Curse of Graves

[0xDEADCAFE]

Something I started a few years ago, but never took very far. Lately its been on my mind again so I thought I would have another go. It's a tale of boy meets necromancer, with maybe a teeny bit of questing.

Chapter 1 starts in the next post. Comments invited.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 1: Harbinger

A black speck winged on the horizon, but the boy was not watching.

The matron said, “Graves,” but the boy was not listening.

“His name is Graves - do you hear? - whom you shall address as Master Slayer. And you will do so with all the respect that a young rascal such as yourself can muster. Roll your eyes all you want! You will attend this man, and attend him well, or I will find you the darkest, foulest corner of this monastery, and leave you there with nary candle nor broom ‘til it is clean enough for the Lady herself to take her tea!”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, if that’s what you think,“ said the boy, “and I cleaned plenty of dark corners before I became a novice. I’m not supposed to have to do that anymore. I am supposed to be out practicing my weaponry lessons with the other novices!”

He turned his back on the matron and took a few steps toward the window where he could see the rows of students training on the practice field below. Above his gaze, the black speck was gliding across the sky, nearing imperceptibly.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbled to himself. Everything about this thing disgusted him, but he knew his best chance against the matron was not to throw a tantrum, but to show respect for the rules in which he was schooled. Raising his voice for the matron to hear, he said, “It is the duty of all novices to train in the fighting arts and learn the way of battles,” and then added, in a somewhat lowered voice, “not wait on some smelly old codger who’s too weak to even feed himself!”

The matron sat down and sighed deeply. She regretted her moment of pique and tried again with more dignity. “And what of history?” she asked. “Is it not also the duty of every novice to learn the history of this monastery and that of the wide world as well?”

The boy ignored her. Standing at the window with arms crossed and feet apart he stared longingly at the field below where the novices moved as one to the calls of the apprentice masters. His muscles twitched as he heard the familiar commands. He closed his eyes, imagining himself down on the field, moving with the others, feeling the balance of the fighting stances, enjoying the effortless command of his body and that his strong arms and legs gave him.

The matron gazed expectantly at him for a few moments, then realizing he had not heeded her question, said coolly: “I am told that you are somewhat skilled at the fighting arts, for a novice of course.”

At this the boy whirled around, hissing, “Somewhat skilled! I’ve won every tournament I was ever old enough to enter. I’m the best - everyone knows that!”

Satisfied with the response that her remark had drawn, the matron pondered her next move. “I can see you are prideful,” she said in even quieter tones, and then dropped her gaze to some papers on her desk.

“Am I?” he said, taking a few proud strides towards her. “No one beats me with staff or fist, and soon I’ll complete my training in spear and sword-” he broke off suddenly, and then, as if suddenly remembering something important, continued, “-and I’ll soon have trials. How am I to get top marks if I’m not allowed to train?”

Now the matron ignored the boy, at least outwardly, and began importantly pushing some papers around her desk. Then, without looking up, she said, “You will be given ample opportunity to impress the masters.” Then after a few more moments of very important pushing she stood up and walked slowly over to the tall mannish boy. “Now, I ask you again, what of history?”

“History?” he said. “We learn it in lessons.”

“You do,” she stated flatly, strolling around the boy. “In what year was this monastery built?”

“Uh…”

“Who was the last of the ancient monks? The one who was so important during the last struggle against the darkness?

“…”

“You did say you learned it in lessons, did you not? Or were you speaking only of the other novices?”

“Names and dates! What does a warrior need with these things?”

“Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task!” she cried loudly to herself as she turned from the boy and walked back toward her desk. She stopped suddenly as she reached it, and turned around, looking hard at the boy, continuing, “But perhaps…, perhaps you need this task more than it needs you.” Then, setting her closed fist down on the desk and leaning, she said, “It is just possible that you will learn some appreciation for history before you’re done with it.”

The boy showed his puzzlement on his face, but the matron just stood and stared at him, saying nothing. After several uncomfortable seconds under the matron’s formidable glare, he finally asked, “So, what is this Graves, an old history teacher or something?”

The matron answered him thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking, perhaps, but more to the point, boy, he is history.”

Even more puzzled, but defying the matron to get the best of him, he raised his voice a little and said in his best imitation of studious and proper speech: “Ahem, do you mean, history, as in he is as old and crumbly as the books in the library?” And then, grinning, “Or, history, as in he will soon belong in a history book, if you take my meaning, ma’am?”

The matron’s face brightened at this display of wordplay on the part of this lad who had previously shown little cleverness. “And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”

Now the boy’s confusion reigned on his face and in his speech. “You speak nothing but riddles,” he said, now with a look of pain around his eyes.

The faint cry of a bird blew through the window, but neither of them heard it.

“I don’t know what your words mean, and it’s true I don’t know all the words of the history lessons, but, if you please ma’am, can’t I just return to the training and let someone who is better with words do this task?”

Disappointed, the matron resumed her seat behind the desk. She folded her hands and for a moment looked down at them as if unsure of how to continue.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Her voice now had a tone of finality, and the boy could feel himself resigning to the inevitability of what was to come. It felt a little like falling, like breathing under water, like taking on weight, and heavily he trod to the front of her desk and slumped down into the chair placed in front of it.

“I’ll not waste many more words on you boy. You have been chosen for this task - not by me, mind you - and if you ever want to be allowed to return to the practice field again you will do it, and do it well. In case you feel that you have been unfairly singled out, know that you are not the first chosen for this task, nor I suspect will you be the last. Quite a few novices, apprentices and even a few masters have had this task before you.

“It is simple enough. You will tend this man. He is very old and requires constant care. Whatever food he will take you will bring to him. When needed you will dress him and wash him. Whatever he asks for, you will furnish as best you can from the blessings we have in this monastery. You may seek my aid but understand this: he is in your charge not mine.

“Now pay attention. You will have writing equipment with you whenever you are with him. If he talks to you of his past you will write down what he says. If he tells you stories you will listen very carefully and then write down what you remember. At the end of each day you will present to me all you have written. Do you understand?”

When the boy did not answer, she began to ask again, but at that moment a raven landed on the window sill with a loud fluttering. Clad in its ebon armor of wings, it nearly shined in the sunlight, each of its sharp feathers reflecting the light like the edge of a knife. One of its eyes was milky white, and it glanced around the room purposefully, finally settling its lone black eye directly upon the boy.

The matron flew from her chair toward the window. “Evil creature! Away with-“

The raven held its perch, and stopped her in her tracks with a shockingly loud and piercing cry. It gave her a long threatening look and then returned its gaze to the boy. It screeched again, quieter this time, slower and low-pitched, like it was delivering a message, and then flew off.

“Begone!” said the matron, rushing to the window. “And take your treachery and your evil omens away with you. Your kind is not welcome here!”

The boy had barely noticed the arrival of the dark harbinger or the matron’s obvious distress. He sat grim-faced, self-absorbed, his body and spirit an alchemical mixture of one part fist and one part pout. He understood all right. He was to spoon-feed a smelly old geezer, wipe his nose, wipe his butt, and listen to all his crazy ramblings.

And while the boy sat wondering what he had done this time to deserve such a disgusting punishment, somewhere in the unseen sky above him, an avian voice answered, unheard.

[Relapse_]

Subject wise, not my cup of tea. Don't worry, though- I have very fickle, rare tastes that boarder more on sci-fi and avant garde than fantasy. But technically, you're writing flawlessly. Every sentance and paragraph flowed perfectly when read in my mind. If you want extra super-writer bonus points, try experimenting with colourful metaphors in keeping with whatever moods or emotions you're trying to establish.

Keep up the good work!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Subject wise, not my cup of tea. Don't worry, though- I have very fickle, rare tastes that boarder more on sci-fi and avant garde than fantasy. But technically, you're writing flawlessly. Every sentance and paragraph flowed perfectly when read in my mind. If you want extra super-writer bonus points, try experimenting with colourful metaphors in keeping with whatever moods or emotions you're trying to establish.

Keep up the good work!No worries mate, I too generally prefer Sci-Fi to Fantasy. Thanks very much for the kind words. Something tells me that RevenantsKnight could easily demonstrate just how not-technically-flawless this chapter is, but I'm very glad to hear that you thought it flowed well.

Your advice about colorful metaphors is very welcomed; I'll definitely keep it in mind. The whole raven thing was originally supposed to be a metaphor, but it seems to have become more of an allegory. It's something I grafted onto the original scene after letting it sit for about two years, and I am not quite sure how well I think it fits in.

[RevenantsKnight]

Something tells me that RevenantsKnight could easily demonstrate just how not-technically-flawless this chapter is.

Eep. First, I should say that I do miss stuff; I'm not an English teacher or professional editor by a long shot. As for being technically flawless, I think this is pretty darn close. Couldn’t pick up anything more than a few smallish errors, so my thanks on that; it did flow nicely for me as well. Anyway...an interesting start, to be sure; I’m rather curious as to what you’re going to do with this setting, and whether this will turn out to be your take on a teacher and student sort of thing, or something...less predictable, given your enjoyably oddball creativity. Here are those previously mentioned comments:

Everything about this thing disgusted him, but he knew his best chance against the matron was not to throw a tantrum, but to show respect for the rules in which he was schooled.

“Everything about this thing” doesn’t sound too smooth to me; I’d change “thing” to maybe “task,” “arrangement,” or something like that. Also, I’d see if you can’t remove the second use of “but,” possibly by moving the “respect” part before the “tantrum” part.

She regretted her moment of pique and tried again with more dignity.

The way this is worded, it sounds like the matron pauses for a second while she regrets, and then tries again. Did you want these to be simultaneous?

Standing at the window with arms crossed and feet apart he stared longingly at the field below where the novices moved as one to the calls of the apprentice masters.

I think you need a comma after “apart.”

He closed his eyes, imagining himself down on the field, moving with the others, feeling the balance of the fighting stances, enjoying the effortless command of his body and that his strong arms and legs gave him.

The last part of this sentence needs another look. What did his “strong arms and legs” give him?

Then after a few more moments of very important pushing she stood up and walked slowly over to the tall mannish boy.

You might want to drop a few more descriptions of the boy into this first chapter.

“Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task!” she cried loudly to herself as she turned from the boy and walked back toward her desk.

The spoken bit doesn’t sound right on my ear; should that be “Why in heaven did Master Adema choose you for this task!” or am I just missing something?

Then, setting her closed fist down on the desk and leaning, she said, “It is just possible that you will learn some appreciation for history before you’re done with it.”

I’d replace “learn” with “gain,” since “learn” can be either positive or negative. Or did you want that ambiguity?

“And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”

I like this passage, but it’s a little hard to follow on first glance. You might want to trim it just a tad.

It felt a little like falling, like breathing under water, like taking on weight, and heavily he trod to the front of her desk and slumped down into the chair placed in front of it.

This is a wonderfully vivid image :)

“I’ll not waste many more words on you boy.”

You need a comma after “you.”

“You may seek my aid but understand this: he is in your charge not mine.”

I believe you’re missing a comma after “charge.”

He sat grim-faced, self-absorbed, his body and spirit an alchemical mixture of one part fist and one part pout.

Heh...excellent.

This was a great read, and I’m looking forward to more. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 2: Champion

That evening Matron Rubia stayed late in the dining hall with Master Adema, who despite his relative youth for one of that title, was one of the most respected at the monastery. For several years he had served as disciplinarian of the younger boys, but recently became the novice instructor of elementary fighting techniques. It was he who had recommended this latest boy for the task of tending to the man Graves, and it was that proposition that he and the matron were now discussing.

Albeit, for the moment, it would be Matron Rubia doing most of the discussing.

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory.

“’’Tis true that no one has had much luck with this man. Even Master Oriole, who we used to say could charm the quills off a porcupine, could get nothing out of him for a tenday of trying, and the other masters who took their turns fared no better.”

“It seemed only logical then, to let some of the more promising apprentices try with him, after all what could it hurt? Who knows what key will unlock that man’s mind, if he has one left, that is.” She paused to take a sip of wine, which she rolled slowly about her mouth.

Adema sat quietly, watching her. He had already finished his meal and now sat forward, leaning on his elbows, twirling the stem of a wine goblet between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The calm, even surface of the spinning liquid evinced the fine control of a swordsman, as the shimmering outer wall of the glass reflected the face of a sincere seeker of truth. He had indeed thought twice, thought thrice, and thought again before putting forth the name of the boy, Kurst, for this very special task, and he continued to ponder the wisdom of it during Rubia’s monologue.

For her part, Rubia had thought of little else since her frustrating interview with the boy that morning, and the disturbing encounter with the strange crow, though it had in no way affected her appetite; a woman of many talents, she had the most remarkable capacity for perfect erudition while in the act of consumption.

“And finally when all of the apprentices failed, it was decided to use the novices. The old man must be tended, at least, even if he does refuse to tell us about his past, and he really doesn’t need that much in the way of caring.” Rubia paused to nibble a morsel of meat from a large, mostly bare bone, which she held in both hands.

“He barely eats at all and, strangely, though he looks to be as old and weak as death itself, he doesn’t seem to suffer from any serious ailment. I’ve never seen such case.” Rubia put down the well-cleaned bone and licked the grease from her thumb.

“So why not?” The question hung in the air as Rubia tended to her glistening fingers.

“But always, with the apprentices and novices, as with the masters, we chose the most intelligent, the most studious. All of them had some interest in history and at least a passable talent for writing.” Adema couldn’t help thinking that he himself had never been asked, but he nodded politely and passed her one of the monastery’s ornate napkins.

“But this one - Kurst, I believe you said - I wonder if he can write his name much less a coherent paragraph, and as for history, I suspect he’d use one of the old books as a bludgeon before it actually occurred to him to open it!”

Rubia unfolded the napkin and began wiping her hands in a manner that the young master perceived as intended to convey her disapproval. Adema smiled and said in as pleasant a voice as he could manage, “You’re not far from the truth, I suspect. He’s no scholar - that’s for sure.”

“Then can you, Master Adema, tell me why you recommended this boy? All I can think is that the masters have quite given up hope of learning anything from this man, and have now resorted to having the novices just take turns babysitting him.” Rubia balled up the cloth and dropped it roughly on the table as if to punctuate her last remark. “He does require a caregiver,” she said sighing, “and I can spare no one to nurse him all day long.”

Adema gave his glass a final twirl and then set it down. “It may come to that, but not just yet, I think.” Adema looked down into his glass and squinted as if trying to divine a deep insight out of the dark liquid. ”There is something special about this lad.”

Rubia dug a fingernail at a piece of meat between her teeth; Adema tried not to notice as he spoke.

“Over the years, I’ve taken quite an interest in him. He is the reason I changed offices. As head master of the young ones I would have had no contact with him once he graduated, so I asked for a position teaching the novices.”

Rubia succeeded in extracting the gray smidgen of flesh and flicked it onto her plate. Adema asked, “Did you know he’s never been beaten in the tournaments?”

Rubia answered by blowing a burst of air through her teeth. “I hardly think that will help him with the old man. If the knowledge he’s locked up in his head could be wrestled out of him, I’d do it myself!”

Adema chuckled inwardly and allowed his gaze to stroll the avenues of the matron’s strongly built frame. “I don’t doubt that you would, Rubia,” he said, and arresting his amusement lest it broach laughter, said “I don’t doubt that at all, but there is more to this boy’s prowess than brute strength. As I said, he’s never been beaten - I don’t mean that figuratively - he has never been beaten.”

“Surley not, Adema. Surely any one of the masters, if not most of the apprentices could easily-“

“Yes, yes, of course, Rubia, but we don’t allow formal competition outside of the age groups. But still, you must admit it’s remarkable. We have been blessed with outstanding young fighters before; at times there are students who are clearly better than the rest, but Kurst, he has been with us now for years, and he’s not lost not once – not one training bout, not one qualifying round, not one single final. The boy simply will not be beaten.”

Rubia frowned, poured herself another glass of wine, and offered the decanter to Adema.

“You’ve seen him, Rubia. Thank you.” Adema paused to refill his glass. “He’s not the biggest of them, and I can tell you he’s not the fastest either. His skills are excellent for his age, but not that excellent, not what I would call extraordinary, certainly not of a level that would explain his astonishing success.”

Rubia pushed the frown about her face as she listened to Adema’s voice, so earnest, so full of admiration for a boy she firmly considered to be little more than a rude and ignorant scamp.

“He has a knack for…, well…, overcoming. That’s the only way I can put it. He has a rare gift, Rubia. Though his mind may not made for history and writing, as you say, it’s as keen as a diamond in the heat of battle.”

Rubia began to appreciate the fact that Adema’s sponsorship of the boy was quite in earnest. Yet she was used to getting her own way. “I still don’t see how that will help. His behavior today was very disrespectful. I handled him of course – I dare say he’d meet his match in me - but nevertheless, he impressed me as one quite unsuitable for service in this monastery.”

“I’m sure I can talk to him, make him understand-“

“Can you? I’m not so sure you could. Or should,” said Rubia, looking away.

“Should? I don’t understand.”

Rubia shifted in her chair and swallowed roughly. “I have a bad feeling.”

“A bad feeling? About what?”

“About everything. About the boy – and about that man, I’ve never liked having him here – and about, today, that awful, awful creature.”

“You mean the crow that flew into your office?”

“That was no mere crow!” Rubia’s voice flared suddenly and Adema could hear the tension in it, a strain that bespoke of a genuine fear. “It was evil! You know what the villagers say about them.”

“I do, but don’t tell me you believe in that superstitious nonsense,” said Adema.

Rubia said nothing, but dropped her eyes, sat up a little straighter, and crossed her arms.

Adema continued, “There must be a hundred ridiculous tales about ravens: that they are messengers of dark lords, that they visit doomed souls on the eve of their damnation, that they are not birds at all, but immortal minions of the demiurge, screeching words of power older than earth itself. You can’t believe that.”

Rubia turned her head and wrapping her arms around herself more tightly.

“You do believe it,” whispered Adema.

continued in next post...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post

“I have a bad feeling,” repeated Rubia, in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Adema’s neck.

“Rubia, you can’t give these fables credence. Why, I’ve even heard people claim to be able to converse with them – right before they offer to tell your future for a gold piece – you can’t believe any of it. Its fear riding the back of ignorance, a charlatan’s tale sold for warm ale, a child delighting in an innocent vision of terror. Truly, Rubia, we’ve advanced beyond such foolishness, haven’t we?”

When Rubia did not answer, Adema reached across the table and laid his hand gently on her forearm.

“Trust me Rubia. Give this boy a chance.”

Rubia looked into Adema’s warm and steady eyes and slowly the chill seemed to leave her.

“Well…” she said, reaching for her wine glass. “He did show a bit of cleverness during the interview. For a moment I thought I saw…, but no. Tell me Adema, how will his…, this talent you describe, help us?” Rubia raised her glass and gulped a mouthful of wine.

“Well, I-“

“You must admit,” interrupted Rubia, setting down her glass, “the boy has absolutely no interest in history. And we didn’t even tell him what the real purpose of his task is - to get the old man to tell of his past - and I certainly don’t think he will press the point out of his own curiosity.”

“I thought it would be better to keep the true nature of his task from him,” said Adema, after waiting a moment to make sure Rubia was finished. “He’s at the age now when it’s easier for him to oppose a thing than to accept it. And he’s clever enough to guess that the quickest way out of this task might be to fail at it. You’ve seen how willful he is, even for one his age.”

“Have I!” said the matron, the color returning to her cheeks. “It’s been quite a while since anyone got my goat the way he did this morning.”

“You see? He has a powerful effect on people.” Master Adema smiled broadly and continued with a jolly air, trying to lighten the mood, “and he was none too pleased with me either, I can tell you, when he got back from your office this morning - I almost reached for my staff when I saw the look in eyes.“

Rubia answered stonily, not a bit amused, “Alright Adema, I’ll give my permission.”

“Thank you, Rubia,” said Adema, his smile vanishing.

“Perhaps all we can do is hope for the best, may the lady deign,” she said, and then bowed her head for a moment as she made a solemn gesture in the air.

“Its ironic really.” said Adema, a grin returning to his face.

“How so?”

“I’ve known this boy for most of his life, ever since he first came here as an orphan. Now, all the young boys love the martial arts at first, but over time most of them find other interests, even as they continue the training. Not Kurst. Though now nearly a man you can see how he still dreams of becoming a great warrior just as fervently as any six-year-old brandishing a stick at a monster of a tree. If he only knew: tomorrow, as he trudges his way to his hated task, he’ll be on his way to meet a man who might very well be the supreme champion of our age, perhaps greater than any warrior in known history.”

[0xDEADCAFE]

Eep. First, I should say that I do miss stuff; I'm not an English teacher or professional editor by a long shot. As for being technically flawless, I think this is pretty darn close. First of all, quit being so darned modest. Second of all, thanks once again for pointing out my many errors. (Some day I really must learn the secrets of this strange thing you call a "comma.")


“Everything about this thing” doesn’t sound too smooth to me;Agreed. In fact, I noticed that I used "thing" poorly in a few other places too.


The way this is worded, it sounds like the matron pauses for a second while she regrets, and then tries again. Did you want these to be simultaneous?I guess I didn't intend exactly that. I could reword this without the "and."


The last part of this sentence needs another look. What did his “strong arms and legs” give him? An effortless command of his body. Yes, it is awkward, and I'll revisit.


You might want to drop a few more descriptions of the boy into this first chapter. Actually, now that you mention it, I think I want to leave the description vague, perhaps even more than it already is. For example, when I reread "tall, mannish boy" I realized that I don't picture the boy as tall, so I plan to take that word out. "Mannish" is suitably vague so I'll leave that. I think what I want to do is define the boy by his words and actions and leave his general physical characteristics to the reader's imagination.


The spoken bit doesn’t sound right on my ear; should that be “Why in heaven did Master Adema choose you for this task!” or am I just missing something?It's an unfinished statement. "Why in heaven Master Adema chose you for this task I'll never know." I probably should have used an elipses instead of an exclamation mark to indicate that she trailed off without finishing her sentiment.


I’d replace “learn” with “gain,” since “learn” can be either positive or negative. Or did you want that ambiguity?I'm not sure that distinction is important to what is being said, but it's a good point. Foor for thought.


“And if I said that he is history in the sense that he won it, changed it, made it, that all that you see around you and all that your fathers for three generations have known and lived is by his doing. What would you say to that, boy?”I like this passage, but it’s a little hard to follow on first glance. You might want to trim it just a tad. Yeah, and it's a particularly important passage I feel. Thanks for the heads-up.


This was a great read, and I’m looking forward to more. Thanks so much, and, fear not, I'll be spicing with commas liberally.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...a rather quiet and serious chapter, with lots of foreshadowing and little hints. You’ve definitely got my attention, what with some of the possible futures you’ve put forth...but I can’t help wondering whether they came a little too quickly. In my opinion, it’s a little dangerous to introduce major hints as to fate, etc. before defining the characters they’re being attributed to. Here, I don’t know if I care enough about Kurst yet to view him particularly favorably or unfavorably, which means that if he doesn’t get more personal elements of him shown soon, I might start thinking of him more as a faceless agent of a prophecy or something. Other than that, this looks good, and I’m looking forward to more! Some comments:

That evening Matron Rubia stayed late in the dining hall with Master Adema, who despite his relative youth for one of that title, was one of the most respected at the monastery.

Minor nitpick: I think you need a comma after “who.”

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory.

“’’Tis true that no one has had much luck with this man. Even Master Oriole, who we used to say could charm the quills off a porcupine, could get nothing out of him for a tenday of trying, and the other masters who took their turns fared no better.”

Erm...who says this bit? From the punctuation, it appears as if Adema says this, but it sounds to me to be better suited to Rubia. If this is Rubia speaking, drop the closing quotes.

“It seemed only logical then, to let some of the more promising apprentices try with him, after all what could it hurt?”

The comma after “him” should be a period or semicolon, and there should be other commas after “after all” and “logical.”

For her part, Rubia had thought of little else since her frustrating interview with the boy that morning, and the disturbing encounter with the strange crow, though it had in no way affected her appetite.

Crows and ravens do belong to the same genus (Covus) but they aren’t synonyms. I’d pick one or the other and stick with it.

“I’ve never seen such case.”

You’re missing an “a” after “such.”

“But this one - Kurst, I believe you said - I wonder if he can write his name much less a coherent paragraph, and as for history, I suspect he’d use one of the old books as a bludgeon before it actually occurred to him to open it!”

I’d try to come up with something more specific than “a coherent paragraph”; you could convey a hint more about the monastery here with a good example. Also, you need a comma after “name.”

“Surley not, Adema.“

Surely you mean “surely.”

“Though his mind may not made for history and writing, as you say, it’s as keen as a diamond in the heat of battle.”

I think you need a “be” after “may not.”

“Its fear riding the back of ignorance, a charlatan’s tale sold for warm ale, a child delighting in an innocent vision of terror.”

“Its ironic really.” said Adema, a grin returning to his face.

I think you need “it’s,” not “its.”

“Trust me Rubia. Give this boy a chance.”

You need a comma after “me.”

“I almost reached for my staff when I saw the look in eyes.“

That should be “the look in his eyes.”

Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Here, I don’t know if I care enough about Kurst yet to view him particularly favorably or unfavorably, which means that if he doesn’t get more personal elements of him shown soon, I might start thinking of him more as a faceless agent of a prophecy or something. Yup, I got the same feeling as I was writing it. As a matter of fact I cut short and then removed another vein in the conversation for exactly this reason, and I might consider shortening chapter 2 even more. It was originally a brief interlude, but on revision I got a little carried away with the conversation... The next chapter will deal quite closely with the boy; hopefully it won't be too late.

“Think once, think twice, said the eldest of the mice,” said Rubia, wagging a husky dinner roll at the young master. She then took a substantial bite of the crusty loaf, and began chewing her way to a rough oratory. Just curious, did you have a comment about this line?


Erm...who says this bit? I'll attribute it.


The comma after “him” should be a period or semicolon, and there should be other commas after “after all” and “logical.” I opted for a dash - it seems like an aside - but dutifully applied the commas.


Crows and ravens do belong to the same genus (Covus) but they aren’t synonyms. I thought they were. Thanks for pointing this out. After doing a little research, I'm definitely making it a raven.


I’d try to come up with something more specific than “a coherent paragraph”; you could convey a hint more about the monastery here with a good example. Also, you need a comma after “name.” I'm not sure I follow you. She is saying that she does not expect him to be able to write well. Maybe "coherent paragraph" is a not the best choice, but what do you mean about conveying more about the monastery.


Surely you mean “surely.”Surely. (And stop calling me Shirley!)


As for what I didn't comment on: corrections have been made. Thanks a bundle, and for what it's worth, no one bears the crest of "anal" like the Knight. :D

[RevenantsKnight]

Just curious, did you have a comment about this line?

Whoops...I didn't; I guess that just didn't get deleted from the post.

Maybe "coherent paragraph" is a not the best choice, but what do you mean about conveying more about the monastery.

I suppose this depends on how much you want to show about the monastery. For instance, if this is the Rogue monastery, you could say "...much less than a prayer to the Sightless Eye," or that sort of thing. But then, you might have a reason to leave the affiliation of this establishment unclear.

Thanks a bundle, and for what it's worth, no one bears the crest of "anal" like the Knight.

Heh...no problem, and thanks, though an azure bend and a sable heart on an argent field definitely doesn't mean "anal." :D

[Clarke667]

Heh...no problem, and thanks, though an azure bend and a sable heart on an argent field definitely doesn't mean "anal."

This is correct. Traditionally, the crest for anal has a bottle of Jack Daniels on it, and a picture of a man pleading with his girlfriend to try something "new".

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 3: Kurst

The next morning found Kurst up before dawn. For most of the previous day, and long into the night, he had fought the idea of having to nursemaid the old man. In the end he had made no peace with it, but bitterly resolved not to let it interfere with his training, at least not more than he could help. Above all, he was determined not to let the task affect his performance in his upcoming trial with spear.

He needed to be in the old man’s room at first light, so out he went onto the muddy grounds of the practice field in the cold and damp twilight before sunrise. He had no spear to practice with, but from months of practice under the watchful eyes of the masters, he knew well the feel of one: how it affected his balance, how it constrained his movements. He new the length of it almost to the point of feeling; with a real spear he could reach out and touch an opponent’s jerkin as lightly as brushing it with his fingertips.

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck. To him there was no difference between the spear and his own arms, and even without a spear he could imagine his arms and body extended and elongated like a spear, feel the weight, the way it resisted the touch of his hands. With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

The routine he had chosen today was his favorite. Though not long it was one of the more strenuous. It consisted of a series of robust fighting moves designed to take on a series of adversaries attacking from all sides, coming in quick succession. In his mind he could see, too, these adversaries, their weapons, their armor, in places, even the expressions on their faces as he defeated each one.

Parry, spin, thrust, recover. Another now from behind. Step to the left, crossing right foot behind left, bending at the knee to lower the center, maintain your balance as you lunge now toward what was a moment ago your rear. Recover forward, avoiding another attacker from behind, what was the front, spin, retreat, no, feint retreat, fleche, recover, and on.

It was not work, this martial dance with invisible partners; for Kurst it was play. He smiled in spite of the tight set of his jaw, the concentration writ deep across his face, and though he sweated, it energized him; though his muscles burned, it was bliss, his bliss, his own special candy, and like a kid in a candy shop he frolicked without worry, and not heeding the time.

Soon the light peeked over the eastern hills, but it did not rouse the boy to his morning duty. Lost in his inner dreamscape he saw only the light of his beaming masters, smiling at him, and nodding their approval. His closed eyes did not notice the brightening sky, nor did his body, heated from his physical exertion, feel the warmth of the morning sun as it burst over the horizon.

“Not the place for you lad,” came a voice from behind him. “Not this morning.”

Surprised, but not startled by the familiar voice, Kurst turned to face the newcomer. His eyes remained closed and his stance maintained its wariness. So strong was the flow of the practice routine in his mind that he still clung to it, though not rigidly. Reacting to the unexpected presence at his rear he instinctively borrowed a phrase from another part of the routine, adapting it to the situation which just presented itself. He advanced upon the voice, preparing for a thrust…

“Halt!” the voice commanded.

Automatically his body froze and slowly his curtain of concentration began to lift. The voice spoke to him again.

“A spear, have you?”

In a moment he felt a hand press on his arm…

“Turn your shoulders”.

…then the hand was on his back...

“Stand up.”

…and he felt a light kick behind his front foot.

“Open your stance.”

Now recognizing the voice as that of Master Adema, he yielded to it as he had done so many times, taking part in the ritual of master and student. In his mind he pictured Adema slowly circling him, stopping at points to correct his posture, adjusting the position of his arms and legs, aligning his hands and feet. He could hear Adema intoning the words of the practice ritual.

“The spear is long and heavy. You must make your body long and like the spear itself. Only through leverage will your arms have the strength to master it.”

In his mind Kurst saw himself the great warrior: spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess. With each touch of the master’s hand, he felt his stance improving, as if drops of grace were falling upon him, each one adding to the crystalline perfection of the ultimate warrior form.

“Align your feet to the shaft of the spear. Grip it lightly. Spread your hands along it as a hawk spreads its wings; it will fly straight and deadly.”

The words of his master washed over him like a warm bath, and in his mind his perfect form began to shine with a faint, golden light.

“Yet, I suspect it would please Matron Rubia more if you would fly to your task as well as you heft your weapon.”

The words “Matron Rubia” splashed against his brain like a cold wave, and in their wake the image of the figure in gold began fade. It was all but gone by the time he heard the word “task” which, piercing the last fog of his inner landscape like a perfect spear thrust, finally roused him to full awareness.

What followed was a transformation of the boy’s physical character so remarkable that Master Adama never forgot it, and in the years to come he would relate the tale many times to the delight of his friends and colleagues:

“At the sound of the matron’s name his eyes popped wide open. Bulging, they were - like a bullfrog’s bellows - for a moment I thought they were about to say ribbit! and leap right off his face! Then his mouth dropped wide open and started to make a sound, a long and mournful moan, like a lost cub: ohhhhh... He started waving his arms up and down like a frightened chicken, slapping himself with both hands on the temples - loud slaps they were - and each time they landed he yelled ack. Ack, ack, ack! Well, after a while – I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he tore off in the direction of the monastery like a scared puppy.”

But for all this strange behavior the boy did not quite forget himself. After just a few steps, he stopped and, remembering his master, turned and bowed quickly, muttered “By your leave, master,” and then, at the Adema’s nod, turned and raced off.

Between the practice field and the entrance to the matron’s wing was a grassy lawn glistening in the early morning sun with the dewdrops from the previous evening. In his haste he heeded neither the wet grass, nor the mud and shallow puddles that lay in his path. Neither did he notice Matron Rubia, who was standing near the bottom of the wide stone stairs that led to her offices, the infirmary, and the guest rooms.

“Late!” she bellowed as he sped past her. Hearing the matron’s voice, and now spying her just to his right, he attempted an immediate stop. Unfortunately, he was in mid-air at that moment, having just leapt from the lawn, intending to alight upon the third stair up from the ground, and as his foot, lawn-covered in slimy mud, came down on the smooth stone stairs, also wet from the night before, stopping was not quite possible.

“Matron Rubiaaaaagh!” He said as his foot slid most of the way across of the width of the stairs. Although he somehow managed, with a deft display of bobbing and weaving, to avoid falling down, he came too close to the low stone wall at the edge of the stairs, and, with his final bob, cracked his head sharply on the top of the wall.

“Ow!” he yelled, and sank down on that third step, taking a seat at the base of the wall, cradling his head in his arms. And though not another sound crossed his lips, his head was filled with a chorus of lively words he would be saying, if not for the presence of the imposing matron.

Rubia was quite annoyed, of course, but at the sight of the boy’s tragic-yet-comical accident she found herself stifling a giggle. Gathering herself quickly, she walked over to Kurst and lifted his hands from the spot where his head had encountered the stone wall. There was blood underneath, which she rubbed roughly with her thumb.

“Hey!” Kurst cried. "That hurts!”

“I’m sure it does” said the matron sternly. “It’s a nasty crack, but I think you’ll live. And I’m sure that such a strong, young warrior as yourself will not let such a minor injury keep you from your duties, hmmm?”

Kurst was actually stung by the matron’s apparent lack of compassion, but, being too proud to protest further, he rose slowly and started back up the stairs.

“Completely forgotten haven’t we?” said the matron.

“What!” the boy almost snarled now, at the very brink of losing his self-control.

The matron held up her hand; it was holding a writing tablet and a pen. Kurst climbed down and took it roughly from her, then turned back and began trotting up the stairs.

“You’ll find ink in the supply room. Don’t forget, you address him as Master Slayer, and what he says, you write!”

“What he says, write,’ Kurst mimicked quietly to himself. And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

[Clarke667]

Hi. And with that out of the way…

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck.

Could be just me, but I find “a lunge, a thrust” jags on the old ear. I’d prefer “a lunge and a thrust”.

To him there was no difference between the spear and his own arms, and even without a spear he could imagine his arms and body extended and elongated like a spear, feel the weight, the way it resisted the touch of his hands. With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

I like this bit, mainly because you flirt with the cliché of a weapon being an extension of one’s arm, then add a few flourishes to it and freshen it up a bit (I especially liked the ‘even without a spear, he could imagine’ part).

In his mind he could see, too, these adversaries, their weapons, their armor, in places, even the expressions on their faces as he defeated each one.

A common hallucination used in films when a character is experiencing drug-induced psychosis is to have the character believe his skin is crawling with spiders. Now, replace spiders with commas. Which is my snarky way of saying that there seems to be a few too many commas here. The sentence reads like an Olympic sprinter with his leg stuck in the starting-platform.

I find this especially irritating because the paragraph which follows has a wicked stream-o-consciousness vibe to it, purposely erratic and what not, so what comes before it sort of lessens the impact (for me, at least).

spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess.

Nice. Liked the alliteration. Though could I suggest “spear in hand and proud of bearing, hard are granite, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess”? Not exactly sure why, but that seems to flow better. And of course, you could change granite to something else suitably hard (or abandon my advice completely and make fun of me behind my back).

Bulging, they were - like a bullfrog’s bellows –

I’m guessing you meant ‘bellows’ as a noun, meaning: “An apparatus for producing a strong current of air”. Still it gave me pause, because ‘bellows’ is usually associated with the verb-tense, so I got a strange mental picture of his eyes bulging and, well, bellowing, which would be a weird thing for eyes to do. Also, three-ish paragraphs later…

“Late!” she bellowed

Was that intentional?

Kurst was actually stung by the matron’s apparent lack of compassion, but, being too proud to protest further, he rose slowly and started back up the stairs.

Characterization! You smooth devil, you.

And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

I formally request the next chapter post-haste. I’m getting antsy to meet this Master Slayer fellow.

So in closing: if you haven’t guessed, I’m digging this story. It’s looking like it might turn out to be Tuesdays with Morrie on acid, and that simply cannot be a bad thing. Keep givin’r, 0xDeadCafe, and I hope my scribblings here are of some meagre help.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 4: Graves

By the time Kurst stood outside the room of the one named for the treasures of cemeteries, he felt himself almost in need of one of those deep, restful cabinets. He was tired and out of breath, and his head still throbbed. His bare feet were cold and wet, and the long run up the stone stairs had left them bruised and throbbing. His stomach grumbled, missing breakfast, and his muscles, pushed through a strenuous workout with no food to replenish them, felt weak and unsteady.

He nudged the door open, just enough to give him a view of the room and its occupant. He was relieved to see the man lying flat on the bed, apparently still sleeping. He knew he was very late and had no desire for another scolding.

He entered the room and moved quietly toward a chair placed by the window, in his pitiable state, hobbling more than walking. He barely glanced at the bed, but his first impression of Graves was that he was a truly ancient man. The old man’s skin was deathly pale, and beneath it there seemed to be nothing but bone. He did not appear to be breathing, and in all aspects appeared to be dead rather than merely sleeping.

The bed was located in the center of the room, with several feet spacing it from each of the four walls. It was positioned so that the tall headboard was toward the east, toward the window in front of which Kurst now sat, shading the old man from the morning sun.

Upon reaching the chair the boy promptly forgot all about his charge. He laid his writing materials on the stone floor and began tending to his wounds. For some minutes he sat slumped in the chair, alternately feeling the bump on his head and rubbing his feet, breathing deeply. At last he closed his eyes, thinking he might rest a little before the old man awoke, but Graves spoke before he slept.

“You are late.”

The boy jerked upright at the sound of the old man’s voice. It was not at all what he had expected from the decrepit prone figure: a clear and steady basso, the words carried by a low and broad intonation that, despite the distance separating him and Graves, sounded as if they were spoken right into his ear.

“No need to get up,” Graves said. “Let me have a look at you.”

Kurst stood up, thinking he would need to walk around to the side of the bed where the old man could see him.

“I SAID STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” The old man’s voice boomed and Kurst froze.

He could not see Graves from where he stood, and it was equally clear to him that Graves could not possibly see him either.

“But, you said you wanted to take a look at me,” said Kurst.

“Yes,” replied Graves, and for long moments afterward he said, and seemed to do, nothing else.

Kurst began to think that, despite the old man’s surprisingly robust and strong voice, it was as he had originally suspected: the old codger was crazy as a loon.

“But, sir, you can’t see me.”

“No?” Graves asked with amusement.

The boy had heard it said that the masters, as they got older, grew eyes on the back of their head. He was pretty sure that was just an expression, but, even if Graves did posses such freakish oculi, the headboard still made it impossible for Graves to see him. “Crazy as a loon,” he thought, and sat back down in the chair.

“You are a quite a change from the others,” said Graves. “How old are you? Seventeen, perhaps?”

“Almost eighteen,” Kurst said, thinking this correction on the matter of his age quite important. “How do you know how old I am?”

“And how did you cut yourself, young seventeen-almost-eighteen-year-old not-yet-a-man?”

“How do you know I…”

Kurst started the question but trailed off as he looked about the room for mirrors or some other device that would give the old man a view of where he sat - but he saw none. He leaned forward and peered closely at the back of the headboard for a sign of some crack or hole - but there were none.

So, as quietly as he could, he crept around the side of the headboard, thinking to catch the old man at whatever game he played, but as he turned the corner of the bed he saw Graves lying there exactly the same as when he entered the room: flat on his back, no pillow, his face pointed directly up at the ceiling, eyes closed.

“What do you think of me?” questioned the old man.

Kurst jumped back. He had hoped to steal a look at the man without his knowing it, and had, himself, been taken completely by surprise. “How is he doing it? “he thought, “His eyes aren’t even open.”

“Can you see me?” said Kurst, his query more of a demand than a question.

“Yes.”

“But your eyes are closed, and even if they weren’t you couldn’t see me from there.”

“There are many ways of seeing. Do I not have ears? Do you think that your bare feet go so quietly over the stone floor that I cannot hear them?”

“And how did you know I was bleeding, did you hear that too?”

“No. But I have a nose as well as ears, though I scarcely have need of one to detect a stench such as yours.”

The boy was suddenly aware of his sweaty clothing, and of the mud and grime that covered his feet and the bottoms of his pant legs. It occurred to him that he was not properly attired for duty in the monastery, but it did not stop him from taking offense at the insult.

“And I suppose you can smell blood, old man?”

“Of course.”

Again Kurst was taken by surprise. “Smell blood?” he thought doubtfully. He stared hard at the man, trying to see him better. After a moment Graves broke the silence again.

“But I doubt you were instructed to address me as Old Man.”

“No. As Slayer Graves - though I don’t know why.”

“And does the boy who-does-not-know-why have a name?”

Kurst wanted to say, “What, can’t you smell that too?” but instead just hissed his name.

The old man chuckled. “Of course you are,” and the sound of his laughter crawled inside Kurst’s head like a parade of bony spiders. Kurst backed away, bumping the wall with his back, his face a blank sheet of fear and disbelief.

“Well, Kurst, I would name you boy-who-arrives-late, and student-who-is-unprepared, and youth-of-little-respect. In all of these things you are foolish, and in your low expectations of me you are rash and equally foolish. Let me tell you what I can see without the use of my eyes.

“You have the smell of the outdoors, of sweat and moist earth. I can hear that you are barefoot, and you breathed heavily when you first entered the room. From your insolence and the spite I hear in your voice, I conclude that you are a fighter by instinct, though your proud speech betokens a view of yourself that is somewhat more than that.

“You were up early this morning, yet you were late to your duty. You rose early to exercise out of doors, though I doubt you were compelled to do so. Dedication to training in a youth belies a great dream, a dream perhaps to be a great warrior? But does not a warrior need a mind as sharp as his sword? Does he not need to keep his wits about him at all times? You did not! And so you were late.

“I heard you place a writing tablet and pen on the floor, yet I smell no ink, which all the others fairly reeked of. What would you do with this pen with no ink? And yet I suspect you would have little use for it if you had it. You are as unconcerned with writing as you are with proper address and behavior.”

When Graves finished speaking he again lay still on the bed without any trace of movement. After Kurst had taken several shallow breaths, Graves spoke again, but in a different voice. It sounded tired and weak, much as Kurst had originally expected.

“You may go and properly prepare yourself. I have no need for you now. Return in one hour with food.”

