Oh the joys and pains of crafting a story. Possibly one of the most hated things I have done. Time-consuming, brain-wracking, and completely rewarding - especially when you get that 'click' within you that you've got it right.
Gold Rush has been like that. The whole thing started as a desire to right about man's need to take a retreat into Nature, to refresh and reinvigorate himself, so that he could to return to Society and function for the better. It also was a desire to explore humanity - just humanity. A group of unrelated individuals coming together in conflict over a shared goal. Only, they weren't that unrelated.
The story so far has gone through a significant evolution. A necessary sequence of changes that will direct the story to it's final form. Of course, as with everything, the story won't be 'finalized' until it's finished and published, stored within the binding of a book. Wait, no - the story will still change some more, depending on the reader. How I end the story is meant to stir thought and pondering. It's not exactly a conventional ending; or at least I don't think it is.
Story-lines have been changed, disposed of, or added. Recently, the story has looked to be something bigger than I originally imagined. But that doesn't matter much, because the story will be as long as it needs to be.
The characters are fun, certainly. All flawed, which is what I think I like the most about what I'm trying to do. What is man, but a lost soul trying to get home? And if art imitates reality, than characters are the same lost souls seeking their home. Just as it is with real people, some will appear to be more homeward bound than others. Some may seem more lost, and some will have different perceptions of what home is. Home here is what is most desired. Home is happiness; happiness is home - our final home.
The best way to sum up what's going on in Gold Rush is the following quote from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales - The Pardoner's Tale: "Radix malorum est cupiditas." Translated: Desire is the root of all evil. A more modern version of this phrase is "money is the root of all evil." This idea is at the heart of Gold Rush. The effects of greed upon a small town in northern Colorado. Some people will succumb, some will struggle, and some will survive. In the end, how a character deals with the strong hold of greed will reveal where they have placed their happiness and home in.
Enough of my rambling, though. Here is the first scene from Gold Rush. It's a rough first draft, but hopefully it's intriguing enough.
Green-grey shadows lined Dusty’s face, the midday sunlight straining through the arching, viridian branches. Somewhere above where he sat, crouched between an oak trunk and the underbrush, a hawk screamed. Dusty guessed that it was a red-tail, judging from the pitch, and that the bird had dived downward, its searing call one of triumph as it snatched away its prey. For a moment, Dusty envied the hawk. He wondered if it had to wait in silence for hours on end, hoping for its quarry to come into view. Then again, Dusty reasoned to himself, the hawk was flying high above, with a terrific view of the land below. It didn’t need to lie in wait.
Dusty viewed the scene before him. It was like looking at one of his photographs back in his room. The creek wound from left to right, with muddy banks on either side. Narrow pines and thick oaks rose towards the sky about the creek, there strong, twisting roots at times rising out from the brown earth. Dead leaves, dull yellows and oranges and reds, scattered about the ground, while the underbrush settled over them. Prints, some round and hoofed, others splayed out by toes and paws, littered the dirt, leading to and from the stream.
On either side of the creek, the land sloped inclined upward, into the forest. About fifteen yards away the slope leveled off. Here, a tree had fallen over, its trunk parallel with the creek below. Ferns and vines had crept over and around the trunk, while the underbrush formed a natural thicket about the trunk. When Duty had first spotted the place, it reminded him of a small woody den or cave; the perfect place to sit and watch the creek below. Here was where Dusty had spent the last two hours, the old Remington 700 hunting rifle his father had given as a present on his fourteenth birthday in his hands, the smooth, black barrel resting atop the soft wood of the trunk.
For the past three weeks, Dusty had visited this little spot above the stream, waiting for his prey to wander to the water. The tracks informed him that the creek was frequented by all sorts of animals: raccoons, rabbits, foxes, and deer. Yet Dusty had not seen a single animal, excepting a few squirrels. Never once a doe or buck.
Dusty glanced up at the sun between the treetops, and grimaced. He hated leaving this spot. It was so peaceful and pretty – a deer had to visit! But there was nothing; only the trickling stream and the plant-life.
Setting the rifle against the truck, Dusty grabbed the knapsack beside him. He’d need to leave now in order to find another spot. He was determined to bring something back home with him. He could imagine his customers walking into the store, asking how his three-day excursion had gone, and finding out he had nothing to show for it. Well, nothing animal-like. He reached into the knapsack and pulled out an old, black camera. He attached the lens and checked to make sure that the film was good. He lifted the camera to his eye and scanned the scene. He hadn’t taken a picture of this spot yet – and though he would have liked to have both a photo and a prize, the picture would have to do.
He took one last glance at the creek, before bringing the camera back to his eye. His finger was hovering over the button when he froze. A buck just come into maturity cautiously stepped forward to the stream. It lowered its white-speckled, tan head towards the water. Dusty lowered the camera, setting it back into the knapsack, his heart beginning to beat quickly. He slowly raised the rifle to his should, and peered down the small sight, aiming for the deer’s neck. Dusty only had one shot. He couldn’t miss this opportunity. His heart thumped in his chest. Perhaps the deer heard it?
His finger rested on the trigger. The deer raised its head, ears twitching. He fired. The deer flinched at the crack of the gun echoing about the woods. It wavered on its legs, and then collapsed into the creek.
