read the rest of the 160,000 words.
Let me know what you think and don't worry, I have a thick hide. Woody
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One sample of the many vignette takes place in 2103 C.E.
A Forgotten Giant Wakes
The Steppes, a
source of strong reliant people since humans first walked into
Boke watched as his clan packed up their yurts and gathered the children. The chill of the wind touched his cheek and he turned to gaze at the distant mountains. He wondered if the snows of this coming winter would cover as much of the peaks as it had in his youth; he thought not.
A clattering of poles brought him around to see his youngest son, Han, struggling with the long poles for the yurts. “Tar, help your brother; his thirteen years are not enough to give him the reach of the arms of your nineteen.”
Han looked at his father with eyes that were filling with tears, his cheeks red in embarrassment. Boke knew how to stem the flow, “Han, fear not. Tar was sixteen before he could tie the poles by himself.” Han smiled broadly and began gathering the poles again.
Boke asked, “Tar, where is Chagan?”
“She is with Mother, getting the camels ready.”
Boke peered over to the camels’ tie downs; he marveled at the strength and stamina of Shria, his wife, who had been working late into the night and had been the first up to have breakfast ready for her family. Passing them, his niece and nephew were walking toward the ravine where they had penned their goats. He wanted to just sit and watch the idyllic scene of their uncomplicated life, but leadership was a hard master. He rose and went to the knot of men who were sitting, drinking their coffee.
Boke stood before them, “You have lingered enough to show the women who are the masters; it is time to work if we are to leave today.”
The men began to rise when a loud scream brought them up with a start; their eyes pinpointing the direction. It was from the ravine.
More than a dozen horsemen came up from the ravine riding hard toward the men caught away from their rifles. Boke felt time had slowed as he took in the scene: some of the men wore tattered coats that had been the uniforms of the Communist handlers of the last century; his own people were scrambling trying to get to cover or to a weapon. But amongst the chaos, he saw two figures, hurrying but not panicking; Shria and Chagan were yelling “Hut! Hut!” slapping the camels’ rumps to bring them up and into the face of the charging horsemen.
Camels are fast in a sprint and the raiders could not rein their horses in time to stop; the collision of the camels and horses sent most the riders off into a sprawl of legs and bodies. The men of the clan, enraged, forgot their quest for weapons and ran to the fallen charge. The women and children joined with stones, yurt poles, fire spits, fists and fingernails. Boke wrenched a rifle from one of the fallen and took a couple of shots at the retreating raiders that had not gone down in the stampede; four got away.
Two camels had to be killed because of their injuries and four out of the nine fallen horses. Only four people of the clan died that day, the niece and nephew had their throats cut; Shria and Chagan were crushed beneath the confusion of horse and camel.
In the next few hours, Boke had organized a defense; few in camp were without weapons, even the children carried side arms. After the mothers and grandmothers had taken charge of preparing the lost ones for burial, Boke picked six men and mounted.
As he turned to say something to the gathered family, Han came up on his horse. Boke started to say something, but Han spoke first, his eyes hard, fixed on the horizon.
“Father, the wind is coming and soon the tracks will be faint in the sand. No one can track as well as I and no one can run as long.”
Boke nodded slightly and started off in the direction the raiders had gone.
At first, the tracks were plain enough that Han could read them from horse back, but as he had said, the afternoon winds began to blur the telling hoof prints. He dismounted and began trotting along, his body and head bent to be nearer to the ground.
The sun had set but the moon, three days before full, was high in the cloudless sky. Boke marveled at Han who had been running now for six hours, only stopping long enough to ensure he had not lost the track. Three times someone had tried to spell him, but each time, they soon lost the track in the blowing sands; Han was right, he was the best.
The moon was nearing the horizon and soon there would not be enough light for even Han to track by. He tried to go faster, but time was running out. He froze and held his hand up for the men to stop. Boke smelled it at the same time: a fire.
They stopped and while Tar and another young man crept forward to find the camp, Boke sent two men to take the horses back to the stream and fresh grass they had passed. They returned within the hour saying they had hobbled the horses.
When Tar returned, the moon was long below the horizon, but the crystal clear sky and bright stars had been enough for him to move about.
“Father, they are half an hour ahead, just out of this dry streambed. There is cover within ten, fifteen meters. The camp has thirteen men, three women, and one man is wounded.”
“I’m surprised
I hit him; the rifle was in bad condition.”
He thought for a few heart beats and made his decision, “Han go back to
the horses. If we are not back three
hours after sunrise, go back and tell the family to winter in high country at
Han said, “But, Father, I…” he paused, “Yes, I understand. It will be done.”
Boke started to hug his youngest but thought better of it, “Han, being a man is not always measured by what you can do but sometimes by doing what you know is right. You have proven yourself a man twice this day.” With that Boke turned and headed toward the raider’s camp.
The pre-light of the next morning found the clan’s men huddled beneath the brambles above a shallow scoop in the desert. Boke would not be as stupid as the raiders had been. Slowly, they worked their way to the east of the camp, and at a signal from Boke, they started forward, not with a cry, not with a run; but with patient deliberation. The blinding rays of the rising sun were at their backs and no one in the camp saw them until it was too late.
Three within the camp were taken alive but soon wished they hadn’t. Before they died, Boke learned of the group of villages far in the south they had come from, and how they have been raiding the nomadic tribes from the Steppes.
Boke send word back to Han and within an hour, he arrived with the horses.
Boke took Tar aside. “Tar, you are the eldest and you have a responsibility to our clan. Go back and organize the older boys and girls into teams of three. Send them out to the east, west and north to find other clans that have been raided. If the other clans want to join us, we will be at Hoho Gol in twelve days. Bring our clan there as soon as you can.”
“Father, where will you be? Hoho Gol is only five days from here.”
Boke stared ahead, “We go south.” He started off, Han riding beside him, a rifle slung across his thin back.
Today, Boke had tasted his first victory, the first of many to come.
since posting on December 21, 2008