Kurst stood for a while staring at the now silent man. Before leaving the room he studied Graves face and chest closely. He saw no sign of breathing, nor any movement that would distinguish his repose as sleep from death.

(continued in next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(continued from previous post)


* * *

Before the hour had passed Kurst was back at Graves’ door. It had been a busy hour. His feet were washed and no longer bare. He was wearing clean pants and a tunic, and the gash on his head had been cleaned and dressed. He carried a tray containing a small piece of cooked meat, a slice of bread, and a bowl of warm soup. On the side of the bowl was a knife and spoon and at the edge of the tray, away from the food, a freshly filled bottle of ink.

The door was not latched so he had no trouble entering the room with both of his hands occupied by the tray. He leaned into the door and pushed it open, stepping backwards into the room, watching the soup bobbing about the edges of the bowl, being careful not to spill.

Upon entering the room, he stood for a while without turning, still facing the hall, listening. In his mind he pictured the old man lying on the bed breathing slowly and evenly. But there was no sound of respiration to be heard.

He closed his eyes and opened wide his ears. He heard sounds from the window: birds, the wind, and echoes through the open doorway: voices, the scrape of feet on stone floors, but nothing from within the room, as soundless as a crypt.

Finally he turned and looked toward the bed in which the old man lay just as he had left him. “Is he sleeping?” the boy wondered. He crept quietly into the room and noticed for the first time a large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. It was not a common feature of these rooms, and he guessed that it must belong to Graves.

Kurst walked over to the bed and looked and down at Graves’ face. He hesitated to speak, not knowing if Graves was asleep, and, if he was, if he should wake him. The old man’s face was thinner than any face he had ever seen, and as pale as a winter sky. Yet there was a fine quality to the features, an almost ghostly elegance, as if his skin were a silky veil draped over the skull of an ancient king.

Kurst was sure he had seen faces in coffins that looked more alive.

When the old man awoke, if he had been sleeping at all, his eyelids swung slowly open like heavy doors on creaking hinges, and Kurst could feel the eyes, as pale as the stale skin around them, stare straight through him.

The eyes were motionless, as if frozen in place, and the boy wondered how long they had been that way. Had they been staring at him the whole time, peering through the pallid eyelids as easily as they now seemed to look through his own face and head?

To Kurst it seemed that the old man’s eyes were focused on something high above and far beyond him. He found it hard to meet their unnatural gaze and dropped his eyes to the look at the tray in his hands.

“Where am I?” said Graves, his voice barely a whisper.

“Where are you?” said the boy, looking up again, “At the monastery.”

“The monastery…”

Graves closed his eyes and for a few moments he seemed to be experiencing pain around his forehead and eyes.

“…where it all began.”

When Graves opened his eyes again they were looking directly above him, staring restfully at the gloom of the high ceiling.

Relieved of the old man’s baleful stare, Kurst lifted the tray slightly, wondering if the old man had noticed it and wishing he would ask for it. He expected to have to help the old man sit up, maybe even feed him, and never having done these things before he was anxious to get started, and even more eager to be done with it. He felt a bit nervous, but energetic, as if he were awaiting a tournament bout.

Finally the old man spoke, still in a hoarse whisper, and with the aspect of talking to himself.

“Food. I’ll need to sit up.”

At this cue Kurst began to survey the room. Graves lay in the center of the large bed. Between his head and the headboard was a pile of pillows mounded in a gentle wedge. The boy decided he would have to kneel on the bed near the old man’s chest to lift him up into a sitting position and then drag him toward the headboard to where he could lean against the pillows. But first he needed to set down the tray.

The large chest at the foot of the bed seemed like a good place for it. So, turning away from the man, he walked over to the chest and laid the tray down gently, not spilling the soup or jostling the bottle of ink. He was proud of himself for managing the tray so deftly and imagined the matron nodding approvingly at him for being so careful and responsible.

What he saw when he turned back towards the old man stopped him dead in his tracks. The old man was already sitting upright, hands folded, and leaning against the pillows just as the boy had pictured it a moment before. He would have been less surprised if he had seen a dead man get up and walk. Stunned and open-mouthed, he stood staring at the old man in utter disbelief.

“How did you do that?” he stammered. “I didn’t…You couldn’t…”

“You said there was food,” said the old man calmly.

Kurst’s mind raced as he turned back for the tray. How could the old man have moved without him noticing? No sound, no rustle of sheets, no bounce in the mattress. It was impossible, he thought.

He brought the tray to the side of the bed and stood, again waiting for some hint from the old man to tell him what to do. When Graves did not move he decided he was expected to feed him. Sitting down on the bed and putting the tray very gently in the old man’s lap he picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup.

“I can feed myself,” said the old man weakly.

The boy looked up from the tray and turned his head to see the old man looking at him. The eyes were different now, still glassy and unfocused, but warmer, the eyes of a very old man to be sure, but definitely of a man still breathing. He was not as uncomfortable as before meeting the old man’s gaze.

”But, it would be easier if you would help me.”

So the boy did. And though he had never fed or nursed anyone before he took to it quite naturally. With care and patience he lifted spoonfuls of the broth up to Graves’ barely open mouth, where the fluid slowly disappeared without a sound, drawn between the unmoving lips without a slurp or a smack.

Graves spoke little during the meal, but whatever words came from the ancient mouth were gracious and reassuring. When it was done he thanked Kurst and told him he could leave until the evening when he should return with a cup of tea and some sweet bread.

Kurst took the tray, left the room, and started the long walk from the corner tower back to the kitchen and then out onto to the training field where he planned to rejoin the other novices. As he went he thought about how very strange this first morning of his new task had been. And what seemed strangest of all was that during his meal the old man looked and behaved just as one would expect of a very old and weak man.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...you do indeed get around to working up the character of Kurst...helps, definitely. Hopefully, this’ll be enough for a starter when the story starts hitting the prophecy. In general, this was good, and I like the interactions between Kurst and Adema in particular. Anyway, some comments:

Above all, he was determined not to let the task affect his performance in his upcoming trial with spear.

“Trial with spear” just sounds odd to me, for some reason. However, I can’t really explain why...

He new the length of it almost to the point of feeling; with a real spear he could reach out and touch an opponent’s jerkin as lightly as brushing it with his fingertips.

That should be “knew.” Also, “to the point of feeling” sounds nice but not really parallel to me, and I’d write “as lightly...” as “as lightly as if he’d brushed it with his fingertips.” Again, I’m not really sure if there’s a real reason behind these suggestions; it’s more that they don’t feel as clean to me as they could be.

Or, with a lunge, a thrust, he could knock you down before you knew you were struck.

The lunge/thrust thing sounds OK to me, but I’m not sure if you want to use the direct address (you) in the narration.

With his eyes closed he could almost see a spear in his hands.

I like this... :)

Though not long it was one of the more strenuous.

Methinks you need a comma after “long.”

It consisted of a series of robust fighting moves designed to take on a series of adversaries attacking from all sides, coming in quick succession.

This sounded overly technical to me, though maybe it needs to be that way...anyway, I’d try to shift the tone into something a little more medieval-storyteller, if you know what I mean. Maybe something like “Developed by a nameless monk of the monastery, this exercise was the base for any warrior’s technique, as mastering it offered the ability to strike down adversaries attacking from all sides.”

Step to the left, crossing right foot behind left, bending at the knee to lower the center, maintain your balance as you lunge now toward what was a moment ago your rear.

Again, I’d see if you can’t drop the uses of “you” here.

He smiled in spite of the tight set of his jaw, the concentration writ deep across his face, and though he sweated, it energized him; though his muscles burned, it was bliss, his bliss, his own special candy, and like a kid in a candy shop he frolicked without worry, and not heeding the time.

Nice image. I know the feeling...

“Not the place for you lad,” came a voice from behind him.

I believe you need a comma after “you.”

Reacting to the unexpected presence at his rear he instinctively borrowed a phrase from another part of the routine, adapting it to the situation which just presented itself.

I get what you’re saying with “phrase,” but it sounds a little too...passive for a combat technique.

In his mind Kurst saw himself the great warrior: spear in hand, proud of bearing, hard as a statue, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess.

Should that be “...saw himself as a great warrior...”? Also, the alliteration there’s a little much, in my opinion.

With each touch of the master’s hand, he felt his stance improving, as if drops of grace were falling upon him, each one adding to the crystalline perfection of the ultimate warrior form.

Wow...wonderful image with the “drops of grace.”

“At the sound of the matron’s name his eyes popped wide open...Well, after a while – I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he tore off in the direction of the monastery like a scared puppy.”

Heh...excellent. I could definitely hear this in my head.

Neither did he notice Matron Rubia, who was standing near the bottom of the wide stone stairs that led to her offices, the infirmary, and the guest rooms.

Hrm...I’d say that should be “nor,” not “neither,” though I could be wrong.

Unfortunately, he was in mid-air at that moment, having just leapt from the lawn, intending to alight upon the third stair up from the ground, and as his foot, lawn-covered in slimy mud, came down on the smooth stone stairs, also wet from the night before, stopping was not quite possible.

This sounded a little too familiar for the tone; though you do work with a fair amount of humor and lightheartedness, this particular example didn’t go over as well as the others. Also, “lawn-covered” sounded weird to me.

“Matron Rubiaaaaagh!” He said as his foot slid most of the way across of the width of the stairs.

I don’t think you need to capitalize the “he” there; it seems like it’d be best as one sentence.

And though not another sound crossed his lips, his head was filled with a chorus of lively words he would be saying, if not for the presence of the imposing matron.

And here’s a place where the humor works much better...:D

“Completely forgotten haven’t we?” said the matron.

I think you need a comma after “forgotten.”

And then, after a final, longing look back at the field, turned to his duty.

From a grammatical standpoint, you need “he” before “turned.”

Yet again, another enjoyable read. I'm looking forward to more...oh, wait, it's already up. Yay! :) Thanks for posting!

[Troodon]

An interesting story, but I have one problem with the syntax: it is hard to read characters' thoughts when they are in quotes like their speech - I have to go back and check whether they were thinking it or saying it out-loud. Perhaps it would be better to italicise thoughts instead of putting them in quotes?

[0xDEADCAFE]

An interesting story, but I have one problem with the syntax: it is hard to read characters' thoughts when they are in quotes like their speech - I have to go back and check whether they were thinking it or saying it out-loud. Perhaps it would be better to italicise thoughts instead of putting them in quotes?You're not the first one to lodge that particular complaint. I've been trying to get away from using italics, but I could try dropping the quotes and depend on attribution like "he thought" to do the job. Does anyone know if there is a standard method for indicating thought?

Glad you found it interesting, and thanks for your thoughts. (pun intended.) ;)

[Clarke667]

Does anyone know if there is a standard method for indicating thought?

I believe both italics and 'he thought' attribution are the standard; in my reading, I've seen equal mesures of each. Personally, though, I like italics--I find it lessens confusion. The author James Clavelle is (was, rather, the poor dead fellow) a big fan of the non-italics 'he thought, she thought' attribution, and although I love his work, there were great whacks of say Shogun or Tai-pan where I was left wondering if a character was thinking, or if it was narration.

The only problem I can see arising from thought-italics is if you already tend to use italics to emphasize your narrative; you know, something like: 'And then the policeman informed him that the calls where coming from inside the house!' (Yeah, okay, that was cheesy. But I think you get my drift.)

Anyways, hope that helps.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Could be just me, but I find “a lunge, a thrust” jags on the old ear. I’d prefer “a lunge and a thrust”.I can hear your point but I wouldn't want to give the impression that the two were separate actions. Maybe: "a lunge-and-thrust."


I like this bit, mainly because you flirt with the cliché of a weapon being an extension of one’s arm, then add a few flourishes to it and freshen it up a bit (I especially liked the ‘even without a spear, he could imagine’ part).Thanks. I had the same feeling when I was writing it. Glad you liked it.


A common hallucination used in films when a character is experiencing drug-induced psychosis is to have the character believe his skin is crawling with spiders. Now, replace spiders with commas. Which is my snarky way of saying that there seems to be a few too many commas here. The sentence reads like an Olympic sprinter with his leg stuck in the starting-platform. Like my nightmares of drowning in a writhing pool of wriggling comma-worms. I'lll never get those little devils right... But I can probably re-arrange some of this, to reduce the punctuational tonnage.


Nice. Liked the alliteration. Though could I suggest “spear in hand and proud of bearing, hard are granite, a fearsome form of fierce fighting prowess”? Not exactly sure why, but that seems to flow better. And of course, you could change granite to something else suitably hard (or abandon my advice completely and make fun of me behind my back).
I had "granite" in this sentence at one point. I think your version does actually sound better, and I was not completely satisfied with this sentence either at the time I wrote. Another revision is probably in order.


I’m guessing you meant ‘bellows’ as a noun, meaning: “An apparatus for producing a strong current of air”. Still it gave me pause, because ‘bellows’ is usually associated with the verb-tense, so I got a strange mental picture of his eyes bulging and, well, bellowing, which would be a weird thing for eyes to do. Also, three-ish paragraphs later… Was that intentional?No, although I kind of like the idea of making fun of Rubia that way. I'll try to find another word for the frog.


Characterization! You smooth devil, you.I normally try to avoid it, but the chapter is entitled "Kurst" after all.


So in closing: if you haven’t guessed, I’m digging this story. It’s looking like it might turn out to be Tuesdays with Morrie on acid, and that simply cannot be a bad thing. That's a little bit scary, especially since I have read that book. All art is imitation so could it be that, I'm somehow..., nope, not going there, (is that a flashback I feel coming on?).


Keep givin’r, 0xDeadCafe, and I hope my scribblings here are of some meagre help.It's all good Clark-Numbers, anything I don't like I'll just blame on the drugs. :lol:

[0xDEADCAFE]

The lunge/thrust thing sounds OK to me, but I’m not sure if you want to use the direct address (you) in the narration.Thanks for that, I don't think I do.


This sounded overly technical to me, though maybe it needs to be that way...anyway, I’d try to shift the tone into something a little more medieval-storyteller, if you know what I mean. Maybe something like “Developed by a nameless monk of the monastery, this exercise was the base for any warrior’s technique, as mastering it offered the ability to strike down adversaries attacking from all sides.”I can see what you mean. I probably could soften it a bit.


I get what you’re saying with “phrase,” but it sounds a little too...passive for a combat technique.It does, now that you mention it, but I still kind of like it.


Should that be “...saw himself as a great warrior...” ?I think the "the" works. Use of "the" makes it a little more specific; not just any great warrior, but the paradigm of all great warriors, in a figurative way. At least that's my intention.


Also, the alliteration there’s a little much, in my opinion.Well, that's one vote for and one against, which reflects my own internal polling. I like the alliteration too, but maybe this isn't the best place for it.


Hrm...I’d say that should be “nor,” not “neither,” though I could be wrong.I had just used a "neither-nor" in the previous sentence, so I balked at another "nor", but I think you are right.


This sounded a little too familiar for the tone; though you do work with a fair amount of humor and lightheartedness, this particular example didn’t go over as well as the others. Also, “lawn-covered” sounded weird to me.It want it to be humorous. Maybe the answer is too emphasize the humor more. As for "lawn-covered" - it got in on a whim, but I do kind of like it.


From a grammatical standpoint, you need “he” before “turned.”I think that would diminish the sharpness of it somehow. I think I can fix it by putting a comma before "And", and making it all one sentence. Then "Kurst" would be the noun and I wouldn't need the "he."


Thanks as always, Rev, good stuff.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...I’d expected either one view of Graves or the other, so it was quite attention-grabbing when I saw both...wait, why am I surprised? This is by 0xDEADCAFE, after all...

The voices in my head aside, I found this rather interesting. I think the aformentioned duality is well done and definitely worth pursuing. And, as for the rest of it, you can probably guess what I’d say by now (hint: they’re good things). Anyway, some specific comments:

By the time Kurst stood outside the room of the one named for the treasures of cemeteries, he felt himself almost in need of one of those deep, restful cabinets.

Minor nitpick: calling the graves themselves the “treasures of cemeteries” sounds a little odd; I’d personally use that term for those within them. If you want to adjust this (which is not necessary,) then I’d change it to “treasure vaults” or something. The image is very nice, though.

He nudged the door open, just enough to give him a view of the room and its occupant. He was relieved to see the man lying flat on the bed, apparently still sleeping. He knew he was very late and had no desire for another scolding.

Both here and in the following paragraph, you use an awful lot of sentences with the structure “He [verb].” I’d suggest varying it a little.

He entered the room and moved quietly toward a chair placed by the window, in his pitiable state, hobbling more than walking.

I’d move the phrase “in his pitiable state” after “hobbling more than walking,” and if you do that, I don’t think you need a comma to connect them.

At last he closed his eyes, thinking he might rest a little before the old man awoke, but Graves spoke before he slept.

“Before he slept” sounds odd to me, because it implies that he did go to sleep afterwards; perhaps something like “before he could fall asleep” might work better.

“Almost eighteen,” Kurst said, thinking this correction on the matter of his age quite important. “How do you know how old I am?”

You know, I would have put him at maybe fourteen, from what I got out of your previous descriptions. He seems a little too immature for this age.

“How is he doing it? “he thought, “His eyes aren’t even open.”

You’re missing a space after the first closing quotation marks.

The old man chuckled. “Of course you are,” and the sound of his laughter crawled inside Kurst’s head like a parade of bony spiders.

Whoo-ee...creepy. Might explain the high turnover rate on his attendants...anyway, nicely done with Graves’s character. Reminds me a little of an extra-freaky version of Sherlock Holmes, what with the next couple of paragraphs and the silent spells.

When Graves finished speaking he again lay still on the bed without any trace of movement.

I think you need a comma after “speaking.”

Before the hour had passed Kurst was back at Graves’ door. It had been a busy hour.

I’d change the second use of “hour” to something else to avoid sounding slightly contradictory.

The door was not latched so he had no trouble entering the room with both of his hands occupied by the tray.

Technically, I think you need a comma after “latched,” though it’s not like leaving this unchanged would make much of a difference.

Finally he turned and looked toward the bed in which the old man lay just as he had left him.

Another “if you want to” comma suggestion: you could put one after “bed.”

He found it hard to meet their unnatural gaze and dropped his eyes to the look at the tray in his hands.

I’d remove “the look at” here because it sounds rather awkward.

Graves closed his eyes and for a few moments he seemed to be experiencing pain around his forehead and eyes.

Hrm...I’d suggest you describe in a bit more detail why he “seemed to be experiencing pain”; I could think of a number of ways this might appear to be the case.

Relieved of the old man’s baleful stare, Kurst lifted the tray slightly, wondering if the old man had noticed it and wishing he would ask for it.

“Baleful” suggests malice, or at least something evil. I didn’t get that impression from the rest of the description; am I just misreading this, or would something like “intense” work better?

He was proud of himself for managing the tray so deftly and imagined the matron nodding approvingly at him for being so careful and responsible.

Another nice touch on Kurst’s personality...looks like my previous concern was unnecessary.

What he saw when he turned back towards the old man stopped him dead in his tracks. The old man was already sitting upright, hands folded, and leaning against the pillows just as the boy had pictured it a moment before. He would have been less surprised if he had seen a dead man get up and walk. Stunned and open-mouthed, he stood staring at the old man in utter disbelief.

There’s a lot of uses of the phrase “old man” in this chapter; I’d try to replace a few of them.

With care and patience he lifted spoonfuls of the broth up to Graves’ barely open mouth, where the fluid slowly disappeared without a sound, drawn between the unmoving lips without a slurp or a smack.

Since Graves is singular, the possessive is “Graves’s.”

As he went he thought about how very strange this first morning of his new task had been. And what seemed strangest of all was that during his meal the old man looked and behaved just as one would expect of a very old and weak man.

Maybe it’s just me, but I felt like this was a little too quick of a look into Kurst’s thoughts given the situation; it just seemed like you glossed over it a bit. Also, I think you need a comma after “meal.”

Anyway, I’m definitely reading any other chapters you post...Graves is a most interesting character. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think the aformentioned duality is well done and definitely worth pursuing. Glad you liked it. It will be an important theme.


Minor nitpick: calling the graves themselves the “treasures of cemeteries” sounds a little odd; I’d personally use that term for those within them. If you want to adjust this (which is not necessary,) then I’d change it to “treasure vaults” or something. The image is very nice, though. You have quite an ear for subtlety. I think I agree with you here. Maybe "treasure chests of cemeteries." (Although it seems like a mouthful.)


Both here and in the following paragraph, you use an awful lot of sentences with the structure “He [verb].” I’d suggest varying it a little. Thanks for pointing that out. I tend to do that a lot.


I’d move the phrase “in his pitiable state” after “hobbling more than walking,” and if you do that, I don’t think you need a comma to connect them.Believe it or not that's exactly how I had it on the first write. For some reason I thought "walking in his pitiable state" sounded off, so I moved it. I will be moving it back...


“Before he slept” sounds odd to me, because it implies that he did go to sleep afterwards; perhaps something like “before he could fall asleep” might work better.Me too, sort of. It's the sound of it that I like, but it's just not quite accurate.


You know, I would have put him at maybe fourteen, from what I got out of your previous descriptions. He seems a little too immature for this age. That's interesting feedback. Do you actually KNOW any seventeen year-olds?


Whoo-ee...creepy. Might explain the high turnover rate on his attendants...anyway, nicely done with Graves’s character. Reminds me a little of an extra-freaky version of Sherlock Holmes, what with the next couple of paragraphs and the silent spells.Really glad you like that. I intend to return to it often...


I’d change the second use of “hour” to something else to avoid sounding slightly contradictory.Agreed.


I’d remove “the look at” here because it sounds rather awkward.Again, that's how it was originally, and shall be again.



Hrm...I’d suggest you describe in a bit more detail why he “seemed to be experiencing pain”; I could think of a number of ways this might appear to be the case.You know, that's a great idea. I could tie that in with his duality, and really pile on the metaphors. Booya, Rev!


“Baleful” suggests malice, or at least something evil. I didn’t get that impression from the rest of the description; am I just misreading this, or would something like “intense” work better?Good for you; it was not intended that way. I need a good word for disturbingly strange, or frighteningly odd.


There’s a lot of uses of the phrase “old man” in this chapter; I’d try to replace a few of them. I had been trying to sprinkle Graves with old man, but it did seem to come out old man most of the time. Thanks for pointing that out.


Since Graves is singular, the possessive is “Graves’s.”Oh man, I really do not like that; might has well write Gravezezz. Ugh) Can't I get a waiver or something? Come'on Rev, you must know someone. (nudge, nudge...)


Maybe it’s just me, but I felt like this was a little too quick of a look into Kurst’s thoughts given the situation; it just seemed like you glossed over it a bit. Also, I think you need a comma after “meal.”Yep, technically speaking it's a result of the this-chapter-is-way-too-long-i'd-better-wrap-it-up-before-people-quite-reading syndrome. Maybe I'll revisit.


It amazes me how many times I'll read one of your comments and get deja-vu, like, -dong- that's exactly what I thought when I wrote it, but, out of laziness, just kept rolling on. Buckets of horn-rimmed glasses for these comments! :worship:

[RevenantsKnight]

Me too, sort of. It's the sound of it that I like, but it's just not quite accurate.

Hrm. It does sound more...forceful, I guess, and it's not like it significantly disrupts the meaning of the sentence. I'd say either one works on second thought, though of course, the choice is up to you anyway.

That's interesting feedback. Do you actually KNOW any seventeen year-olds?

I know no currently-seventeen-year-olds. They're all eighteen or nineteen now, and they didn't exactly resemble this; they were much more likely to do an assignment well, or at least accept outwardly, though they may have been exceptions to the rule. Either way, phrases like "throw a tantrum" and "like a kid in a candy shop" have a more childish aspect to them than I'd expect from someone who's close to done with puberty. This might also be the trouble with the low level of physical description of Kurst; my default age setting for "boy" or "child" in medieval times is much lower than it is for the same term now.

Good for you; it was not intended that way. I need a good word for disturbingly strange, or frighteningly odd.

Hrm..."eerie"? Or maybe "unnatural"?

Oh man, I really do not like that; might has well write Gravezezz. Ugh)

Well, my comments aren't exactly law to begin with; they're only the (usually) coherent output of an English grammar module embedded somewhere in my cortex. Of course, that's before the anal-retentive module interferes with it.

Anyway, this sort of thing is your choice, since it's quite understandable, and if you don't want to change it, then I can't really make you. And waivers...I'll drop the Harsh and Pompous Writers Guild a line, and see what happens. :D

Buckets of horn-rimmed glasses for these comments!

And buckets of...hrm...well, something nice to you for posting! (...maybe bleach, since those runaway quotation marks from Diablo Con Carne might have guzzled yours.)

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 5: Confrontation

Kurst sat, pen in hand, the writing tablet in his lap, watching and waiting. He had been on time today. Upon entering the room, he had walked past the bed to the window, lifted the chair, carried it from the headboard back to the other side of the bed, and, sliding it back near the wall and tipping it up on the back two legs, sat exactly where he could stare straight-ahead at Graves’ face over the low footboard.

Graves, too, had been on time. Apparently awake when Kurst arrived, he had managed to sit himself up, again unseen and unheard, while the boy performed his rearrangements. It annoyed Kurst, to see him lying flat as a fish on a cutting block one moment and the next sitting upright, his hands together, with that superior look on his face.

But it did not shake his resolve, forged over a long night of heated dreams and cold awakenings. A strange, woeful, specter haunted every hour of his restless sleep. Even now, Kurst found his mind wandering, remember the night, seeing himself waking, again and again, to find himself sweaty-cold, tasting the bitter slime clinging to the furry walls of his mouth like moth-eaten shawls hung in a moldy cellar, and bells, from far-off, echoing in his ears, ringing him to his escape.

Against remembrance, he still saw the image of himself in the night, as if from above: tensely upright on the bed, clutching the covers alone in the dark, seeing only the ominous visions of his mind’s eye in the pitch-black room, and the sightless mirage of an approaching figure, indistinct, darker than darkness, which seemed to descend upon him, calling to him as it neared, challenging him, threatening him, and as he awoke, still upon the lip of the dreamscape, enveloping him.

And always he thought of Graves. Not dreamed of him, but in between the fits of sleep, in his waking, wide-eyed, wondering in the darkness: Graves. This man was much more than he had ever imagined, and his task not at all what he had expected.

By morning, Kurst was of a new mind. He now looked upon his task not as a menial duty, but as a trial, a bout between him and the old man, who was only a man after all, no matter how strange and tricky, just an old, weak, sick man. Kurst had convinced himself that it was a bout like any other, and like any other bout he had ever experienced, he intended to win.

For a while, on this cool overcast morning, the twin occupants of the northeast tower - the lookout from which generations of loyal defenders had kept watch in savage times over the cloistered fields of the vast monastery grounds – just stared at one another: the boy distracted but unflinching, the old man amused and probing.

In the great tradition of dueling warriors, the silence formed their first arena, each of them circling within it, searching for advantage, planning their campaign. Predictably, it was Graves who broke the silence, grinning.

“Tell me boy, what is about me that most frightens you?”

“Hmph. You don’t scare me,” Kurst said quickly, and then, as an afterthought, slowly and with emphasis, he added, “Master Slayer.”

Graves’ onion-skin lips widened to a toothy smile, two rows of pearly white ovals, protruding from receded, gray gums. “Too easy, boy,” he muttered quietly, then more loudly, “Allow me to throw you a bone. Pick something, anything that frightens you – describe it to me.”

“I told you. You don’t scare me.”

“Yes, yes, I heard.” Graves nodded showily, his enjoyment evident on his face. “Come now, don’t be bashful, anything, anything at all. Tell me what frightens you.”

Kurst clenched his jaw and rocked his backward leaning chair forward, bringing it to rest on all four legs with a thud. “A warrior fears nothing.”

Graves’ smile burst open and the bony spiders crawled out of his mouth and into Kurst’s ears. Kurst winced and focused his stare harder on the laughing old fool before him.

When Graves composed himself he tilted his head backwards and looked down the long, alabaster slope of his nose at the scowling, almost snarling boy. “So, this is how you want it? Well, perhaps a demonstration is in order...” Graves paused and glanced out the window on the north wall, “…but not quite yet. First, an explanation: fear is a constant of all living things. Can you imagine why?”

The conversation puzzled Kurst. He didn’t know what Graves was doing, but he knew that it felt like losing. “I already told you, a warrior does not dwell on fear – he conquers it,” and added in the bloom of anger, “What kind of warrior are you, anyway?”

“I see, I see. As far as what kind of warrior I am, or was, well, perhaps another time. The question at hand is much simpler than that, as simple as the question of whether you are alive. Are you?”

Kurst’s initial reaction was only to deepen his frown, narrow his eyes, and stare straight back without offering any response at all, but as the moments passed under Graves’ expectant and insistent gaze, he surrendered a curt nod.

“Yes, indeed. And though you are young, you realize that one day you will die.” This time Graves’ question was pure rhetoric, and he continued without waiting for the obvious answer.

“You are not alone, boy. All that lives dies, of course, of course.” Graves paused and gazed thoughtfully through the window. “One might say that that fact represents all that life is: the possibility of death, for without it there can no such thing as death. Or, one might say that there is no such thing as death, that what we call death is only life at the moment of its ending. You understand this, of course.”

Kurst was sure he did not, but when he nodded seriously Graves continued.

“At some level, all life understands its own death, and it is this understanding that we call fear. Being perceiving its own ending: fear. Knowledge glimpsing the unknowable: fear. An infinite sea of possibilities running out to a singular, inevitable certainty: fear. Such is life, and fear is its constant companion. Believe me boy, you do not want to be free of fear, because to be so, is to be free of life itself.”

By now Kurst’s frown had a twist at the mouth, and the furrow across his brow had become a crooked line between uneven hillocks, worried rows raised by a befogged ploughman. Kurst could not grasp the full weight of Graves’ words, but he knew that he was hearing something important, something he should, and wanted to, understand.

“So think again, boy, what is it you fear? It could be anything. Often, it is the most familiar of things. For while it is the root of all fear, death itself is a difficult concept, a cup all-empty, if you will. It has no face; you can’t put your hand against it, or watch it crawl up the wall. Each mind chooses a different harbinger of its ultimate demise, and some many. What is yours?”

But, where curiosity and intuition assembled, and insight petitioned, stubbornness ruled.
“I already told you,” said Kurst quickly.

“No. You have not,” said Graves.

“You know what I mean,” said Kurst, even faster.

Graves saw Kurst’s reflexes taking hold, forcing him to speak before his thoughts could temper his words, and he pressed him. “I know this: a warrior embraces his fear, holds it near him, as he would his own life. Tell me what you know, what does the young warrior fear?”

“Nothing,” said Kurst without thinking, but hearing the word, knowing it was a lie.

“Say it again.”

“Nothing,” repeated Kurst, lying, and in its wake, saw the faint reflections of the poorly-hidden, and now exposed lie.

“Again.”

“Nothing!” The truth bore down on him, bringing with it the fear he denied, the images from which he looked away, but he could hear its echoing, and the reflections became the lines of a great shadow that raised its back and shook free from the corners of his mind.

“Again.”

Kurst saw look in Graves’ eyes: he knew. He knew! Graves knew he lied. And Kurst knew that Graves knew he knew it. “Nothing!” Helpless, trapped, responding without answering, and in the place in his mind where he kept his fear, kept it hidden away, the place he had trained himself not to look, the lie failed and the truth arose.

“Again.”

Kurst felt Graves' voice in his mind, and the little spiders crawled inside his ears, “Nothing!” and in the back of his mind, in the hindmost, most unrevealed crevice, something moved, something with wings, fluttering and crawling, clawing its way up the arch of his mind.

“Again.”

Kurst’s mouth uttered no words, but inside, involuntarily, he gave up the unthinking lie again and again, Nothing, and up from the dark place it crawled, Nothing, across the vault of his mind, Nothing, overtop of his inner eyes where he would have to look, Nothing, where he could not look away, and the army of bony legs drumming in his ears, the fluttering of the enveloping wings, beating his reason away, Nothing! Kurst clapped his hands to his ears, closed his eyes, willed the looming specter descending from above back to its truthless prison, fighting it, battling it for control of his own mind.


(continued in the next post ...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post)

And then, from the window, came the sound of wings, a real sound, and, opening his eyes, Kurst saw the real image of a tall, stately raven, its shiny black wings shimmering in the gray morning light, alit upon the windowsill. It cocked its head toward him, one eye white and one black. Kurst watched it as it turned toward Graves and cawed, a slow, varied call, like words.

And then, from Graves, a banshee’s scream, not like his laughter, an army of spiders, of bony, pointy little legs, but a shriek of razor sharp gales blowing through his hand-clapped ears, or around them, or not through them at all, somehow, not from without, but within, the blackest of black, baleful, soul-stealing spirits surging from every crack and crevice of his mind, screams which he could not hear, but which blinded him, hammering his cramping eyelids down again, bound him, and the flutter of wings was within him and he could see it, he could see it, see it, see it on him, in him, enveloping him…

Kurst tore open his eyes, to escape from the vision, to pierce the shroud of Graves’ enveloping scream, but once opened: madness.

Madness: the room in blackness, the only light a thin sliver of fog slithering from a milky-white point, hovering in the gloom. Where the raven had been at the window, was now a tall dark, man-shaped figure, barely visible in the murky light of the growing fog, a figure looming, hanging above the ground, with ghostly, vastly wide and milky wings, beating the foggy air in wafts toward Graves, and the fog growing, spreading, lighting the center of the room, and there, Graves, but not Graves; where Graves should be, a man horribly thin, like Graves, a pale body, like Graves, but not, floating above the space where his bed should be, the impossibly bony body curved into a cruel crescent, and the thing, not Graves, spreading its hands, slowly, widely, and great folds of skin draping down from beneath his arms, stretching with his widening arms into great leathery white wings, not a pure white, but the murky white of maggots, of toadstools, and its eyes narrowing, shrinking into tiny dots of coal black, its jaw elongating, and in the dropping maw uncountable rows of needle-like teeth, the mouth still screaming: the bat, the fear his lie denied, his own special fear, his personal hell, beating, hovering, screaming at him and devouring him with its eyes.

Escape: Kurst had to get away, to the door, but where, in the light-meager room? To find the door, the door, feeling his way, the wall, finding the door, the handle, Ugh! The feeling of matted, greasy fur beneath his fingers, and his eyes adjusting to the dark, to the ever-expanding fog lighting the door: a tapestry of bat-like appendages, mouths and claws, snapping, grasping, and heads swiveling on rooted necks, the door handle a squirming lump of twitching maws; he feels the bile rising in his throat, but behind him, still behind him, the flapping, the huge wings beating, its coming, coming to get him, and he must get away, the tears streaming from his moaning eyelids like blood from a torn artery, and wretching, he grabs at the living door handle, feeling the needle-like pinpricks of fangs sinking into his skin, wrenching the handle and throwing wide the door, must get out, get out, to the hallway, the hallway! Madness! Not a hallway, a cave, a cavern, a prison, a crypt, dank and dark and deep, but can’t stop, must get away get away; stepping through the doorway onto a moving floor of clawing wings, giant claws the size of his legs, clawing him, and the flutter, the beating from the ceiling, alive, crawling with hidden, huddling, numberless, bats, a canopy of winged horrors, their glinting eyes like stars in a depthless sky, must get away get away, but his legs refuse his commands, wretching, falling to his hands on the squirming floor, feeling the pawing the scratching of the unmerciful limbs, on hands and knees now, downward, ever downward, rearing like a hunted hart against the hungry multitude, and the great white death behind him, in him, driving him forward; must get up get up, get away get away, must get up, keep his head up and get away get away, falling, slipping on the wretched-drenched floor, his head pulled downward ever downward toward the fetid stench the smothering, breath-stealing putrid essence of the bodiless demons; he is losing, losing, and the beating, behind him closer, and the walls closing in, and now fainting, exhausted, his arms giving out, flat on the living, killing floor, wrapped in the deathly embraces, in the dark, alone, and the voices in his head; down, down, down, and a new voice, a faraway gasp, a smoldering ember floating in the infinite depths, growing, approaching, now ablaze, now a burning pillar rising up out of the depths, it is within him, so deep within him, rising a like a meteor expelled, upwards, at him, in him, through him, and out, out: tearing aside his death-clenched jaws and erupting in a jet of crimson wrath, a fire that is heat that is light that is sound that is power…

And through the sudden, violent passage of the overwhelming, overcoming power, Kurst did not recognize his own voice:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[Science Cryption]

if this is the end of the story im not dissapointed, the ending was a horrible jumble of confusion. If your intesion was to confuse us as much as kurst you did more then well. I liked all the rest of the writing, but graves was a little more lively then I had origonaly imagined him to be. Your characters are great but the story doesn't grip me like it could.

If I were to have had a say in the ending to your last entry, i would have made graves make kurst relize he had issues to challenge and not just dismiss and burry them.

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

either way don't give up on writing, work on story, your character building is good.

[0xDEADCAFE]

if this is the end of the story im not dissapointed, the ending was a horrible jumble of confusion. If your intesion was to confuse us as much as kurst you did more then well. I liked all the rest of the writing, but graves was a little more lively then I had origonaly imagined him to be. Your characters are great but the story doesn't grip me like it could.

If I were to have had a say in the ending to your last entry, i would have made graves make kurst relize he had issues to challenge and not just dismiss and burry them.

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

either way don't give up on writing, work on story, your character building is good.
As it happens this is NOT the end of the story, unless I get hit by a truck, or find a better way to waste my time. I do indeed intend to have the relationship between Graves and Kurst continue.

As for the horrible last paragraph, it is my bungling attempt to convey panic, fear, overwhelming emotions, etc., through a stream of consciousness style of writing. I will admit to being very unsure about it, and it could easily end up on the cutting room floor. I guess this type of writing can be really hit or miss. Sorry to disappoint, but look for more chapters, and hopefully better writing, soon.

Thanks for your comments.

[Clarke667]

the last big long paragraph was un-needed and horrid, maybe your sick of the story and wished to end all possible future interest?

Disagreed. Overlong, ungainly, stream-of-consciousness style prose is my bread and butter, and that was certainly a treat. Sure, it needs some tightening, but big deal; what early draft doesn't?

Just so you know, 0xDeadCafe, I am threatening suicide if you cut out those last paragraphs. Fix them up and clean them off? Sure. By all means. But if you erase them completely, I will headbutt an overturned lawn-mower, and have a portion of my mulched brainmatter FedExed to you in a Ziploc baggy. This is an ultimatum.

Which is to say, that was rockin. Keep up, and keep on.

[0xDEADCAFE]

...I will headbutt an overturned lawn-mower, and have a portion of my mulched brainmatter FedExed to you in a Ziploc baggy. This is an ultimatum. Just so long as you don't send them C.O.D.

(Thanks, man.)

[Clarke667]

Just so long as you don't send them C.O.D.

The dead make no promises.

And you're welcome.

[Squelch]

I think the last paragraph did what it was intended to.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I think the last paragraph did what it was intended to.Thank you, sir.

[RevenantsKnight]

An interesting take on the now not-so-quiet friction between these two...I’ve several possible interpretations for the ending in particular, and I can’t wait for the next chapter, ‘cause I want to know how off I am. Given your ability to come up with rather unusual turns and make them seem perfectly plausible, I can only expect the unexpected at this point...:D Anyway, here’re some thoughts on an excellent-as-usual Chapter 5:

Upon entering the room, he had walked past the bed to the window, lifted the chair, carried it from the headboard back to the other side of the bed, and, sliding it back near the wall and tipping it up on the back two legs, sat exactly where he could stare straight-ahead at Graves’ face over the low footboard.

I don’t think “straight ahead” is hyphenated.

It annoyed Kurst, to see him lying flat as a fish on a cutting block one moment and the next sitting upright, his hands together, with that superior look on his face.

The comma after “Kurst” is extraneous.

Even now, Kurst found his mind wandering, remember the night, seeing himself waking, again and again, to find himself sweaty-cold, tasting the bitter slime clinging to the furry walls of his mouth like moth-eaten shawls hung in a moldy cellar, and bells, from far-off, echoing in his ears, ringing him to his escape.

Wow...that’s some great description. That got one creepy and enjoyably uncomfortable image going for me; congrats indeed on this. A couple nitpicks: “remember” should be “remembering” and “furry walls” sounded a little weird on a first read; I can get an idea of what you meant, and it does work, but the contrast is maybe a little too much of an initial shock.

Kurst had convinced himself that it was a bout like any other, and like any other bout he had ever experienced, he intended to win.

Dang. You’ve gotta admire his determination; I’m surprised that he’s still sane after a night like that. Kurst’s beginning to look like an interesting character indeed.

In the great tradition of dueling warriors, the silence formed their first arena, each of them circling within it, searching for advantage, planning their campaign. Predictably, it was Graves who broke the silence, grinning.

This whole scene with Graves and Kurst was well done, in my opinion, with a spellbinding combat of words and minds. The only thing I’d possibly question here is the rather dramatic setup by Graves; I don’t think it needs to be as much of a show for this to be effective. Granted, I’m guilty of this sort of thing from time to time, but here it felt a little like Graves wasn’t trying to teach Kurst but make him look like a moron in front of an audience (the reader). Of course, that could be what you intended; I’m not really sure on this count...

Kurst clenched his jaw and rocked his backward leaning chair forward, bringing it to rest on all four legs with a thud. “A warrior fears nothing.”

Nice bit of sound there to punctuate his response.

The conversation puzzled Kurst.

This felt out of place; most of the narration in this part’s setting up a skillfully incoherent finish and sounds carefully descriptive. The shortness and general nature of this sentence breaks that up; I’d recommend elaborating a little.

He didn’t know what Graves was doing, but he knew that it felt like losing.

Did you mean something like “it felt like he (meaning Kurst) was losing”?

This time Graves’ question was pure rhetoric, and he continued without waiting for the obvious answer.

He doesn’t really ask a question, so I’d change that to “words were.”

“Being perceiving its own ending: fear.”

Hrm...while this is nice because of its succinctness, I feel that you might want to change this to “A being...” to avoid it looking like you’re using two verbs in a row.

“Believe me boy, you do not want to be free of fear, because to be so, is to be free of life itself.”

An interesting twist indeed. I don’t think you need the comma after “so,” though.

“So think again, boy, what is it you fear?”

I’m not positive here, but I think the comma after “boy” should be a semicolon.

But, where curiosity and intuition assembled, and insight petitioned, stubbornness ruled.

Deftly phrased. :)

“Tell me what you know, what does the young warrior fear?”

I think that should be a semicolon after “know.”

“Nothing,” said Kurst without thinking, but hearing the word, knowing it was a lie.

Nice progression here from instance to instance. The imagery here is excellent, and really held me to the story. I liked the development of the bat in particular; the description was more than enough to creep me out some.

“Nothing,” repeated Kurst, lying, and in its wake, saw the faint reflections of the poorly-hidden, and now exposed lie.

I believe that should be “he saw” or “seeing” to remain parallel.

And then, from the window, came the sound of wings, a real sound, and, opening his eyes, Kurst saw the real image of a tall, stately raven, its shiny black wings shimmering in the gray morning light, alit upon the windowsill.

I think that’s spelled “alight.”

Kurst watched it as it turned toward Graves and cawed, a slow, varied call, like words.