Dusty realized he hadn’t been breathing, and sucked in air. He shut the knapsack and slung it over his shoulder. Gripping the rifle, he emerged from his hiding spot and trod down to the stream. As he neared, he noticed that the water had taken a reddish tint. Dusty grinned. He had hit the creature.
Suddenly, the buck leapt up past him, and bolted down the streambed. Its head hung at a slight crook, and it swaggered from side to side as it ran, but it was too quick for Dusty to fire another shot. He sat down on a log next to the creek and hung his head. It had gotten away from him. All those hours sitting and waiting, and he finally found a deer, and he shot it – and it got away. Hunting for three days in the Rockies and nothing to show for it; how could he face the others back in Samson, after all the boasting he made about bagging him a great ole’ stag?
Dusty stood up, and dusted off his khaki pants. “If only I had shot a bit higher,” he muttered to himself, kicking a stone into the creek. It rippled, the rings growing outward up and downstream. The largest ring hit a rock jutting out from the water before fading away. A red glob slowly oozed down the side of the rock. Dusty looked farther on. More globs pattered the creek banks; strands of a muddy red flowed past his boots, heading downstream. The deer was bleeding out.
If I’m right, thought Dusty, the deer’s bleeding pretty profusely. He recalled the swaggering run of the beast, the crooked neck. The deer wasn’t going to survive from the wound. The hunter smiled. He’d have his prize yet! Now to get to it before something else did.
Dusty hefted his knapsack onto his back and shouldered his rifle. He ran upstream, pausing every now and then to gauge the blood marks. The globs had gotten bigger and thicker. He was close.
Dusty rounded a bend in the stream and stopped. Before him the creek curved to the left and flowed on, the land sloping upward. He could see the deer as it left the stream and plodded behind a large grouping of rocks. Slowly, Dusty made his way past the rocks. In front of him was a cave, its gaping mouth about the size of a man. The opening had short, jagged edges on the sides and top. With the deer going in, it looked like a muzzle of a wolf or bear swallowing the beast whole. Dusty knelt down and peered in. He could barely make out the deer in the darkness. Reaching behind him, he pulled out a flashlight from the knapsack and flicked it on. The light shined into the cave, illuminating the deer as well as rough, uneven slant of the roof. The beast lay there, off to the side, breathing painfully.
Dusty approached, flashlight trained on the deer. Should he wait for it to die, or should he finish his job? Just as Dusty came to a decision, the buck swung its head at him, its final, dying act of defiance. The rack of antlers collided with his arm, causing him to jump back with a shout. The flashlight dropped out of his hand and bounced across the stone floor of the cave.
Dusty checked his arm, and winced. The antlers had torn his shirt and grazed his skin roughly, causing it to bleed. The hunter looked at the prey, now quite still. It had gone, but not before exacting some vengeance. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, thought Dusty. Blood for blood. It was a fair tradeoff, he realized. He had his prize.
Dusty glanced around the cave and spotted his flashlight. Walking forward, he bent to pick it up. As he straightened up, a brief flash caught his eye. Dusty shined the flashlight in the direction of the glimmer. A stack of crates and chests were hidden in a corner of the cave, the word ‘Kowalski’ printed in large white letters on the sides. The glimmering was coming from between the slits of the crates. Dusty stepped forward, and saw that one of the crates’ lids was open slightly. Lifting the lid, Dusty glanced inside.
Within lay a large pile of gold coins. The box was over three feet high, and was near full to the brim with the coins; Dusty guessed there had to be thousands in that one crate alone. He glanced over at the other chests and boxes. There had to be tens of thousands of gold coins altogether. Turning back to the opened crate before him, Dusty slowly reached into the glimmering pile of coins and picked one up. The coin was about the size of the silver dollar his father had treasured years ago. Though a fine layer of dirt and dust covered its surface, the coin was still rather smooth and glossy.
Peering at the mound of gold in the box, Dusty weighed the coin in his hand. He had the sudden desire to take it, which made him shudder. He wanted to take the gold. And why shouldn’t he? a voice in the lower parts of his mind, which sounded very much like Dusty’s own, asked. He had found it sitting here; it wasn’t like anyone claimed it. This “Kowalski” person didn’t seem to care much for his gold if he left it in a cave in the mountains. Besides – Dusty counted the number of crates; there were eight – one handful of coins missing couldn’t harm this guy. But it could certainly help Dusty, coaxed the lower voice. The young man thought of the store back in Samson, how it needed a new coat of paint, and all the windows and doors needed to be replaced. Surely a few of these coins could cover all of that, thought Dusty.
He fingered the coin in his hand. But was this even real gold? It looked and felt like real gold. But if this wasn’t real, he could do nothing with it. Dusty pondered whether he should leave the coins alone. He could always drive down to Delilah Springs, and visit the pawnshop there. See if this is real gold. That couldn’t do any harm, whatsoever.
“That’s what I’ll do,” Dusty said to himself. “I’ll just check if it’s real. If it isn’t, then it doesn’t matter what I do with it.” If it was real, though….
He wouldn’t think about what he’d do if that happened. Worrying too much about the future never helped him much before. He opened his knapsack and dropped the coin into it. He then reached into the crate, his fist closing around the shining, cold yellow discs. Dusty gulped, and dropped the handful into the knapsack. Tying it closed, he grabbed the flashlight, and left the cave in haste. He passed by the dead deer without a glance. He had completely forgotten about the buck, his thoughts filled with his new prize.
