Still working on book two of The Mongoliad this week — it’s a long one, as you might expect when Neal Stephenson is involved.
Despite its length, oddly little has happened to move things forward; there’s been one fight in some catacombs, one non-lethal match in a proving ground, a bunch of cardinals standing around arguing, and, uh, well, that’s about it. I’m also having a little trouble following the timelines, as events that are clearly taking place over the course of a single day seem to be intermingled with events that play out over days or weeks. It’s all a bit timey-wimey, if you ask me.
By the time she had reached the pony, and made friends with it, then clambered up onto its back, Finn and Rædwulf had finished their work in the gully and were riding up the slope on the mounts they had tethered back in the trees. They were coming to collect Rædwulf’s arrows, speaking to each other in low conversational tones.
It’s always nice to make new friends, right? Speaking of new friends, one of the characters in the book I’m currently editing, Father’s Books, has made one.
He felt hands grab him, strong hands, hands without human shape or form. They grabbed him and picked him up and spun him around, and he was in the air and the tub was beneath him, clear water reflecting himself and the halo of light in the ceiling. The spectral hands held him suspended for a moment that seemed to drag out for hours, long enough at least for his father to call him again.
And then they plunged him face-first into the frigid water that filled the tub.
Then again, maybe he hasn’t …