This is definitely output from my anal-retentive neural implant, but a bird’s call would more closely resemble speech.

Where the raven had been at the window, was now a tall dark, man-shaped figure, barely visible in the murky light of the growing fog, a figure looming, hanging above the ground, with ghostly, vastly wide and milky wings, beating the foggy air in wafts toward Graves, and the fog growing, spreading, lighting the center of the room, and there, Graves, but not Graves; where Graves should be, a man horribly thin, like Graves, a pale body, like Graves, but not, floating above the space where his bed should be, the impossibly bony body curved into a cruel crescent...

This was also nicely done, for similar reasons to those stated above. Some thoughts: I’d move the comma after “window” to after “tall.” Also, does fog itself really give off light? If it doesn’t, then shouldn’t it just look black in the darkness? Finally, the alliteration at the end there is perhaps a little out of line with the tone here...it just sounds like it’s trying to be humorous to me.

The feeling of matted, greasy fur beneath his fingers, and his eyes adjusting to the dark, to the ever-expanding fog lighting the door: a tapestry of bat-like appendages, mouths and claws, snapping, grasping, and heads swiveling on rooted necks, the door handle a squirming lump of twitching maws; he feels the bile rising in his throat, but behind him, still behind him, the flapping, the huge wings beating, its coming, coming to get him, and he must get away...

I think “he feels the bile” should be “...felt.” Also, “retching” as in “to bring up phlegm” has no “w” in it. There’s another instance of this in the paragraph...sentence below. Additionally, “its coming, coming to get him” should be “it’s...” unless you did this as a stylistic move. Even if you did, though, it didn’t seem to work for me.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My first impression was that this was overkill, and made the end seem a little funny (which I’m guessing wasn’t your intention.) I can definitely see why you would want to draw this out, and I agree that it’s better that way, but this is a mite too much.

General comments on the ending: I think it does a good job of working into the story the emotions you wanted to convey. After all, Kurst isn’t going to be the most coherent person in the world at this point, and if the narration degenerates along with him, then that’s a very powerful suggestion. However, it does seem like you might have overshot a little; having a sentence that’s half a page in length is a hazard that will choke some readers, and, to be honest, it was enough to keep me from looking it over with the same level of scrutiny that the other parts of this story got. The idea’s there and excellent, but there are details that need tightening. Despite that, this was still a great read.

Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 6: Conflagration

It is morning. The monastery is a busy place, a center of activity for the surrounding towns: facilitating trade, settling disputes, dispensing religious ministrations. It is a place of study and a place of learning. Of all its facets it is first and foremost an institution of education. For scholars and clerics also, but mostly for the children from the surrounding towns and the many orphans who reside on the monastery grounds.

Outside the main building there is the constant training, older children mostly, practicing one of the many forms of specialized warfare. The smaller children are indoors, in the rooms lining the many hallways, clumped at tables, huddled over books, learning their lessons.

Each classroom is presided over by a monk or nun, all persons of religious devotion, dedicated to the cultivation of a serious and moral character in each of their students. The classrooms are places of piety, respect, and learning: oases of peace in a primitive and untamed world.

Such did the monstrous clamor find, as it roared down the corridors, stampeded past the classrooms, tore through the doors and windows, slammed against the serious brows, and penetrated the tender ears of the urchins and cherubs. So was a place of great communal conscience, a holy place, a sanctuary of greater good, of us-before-me, invaded by all the vile hunger and lust and impertinent demands of self.

Self, demanding to be recognized and reckoned with, the insatiable I, asserting itself for its own sake, undeserving and unrepentant, the raw, burning, unquenchable, unstoppable essence of life: self, the anti-death.

All in this place were frightened, offended, and astonished by the closeness of it, by the intimate audacity of the familiar invader, as, too, they recognized the terrible yearning that was also the essential quality within each of them, life, and they were stirred by an obscured truth made plain: that it was this untamed power and hunger that was the core of their very existence.

Within moments of its coming, doors were flung open up and down the trembling corridors. Covered heads and clasped hands surged through the doorways, and a river of roused community ire poured into the hallways and rushed toward the source of the soul-tearing call.

At its head was Matron Rubia, their flagship, sails billowing, racing to war. “What in the name of the Lady is this!”

Turning the corner that leads to the tower, she saw a small figure on the floor at the end of that corridor, just outside the door of the room she had assigned to the foreboding old man. It was a boy, on his hands and knees, rising, pushing himself away from the stone floor, but so weakly, and shaking, and not, in fact, rising at all.

“You there! What is the meaning of this?” Rubia increased her speed, bearing down on the small figure like a mother eagle, swooping down on a snake threatening her brood. She strode faster and faster, closing on the pathetic young figure, until she was close enough to see his face.

“Kurst? Kurst!” Reaching him, Rubia is frantic, and as she reaches for him, her mind is a whirl of conflagrant perceptions: feeling on her palms the sweat drenching the shoulders of his tunic, smelling the trail of vomit beneath him and trailing back through the door and into the room, shocked as she feels him shake like an epileptic, shivering like he was caked in ice, his arms and legs wracked with spasms, the sweat dripping from his brow, the bile and spittle dripping from his gaping mouth, watching him devour the air, pumping it into and out of his lungs, hearing him crying, bawling, and the tears running in streams down his snot-drenched nose.

“Kurst! Kurst! What is wrong? What has happened?” The matron is beside herself. The boy looks like every orifice in his body had gushed forth bile, his hair a terrifying mass, his head hanging down from trembling shoulders, panting like an animal, filthy as one, and utterly mute.

“Kurst! Kurst! Speak to me!” Yelling now, Rubia shakes him, but no sound comes from the dripping mouth save a wheezing, acidic rasp of air swallowed in gulps.

Eventually, Rubia manages to pull the boy to his feet. His head is still down, hands on knees, panting, but the sickening pace of his breathing begins to abate and Rubia starts to become more assured that he is not in serious danger.

“Talk to me boy. What happened…” she says, looking through the doorway, into the room where only the footboard of the bed is visible to her. In an urgent whisper, “What did he do to you?” Shaking him, “Tell me, tell me, tell me. You can tell me, boy. Kurst!”

She wipes his face, the wipes her slimy hands on her officious frock, takes his head between her hands, pressing his cheeks, rocking his head, “Kurst!” Begging, pleading, “Kurst, tell me, tell me, talk to me.”

But Kurst only breathes, and slowly his back straightens, his posture advances from hands-on-knees to hands-on-hips, and slowly his beating chest rises to its proper place and his head follows suit.

“I’m alright Matron,” he whispers between the continuing gales of breath.

“Alright? Alright?” Tears burst from Rubia eyes. “You are most certainly NOT alright.” Rubia motions to a bevy of timid nuns watching, rapt, speechless from a safe distance away, to come to her. “You will go straight to the infirmary.”

Kurst pulls away, “No,” breathlessly.

“I’ll have no disobedience from you boy. Do as I say…”

“No,” quietly.

“.. I was against this from the beginning. That man, he doesn’t belong here…”

“No,” louder.

“…and you shall have no further duties with him, and I will have something to say to master Adema abo-“

“NO!”

Rubia stops, stunned, feeling as if Kurst had slapped her, and she feels a chill run down her spine.

“I will continue my duties.” Kurst gently pulls her hands from him and respectfully pushes her away. He stands unsteadily: rocking, rocking, but managing to keep on his feet.

“Please, matron, I wish to return.” His voice is quiet and respectful, but his eyes are demanding, insisting, even threatening.

“Boy, what’s come over you?”

But as Kurst steps falteringly away from her, leering toward the door, and settling his shoulder roughly against the stone of the door frame, he does not answer, and as Rubia comes to understand that he will not answer, she reddens, glances through the open door, and pounds her foot on the floor like an angry bull.

“Very well!” Rubia wipes the tears from her eyes. “Have your way for now, but we shall see, we shall see!” She turns and stomps away, bellowing “Adema”, charging down the hall. “A-DEE-MA!”

Kurst listens to the echoing commotion of Rubia’s retreat. He can feel himself powerfully drawn by the open door at his back. He hesitates, thinking of Adema, and a picture forms in his mind of a sun-drenched, grassy field, a training ground, into which he looks long, but each moment darkens the memory, until he is left with only a black image from which a distant voice urges him: come.

He pushes himself away from the cold stone and wobbles backward, taking a last, falsely hopeful glance toward the void of Rubia’s exit, and turns toward the door to answer the call.

[Science Cryption]

I didn't understand the beginning of this chapter.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I didn't understand the beginning of this chapter.I appreciate the feedback, but could you be a little more specific please?

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...an interesting chapter, and well written, though I’m still not clear on Kurst’s reaction to it all...guess I’ll find out soon enough. There were also a few sentences in the beginning that sounded perhaps uncharacteristically nebulous to me. Anyway, some specific thoughts:

It is morning.

Interesting decision to switch over to the present tense...one thing I’m not sure about is the “zooming out” here at the beginning; granted, it reads nicely enough, but if you intended to have the reader feel more “there” by using the present tense, the expanded view doesn’t seem to fit as well as it could. Overall, though, I’m not too bothered by it; the epilogue of Love at First Fight was just fine, so I have every reason to believe that you can make this work.

Of all its facets it is first and foremost an institution of education.

I think you need a comma after “facets.”

For scholars and clerics also, but mostly for the children from the surrounding towns and the many orphans who reside on the monastery grounds.

This sentence sounds off to me due to its starting with “For scholars and clerics also.” That implies, at least to me, that you’re adding this idea to something you’ve already stated, so it felt confusing when the primary idea came afterwards. I’d revise this to read something like “It teaches some scholars and clerics, but mostly children...”

Outside the main building there is the constant training, older children mostly, practicing one of the many forms of specialized warfare.

The jump from “constant training” to “older children mostly” feels wrong to me. I’d rewrite this as “...constant training: students, older children mostly...”

So was a place of great communal conscience, a holy place, a sanctuary of greater good, of us-before-me, invaded by all the vile hunger and lust and impertinent demands of self.

Hrm...I didn’t much notice the tense shift on a first glance, but there are a few places later where the changing gets more disruptive. Did you intend for all of this to be in the present tense, or is the shifting intentional?

Covered heads and clasped hands surged through the doorways, and a river of roused community ire poured into the hallways and rushed toward the source of the soul-tearing call.

Minor note: would “communal” work better than “community” in this case? I’m not sure, but it may be worth considering.

Turning the corner that leads to the tower, she saw a small figure on the floor at the end of that corridor, just outside the door of the room she had assigned to the foreboding old man.

Nitpick: corners don’t lead anywhere.

Rubia increased her speed, bearing down on the small figure like a mother eagle, swooping down on a snake threatening her brood.

Heh...that’s a good image for her, I’d say.

She strode faster and faster, closing on the pathetic young figure, until she was close enough to see his face.

“Kurst? Kurst!” Reaching him, Rubia is frantic, and as she reaches for him, her mind is a whirl of conflagrant perceptions:

This in particular felt very odd; the tense shift here doesn’t seem to serve a purpose.

“Talk to me boy. What happened…” she says, looking through the doorway, into the room where only the footboard of the bed is visible to her.

You need a comma after “me.” A minor general point: in dialogue, when someone says something and then finishes with a name or title, then there should be a comma before the title. This is hardly something that’ll break a story, but it’s worth fixing anyway.

“I’m alright Matron,” he whispers between the continuing gales of breath.

“I’ll have no disobedience from you boy. Do as I say…”

Same thing as above: there should be commas after “alright” and “you,” respectively.

“Please, matron, I wish to return.” His voice is quiet and respectful, but his eyes are demanding, insisting, even threatening.

I rather liked this part and the exchange between Kurst and Rubia, even if I’m not too clear on why he took the position he did. Nicely done.

Again, this was an engaging chapter, even with the tense shift, and I’m looking forward to more. Thanks for posting!

[Nos2]

Allow me to chime in...

First, let me say what a wonderful story you have developing here. Quite enjoyable. I just started reading it from the begining earlier this morning and found that I could not stop. Addictive. The characters are developing rather nicely and the story has numerous routes that it could take. I eagerly wait for more. There have been a few minor issues, but I believe both Rev and Clarke have nudged you back in line.

As for the ending of Chapter 5, I understand what you were trying to accomplish with the writing style, and I believe it definitely adds to the storyline. However, in my opinion, it seems like the ending is similar to a massive run on sentence full of infamous comma splices. Might I suggest that you toss in a few elipses. The chaos and confusion can still be preserved, but the form and flow could use a little improvement.

I would love to provide a little more constructive criticism. Alas, I have already invested around two hours of "company time" by just reading this story and I believe my boss would be upset if he knew how (un)productive I have been today.

On a closing note... (see how I love the elipsis)

The difference between a crow and a raven can be attributed to their tail feathers, also called pinions. A crow has 6 pinions, while a raven has 7 pinions. As you can see, the actual difference between these two animals is simply a matter of oppinion.

(sorry, I just couldn't resist)

-nos

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 7: Threshold

Kurst hung before the doorway to Graves’ door like a compass needle teetering between magnetic poles, both pushed and pulled. Push: fear, fear of the nightmarish visions, fear the sinister and unknown power of Graves. Pull: desire for knowledge and power, and the appetite of a spiteful pride.

His instinct was to go through the doorway. The very fact of his fear gave rise to the primary motivation for entering: oppose. Oppose his fear. Oppose any sign of his own weakness, any suggestion of defeat. It was a thoughtless, bestial opposition that would have him jump hopelessly into a lion’s den in protest of its nerve-jarring roar, or stand endlessly in the drenching, freezing rain of a winter storm, his fist raised like scepter, in defiance of its overwhelming power.

Yet, his intuition held him back, quietly inspecting his own intentions. The untrustworthy allure of power, the ignoble yearning of his pride, gave him pause: consider. What price this power? What end this prideful impulse? The intelligence of survival prowled the tangled, jungle paths of his reason, rubbed its whiskers along the rough edge of his indecision, bared its fangs at the animal heat, the primitive, moth-like reflex for self-immolation, and gave balance.

And as he stood upon the threshold, as the needle quivered in a frenzied dance of opposites, instinctively drawn by the push, intuitively repelled by the pull, another needle, the slender marker on the inner dial of time in memory, slipped backward.

There was another day, upon a different threshold, on which this same young man, though much more the boy, stood trembling and uncertain. How young this boy? His memory held no age, no number, no date, but the freshness of the vision, and the simplicity of feeling it invoked, told of a young boy in the act of discovery.

In his earliest memories of the monastery he can smell the cold damp stones, everywhere: on the stairs, in the water, on the breath of the monks, the hands of the sisters, age and stagnation, the bitter breath of dying in quiet resignation. Always he sought the outdoors: sleeping out when he could escape the nuns, reveling in the sweet air, the soft dirt, losing himself in the limitless sky, only to find himself again in some wondrous new place.

Rabbit they called him then. “Slow down, you little rabbit!” He was always running. The nuns thought it was just to escape them, but it was the way he did everything. The world was so big. How could he walk when the world, when the over-there was so far away, and he so wanted to be there right now? He ran from the nuns and kept right on running.

Running, running, running. Always out of breath but never out of energy. Running to a wonderfully craggy tree; running to touch it, feel it, hug it, make it his own, and then forgetting it on the way to a curly, prickly, wonderful vine, or a boulder, or a puddle, everything, running to everything, wanting all the wonderfully huge, wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully wonderful world all at once.

In this way Kurst seemed to forever find himself in a place before he knew he was going there. His was a selfless confidence, an ignorant fearlessness, an innocence that knew no evil.

One bright morning, following a night spent under the stars, he came near a hillock farther from the monastery than he had ever been. As he approached its green, rocky heights he spied a large, dark whole in the side, what he did not recognize as the mouth of an underground cave, and before he even knew that he had changed direction, found himself in complete darkness, on a stony floor, on the threshold of what his ears told him was a very large room.

He stopped then. It was like his body simply forgot how to move. And his ears stretched out like wings, scooping at the darkness, trying to touch walls or ceiling, anything in that impenetrable darkness. His bulging eyes could see nothing and for the first time in his life his mind glimpsed the possibility of an unwelcoming world.

He noticed a smell then, seeming at first like that at the monastery, a cold, stony smell, but there was something else too. An odor of animals, like the livestock pens at the monastery, mixed too with the bad breath of the tobacco-smoking townspeople, and the rotten smell of back behind the kitchen where they piled the bones and dirty dishes.

It smelled to Kurst like eating. Not a nice eating, like mealtimes in the dinning hall, or even the dumb, peaceful eating of the horses and sheep; it smelled like a bad eating and it made Kurst feel bad to smell it.

What young Kurst did not realize was that he had an odor of his own, and that the bad eater in the dark was at that moment smelling him, locating him, and thinking how sweet it would be to taste him too.

The first hint of movement was a scratchy far-away sound. Kurst’s ears told him: big. And then they told him: coming. Still his body did not think to move. And as the hair-raising realization of danger crept over him, it both thrilled him and filled him with dread.

Closer. And still he did not move. In a minute he could feel the air change, moister and warmer, the bad-eating breath smell stronger. He could almost feel the breeze of it on him. And then he saw them, two watery globes, aglow in red, circles of yellowish white glints reflecting light from nowhere and surrounding uneven black disks, at about twice his height and looking straight at him.

Away. In sight of these twin horrors Kurst’s legs came to life and without a thought of flight, away he soared. As he turned, as the fear burst through his pores, the creature roared, and Kurst felt the walls explode in on him. The sound squeezed him like a fist, but his legs kept pumping, and away, for the first time in his life, away, he ran away from something rather than toward it, and the doubt that had sprouted among the gentle pastures of his world congealed into a cold certainty: this was not his beautiful world.

And away he ran, away, away, always away. And he didn’t stop when he got to the cold-smelling steps of the monastery, or the damp-smelling hallways to his room; he ran away, away until he got to the door of his dormitory and then he ran to his bed and burrowed into the sweaty-smelling, the old-nun smelling, the dusty, thick, crowded-smelling blanket and bed and smelled nothing but home.

Days later he went back. This time he did not run headlong through its foreboding maw, but crept slowly to within a sharp’s-eye-view of the cave entrance. It looked different. After minutes laying low and still in the dirt he went closer, and as he neared he began to see that the mouth of the cave was filled with rocks. Eventually he approached the rocks themselves and felt their weight and the firmness of their placing.

He could not go in now. And he wondered about the thing in the cave. Was it still in there? Was it walled up forever out of reach of him, and he of it? Did some men come and place these rocks here to keep it out of their world? Or did the thing itself wall up this hole to keep the infiltrating light and airs out of its world of darkness and awful smells?

Or did it leave the cave and wall-up the opening like a man closing the door of his house on the way to work? At this thought Kurst quickly looked around him. Could it be near? Watching him? And thinking thus he started again away from the cave, at a half trot, neither walking nor running, and not headlong toward any particular thing, but rather sideways, past the world rather than into it, and always considering the nature of the things he saw before venturing close.

After that Kurst began to spend more and more time within the monastery walls and soon his almost daily, frantic, joyous, journeys through the wild lands around the monastery were all but forgotten, along with his nickname, Rabbit. But he never forgot the monster and never stopped wondering where it might be.

Kurst now noticed a mixture of smells, a rather vile, if very familiar palette of human odors. Sweat, bile, vomit, urine, blood. It was on him and before him on the floor was a small puddle of it. Together they assaulted his nostrils, and behind it came an even more powerful odor, from the center of the room, from the dark and mysterious occupant the bed, the memory-old, almost forgotten, odor of monster.

On the threshold, the needle swayed one last time and then moved sharply to one side, where it came to an abrupt stop, poised like an arrow suddenly aware of its inevitable direction.

Kurst stepped in.

[0xDEADCAFE]

It seems like my last chapter got stuck somewhere. Let's see if this unsticks it. - Yep, that did it. (Sorry, Relapse for bumping you. I had been thinking that the main page was on the fritz until I saw your post go up.)

[RevenantsKnight]

Nice bit of reflection for Kurst...he definitely feels like more than a vehicle for the prophecy now. The backstory in particular was very compelling; I got pretty into his character at that point. There was, though, one thing that didn’t seem perfectly in character; I’ll go into more detail below. Some comments:

Push: fear, fear of the nightmarish visions, fear the sinister and unknown power of Graves.

I think you need an “of” after the third “fear.”

It was a thoughtless, bestial opposition that would have him jump hopelessly into a lion’s den in protest of its nerve-jarring roar, or stand endlessly in the drenching, freezing rain of a winter storm, his fist raised like scepter, in defiance of its overwhelming power.

Methinks that should be “like a scepter.” Other than that, this is a great description, with some excellent imagery.

Yet, his intuition held him back, quietly inspecting his own intentions.

This is the only major hitch I noticed when reading this: I didn’t see anything like this in him up until now. In particular, there isn’t really anything I remember that suggests that he has a good enough handle on his pride to pause now, though the “What price this power?” thought also didn’t fit my idea of him. Granted, you do explain where this came from later here, but you might want to touch on this a little more in earlier chapters; even if you just hint at it, it’ll seem less sudden.

The intelligence of survival prowled the tangled, jungle paths of his reason, rubbed its whiskers along the rough edge of his indecision, bared its fangs at the animal heat, the primitive, moth-like reflex for self-immolation, and gave balance.

Another strong image...survival being an animal is sometimes implied in writing, but I’ve never seen it taken to this level of realism before.

How young this boy?

Did you intentionally omit the “was” here? If you did, it’s not the smoothest read ever, but it does work.

In his earliest memories of the monastery he can smell the cold damp stones, everywhere: on the stairs, in the water, on the breath of the monks, the hands of the sisters, age and stagnation, the bitter breath of dying in quiet resignation.

“...he can smell”...should that be “he could smell”? Also, the “quiet resignation” part isn’t very clear to me; I didn’t get the impression that this monastery was stagnating from the preceding parts of your story.

Rabbit they called him then. “Slow down, you little rabbit!” He was always running. The nuns thought it was just to escape them, but it was the way he did everything. The world was so big. How could he walk when the world, when the over-there was so far away, and he so wanted to be there right now? He ran from the nuns and kept right on running.

Running, running, running. Always out of breath but never out of energy. Running to a wonderfully craggy tree; running to touch it, feel it, hug it, make it his own, and then forgetting it on the way to a curly, prickly, wonderful vine, or a boulder, or a puddle, everything, running to everything, wanting all the wonderfully huge, wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully wonderful world all at once.

A great description of what it’s like to be a child...based off my own experiences, anyway. Wonderfully vivid. :D Heck, this is true for the entire memory...nicely done indeed.

He noticed a smell then, seeming at first like that at the monastery, a cold, stony smell, but there was something else too.

I think that should be “...like that of the monastery...” Also, I’d delete “at the monastery” in the next sentence; it seems a little redundant as it sounds like he wouldn’t have been at any other livestock pen.

Not a nice eating, like mealtimes in the dinning hall, or even the dumb, peaceful eating of the horses and sheep; it smelled like a bad eating and it made Kurst feel bad to smell it.

Erm...I think you mean “dining hall,” unless people eat in a room that’s used primarily for making a din.

He could almost feel the breeze of it on him.

“On him” sounds off for some reason, though I can’t say exactly why; I’d use “on his skin” or something like that.

In sight of these twin horrors Kurst’s legs came to life and without a thought of flight, away he soared.

I’d phrase that as “At the sight...,” not “In sight...”

As he turned, as the fear burst through his pores, the creature roared, and Kurst felt the walls explode in on him.

“Explode in” sounds weird to me, since most things don’t explode directionally; do you mean “implode”?

This time he did not run headlong through its foreboding maw, but crept slowly to within a sharp’s-eye-view of the cave entrance.

I think that should be “into” instead of “through.” Also, unless you’re using “sharp” as a noun, as is done in biology labs and hospitals (which wouldn’t make much sense), then that should read “sharp eye’s view.”

Did some men come and place these rocks here to keep it out of their world?

Between this and the above paragraph, that’s three uses of “rocks.” I’d try to switch one of them for something else like “stones,” “blocks of (something),” etc.

But he never forgot the monster and never stopped wondering where it might be.

This might be a good thing to drop a vague hint about in an earlier chapter, so this doesn’t seem as sudden, as mentioned before.

All in all, this was a great read, and I’m looking forward to finding out where this’ll end up. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hi Rev, you make a number of good catches as always.

This is the only major hitch I noticed when reading this: I didn’t see anything like this in him up until now. In particular, there isn’t really anything I remember that suggests that he has a good enough handle on his pride to pause now, though the “What price this power?” thought also didn’t fit my idea of him. Granted, you do explain where this came from later here, but you might want to touch on this a little more in earlier chapters; even if you just hint at it, it’ll seem less sudden.I think I mentioned that chapters 1-4 were mostly written 2 years ago, whereas the rest are all new. So, yes, I may have to do some backfilling as I mold these characters in ways I had not originally contemplated.


Another strong image...survival being an animal is sometimes implied in writing, but I’ve never seen it taken to this level of realism before.And I was worried that this was another of my many overdone metaphors. (Thanks!)


Did you intentionally omit the “was” here? If you did, it’s not the smoothest read ever, but it does work.It was intentional. I thought "How young this boy?" sounded kinda poetic.


“...he can smell”...should that be “he could smell”?Well, that depends. I guess I thought of him as being immersed in his memory, as if he were actually there, like one might be in a dream. It seems "in my dream I can fly" conveys a different state of mind than "in my dream I could fly."


Also, the “quiet resignation” part isn’t very clear to me; I didn’t get the impression that this monastery was stagnating from the preceding parts of your story.Yes, that does feel a bit overdone. I definitely don't picture the monastery as stagnant. I guess I wanted to convey that it might seem that way to a little boy, but what I ended up with does seem to send the wrong message


A great description of what it’s like to be a child...based off my own experiences, anyway. Wonderfully vivid. :D Heck, this is true for the entire memory...nicely done indeed.Thanks so much. I had a special feeling writing this and was hoping it would come across.


Erm...I think you mean “dining hall,” unless people eat in a room that’s used primarily for making a din.LOL. There's GOT to be a good use for that. :D


“On him” sounds off for some reason, though I can’t say exactly why; I’d use “on his skin” or something like that.Sounds like good advice. "On his face" maybe.


I’d phrase that as “At the sight...,” not “In sight...”
Here again, I like the sound of it. Plus I wanted to convey the idea that what finally motivated Kurst to move was feeling that the monster had him in its sight. I'll take another look at this.


“Explode in” sounds weird to me, since most things don’t explode directionally; do you mean “implode”?I've never particularly cared for the work "implode." What I am trying to convey is the booming sound of the creature's roar echoing from the walls made it seem like the sound was very strong and coming at him from all sides. An unconstrained explosion certainly explodes in all directions, but if all the walls about you were to explode simultaneously, it would seem that they exploded in on you, wouldn't it?


I think that should be “into” instead of “through.”Yep.


Also, unless you’re using “sharp” as a noun, as is done in biology labs and hospitals (which wouldn’t make much sense), then that should read “sharp eye’s view.” I guess my ear is no replacement for thorough grammatical review. It seems you must be right, but I still like the sound of the original. (But it will probably get changed.)


All in all, this was a great read, and I’m looking forward to finding out where this’ll end up.Thanks, and I wish I knew.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Allow me to chime in...Yes, please do...

First, let me say what a wonderful story you have developing here. Quite enjoyable. I just started reading it from the begining earlier this morning and found that I could not stop. Addictive. The characters are developing rather nicely and the story has numerous routes that it could take. I eagerly wait for more.I appreciate that very much. It always puts a little giddy-up in the ole' motivation machine to hear such kind words. Thanks...

As for the ending of Chapter 5, I understand what you were trying to accomplish with the writing style, and I believe it definitely adds to the storyline. However, in my opinion, it seems like the ending is similar to a massive run on sentence full of infamous comma splices. Might I suggest that you toss in a few elipses. The chaos and confusion can still be preserved, but the form and flow could use a little improvement.I agree in general. I think I can clean up a lot of unnecessary sloppiness and still retain the overall feel, but I'll have to see how well ellipses might fit in...

I would love to provide a little more constructive criticism. Alas, I have already invested around two hours of "company time" by just reading this story and I believe my boss would be upset if he knew how (un)productive I have been today.How I hate to be a burden on the economy... but, if you can get manage to get ahead in your work, stop by again sometime... :howdy:

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 8: Quickening

“Well, well, the proud warrior returns.”

Graves spoke from a completely prone position. Kurst could see that he was again lying flat on the bed, facing directly upward, with his eyes closed.

As he stood just inside the doorway, Kurst knew Graves was listening; he could feel the old man’s ears upon him, dissecting his every movement. He became aware of his every sound, no matter how faint: his breathing, his clothes rubbing against his skin as he moved, the creak in his soles when he shifted his weight, even the butterfly blink of his sticky eyelids.

So he went completely still, more so than ever before, rooting himself to the floor with oak-like firmness, and watching for any sign of change on Graves’ marble countenance. He held his breath and focused all his powers of attention on his ears, listening for the slightest trace of his own existence in the silent echoes of the noiseless room; he found none.

For a moment he felt himself vanish.

But just as he began to feel a sense of assurance in his newly-built haven of whispers, just as his vanquished self-respect began to quiver in revenant resurgence, the ruthless alabaster lips of Graves curled into an ugly grin, and Kurst felt his cloak of invisibility slip. Within the crescent of that evil smile the all-seeing nostrils flared slightly; it was just a subtle widening of the ghastly circles of flesh surrounding the twin black olfactories that knew no darkness, but Kurst knew he was revealed, revealed and defeated, and angrily he broke the silence.

“You have not defeated me yet!” Kurst spat the words with all the vehemence he could muster. He wanted to hit Graves and challenge him, to slap that mocking face with both hands and then beat into that unholy skull the strength and certainty of his indomitable defiance.

But beneath the piercing nostrils the molten marble only bubbled, and the contours of the hideous grin flowed outward, and the bottomless mouth opened, and into the tranquil room a plume of ashen laughter erupted and released its horrors.

Kurst clapped his hands to his ears as the walls closed in, then dropped to his knees as the monstrous laughter tightened around him like a merciless fist.

In his tight, closed darkness, a thought came to Kurst like a flicker of candlelight at the end of a long, dark hallway: endure. It was not a thought like an idea coming to him, or a memory, or a decision, it was like the thought of another self floating in from nowhere, not quite a voice in his head, but definitely the touch of an alien mind. Endure, Kurst.

For an eternity the laughter only increased in volume. Kurst defied it. He buried the pain behind tightly closed eyelids and sought refuge in the distant and safe lands of his memory. I’m not here, he thought, and as if coming to him in answer, he became aware an entreating call: come.

Kurst was in the grass, under the sun, running. There was no pain and only the sweet smell of the meadow air reached him. It was so peaceful. The sun was beautiful and he ran uphill toward it. Up and up he ran until he came to the top of the gentle rise where a tall man stood facing him directly in front of the huge, bright disk of the brilliant sun. The man seemed to be dressed in flowing white robes, and from the peaceful smile on the pleasant and reassuring face, Kurst felt an implicit welcome: hello.

Kurst ran to the man and took hold of his soft, gentle hands. He stared into the man’s face, radiant as the sun, and felt warm and cool, and so completely welcome. And in the man’s eyes he saw again his wonderful world.

Kurst awoke kneeling in the puddle of his own vomit. He heard the dying gasps of Graves’ laughter ending and when he opened his eyes the level of his gaze was even with the raven’s still perched on the window sill. Their eyes met and the raven’s one white eyeball seemed to roll in its head. Kurst watched the milky pearl as it spun slowly and felt again the tranquility of a grassy field and the welcoming warmth of the tall man’s smile.

The raven turned its head toward Graves’ and croaked a frog-like trill and Graves regained his composure.

“Not defeated? Look at you: the proud warrior indeed. And what do you call that slime you’re wallowing in, manna from heaven?”

Graves chuckled softly at his own joke and Kurst did his best to ignore it. He found he could bear the infiltrating gremlins in his ears a little more easily by holding the image of the tall man’s smiling face in his mind.

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” continued Graves, “You show me you know something about defeat by vanquishing that puddle there, and then maybe I’ll allow you to return to your seat. Fetch a bucket and be quick about it. I don’t intend to bathe in your foulness all morning.”

But the foulness clinging to Kurst’s knees and shins as he rose from the slippery floor seemed as perfume compared to that which he now felt emanating from Graves. Outwardly, Kurst signaled his assent with a silent and cold downward stare, while inwardly the hot drumbeat of his heart only quickened. Turning and passing again through the threshold of Graves’ door, as a feeling of hatred that he had never known before congealed within him to a knot of loathing that weighed in his emptied stomach like a cold, damp masonry stone, he went in search of a bucket.

* * *

It did not take Rubia long to find Adema. Only slightly longer, in fact, than it took a majority of the daytime population of the monastery to come to the ready conclusion that their beloved matron, the first lady of their affairs, the backbone of their communal body, had gone slightly out of her mind.

Where Kurst’s soul-wrenching cry had disturbed only the portion of the great castle within ear-shot of its source in the corner tower, Rubia marched her beseeching wail on a path that took her across the lion’s share of the compound in search of her quarry.

“A-DEEE-MA!”

Teachers stopped their classes, (students running to devour the startling event with their hungry eyes), cooks dropped their bowls, (foamy batters spouting from ruined crockery), gardeners let loose their hoe’s, (wooden poles falling impotently on fertile soils), and even a few especially attentive cattle interrupted their steady chewing, raised their enormous heads, and sleepily redirected their watery brown eyes in order to find the source of the very uncommon commotion.

The scores of sweating students straining on the sunny practice field to perfect the stances, postures, and movements of their exacting art had no need to break their concentration to search for the source of the commotion, as it found them. And soon the commotion was upon them, and sooner afterwards it became them, as one by one the young men and women broke their stances and assumed postures of wonder, incredulity and alarm.

Beginning a frantic murmuring, and with their heads twitching between the stampeding matron and their obviously concerned master now running to meet her, the students parted like waters sundered by the purposeful strokes of twins oars, and the splashing and gurgling of their parting rose to a dull roar as Adema pulled Rubia close to him under one arm and dragged her gently toward the small tent at the back of the field that the masters of the fighting arts used as temporary daytime offices.

The crowd reformed as their master pulled the tent flap closed, concealing the sight of his conversation with the trembling potentate, if not its sound, and as indistinct words and unclear fragments of sentences filtered through the tent walls, it quickly quieted and congealed around the importunate scene it knew was now taking place within the canvas enclosure.

So it was that when Adema burst from the tent only a minute later that he found a wall of bodies impeding his passage. “Back, back, all of you,” Adema cried, laying hands on those nearest to him, pushing and even shoving those slow to comply. Again the throng parted, this time as if sliced by a knife, and then watched in sustained alarm as their athletic master ran from them at a dead sprint, soon to vanish within the monastery’s indifferent walls.

Like shutters then, the again-divided crowd swung its attention back toward the tent as Rubia emerged, still breathing heavily, and speaking to them through diffident eyelids. “It’s all right. Everything is alright. Return to your practice. Another master will be along to guide you shortly.” But the crowd did not move and Rubia did not seem to notice as she made her way through it, her pace slow despite its appearance of frantic haste.

And with her passing, the crowd again pressed close together and the murmuring rose, and soon each and every individual on that wide green field, so brightly lit beneath the clear morning sky, was lost within a dense fog of quickening whispers.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...interesting indeed. I haven’t a clue how some of this is going to play out, and that makes it all the more fun to read. As usual, the writing was smooth and easy to read, so congrats on that. One thing that did catch me, though, was Kurst’s retreat into his dream world and the shifts that followed it. Somehow, I don’t think he’d be able to fade into his peaceful memories so easily if he’s got all that hatred and anger towards Graves...the violent passion I associate with those emotions doesn’t seem like it would allow the serenity of his other world to exist in the moment. Anyway, some specific thoughts:

He became aware of his every sound, no matter how faint: his breathing, his clothes rubbing against his skin as he moved, the creak in his soles when he shifted his weight, even the butterfly blink of his sticky eyelids.

I’d think “creak in his soles” should be “...in the soles of his shoes” or something, since flesh doesn’t really creak (well, not mine at least.)

He held his breath and focused all his powers of attention on his ears, listening for the slightest trace of his own existence in the silent echoes of the noiseless room; he found none.

Coming after the first sentence here, the last clause feels a little detached from the story, as it reads almost as an afterthought due to its length; I’d suggest dropping the semicolon and rewriting this to read “...room, and he found none.”

But just as he began to feel a sense of assurance in his newly-built haven of whispers, just as his vanquished self-respect began to quiver in revenant resurgence, the ruthless alabaster lips of Graves curled into an ugly grin, and Kurst felt his cloak of invisibility slip. Within the crescent of that evil smile the all-seeing nostrils flared slightly; it was just a subtle widening of the ghastly circles of flesh surrounding the twin black olfactories that knew no darkness, but Kurst knew he was revealed, revealed and defeated, and angrily he broke the silence.

Something I’ve been called on myself: that’s six uses of the construction (something of something else) in two sentences. You might want to vary the phrasing a little more, though it’s not a major problem; the only reason I noticed it was because this problem’s been pointed out in my own writing, and so I look for it now by reflex when I read things. Also, “olfactories” sounds too scientific for the tone you’re building; I’d maybe try to use a more visual description here. Oh, and I’m amused that you actually used “revenant”...:)

But beneath the piercing nostrils the molten marble only bubbled, and the contours of the hideous grin flowed outward, and the bottomless mouth opened, and into the tranquil room a plume of ashen laughter erupted and released its horrors.

Yet another great image.

In his tight, closed darkness, a thought came to Kurst like a flicker of candlelight at the end of a long, dark hallway: endure. It was not a thought like an idea coming to him, or a memory, or a decision, it was like the thought of another self floating in from nowhere, not quite a voice in his head, but definitely the touch of an alien mind. Endure, Kurst.

For an eternity the laughter only increased in volume. Kurst defied it. He buried the pain behind tightly closed eyelids and sought refuge in the distant and safe lands of his memory. I’m not here, he thought, and as if coming to him in answer, he became aware an entreating call: come.

Kurst was in the grass, under the sun, running. There was no pain and only the sweet smell of the meadow air reached him.

I enjoyed the first paragraph quite a bit; the writing was nicely descriptive, and with a rather interesting idea, too. Sounds like what I hear, only that they are voices in my head...:D A side note: did you ever play Marathon? This whole excerpt, for a number of reasons, sounded a bit like that game might have had some influence on this...

On another topic, the jump between the second and third paragraphs here felt really sudden, even if Kurst has excellent control over his emotions (which I don’t think is necessarily true, from what I’ve seen.) I have a guess as to why you wrote this part the way you did, and if I’m correct, I can definitely agree that a sudden change makes sense, but I think that it’d be easier for the reader if you didn’t make this quite as abrupt.

He heard the dying gasps of Graves’ laughter ending and when he opened his eyes the level of his gaze was even with the raven’s still perched on the window sill.

As this sentence reads now, it sounds like the raven’s gaze is “still perched...” While that’s true, after a fashion, I’d try to clarify this by revising this to read “...with the raven’s, the bird still perched...”

The raven turned its head toward Graves’ and croaked a frog-like trill and Graves regained his composure.

I’d try to drop one of the uses of “and” from this sentence, unless you intended for it to sound a bit like a list.

But the foulness clinging to Kurst’s knees and shins as he rose from the slippery floor seemed as perfume compared to that which he now felt emanating from Graves.

This sentence, in particular “...seemed as perfume compared to that which he now felt...” didn’t read too smoothly for me; it felt overly vague at several points, though I did understand what you were saying. I’d reword it to read “...was perfume compared to the evil he now felt...”

Only slightly longer, in fact, than it took a majority of the daytime population of the monastery to come to the ready conclusion that their beloved matron, the first lady of their affairs, the backbone of their communal body, had gone slightly out of her mind.

Heh...that was funny without being awkward given the tone and setting of the story. Nicely done. On a different note, that’s five “of”s in one sentence. I do realize that they all work well in this sentence, but I’d see if you can’t reword it to drop one or two of them.

Teachers stopped their classes, (students running to devour the startling event with their hungry eyes), cooks dropped their bowls, (foamy batters spouting from ruined crockery), gardeners let loose their hoe’s, (wooden poles falling impotently on fertile soils), and even a few especially attentive cattle interrupted their steady chewing, raised their enormous heads, and sleepily redirected their watery brown eyes in order to find the source of the very uncommon commotion.

Minor note: that should be “hoes.”

The chapter’s ending with Adema and Rubia was a very smooth and easy read, so congrats on that. "Quickening whispers" in particular was a memorable and enjoyable image. I’m looking forward to whatever comes next. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

RK: Thanks as usual. I always look forward to your comments.

I’d think “creak in his soles” should be “...in the soles of his shoes” or something, since flesh doesn’t really creak (well, not mine at least.)I was thinking about the soles of his shoes and plumb forget that feet have soles too. Nice catch.


Coming after the first sentence here, the last clause feels a little detached from the story...I struggled with this sentence, and you're right, it doesn't have the impact it should.


Something I’ve been called on myself: that’s six uses of the construction (something of something else) in two sentences. You might want to vary the phrasing a little more, This is an intersting point. I think that "lips of Graves" is probably the worst of them but that's not really your point is it? Even if all six were perfect on their own, the sentence as a whole gets a bit monotonous because of the repetition. This requires some thought.


Oh, and I’m amused that you actually used “revenant”...:)I've been trying to work that in ever since I looked it up on Dictionary.com. But my ultimate goal is to find a valid context for "revenant night." (No "K" intended.)


Yet another great image. :D


Also, “olfactories” sounds too scientific for the tone you’re building;You often call me on overly-technical jargon. I like the sound of the word, especially in this sentence. Hmmm...


A side note: did you ever play Marathon? No. Never heard of it before this mention. I played an awful lot of DOOM though.


On another topic, the jump between the second and third paragraphs here felt really sudden, I was trying to show a connection between the voice in his head and that transition, but it may be a bit too understated. I think I will try to connect them better.


As this sentence reads now, it sounds like the raven’s gaze is “still perched...” While that’s true, after a fashion, I’d try to clarify this by revising this to read “...with the raven’s, the bird still perched...”How humorous. I think I'd better paste that gaze back on the bird's head before things get ugly. (Good catch!)


I’d try to drop one of the uses of “and” from this sentence, unless you intended for it to sound a bit like a list. It was originally "as" but I wanted to show it as cause-and-effect rather than simultaneous. This does not do it. Good one.


This sentence, in particular “...seemed as perfume compared to that which he now felt...” didn’t read too smoothly for me; it felt overly vague at several points, though I did understand what you were saying. I’d reword it to read “...was perfume compared to the evil he now felt...” I like to save words like "evil" for when they are really needed. Rereading the sentence now I'm thinking that "what" in place of "that which" might be enough to smooth it out.


that’s five “of”s in one sentence But who's counting! And I got such a good deal on of's at the market this week...


Thanks for feedbacking!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 9: Carnival

For Adema, it had already been a morning of surprises.

It began with a squeak…

(squeak!)

“Huzzuh?”

Adema was still half-asleep. The morning sun was beginning to light his room and perhaps a **** crowed somewhere. Adema’s body knew it was not quite time to get up yet, but there was this muffled, high-pitched, voice that seemed to be pleading for help. And there was a soft lump beneath the left side of his stomach (onto which he had just rolled) that – no - that definitely should not be there.

