Fall to Climb

By Michael McDonald

Someone has to take the fall. In this collection of stories, things have gone terribly wrong, and the most unlikely of candidates is driven to step forth and try to make a difference, for good or for ill. From the indulgent countess to the cynical politician, from the plucky scientist to the bitter priest, somebody has to take responsibility for starting the revolution. Contains the short stories Good Enough, Dismantle, Mother, and Last Confession, together in one volume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael McDonald
• Release date: May 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476165714

Michael McDonald

Writer, reader, ranter; Michael J. McDonald likes an eclectic range of things, but not bananas. He started writing stories before he could write by hand, sticking printed words together to form the sentences in his first days of school, then bothering the teacher to print off more so he could complete his epic. Things have come full circle, as due to injury he finds himself again unable to write by hand, but thanks to the magic box on his desk his prose continues to flow. Unless somebody is wrong on a forum. Being a grumpy misanthropist with a cane leads to a particularly disillusioned undercurrent in his writing, but it's not all doom and gloom. Sometimes he lets most of the characters live. Though sometimes they'll wish they didn't. Michael has been published by Quantum Muse magazine, Wherever It Pleases e-zine, Books To Go Now and the University of Glasgow Student Association. He is currently working on a sequel to Underworld and a more adult novel that is a cheerful story of teen angst, rebellion and death.

Book preview

Fall To Climb

by

Michael J. McDonald

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published by Michael J. McDonald at Smashwords

Cover Photograph by Casimiro Carrino (alulus @ stock.xchng)

Fall To Climb

Copyright 2012 by Michael J. McDonald

Table of Contents

Good Enough

Dismantle

Mother

Last Confession

Good Enough

Chapter I: Confession

The tower was cold. How could it be anything else? It was made of stone bleached white as the skeletons that rattled in its closets, built with great bricks into a sheer, unfeeling countenance. The ice-slick face of the tower's walls remained featureless inside and out, a uniformity drowning the little glassless window looking out into the vacant greyness of squalling clouds.

Even the white-robed servants stirring the fire, faces hidden from her in their scarlet dashed hoods, could not warm her spirits. Not through their efforts, nor through their ill-concealed mourning. That just made it worse. To hear her girls sniff as they tended the fire, laid sparse food on a splintering tray or collected the pot; that chilled her blood as suddenly as placing her posterior on the porcelain.

It's cold, Amy sighed, rubbing her arms and clutching them to her chest.

It is February, Countess, replied the servant, not looking away from her determined fire-poking. But spring will come once more.

The Countess snorted. The servant stirring the embers shook a little, and immediately there was another cold blade searing the Countess from within. They were only trying their best to remain hopeful, and to encourage her, and she spat back at them with derision. It would do no one any good, but then again, neither would their indefatigable hope. Hope. As if the King would ever change his mind. As if he had one left to change.

I'm sorry, Amy breathed, resting her back into the slender couch. It was fine furniture, if rather impractical, and were it not for the narrow window and great bolt on the wrong side of the door, who would know this room was a cell rather than a lady's chamber? Well, the chains hanging from the wall may take some explaining. I just do not see myself stepping out into the garden again, enjoying the spring. Even if it comes and I am still here.

I am sure you will feel the grass under your feet again, Countess.

Amy smiled mirthlessly. Well, maybe once.

The girl turned to her, poker left hovering in the fire. Countess, don't talk that way. Forgive me but the king does not know his own mind. He will release you in time, I am sure.

So sure that you hide your face in mourning though I still breathe?

The servant lowered her head. A tangled coil of dark hair sprang from her hood. Countess...

If the king does not know his own mind, what hope have you to know where it will settle? In his frailty he is as stubborn as he ever was.

The servant returned to her task, driving the poker through the ashes, the glow sparking off the battered metal rod.

Amy rested her head against the back of the couch. Turning her neck, long and toned with three decades of demure glances to the crowd, she sighed out into the gloom of the window. Perhaps it is best not to go out today any way.

Yes, Countess.

A stiff rap at the door broke the silence. It opened a moment later, grinding on its hinges, the man stepping into the chamber without invitation and with a ridiculous plume in his hat and a less ridiculous halberd in his hand reminding the Countess de Metter that she was still a prisoner here.

What did they expect of her? That she would try to skirt around the barrel chest of the guard and only sat there with the implied threat of impaling? That was a less gruesome fate than what awaited at the king's pleasure.

The guard did not look at her. An orange moustache flapped upon his lip as he announced the entrance of a further gent, hovering like a shy ghost in the door. Brother Demetrius Puck, the guard called.

The ghost stepped in, head bowed, not looking the way of either lady. Thank you, he murmured to the guard, and waited for him to leave. The brother stood in robes the colour of sunset, hands clasped together in generous sleeves. As the clang of the door faded into the night, he took a step forward, eyes still turned to the floor.

I am-- he began.

No doubt here to squeeze a confession from me, the Countess hissed, rising up on the couch, back arched like a cat. Do not waste your time, Brother Puck. I have nothing to confess.

The Brother turned towards the servant, and with the slightest gesture, convinced her to rise from her vigil by the dying fire and step out of the room. This time the door closed quietly, and Brother Puck did not speak for some time. He took the only other seat available to him, which happened to be the lady's bed. The soft mattress sighed beneath his weight.

There are more comfortable beds to nap on, Amy said. She hoped she had barred the shock from her voice, but from the irritating smile creeping across this bastard's face, that seemed unlikely. Whatever game he was playing, he was winning.

My lady, Brother Puck began, and reached for the bowl at her bedside. He plucked up a fruit, tossing it in the air and catching it, eyes following its progress rather than looking at her. It hit his hand with a meaty smack after each throw. You truly have nothing to confess?

No, she said immediately. I must confess I am gravely tempted to shove that apple down your throat.

I see, Brother Puck said. He caught the fruit one last time, then wound up his arm, hurling it across the room. It zipped past Amy's ear, out the window, and into the night. There was no sound for some time.

What did you do that for? Amy demanded, looking to the window. Is this how I am to die, irritation or starvation?

No, my lady, it is how you are to live.

Shut up with your zen nonsense, Amy sneered. She glanced at the fire her servant had left, its glow finally fading. But not gone, and nor was the poker she was not supposed to have unsupervised. If you are just here to cause mischief, I warn you, you best leave before you regret it.

Actually, I am here to save you. One way or another.

What did I say about the zen? I told you--

I bring a message from the Cardinal, the Brother said.

Amy's teeth snapped together as she held back her venom, cautiously awaiting the news. Yes?

Brother Puck adjusted himself on the bed, shifting closer. He threw a glance at the door, and lowered his voice. "She tells me she is softening the king. Take note that she has little interest in you personally, but slaying a popular Countess based on spurious accusations is unlikely to lead to a settled populace. What's more, she fears that though the king's mind clearly wanders, some will see his less defensible decisions as evidence that our