Teaser: a bit from FIANCHETTO

I am currently at work on a new novel. The working title is "Fianchetto." For the first time in many years, this is being written entirely on spec, so it's unsold as well as unfinished--so far. 

The novel's premise goes back to my teenage years, though the plot has grown considerably since there. What follows is a short prelude to a long novel (it's at 154,000 words so far and I'm not finished). Despite the appearance of two kids in the prelude, this is not a YA story.

Pictures added just for fun. ;-)

1. In chess, the fianchetto (Italian:[fjaŋˈkɛtto]

"little flank") is a pattern of development

wherein a bishop is developed to the second

rank of the adjacent knight file, the knight

pawn having been moved one or two squares

forward.

2. An attack from the flanks;

an indirect maneuver

--after Wikipedia

[The formatting did not transfer, but it reads OK like this. The year is 2040; the setting is rural North Carolina.]

2040: Fish with Wings

The boy walked slowly, feeling his way across the slick stones with his toes. Sunlight, fractured by a million green leaves, played across the water. The cold creek streamed around his brown ankles, threads of green algae pulled taut by the current. Now and then his feet slid on the muck coating the submerged slabs of granite. He waved his arms quickly to keep his balance.

A few steps ahead, the girl walked confidently, wading in water halfway to her knees. She carried a windfall oak branch. Probing ahead with it, she was searching for loose rocks in the creek bed.

“Here's one,” she said.

The boy trudged forward, kicking up spray. She hissed at him to be quiet, lest he disturb their prey.

“Get the bag.”

He pulled a rolled-up burlap bag from his pocket. Rough jute twine was threaded through holes in the open end as a drawstring.

The girl put a finger to her lips. She bent down, lowering herself until her bottom was just above the cold, flowing water. Her brown hair, cut shorter than the boy's, had golden highlights where the splintered sunlight struck the back of her head.

“Take stick.”

He took it, letting it rest on his shoulder.

Slowly, the girl submerged her right hand in the stream. A flat stone the size of a dinner plate, rested on the creek bed between her feet. With great care she took hold of the far edge of the stone, not the side facing the current, and slowly lifted it. Gouts of mud swirled out, which were swiftly scoured away by the flow.

“Yes!” she said, drawing breath in through her teeth.

“Got one?” asked the boy.

She looked back at him, eyes bright. With a nod, she indicated he could come forward and see for himself.

He scooted his feet over the rock ledge, peering under the girl's arm until he saw what she'd found.

Beneath where the rock had been was a fine green crayfish, bigger than her thumb. Lying crosswise to the current, the creature seemed unaware its protection had been removed.

“Got the bag?” she breathed. The boy gave a slight grunt.

Her left hand plunged into the water. She meant to seize the crayfish by its carapace, but the water's diffraction caused her to miss. She got it by the head, and it got her by the hand.

Yelping, she bolted upward. The crayfish's claws were clamped on the thin web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She danced a half circle in pain. Her free hand, streaming cold water, hit the boy in the face. He stumbled backward and sat down in the creek. Up in flash, he grabbed the crayfish and tried to yank it loose. The claws were clamped tight. She yelled louder, adding choice words about her companion's lack of brains.

“Hold still!” he replied. 

He grabbed the green monster still dangling from her hand. The boy got his fingernails into the joints of the claws and pried hard. One claw came loose. He attacked the other with both hands. Tears poured down the girl's face. Utterly focused, the boy worked and pried until the second claw opened. He even caught the crayfish by the tail before it hit the water. In one quick motion, he flipped the creature into the burlap bag.

As he tightened the drawstring, the girl wiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands.

“That's one,” said the boy. “Only twenty-three to go.” That was their quota of crayfish for dinner tonight.

"That son of a bitch goes in the kettle first!" she vowed.

The girl cradled her injured hand. She had a blood blister the size of a coat button.

“I hate crayfish!” she declared.

The boy, soaked from the chest down, let the bag dangle from his wrist by the twine loop. He sloshed forward. She said nothing about knocking him down. He didn't complain.

Taking her hurt hand in his, he examined it closely.

“What're you doing?” He bent closer. “Don't touch it!”

Holding her hand delicately, forefinger and thumb apart, he brought it to his lips. She was about to protest, but she didn't say a word or pull her hand away. He kissed the swelling bruise.

Water flowed around them. Not until he gave the blister the slightest nip with his teeth did she gasp and snatch her hand away.

“You're weird,” she said. Since it was true, he didn't argue.

They slogged on, catching seventeen crayfish in all. The bag twitched and heaved when every new denizen of the not-so deep was added.

Thin pickings for all their work. They hoped the other kids were more successful.

They worked their way downstream until they reached the road by the old bridge. Here the creek was littered with slabs of concrete and ancient glass bottles. The boy dug in the water and pulled out a few of them, checking for readable labels. The girl retired to a sunny slab of macadam on the creek bank, warming herself in the early afternoon sun.

“Come out,” she said. “You'll get cut on that old glass.”

He held up a worn but intact bottle.

“What's this?”

She squinted against the sunshine. “Beer bottle.”

He displayed another container, this one tall and elegantly shaped.

“Coke bottle.”

“They used to put Coke in bottles?” he said, staring at the strange artifact.

“Sure.”

“Why?”

She stretched out, pillowing her head with her uninjured hand. At thirteen, she still had skinny, coltish legs.

“They put Coke and beer in bottles to be portable, so you could take them home to drink,” she said, closing her eyes.

Strange idea, the boy thought. “Didn't they have paks for drinks?”

“No.” She was starting to sound annoyed. “Nobody did, those days.”

He debated with himself whether or not to take the bottles home. Frances wouldn't like him bringing in “relics of the selfish past,” as she was sure to call the bottles. She'd break them up, recycle them, as she did every piece of glass they used. Maybe he could hide them somewhere.

He set the bottles on a dry slab of concrete. Before he could join the girl on her sunning spot, he heard a noise high overhead. Curious, he picked his way across the man-made boulders until he could see a wider patch of sky. For several long moments the sound grew louder, but he couldn't see what was making the noise. It was steady, rumbling sound, with a high background whistle blended in.

“There!” he said pointing into the blue.

Far above, a white winged shape lumbered through the warm air.

“It's a machine! Flying! It's a—it's a--”

“Jet plane.” The girl opened one eye. “Don't look at it,” she murmured. “It's wicked.”

He climbed up to the old bridge, never taking his eyes off the amazing thing in the sky. It had a long, streamlined body, shiny white like the minnows he sometimes chased in the creek. Its tail was fishy too, white rectangles swept back from the blunt end of the body. Only the long wings spoiled the fish illusion. They glittered like bare metal in the sunlight.

The jet rumbled on until it was lost behind the trees. The boy stood in the road for a long time, listening to the sound of its engines slowly fading away. Wind blew, stirring tall patches of grass erupting through the broken road.

He climbed back down to the creek. The girl was stretched out, unmoving. One hand was still under her head, the other arm bent across her face to shield her eyes from the light.

He stepped onto the macadam slab. The dark, pebbled surface was warm under his bare feet.

“Why is it wicked?” he asked.

Breathing slowly, the sleeping girl did not answer.