“Hrrmmzzzt...”

(squeak!)

“Hmmmm…?”

Adema reached beneath him and found a soft… something. He lifted his weight slightly and closed his hand around the intruding form. It was furry and it wriggled weakly. (squeak) Adema brought his fist up to his face and forced one heavy eyelid open just as a little white, whiskered face, with beady black eyes, pert little ears and quite the angular snout, poked its way between his thumb and index finger.

“Hello,” Adema whispered.

Adema relaxed his grip, but the little mouse just lay there in his hand, apparently exhausted or out of breath, its head resting sideways on Adema’s thumb. Adema amused himself by moving his thumb up and down and watching the tiny head riding it like a cloth rag being shaken out a window.

“Poor little fellow. Got yourself into a tight squeeze this time didn’t you?”

Adema sat up and opened his hand, turning it palm up so the mouse would not fall off. He brought his other hand over the mouse and gentle rubbed the loose skin of its flank with one finger.

“Wake up sleepy-head, time to get up. Come on little fellow…”

With one eye open, Adema sleepily regaled his snoozing guest like this, for how long he knew not, and after an indeterminate amount of time, his soft cooing and gentle ministrations had the desired result: like a stretched spring released, the mouse shot to its feet and sprang from Adema’s hand…

Well, almost. For even at such an ungodly hour of the morning, Adema’s reflexes were lightening-quick and before the furry speed demon could fly from his hand, Adema’s fist closed firmly around it. He brought the struggling creature up to his face and stared into its jet black eyes.

“Not so fast little one. Is that anyway to behave? I can’t have you running around here causing trouble. Some of the ladies aren’t exactly fond of your type - no offense, of course, little sir.”

Adema stood up and walked over to the window, opened the latch and pushed open the heavy glass pane.

“There you go,” said Adema as he gently tossed the mouse to the flat and even walkway outside his first floor room. It landed in a perfectly mousy, four-footed stance, its claws spread out from its body and firmly gripping the ground. For a moment it seemed to freeze on the dry, hard footpath.

Adema noticed its hesitation and coaxed it. “Best not to stay out in the open too long, little fellow.” He scanned the sky and then continued, “There’s danger up above.”

As if on cue the mouse shot across the walkway and into the high, concealing lawn that surrounded the faculty dormitory. With a satisfied grunt, Adema began pulling the window shut, but a quick movement in the grass near the spot into which his morning companion had just run caught his attention. He pushed the window back open, just in time to see a large, dusky cat emerging from the grass with a short, hairless tail hanging from its closed mouth.

Adema lips came together in a pout and then parted with these words, “And down below as well.”

* * *

…and continued with a leak…

Breakfast in the faculty dining hall was a study in human routine. Most of the monks were as regular as clockwork, even to point of arriving for the morning meal with such precise timing that their order in the long line up to the serving table was invariably the same one day to the next. And their appetites were equally predictable, so that the servers did not need to ask what they wanted for breakfast, and the monks did not even have to say, “the usual.”

As such there was little talking required, and scant conversation offered, other than the routine pleasantries:

“Morning, brother.”

“Morning, brother.”

“Morning, brother.”

“Morning, brother.”

And so on…

Six days a week Adema took his breakfast like a spoke in a wheel turning endlessly over a monotonous road with no turns or byways. But once a week he could break the routine. As a civilian fighting master he was free of the religious obligations owed by the ordained monks, and unlike most of the other laity, he chose not to sleep late on the Sabbath, but instead enjoyed getting up early to stroll whistling into a nearly empty dining hall.

With so few to serve the cooks were happy to provide whatever he asked. He made a point of sampling the full variety of the kitchen, but his favorite was a large pile of raw ground beef with lots of salt and a raw egg over it all. That was good eating.

Afterward he would spend the morning walking it off, and generally not eat again until the next day. It was revitalizing to eat like that, alone in the wide empty room; to eat his fill and belch liberally, to stretch his arms and scratch his belly, to take his time and not worry about elbowing any straight-backed, starched capuchins sitting next to him.

But not on weekdays. On weekdays he could choose from warm gruel, eggs, some type of gritty sausage, and brown bread. He generally ate lightly before his morning classes. “Eggs please, and some bread.” Adema always spoke to the servers even though they knew his order as well as any. ‘Thank you,” he said as they handed him his plate.

Adema sat in his usual place, with his usual table-mates, and as usual, began to break the yolks of his sunny-side up eggs, which he intended to, as usual, sop up with his bread. One of the yolks ran with a streak of red as he pushed the side of his fork into it - not a normal feature of his daily routine.

Having grown up on a farm, Adema had seen this before. Some eggs would gestate a little too long before ending up on someone’s plate and the result would be a nascent blood vessel ready to leak a drop of blood onto the fork or knife of the unsuspecting diner. Uncommon? Yes. Unusual? Maybe. Surprising? Not all that much; but not so the reactions of the monks sitting around him.

Beginning with Brother Cyprian to his right, “Adema has slain the beast,” and moving across the table, “He has saved us from evil incarnate,” then to the left, “It’s a miracle brothers!” and back across the table, “Praise the Lady, her champion has come.”

Adema was dumb-struck by their words. Were they serious? The monks usually were. He kept his eyes down for a while, but finally had to sneak a peak at their faces: grins all around. Monkish humor, Adema mused, now that’s one for the books!

* * *

(continued in next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post)

* * *

… and finally, a slap on the cheek…

Adema liked to show off a bit. Not so much to feed his own ego, but because he understood that a good measure of any teacher’s success depended on their personal appeal to their students. One of his tried and true techniques was to give a lesson to one student while the whole class watched, and during the often rapid exchanges and loud clacks of the wooden practice weapons, he would turn his head and look away. Like this, he would speak to the class on a related subject, perhaps discussing the techniques being demonstrated, but the whole time he would tailor his manner to appear as one completely unconcerned with, and even somewhat unaware of, the aggressive actions being taken against him.

At times he could be quite the showman, an orchestral conductor with a rather large baton, if you will. As he was always in complete control of the action he could vary the tempo of the parry-riposte combinations at will: a regular thwack-thwack-thwack when it suited his oratory, a metronome to his monotone, or a rap-rap, pause, rap-rap-rap, an exciting jig, if needed, to fan their waning attention. His trademark move was the big-smile-finish; he would capture one lucky watcher’s gaze, raise his eyebrows to telegraph his intentions, and with a delicious smile and a swashbuckling flourish of almost indiscernible martial legerdemain, plant the last satisfying thud on the head or chest of the always-astonished student on the receiving end of his staff. And so it was today...

Well, almost. Before the winning smile had fully bloomed, and quite before the swash had finished buckling, Adema felt the surprising impact of a round wooden pole against the ridge of his cheek. Smack! (How attentive the class suddenly became!) The unprecedented blow sent a ripple of tension through the class, and the student who had delivered it was positively mortified. (You didn’t hit masters in the face during a lesson, especially in front of the whole class!)

Adema, however, did not miss a beat. He explained very calmly that the student, rather than executing the riposte properly, had taken a short-cut. By maneuvering the end of his staff through a tight figure eight, he had managed to evade Adema’s parry, but without the full arc of the correct return swing, the blow, though delivered in half the normal tempo, had landed without substantial force. “In a real battle,” Adema emphasized, “the touch would be inconsequential. Worse, it would leave you wide-open for a return stroke. And should your opponent be armed with an axe or great sword,” Adema paused for impact, “that stroke could be your last.”

Adema suppressed a smile as the chilling consequences of his words settled with visible discomfort into each every one of his students. It had turned out to be a very effective lesson indeed, and thinking that he could not have planned it better had he tried, dismissed his class to practice the day’s lesson, and shook hands with the still-dazed student. While still holding the boy’s hand in his firm grip, Adema asked him who had taught him that move. “Kurst,” said the boy, and Adema sent the boy on his way with a friendly pat on the back. I should have known, he thought, and a grin stretched out over his stubbly chin.

What a day it had been, he mused, one surprising turn after another. Waiting to rub his reddening cheek until after he stepped into his tent and lowered the flap, Adema reflected upon his very eventful morning: the mouse saved and then taken, the irreverent humor over a bleeding egg, his near disgrace in front of the class turned into a stunning victory; all nuggets in a golden thread of experience, all little gems to sparkle through his past, to be savored in remembering and relished in retelling.

And all lost in the shocking sight of Rubia’s desperate countenance. All buried beneath the nerve-jarring urgency of Rubia’s horrifying pleas. All forgotten in the glare of the burning moment.

As Adema ran headlong up the stairs and down the long corridor to the northeast tower, as the powerful strides of his athletic legs sent his heart pounding and his feet crashing over the hard floors leading to the stone threshold of Graves’ door, he could still hear Rubia’s words: “He’s killing him!”

“What? Rubia, who? Who’s killing who?”

“The boy! The poor boy. I knew it was wrong! That awful man, that awful, evil man-“

“Who, Rubia?” Who!”

“Kurst! It’s Kurst! He’s…”

But Adema had not waited to hear Rubia’s explanation. The look on her face was enough for him, that and the knowledge of whom Kurst was with.

And now as he sped toward the doorway to Graves’ room his mind raced ahead and reached inside it. What did he imagine? Graves: somehow revivified, large, sinister and menacing, standing tall over a battered and – no! not lifeless – body of Kurst, poor Kurst. Hurry, Adema; you must hurry!

And to the door, and forcing his taut, muscular body though a hard right angle, Adema entered the room at great speed and almost stepped on poor Kurst, bent on his hands and knees just inside the doorway, a rag in one hand and a bucket beside him, placidly washing the floor like a common peasant drudge.

Adema saw Kurst just in time. With an athlete’s strength and a dancer’s agility, Adema pushed off the floor and leaped over Kurst, retracting his legs just in time to avoid kicking the kneeling boy’s lowered head of matted and frightfully disheveled hair. Adema sailed through the air, and though unable to fully maintain his balance, managed to turn his fall into an improvised shoulder roll and got back on his feet so quickly as to make a cat blush with envy.

What happened in Adema’s airborne moment stretched out in his mind like a bed sheet billowing in the wind: Kurst, a mess, washing the floor, but seemingly unharmed, and Graves just as Adema remembered him, a deathly pale, sickeningly old man, an almost nothing, barely a bas relief in the ornate bed spread.

And landing lightly, he noticed how his noisy entrance broke the calm of the utterly quiet room. How his pounding heart seemed to fill his ears. How astonished he was to view this peaceful scene: Graves asleep on the bed; Kurst meekly washing the floor. How his ears pounded. How his head ached.

When Graves spoke Adema did not hear the words. He only heard the sound in his ears becoming more than a pounding, and began to realize the source of it was something other than his own body; it became a din, and soon it seemed to Adema’s clouding mind to be the reverberations of a monstrous echo within the dome of an enormous cathedral. Through the entrances and into the halls and chapels came a thunderous cadence, the marching of an unholy multitude, an unconquerable army of hell coming to destroy the world.

And Adema trembled in fear.

“Well, what have we here? Another warrior or a carnival clown?” said Graves. And then the room filled with his ghastly chuckling…

[RevenantsKnight]

I rather liked this long, slightly wandering look at Adema; in general, I’ll read anything that I know will have half this much on a character. As usual, this read fairly smoothly; the description in particular was excellent (how do you keep coming up with all these images and ideas, anyway?) Anyway, on to the specifics:

Adema’s body knew it was not quite time to get up yet, but there was this muffled, high-pitched, voice that seemed to be pleading for help.

I think the comma after “high-pitched” is unnecessary.

Adema relaxed his grip, but the little mouse just lay there in his hand, apparently exhausted or out of breath, its head resting sideways on Adema’s thumb. Adema amused himself by moving his thumb up and down and watching the tiny head riding it like a cloth rag being shaken out a window.

A general note: you might want to find a suitable synonym/title for Adema, so you don’t have to use his name as much as you do. In the above example, you could reword the second use of his name to “...resting sideways on the master’s thumb...”

“Got yourself into a tight squeeze this time didn’t you?”

There should be a comma after “time.”

He brought his other hand over the mouse and gentle rubbed the loose skin of its flank with one finger.

Hrm...did you mean “gently” there? Also, don’t mice have fur on their flanks, not exposed skin?

“Wake up sleepy-head, time to get up. Come on little fellow…”

Strictly speaking, there should be commas after the first “up” and “on,” and a semicolon after “sleepy-head.” Realistically, you could probably get away without the semicolon and the second comma; the first part, though, reads as if Adema’s telling the mouse to wake up a third party named “sleepy-head.”

With one eye open, Adema sleepily regaled his snoozing guest like this, for how long he knew not, and after an indeterminate amount of time, his soft cooing and gentle ministrations had the desired result: like a stretched spring released, the mouse shot to its feet and sprang from Adema’s hand…

Aw...he likes animals. Nicely done with the character detail. Some stylistic things: “...for how long he knew not” seems redundant given that you say it’s an “indeterminate” amount of time. Also, “like this” sounds a bit awkward to me, and I think you might be able to just delete it.

For even at such an ungodly hour of the morning, Adema’s reflexes were lightening-quick and before the furry speed demon could fly from his hand, Adema’s fist closed firmly around it.

That should be “lightning.”

“Not so fast little one. Is that anyway to behave?”

Another technicality: there should be a comma after “fast.” Additionally, I’ve usually seen “any way” as two words in this context, though I don’t know if the single word’s right or not.

As if on cue the mouse shot across the walkway and into the high, concealing lawn that surrounded the faculty dormitory.

Maybe it’s just me, but “faculty dormitory” sounds a bit too reminiscent of the modern (or at least not-medieval) college. Both words work in terms of meaning and chronological age, but the image I’m getting from them just doesn’t seem to fit a monastery.

Six days a week Adema took his breakfast like a spoke in a wheel turning endlessly over a monotonous road with no turns or byways.

A vivid image, and one that works well with the atmosphere. :)

It was revitalizing to eat like that, alone in the wide empty room; to eat his fill and belch liberally, to stretch his arms and scratch his belly, to take his time and not worry about elbowing any straight-backed, starched capuchins sitting next to him.

I think the semicolon after “room” should be a comma. Other than that, I liked this passage, as it was semi-humorous and smile-inducing without being overly out of sync with the tone.

Some eggs would gestate a little too long before ending up on someone’s plate and the result would be a nascent blood vessel ready to leak a drop of blood onto the fork or knife of the unsuspecting diner.

Well, this certainly was a clear explanation (and a rather interesting phenomenon). Trouble is, it underlines the difference between what the characters in this story know and what the narrator and reader know. It’s always a little jolting when this sort of thing occurs, so I’d see if you can’t rewrite this to duck some of the more technical language (“gestate” comes to mind.) If not, though, then it’s probably not a huge deal.

He kept his eyes down for a while, but finally had to sneak a peak at their faces: grins all around.

That should be “peek.”

At times he could be quite the showman, an orchestral conductor with a rather large baton, if you will.

Again, I don’t know if you want to use the direct address here; although it works pretty well, it also breaks with the narration. If you want to change this, you could just delete the entire thing, or replace it with something like “perhaps.”

(You didn’t hit masters in the face during a lesson, especially in front of the whole class!)

Same comment as above. In this case, though, I think this would lose some of its punch if you shifted it from “you,” so you could just stick with it.

“Worse, it would leave you wide-open for a return stroke.”

I don’t think “wide open” is hyphenated.

It had turned out to be a very effective lesson indeed, and thinking that he could not have planned it better had he tried, dismissed his class to practice the day’s lesson, and shook hands with the still-dazed student.

Grammatically, there should be a comma after the first “and,” and you need a “he” or something before “dismissed,” because if you remove the preceding clause, you get “It had turned out to be a very effective lesson indeed, and dismissed...”

Waiting to rub his reddening cheek until after he stepped into his tent and lowered the flap, Adema reflected upon his very eventful morning: the mouse saved and then taken, the irreverent humor over a bleeding egg, his near disgrace in front of the class turned into a stunning victory; all nuggets in a golden thread of experience, all little gems to sparkle through his past, to be savored in remembering and relished in retelling.

A very memorable and pleasant image indeed. One grammatical note: I think the last complete clause should start “all were nuggets...” or something like that.

The last part with Adema and Graves was quite gripping; after all that you describe here, Adema’s reaction really goes a long way towards showing the power Graves wields. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

A lot of good catches today. I agreed with just about all of your comments, but just to keep it interesting, here's short list of dissenting opinion:

Well, this certainly was a clear explanation (and a rather interesting phenomenon). Trouble is, it underlines the difference between what the characters in this story know and what the narrator and reader know. It’s always a little jolting when this sort of thing occurs, so I’d see if you can’t rewrite this to duck some of the more technical language (“gestate” comes to mind.) If not, though, then it’s probably not a huge deal. This is a very interesting comment, and a new concept for me. I agree it's probably something to watch out for, but I wrote this to indicate what Adema knew, and reading it back it still sounds that way to me. No doubt it is my "author's blinders." I'll definitely look it over a few more times.

Again, I don’t know if you want to use the direct address here; although it works pretty well, it also breaks with the narration. If you want to change this, you could just delete the entire thing, or replace it with something like “perhaps.” This is a good comment, but in this case, I think I do. The way the next chapter is shaping up, I just might spend the majority of it talking to the reader, so warming up to that style in the previous chapter might turn out to be a good thing.


Grammatically, there should be a comma after the first “and,” Okay, I might as well come clean. I've made a unilateral decision never to punctuate "and" like this ever again: "..., and, ..." I understand the grammatical logic of it, but to me, it looks ugly and I generally don't hear any pause after the "and." Here's an example. "I put on my shoes and hat, and though the sky was clear, I took my umbrella too." The part "though the sky was clear" could drop right out of the sentence, and as such, it should be enclosed within commas, but I just think it is unnecessary. Is it really unclear without the second comma? If you read it out loud do you put a pause between "and" and "though"? I don't. It seems like a special case where the rules can and should be bent to improve the flow. I've begun noticing examples in novels and other published works where the second commas are NOT used, and I very much prefer it that way. I'd be interested in your comments on this. (BTW, the "and as such" above is another example of where an "and" might be double-comma'd. Did you notice?)


As always, thanks so much for taking the time to leave these great comments. It is very helpful and always very welcome.

[RevenantsKnight]

Okay, I might as well come clean. I've made a unilateral decision never to punctuate "and" like this ever again: "..., and, ..." I understand the grammatical logic of it, but to me, it looks ugly and I generally don't hear any pause after the "and."

Heh. I should say that I don't always follow this rule, hence my use of the modifier "grammatically." In this particular case, I didn't think it'd make too much of a difference in terms of flow with the comma. Also, without it, it sounds kinda weird to me because "and thinking" suggests that there was another verb, such as "walking," before the phrase. However, there are some instances in this chapter, such as "...and unlike most of the other laity," where I'd just not bother with the comma. Yes, you could drop out "unlike most of the other laity," but another comma seems excessive to me, because "and unlike" doesn't really feel like it should be preceded by something specific.

If you read it out loud do you put a pause between "and" and "though"?

That depends on whether the reader's "annul" or not. ;)

It seems like a special case where the rules can and should be bent to improve the flow. I've begun noticing examples in novels and other published works where the second commas are NOT used, and I very much prefer it that way.

I agree that this seems to be a more flexible rule than, say, the use of capital letters at the beginning of a sentence. On this particular topic, I tend to flag sentences only if they make me pause, because it's often a stylistic call.

(BTW, the "and as such" above is another example of where an "and" might be double-comma'd. Did you notice?)

Yep. I'd fudge that one too, especially since "and as such" is a (sort of) common phrase.

As always, thanks so much for taking the time to leave these great comments. It is very helpful and always very welcome.

My pleasure. Thanks for posting your story!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 10: Mercy

We must not judge Adema too harshly.

For this farm boy turned warrior who had never known war, for this disciplined skeptic who had never bowed to superstition, what he now suffered within the chill, stone room resounding with Graves’ cruel and impossibly powerful laughter was not only terrifying but also absolutely unbelievable.

Still, if he stood quaking, howling in fear, quivering the way a small child would who thought that this time, the boogie man really was coming – still, he stood: his back straight, his knees unbent, and he did not fall. If he lost all notion of masterly bearing, if, in his ordeal, he became as oblivious to the concepts of dignity and self composure as a bullfrog is to the notion of proper etiquette – still, he did not panic nor lose his will to fight.

But how could such things be?

How could the mere sound of this strange old man’s laughter so completely fill his mind and overpower his will? How could it bring such visions, and how could he know them to be real, which he did, even as he knew them to be the creation of Graves’ mind within his. How could he know these things? And how could he know that the scenes Graves showed him were not merely imaginings, not mere inventions of a deranged mind, but irrefutable history itself, as real and as certain as the memory of his own heartbeat just a moment after its peal?

Whether it was the past or the future that he saw being devoured by legions of hellish creatures, or if it were only history that could be, and thus, too, might not be - as he hoped - he could not tell. But that the endless ranks of grinning soldiers of misfortune were real was, to him, a dead certainty, and in his mind’s eye he saw all he had known or would ever know lying well within their reach.

But this is surely madness!

If these things were true, if he could know them to be true, if he could be forcibly held helpless and be shown them by an unmoving man lying halfway across the room, if this was possible: what, then, was impossible? If these things that could not be, could - somehow - be, then what could not be? In the face of these questions he could only suspect that the world, as he knew it, was not the world. And the sky above and the earth below were become oceans of mystery he had never even considered. And of all the things that he had disbelieved, the one most denied and feared was the idea that pure evil really existed.

All Adema had ever learned of evil consisted, in his estimation, of a pale mythology and tall tales. The monks’ oratories were as full of devils as the library was of books, and when the sun went down on the town tavern, it buzzed with as many tales of ghouls, ghosts, and ghastly beasts as a beehive has bees. And though he respected the religion of the monastery, he never took it literally, and as for the tavern’s nightly buzz of evil spirits encountered and escaped, well, he knew first-hand what nightmares a bottle of cheap liquor could conjure. All these things, he flatly refused to believe.

And now, as Graves poured a century of livid evil into the shallow basin of his understanding, as the machinations of an enemy, of which he had not even been aware, became known to him in gruesome and intimate detail, his mind, with its crisply rational view of the world, like a strong hardwood never bent before any wind, snapped in the maelstrom of Graves irresistible history.

And when it was over Adema still stood, but within his battered mind his broken reason shambled like a blinded bull among brambles; charging this way and that, lowering its horns to gore Graves’ merciless visions, but in all directions finding nothing of substance against which to pound his throbbing head, and coming away bloodied from every charge.

And still refusing to believe: what had just happened could not have happened,
could not have happened, could not have happened…

Unless.

Unless it was all true! The drunken tales, the myriad superstitions, the monks’ tangled mythology of devils and angels…, ghosts…, demons…

Hell!

And under the unsupportable weight of that word, unless, Adema felt the ground give way beneath his feet.

Not too harshly now, not too harshly, judge we Adema. Is it disappointing to see him struggling to keep the breath in his lungs, struggling to unclench his cramped leg muscles? Are we embarrassed for him as he lurches across the room, from below the foot of the bed and around the side where he can get a better look at the sinister sleeper?

And what would we have him say now, if we could put the words in his mouth, as he shouts at Graves out of sheer defiance and steel will? Would we have him be erudite and clever, perhaps mirroring the sophisticated and cruel confidence of the masterly Graves? Would that do for our hero?

And what do we think when he merely lurches against the wall several feet from the bed and snarls more than speaks to Graves.

“What are you?”

Is that clever enough for us? Perhaps now we think of Adema as a country bumpkin, a low-bred commoner to speak this way. And what if he were to stand leaning heavily against the rough walls in mute rage waiting for Graves to answer, and after hearing no response, what if he were to repeat it again with even more brutish emphasis?

“What ARE you?”

(No answer.)

Perhaps Graves is smiling. Adema can’t tell. Perhaps Graves is dreaming up another way to torture poor Adema. Do we admire this aspect of Graves: his unreserved cruelty? Do we condone his sadism while looking away in shame from Adema who struggles under the weight of the best angels of humanity: courage, loyalty, and devotion to duty?

How is it that we do not think poorly of Graves? Fear him, perhaps, but do we presume to judge him? No. But poor Adema, why do we expect so much more of him? Why will only a heroic act do for our outmatched protagonist who must stand alone? Look at him: panting, leaning heavily against the cold, stone wall for support, his head curled across his shoulder to look back at Graves, his face contorted in disbelief, his body a starkly sculpted homage to the word cringe.

And all Graves does is smother him in silence. And Adema is as helpless in the absence of sound as he was moments before in its overwhelming presence. We should pity him, for he has discovered that his world is not his world.

But still, Adema is Adema.

“Answer me!” he shouts.

(Not a sound from Graves.)


continued in next post ...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post


Does his shouting impress us? (As it clearly does not impress Graves?) And as Adema pushes himself away from the wall, as he gathers himself over unsteady legs and staggers a step towards the bed, what do we expect? Do we think he can now throw off his weakness like a dog shaking off droplets of water, and finally emerge as the unconquerable hero, to turn the tables on the enigmatic Graves and snatch victory from defeat?

Really?

Watch, and be not disappointed, as Adema rolls on his feet like a fishing boat in a gale trying to keep its mast up, readying himself to challenge the monster. What does he hope to accomplish? Does a flea challenge the dog it pricks?

But, still, Adema is Adema. He can do naught but fight; he can do naught but challenge this dread foe who lies nearly within his absent sword’s reach.

“Answer me! Answer me! You’ll not ignore me monster! Look at me when I speak to you, or by all that’s holy, I’ll drag your carcass from that bed and vomit my words into your horrid skull!”

Brave words, eh? Do we like Adema better now? Does it matter that the brave heart in Adema’s brave chest pounded so violently that he could barely spit the words out between gasps? Now what? Keep watching.

Watch as Graves opens one eye, the one nearest to Adema. Poor Adema. This eye, this one eye, turns to look at him, but not as your eye or mine would do. For this eye, not content to roll in its socket the way eyes do, began to swell unevenly, bulging in odd places as if there was a fist within it, groping and pushing up on the flexible, watery surface.

And when it seemed as if the squirming eye would burst, it instead heaved itself up, and with a squishy popping sound, jumped out of the socket and onto Graves’ cheek like a fat tadpole beaching itself on the smooth muddy slant at pond’s edge. And then it hoisted its watery globe of a body up and over the side of Graves’ face and perched there, slowly rolling side-to-side surveying the scene of Adema’s bold stance, and finally coming to rest focused on Adema’s own disbelieving eyes.

And what now? Do we fault Adema, the broken man that he is, with his faith in a predictable, explainable world shattered, for falling even further in the sight of this impertinent, impossible eyeball? Should he not be mortified by this tiny homunculus staring him down, fixing him in its unnatural gaze, and pinning him to the floor like some human butterfly on display for inhuman masters?

The owner of the wayward eye speaks. “Oh, Kurst. It would seem we have another little puddle for you to clean up. Do be a good boy, and when you’ve finished with your lovely little lake of puke, do drag your bucket over here and clean up this sturdy fellow’s piss, won’t you?”

Well, what of it? What if Adema did feel as if an icy cold hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and chilled him to the bone? And what if that chilling sensation did creep down his spine as the horrible eyeball crawled out of Graves head, and what if it did take hold of his bowels and bladder as the disgusting thing ogled him over the side of Graves’ face? So what? Would we have fared any better?

At least let us credit him for gathering himself yet again after yet another shattering display of impossibility by Graves. Is it not to his credit that he still stands at all, that he very deliberately and willfully staunches the yellow streak trickling down his leg? Does it impress us that he is able to do so? Does it surprise us that Adema can still be Adema, or have any notion of himself left at all after what he has seen?

Backing hastily to the wall, lest he fall, burying his heavy head in his arms and breathing, breathing, and breathing; gathering himself again for…, for what? What can poor Adema do against this monster? But still he is Adema. No matter what he unlearns, no matter what new horrors appear to shred his long-held beliefs, he is still Adema, and fighting is what he knows - at this point, perhaps, all he knows.

Pushing himself away from the wall again: staggering, standing, stammering, and finally speaking:

“You…, you…”

But as if preempting any potential heroics, and without warning, Graves suddenly sat up in bed; sat up without any warning sign, with no visible effort, with no evidence of motive power or mechanical action. His body, from a fully prone position lying flat on the bed, slid silently backward and upward, curving along the pillows bunched at the headboard and curling into an upright sitting position.

No wrinkling of the sheets, no undulations of the mattress under shifting weight, and no movement of his arms or legs, just a slow gliding motion of his whole body, like a stream of honey sliding down the side of a crock, but sliding sideways and then upwards, moving in profile like the slatted cover of an inverted roll-top desk.

Imagine watching a splash of water cascade up a wall; imagine seeing rain drops fleeing up into the sky or a resplendent leaf dancing on an autumn lawn without the aid of a breeze. These are not threatening actions in and of themselves, but the implications of such casual violations of natural law are nothing if not earth-shaking.

Such was Adema’s view as Graves’ unflexing, untwitching, and seemingly inert body came quietly, effortlessly and impossibly to a nice, comfortable sitting position, just like the one that Kurst had seen before his world was mercilessly brought crashing down upon him.

Graves now smiled at Adema ever so slightly, and with two now-properly seated eyeballs proceeded to look the poor, disheveled Adema up and down with emphasis, as if demonstrating that he were trying ever so hard, but failing, to find anything with which to be impressed.

“So, this is the great fighting master. And is this your best technique - pissing on the floor?”

Indeed, the meandering stream of urine had begun to flow again.

How can we blame Adema? Now, with another impossibility demonstrated, now, with the impossible Graves confronting him face to face, with that monstrous, marble face of Graves confronting his all too human face; a face which, when compared with that of Graves, was replete with human weakness: doubt and fear, shame and despair.

Can we do this? Can we do it properly? Can we watch with the proper respect; can we muster the sincere sympathy that Adema surely deserves as he finally collapses, as the cracks in the foundation of his steadfast belief in a whole, coherent, logical reality become wide chasms of confusion and dread, and his reason becomes utterly helpless in the face of Graves’ apparent mastery of the impossible?

Surely you must be thinking by now that this Adema is no hero. Would a hero throw himself against the wall like a dizzy drunkard hugging a convenient tree, or any other solid and unspinning reference point just to keep himself from falling flat on the ground? Would a hero cringe before an emaciated old man, who thus far has confined himself to his comfortable bed and pillows? Will you turn away now in shame and disgust? Will you turn now to something familiar and comfortable that will help you put the disturbing image of Adema’s humiliation and failure out of your mind?

Would Adema?

Under Graves’ merciless stare Adema approaches the brink. He is now at the point of losing even himself, on the edge of an abyss from which there could be no return. What now? What further horrors did Graves have in store for him? If Graves could conjure nightmares with his laughter, could dispatch his eyes from their sockets like impish minions, could levitate himself with no earthly motive force, what could he not do? So many new possibilities. So many unconsidered eventualities. So many fears.

But the human soul has depths that may be left unfathomed over a life of ease and comfort, and resources unknown until the moment of need. Memories of his life came flooding to him then, and from far away, deep in his childhood, came a reservoir of innocence, which held not a single drop of despair.

What young child does not harbor secret fears birthed over nights lying awake in the darkness? What young imagination does not fly to the realm of fear and its infinite, if dreadful, possibilities? Adema was no different than anyone else in that respect. And now, in the shattering presence of Graves, the multitude of fears that Adema had put to bed as he grew into adulthood, woke up and came to him, like countless sleepwalkers in the dark, calling his name, and coming to get him.

What now?


continued in next post ...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post


Fight or flight; that is instinct. (Fight!) Because Adema is Adema, he would have thrown himself at Graves then. Leaping at his throat, not like a master of the martial arts, but like an animal; not to subdue him, or defeat him, but to kill him, destroy him utterly, to break every bone in his body and scatter the splinters on barren ground.

What would have happened? What new trick would Graves have pulled from his sleeve had Adema actually attempted the kind of physical action so familiar to his students on the practice training grounds that he daily prowled? Perhaps he would have killed Graves, or have been killed himself, struck down by some new unsuspected power.

We do not know, and will never know, for at that moment Rubia entered the room in a loud, wild march like a broken toy, disrupting any previously plotted course of action, and spinning the wheel of fate like a child’s top on to some new, random and unknowable consequence.

How could we have forgotten the distraught matron? And what have we not seen - the passage of this indomitable, if somewhat hobbling, woman following in Adema’s path to this crucible of horrors? Had Graves known of her imminent arrival? What if he had? Can we hear him mewling in anticipation, his tongue slithering like a snake, relishing the approach of another tasty morsel: come, Rubia, come. Bring your surfeit of concern and worry. Bring your baseless but copious faith in goodness, bring your righteous courage, bring your selfless devotion to duty, do come: more fuel for the fire.

And come she did, bringing not only her hopes and fears, but an exhausted heart, faltering legs, a reddened and panting face, and a dry, hoarse throat that was by now all but voiceless.

Upon entering the room, her first word:

“Kurst!” (Like a bull snorting.)

But Kurst will not look up. He has not looked up since Adema entered the room. Kurst shows, and has shown, no sign of awareness of any of the events unfolding behind him, or of any aspect of the room other than his rag and bucket, and his small puddle of puke that has been slowly shrinking under the effects of his silent, almost mechanical drudgery.

It would seem that Kurst is far away, perhaps telling himself, just wipe the floor…, just wipe the floor. Perhaps he has fled mentally to his tranquil world with the shining, smiling man, whose image helped Kurst endure the onslaughts of Graves’ overpowering laughter. Perhaps he is in full retreat, not caring what befalls Adema or anyone, as long as he can quell his own pain and anguish. Or perhaps not, but for the moment, he utterly ignores Rubia.

Word number two:

“Adema!” (Like a dog barking.)

But Adema will not look to her either. How can he – poised as he is on the edge of a guillotine blade, barely a moment away from the fatal mistake of physically assaulting Graves.

And now Rubia looks at Graves and sees him sitting upright and calm, his face so full of self-assurance and a hard, cruel look of amusement on his face.

Three:

“You!” (Like a lion roaring.)

With new energy, Rubia marches to Adema’s side and rails at Graves in her thrashed, bullfrog voice.

“You! Bego-o-one. You have stayed long enough in this house.” As before Graves makes no reply. And Rubia continues “How dare you come here? How dare you! You do not deserve to sleep among-”

“QUIET!”

Graves’ deep bass voice rang out in a magnificent and terrible peal that echoed in the room and seemed to shake the very walls themselves. And Rubia, too, was shaken to her foundation.

“How dare I madam? How dare you! How dare you speak to me of being undeserving? Do you think I need your permission? Foolish woman! I do not dwell here by your leave.” Graves now looked at both Rubia and Adema and continued as if to both of them. “It is you who have me to thank for the use of this place. Have you such short memories? Does not the dim scrawl of your sacred texts tell you of a champion who rescued this place from disaster? Have you forgotten why it is that you call me Slayer?”

Rubia does not answer, cannot answer, and the taut lines about her eyes and the deep lines in her forehead give ample evidence of her full understanding of the pain that Kurst and Adema have come to know so well by the voice of Graves.

“It was I who once before visited this place when it had all but fallen, when those few that remained here were facing annihilation. It was I who cleansed this monastery of the demonic infestation that had grown up under your cow pastures while your dim and foolish ancestors lowed sleepily with their cattle. And it was I who scoured the countryside of the evil scourge that had pushed your pathetic species nearly to extinction.

“And for what! (Booming!)

“For what I ask? To see this beautiful world trampled and overrun by unworthy cattle like you two. To return here one day and be confronted by a frothing cow who would turn an elderly man out of a bed he had so richly earned? I have a mind to undo all I have done. And make no mistake, if the spirit move me I will not only end your miserable lives but bring this entire castle down upon the heads of all who dwell here; and stone by stone I will raze this place to ground, and salt the earth with the ungrateful dust of your crushed bones.”

Rubia clenches her arms around Adema’s thick neck and tries to bury her head against his shoulder; Adema turns his body toward her and wraps her in his embrace. They are beyond fear now, in the grip of a terrifying power so overwhelming that their minds can do nothing but turn away, and their legs can only grip the floor with a tree-like obstinacy. Come what may, they are little more than stationary targets now, passive fodder for whatever Graves would thrown at them. And Graves was not one to make threats lightly.

And then from Rubia, poor Rubia, who, unlike Adema, had always believed the monks’ parables, the tales of demons, and the townfolks’ superstitious whisperings – had always believed and had therefore always lived in quiet dread of the day when this evil would be visited upon her – from Rubia, who’s day of reckoning had come, who was now feeling her worst fears unfold around her, from speechless Rubia, terrified beyond the point of any rational thought, came a low, pitiful moan: wordless and yet unmistakable in its meaning, an expression of pure misery.

Its effect on both Graves and Kurst was profound, and as the long, droning monosyllable stretched from Rubia’s mouth to both ends of the room like a wretched victim on a torturer’s rack, it communicated a stirring message that was at once both insufferable and infuriating. The two listeners could not have reacted more differently.

For Graves it was the sweet sound of the evidence of his power over these weak humans, but though he now laughed and seemed to take renewed pleasure in his torments, his words were steeped in bitterness.

“Do you think you suffer, woman? Do you even know what real suffering is? Can you imagine what I have suffered over a century of struggle with evils so powerful your tiny mind could not even conceive of them? Or, do you imagine me to be the incarnation of evil which you have so long dreaded?”

But Rubia was not listening, could not listen, and seeing this Graves turned to Adema.

“And you warrior, are you so helpless in the face of these feeble little trinkets of power that I have revealed to you today? Do you have any idea of the horrors I have faced? Indeed, faced. And if you had to face them now, what is left to you as you stand there in your puddle of piss. Surely that copious bladder of yours is now empty. What is your next great stratagem, oh master tactician? Will you open your veins and pour your precious blood on the floor to scare the nasty Graves away?

“Answer me! Are those not your words to me? Well, you shall find me somewhat harder to ignore than yourself, fool. Face this.”

And like a marionette on invisible strings Adema found himself turning to look at Graves. As soon as he laid eyes on Graves he could see that something in his already hideously menacing face had changed for the worse.

One cannot now say that Adema watched in horror as Graves’ face pushed forward and away from the bony frame of his skull, for Adema was past horror now. It was more like a watching done in numb resignation as Graves’ face took on a faint glow, as the eye sockets deepened and the lips stretched out and drew away from the teeth and gums.

While Graves’s head and body stayed behind, his face approached Adema, coming closer and closer until the shimmering fabric of skin connecting the protruded countenance to Graves’ skull stretched into narrow threads, which then proceeded to tear themselves free and snap into short lively tendrils that framed the disembodied mask like short, precocious tassels waving around a small, circular table rug.

As it hovered before Adema, this eyeless and throatless face of Graves, contorted into an obscene expression of delight and hate the likes of which no human skull could ever contain, as he felt the power of it, no mere wandering eyeball, nothing so harmless as a queer and inexplicable method of sitting up - this was true power he felt - and even as it approach to within inches of him, and he knew it to be the face of death coming to devour him, all Adema could do was watch and wait.


continued in next post...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post



Fortunately for poor Adema, who thus far has borne the brunt of Graves’ cruel attention, there was now another, more able, watcher in the room. Whom do you think? Let us turn back the page and recall the moment of Rubia’s desperate moan.

While Graves was responding to Rubia’s misery with indignation, anger and amusement, Kurst was reacting somewhat differently. For Kurst, who this whole time had seemed to notice nothing in his meek posture of servitude, Rubia’s suffering was salt on his already inflamed wounds, and the sound of her stirring moan was the pin that burst his bubble of self-absorbed misery and made him realize again that in this world there is something beyond oneself.

Rubia’s pathetic, almost infantile cry drew Kurst’s attention like a newly-lit and suddenly blazing beacon giving new life to a floundering ship’s crew that had given up all hope of finding land. Suddenly, he felt connected to Rubia through that sound of misery, so like his own, so deep, so complete, and in that sound he felt again what he too had suffered from Graves.

This connection to another’s feelings, this empathy with another person’s pain, brought a perspective to Kurst he had been sorely lacking. With this awareness, the insult and injury that he had been able to endure in himself, which he had balled up and stuffed away as a burning, throbbing ache in the pit of his stomach, which he had somehow made tolerable, was revealed as completely intolerable.

Not Rubia, he thought, not Adema. Me, but not them.

And with no conscious thought, and no plan of action, he dropped his rag, took to his feet, and stood tall.

Did Graves notice? How could he not, with his inhuman detectors of sound and smell? Perhaps he was too rapt in his cruel tortures, too self-indulged in his own delights? Perhaps he noticed the change in Kurst’s posture, while failing to notice the change within. And yet he did not seem to notice Kurst at all, as he continued railing against the helpless Rubia and Adema.

But another mind, yet another presence in that room, did notice.

Who or what could this be? Know this; neither Rubia nor Adema saw the change in Kurst. Is there yet another actor in that room? There is. Do you remember a frightful, to some, and wholly inhuman presence in that room? Do you remember the baleful creature that had so disturbed Rubia, and which, in Kurst’s possessed mind, seemed to have been the dark harbinger of Graves’ eerie power?

Recall the raven, that ebon bird, which on this day of terror and mental destruction seemed to hold court from its peripheral perch on the window sill?

But who can say with certainty what that unnatural watcher did or did not notice? Perhaps it was nothing more than the movement of a potential meal on the ground, or a sudden, avian yen for more lofty airs. It may signify nothing at all, but when Kurst stood and turned to face Graves, when he stepped toward him, and his body bent in determined opposition, the raven, issuing two shorts caws like a gavel struck twice to ceremoniously end the day’s proceedings, spread wide its wings, leapt from the window, and flew away.

Then, with the raven’s departure two things occur, and while it is tempting to assign cause and effect to these separate events, one cannot honestly do so. Not when the timing of said events is unfortunately obscured by the limitations of human perception to the vague concept of simultaneity. There is no first event, and there can be no definite sense of order to these things, but here they are, necessarily in sequence:

- The shimmering mask of death menacing Adema fades and vanishes like a puff of breath in frosty air. Graves’ face, his real face clinging to the ossified muscle and bone of his real head, droops in apparent weakness, his body shrinks and sags as he seems to actually lose height. He falls back against the bed, pushing feebly on it to keep from falling to the floor.

- Kurst steps in front of Adema, placing himself bodily between his faltering fighting master and Graves’ specter of power, and screams at Graves through it, his one word of power, the word that earlier had erupted uncalled from some unknown inner depths to save him from the nightmare forcibly placed into his tender mind.

And which was first? Was it Kurst, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his self-loathing, and unleashing a ferocious power somehow greater even than that of Graves, overcoming the one who had seemed so invincible, and chasing his dark companion away? Or was it the raven leaving the room on its own, and Graves, suddenly bereft of a powerful supporter, collapsing naturally like the weak, old man he was, an outcome that seemed to transform a child’s display of impotent fury into an act of power?

Where is the cause and where the effect? It is tempting to speculate. Was it the departure of the raven? Had that fell creature cast a spell over the occupants of the room, which in his absence, fell like mist to the floor, unleashing Kurst’s youthful strength and disenchanting Graves of his unearthly power? Or was it Kurst and his word of power, dispelling the evil power gripping the room, and rendering Graves weak and helpless? Who can say? But there is still the original question to consider.

