R. C. Smith — Novel — The Journey
The Journey
The Journey
A Fairy Tale, Sort Of
“The Journey” is my only novel; I began writing it in January 2007 and completed it in December 2011. In January 2020 I have finally rewritten a few paragraphs of Chapter 1 that I hadn’t been happy with. The recent version is 1.21. “The Journey” has been published by the Dunyazad Digital Library.
You can download the e-book in PDF, plain text and ePub format.
Download: PDF — Plain text — ePub
The usual disclaimer to my texts applies: Do not read my works if you are offended by descriptions of sexuality and violence. Please do not read them just for those descriptions, either.
About the book
Obeying an ancient tradition, three people undertake a long and perilous journey — The Journey — that takes them from the northern reaches of the Queendom to the Queen’s capital on its southern shore.
Sir Edmond, the Envoy, former war hero and now diplomat, sets out to serve his country and his Queen.
Abigail, the Artist, a gifted young sculptress with a passion for torture and pain, hopes to find fame beyond the narrow confines of her remote native province.
And a young village girl with nothing but her dreams, suddenly finding herself to be the Gift, the personification of an ancient legend, knows that she faces an ordeal of suffering, sexual abuse, and gruesome public death.
The Journey is a challenge to all three, leaving none of them unchanged. While they push on towards their destination, through mounting hardship and dangers, they can not possibly be aware of their destinies ...
If you are looking for scenes of sex and violence you’ll find plenty, but you will also find a well-plotted and well-written adventure story that ends with an unforseen twist that will take you by surprise. And if you look deeper, you will find a gripping tale of sacrifice, fate, and love. Not for the faint-hearted, this is a book like you’ve never read before.
“That’s enough,” she said after a few moments, and turned away from me, and I slid down the wall to sit on the floor, looking into the empty room, while she looked out of the window, into the court, at the lake of blood and the still twitching dying heap of mangled male and female bones and flesh and intestines.
After a while she turned around, and sat down a few feet away from me, with her eyes closed.
“What a heinous horrible detestable demented pitiably pointless mean and meaningless waste of valuable human life,” she said, after a long pause.
“But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?” I said.
I did not really expect an answer, and for a while none came. Then Abigail slowly opened her eyes, not looking at me, but into the void of our empty room.
“Enjoying something,” she finally said, “does not make it right.”
