FanFic #8 of 2006
So... this is that fanfic I warned you about below.
It's more of a mood piece than anything else, but it was there, and it's now here, so I thought I'd share.
Enjoy, or summat...
"Pack for an English summer."
The man's words echoed in Allan Quartermain's mind as the boat chugged its merry way through the Indian Ocean up the coast of Africa, just as they had done ever since leaving Mombasa. It was so many years ago now, so many years that he'd even thought of England, that he was no longer really quite sure what that entailed. Was it the long, hot summers he remembered of his childhood, or was that just the propaganda of memory? Quartermain took a sip of his whiskey, lost in thought.
A cool breeze blew across the deck of the boat, and gigantic stormclouds gathered on the horizon. Africa is angry with me, thought Quartermain, angry that I'm leaving her behind. Lightning flickered in the clouds, and the accompanying thunder sent an unbidden shiver right through him. The Dark Continent was a fickle mistress, more fickle than any woman Quartermain had known in all his years, but it had seen him safe and sound through more scrapes than he cared to remember. Now he was leaving it behind, leaving it for his first love- what would happen to him now?
Taking another sip from the whiskey, he grimaced. It was all just false premonition, Quartermain thought, had to be. He was always apprehensive before an adventure- it was only right and proper to be so. Adventure was a wonderful thing, but it could turn on you with the speed and savagery of a rogue elephant- he'd seen it happen, and had buried his own son because of it. No, it was just the talons of apprehension that gripped him in shivering, apprehension, nothing to worry himself about, just the cold fingers of the wind on the wings of the storm.
Nothing to worry himself about at all.
Quartermain tossed back the rest of his drink and gazed out at the storm, his memories flooding back. That was more like the English summer he expected to be greeted by. The bearers he'd hired had laughed when they'd seen his luggage, had laughed when they'd seen the warm clothes and fur coats, but he'd known better. He always knew better, and always had done. English summers were very different from African ones, very different indeed, but he got the feeling that this summer would be just as eventful as anything he'd come through, even with all his experience.
"Extraordinary," he muttered, and went below decks.
It's more of a mood piece than anything else, but it was there, and it's now here, so I thought I'd share.
Enjoy, or summat...
"Pack for an English summer."
The man's words echoed in Allan Quartermain's mind as the boat chugged its merry way through the Indian Ocean up the coast of Africa, just as they had done ever since leaving Mombasa. It was so many years ago now, so many years that he'd even thought of England, that he was no longer really quite sure what that entailed. Was it the long, hot summers he remembered of his childhood, or was that just the propaganda of memory? Quartermain took a sip of his whiskey, lost in thought.
A cool breeze blew across the deck of the boat, and gigantic stormclouds gathered on the horizon. Africa is angry with me, thought Quartermain, angry that I'm leaving her behind. Lightning flickered in the clouds, and the accompanying thunder sent an unbidden shiver right through him. The Dark Continent was a fickle mistress, more fickle than any woman Quartermain had known in all his years, but it had seen him safe and sound through more scrapes than he cared to remember. Now he was leaving it behind, leaving it for his first love- what would happen to him now?
Taking another sip from the whiskey, he grimaced. It was all just false premonition, Quartermain thought, had to be. He was always apprehensive before an adventure- it was only right and proper to be so. Adventure was a wonderful thing, but it could turn on you with the speed and savagery of a rogue elephant- he'd seen it happen, and had buried his own son because of it. No, it was just the talons of apprehension that gripped him in shivering, apprehension, nothing to worry himself about, just the cold fingers of the wind on the wings of the storm.
Nothing to worry himself about at all.
Quartermain tossed back the rest of his drink and gazed out at the storm, his memories flooding back. That was more like the English summer he expected to be greeted by. The bearers he'd hired had laughed when they'd seen his luggage, had laughed when they'd seen the warm clothes and fur coats, but he'd known better. He always knew better, and always had done. English summers were very different from African ones, very different indeed, but he got the feeling that this summer would be just as eventful as anything he'd come through, even with all his experience.
"Extraordinary," he muttered, and went below decks.