What of Adema?

What wakes our forgotten hero now? Is it Kurst’s unnerving cry, now – somehow – sounding like an echo of Graves own powerful and invasive voice, or is it the sight of the dramatic change in Graves, no longer the monster, looking quite weak and defeated. Even Adema does not know. But now he wakes, as if from a dream, wipes the sweat from his heated brow and rounds on Graves, rousing himself, yet again, for something, anything, any tactic available for him to pursue against the terrifying Graves.

But is Adema still Adema?

The scene before him now is almost as unbelievable as what transpired before. Kurst, fierce and powerful, standing in front of him face-to-face with Graves and howling like a baboon: one sound, a monosyllabic statement of principle, one word of power: NOOO…

And Graves struggling just to keep on his feet; turning and leaning full on the bed, looking toward the window and watching as the raven soars away.

Adema watches as Graves turns back to the screaming Kurst, watches as the Graves’ expression of surprise fades to a look of fatigued resignation, watches as that face recoils from the fury of Kurst screaming yet again. He watches as Graves face turns grayer and his eyes close and his body withers to become again the barely breathing corpse he had known. He watches as Graves’ lips move slightly, slowly, and as Graves loses his grip on the bed and slumps toward the floor, and he watches as Kurst repeats the word No!, again and again, spit dripping from his mouth, and Graves’ wincing in pain, but yet a dignified wince, and his lips moving the whole time.

And what now Adema? Revenge? Now that Graves is subdued and helpless, will the hero emerge?

Stepping forth quickly, Adema catches Graves before he slides completely to the floor, and holding up a hand to quiet Kurst’s screaming, bends an ear to Graves’ faintly moving lips. In the quiet that follows, Adema, listening closely, makes out of Graves’ pathetically weak whispers, a single word: mercy.

Mercy, indeed.

And where should Adema find such a thing? From what unsundered pocket of virtue should Adema now draw this priceless quality? When he had shown himself to be helpless in the face of Graves’ unholy powers, when he had been unable to face his fears, to put up even a show of force toward Graves, when he had been wholly unable to protect Rubia, and when he had been, in the end, perhaps, saved by a mere boy, where, indeed.

But next, Adema lifted the nearly weightless body of Graves lying unconscious in his arms, and gingerly placed him back into his bed, and arranged the covers and the pillows, and smoothed Graves’ clothes, and brushed the hair lightly from his face, and settled the cool hands together on the barely moving chest, all with the care and respect befitting a man of Graves’ great age and revered history.

And before he would leave that room from which the weaker demons of his soul would have him fly in haste and never return, before he would put long, relieved strides between himself and the room that held the terrifying mystery of Graves, he would see that Rubia was settled-down and well comforted, would help Kurst to finish his duty cleaning the floor, and finally when they all moved eagerly toward the door, it would be Adema taking the rear, to be the last one out, seeing his companions safely out of harm’s way, and closing the door firmly behind him, exiting the room, still, as Adema.

[0xDEADCAFE]

For anyone has actually read through the overlong chapter 10, you may have noticed that towards the end, Graves is sitting all comfy in bed one minute and then collapsing back onto it the next, as if from a standing position. The discontinuity is due to the fact that I forgot to get him out of bed and into a standing position. So, correction: this next section should follow right after Graves screams "QUIET" at Rubia:

“QUIET!”

Graves’ deep bass voice rang out in a magnificent and terrible peal that echoed in the room and seemed to shake the very walls themselves. It shook Rubia, too, to her very foundation, and even Graves himself seemed to be somewhat agitated.

What was it about Rubia’s words that had stirred him out of his detached, selfassured, almost slumbering repose? What new energy flowed through him as his back suddenly stiffened and his chest swelled, as his arm came across his body reaching for the edge of his covers and then moved swiftly back, casting the ornately patterned bedspread, the dark purple blanket and the white sheets off of him and over the side of the bed like a multicolored flag waving in a stiff breeze?

What new trick was this, as Graves threw his legs over the side of the bed and sprang to a standing position, not weakly as one would expect of his emaciated, bony frame, but like a fighter, statuesque in pose, and as firm in his stance as a battle-dressed stallion bristling beneath some war-minded champion, and eager to feel the spurs that would signal the charge?

When Graves spoke again, he began in a low, soft voice that was almost a whisper.

“How dare I madam?“

He paused then, as if unable to find words, as if choked by indignation, but after a few moments he continued, still in a soft voice, but one that increased in volume and intensity with each passing word.

“How dare you! How dare you speak to me of being undeserving? Do you think I need your permission to be here? Foolish woman!” and by now Graves was almost shouting, “I do not dwell here by your leave.”

Graves now looked at both Rubia and Adema and continued as if to both of them. “It is you who have me to thank for the use of this place. Have you such short memories? Does not the dim scrawl of your sacred texts tell you of a champion who rescued this place from disaster? Have you forgotten why it is that you call me Slayer?”

The word “Slayer”, spoken in booming, measured syllables, completely conquers Rubia. It is not her understanding of the meaning of that word that so utterly defeats her, but the hopeless feeling it gives her, and the dread she feels as the awareness of its many implications seeps into her, like standing in a graveyard at dusk, watching the sun vanish under a foreboding horizon and feeling the chill damp air penetrate your sheltering cloak.

Rubia does not answer, cannot answer, and the taut lines about her eyes and the deep lines in her forehead give ample evidence that she, too, is experiencing the pain that both Kurst and Adema have come to know so well as the voice of Graves.

“It was I who once before visited this place when it had all but fallen, when those few that remained here were facing annihilation. It was I who cleansed this monastery of the demonic infestation that had grown up under your cow pastures while your dim and foolish ancestors lowed sleepily with their cattle. And it was I who scoured the countryside of the evil scourge that had pushed your pathetic species nearly to extinction.



And then it continues from that last paragraph.

[RevenantsKnight]

Wow...that was one heck of a chapter. Between the style, the length, and just about everything that actually happens in this installment, it was definitely rather...unexpected, but hey, I’m sure that’s part of why I found it so interesting. All in all, this was another good read. And, no, I didn’t find it really “overlong,” in that I didn’t see a good place for a break, but it is quite a bit to process all at once. Guess that’s just what happens when you write up such rich scenes...Anyway, some specific comments:

We must not judge Adema too harshly.

On the narration shift: Well, I think it works quite well as a chapter and as a whole, but this shift does, in retrospect, make the differences between your initial chapters and the later ones rather apparent. I don’t know if you wanted to set this one off for a particular reason, but if not, some revising may be in order.

My comments for some other elements, such as the many rhetorical questions and the narrator’s perspective, are similar; they tend to work well within the chapter, though they don’t fit perfectly into the whole. This might just be because I tend to prefer a somewhat consistent style throughout a story, though.

Still, if he stood quaking, howling in fear, quivering the way a small child would who thought that this time, the boogie man really was coming – still, he stood: his back straight, his knees unbent, and he did not fall.

I’d reword “quivering...time” as “quivering like a small child who thought that this time...”; as it is, it sounds a bit awkward to me Also, I think “...and he did not fall” is a bit redundant, given the rest of the sentence, and could possibly be deleted to tighten this up a little.

How could it bring such visions, and how could he know them to be real, which he did, even as he knew them to be the creation of Graves’ mind within his.

I think that should end with a question mark, not a period.

But that the endless ranks of grinning soldiers of misfortune were real was, to him, a dead certainty, and in his mind’s eye he saw all he had known or would ever know lying well within their reach.

The last part of this sentence, “...lying well within their reach,” doesn’t seem to match the rest of the sentence or the general dramatic tone of this chapter; it feels rather ordinary and powerless compared to the other phrasings.

But this is surely madness!

This seemed out of place to me; certainly, it’s the sort of emotion that fits Adema and this moment well, but the narrator came off as an almost omniscient sort of person to me, and as Adema’s view of evil is rather inaccurate, I wouldn’t expect the narrator to express the same sort of thoughts that he might. Even though it looks like the narrator’s picking through Adema’s thoughts at the moment in some instances, I don’t think this particular example works.

And of all the things that he had disbelieved, the one most denied and feared was the idea that pure evil really existed.

I’d suggest adding a “he” after “one.”

All these things, he flatly refused to believe.

Minor thought: I’d reword this as “All these were things he flatly refused to believe.”

And under the unsupportable weight of that word, unless, Adema felt the ground give way beneath his feet.

Not too harshly now, not too harshly, judge we Adema. Is it disappointing to see him struggling to keep the breath in his lungs, struggling to unclench his cramped leg muscles?

The shift in tense between the first and third sentences here is a bit disruptive; I’m assuming you made this change so that the last sentence would feel more “immediate,” as I believe you’ve put it before. My take on this, though, was that it was a bit of a jolt.

And what do we think when he merely lurches against the wall several feet from the bed and snarls more than speaks to Graves.

That should end in a question mark, methinks.

(No answer.)

Personally, I’d delete this and just cut to Graves smiling, in the hopes that this is implied. I also like the idea of Graves smiling in response to the question...seems to fit with his character.

Why will only a heroic act do for our outmatched protagonist who must stand alone?

This sentence felt a bit too abstracted for someone to say outside of an English class or literary analysis sort of thing. For me, it read as if the narrator was stepping outside of the story’s world, and I found that distracting.

Look at him: panting, leaning heavily against the cold, stone wall for support, his head curled across his shoulder to look back at Graves, his face contorted in disbelief, his body a starkly sculpted homage to the word cringe.

Nicely done with the description, as usual. :)

“You’ll not ignore me monster!”

You need a comma after “me.”

This eye, this one eye, turns to look at him, but not as your eye or mine would do. For this eye, not content to roll in its socket the way eyes do, began to swell unevenly, bulging in odd places as if there was a fist within it, groping and pushing up on the flexible, watery surface.

There’s another tense shifting bit here; “turns” in the first sentence is in the present tense, while “began” in the second is in the past tense. Seeing as the preceding bits were in the present, and the rest of this paragraph is in the past, I’m not sure which one you want here, but I’d suggest you stick with one or the other just so it reads smoother. There are a bunch of other little shifts around; I’ll point out any that stick out to me, but unless you intended for the tense to hop around, you might want to read the whole thing over to make sure you get them all.

What if Adema did feel as if an icy cold hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and chilled him to the bone?

Not sure on this one, but should that be “...hand had grabbed...”?

And what if that chilling sensation did creep down his spine as the horrible eyeball crawled out of Graves head, and what if it did take hold of his bowels and bladder as the disgusting thing ogled him over the side of Graves’ face?

In keeping with your alternate form of possession for Graves, the first “Graves” there is missing an apostrophe.

Backing hastily to the wall, lest he fall, burying his heavy head in his arms and breathing, breathing, and breathing; gathering himself again for…, for what?

Some grammatical things: I think the comma after the ellipsis is unnecessary, and the semicolon after the third “breathing” seems like it should be a comma.

But as if preempting any potential heroics, and without warning, Graves suddenly sat up in bed; sat up without any warning sign, with no visible effort, with no evidence of motive power or mechanical action.

This felt like a little much on one point to me; I’d suggest trimming it down a little so it doesn’t seem to continue on as much as it does. Also, technically speaking, there should be a “he” after the semicolon.

These are not threatening actions in and of themselves, but the implications of such casual violations of natural law are nothing if not earth-shaking.

Again, this didn’t quite seem to fit the tone of the story, even if the narration does take on a bit of an analytical bent.

Under Graves’ merciless stare Adema approaches the brink. He is now at the point of losing even himself, on the edge of an abyss from which there could be no return.

I found this part of the story, starting from here and on down to “What now?” rather confusing. I personally couldn’t pick up on a strong connection between it all; it felt in some places almost as if you started the reader down three or four different paths but didn’t get further than a few steps for each. The above passage is a little too general, in my opinion; somehow, it felt like you were glossing over something.

Memories of his life came flooding to him then, and from far away, deep in his childhood, came a reservoir of innocence, which held not a single drop of despair.

What young child does not harbor secret fears birthed over nights lying awake in the darkness?

This was a rather confusing jump for me...where’re those innocent memories?

[RevenantsKnight]

What new trick would Graves have pulled from his sleeve had Adema actually attempted the kind of physical action so familiar to his students on the practice training grounds that he daily prowled?

“Prowled” sounds off to me; even though you’re describing him as animalistic now, it doesn’t fit his image on the training field. Also, do you need both “practice” and “training” here?

It shook Rubia, too, to her very foundation, and even Graves himself seemed to be somewhat agitated.

Hrm...I’d suggest trying to work up a description for Graves and possibly Rubia as well in this case; just listing their mental states doesn’t seem to have the strength that this has been building up for.

What was it about Rubia’s words that had stirred him out of his detached, selfassured, almost slumbering repose?

“Self-assured” is usually hyphenated.

It is not her understanding of the meaning of that word that so utterly defeats her, but the hopeless feeling it gives her, and the dread she feels as the awareness of its many implications seeps into her, like standing in a graveyard at dusk, watching the sun vanish under a foreboding horizon and feeling the chill damp air penetrate your sheltering cloak.

Nicely described. I’d try to drop the direct address in the image, though; the last part could use “her” instead of “your,” perhaps.

It was I who cleansed this monastery of the demonic infestation that had grown up under your cow pastures while your dim and foolish ancestors lowed sleepily with their cattle. And it was I who scoured the countryside of the evil scourge that had pushed your pathetic species nearly to extinction.

A few wording thoughts: “infestation” and “species” don’t seem to fit for the Diablo world, or at least in these uses. I’d replace “species” with “people,” perhaps, and just say “of the demons” instead of “demonic infestation.”

“And for what! (Booming!)

I don’t think the part in parentheses is necessary here; in fact, I found it a bit disruptive.

“For what I ask? To see this beautiful world trampled and overrun by unworthy cattle like you two. To return here one day and be confronted by a frothing cow who would turn an elderly man out of a bed he had so richly earned? I have a mind to undo all I have done. And make no mistake, if the spirit move me I will not only end your miserable lives but bring this entire castle down upon the heads of all who dwell here; and stone by stone I will raze this place to ground, and salt the earth with the ungrateful dust of your crushed bones.”

Very interesting take on the hero’s perspective...definitely not the usual portrayal, and I’m quite interested in what you’re going to do next with Graves.

Come what may, they are little more than stationary targets now, passive fodder for whatever Graves would thrown at them. And Graves was not one to make threats lightly.

I’d revise this passage to read “...for whatever Graves will [or maybe might] throw at them. And Graves is not one to make threats lightly” or something like that; as it is, the tenses seem nonparallel.

And then from Rubia, poor Rubia, who, unlike Adema, had always believed the monks’ parables, the tales of demons, and the townfolks’ superstitious whisperings – had always believed and had therefore always lived in quiet dread of the day when this evil would be visited upon her – from Rubia, who’s day of reckoning had come...

I’ve usually seen “townsfolk,” not “townfolks,” and the “who’s” in the last part of the sentence should be “whose.”

For Graves it was the sweet sound of the evidence of his power over these weak humans, but though he now laughed and seemed to take renewed pleasure in his torments, his words were steeped in bitterness.

Interesting implication about Graves, by the way...

And if you had to face them now, what is left to you as you stand there in your puddle of piss.

I think that should end in a question mark.

And like a marionette on invisible strings Adema found himself turning to look at Graves. As soon as he laid eyes on Graves he could see that something in his already hideously menacing face had changed for the worse.

The last sentence here feels a little too matter-of-fact for the story, especially given the preceding image. I’d see if you can’t continue with the puppet simile, with something like “His eyes, pulled right by the puppeteer’s sharp tug, swiveled slowly in his skull, coming to rest on the already hideously menacing face that, now, held another terror for Adema.”

Fortunately for poor Adema, who thus far has borne the brunt of Graves’ cruel attention, there was now another, more able, watcher in the room.

This begins a tense shift from past to present; I’m just pointing this out right now, seeing as I’m not really sure what you intend to do with it. In this case, I can see why you might want to have this sort of thing, but my opinion is that it’d work just fine without such shifts.

For Kurst, who this whole time had seemed to notice nothing in his meek posture of servitude, Rubia’s suffering was salt on his already inflamed wounds, and the sound of her stirring moan was the pin that burst his bubble of self-absorbed misery and made him realize again that in this world there is something beyond oneself.

I think “oneself” there should be “himself,” since he’s doing the realizing.

This connection to another’s feelings, this empathy with another person’s pain, brought a perspective to Kurst he had been sorely lacking.

Personally, I’d try to describe more specifically what happens in Kurst’s mind, and hope the reader can draw this sort of conclusion from that. This works, though.

How could he not, with his inhuman detectors of sound and smell?

“Detectors” does sound inhuman, but in a mechanical way, not a supernatural way. I’d suggest using maybe “mastery” instead.

Perhaps he was too rapt in his cruel tortures, too self-indulged in his own delights?

I think that should be a period, not a question mark.

Perhaps it was nothing more than the movement of a potential meal on the ground, or a sudden, avian yen for more lofty airs.

“More lofty airs” was a bit confusing; although I think that you meant something like the open skies, I can’t really be sure. You might want to consider rewording it.

Was it the departure of the raven?

It’s not clear what “it” is in this sentence until after the fact, as it could mean either cause or effect.

Had that fell creature cast a spell over the occupants of the room, which in his absence, fell like mist to the floor, unleashing Kurst’s youthful strength and disenchanting Graves of his unearthly power? Or was it Kurst and his word of power, dispelling the evil power gripping the room, and rendering Graves weak and helpless?

You might want to find some synonyms for “power”; “force,” “energy,” “strength” and others come to mind.

Is it Kurst’s unnerving cry, now – somehow – sounding like an echo of Graves own powerful and invasive voice, or is it the sight of the dramatic change in Graves, no longer the monster, looking quite weak and defeated.

That should be a question mark at the end.

And Graves struggling just to keep on his feet; turning and leaning full on the bed, looking toward the window and watching as the raven soars away.

The semicolon here should be a comma.

Adema watches as Graves turns back to the screaming Kurst, watches as the Graves’ expression of surprise fades to a look of fatigued resignation, watches as that face recoils from the fury of Kurst screaming yet again.

There’s an extra “the” before “Graves’.”

He watches as Graves face turns grayer and his eyes close and his body withers to become again the barely breathing corpse he had known.

That should be “Graves’s,” or “Graves’,” using your version.

Very nicely done with Adema’s and Graves’s characters, and Kurst looks like he’s got more coming up. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hey Rev, thanks for the feedback. Just knowing that someone read it all the way through is gratifying in itself; your comments are pure gravy. In that vein, let me start my admitting that this chapter is very much a tense-shifting stew. I wish I could say I had some theory to explain why I use which tense where. For the moment it's just coming out the way it seems right. Sooner or later I'll have to discipline myself to some consistent style so its good to have the problems pointed out.

On the narration shift: Well, I think it works quite well as a chapter and as a whole, but this shift does, in retrospect, make the differences between your initial chapters and the later ones rather apparent. I don’t know if you wanted to set this one off for a particular reason, but if not, some revising may be in order. I could see going back and recasting the narration in a similar style, but I'm pretty sure I won't do that. This has turned into a kind of chapter-by-chapter experiment. Maybe I'll worry about consistency in my next project.

But this is surely madness! This seemed out of place to me; certainly, it’s the sort of emotion that fits Adema and this moment well, but the narrator came off as an almost omniscient sort of person to me, and as Adema’s view of evil is rather inaccurate, I wouldn’t expect the narrator to express the same sort of thoughts that he might. Even though it looks like the narrator’s picking through Adema’s thoughts at the moment in some instances, I don’t think this particular example works.I can see your point. I wondered about all of these rather ambiguous remarks. Who even says this? The narrator? Or is it a thought in Adema's mind?

And under the unsupportable weight of that word, unless, Adema felt the ground give way beneath his feet.

Not too harshly now, not too harshly, judge we Adema. Is it disappointing to see him struggling to keep the breath in his lungs, struggling to unclench his cramped leg muscles?The shift in tense between the first and third sentences here is a bit disruptive; I’m assuming you made this change so that the last sentence would feel more “immediate,” as I believe you’ve put it before. My take on this, though, was that it was a bit of a jolt. Okay, maybe I do have a theory that explains this particular tense shift. The description of Adema is in the past tense, which I suppose is the "normal" story-telling tense. However, the reader is reading the story in the present tense. So if the narrator is going to engage the reader directly it would take place in the present, no? So even if Adema "struggled" in the past, it seems appropriate for me to ask the reader what they think of Adema's struggling? Does that make sense?


A few wording thoughts: “infestation” and “species” don’t seem to fit for the Diablo world, or at least in these uses. I’d replace “species” with “people,” perhaps, and just say “of the demons” instead of “demonic infestation.”I'm going to keep those words. In the first place, I'm not so stuck on fitting into the Diablo world. If I continue this long enough, that should become apparent, as will, hopefully, the reason for the use of these particular words.


The last sentence here feels a little too matter-of-fact for the story, especially given the preceding image. I’d see if you can’t continue with the puppet simile, with something like “His eyes, pulled right by the puppeteer’s sharp tug, swiveled slowly in his skull, coming to rest on the already hideously menacing face that, now, held another terror for Adema.” I think I was deliberately going for a bit of understatment here. But I'm impressed with your ghost-writing. If I didn't know better myself I'd say that was vintage 0xDEADCAFE!


I think “oneself” there should be “himself,” since he’s doing the realizing.I guess I wanted to hint at a larger principal. It's likely he would have been taught that sort of thing in a place like the monastery.


I did a lot of editing while reading these comments. There are some very good criticisms here and you have me thinking. The fact that I did not reply to each one is an indication of a little writer's fatigue that I am feeling. This chapter really took it out of me. I've got some ideas for my next chapter but I'm just in no mood to write them right now.

Thanks again for the bon mots.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 11: Flyves

Two hooded cloaks came together under the night sky. It was a quiet night, and other than the soft padding of their leather sandals on the grassy ground, the only sound was that of buzzing, which provided a rather faint and vague background noise to the conversation that ensued.

“Did you find Flyves?”

“No, brother, not yet. Where’s he gotten himself to? This is very unlike him.”

“Indeed. I’ve never known him to miss a single meal, much less a whole day’s worth, yet no one has seen him since yesterday evening in the dining hall.”

“And not tending the garden either. Has there ever been a day when he’s not out and about, caring for his beloved flora, ‘til today? All this greenery; he treats each one like his own child. But not today... This is so unlike him.”

‘We should keep looking, brother. He could have had an accident of some sort. He could be hurt.”

“From gardening? It’s possible I guess.” The monk paused and waved his hand ferociously through the air. “Damnable flies. Since when is the night air so full of them?” There was pause in the conversation and then the same monk who had last spoken continued. “Sometimes he goes out into the woods. You don’t suppose he was attacked by an animal?”

“Let’s hope not. It’s an awfully big place to search, this monastery and the surrounding woods. If he’s badly hurt or unconscious, we’ll have one burning legion of a time finding him.”

“Well, brother, let’s get to it, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.”

“Indeed, brother, so am I. So am I!”

* * *

Night seemed to have entered the room through the open windows. Inside the room it was very quiet. Even the buzz of insects was all but undetectable this high up in the tower. But there was a fly in the room. The old man lying on the bed in the center of the room had been listening to it, following its movements with his ears. He had a very good sense of hearing, and could almost picture its motions: circling, landing, and darting off again, repeating again and again a definite sequence of actions, but following a seemingly random pattern about the room.

A large place this room, for something the size of a fly, Graves mused, almost a world in itself.

Graves lay on the bed thinking. He never slept anymore. As he had gotten older he found he had less and less need for sleep, or at least for fewer hours of it. Over the years he had watched his sleep time dwindle until finally it disappeared altogether.

Over that same period of time, during which his mind acquired ever longer hours of consciousness, his body lost more and more of its robustness, until his complete mastery of wakefulness was matched by an almost complete physical helplessness. Since then his life had become little more than what could be described as being an unmoving point of thought.

No wonder then that his nose and ears became his eyes. He invariably found himself in a comfortable room of some sort; in his usual repose his view was unbearably monotonous: a ceiling, or perhaps the underside of a four-poster canopy. He had seen enough of plaster and paint, of cloth and stone, of the unchanging vista that would always greet him upon opening his eyes. So he seldom bothered to open them at all.

Instead he browsed the nearby world with his nose and ears, catching whatever whiffs were brought to him by the frivolous, unpredictable indoor currents, and the sounds that reached him, sometimes even from far-off, carried by a strong wind, blowing coincidentally in his direction. Most times this was the full palette of his experience. As dull and drab as it normally was, his sharp mind made use of it as best it could.

The fly’s buzzing had changed. No longer continuous and variable, as of an uncertain flier circling or soaring over an unexplored stone landscape, it was now short and steady. To Graves the sound was unmistakable. He had listened to the demise of countless flies. He knew that while flies often did alight and hold still for periods of time, they did not buzz when they did so. This fly was held unmoving against its will, doubtless held fast in a spider’s web.

Graves empathized. He had no feeling of pity for the doomed fly, but he knew well what it felt like to be in its current predicament: trapped, unable to move, able only to ponder what would next come its way. He wondered if the fly knew of the spider. What thoughts buzzed within its tiny head? Did it know of its danger? Would it ever know, as the fat torso and hairy legs closed upon it, of its own fate, or would it continue its futile struggle against the inescapable web right up until the moment when the spider’s venom relieved it of any necessity for decision or action.

The image drove Graves to introspection. How was he any different: stuck in one place, unable to move, unable to do anything but wait and wonder? But he was different in one respect: he was aware of his predicament. Unlike the oblivious fly, in his awareness, he felt not only wonder, but dread. For he, too, had his spider, and he knew the shape of it quite well.

And those times when his spider came to him, he felt exactly like a helpless fly, even though he knew he would survive the spider’s coming, even though he knew that when the spider consumed him, it did not destroy him, but only become him, and he it.

And then he would feel like the spider. And suddenly the world was his web, and all within his awareness were trapped in his will and would suffer whatever destiny or doom came to his mind. But was it his mind? The memories of such events were never distinct, but over his long life and the countless repetitions of this particular spider’s visits, he had developed a clear, and even intimate, portrait of the being that consumed him – the same being that he had so long ago willingly taken as his master.

The fly continued to repeat its plaintive, staccato buzzes until one such buzz was cut suddenly short, and hearing that tell-tale sound, Graves knew that the spider had come for the fly.

Afterwards the room was again in silence, save for the nearly imperceptible background din of buzzing insects that came from the window, and Graves pondered both the fly and the spider, the soul of each which he knew so well, until another voice came within reach of his searchlight ears: another cry, long and soaring and full of concern, but not for its own fate, but for that of another.

Through the window Graves heard voices from the monastery grounds far below.

“Fly-yves! Where are you Flyves?”

“FLY-YVES!”

* * *


Continued in the next post...

[0xDEADCAFE]

...continued from previous post


* * *

There was a fly on the wall of Rubia’s office. She and Adema had brought food here from the dining hall, to share a meal and discuss the subject of Graves in private. Had the fly been of a mind to eavesdrop on their conversation it would have found itself meagerly fed. But this fly had its clockwork mind on other things, and the morsels of food lying mostly untouched on the plates before the two somber dinner partners would serve it well.

It was Rubia who finally broke the silence. “Well, we must tell someone.”

“Tell them what?” Adema asked.

“About Graves of course! About what we’ve seen. About-“

“About Graves? And tell them what? That he is the devil himself?”

“Of course! Of course, we tell them everything. The monks must be informed of everything.”

“It’s not that simple. You don’t know these monks as I do. Most of them are no more believers than I am. Than I was…”

“Oh, Adema, that’s not true.”

“It is Rubia! You don’t know them; you don’t eat and work with them as I do. There isn’t enough religious faith in this place to fill a thimble. Most of them entered the order for the prospect of easy work and a position of respect.”

Rubia just stared at Adema with a disbelieving frown. She stabbed insincerely at her chicken leg. After a moment Adema continued.

“I can’t imagine what they would do if we told them that … it was all true - I can’t even believe it myself! The legend… the champion… if he is that champion, if he really exists, then that would mean…”

“That the evil of which the legend speaks must also exist,” Rubia said grimly.

There was another moment of silence. Rubia just sat grim-faced, staring at the uneaten food on her plate. Adema’s silence was far more active. His hands were in his hair and his eyes searched his gravy-swollen plate as the captain of a sinking ship scans the horizon for any sign of land.

“But that’s not all. The legend says… if he has returned here now… why would he be here NOW, Rubia? Unless… it could only mean one thing…“

“That the evil has returned,” said Rubia, again completing Adema’s unfinished statement. Rubia set down her fork and reached across the table to press her hand firmly against Adema’s. “We must have faith, Adema,” she said, and then very gently she moved his hand from his head and guided it down onto the desk between them.

He met her gaze. “But I don’t have any faith Rubia,” he said as a solitary tear slid slowly down his cheek.

“Then I shall have to have faith enough for us both,” she answered. Adema placed his other hand over hers and forced a smile.

“By the Lady Rubia, I believe you do. If the brothers had a tenth the courage you have… but, if we tell them, what then. Half would flee, and the rest that stayed would do so for the wrong reasons, like good sheep keeping to their pens, obedient but utterly useless.”

“You underestimate them Adema. The monk’s order is an ancient one, and stronger than you think. Just because you could beat them all in hand-to-hand combat does not mean they are not without their own resources. But you are right about one thing, we must be careful how we reveal this to them. There is one among them that could be of great help. Do you know Brother Benilde?”

Adema lifted his hand from Rubia’s, and she in turn withdrew hers. Their hands parted on good terms; there was no loss of mutual feeling, but the conversation had now taken a more business-like turn. “Benilde… I know him, only I can’t remember seeing him for quite a while. He’s very old isn’t he? Used to be the librarian?”

“He still is. I see him now and then, but he spends most of his time among the stacks. He may be the only one alive who has read all the tomes and ancients scrolls down there. But he may believe us, and the monks respect him. If we can…”

Rubia’s voice trailed off as Adema rose suddenly and crossed to the open window. There were sounds of shouting outside. Rubia followed him and they both stood leaning out over the stone windowsill to get a better a view of the torches gathering at the edge of the monastery ground near a small copse of trees. Though distant, the voices carried easily through the still, night air.

“Over here!”

“What is it? Is it Flyves?’

“Come on! Hurry!”

Adema and Rubia watched and listened as the invisible drama unfolded on the dark-shrouded monastery grounds, while behind them, a tiny, fragile wisp buzzed its way from a secluded notch on the wall onto Rubia’s plate, and began to feast.

* * *

When Brother Emmet first spied Flyves’ body lying flat on the ground, he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing. Though the half-moon cast a dim light, he needed to bring his torch near anything we wanted to see clearly. He had approached what seemed to be a man-sized body on the grass, but there was also something very un-man-like about it.

Something even darker than the night extended upward from what would be the area of a man’s chest, a thick object, too wide to be a pole or a sword, and it was moving. As he came within the distance at which his torchlight began to reveal the object, Emmet slowed his approach, creeping cautiously closer while straining to make out the details of the scene. Within a few steps he could see that it was Flyves, and on his chest was the largest raven that Emmet had ever seen.

The raven’s body alternated it’s posture, between perching upright atop Flyves, at which point it seemed to be about the height of a child, maybe half an average man’s height, and bending to lower its head to the Flyves’ chest. In the brightening torchlight, Emmet caught site of what it was doing and gasped.

“Jonas! Jonas come quick!”

As Jonas came jogging towards him, all Emmet could do was watch in horror as the raven struck again and again at Flyves, poor dead Flyves, Flyves with the bloody, empty eye-sockets, Flyves with the exposed, torn, bloody chest. With each strike the ebon bird’s bill seemed to sink deeper and deeper into Flyves’ body.

“Emmet, Emmet what’s wrong, what is-“

“Look!”

Side by side then, Emmet and Jonas watched in stunned silence as the bird’s head completely disappeared into the now-open chest cavity. Then the bird’s body began to twist and shake, and its wings began to beat frantically, as if it were tugging on something, struggling to tear something free from stubborn roots.

As one, the two brothers realized what they were witnessing, just it became all-too obvious. The raven’s suddenly head reappeared with a large first-sized lump in its beak. It dropped it on the chest and then looked at the two men and cawed, a long, low, self-satisfied caw that turned their blood to ice.

Then it turned to face them, and when it did they could see for the first time a milky white eye staring at them through the moonlight. That eye seemed to roll in its socket in a very un-eye-like way, and from the black of the raven’s head, seemed to glow faintly like a tiny moon embedded in a starless sky.

They charged then, shouting and waving their torches with no real purpose, spurred by a rage born of fear and sadness, and driven by an instinctual impulse to chase away anything as horrid as what now sat staring at them from atop the sundered chest of their fallen comrade.

The bird did not budge, but instead released another caw, this one of stunning ferocity. Its volume and depth of tone was something that one could only imagine as coming from a bullfrog of immense proportions. They felt their legs stiffen and their energy draining away, and as they came to a sudden stop just feet from the corpse, the raven cawed again, this time a staccato rasp, like a coarse laughter that scraped against their ears like a thorny vine drawn roughly over sensitive skin.

They felt themselves sink ever so slightly into the ground, and then the earthy cold slunk into their feet and up their legs, their torsos, up the backs of their necks, and burst into their minds with an frosty billow. All they could do was stand like quaking statues, shaking in the grip of a gelid fear they could not understand, and watch as the raven bent to take Flyves’ dripping heart in its cruel beak, jumped into the damp air, and flapped its way into the high darkness.

As the sound of beating wings faded into the night, silence fell once again, revealing the previously unnoticed sound of buzzing flies. In the torchlight, Emmet and Jonas could clearly see them, circling, landing and darting off again, over the dead and decaying body of the monastery’s former head gardener, Ebenezer Flyves.

[RevenantsKnight]

Interesting...I’ve been rather curious as to what the prophecy entails, and it looks like I’m going to find out soon. On the whole, this was, as usual, smooth and enjoyable to read, though one element did stick out in my mind after reading this chapter; to me, Graves seems a little too removed from the recent events. Even if he’s supposed to have an inhuman soul, I’d expect him to have a thought or two on the preceding incidents. And on to the comments:

Two hooded cloaks came together under the night sky. It was a quiet night, and other than the soft padding of their leather sandals on the grassy ground, the only sound was that of buzzing, which provided a rather faint and vague background noise to the conversation that ensued.

I’d change “of their leather sandals” to “of leather sandals”; as it is, it suggests that the cloaks, not the people wearing them, have leather sandals, which is something I’d avoid unless you intended to use this image to indicate that these monks are faceless and interchangeable, in a way.

“Did you find Flyves?”

I thought this whole exchange read well and carried a very believable air of curiosity and mild concern...nicely done.

There was pause in the conversation and then the same monk who had last spoken continued.

Do you mean “a pause” there?

“If he’s badly hurt or unconscious, we’ll have one burning legion of a time finding him.”

I’d change “burning legion,” since the “Burning Legion” actually means something; in Warcraft III, it’s the name of Archimonde’s demonic forces. If this was intentional, I’d advise not mixing Warcraft and Diablo references...the two worlds don’t really mix well, in my opinion.

“Well, brother, let’s get to it, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.”

The comma after “get to it” should be a semicolon.

But there was a fly in the room.

Given the previous sound-based sentences, I’d consider trying to say this in a manner that makes the fly’s presence known by its noise. For example, “But the soft buzz of a fly could be heard in the room as the creature flew through the air.”

A large place this room, for something the size of a fly, Graves mused, almost a world in itself.

I think you need a comma after “place.”

Graves lay on the bed thinking. He never slept anymore.

Just a thought...this section with Graves seemed to have a much more factual tone to it than the rest of the story. That’s not a bad thing, necessarily; it gets the information to the reader and given what you’re describing here, I’d imagine that it’d be a bit tricky to get across all of what you have here in, say, flashbacks or conversations. However, I found myself a little more inclined than usual to do some mental wanderings while reading parts of this section, and I do think that this might have had something to do with that.

As he had gotten older he found he had less and less need for sleep, or at least for fewer hours of it.

I’d change “gotten older” to “aged” or something like that...”gotten older” sounds more like spoken English to me.

Since then his life had become little more than what could be described as being an unmoving point of thought.

Nice image.

This fly was held unmoving against its will, doubtless held fast in a spider’s web.

That should be “being held,” I think. Also, that’s a lot of uses of “to hold,” both in the sentence and in the paragraph.

Would it ever know, as the fat torso and hairy legs closed upon it, of its own fate, or would it continue its futile struggle against the inescapable web right up until the moment when the spider’s venom relieved it of any necessity for decision or action.

This should end with a question mark, not a period.

The image drove Graves to introspection.

This in particular felt too matter-of-fact in tone to me; personally, I’d avoid quick statements when describing emotional or mental aspects of characters, because those elements are key to defining them, and I think it tends to hurt a lot more if you accidentally fall short than if you throw in some extra details.

And those times when his spider came to him, he felt exactly like a helpless fly, even though he knew he would survive the spider’s coming, even though he knew that when the spider consumed him, it did not destroy him, but only become him, and he it.

I think that should be “only became him.”

And suddenly the world was his web, and all within his awareness were trapped in his will and would suffer whatever destiny or doom came to his mind.

Hrm...I’d consider describing the results of his change in less certain terms. To me, this felt like you might have been tipping the reader off to too much, too soon.

“It is Rubia! You don’t know them; you don’t eat and work with them as I do. There isn’t enough religious faith in this place to fill a thimble. Most of them entered the order for the prospect of easy work and a position of respect.”

On the whole, I thought that the conversation between Rubia and Adema was pretty well written, but at the start, and in this part in particular, it felt like Adema was going out of his way to disagree with Rubia and beat on the collective faith of the monastery. Given Rubia’s rather blunt manner of dealing with people in the earlier chapters, I would’ve expected this to provoke a nasty reaction. Also, there should be a comma after “It is,” in the first sentence.

“But I don’t have any faith Rubia,” he said as a solitary tear slid slowly down his cheek.

You need a comma after “faith.” Also, the tear felt a little sudden to me; if you don’t much mind the length, I’d suggest adding another sentence or two on Adema’s thoughts so his mental progression doesn’t seem like so much of a jump.

“Then I shall have to have faith enough for us both,” she answered.

Aw...sweet. I liked this line quite a bit.

“By the Lady Rubia, I believe you do.”

There should be a comma after “Lady.”

“You underestimate them Adema.”

You need a comma after “them.”

But you are right about one thing, we must be careful how we reveal this to them.”

I’d use a colon instead of a comma after “thing.”

“He’s very old isn’t he?”

You need a comma after “old.”

“I see him now and then, but he spends most of his time among the stacks.”

While correct, “stacks” suggests more of a modern library to me; I’d replace it with “maze of books” or something like that.

Adema and Rubia watched and listened as the invisible drama unfolded on the dark-shrouded monastery grounds, while behind them, a tiny, fragile wisp buzzed its way from a secluded notch on the wall onto Rubia’s plate, and began to feast.

Would the events here really be “invisible” if they saw the torches earlier?

Something even darker than the night extended upward from what would be the area of a man’s chest, a thick object, too wide to be a pole or a sword, and it was moving.

Vivid description...:) I don’t know if I’d add the qualifying “what would be the area” part, though; my opinion is that it slowed the story down a little, and I’d be perfectly willing to accept that it was a body, seeing as you already said that it was one.

The raven’s body alternated it’s posture, between perching upright atop Flyves, at which point it seemed to be about the height of a child, maybe half an average man’s height, and bending to lower its head to the Flyves’ chest.

That should read “its posture,” not “it’s posture,” and there’s an extra “the” before the second instance of “Flyves.”

In the brightening torchlight, Emmet caught site of what it was doing and gasped.

That should be “sight.”

“Jonas come quick!”

You need a comma after “Jonas.”

Side by side then, Emmet and Jonas watched in stunned silence as the bird’s head completely disappeared into the now-open chest cavity.

I’d delete “then” from this sentence; while I can see why you put it in, I think it’s correct without it. Also, “chest cavity” is a bit technical and dry; if you really want to drive the point home and aren’t worried about getting a little graphic, you could reword it to something like “...disappeared into the gaping, bloody wound in the man’s chest.”

As one, the two brothers realized what they were witnessing, just it became all-too obvious.

I’ve never seen “all too” hyphenated. Maybe it’s just me...

The raven’s suddenly head reappeared with a large first-sized lump in its beak.

That should be “head suddenly reappeared” and “fist-sized,” methinks.

That eye seemed to roll in its socket in a very un-eye-like way, and from the black of the raven’s head, seemed to glow faintly like a tiny moon embedded in a starless sky.

Yet another great image. Keep ‘em coming, I say!

They felt themselves sink ever so slightly into the ground, and then the earthy cold slunk into their feet and up their legs, their torsos, up the backs of their necks, and burst into their minds with an frosty billow.

That should be “a frosty billow.”

In the torchlight, Emmet and Jonas could clearly see them, circling, landing and darting off again, over the dead and decaying body of the monastery’s former head gardener, Ebenezer Flyves.

Heh...I did much like the play on Flyves’s name, as well as the link between the scenes.

Anyway, good stuff. I’m definitely looking forward to whatever else you plan to dream up. Thanks for posting!

And some thoughts on your previous responses:

I could see going back and recasting the narration in a similar style, but I'm pretty sure I won't do that. This has turned into a kind of chapter-by-chapter experiment. Maybe I'll worry about consistency in my next project.

Check. It's not a huge point, anyway; as long as you've got a good story and well-developed characters, I'll be following along.

Okay, maybe I do have a theory that explains this particular tense shift. The description of Adema is in the past tense, which I suppose is the "normal" story-telling tense. However, the reader is reading the story in the present tense. So if the narrator is going to engage the reader directly it would take place in the present, no? So even if Adema "struggled" in the past, it seems appropriate for me to ask the reader what they think of Adema's struggling? Does that make sense?

It does, and with this explanation, parts of the chapter do get significantly easier to read. Thanks. It's probably a tad difficult to work into the story itself, but it might be worth a shot anyway.

Thanks again for the bon mots.

My pleasure.

[FFFFFFFFh]

Call me login impaired. Either that or the sysops are persecuting me, or have suddenly developed a bias against hexadecimal numbers. But for now, call me FFFFFFFFh, which, by the way, is slightly less than zero.

Chapter 12 follows. Don't let the strange byline throw you; for better or for worse, it's the same old 0xDEADCAFE.

[FFFFFFFFh]

Chapter 12: Footsteps

As the sun came up behind the shallow woods lining the eastern edge of the monastery, the high treetops cast long shadows over the deserted lawns and walkways of the monastery grounds. The grass was still dewy, and as the advancing sunlight pushed the darkness back into the trees, the earth seemed to sparkle in its wake.

Save one spot.

A short distance from the tree line was a man-sized depression in the soft earth. It was partially outlined by a crust of brownish red, and completely surrounded by a dizzying whorl of flattened grass and the muddy effluence of a multitude of encircling footfalls. It seemed to lie in its own shadow, as if the earth had exuded a powdery pall of dullness to conceal the lone blemish on its otherwise resplendent face.

But one pair of distinct foot prints, sunk deeply in the weak ground just a few feet from the spot where Flyves’ corpse had so recently been discovered, provided evidence of a recent watcher who paid no heed to the earth’s chagrin, but who stood firmly, studying every detail of the grim scene. Unlike the many tracks that had come before, these did not run round the depression in frantic circles nor pace back and forth in desperate confusion, but patiently marked the time while the minutes lingered.

Behind and under these resolute markers ran rivers of older footprints: the messy scuffle of so many running sandals, the evenly spaced gait of the idle curious, and the all-but obscured deep and heavy impressions of feet overweighed and moving in lock-step as of a small group of frail bearers sharing the burden of a heavy weight.

Atop the jumbled tracks of the previous night’s busy human passage were a fresh set of treads that included the two stolid prints and the trail that lead up to and then away from them. These tracks were made quite recently, when the sun was just touching the tops of the taller buildings. From the point of stopping they lead directly back toward the monastery, until they took a sharp turn toward the ancient Chapel of the Lady’s Tear, a small, stone church that squatted in the shadow of the newer and much larger cathedral. Though little used by the monks of that era, it had the distinction of having been built over the oldest burial chambers on the entire grounds.

Inevitably, the trail toward the chapel lead off the soft earth and onto a paved walkway, at which point its visible aspect ends. But if we listen closely, in the utter silence of the spectral dawn we can almost hear the echo of hard leather soles striking paving stones in a swift but unhurried fashion. And if we follow on the heels of those resounding footfalls, we can trace their path down the center aisle of the church and into the enclosed vestibule behind the pulpit, through a cleverly concealed doorway and down a poorly lit and moldering spiral stairway. Down and down we would go until all traces of the fresh morning air and its seasonal scents were lost in the musty, dusty, haze of the abandoned crypt.

From below, other echoes join the chorus of whispers; the dying vibrations of a stalled conversation waft upwards, disturbing the gentle shrouds of cobwebs clinging tenuously to the weeping walls.

Brother Benilde stands in the center of the room, unmoving. He his old and stout, and his back is bent with great age and the weight of thick rolls of fat that nearly overwhelm his small, womanish frame. His head is bowed low in thought, and in the dim light, his cowl and cape could almost appear to be a starched blanket thrown over a tall and carelessly wide pile of books.

The walls of the room are lined with shelves, benches, racks and all manner of wooden contrivances designed to support the many books, scrolls and stacks of papers that cover every available surface. Opened scrolls drape from a few disused sepulchers that had been converted into reading aids for weary arms. Two ornate and thin braziers stand at opposite ends of the room, the burning coals lighting bold figures of helmed angels clinging to their bases, and casting an orangey glow over the otherwise lightless room.

Adema stands leaning against the corner of one tall shelf. His mouth is dry from speaking at length and his face is taut with anticipation. He has come in search of answers, and as he stares intently at the shadow of Benilde’s face, he begins to doubt the outcome of his visit.

“I knew him well; such a fine boy he was,” said Benilde. “Did you know him very well?”

Adema wrinkled his forehead upon hearing the word boy. “A bit,” he said slowly, and easing away from his leaning-point, added “he was quite a bit older than me.”

“Yes. Yes, but so young at heart. You know, I was working here as a gardener, myself, when he arrived as a small boy.”

Adema squinted in the dim light to get a better look at Benilde. He understand, now, Benilde’s reference to Flyves as a boy, but began to wonder if the old monk’s age was far greater than he had realized.

“Such a boy he was,” repeated Benilde wistfully. “Never have I met such a kind and gentle soul. From his first day here, he displayed a love of the garden that you just don’t see in children. When the other youngsters would traipse through a flower bed, he would kneel at each wounded daisy and daffodil like they were his very own children. And as he grew, that same nurturing light shone on everyone around him.”

Benilde fell silent again, and then asked, “Did you not sense that about him?”

Adema let his thoughts dwell upon the old gardener for a few moments. “I really didn’t know him that well. He seemed to keep to himself, mostly. He did seem to be in the garden day and night. As I recall he would had some strong words for me on a few occasions, when my students were a bit too hard on the lawn.”

Benilde chuckled at Adema’s comment, a thick wheezy chortle that sounded to Adema as if it could bring no pleasure to the old fellow.

“Well, we all harden somewhat with age, even good Flyves, I suppose. Still…, though he may have developed a rough and ragged bark like one of his stately old pines, in his heart I believe he was still that wonderfully special boy, as pure as the day he arrived, ever that rare flower, the white rose.”

And with that Benilde looked up. As his face came into the light, Adema expected to see a wistful look, perhaps pained with grief, or even glistening with the wetness of tears. But it was ashen.

Then Benilde turned, a slow, ponderous pirouette that had the look of someone circumnavigating their own burdensome bulk. His steps were punctuated by the clanks of his iron staff on which he leaned heavily for support. Eventually he shuffled toward a shelf to Adema’s right. When he reached it, he began tugging feebly on one massive tome, which seemed to resist his efforts to remove it from the dusty pile.

Adema went next to Benilde and helped him with the book. Benilde motioned to him to set the book down on the table under the nearest brazier. When it was settled, he open the heavy wooden cover, and set to work turning the pages to a well-known spot, which he did with a familiarity and skill that reminded Adema of an old harpist he had once seen. The old man’s hands played the rough edges of the pages like the hands of a musician plucking perfect chords out of a legion of silent and indistinct strings.

“Here.”

Adema looked at the gilt page under the amber light. The writing was very ornate and in a language that seemed familiar, though he could not quite read it.

“It’s in the old tongue,” whispered Benilde. “This section speaks of the churning of the world. The writer describes an endless cycle of death and rebirth, and of destruction - great destruction.”

After pausing for a deep and difficult breath, Benilde turned another sheaf of pages and then laid his finger on a bold paragraph. The calligraphy was dramatic and in large blood-red letters. Adema noticed that this page had a special layout. The writing was centered between two tall and thin pictures which bordered it on both side. The picture on the left was a highly stylized image of a black bird, its wings outstretched upward and downward, and its beak large and open. On the right was a simple picture of a whitish flower, drawn with no leaves or roots, but with large thorns along its thick and curved stem. The petals were unmistakably those of a rose.

“And the harbinger of destruction shall ride on black wings…,” Benilde intoned the words slowly as his finger moved slowly across the page, “…and by the plunder of the white rose shall be known that the hour of destruction is nigh.”

Benilde’s hand dropped from the page and he suddenly slumped and teetered on the edge of falling. Adema took him by the shoulders and steadied him.

“What does it mean?” said Adema. When Benilde did not respond he shook him gently and asked again in a louder voice, as one might speak to someone hard of hearing, “What does it mean, brother?” But old Benilde was nearly out on his feet and all Adema could do was guide him gently to a nearby bench.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. Adema left the room and took the stairs quickly. In the chapel he found a dusty goblet, and outside was a nearby well. Pausing only to quench hi sown thirst, he filled the goblet and returned to the room, where Benilde was still sitting, almost motionless, rocking slightly with difficult breathing. Adema gave him the goblet and then pulled up another bench and sat beside him.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, my son. I’m very old, you know. But I never thought… I hoped I’d never live to see this day.”

”What day, brother?” Adema sighed, placed his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and rested his chin. “Tell me what you know, brother.” He looked slightly bored and was clearly a man struggling with impatience.

Benilde looked up and waved a hand through the air. “These books; they’re full of stories. I know, I’ve read them all. Stories, diaries, histories, prophesies, fantasies, dreams…, who knows for certain what they are, or who wrote them-

“Well, perhaps we could ask your all-knowing Lady?” interrupted Adema.

Benilde stopped speaking and then turned his red and puffy face toward Adema and squinted at him for several moments.

“You doubt the icon of our faith, Adema?”

“Your faith, brother.”

“I see. You are a skeptic. Or is it more? A heretic, perhaps?”

“No, brother. Not a heretic. I’m just fed up with - look, I’ve told you all about what happened to Flyves, and about this man Graves. I may not be a true believer, but I’m no fool. He’s not… he’s no normal man, brother. I don’t know what he is; that’s why I am here. Can you help me or not?”

“Maybe I can. Maybe I won’t. Do you know how many years I have been coming down here to read and study? Why, since before you were born - and you come to me like an impatient school boy demanding the answer to a homework assignment.” Benilde paused and let a scowl overtake his chubby, thick-skinned face. “You are most impudent, young man.”

Adema stood up quickly. “I have no time for this.” He began to walk quickly toward the stairs. “Something is happening. If you can’t help me-“

“Perhaps I can,” called Benilde in a voice that was suddenly loud and strong.

Adema came to a sudden stop at the bottom of the stairs.

“Perhaps I won’t,” said Benilde, a little more quietly.

Adema whirled around and shouted. “You said you cared for Flyves! Do you want that to happen again?”

Benilde waited for a moment before answering. “How dare you ask me that? Do you know how many years I have served this order?”

“The order. The Order! You and your order be damn-“

“Yes the Order!” Benilde rose to his feet and beads of sweat dripped down his sgreasy face. He began taking faltering steps toward Adema and shouting, “The Order!”, clanking his iron staff in cadence with his words and steps: “The Order!” - clank – step - “The Order!” - clank – step - “The ORDER!” -Clank!

Benilde continued his furious stagger towards Adema until the two men were just almost face to face, and Benilde raised a shaky finger into the air and repeated one last time, in a reverent whisper, “The Order.”

Adema stood silently, the anger drained from his face. Benilde’s glassy eyes bored into him and his feelings about him changed. Perhaps there was more to this ancient monk than he had thought.

Old Benilde was as wily as his he was oily. When he saw the change in the younger man’s face, when he felt Adema’s interest piqued like a hook well-set into a hungry bass, he turned his back and went slowly back to his seat.

Adema just stood and watched him until Benilde settled again on his long bench and motioned to Adema to join him. “I can tell you many things, young skeptic, but come and sit down, come! Do not glare at me like dog waiting for a bone. Come and sit, man!”

Adema crossed to another bench, the one he had pulled up before, and took his seat. With a deliberate raising of his eyebrows, and a slight nod, he spoke gently, “Very well, old man, I’m seated. Please,” and he thrust his hands outward, toward Benilde, palms-up, as if offering him the floor,” whenever you are ready.”

Benilde was still breathing hard from his heavy efforts of the previous few moments. “Yes I am old,” he said taking another deep breath, “but compared to this order I am as a new-born babe. You know nothing of it, do you? And you want answers, you want to me to tell you a story, about this man, Graves, and of poor old Flyves, hmmm? Perhaps you would like a nice bed-time story – and a cup of warm milk to go with it, hmmm?”

Adema snorted and his lips found their frown again.

“Only silence? Well, perhaps you are not as big a fool as you seem.” Benilde looked long and hard at Adema, as if testing him, as if waiting for Adema to squirm under his gaze and bolt from the room like before, but Adema just sat and stared back at him.

“Well, then. You hold your tongue and I will tell you a story. Only you may not like it. I will tell you about the black bird, and the white rose, and perhaps about this fellow Graves, and of the Order-”

Adema sighed.

“Yes! The Order too. For they are all part of the same story…”, Benilde’s voice trailed off and then he raised a shaking fist to his mouth and began to cough. Adema had braced himself for a long sit, and as he watched Benilde twist his portly torso and bend low over the table in spasms of rough hacks and gasps, his gaze wandered, finally settling upon the clouds of dust billowing into the air around the stricken monk.

It was then that he noticed the thick layer of dust that seemed to cover everything in the room, even the floor, on which he saw for the first time his own footprints pressed into the dirt-covered floor. He allowed his eyes to follow them as they lead from the stairs around the room to where he was sitting, and then back to the stairs, and then back again to his seat. In the dim light it seemed to him like an endless trail of footprints, as if a worried ghost was in the room with them, pacing unseen back and forth, going round and round but getting nowhere.

[RevenantsKnight]

Call me login impaired. Either that or the sysops are persecuting me, or have suddenly developed a bias against hexadecimal numbers.

Check this thread (http://www.rpgforums.net/showthread.php?p=3417153) for more info on iffy login stuff. If this is your problem, then just keep trying the login, preferably at multiple points of the rpgforums.net system (e.g. try once at the DII Fan Fiction Forum, and if that doesn't work, back out to www.rpgforums.net and try the login there, and if that doesn't work, pick another forum, etc.) Works for me, anyway.

Chapter 12 follows. Don't let the strange byline throw you; for better or for worse, it's the same old 0xDEADCAFE.

Check. I'll get to this as I can, though it's admittedly under several other stories and some work in terms of position in my "To Do" stack.

[0xDEADCAFE]

... just keep trying the login, preferably at multiple points of the rpgforums.net system (e.g. try once at the DII Fan Fiction Forum, and if that doesn't work, back out to www.rpgforums.net and try the login there, and if that doesn't work, pick another forum, etc.) Works for me, anyway. Works for me too, apparently. Thanks a bunch, Rev, that was driving me slighly crazy. (A short trip, I assure you.)

[RevenantsKnight]

Hrm...a rather quiet chapter, though still interesting, and it certainly looks important given what the next might reveal. As usual, this was an enjoyable read. I’m rather curious as to the details of this prophecy; so I’m looking forward to the next installment, whenever it comes. Anyway, some comments on this one:

As the sun came up behind the shallow woods lining the eastern edge of the monastery, the high treetops cast long shadows over the deserted lawns and walkways of the monastery grounds.

I was a little confused at first by “shallow woods” and “high treetops”; I’m guessing that you mean that the trees are tall but there aren’t many of them. However, at first glance it read like a contradiction.

It was partially outlined by a crust of brownish red, and completely surrounded by a dizzying whorl of flattened grass and the muddy effluence of a multitude of encircling footfalls.

Nice image...it really works well in contrast with the apparent serenity and beauty of the area around this spot.

One note: that’s four “of”s in one sentence. It couldn’t hurt to switch out one or two of them, perhaps by wording the last one as simply “many encircling footfalls.” Again, I noticed this only because other people have called me on this before, and I look for it now. Other than that, though, this was a good bit of writing.

But one pair of distinct foot prints, sunk deeply in the weak ground just a few feet from the spot where Flyves’ corpse had so recently been discovered, provided evidence of a recent watcher who paid no heed to the earth’s chagrin, but who stood firmly, studying every detail of the grim scene.

I think that should be “had paid no heed” and “who had stood firmly” since the watcher was there in the past tense relative to this moment. Also, I think you use “footprints” as one word later, so it’s a little odd that you have it as two here.

Though little used by the monks of that era, it had the distinction of having been built over the oldest burial chambers on the entire grounds.

Minor nitpick: not sure what you mean by “that era”...did you intend to indicate the monks Adema knows, or those who lived during the Chapel’s early days?

Inevitably, the trail toward the chapel lead off the soft earth and onto a paved walkway, at which point its visible aspect ends.

Seeing as the rest of the paragraph is in the present tense, did you want “lead” to be “leads”?

On the tense shift: I think it works, on the whole. However, since it’s used only once in this chapter, and for a relatively short period of time, I’m not sure if it’s worth the inevitable sense of awkwardness in the first few sentences after the change. I would say, though, that it is if you’re planning on continuing with this theme of shifting to the present during certain points in the narration to deliver the sense that the narrator is speaking almost directly to the reader in a sort of storyteller mode. If this is just another bit of experimentation that you don’t think will remain a recurring element, then I’d suggest just revising this to stick with the past tense.

Down and down we would go until all traces of the fresh morning air and its seasonal scents were lost in the musty, dusty, haze of the abandoned crypt.

A nitpick: “abandoned” doesn’t quite seem right, given its current occupants; it’s more...old.

He his old and stout, and his back is bent with great age and the weight of thick rolls of fat that nearly overwhelm his small, womanish frame.

I felt that “stout” and “small frame” contradicted each other here.

His head is bowed low in thought, and in the dim light, his cowl and cape could almost appear to be a starched blanket thrown over a tall and carelessly wide pile of books.

Heh...nice image. Suits a librarian type, anyway.

Adema wrinkled his forehead upon hearing the word boy.

I’d put “boy” in quotes or italics or something if your style will allow it; on a first run, I read right over it.

“A bit,” he said slowly, and easing away from his leaning-point, added “he was quite a bit older than me.”

There should be a comma after “added.”

He understand, now, Benilde’s reference to Flyves as a boy, but began to wonder if the old monk’s age was far greater than he had realized.

That should be “understood.”

“As I recall he would had some strong words for me on a few occasions, when my students were a bit too hard on the lawn.”

I think that should be “he had some strong words...” Other than that, I liked this line; it’s rather in keeping with the idea of Adema you’ve been building up.

The old man’s hands played the rough edges of the pages like the hands of a musician plucking perfect chords out of a legion of silent and indistinct strings.

Wow...you must have a bottomless bag of great images somewhere in your head. Nicely done.

Pausing only to quench hi sown thirst, he filled the goblet and returned to the room, where Benilde was still sitting, almost motionless, rocking slightly with difficult breathing.

That should be “his own,” I think. Also, “with difficult breathing” sounded awkward to me; I’d revise it to something like “rocking slightly with each labored breath.”

He looked slightly bored and was clearly a man struggling with impatience.

This felt a little dry compared to the tone and overall style of the story, in particular the phrase “He looked slightly bored.” If you want to keep in the variation, that works; I just found it a little odd given the rest of the chapter.

“Perhaps I can,” called Benilde in a voice that was suddenly loud and strong.

Surprisingly strong and very old folks seem to be a bit of a recurring theme in this story...interesting.

Adema whirled around and shouted. “You said you cared for Flyves! Do you want that to happen again?”

I think the period after “shouted” should be a comma.

“Do you know how many years I have served this order?”

Just curious...is the inconsistency in the capitalization of “order” intentional?

Benilde rose to his feet and beads of sweat dripped down his sgreasy face.

Typo alert: that should be “greasy.”

Benilde continued his furious stagger towards Adema until the two men were just almost face to face, and Benilde raised a shaky finger into the air and repeated one last time, in a reverent whisper, “The Order.”

“Just almost” seems redundant to me. I think you could get away with dropping one.

Benilde’s glassy eyes bored into him and his feelings about him changed.

Hrm...I have a few problems with “his feelings about him.” First, it’s a bit ambiguous; it took me a couple reads to get a clear idea of what you meant. Second, it feels much too general for this particular change in Adema’s opinions. I’d try to flesh this out a bit so it doesn’t feel as rushed.

With a deliberate raising of his eyebrows, and a slight nod, he spoke gently, “Very well, old man, I’m seated. Please,” and he thrust his hands outward, toward Benilde, palms-up, as if offering him the floor,” whenever you are ready.”

I think that should be “a deliberate raise.”

“Yes I am old,” he said taking another deep breath, “but compared to this order I am as a new-born babe.”

I think you need commas after “Yes” and “said.”

“Perhaps you would like a nice bed-time story – and a cup of warm milk to go with it, hmmm?”

Benilde looked long and hard at Adema, as if testing him, as if waiting for Adema to squirm under his gaze and bolt from the room like before, but Adema just sat and stared back at him.

Reminds me of Graves...

In the dim light it seemed to him like an endless trail of footprints, as if a worried ghost was in the room with them, pacing unseen back and forth, going round and round but getting nowhere.

Interesting place to end a chapter; it sounds almost as if I wrote that, with the way it feels...not like an ending. I saw the link back to the start of the chapter, but it just didn’t have the finality I usually associate with a chapter break. It’s a nice image, though....I’m not really sure how much editing this needs; I just thought I’d mention it in case you had thoughts along the same line.

This was another good chapter, and I’m looking forward to more. I like your use of the old, wise and infirm in this story; it’s made for some very beautiful prose. Wonder where this’ll go next...anyway, sorry for not getting to this earlier, and thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Chapter 13: Order

Adema got up and fetched the goblet, still half filled with water. He took it to Benilde and helped him sit up, and then he held the goblet to the old man’s lips and let him drink. After a minute, Benilde seemed to recover from his fit of coughing and he waved Adema back to his seat.

“Thank you, thank you, my young friend.” Benilde wheezed. Then he coughed loudly and deliberately to clear his throat, but when he began to speak he still struggled with some affliction of the throat which left him sounding a bit like a polite frog. “You are very kind – (cough) – forgive me, to an old man. Ahem. AHEM! I do – (cough) - beg you pardon. AHEM! Yes, that’s better, thank you, many thanks.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, by the Lady, thank you, indeed.”

Adema nodded as he retook his seat.

“Let me start by saying that I do not begrudge you your skepticism.”

As he spoke, Benilde continued to struggle with too little air and too much bile, but he continued smoothly, as if he were used to such conditions.

“When I look around me these days, I too am skeptical. This is not the order I knew – (cough) – excuse me, as a boy. No! Mind you, the monks then, they were, well, they were, were…”

Benilde paused and held his breathe as if steeling himself for the inescapable approach of a titanic sneeze or some other convulsive specter of his age and worsening health; he waited, then he exhaled and seemed to relax, and recovering his train of thought, finished his sentence.

“…more like you. AH-CHOO!”

Adema eye’s widened as the dust flew. A billow of white linen emerged from the folds of Benilde’s dark brown attire; he wiped his nose and runny mouth with it, and while still dabbing at his upper lip, stared hard at Adema and coughed at him through the soiled lace.

“Yes! More like you, young skeptic.”

He finished his long wipe and then, with a flick of his wrist, gathered the soiled kerchief into a ball and plunged it back beneath his dusty robe.

“A bit proud perhaps,” Benilde closed one eye and squinted at Adema, “but they were strong, and dedicated to a purpose.”

“What purpose?” asked Adema.

Benilde cocked his head back in an exaggeration of anger and surprise.

“Must you ask? Don’t you know?”

Benilde watched Adema expectantly. After a moment Adema shrugged and shook his head.

“Come now. I know you are young, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”

When Adema made no answer Benilde turned his face away in a gesture that made it look as if it were hiding itself in the cowl of his robe. When it turned back moments later, it held a deep frown.

“By her iron scroll man, you are a fool! You have lived here among us for years now. Have you no idea?”

Adema sighed and offered a single word.

“Life?”

Benilde slammed his open hand on the table and shouted.

“Order!”

Adema blinked as Benilde thrust his quivering face toward him, and the loose jowls beneath the old man’s aged cheeks shook gravely beneath a bulldog jaw, which barked the answer to the question again.

“Order!”

Adema still aid nothing, but the old man noticed a change on his face, as if the word held some meaning for him.

“Yes, order. Without which man is no better than an animal. Without which a man’s life is nothing more than a joyless burden, a miserable shell much like the one worn by this wretched cockroach here.” Benilde looked down and then in a surprisingly quick motion raised his staff and hammered it down on the oblivious insect lolling at his feet.

Then he lifted his staff, turned it sideways, and laid across his knees with the bottom end pointed toward Adema. He nodded angrily at the gooey mess clinging to it and said “Hmph!”, as if making a point, when Adema finally looked at it. Then he placed the end of his staff on the floor again and began wiping it, leaving grooves in the thick layer of dust and detritus deposited over the course of decades of such scaly skirmishes.

“We are dedicated to this purpose: to bring order to the lives of men. You have seen us, lived with us. What are we if not orderly? We are an order of monks. We live very orderly lives. We keep an orderly monastery. Our days follow an order set down by ancient calendars, and we insist on order, strict order, from all those who take our oath. Our lives consist mainly of our rituals, our masses, and our strict code of behavior. Have you never wondered why?”

Adema spoke quietly, as if to himself. “I have, many times. And I’ve never understood.”

“And today? As you sit there listening to this dull head, do you understand any of what I’ve said?”

Adema spoke quietly. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He furrowed his brow and brought one hand up to rub his forehead. “Maybe a little. I can respect a devotion to order. I just never looked at it that way before, as if order - order itself - was the reason behind all of your strange ways.”

“Indeed,” Benilde smirked, “we can be a strange bunch.”

“Yes. Yes you can. But it’s more than that. It’s not just about someone having odd ways, there’s a…, a feebleness to it, to everything you do, and it’s almost as if it’s on purpose, as if you’ve all taken some oath never to think for yourselves, as if the robe and cowl gives you all an excuse not to take responsibility for anything without first consulting some arcane scroll.”

“Go on,” said Benilde.

“Like that fellow who was caught trying to steal food last week. There’s always a free meal here for anyone who asks, and yet this cur tried to steal more bread than he could eat in a week, and he was caught. And what did the monk who caught him do? Send him away? Give him a sound thrashing? No! He set a place for the fellow at the head table and called a meeting of the elders. You call that order?”

“Not that I would call you weaklings or cowards. You’re strong workers and when one of you is even a minute late for mass he goes without eating for three days and flogs himself every morning and evening with a leather thong – and without anyone forcing him to do it. But I also see no passion in any of them. It’s just: follow the rules, day and night, and frankly brother, I don’t see much faith in them either. I don’t think most of them know or care who made the rules or what divine purpose they might serve.

Benilde moved his staff between his knees and placed both hands on it solemnly. “Is there anything else?”

“The secrecy.” Adema stood up and began pacing. “Why so damned secretive about everything? Why hold masses in a language that only the monks understand? Why all the locked doors and sealed vaults? Why the closed meeting rooms? Why are the simplest decisions – what to serve for dinner, for instance– made only after secret consultations? And no explanation given! What is the point? Unless, again, unless none of you can think for yourselves, and the secrecy is just a way to hide that from the rest of us.”

Benilde’s head bobbed. “Interesting. Anything else?”

Adema sat down and folded his arms. “What else do I need to say? You’re a frustrating and damned puzzling lot. Perhaps I don’t have the respect for the order that I should, but can you blame me?”

“Maybe not, Adema, maybe not. But maybe blame is not the point.”

Benilde took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. He took one step toward Adema and then stopped and leaned heavily on his staff as he cleared his throat. He gave every indication of a man about to deliver a well-prepared speech.

“You question our method, our faith, and I dare say, our intelligence too! Well. To your first point: our method of order. We can imagine men working together to pull a load much heavier than any of them could manage alone. Under what circumstances would they do this? Suppose these men wear iron shackles on their legs and arms; suppose they are chained together, yoked like oxen, and another man with a whip rides atop their burden. The men walk in a perfectly coordinated fashion knowing that the pain of the whip will follow any misstep. That is order, is it not?”

Adema frowned.

Benilde poked the air with this finger.

“Surely, it is. Quite orderly indeed, after all, pain is a cruelly effective master. Now, imagine the same scene, but without the shackles and the whip-master. Perhaps the men would mistrust one another, or quarrel, or pull in opposite directions. That would be chaos.”

Benilde shook his head. Then he raised an eyebrow and poked another hole in the hazy, dusty air.

“But! What if they each pick up a rope and pull together of their own free will? That is a different kind of order, no? What would make them do that? Well, why does a bricklayer take such care with the placement of each brick? Because he understands what makes a wall stand or fall, and so too those men that pull together of their own free will, they are the ones who understand how men can work together to achieve something greater than any of them could on their own.”

Benilde placed both hands on his staff, lowered his head and let it bob dramatically. Then he looked up and stared deep into Adema’s eyes.

“This is the order we seek: the order of enlightenment, of understanding, and of free will. Man is punished enough by his own ignorance and appetites – we do not seek to add to his suffering by imposing our idea of order by means of force.”

Benilde turned away from Adema, clanked his iron staff thoughtfully for a few steps, and then spoke without stopping to face Adema, as if addressing the dim recesses of the room itself.

“But how to achieve that? How to bring men willingly to a devotion to order?”

Benilde turned around and clanked back to his original spot. “I will tell you now things which we normally do not reveal to outsiders. Tell me Adema, suppose you wanted to make a man do your bidding, but you cannot pay him, you cannot bully him, and asking him does not work? What then?”

Adema made no reply at first, thinking that Benilde had asked yet another rhetorical question.

“Come now, young man, think. How would you bend this man to your will? Hmm?”

Adema blinked several times. “Well, let’s see. I cannot pay him, cannot force him, and he refuses when I ask him. It’s an odd question. Normally I would do one of these things you say I can’t. Persuade him somehow?”

“I have said that simply asking will not work. How else might you persuade him? Trickery, perhaps?”

“Perhaps, I don’t know. I prefer to keep my dealings with men plain and simple.”

“Yes, that is commendable; however, in this case that tack is doomed to failure.”

“So what is it then, trick him? Are you telling me that you saintly monks are a bunch of con artists and liars?”

“No, my son, not liars.”

“Not liars. Con artists? What are you saying? I’ve known con artists, you old fool, you expect me to believe that’s what all this is about?”

Benilde said nothing, but just stared back at Adema with a blank expression.

“Lunacy! This order, your rituals – are you telling me it’s a big con? What do you take me for, brother? Why? What on earth for?”

“I have already said. You know our purpose.”

“Order?”

“Order.”

Adema shook his head and laughed. “Order! You trick the townspeople for the sake of order!”

When Benilde did not laugh Adema fell silent. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Finally, Benilde spoke.

“Perhaps con artist is not the phrase I would have chosen. Those were your words after all, but I cannot claim they are wholly inaccurate. How can I explain?”

Benilde shut his eyes tightly as if trying to squeeze a drop of inspiration from a dry brain.

“Consider the carrot and the stick.”

Adema nodded.

“Good. You tie a carrot on the end of a stick. You dangle it in front of a horse or a cow, and the dumb brute, wanting to eat the tasty morsel, will walk toward it. In this fashion you can lead it anywhere, for the whole time it is only chasing the carrot, while you are guiding it toward some purpose of your own, perhaps taking it to a warm and dry barn, or perhaps to a slaughterhouse. While its mind is on the carrot, its fate is entirely in your hands. You understand?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Good. Then think of us as carrot tyers and conscientious guides trying to lead our fellow man to the thing that is so vital, and so crucial, to their lives.”

“Order?” whispered Adema.

“Order.” whispered Benilde in response. “Do you now begin to understand? All we do here is for our fellow man. We feed the hungry and tend to the sick. We minister to their spiritual needs and settle their disputes. All we have to offer is our labor, our learning and our law, yet we give all we have. And all we ask in return is that they come to our monastery, spend some time with us, and learn from our example.”

“And send their children to your school,” said Adema gravely.

“Well,” Benilde smiled, “that too.”

“That’s your real aim, isn’t it, the children? If you can get them when they’re young enough, you can stuff their heads with anything you want.”

“Perhaps not quite anything. You yourself were a student here I believe?”

“So I was. But I didn’t stay long.”

“But you did come back. Why?”

Adema unfolded his arms and put his hand together. He looked uncomfortable. “I… missed it.”

“Missed it? What? The good food? The comfortable beds?”

“I think you know that the food here is not that good, and the beds are far from comfortable.”

“Was it the strange ways of the dispassionate monks that brought you home again?”

Adema sighed. “No. I did not miss the brothers.”

“Then what, pray tell, brought you back?”

“This place - there is a feeling here; it has an air about it, an atmosphere. It’s so peaceful here, so predictable, so…” Adema voice trailed off and then he chuckled once, a short puff of wind that blew the clear air of understanding before it, “…orderly. So orderly.”

Benilde’s face lit up and he took a quick step toward Adema.

“What kind of order?”

Adema spoke as a man awakening from a troubling dream, finding the world strangely safe and sound. “The order of enlightenment, and of free will.”

Benilde smiled broadly and began pacing merrily and striking his staff on the floor, almost dancing in joy.

“Yes! Yes! You see? You see? That is our purpose! Sweet order! Order! Order! Order!”

[RevenantsKnight]

Interesting...I liked the discussion of religion, order and devotion in this chapter; the topic’s one that’s on my mind at times, both in terms of my Diablo writing and in real life. Hope you won’t think I’m copying you if I get around to doing something like this in a year or so...:) Anyway, Chapter 13 was, on the whole, yet another good read. Some specific comments:

Adema got up and fetched the goblet, still half filled with water.

Maybe it’s just me, but this felt like a little bit of an awkward beginning; I had to go back and re-read the last several paragraphs of Chapter 12 before continuing. If possible, you could try to write up a short bit with a broader view of, say, the crypt, before continuing on with the action.

Then he coughed loudly and deliberately to clear his throat, but when he began to speak he still struggled with some affliction of the throat which left him sounding a bit like a polite frog.

Heh...nice image. Seems perhaps a bit wordy, though; maybe if you cut out the phrases “of the throat” and “a bit” it would read a little faster. It’d drop the repetition of “throat,” too.

Benilde paused and held his breathe as if steeling himself for the inescapable approach of a titanic sneeze or some other convulsive specter of his age and worsening health; he waited, then he exhaled and seemed to relax, and recovering his train of thought, finished his sentence.

That should be “held his breath.”

Adema eye’s widened as the dust flew.

That should be “eyes.”

“Come now. I know you are young, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”

Dang, Adema’s been taking a beating from older folks...

“By her iron scroll man, you are a fool!”

There should be a comma after “scroll,” or the Lady has an “iron scroll man” in the legends. :p Funny image, though.

Adema still aid nothing, but the old man noticed a change on his face, as if the word held some meaning for him.

That should be “still said nothing.” Also, I’d describe the change in a little more detail. Of course, though, this is coming from me and my obsessive affinity for such things, so maybe that’d be a bit much for other folks.

Benilde looked down and then in a surprisingly quick motion raised his staff and hammered it down on the oblivious insect lolling at his feet.

I have to say that this got my attention really quickly. None of the elder folks in this world end up all peaceful and slightly senile, eh? Ah well, it was a nice detail anyway. Good job with that.

Then he lifted his staff, turned it sideways, and laid across his knees with the bottom end pointed toward Adema. He nodded angrily at the gooey mess clinging to it and said “Hmph!”, as if making a point, when Adema finally looked at it.

I’m rather liking Benilde’s character, due in no small part to some of his eccentricities like this one. Nicely done.

“It’s not just about someone having odd ways, there’s a…, a feebleness to it, to everything you do, and it’s almost as if it’s on purpose, as if you’ve all taken some oath never to think for yourselves, as if the robe and cowl gives you all an excuse not to take responsibility for anything without first consulting some arcane scroll.”

Well written. However, I didn’t quite get the feeling that the monks rely heavily on “arcane scrolls” or other sources from previous times from the rest of Adema’s words; he seems to focus later more on secrecy and his inability to understand how they think. Might be worth fleshing this idea out a little more...

“There’s always a free meal here for anyone who asks, and yet this cur tried to steal more bread than he could eat in a week, and he was caught.”

A minor thought: you could probably drop the “and he was caught” to reduce wordiness.

“You call that order?”

“Not that I would call you weaklings or cowards.”

I think the closing quotation marks after “order” are unnecessary, since Adema appears to be saying the next line as well. Additionally, I don’t think the transition from the first sentence to the next here is particularly clear; when I read it first, I expected Adema to go on about his perception of the monks’ concept of order, etc., so this tripped me up a little.

Benilde took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. He took one step toward Adema and then stopped and leaned heavily on his staff as he cleared his throat. He gave every indication of a man about to deliver a well-prepared speech.

I’d suggest varying the sentence structure of this paragraph; it felt a little monotonous to me with the repeated subject-verb-etc. construction.

“Quite orderly indeed, after all, pain is a cruelly effective master.”

I think the comma after “indeed” should be a semicolon.

“I will tell you now things which we normally do not reveal to outsiders.”

Er...why? I can see Benilde’s reasoning in hindsight, but I’d think that he’d offer a reason at this initial point too.

“Tell me Adema, suppose you wanted to make a man do your bidding, but you cannot pay him, you cannot bully him, and asking him does not work?”

For parallelism, I’d reword “asking him does not work” to “and you cannot convince him with truths alone.” Also, there should be a comma after “Tell me.”

“Come now, young man, think. How would you bend this man to your will? Hmm?”

You’ve an interesting take yourself on certain members of the clergy...

“So what is it then, trick him? Are you telling me that you saintly monks are a bunch of con artists and liars?”

I’d use perhaps “mountebank” instead of “con artist”; it has an older feel to it and was also once used frequently to describe “corrupt clergy and others assuming false piety” (Oxford English Dictionary). Other possibilities include “charlatans,” “rogues,” etc.

“This order, your rituals – are you telling me it’s a big con?”

“A big con” sounded overly modern to me; I just can’t imagine someone not from the last century or so saying it.

Benilde shut his eyes tightly as if trying to squeeze a drop of inspiration from a dry brain.

Another great image. :)

“Then think of us as carrot tyers and conscientious guides trying to lead our fellow man to the thing that is so vital, and so crucial, to their lives.”

I’d try to drop the phrase “carrot tyers” from this sentence; somehow, it felt awkward to me. One possible rewording would be “Then think of us as those who hang the carrots, as conscientious guides...”

Adema unfolded his arms and put his hand together.

Should that be “hands?”

He looked uncomfortable.

I’m not sure if this was intentional, but this did seem too understated to me. Again, that’s partially due to my own preferences, but it might be worth a shot at elaborating.

The ending exchange between Adema and Benilde was well done, in my opinion; I could get a good sense of Benilde setting up Adema’s revelation and then rejoicing in their collective success. Anyway, I’m looking forward to whatever comes next, and thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hey Rev, thanks for the quick response. I'm going to spend tonight trying to write chapter 14 and, hopefully, finish in a third chapter the conversation that was supposed to transpire in just one. I noticed the word "wordy" in more than one of your remarks this time. I hope I am not overdoing the description. No, I take that back, I know I'm overdoing it, I just hope not too much. Anyway if I don't finish tonight I dont' know when I will post again. I have the feeling that once GuildWars goes live tonight I won't be doing much else at a keyboard for quite a while. Anyway, as usual some good coments.


Maybe it’s just me, but this felt like a little bit of an awkward beginning; I had to go back and re-read the last several paragraphs of Chapter 12 before continuing. I can see that now. Chapters 12, 13 and soon 14, are, to me, really one long chapter, with only minor breaks between. Still, a chapter's a chapter. I should provide at least some shred of context before jumping back into the action.


Heh...nice image. Seems perhaps a bit wordy, though; maybe if you cut out the phrases “of the throat” and “a bit” it would read a little faster. It’d drop the repetition of “throat,” too.Excellent call. Done and bettered.


Dang, Adema’s been taking a beating from older folks...Hmmm. Now that you mention it, there does seem to be almost a theme of age dominating the young in this story. I may have to explore that a bit more, but if things go as planned, youth will have its day.


There should be a comma after “scroll,” or the Lady has an “iron scroll man” in the legends. :p Funny image, though. What do you mean? Doesn't everyone have their very own Iron Scrollman? Why, I've got mine right here. Say 'ello to the nice Rev' scrolly! (Sheesh, LOL, nice catch!)


That should be “still said nothing.” Also, I’d describe the change in a little more detail.Interesting, interesting. I will admit that it does feel a bit short-changed. But. Stephen King might say that it is better to let the reader fill in the blanks than try to paint too specific a picture. And yet it does seem out-of-style for me. Normally I'd spend a paragraph or two describing the lift of an eyebrow. Maybe I could add a few hundred words here...


I have to say that this got my attention really quickly. None of the elder folks in this world end up all peaceful and slightly senile, eh? Ah well, it was a nice detail anyway. Good job with that.
You don't think this fellow is slightly senile? My take on age is that the fire never quite goes out. Keep an eye on the old folks; there's no telling when they will surprise you.


I’m rather liking Benilde’s character, due in no small part to some of his eccentricities like this one.Thanks, me too. I'm going to have to find some part for him in parts that come next.


A minor thought: you could probably drop the “and he was caught” to reduce wordiness.Yup. Done. Good catch.


Er...why? I can see Benilde’s reasoning in hindsight, but I’d think that he’d offer a reason at this initial point too.Well. I've found that older folks will often try to win-over the younger set through the use of flattery. Why? Because he is special, of course! I'm not sure this is a point I really want to explain. Maybe after enough exchanges between old and young, the reader will begin to get the sense of how my characters operate. Not that I am trying to defend obscurity in writing, but isn't it better to let some things go unexplained?


I’d use perhaps “mountebank” instead of “con artist”; it has an older feel to it and was also once used frequently to describe “corrupt clergy and others assuming false piety” (Oxford English Dictionary). Other possibilities include “charlatans,” “rogues,” etc.
Yeah, I had the same feeling about "con artist" - it's way to modern. But I may just have to go with it for the sake of clarity. If I used "mountebank" I'd have to give away free copies of the OED with each chapter. ;)


I’d try to drop the phrase “carrot tyers” from this sentence; somehow, it felt awkward to me. One possible rewording would be “Then think of us as those who hang the carrots, as conscientious guides...”
Call me a senile old coot, but I really like "carrot tyers"

[0xDEADCAFE]

Just a quick note. The next post will a re-post of chapter 13, which has several minor changes and some rewrites. Following that will be the all-new chapter 14, "Faith", hot off the keyboard.

(In case you're wondering, this little guide is provided purely for the benefit of my readers - both of them.)

[0xDEADCAFE]

Adema got up and fetched the goblet, still half filled with water, from the table where Benilde had left it. He took it to afflicted monk and helped him sit up, and then he held it to the old man’s lips and let him drink. After a minute, Benilde seemed to recover from his coughing fit and he waved Adema back to his seat.

“Thank you, thank you, my young friend.” Benilde wheezed.

He coughed loudly and deliberately to clear his throat, but when he began to speak the words seemed to come through some infestation of his vocal chords that left him sounding like a polite frog.

“You are very kind – (croak) – forgive me, to an old man. Ahem. AHEM! I do – (CROOAAK) - beg you pardon. AHEM! Yes, that’s better, thank you, many thanks.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, by the Lady, thank you, indeed.”

Adema nodded as he retook his seat.

“Let me start by saying that I do not begrudge you your skepticism.”

As he spoke, Benilde continued to struggle with too little air and too much bile, but he continued smoothly, as if he were used to such conditions.

“When I look around me these days, I too am skeptical. This is not the order I knew – (cough) – excuse me, as a boy. No! Mind you, the monks then, they were, well, they were, were…”

Benilde paused and held his breath as if steeling himself for the inescapable approach of a titanic sneeze or some other convulsive specter of his age and worsening health; he waited, then he exhaled and seemed to relax, and recovering his train of thought, finished his sentence.

“…more like you. AH-CHOO!”

Adema eyes widened as the dust flew. A billow of white linen emerged from the folds of Benilde’s dark brown cloak; he wiped his nose and runny mouth with it, and while still dabbing at his upper lip, stared hard at Adema and coughed at him through the soiled lace.

“Yes! More like you, young skeptic.”

He finished his long wipe and then, with a flick of his wrist, gathered the soiled kerchief into a ball and plunged it back beneath his dusty garment.

“A bit proud perhaps,” Benilde closed one eye and squinted at Adema, “but they were strong, and dedicated to a purpose.”

“What purpose?” asked Adema.

Benilde cocked his head back in an exaggeration of anger and surprise.

“Must you ask? Don’t you know?”

Benilde watched Adema expectantly. After a moment Adema shrugged and shook his head.

“Come now. I know you are young, but I didn’t think you were a fool.”

When Adema made no answer Benilde turned his face away in a gesture that made it look as if it were hiding itself in the cowl of his robe. When it turned back moments later, it held a deep frown.

“By her iron scroll, man, you are a fool! You have lived here among us for years now. Have you no idea?”

Adema sighed and offered a single word.

“Life?”

Benilde slammed his open hand on the table and shouted.

“Order!”

Adema blinked as Benilde thrust his quivering face toward him; the loose jowls beneath the old man’s pallid cheeks shook gravely beneath his bulldog jaw, and then he barked the answer to the question again.

“Order!”

Adema still said nothing, but the old man noticed a change on his face, as if the word held some meaning for him.

“Yes, order. Without which man is no better than an animal. Without which a man’s life is nothing more than a joyless burden, a miserable shell much like the one worn by this wretched cockroach here.” Benilde looked down and then in a surprisingly quick motion raised his staff and hammered it down on the oblivious insect lolling at his feet.

Then he lifted his staff, turned it sideways and laid it across his knees with the bottom end pointed toward Adema. He nodded insistently at the gooey mess clinging to it and said “Hmph!”, as if making a point, when Adema finally looked at it. Then he placed the end of his staff on the floor again and began wiping it, leaving grooves in the thick layer of dust and detritus deposited over the course of decades of such scaly skirmishes.

“We are dedicated to this purpose: to bring order to the lives of men. You have seen us, lived with us. What are we if not orderly?” Benilde looked down and his voice lost some of its liveliness. When next he spoke he sounded like a bureaucrat reading the roll before a weekly meeting.

“We are an order of monks. We live orderly lives. We keep an orderly monastery. Our days follow an order set down by ancient calendars.
We insist on order, strictly, from all those who take our oath. Our lives consist mainly of our rituals, our masses, and our strict code of behavior.”

Benilde’s voice trailed off as he finished. He then paused and after a thoughtful moment raised his ponderous head looked up at Adema. “Have you never wondered why?”

Adema did not return his gaze and spoke quietly, as if to himself. “I have, many times…” And then looking up and meeting Benilde’s gaze in a louder voice. “And I’ve never understood.”

Benilde’s face did not change in the slightest as he asked. “And today? As you sit there listening to this dry mouth, this dull head, do you understand any of what I’ve said?”

Adema voice resumed its quiet, introspective character. “Maybe. I don’t know...” he furrowed his brow and brought one hand up to rub his forehead, “maybe a little. I can respect a devotion to order. I just never looked at it that way before, as if order - order itself - was the reason behind all of your strange ways.”

“Indeed,” Benilde smirked “we can be a strange bunch at times.”

“Yes. Yes you can. But it’s more than that. It’s not just about folks having odd ways, there’s a…, a feebleness to it, to everything you do, and it’s almost as if it’s on purpose, as if you’ve all taken some oath never to think for yourselves, as if the robe and cowl gives you all an excuse not to make sense. And why can’t you take responsibility for anything without first consulting some arcane scroll?”

“Go on,” said Benilde.

“Like that fellow caught trying to steal food last week. There’s always a free meal here for anyone who asks, and yet this cur tried to steal more bread than he could eat in a week. And what did Brother Sebastian do when he caught him? Give him a sound thrashing? Send him away, at least? No! He set a place for the fellow at the head table and later the evening called a meeting of the elders. You call that order?

“Not that you’re weaklings. You’re strong workers, and when one of you is even a minute late for mass he goes without eating for three days and flogs himself every morning and evening with a leather thong – and without anyone forcing him to do it.” Adema paused and shook his head sharply. “In an odd way I almost admire that, it shows self-discipline if nothing else, but neither do I see much passion in any of them. It’s just: follow the rules, day and night, and frankly brother, I don’t see much faith in them either. I don’t think most of them know or care who made the rules or what divine purpose they might serve.”

Benilde moved his staff between his knees and placed both hands on it solemnly. “Is there anything else?”

“The secrecy.” Adema stood up and began pacing. “Why so damned secretive about everything? Why hold masses in a language that only the monks understand? Why all the locked doors and sealed vaults? Why the closed meeting rooms? Why are the simplest decisions – what to serve for dinner, for instance– made only after secret consultations? And no explanations given! What is the point? Unless, again, unless none of you really know why, and the secrecy is just a way to hide that from the rest of us.”

Benilde’s head bobbed. “Interesting. Anything else?”

Adema sat down and folded his arms. “What else is there to say? You’re a frustrating and damned puzzling lot. Perhaps I don’t have the respect for the order that I should, but can you blame me?”

“Maybe not, Adema, maybe not, but then maybe blame is not the point.”

Benilde took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet. He took one step toward Adema and then stopped and leaned heavily on his staff as he cleared his throat, giving every indication of a man about to deliver a well-prepared speech.

“You question our method, our faith, our secrets, and I dare say, our intelligence too! Well. To your first point: our method of order. Allow me to pose a rather academic example. Consider a group of men working together to pull a load much heavier than any of them could manage alone. Under what circumstances would they do this?

“Case one: suppose these men wear iron shackles on their legs and arms; suppose they are chained together, yoked like oxen, and another man with a whip rides atop their burden. The men walk in a perfectly coordinated fashion knowing that the pain of the whip will follow any misstep. That is order, is it not?”

Adema frowned.

Benilde poked the air with this finger.

“Surely, it is. Quite orderly indeed; after all, pain is a cruelly effective master. Now, case two: imagine the same scene, but without the shackles and the whip-master. Perhaps the men would mistrust one another, or quarrel, or pull in opposite directions. That would be chaos.”

Benilde shook his head. “No, that would not do.” Then he raised an eyebrow and poked another hole in the thick, hazy air. “But! Case three: what if they each pick up a rope and pull together of their own free will? That is a different kind of order, no? And yet, we must consider the motivation for such cooperative order. What would make them do that?

Now Benilde spread his arms wide, his staff leaning acutely to one side, and his other hand, palm up, beseeching, and he addressed Adema theatrically, like he was speaking to an entire lecture hall of students, and making his points visibly for the people in the back row.

“Well, why does a bricklayer take such care with the placement of each brick?” Benilde stooped and carefully laid a rhetorical brick on an invisible wall. “Why take such pains?” And Adema could see quite clearly the pain it caused Benilde to bend the way he was at the moment.

“Because he understands what makes a wall stand,” and here he stood up like a soldier at attention, “or fall,” and here he gave his straw-man wall a kick, and watched it fall into the dust. And then he place both hands on his staff and continued like a Priest at morning mass, “and so too those men that pull together of their own free will - they are the ones who understand how men can work together to achieve something greater than any of them could on their own.”

Benilde lowered his head and let it bob dramatically. Then he looked up and stared deep into Adema’s eyes.

“This is the order we seek: the order of enlightenment, of understanding, and of free will. Man is punished enough by his own ignorance and petty appetites. We do not seek to add to his suffering by imposing our idea of order by means of force, but to ease his burdens by appealing to his spirit of cooperation.”

Benilde turned away from Adema, clanked his iron staff thoughtfully for a few steps, and then spoke without stopping to face Adema, as if addressing the dim recesses of the room itself.

“But how to achieve that? How to bring men willingly to a devotion to order?”

Benilde turned around and clanked back to his original spot. He looked hard at Adema as if considering a plan of attack.

“Perhaps I can make an exception in your case, Adema. There are things about the order that we do not normally share with outsiders.” Benilde turned sideways and gave his chin a good long rub, casting furtive glances at Adema between rubs. Finally he said “Hmph! Very well,” and turned to face Adema again.

“Tell me, Adema, suppose you wanted to make a man do your bidding, but you cannot pay him. Further, you cannot bully him, and, for the sake of argument, allow that simply asking him will not work? What then?”

Adema made no reply at first, thinking that Benilde had asked yet another rhetorical question.

“Come now, young master, think. How would you bend this man to your will? Hmm?”

“Well, let’s see. I cannot pay him, cannot force him, and he refuses when I ask him.” Adema blinked several times. “It’s an odd question. Normally I would do one of these things you say I can’t. Persuade him somehow?”

“I have said that simply asking will not work. How else might you persuade him? Trickery, perhaps?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. I prefer to keep my dealings with men plain and simple.”

“Yes, that is commendable; however, in this case that tack is doomed to failure.”

Adema was quite stumped. He thought for a few moments longer, and then threw his hands in defeat. “I don’t’ know. What are you getting at? Is it trickery, then? Is that what you want me to say? Are you telling me that you saintly monks are a bunch of frauds and liars?”

“No, my son, not liars.”

“Not liars? Frauds! Con artists? Is that your deep secret? I’ve known every manner of cheat and thief, you old fool. Do you expect me to believe that’s what all this is about?”

Benilde said nothing, but just stared back at Adema with a blank expression.

“Lunacy! This order, your rituals – are you telling me it’s nothing but a fraud? What do you take me for, brother? Why? What on earth for?”

“I have already said. You know our purpose.”

“Order?”

“Order.”

Adema shook his head and laughed. “Order! You trick the townspeople for the sake of order!”

When Benilde did not laugh Adema fell silent. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Finally, Benilde spoke.

“Perhaps fraud is not the phrase I would have chosen. Those were your words after all, but I cannot claim they are wholly inaccurate. How can I explain?”

Benilde shut his eyes tightly as if trying to squeeze a drop of inspiration from a dry brain.

“Consider the carrot and the stick.”

Adema nodded.

“Good. You tie a carrot on the end of a stick. You dangle it in front of a horse or a cow, and the dumb brute, desiring the tasty morsel, will walk endlessly toward it. In this fashion you can take charge of its very life, for while it is only chasing the carrot, you are guiding it toward some purpose of your own, and whether good or evil it does not know or care. You could be taking it to a warm and dry barn, or to a slaughterhouse; while its mind is on the carrot, its fate is entirely in your hands. You understand?”

“Yes. I’ve seen the way you monks leading the cattle around.”

“Have you?” Benilde’s smirk returned to his lips, “Have you, indeed?” he purred, and he stopped and looked deep into Adema’s eyes, waiting for the implication of his cattle and carrot example to sink in. When Adema’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped ever so slightly, Benilde continued, “Then think of us as carrot danglers and benevolent shepherds laboring to lead men to the one thing that above all else is so vital, so crucial, to their lives.”

“Order?” whispered Adema.

“Order,” whispered Benilde in response. “Do you now begin to understand? All we do here is for our fellow man. We feed the hungry and tend to the sick. We minister to their spiritual needs and settle their disputes. All we have to offer is our labor, our learning and our law, yet we give all we have. And all we ask in return is that they come to our monastery, spend some time with us, and learn from our example.”

“And send their children to your school.”

“Well,” Benilde smiled, “that too.”

“That’s your real aim, isn’t it, the children? If you can get them when they’re young enough, you can stuff their heads with anything you want.”

“Perhaps not quite anything. You yourself were a student here I believe?”

“So I was. But I didn’t stay long.”

“But you did come back. Why?”

Adema unfolded his arms and put his hands together, looking rather uncomfortable. “I… missed it.”

“Missed it? What? The savory food? The comfortable beds?”

“I think you know that the food here is not that tasty, and the beds are far from comfortable.”

“Well, was it the strange and secretive ways of the irresponsible, dispassionate monks that brought you home again?”

Adema sighed. “No. I did not miss the brothers, exactly.”

“Then what, pray tell, brought you back?”

“This place - there is a feeling here; it has an air about it, an atmosphere. It’s so peaceful here, so predictable, so…” Adema voice trailed off and then he chuckled once, a short puff of wind that blew the clear air of understanding before it, “…orderly. So orderly.”

Benilde’s face lit up and he took a quick step toward Adema.

“What kind of order?”

Adema spoke as a man awakening from a troubling dream, finding the world strangely safe and sound. “The order of enlightenment, and of free will.”

Benilde smiled broadly and began pacing and striking his staff on the floor, almost dancing in joy.

“Yes! Yes! You see? You see? That is our purpose! Sweet order! Order! Order! Order!”

[0xDEADCAFE]

Fat, aged Benilde shuffled merrily about the center of the room shouting “Order!” and banging his heavy iron staff on the floor in what could best be described as a geriatric mockery of a lively jig; he danced wheezing, lifting his feet just barely off the floor, and the bounce that should have accompanied each step was no more than a wobbly wiggle. For all the sharp bark of his youthful enthusiasm, the dull bite of his heels hardly succeeded in coaxing even a very modest plume of dust off the debris-thick floor.

Adema sat and watched the monk’s pathetic promenade in shock and confusion. The flickering, ruddy light cast by the twin braziers at opposite ends of the abandoned tomb illuminated a scene that was, on the face of things, nothing short of ridiculous. Yet Adema did not regard it so, and what is more, he knew very well that until just a few moments before, he would have.

In fact, he could still see with those seconds-old eyes, through which the spectacle of this frantic dance, performed by a man who gave every sign of being but a few steps from the grave, seemed sheer folly, just one more example of the fetid eccentricity that underpinned the activities of the whole monastery.

But something was different now, for that image was fuzzy and fading fast. In its wake Adema saw passion in the monk’s pacing, and dignity in the dance. He saw it as a celebration of what Benilde believed most deeply, and the disregard for his own health as a kind of selflessness, a dedication to principle that transcended his consideration of his own welfare. And he felt something else too, something he would barely admit: admiration.

Yet even in lofty airs of his newfound admiration he could feel the set of his jaw like a stubborn mule hunkering dirtily down on a crowded, bustling road. He knew where he had to go, that it was right, that it was inevitable, but for the moment his back just wouldn’t take him there.

This monk had gotten to him - really gotten to him – and struck him much closer to the heart that any self-respecting fencing master should ever allow. It was shattering to witness his defeat so completely. Defenses penetrated, pride wounded, worldview sundered, he felt like a loose pile of broken china: in part, diminished, like a schoolboy reprimanded and kept after class to write “I will not disrespect the Order” a hundred times on the blackboard, in part, foolish, like a rabbit trapped by a wily old fox in a net of his own words, and in part, ashamed, dead certain that Benilde was absolutely right, and by implication, that he had been absolutely wrong, that in all his time at the monastery he had completely misunderstood the monks and their cloistered ways.

And the rattle of this diamondbacked certainty twisted in his belly like a coiling viper sloughing skin not quite ready to come off. How could he have been so blind? It had been the orderly lifestyle that drew him back to the monastery, and more, it was that same sense of order that called him from his bed each morning, that put the fire in his instructions to his class, and which gave him a sense of purpose. Why had he not realized that? And how could he have not seen it in the monks?

What a fool he’d been! All these years, living at the monastery and not seeing its most essential truth, order, even as he had unconsciously sought it. Right under his nose - right there! It was like he had woken up one morning, looked in the mirror and noticed for the first time a third eye smack dab in the middle of his forehead, and then had it dawn on him that it had always been there, seeing but unseen. He could scarcely believe it; as impossible as it was undeniable, the only surety is that is was pure misery to contemplate.

But by the grace of Benilde’s infirmity, Adema was kindly drawn from the cauldron of confusion and shame that boiled within him. The sound of him tripping, the too sharp, off tempo scrape of sandal on the stone caught Adema’s ear. Looking up, he saw then that the rotund monk seemed to be marching to a tune called by the grim reaper. Benilde managed to catch imself and avoid falling, but he was plainly exhausted, panting, and as his overburdened legs had falter, his slowing promenade became little more than a shadow of the celebratory dance he so fervently wished to perform.

A simple exigency of life, as obvious as his own unworthiness now seemed to him, and becoming more and more obvious with each passing moment, was the fact that in very short order Benilde would be in dire need of assistance. Yet somehow the blithe dancer remained merrily oblivious, one might even say disoriented, and continued to march on to his breaking point.

Luckily for him, there was a strong hand under his arm when he finally did fall. Adema had moved to Benilde’s side just in time to catch him. He held the old monk under both arms for a few seconds until he was steady on his feet again, and then led him back to the bench where he had sat before, and helped him take his seat. Adema fetched the goblet from the dusty table and, sitting down on the bench next to Benilde, held it out, offering him a drink.

When Benilde waved it away Adema brought it down to his lap, where he placed both hands on it. He tried to waited patiently for Benilde to recover, but with the old monk was hissing like a rusty bellows, Adema began to brood again, unconsciously squeezing and twisting the thick stem of the goblet like the handle of an axe he was about swing with full force.

Again his brain boiled with in search of the answer. Something was not right. Something was missing, it had to be; an error in judgment so colossal had to have an explanation. As a fencer, he prided himself in an almost preternatural awareness; it was not enough for him to see opponents clearly, he needed to anticipate their actions, and to know in advance what might happen in any situation. And normally he did; in fact he was famous for it. “Read ‘em like a book,” his assistants would say about him. So, why not this time, and why not this book, when he had lived within its very pages?

It vexed him. He soon had enough of waiting for Benilde and had just started to rise when he noticed a shaky hand grasping at his forearm. He stopped, again caught unaware, again cursing the unfamiliar blindness; he tugged at his arm in frustration, but Benilde did not let go. Indeed, Adema felt the old man’s fingers sink into his arm like hungry vines taking root in his flesh, yet another surprise, and although he could have easily broken away, he allowed the stately old oak to root him to his side.

Adema waited, but he was almost out of patience, and still his mind hunted for the missing puzzle piece. What? he thought, and again: What? The word filled his mind like the spreading wings of a thunderhead falcon, and focused his thoughts into lighteningsharp talons reaching for elusive prey.

Benilde finally managed to speak; as he was still huffing and puffing, it was barely a whisper.

“Faith…” he said.

“What?” replied Adema.

Benilde cleared his throat and started again, a bit louder, but still shaky, “Faith, stay, kind sir,” he said, relaxing his grip. “Having so recently won you, I would not lose you so soon.”

Benilde patted Adema’s arm a few times and then looked him in the eye and gave him an earnest wink. Then he lowered his head and left it bobbing slightly as he labored to regain his lost wind. Between breaths he repeated his message to his impatient benchmate, “Faith, stay… sit with me… a moment… and be a comfort… to an old man.”

Adema nodded curtly and tried to sit as naturally as he could, but he found himself somewhat ill at ease at having his arm in the clutches of the old monk. But it seemed to him that Benilde was quite comforted by the arrangement, so he did the best he could to sit still and wait, yet again wait, his mind kicking with impatience, for the old monk to recover from his ill-considered parade.

He did not have to wait long.

“You seem troubled, kind sir,” Benilde spoke without lifting his head. “Does my failing health distress you so?”

Adema was never one much for jokes, which he felt sure this must be. In a moment, Benilde’s smiling face rose to confirm his suspicion. Once again he started to his feet; once again he felt knotty fingers vine tightly about his arm.

“Faith, stay, young man,” said Benilde. What’s your hurry?”

Adema felt the back of the mule within him rise and he tugged on his arm again, though, again, not with the force that could hurt the old man. And, again, Benilde held fast.

“Come, come, kind sir, I only wish to repay my debt. You came to my aid just now; am I not deeply obliged? Besides, I promised you an answer to some questions that you posed about the order, no? Did you not very recently implore me to allay your doubts?”

Adema took a deep breath, then with forced decorum he replied, “So I did, wise sir, so I did.”

Benilde patted his arm. “Good, good.”

Adema frowned and tried to get comfortable. Benilde seemed to have that warming-up air about him again, and though he doubted if the showy orator would rise and take his rhetorical podium as he did before, he braced for another long-winded exposition. As Adema expected, Benilde remained seated. This time he only raised his head and spoke to the ceiling

“We have already spoken, at some length, about the central importance of order as the organizing principle of our monastic way of life. I believe I have made that point sufficiently clear.”

Adema found that remark irritating but said nothing, although he allowed himself a mild, mulish snort.

“It explains much about us. It is the great ‘How’ of our lifestyle. How do we live? How do we operate? How are the important decision made? It’s the answer to almost every question about the details of our very existence. Save one…”

Here Benilde paused, which Adema found quite annoying. By now he was used to this fox’s method. A dramatic pause and, no doubt, if he bothered to turn his head and look, the ancient face would be squirming with eyes winking or jowls wiggling like there was no tomorrow. He wished he would just get on with it, as his patience was running out.

“…why?” Benilde sent the last word wafting toward the ceiling and then let his head sink back onto his chest. And again there was a dramatic pause.

Adema fidgeted; Benilde squeezed his arm.

“Faith-“

“I know, I know!” Adema shouted, “Faith, stay, good sir. Faith, stay, kind sir – I’m staying, already!”

“No, no,” Benilde chuckled, “faith-“

This time it Adema’s daggerpoint look that cut the old man’s words short.

“Please,” Benilde whispered, “please, you misunderstand me. ‘Faith’ is the answer to my question, the answer to the ultimate question, and if I am not very much mistaken, the answer to yours as well.”

Adema looked hard, but put his daggers away. “Go on,” he said, and then, on second thought, added, “What is faith exactly?”

“Well, that’s the question isn’t it? In a way, faith itself is a question, and in a way it is its own answer.”

Adema rolled his eyes and shook his head; Benilde squeezed his arm.

“Listen, listen, I know this is difficult, faith is perhaps the most difficult of all things, but it is the answer to your question, unless, as I said, I am not very much mistaken. I saw the look on your face when you realized that what brought you back to the monastery, and what kept you here, was your love of order. I saw on your face that look in which I have always rejoiced, the dawning of understanding, and yet there was something more, no? It deeply troubled you, and I can only guess that it would, such a man as yourself could not help but be concerned that such a fundamental truth had escaped him for so long.”

Adema turned his head to look at Benilde and their eyes met. There was no showy expression, no circus sideshow at work on his teacher’s face now; Adema saw only a serious and most earnest sincerity, and he felt himself open up to it.

“Yes, brother, you are right. t does bother me. How could I not have seen it with my own eyes?”

Benilde said only one word, “Faith.”

“But, brother, I have no faith. I’m not proud to say it, but I cannot honestly say otherwise: the Lady, the holy scriptures, the monastery – I have no faith in any of it.”

Benilde opened his mouth, paused, then said, almost sadly, “Exactly.”

Adema said nothing. The two men continued to hold each other’s gaze, both hoping for understanding in the other’s eyes. Finally Benilde spoke again.

“Why would you see order, or anything of goodness, in a pack of fools? The answer to your quandary is simple: you had no faith in us,” Benilde removed his hand from Adema’s arm, “and where there is no faith, there is only emptiness.”

Adema looked away, staring at nothing, and that look came into his eyes again, not of daggerpoints, but of points of light, as of a stargazer pondering the heavens. Benilde noticed this, and turned his head to hide a wormy smile.

His action had an unanticipated effect on Adema, who noticed the turn of his head and thought the monk was looked away from him for a very different reason. Adema then felt the absence of the old monk’s hand on his arm, and looking at the side of his Benilde’s cowl, felt like a chilling distance had come between them.


(continued in next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post)


“I’m sorry, brother. I don’t mean to offend,” he said. “This is all so new to me: the idea of order, the importance of faith. I know so very little of these things. Tell me more, brother. Where does faith come from? Is it the Lady that grants you faith? Is that what I should do, have faith in the Lady?”

Benilde’s head shot toward Adema like a cobra, “Oh, don’t be such a fool! Benilde’s voice boomed, for which he paid the dear price of several deep and painful coughs. But when he recovered his voice he continued to upbraid Adema unflinchingly, slapping him roughly on the arm and saying, quite loudly, “The Lady! The Lady, indeed!”

Invisible crows stomped up the sides Adema face and grabbed him aside his dumb-founded eyes. He could feel his anger rising again, and it deepened as came to the conclusion that Benilde was having himself a good laugh.

“What are you saying, monk? I thought…” Adema started angrily, but he Benilde continued to laugh at him, he became more confused than angry. “But, the Lady is the center of all your teachings, is she not? Are you saying you don’t believe in her?”

This time Benilde did not bother to hide his mocking smile, in fact, he displayed it, shaking his head at Adema, and returning his hand to Adema’s arm for a pronouncedly patronizing pat.

Not sure whether to be angry or confused, Adema settled for irritated and cynical. “So, this is what you about fraud. It’s all lies; what you preach to the townsfolk, what you teach the children – all lies.” Adema shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t told me that brother. That’s just despicable, worse than anything I ever imagined.”

Benilde’s smile turned upside down.

“No, no, no! Really, Adema, do you ever think before speaking, or-“ Benilde interrupted himself this time, clapping his hand to his forehead, “oh, I am sorry, Master Adema, but really you are either an unmitigated fool or the most hopeless idealist I’ve ever come across.” He took his hand away from his head and looked directly at Adema. “And you’re no fool are you?

“Well, that leaves idealism then, doesn’t it? Very well, Master Dreamer, allow me to explain.”

Adema did not even frown at this, but sat still, listening carefully. He really felt more than anything the need to understand what Benilde was getting at.

“Let me ask you, what difference does it make, really? Take the carrot on the stick. The cattle never actually get to eat it, do they? For all they knows it could be a painted piece of wood, or anything really – what does it matter – as long it provides the lure that leads to the warm and safe barn before nightfall. Are the actions of the shepherd any less righteous for the deception?”

“But,” Adema quickly fired back, “people are not cattle, brother!”

“No indeed!” Benilde match fire with fire. “Cattle are much easier to lead, and in many ways exhibit much more sense!”

Adema frowned and shook his head.

“Listen.” Benilde curled his voice into a more soothing tone. “It is not what you think; we’re not frauds and liars. We are servants of humanity, and we respect the truth, but what is the truth? Do you know what gods rule the earth and sky? Can you tell me what happens when you die? Can you explain the mysteries of the world to me?

“And again I ask you – does it matter?” Adema looked up as if to answer, but stopped when Benilde gave him a quick shake of the head. “You believe in order as we do, don’t you?. Good. So, as good shepherds we are truest and best when we lead our flock toward it, no?

“But how do we do that? Do we try to prove to them that we are right? Shall we get out a blackboard and lecture our faith into them? No? It’s a difficult propsotion, yes? Yes! Difficult, but not impossible. Imagine for a moment – just imagine - that Our Most Beloved Lady of the Eternal Embrace was real. That her power was real, and that, in fact, when we die she does, in fact, reach out and take us in her arms, and hold us in paradise evermore, just as it is preached. Suppose you believed it, really believed it - what then?

This time Adema didn’t even look up, but quietly listened as Benilde continued.

“Would you follow the dictates of her religion? Yes, I think you might. And would that lead you toward a better life, filled with order and enlightenment, and toward a safe and prosperous membership in a strong community? It just might. And maybe that’s all we can really offer, a warm and safe barn at the end of a long day of honest labor. But isn’t that better than what all but a few of them have without our help?

Benilde paused, now hoping Adema would look up, but he didn’t.

“Now, imagine that the Lady is just a hoax. What about our mission changes? Nothing! Does it make the shepherds any less devoted and righteous? Is the barn any less safe and dry?”

Benilde pause and leaned forward a bit in an effort to catch Adema’s attention.

“Besides, who’s to say there is no Lady, and no warm, loving embrace awaiting us when we die.”

At this Adema did glance up, and Benilde quickly smiled and winked at him.

“After all who can say? It could be true, no?”

Adema was not at all impressed with Benilde’s levity, and he just frowned and shook his head once again. Seeing that, Benilde patted Adema’s arm twice, and lifted his index finger to his temple.

“You’re right, Adema, I should not jest. In all seriousness,” Benilde laid his hand on Adema arm again, “consider the fate of one who acted as if, - as if, mind you – that there was such a goddess as Our Lady, when in fact there was not. And suppose it were true that devotion to such a deity – real or not - would make his life better, even though he knew that he could never know for certain whether or not she really existed? Would not his life be better because of his devotion in either case?”

Adema opened his mouth as if to speak and Benilde gave his arm a squeeze. “No, no, don’t answer, I don’t mean for you to this time – it’s just my way, you know? It seems as I get older it’s the questions more than the answers that really matter.”

Benilde lowered his head and went quiet for several seconds. Adema began to wonder if the old monk had nodded off, and nudged him slightly.

Benilde chuckled and said, “I’m awake, young sir - just thinking. You see, I am trying to answer you. A few minutes ago you challenged our faith and I want to explain.”

“You see, we offer men hope. We try to show them a better life. Think of our religion as a metaphor, if you will. The details don’t really matter. The message is real and we believe with all our hearts that it is the righteous path for all men. What more can we do?”

Adema’s frown diminished, but only slightly.

“I see your point, brother, but a moment ago you were telling me about true faith – the importance of it – don’t you believe that, or… well, what do you believe in, brother?”

“This!” Adema felt his arm being squeezed again. “This is what I believe in, flesh and blood, the arm of man, a strong body and an orderly mind - put to righteous use, there is no more powerful force in all the world!”

Benilde chuckled and looked down “Perhaps you are thinking that is an odd thing for a fat old fool such as myself to say. Well, I am old, but I am not alone, and maybe it is not just myself that I believe in, but other men, such as you, Adema.”

The crows danced about Adema’s face and his mouth opened as if to speak.

“Oh, be silent, young man. I can read your mind better than you can write it. The Lady, what about the Lady, you wonder; who or what is she? Isn’t it obvious? Oh never mind, I can see that it isn’t. She is whatever we need her to be, a figment for eager imaginations, sweet pabulum for hungry masses, and, in particular, an object of faith for those who have none.

“She is not for you, strong sir, nor for I. She is for the hopeless, the weak, the small minded who cannot truly envision a better way among men. True faith requires a strong and dedicated mind, two things, I’m sorry to say, in too short supply among our fellow men.

Adema opened his mouth.

“No! Listen. I am growing very weary. I have no time to wait for you to drag your questions out, when I know what they are already. Listen!”

Adema shut his mouth. Benilde smiled.

“You think you have no faith. You are wrong! What is it that makes you search so earnestly, so desperately, for answers? Is it not faith? Why would you strive with such energy if you did not believe in something, that some truth, some answer not only existed but was worth finding?

“I can tell you this with confidence because it is the same with us. What good is order without purpose? Why would we devote ourselves so completely to the idea of order, or to an idea, if we did not believe in its worthiness?

“And yet faith is a slippery and elusive spirit. I cannot truly explain it to you, nor can I give it to you. Only you can find it for yourself. Search your motives, ask yourself why it is you strive, and if you think you have an answer then ask why again, and keep asking why until you reach the final why,the for which you have no answer. And, then you must then ask the final question.

“Do you still hold onto your beliefs? With no explanations, no justifications, no proof, no scientific or logical reason, do they live still in that rational abyss? If they do not then the abyss will swallow you, but if they do, you will have found your faith. And then you can discard your petty reasoning and examine your true beliefs in the light of that, and come to know yourself for the first time.

Benilde’s voice trailed off as he finished. He removed his hand from Adema’s arm and returned to his familiar sitting pose, his staff between his legs, both hands wrapped firmly around it, and then he bent his head forward until it rested on his hands. And then he spoke weakly as if forestalling an importunate need for sleep.

“Now I am afraid you must leave me. I know I promised you more. You asked about secrets as well; well, for the time being, they must remain secrets a little while longer. For now I must rest. But I shall consider what you told me about this man Graves. I fear it bodes ill.”

Benilde exhaled heavily, and went very still. He next spoke without seeming to move, as if he were a statue without the capacity for movement.

“Come back when you are ready to hear the most dire tale ever told.”

And then Benilde seemed to turn quite into stone.

Adema waited a few moments in case he said anything else, but eventually stood up and walked toward the exit. It was an abrupt end to his interview with the Master Librarian. For his part, he welcomed it. His brain felt as full as a thunder cloud. He could hardly wait to out of there and onto the practice field, to feel once again the familiar feel of a sword handle or fighting staff.

On his way out of the tomb he noticed that he had grown quite used to the dimly lit room and its thick, stagnant air. How long had he been down here? It seemed like hours. Rising up the spiral of stairs he half-expected to find a midnight sky. What he found was a cold, breath-stealing breeze, and a painful, noonday brightness, from which he felt compelled to shade his dark-weakened eyes.

[RevenantsKnight]

On Chapter 14: overall, I thought this was another excellent addition to Curse of Graves. Again, I like the philosophical bent to this piece; the exchanges between Adema and Benilde are very interesting. There were some grammatical errors, typos, etc., but I didn’t notice many of them on the first read and they didn’t seem to interfere with the story much. Good job, I say. Some specific thoughts:

For all the sharp bark of his youthful enthusiasm, the dull bite of his heels hardly succeeded in coaxing even a very modest plume of dust off the debris-thick floor.

The first clause here sounds a bit odd to me. Perhaps something like “for all the youthful enthusiasm in his sharp bark” would work? Also, it seems to me that the “very” in this sentence might be overemphasizing the point; I think it’d work just fine if you deleted it.

Yet Adema did not regard it so, and what is more, he knew very well that until just a few moments before, he would have.

I think “before” should be “ago.”

Yet even in lofty airs of his newfound admiration he could feel the set of his jaw like a stubborn mule hunkering dirtily down on a crowded, bustling road.

I really liked this simile. It reads as an excellent description of his feelings, and it’s something I’ve definitely felt before...:p I’m not sure, though, if “dirtily” works as a modifier for “hunkering”; somehow, I can’t quite get the words themselves to form an image. Despite that, I’m pretty sure of what your overall point was from the context, so maybe this is fine as it is.

This monk had gotten to him - really gotten to him – and struck him much closer to the heart that any self-respecting fencing master should ever allow.

That should be “...closer to the heart than any...”

And the rattle of this diamondbacked certainty twisted in his belly like a coiling viper sloughing skin not quite ready to come off.

Hrm...I think this got a bit over-played to me. Comparing a rattlesnake’s sound to a coiling viper seemed confusing at first; I’d just leave it at “And yet Benilde’s words [or his realization, or whatever] twisted...”

He could scarcely believe it; as impossible as it was undeniable, the only surety is that is was pure misery to contemplate.

The last clause here is a little oddly worded; I think you meant “...surety is that it was...”

The sound of him tripping, the too sharp, off tempo scrape of sandal on the stone caught Adema’s ear.

“Him tripping” sounded like it referred to Adema, at first.

Benilde managed to catch imself and avoid falling, but he was plainly exhausted, panting, and as his overburdened legs had falter, his slowing promenade became little more than a shadow of the celebratory dance he so fervently wished to perform.

Here, “imself” should be “himself,” and “had falter” should be “faltered” or “had faltered,” depending on what you want to say, I think.

Yet somehow the blithe dancer remained merrily oblivious, one might even say disoriented, and continued to march on to his breaking point.

I found the phrase “one might even say disoriented” extraneous; I don’t really think it does much to help the story here.

He tried to waited patiently for Benilde to recover, but with the old monk was hissing like a rusty bellows, Adema began to brood again, unconsciously squeezing and twisting the thick stem of the goblet like the handle of an axe he was about swing with full force.

“...tried to waited” should be “tried to wait,” and “was hissing” should be “hissing.”

Again his brain boiled with in search of the answer.

You’re missing something after “with.”

As a fencer, he prided himself in an almost preternatural awareness; it was not enough for him to see opponents clearly, he needed to anticipate their actions, and to know in advance what might happen in any situation.

A very subjective thought: “fencer” suggests an exclusive specialization in swords to me. Maybe “weapons master” would work?

So, why not this time, and why not this book, when he had lived within its very pages?

Nicely done. :)

He soon had enough of waiting for Benilde and had just started to rise when he noticed a shaky hand grasping at his forearm. He stopped, again caught unaware, again cursing the unfamiliar blindness; he tugged at his arm in frustration, but Benilde did not let go.

I don’t know if this was intentional or not, but the sentence structure here was a bit repetitive; all of the complete clauses here start with “He [verb].” I didn’t notice it too much on a first read, though, so maybe it’s not really a problem.

The word filled his mind like the spreading wings of a thunderhead falcon, and focused his thoughts into lighteningsharp talons reaching for elusive prey.

That should be “lightning-sharp” or “lightningsharp.”

Adema felt the back of the mule within him rise and he tugged on his arm again, though, again, not with the force that could hurt the old man.

I think this might be a little better if you replace one if the uses of “again” here; the second one seems unnecessary to me. I do like how you weaved in the image of the mule as a lasting theme here, though.

“It’s the answer to almost every question about the details of our very existence.”

I’d just write out “it is” here, since that’s what you use in previous sentences and Benilde also is using what appears to be somewhat formal speech.

This time it Adema’s daggerpoint look that cut the old man’s words short.

That should be “...it was Adema’s...”

“Well, that’s the question isn’t it?”

There should be a comma after “question.”

“Listen, listen, I know this is difficult, faith is perhaps the most difficult of all things, but it is the answer to your question, unless, as I said, I am not very much mistaken.”

I think the comma after “difficult” should be a semicolon, and the end should read “...if, as I said, I am not very much mistaken.”

“It deeply troubled you, and I can only guess that it would, such a man as yourself could not help but be concerned that such a fundamental truth had escaped him for so long.”

The comma after “would” should be a semicolon.

“Yes, brother, you are right. t does bother me.”

I’m assuming the second sentence here should start with “It.”

Benilde noticed this, and turned his head to hide a wormy smile.

“Wormy” was an unusually negative image for what I’d expected. I’m definitely waiting to see if a prediction this made will play out...

His action had an unanticipated effect on Adema, who noticed the turn of his head and thought the monk was looked away from him for a very different reason.

That should be “was looking away.”

Adema then felt the absence of the old monk’s hand on his arm, and looking at the side of his Benilde’s cowl, felt like a chilling distance had come between them.

Nitpick: I think “felt like” should be “felt as if.”

Benilde’s head shot toward Adema like a cobra, “Oh, don’t be such a fool! Benilde’s voice boomed, for which he paid the dear price of several deep and painful coughs.

I think the comma after “cobra” should be a period, and there should be a closing quotation mark after “fool.” Also, I’d change “Benilde’s voice” to just “Benilde,” so it’s parallel with “for which he paid...” since his voice didn’t pay the price.

Invisible crows stomped up the sides Adema face and grabbed him aside his dumb-founded eyes.

Nice image. I do think, though, that this should read “...sides of Adema’s face...,” and “aside” might be better as “around.”

He could feel his anger rising again, and it deepened as came to the conclusion that Benilde was having himself a good laugh.

Erm...from what Benilde said, I didn’t get the impression that he was mocking Adema, though the rest of the story seems to support this. You might want to clarify this; he sounds more angry than anything to me...

Also, you’re missing a “he” before “came.”

“What are you saying, monk? I thought…” Adema started angrily, but he Benilde continued to laugh at him, he became more confused than angry.

Perhaps that should be “...but as Benilde continued...”

Not sure whether to be angry or confused, Adema settled for irritated and cynical.

Heh...this brought a smile to my face. I can just see that happening...

“So, this is what you about fraud.”

Er...what? “So, this is what you meant about fraud,” perhaps?

“I wish you hadn’t told me that brother.”

There should be a comma after “that.”

He really felt more than anything the need to understand what Benilde was getting at.

If you want to emphasize what Adema feels here, I’d shuffle around the sentence order to read “More than anything, he felt the need to understand...” Also, if you don’t want to end this sentence with a preposition, I’d word this as “...of what Benilde spoke.”

“No indeed!” Benilde match fire with fire.

That should be “matched.”

“It is not what you think; we’re not frauds and liars.”

I’d just write out “we are” in this instance.

“You believe in order as we do, don’t you?.”

There’s an extra period here.

“It’s a difficult propsotion, yes?”

That should be “proposition.”

“But isn’t that better than what all but a few of them have without our help?

There should be a closing quotation mark here, since the next paragraph isn’t Benilde speaking.

Benilde pause and leaned forward a bit in an effort to catch Adema’s attention.

That should be “paused.” Actually, seeing as you use it in the last sentence like this one, you might want to drop it altogether.

“After all who can say?”

There should be a comma after “after all.”

Benilde lowered his head and went quiet for several seconds. Adema began to wonder if the old monk had nodded off, and nudged him slightly.

Again, the sentence structure you use here is a little repetitive; here, it felt like you were just sketching out what happened in minimal detail. Of course, since this isn’t exactly essential, it’s not a huge problem, though you might want to change this up a bit anyway.

Benilde chuckled and looked down “Perhaps you are thinking that is an odd thing for a fat old fool such as myself to say.”

There should be a period after “down.”

“I can read your mind better than you can write it.”

Ouch...burned. Funny, though.

“She is not for you, strong sir, nor for I.”

That should be “for me.”

“True faith requires a strong and dedicated mind, two things, I’m sorry to say, in too short supply among our fellow men.

There should be a closing quotation mark after “men.”

“I have no time to wait for you to drag your questions out, when I know what they are already.”

I think the comma after “out” is unnecessary.

“Search your motives, ask yourself why it is you strive, and if you think you have an answer then ask why again, and keep asking why until you reach the final why,the for which you have no answer.”

That should read “...the final why, the one for which...” or something like that.

“And then you can discard your petty reasoning and examine your true beliefs in the light of that, and come to know yourself for the first time.

You need a closing quotation mark at the end of this. Did you originally write all of his dialogue as one block or something?

And then he spoke weakly as if forestalling an importunate need for sleep.

There should be a comma after “weakly.”

“You asked about secrets as well; well, for the time being, they must remain secrets a little while longer.”

I’d delete the second use of “well” here.

He could hardly wait to out of there and onto the practice field, to feel once again the familiar feel of a sword handle or fighting staff.

That should be “...to get out of there and...”

Rising up the spiral of stairs he half-expected to find a midnight sky.

There should be a comma after “stairs.”

Well, I know I say this a lot, so it might seem a bit mechanical by now, but this is good stuff, no doubt about it. Seriously. :) Anyway, I am, as usual, looking forward to whatever comes next. Thanks for posting!

[Mommazz]

This is One of the most fascinating, no, mind gripping tales I have had the pleasure to read in a looooooong time!

Please, may we look forward to an update very soon?

[0xDEADCAFE]

This is One of the most fascinating, no, mind gripping tales I have had the pleasure to read in a looooooong time!

Please, may we look forward to an update very soon?I appreciate the kind words Mommazz. An update could happen, but I'm not sure when. I have had the next chapter written in my head for quite a while, but this one's just not jellin'. Stay tuned.

[0xDEADCAFE]

In the room of secrets, where there was barely a sound, was a dusty floor on which there was barely any movement. On the bed, where a weary soul lay trapped within a barely human shell, an elegant, alabaster finger darted once, flicking to the floor a hardening piece of cheese that was barely a morsel.

Graves hoped the tiny crescent of fetid curd the he had secreted beneath his fingernail during lunch would be sufficient bait for a creature that was barely worth hunting. Beneath the bed, his quarry had been tiptoeing languidly behind its pointy little, searching little nose, expecting littler. The tiny scavenger found meager harvest in this barren room, which it included in its daily rounds only out of an unconscious discipline borne of the dire needs of survival. At the faint sound of a moist thud coming from the near corner, its little ears perked up.

Above the mouse, lying as ever like a corpse in a shallow linen grave, the old man’s ears did likewise, at least metaphorically, as the depthless mind between them followed the passage of its unsuspecting victim by the whisper of its tiny claws raking the floor with eager pinpricks. The scratching on the adamantine stone raised only gossamer echoes, the likes of which would bother neither cobwebs nor ghosts. Yet, somehow audible, somehow discernible to the inscrutable intelligence of the motionless trapper, they betrayed the mouse like a noisy neighbor, and Graves grinned appreciatively at the telling of the tale.

When the mouse found the cheese, the tiny bit was like a mountain to the tiny mole kin: a bounty, another day of life, and hungrily it made a feast of the redolent ration. But the discipline of survival is a harsh mistress. She gives no quarter to the unwary, no forgiveness to the indulgent, and no second chance to this poor pea-brained fellow, though it could not possibly have known it was being stalked by a man-demon whose faculty for cruelty far exceeded that of any hawk or fox.

When it was time to spring the trap, Graves smile widened, revealing the two neat rows of his ivory-white teeth. As he did this, a circle of white pinpoints emerged from the floor around the blithe feaster, which it did not notice, and somewhere the mistress so recently mentioned licked the end of her long gray quill, preparing to make another mark on a scroll with no end.

As the mouse continued to eat, the dots became slivers became daggers became fingers that pushed their way silently up out of the stone like blades of grass made of smoothest bone. Up, up they pushed until the unsuspecting mouse, absorbed as it was in the act of gorging its busy little mouth, was surrounded by a neat ring of white bars, each tapered to a point at its top. And still they grew, and as they reached the height that would about equal the mouse’s length not including its tail, each silent encircler curled slightly toward the center of the ring and continued to grow until all met in the middle with a quiet click that to the mouse was an awakening thunderclap.

For when the prisoner, hearing the strange tap of bonepoint against bonepoint, noticed for the first time its prison, it felt all at once the plight of the imprisoned, and its quiet and purposeful motions became at once those of an animal in panic. Now the sound of its claws against the stone was louder, the scraping frantic, and even from the mouse’s own mouth escaped frightened peeps and squeaks as it abandoned any pretense of invisibility.

On the bed the ears listened, the lips continued smiling, and even the eyes rolled excitedly beneath starched, stretched eyelids. Graves’ ancient ears captured every sound, deciphering every portent of the tiny din, and enabling him to picture the trapped creature. He saw it in his mind running round and round within its tiny cage, inspecting the gaps between every ivory bar, testing their strength, and then standing on its hind legs to explore the peak of the little bone pagoda; exhausting every possibility of escape until finally, exhausting itself, and freezing motionless in the center of the cage, finding refuge only in its instinct for silence, which profited it nothing.

The silence pleased Graves and he laughed in delight at the game having been brought to a successful conclusion. His low, stifling chortles filled the room like the spores of a burst toadstool: down over the edge of the bed they billowed, rolling over the floor like a fog, rising up the walls, spilling over the sills of the open windows and plunging down onto the sunny noondrenched fields to catch unwary breezes, and drifting insidiously throughout the open spaces of the monastery, to settle unheard and take silent root in the places where no one would notice.

And somewhere in her invisible sanctum, the harsh mistress sighed, and then sadly but purposefully she scraped her pen against the thick, rough paper of timeless history. She made but a short black line, which produced for a brief moment the sound of a single scratch. Had anyone heard it, which no one did, it would have sounded like the stroke an endless midnight that could know no dawn.

* * * * * *

The ground was dusty along the well worn path Adema now took, and he kicked up a small cloud of it as he ran at an earnest pace toward the crowd of people gathered in the place where he usually taught his classes. So full of recent events and deep questions had be been during his interview with Brother Benilde that he had completely forgotten the morning tournament he had been asked to organize and over which he was supposed to have presided.

Sounds of cheering reached Adema’s ears. Good. It was good to hear the voices of the children raised in cheer after such a harrowing few days as had just passed. Though it had not been his idea, he had quickly agreed when Rubia and others had approached him about it, all of them thinking it would be a good way to distract the children from the grisly fact of the recent demise of the Monastery’s well-known gardener, Flyves.

The cheers also encouraged Adema to think that the tournament was not quite over; at least he would not have missed all of it. He dropped to a brisk but dignified stride as he reached the edge of the circle of spectators, and marched directly to the small clearing in the center where three senior monks stood, one of whom was just then placing a ribbon around the neck of a tall young man in a ceremonious fashion.

Adema recognized the young man as Ramsteg, one of the top students of the apprentice master class, and began to realize that he must have been wrong about the tournament still going on. It now looked to him as though it had just ended, with Ramsteg receiving the award as the champion of the top class of students. Any doubts he may have had were quickly erased when, catching sight of Rubia’s face out of the corner of his eye, he turned to see a very unhappy and scolding glance, the intensity of which he soon matched with his own throaty oath uttered fiercely but discretely under his breath.

But as it turned out his timing was not entirely bereft of opportunity. Though lacking any concrete plan for how to proceed once he arrived, Adema had continued walking directly toward Ramsteg and the three monks, where he arrived precisely at the moment when the ribbon-placing and handshaking had just ended, at which point he strode boldly up to Ramsteg, and in a show of pomp and sport, shook his hand, slapped his back, smiled at the crowd, and made it plain to everyone watching that he had something important to say.

But what?

While Ramsteg made his way through the crowd to find a seat on the wide field, Adema just smiled and lets his commanding presence make itself felt. His mind raced, reviewing the many lectures, pep-talks, and impromptu speeches he had given during his tenure as senior fighting master at the Monastery. But there was something telling him not to simply pull out one of his tried and trues, and he hesitated, scanning the faces before him, looking for something, carefully avoiding Rubia’s face in particular but searching speechless for one that would inspire in him the words he felt but could not yet produce.

The long moment stretched into an expectant one, and soon it began to feel like an uncomfortable one, when Adema’s eyes suddenly found Kurst. At a glance, Adema saw it everything in Kurst’s truth-telling eyes: the speeches given today had been false; the tournament had been a deception, and its resolution incomplete.

Adema then looked squarely at Rubia, who nearly squirmed at what she saw in the honest master’s eyes. His smile faded to thin straight line, and he began to speak.

“Students, masters and you hallowed monks, and of course Matron Rubia, thank you all for coming. I must apologize for my own lateness, but I was busy with urgent business.”

Adema paused then, and Rubia, reading his thoughts, shook her head firmly side to side, imploring him not to say what she felt he would. And say he did, holding her gaze and speaking as a man apologizing.

“And urgent business, I’m afraid, is what we all have today.”

Instantly, the was crowd transformed as if it were a single being, as if one moment it had been like a happy foxhound out for a carefree morning of hunting and sport that suddenly found itself nose to nose with its murdered master. No one on that field had any thought just then but of Flyves, and as one they closed their sullen mouths and settled down with their tails tucked neatly between their legs.

Rubia was nearly irate. Why! She mutely screamed at Adema just as he turned away. Why! She screamed inwardly to herself, to the silent sky, to her roiling belly. The whole point of the tournament had been to quiet things down, to help the children forget about Flyves, and to dispel the rumors that had been circulating like a cyclone about the man Graves. Why would he specifically bring these troubles up now? Why? Why? Why!

Adema looked away from Rubia then and let his eyes roam over the crowd

“For some time now there have been rumors about a strange man living in the castle, and it is certainly well known that our dear and beloved gardener, Ebenezer Flyves, was recently killed in a mysterious manner. I tell you in all candor that none of us know all of the answers to the questions surrounding Ebenezer’s death, but I can tell you that much that you have heard about the strange man … is true.”

Adema gave his words a moment to sink in, and the crowd seemed to whimper a bit and scratched its head nervously, but in a few moments all were silent again.

“This morning I have spent in conversation with our historian, Brother Benilde. We discussed many things, especially the behavior of the old man and yesterday’s tragedy, and of,” he hesitated, “certain… similarities to stories recorded in our historical records. There is little of certainty that I can tell you, for the ancient texts are imprecise, but Benilde spoke of a certain prophecy which gives me reason to be concerned for the future of our fair community.”

Again the crowd mewled and, shrinking, seemed to hide its head beneath nervously crossed paws and wonder how words so dark could reach it on such a green and pleasant field, on such a fair and sun-glorious day.

“I tell you honestly, I am concerned for our safety. But I can speak with equal honesty of the confidence that I have in all of you. This tournament, the daily lessons in the fighting arts, and as I have only this morning learned, the dedication of these good monks to ritual and tradition – these are, have been, and must continue to be preparations for a mighty struggle.

“As warriors you need to enter battle with your eyes open, and it is out of my respect for you as warriors that I reveal these things to you now, so you can meet whatever comes with eyes open, sure of your purpose and mission, if not of the final outcome of your struggle. Know this: whatever battles lay before us, we are only the last of a long line of those who have taken up this struggle, and you can take heart in the knowledge that your heritage is one of victory.”

Here, Adema’s smile returned. Having unburdened himself of his weighty concerns it came to him naturally. But he also could hear the words the he knew Rubia would bark at him later, telling him that he had needlessly burdened the entire community with a heavy knowledge that only the leaders should carry. He couldn’t say she was wrong, for he knew well that leadership came with important responsibilities, but…

And, here, he got an idea.

Looking suddenly quite serious again, and speaking more quickly than before, he said, “This is neither the place nor time for lengthy explanations, but I would like to ask you now, every one of you, to rededicate yourselves to your duties with a new passion, and I would like to extend this tournament with a new match.”

A murmur passed through the crowd and Adema paused long enough to allow them to subside.

“It has long been our tradition to restrict tournament matches to those between students of the same class. But at times such as these, I think it important for you to know who your true leader is. May I ask the champions of the novice master and apprentice master tournaments to please join me in the circle.”

Now the crowd became a sea of mutters as it rolled this way and that to allow the passage of two students: Ramsteg, whose victory bout Adema has only just missed, and Kurst, the winner of the younger class, whom Adema had known would be the other champion without a moment’s consideration. Slowly, from different sides of the field, the two young men worked their way between the jostling bodies of the other students until they stood side by side before Adema.

They appeared to be an unlikely pairing. Ramsteg was easily a head taller than the younger Kurst. Both were slight of build, though Kurst had more the look of a crouching tiger; his muscular arms and legs seeming relaxed in any posture, while the thinner, straighter Ramsteg seemed always like a soldier at attention.

Adema addressed the crowd once more. “These are your two champions. I propose a final bout to determine a single champion to whom you all can look in the coming days for inspiration and confidence. Furthermore, in light of the grave threats we face, I propose fighting under the rules of lethal combat.”

Adema looked toward Master Carner, standing nearby, just outside the bouting circle and said, “Master Carner, would you prepare the weapons?” Master Carner nodded and then motioned to a cross-legged apprentice who immediately sprang up set off at a trot to the tent where the masters stored the bouting equipment.

Student tournaments almost always consisted of either contests of hand to hand combat or duels with the long poles that served as practice weapons for the study of both staff and spear. The rules of competition were fairly simple: the first to strike their opponent a true blow five times was the winner. Their was no bonus for incapacitating or brutal hits, and in fact those types of actions were informally frowned upon as running counter to the themes of skill and self-control which the masters taught were a fighter’s most important assets. Real weapons with cutting edges were almost never used for bouting, but the masters would sometimes invoke a set of rules intended to simulate the extreme danger involved in that type of combat.

When the apprentice returned he handed two bright red ribbons to Master Carner who walked over to Ramsteg and Kurst and tied a ribbon to each of their poles. Each ribbon was tied into a short, stout bow an inch from the end of the pole, from where the two ribbon-ends, each of a length of about twelve inches, draped down like skinny stockings hung from the end of a fishing pole. The fiery red lengths of cloth swaying from the end of each pole provided a dramatic indication that the weapons were now to be thought of as spears, with tips as deadly as real spear points.

Adema thanked Master Carner and then gave the crowd a quick summary of the special rules. “As usual, the winner will be the first to score five hits on his opponent. But in this bout, touches scored by thrusting the ribboned end of the weapon to this area,” and here Adema gestured toward the soft area just below Kurst’s ribcage, “shall be scored as three touches, and thrusts to this area,” and here Adema indicated Ramsteg’s long neck, “shall be counted as five. Thus a thrust with the ribboned end to the neck brings an instant victory.

“As in every bout we fight here in the monastery, the battle is a contest of honor as much as of skill. When the director calls halt, both fighters shall freeze until the action is called and points are awarded. Failure to do so will result in disqualification. Both fighters shall now prepare for battle.”

Adema took one step backwards and then nodded to the other masters in the circle to indicate that he would preside over the bout. Four of the other masters took up positions around the circle to act as judges in case of any question about the action on the part of the director, in this case Adema.

Kurst and Ramsteg moved to opposite ends of the circle. Kurst stood and rested his pole on his shoulder like a farmer on break with his hoe, but watching Ramsteg intently the whole time. Ramsteg turned his back to Kurst and was much more active, bouncing lightly in place, and rolling his head and shoulders vigorously.

In a few moments Adema raised one hand before him and said “Present!” at which time both Kurst and Ramsteg moved to opposing positions where they could each rest the red end of their pole on Adema’s arm, above which they made slightly corssed. Adema waited for both fighters to become completely still and then dropped his arm and called, “Fight!”

(continued in the next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post.)

Immediately, Ramsteg sprang back to a safe distance with a speed and agility that reminded Adema of a deer. Kurst stooped slightly to an easy crouch and stood still, watching Ramsteg intently, always looking him directly in the eyes. Ramsteg continued to bounce lightly, darting in and out or side to side, now and then making sudden aggressive motions with his pole, which Kurst all but ignored. In this manner Ramsteg circled Kurst, who moved only enough to keep the angle of his body directly facing Ramsteg’s ever changing position.

After a minute or Ramsteg suddenly closed the distance and with a loud whack hit Kurst directly atop the head with the side of his pole. “Halt!” Adema called, quickly walking up to where the two boys now stood as unmoving as statues. Without much ado Adema held up his right arm to indicate Ramsteg’s side of the circle and announced loudly, “Touch, Ramsteg. One to zero.”

Adema kept a neutral manner while performing his duties, although inwardly he was concerned about the violence of the blow and the condition of Kurst’s head. But Kurst seemed to show no undue discomfort, so Adema simply started the next action, again holding out his hand, giving the command to present, and when both fighters were ready, yelling “Fight!”

Again the fighters took up their customary stances, Kurst quiet and catlike, Ramsteg energetic and busily moving around the circle. Ramsteg seemed emboldened by his first touch, and Adema thought he noticed a bit of a swagger in his motions. Kurst’s demeanor was about the same as before, except for perhaps a trace of a smirk on one side of his face.

The first touch had quieted the crowd, who were initially quite excited. This bout was quite an uncommon match. Everyone knew Kurst’s prowess, how he had never been defeated in a tournament, but he had never before had to fight outside his class. Ramsteg was at least five years older than him: taller, stronger and faster, and yet to his credit Kurst was the favorite of virtually everyone on the field, so the first touch had been a bit of a shock, as was the second.

Thwack!

“Halt!” cried Adema, as both fighters froze. Adema stepped forward, but as before there was little to judge about the outcome of the touch. Kurst’s weapon had apparently barely moved, while there was Ramsteg’s pole resting heavily on Kurst’s head right where it had landed after another hard hit that had made Rubia cringe and nearly fly up out of her lawn chair.

“Touch, Ramsteg,” Adema said, “Two to zero.”

Again, surprise reigned in the minds of all present, save those within the circle. Ramsteg was starting to feel a confidence that he hadn’t expected. He normally feared the much smaller Kurst, but now seemed to be convincing himself that he could win. Kurst showed no change, unless it was in his smirk that seemed, if anything, wider than before.

And likewise it went for another two touches. With the third touch the skin on top of Kurst’s head split open and blood began to roll over the side of his head. Adema questioned Kurst about it, who only nodded as if to say, “It’s nothing,” but Adema warned Ramsteg about the violent hit anyway.

Ramsteg seemed in a world of his own. With each hit he seemed to grow more confident, his bounces more heavy and bold, his motions more imbued with muscular excess. Kurst was unchanging, even after the fourth touch when the blood from his head ran quickly and began to matt the hair on the side of his face. Adema wasn’t sure what was stranger, the fact of all four blows being struck to the same spot on Kurst’s head, or the fact that Kurst seemed so unconcerned by it.

Rubia finally could take no more and exploded from her chair, saying, “Hold! Master President,” indicating Adema, and marching over to Kurst to examine his bloody scalp. “You must stop this bout at once, Adema,” she said, and for the first time since the bout began Kurst’s smirk left his face. His eyes bored into Adema’s, imploring “No!” and Adema, despite deep reservations, acquiesced to boy’s fervent demand.

“We’ll continue, Rubia,” Adema said gently, and as her head snapped around to press her case he continued, “It is a nasty gash alright, but really nothing in a real battle with real consequences. As long as he feels able to continue, he shall,” he said, quickly adding, “And that’s my final decision.” as Rubia opened her mouth to complain.

“Hmph!” she spat and then leaned in close to Adema, and in a fierce whisper said, “I don’t know what has come over you today, Adema, nor am I sure I want to, but Kurst is to visit the infirmary the moment this is over, and that’s my final decision!” Adema said nothing. Rubia then turned back toward Kurst and said, “Do I make myself clear, boy?” to which Kurst smiled broadly, and made a slight bow in Rubia’s direction. “Thank you very much, Ma’am. On my honor I promise to do so.”

At this Rubia and Adema exchanged a look that was as absent of contention as it was full of bewilderment. As strange as this day had been, the sight and sound of Kurst addressing Rubia with politeness and almost gallantry, was perhaps the strangest. “Are you sure you’re alright, boy?” said Adema to Kurst. “Yes, Master. I’m fine,” he replied, at which point Rubia and Adema shrugged first to each other and then to themselves and shook their heads as they each resumed their previous positions.

When Adema held up his arm to begin the next touch, the entire crowd was as still and quiet as a patch of cobblestones on a deserted road. Kurst down four to zero - who would have thought it! All eyes were on Adema as he signaled the start of what could very well be the last exchange.

“Fight!”

Ramsteg was like a stag in heat now. It seemed as if his chest had somehow swelled, and he didn’t so much bounce about the circle as he did as prance. A four zero lead was normally huge in bouts such as this. He would have at least five more chances to attack, he thought, and he only needed one success to claim victory. His only source of doubt was whether to continue his winning tactic, or change to something new. With such a lead, though, the element of surprise was not necessary; he only need one out of five. But Ramsteg was locked in a strategy that was not quite sound under the current rules.

After the longest stretch of bobbing and weaving in the bout, Ramsteg finally made his move. After four previous actions -- for all intents and purposes identical in every way -- everyone on the field saw the next one coming: the same tempo, from the same distance, at the same target, and for a moment it seemed that it had resulted in the same outcome.

Thwack! “Halt!”

Another blow to Kurst’s head, this time the loudest of all, but as Adema walked up to judge the action, he took a moment longer than for any of the previous four. Unnoticed by Ramsteg, a red cravat now hung from the spot just beneath his Adam’s apple, where the end of Kurst’s pole had somehow appeared.

The reaction from the crowd was twofold: first a rush of air as scores of mouths gasped at the blow to Kurst’s head, and then tenuous squeals and shouts as one by one each set of onlooking eyes noticed the end of Kurst’s weapon at Ramsteg’s throat.

Adema began his call, quietly at first, “I’m sorry Ramsteg, but Kurst’s action was clearly first.” As he said this, Adema looked around the ring at the four judges, all of whom nodded their agreement. Then louder, he said, taking Kurst’s arm and raising it up, “Lethal touch, and bout, to Kurst.”

The crowd now exploded in cheers and whistles. Adema laughed to see the reaction of the crowd, thinking it a vindication of his decisions today. Perhaps the tournament would still work as a tonic for the student’s fears as they had all hoped. But not everyone joined in the celebration.

Kurst stood quietly, just staring at Ramsteg, still seemingly unaffected by the ugly open wound on his head, which continued to bleed freely and by now had stained the shoulder of his tunic a dark crimson color. And for several moments, Ramsteg stood as quietly as Kurst, returning his burning stare with equal intensity. No one noticed this impromptu extension of the bout until Ramsteg’s composure snapped like a brittle twig.

“You!” he cried, pointing at Kurst, now being supported on both sides by Adema and Rubia. “YOU!” he screamed, now with an almost insane intensity. “You planned it! You did it on purpose, letting me hit you, letting me believe I could win. You liar! You bastard! I could kill you!” And with that he sprang at Kurst bare handed, only to be intercepted by the strong arms and chest of Adema.

Kurst, having been left to only Rubia’s support, drooped slightly as if starting to feel the affects of loss of blood, but resisted Rubia’s pull in order to keep his eyes constantly on Ramsteg’s, and his smirk spread wide into a toothy smile now, and his eyes looked tired and sleepy, almost dreamy, as if Ramsteg’s shrieking voice and frantic efforts to get past Adema’s fast hold were as a lullaby to his pounding head.

Finally he let Rubia drag him away, and as his eyes closed, the last thing he heard was a shredded, almost insanely twisted voice screaming over and over again, “He’s evil!” as it faded into the distance.

* * * * * *

When Kurst awoke in the infirmary he had a bad headache and what felt like a beehive of cloth strips were wrapped around his head. The room was empty now, and Kurst could tell by the wan light coming in from the hall that it was probably about twilight right now, and that the nurse was likely in the dining hall with most of the other occupants of the castle.

His plan had worked perfectly, in fact better than he had hoped. Patting his turban of bandages lightly he assured himself that it had all been worth it. He stood up and carefully tiptoed to the doorway while checking his balance against the wall with an outstretched hand the whole way. At the doorway he turned and looked down the hall. And there it was.

The room, the one room, the only room that had any meaning for him now in the entire monastery, the room of terrible secrets and desperate horrors, from which Adema and Rubia and, it seemed, everyone else had sworn to keep him from returning. There it was, just a short walk down a dark hallway, like so many of the childhood fears he had encountered in his young life.

And there he was, mere moments later, at the doorway to that room, still as a statue, hardly breathing, watching intently as the alabaster nostrils of the marble man lying on the bed within flared and relaxed.

“Hit your head again, have we?” came the unearthly voice.

“Yes, master,” the humble response.

“Well, then, do come in and make yourself at home. Let’s have ourselves a nice chat, hmmm?” said Graves in a voice that seemed to smile like a coiling cobra.

“Yes, master,” intoned Kurst, stepping in and crossing to the empty chair by the window. As he sat down he noticed what seemed to be a small white birdcage embedded in the floor in the near corner, inside of which was a dead mouse apparently impaled upon a smooth white spearhead that protruded up from the floor in the exact center of the cage’s perimeter. The tiny creature’s body had been pushed up against the top of the cage and it hung there with the tip of the spearpoint protruding from its shoulders and through the top of the cage. Its fur was matted with blood and entrails hung down from the bottom of the torso where the skin had split wide open from the progress of the widening shaft.

For a moment Kurst felt the touch of fear, and for a moment he thought of Ramsteg, then of himself, and for another long moment he considered the open door of the room he had just entered. But before he could think the next thought the mouth of Graves creaked open, releasing the hypnotic voice that filled Kurst’s mind and echoed long in his ears.

“Let us begin,” it said.

[RevenantsKnight]

On your latest post: well, I’m not entirely sure where you’re going with this, but it should be interesting to find out. This read smoothly, and overall I thought this was good, but the narration seemed a bit dry to me, particularly during the bout with Kurst and Ramsteg. It was, also, maybe a touch over-stuffed with words; in general, this was not a major problem on a first read, but even so, it seems a little excessive in parts. Some specific comments:

On the bed, where a weary soul lay trapped within a barely human shell, an elegant, alabaster finger darted once, flicking to the floor a hardening piece of cheese that was barely a morsel.

“To dart” as an intransitive verb means “to throw a dart,” which doesn’t really work here. I’d suggest switching this with another verb, since I don’t think tacking on an object here would help the flow.

Graves hoped the tiny crescent of fetid curd the he had secreted beneath his fingernail during lunch would be sufficient bait for a creature that was barely worth hunting.

“Hoped” sounded a bit odd for Graves...if you’re trying to emphasize that he’s still partly human, it works, but I don’t remember seeing much on that previously, at least as much as it relates to his mind. Because of that, this felt a little out of character to me.

Beneath the bed, his quarry had been tiptoeing languidly behind its pointy little, searching little nose, expecting littler.

Hrm...I’m not sure if “pointy little, searching little nose” was intentional, but if it was, I don’t think it worked, because it just seemed like a typo. Also, I liked the “barely” repetition in this part, but I don’t think it’s as effective with “little.” I’d recommend varying that up some.

The tiny scavenger found meager harvest in this barren room, which it included in its daily rounds only out of an unconscious discipline borne of the dire needs of survival.

You know, I don’t think I know anymore how many times I’ve drawn comments on my overuse of descriptive language, so if this sounds like the pot calling the kettle black, it probably is. Anyway, I’d cut down on a few of the adjectives and such here, because I think that literally every noun here except for “it” has some sort of modifier attached. “Dire needs of survival” in particular feels like it could be trimmed, to me.

Above the mouse, lying as ever like a corpse in a shallow linen grave, the old man’s ears did likewise, at least metaphorically, as the depthless mind between them followed the passage of its unsuspecting victim by the whisper of its tiny claws raking the floor with eager pinpricks.

Everything after “...by the whisper...” seems repetitive to me, given the next sentence. Also, I’m torn on the value of “at least metaphorically,” because while it does seem to fit the tone of this part well, I think it breaks up the flow of the sentence (though not by a whole lot.) Finally, “depthless” sounded, well, odd; my first reading was that Graves’s mind was extraordinarily shallow, which was just confusing.

Yet, somehow audible, somehow discernible to the inscrutable intelligence of the motionless trapper, they betrayed the mouse like a noisy neighbor, and Graves grinned appreciatively at the telling of the tale.

“Discernible to the inscrutable intelligence” sounded off to me, since his intelligence per se isn’t involved in sensing things.

When the mouse found the cheese, the tiny bit was like a mountain to the tiny mole kin: a bounty, another day of life, and hungrily it made a feast of the redolent ration.

Technically, moles and mice are as closely related to each other as cows and mice; they share classification at the class level, that is, they’re both mammals. After that, moles belong to the order Insectivora, while mice are part of Rodentia. Given that, I don’t think the mountain/molehill play works here.

She gives no quarter to the unwary, no forgiveness to the indulgent, and no second chance to this poor pea-brained fellow, though it could not possibly have known it was being stalked by a man-demon whose faculty for cruelty far exceeded that of any hawk or fox.

About that...this mouse sure is a moron. I always thought that it was more typical of the species to grab and go.

When it was time to spring the trap, Graves smile widened, revealing the two neat rows of his ivory-white teeth.

Hrm...that should be “Graves’s,” or perhaps “Graves’,” if you insist on following after Clarke. :smiley:

As he did this, a circle of white pinpoints emerged from the floor around the blithe feaster, which it did not notice, and somewhere the mistress so recently mentioned licked the end of her long gray quill, preparing to make another mark on a scroll with no end.

Just a thought: if Graves could fit the cheese under his fingernail, would it really take a mouse this long to finish it?

As the mouse continued to eat, the dots became slivers became daggers became fingers that pushed their way silently up out of the stone like blades of grass made of smoothest bone.

I didn’t like the stone/bone rhyming, though maybe that’s just me; it caught me up for a second when I was reading this.

And still they grew, and as they reached the height that would about equal the mouse’s length not including its tail, each silent encircler curled slightly toward the center of the ring and continued to grow until all met in the middle with a quiet click that to the mouse was an awakening thunderclap.

I’d see if you can’t reword “...that would about equal the mouse’s length not including its tail,” because that seems a bit awkward. Given what you’re trying to do here, though, I’d say that might be a bit tricky, and this could stand as is.

On the bed the ears listened, the lips continued smiling, and even the eyes rolled excitedly beneath starched, stretched eyelids.

I liked this image.

Graves’ ancient ears captured every sound, deciphering every portent of the tiny din, and enabling him to picture the trapped creature.

“Portent of the tiny din” sounds a bit imprecise to me, since the noises are part of the din, as opposed to something that would foretell a din. Also, you’ve been using “tiny” quite a bit recently...couldn’t hurt to switch out an instance somewhere. Finally, “enabling him...” felt a little dry; I’d see if you can’t revise that to something a little more vivid.

He saw it in his mind running round and round within its tiny cage, inspecting the gaps between every ivory bar, testing their strength, and then standing on its hind legs to explore the peak of the little bone pagoda; exhausting every possibility of escape until finally, exhausting itself, and freezing motionless in the center of the cage, finding refuge only in its instinct for silence, which profited it nothing.

“Pagoda” seems misleading here, as its usual associations don’t really match the situation. Additionally, the comma after “finally” is unnecessary. “Profited it nothing” also sounds odd to me...“which yielded it nothing,” perhaps?

Had anyone heard it, which no one did, it would have sounded like the stroke an endless midnight that could know no dawn.

Hrm...“the stroke of an endless midnight...,” perhaps? Other than that, the harsh mistress imagery was well played.

The ground was dusty along the well worn path Adema now took, and he kicked up a small cloud of it as he ran at an earnest pace toward the crowd of people gathered in the place where he usually taught his classes.

I think “well worn” should be hyphenated, though that’s just me. Additionally, the “it” in “a small cloud of it” technically refers to “the ground,” since that’s the subject of the previous clause. “Dust lined the well-worn path...” might work, though it changes the sentence a bit. Lastly, “in the place where” could simply be “where,” I’d think.

So full of recent events and deep questions had be been during his interview with Brother Benilde that he had completely forgotten the morning tournament he had been asked to organize and over which he was supposed to have presided.

That should be “...had he been during his interview,” I think. Also, “...he had been asked to organize and...” seems a bit wordy to me; you could probably cut it entirely without changing the sentence’s meaning much.

Sounds of cheering reached Adema’s ears. Good. It was good to hear the voices of the children raised in cheer after such a harrowing few days as had just passed.

I’d replace “cheer” with something else, perhaps, given as you use “cheering” here too.

Though it had not been his idea, he had quickly agreed when Rubia and others had approached him about it, all of them thinking it would be a good way to distract the children from the grisly fact of the recent demise of the Monastery’s well-known gardener, Flyves.

Similarly to the comment above, there’re three uses of “good” in those sentences plus this one; I’d replace this instance, since that’s the most general use. Also, “...the grisly fact of...” seems extraneous to me.

Any doubts he may have had were quickly erased when, catching sight of Rubia’s face out of the corner of his eye, he turned to see a very unhappy and scolding glance, the intensity of which he soon matched with his own throaty oath uttered fiercely but discretely under his breath.

That should be “discreetly,” if you meant that he was trying to hide it. If you truly meant “separately,” then that’s correct, if rather weird.

But as it turned out his timing was not entirely bereft of opportunity.

There should be a comma after “out.”

At a glance, Adema saw it everything in Kurst’s truth-telling eyes: the speeches given today had been false; the tournament had been a deception, and its resolution incomplete.

“Saw it everything”...huh. Typo, perhaps? Also, this confused me at first; I caught the meaning on a second read, but the first run was a bit unclear.

His smile faded to thin straight line, and he began to speak.

That should be “to a thin, straight line,” methinks.

Instantly, the was crowd transformed as if it were a single being, as if one moment it had been like a happy foxhound out for a carefree morning of hunting and sport that suddenly found itself nose to nose with its murdered master.

That should be “Instantly, the crowd was transformed...”

Adema looked away from Rubia then and let his eyes roam over the crowd

Given “She mutely screamed at Adema just as he turned away,” this felt like a continuity miss. Also, you’re missing a period at the end here.

“I tell you in all candor that none of us know all of the answers to the questions surrounding Ebenezer’s death, but I can tell you that much that you have heard about the strange man … is true.”

”Much that” seems like it should be “much of what.”

Again the crowd mewled and, shrinking, seemed to hide its head beneath nervously crossed paws and wonder how words so dark could reach it on such a green and pleasant field, on such a fair and sun-glorious day.

Nice image.

“As warriors you need to enter battle with your eyes open, and it is out of my respect for you as warriors that I reveal these things to you now, so you can meet whatever comes with eyes open, sure of your purpose and mission, if not of the final outcome of your struggle.”

I think it sounds a bit repetitive to say “...whatever comes with eyes open...” after the first part of this sentence; while it does change the meaning, I might just try “...can be sure of your purpose...”

Having unburdened himself of his weighty concerns it came to him naturally.

I think there should be a comma after “concerns.”

A murmur passed through the crowd and Adema paused long enough to allow them to subside.

Technically, I think “them” should be “it” here, since it works for “a murmur” to subside, but having it apply to the crowd made it seem like the crowd was disappearing for a second.

Now the crowd became a sea of mutters as it rolled this way and that to allow the passage of two students: Ramsteg, whose victory bout Adema has only just missed, and Kurst, the winner of the younger class, whom Adema had known would be the other champion without a moment’s consideration.

I think that should be “...Adema had only just missed...”

Both were slight of build, though Kurst had more the look of a crouching tiger; his muscular arms and legs seeming relaxed in any posture, while the thinner, straighter Ramsteg seemed always like a soldier at attention.

“Crouching” seemed to contrast with “relaxed”; the former seems to imply more of a compact, tensed position to me. I’d change either description so that they both match.

Master Carner nodded and then motioned to a cross-legged apprentice who immediately sprang up set off at a trot to the tent where the masters stored the bouting equipment.

I think that should be “...sprang up and set off at a trot...,” or perhaps simply “...sprang up and trotted...”

Their was no bonus for incapacitating or brutal hits, and in fact those types of actions were informally frowned upon as running counter to the themes of skill and self-control which the masters taught were a fighter’s most important assets.

That should be “There was no bonus...”

Real weapons with cutting edges were almost never used for bouting, but the masters would sometimes invoke a set of rules intended to simulate the extreme danger involved in that type of combat.

“Cutting edges” suggested blades to me; since they apparently train for staff and spear combat, the fact that they wouldn’t use edged weapons in practice seems to go without saying. If you meant for that to refer to real spears, I’d change that to focus on spearheads somehow. More importantly, perhaps, I got a feeling that this may have been unnecessary exposition, and could have been revealed sufficiently in the following dialogue. This whole paragraph had a vague sense of that, but this sentence in particular felt as if you might be able to cut it without needing to add or reshuffle too much afterwards.

When the apprentice returned he handed two bright red ribbons to Master Carner who walked over to Ramsteg and Kurst and tied a ribbon to each of their poles.

I think there should be commas after “returned” and “Carner,” though I’m not entirely sure about the first one.

The fiery red lengths of cloth swaying from the end of each pole provided a dramatic indication that the weapons were now to be thought of as spears, with tips as deadly as real spear points.

“Real spear points” sounded a bit repetitive to me, since you say already that they “were now to be thought of as spears.” “...deadly as steel points” might work better, though maybe that’s just me.

Adema thanked Master Carner and then gave the crowd a quick summary of the special rules.

Seems a bit unnecessary to lead off his summary with a proclamation to the reader. I’d just have him thank Carner and get down to it.

“Thus a thrust with the ribboned end to the neck brings an instant victory.”

I think there should be a comma after “Thus.”

Four of the other masters took up positions around the circle to act as judges in case of any question about the action on the part of the director, in this case Adema.

It seems to me that you could probably cut everything after “question” here and reword it to “disputes” or something...this felt a bit wordy.

Kurst stood and rested his pole on his shoulder like a farmer on break with his hoe, but watching Ramsteg intently the whole time. Ramsteg turned his back to Kurst and was much more active, bouncing lightly in place, and rolling his head and shoulders vigorously.

There were a few parts here that seemed extraneous; the “but” in the first sentence, “and was much more active” and the comma after “place” all could probably be removed without any problems. This paragraph also felt a little repetitive, with a sort of “Kurst did X. Ramsteg did Y,” feel, though it wasn’t too bad and could probably stay as it is.

In a few moments Adema raised one hand before him and said “Present!” at which time both Kurst and Ramsteg moved to opposing positions where they could each rest the red end of their pole on Adema’s arm, above which they made slightly corssed.

That should be “crossed”...I think; I’m not really sure what the last part here was supposed to say. Also, I think “their pole” should be “their poles,” since there are two of them. Lastly, I think “opposing positions” is a bit redundant, given the previous paragraph.

Adema waited for both fighters to become completely still and then dropped his arm and called, “Fight!”

I’d try to edit out one use of “and” here, because chaining them makes the narration sound rushed. Perhaps “...still, then dropped his arm...” would work.

[RevenantsKnight]

Kurst stooped slightly to an easy crouch and stood still, watching Ramsteg intently, always looking him directly in the eyes.

This paragraph, and this sentence in particular, felt a bit repetitive to me; as mentioned before, the sentence structure of “Kurst did X” gets a little old after a few uses, and you also used the “watching Ramsteg intently...” bit previously. I’d try to find different wordings for both of those.

In this manner Ramsteg circled Kurst, who moved only enough to keep the angle of his body directly facing Ramsteg’s ever changing position.

I think that should be “ever-changing.”

The first touch had quieted the crowd, who were initially quite excited.

I think that should be “...who had been quite excited.”

This bout was quite an uncommon match.

It seems a bit unnecessary to say this to me, especially it’s unusual just on the grounds that two champions are dueling, as you’ve mentioned before.

Ramsteg was at least five years older than him: taller, stronger and faster, and yet to his credit Kurst was the favorite of virtually everyone on the field, so the first touch had been a bit of a shock, as was the second.

I’d suggest turning the comma after “faster” into a period, because that would put emphasis on the second part of the sentence. Also, there should be commas before and after “to his credit.”

“Touch, Ramsteg,” Adema said, “Two to zero.”

The comma after “said” should be a period.

Ramsteg was starting to feel a confidence that he hadn’t expected. He normally feared the much smaller Kurst, but now seemed to be convincing himself that he could win.

I don’t know if this quick shift into Ramsteg’s thoughts is really necessary here; maybe it’s just me, but I thought that the physical descriptions of his change were enough to establish these points.

Adema questioned Kurst about it, who only nodded as if to say, “It’s nothing,” but Adema warned Ramsteg about the violent hit anyway.

I’d see if you can’t replace one instance of “Adema” here with something like “the fighting master,” and in general it might be a good idea to work up a few alternatives to names, since a lack of those may have been why some of the previous bits seemed as repetitive as they did.

Kurst was unchanging, even after the fourth touch when the blood from his head ran quickly and began to matt the hair on the side of his face.

I think that should be “...began to mat the hair...”

Adema wasn’t sure what was stranger, the fact of all four blows being struck to the same spot on Kurst’s head, or the fact that Kurst seemed so unconcerned by it.

“...the fact of all four blows being struck to the same spot...” sounded off to me; something like “...the fact that all four blows had landed on the same spot...” might be clearer.

“As long as he feels able to continue, he shall,” he said, quickly adding, “And that’s my final decision.” as Rubia opened her mouth to complain.

The period after “decision” should be a comma.

“Hmph!” she spat and then leaned in close to Adema, and in a fierce whisper said, “I don’t know what has come over you today, Adema, nor am I sure I want to, but Kurst is to visit the infirmary the moment this is over, and that’s my final decision!”

For reasons mentioned previously, I’d try to cut down on the use of “and” in the narration here.

As strange as this day had been, the sight and sound of Kurst addressing Rubia with politeness and almost gallantry, was perhaps the strangest.

The comma after “gallantry” is unnecessary.

It seemed as if his chest had somehow swelled, and he didn’t so much bounce about the circle as he did as prance.

Nice description.

A four zero lead was normally huge in bouts such as this.

I think that should be “four-zero.”

His only source of doubt was whether to continue his winning tactic, or change to something new.

This didn’t seem to add much to the story to me...not sure if I missed something, but when I read it, it just slowed the pace down a bit.

With such a lead, though, the element of surprise was not necessary; he only need one out of five.

That should be “he needed only one...”

The reaction from the crowd was twofold: first a rush of air as scores of mouths gasped at the blow to Kurst’s head, and then tenuous squeals and shouts as one by one each set of onlooking eyes noticed the end of Kurst’s weapon at Ramsteg’s throat.

There should be commas around “one by one.”

Adema began his call, quietly at first, “I’m sorry Ramsteg, but Kurst’s action was clearly first.”

I think the comma after “first” should be a period, though I’m not positive on that. There should be a comma after “sorry,” though.

Perhaps the tournament would still work as a tonic for the student’s fears as they had all hoped.

There should be a comma after “fears,” I think.

“You!” he cried, pointing at Kurst, now being supported on both sides by Adema and Rubia.

I think that should be “...who was now being supported...”

“YOU!” he screamed, now with an almost insane intensity.

I’d try to replace this instance of “intensity” with something else, given how many times it shows up prior to this.

And with that he sprang at Kurst bare handed, only to be intercepted by the strong arms and chest of Adema.

That should be “bare-handed.”

Kurst, having been left to only Rubia’s support, drooped slightly as if starting to feel the affects of loss of blood, but resisted Rubia’s pull in order to keep his eyes constantly on Ramsteg’s, and his smirk spread wide into a toothy smile now, and his eyes looked tired and sleepy, almost dreamy, as if Ramsteg’s shrieking voice and frantic efforts to get past Adema’s fast hold were as a lullaby to his pounding head.

That should be “...effects of loss of blood (or maybe ‘blood loss’)...”

The room was empty now, and Kurst could tell by the wan light coming in from the hall that it was probably about twilight right now, and that the nurse was likely in the dining hall with most of the other occupants of the castle.

There’re a few bits here I’d call extraneous; you could probably delete “now” and “right now” without any change in the meaning.

Patting his turban of bandages lightly he assured himself that it had all been worth it.

There should be a comma after “lightly.”

“Yes, master,” the humble response.

Technically, there should be a verb of some sort between the speech and the rest of this. I’d use “came,” but since that’s already in the previous sentence, I’m at a loss for suggestions.

But before he could think the next thought the mouth of Graves creaked open, releasing the hypnotic voice that filled Kurst’s mind and echoed long in his ears.

There should be a comma after “thought.”

Overall, this was good, though it felt a bit dry at parts, more so than I remember. I’ll be around for whatever’s next, though. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hey Rev,

Great job on ferreting out the many errors and typos in this chapter. (Corrections will be made!) As for your comments on wordiness and dryness -- as much as I hate to admit it -- I think you're spot-on. After several months of brain-freeze on this story, when I finally sat down to write the middle part last weekend, the words flowed like water. I pounded out over 4000 words in one afternoon, which is not typical for me at all. It seemed so easy, too easy really, and that should have been a warning sign. Whatever mode my brain was in at the time, it must not have been conducive to good story-telling.

So thanks very much for attention to detail and unwavering honesty. I'd much rather get glowing reviews than piercing criticism, but only, of course, when my work deserves it. This sort of thing is really very helpful and I greatly appreciate it. A few specific comments follow:



On your latest post: well, I’m not entirely sure where you’re going with this, Makes two of us! (Where have I heard that before?) Given the way I ended chapter, it certainly needs to go somewhere, doesn't it? I have had the feeling for a while now that this story has been spinning its wheels for a few (maybe several) chapters; now I guess I'm committed.


“To dart” as an intransitive verb means “to throw a dart,” which doesn’t really work here. From to Dictionary.Com, under "darted, darting, darts: "To move suddenly and rapidly: The dog darted across the street." It seems that is the way I used it. I don't want to get into dictionary wars, here, but I'm sure I have seen/heard it used this way before. Having said that, I'm still not sure that it was the best word choice, but it does seems correct, no? (Am I missing something?)


Hrm...I’m not sure if “pointy little, searching little nose” was intentionalIt was, very. An example of my falling on bad habits. It think I liked the idea so much that I ignored the way it read. Must repeat: "murder your darlings, murder your darlings, murder your darlings..."


“Discernible to the inscrutable intelligence” sounded off to me, since his intelligence per se isn’t involved in sensing things.Intelligence may not be necessary for the physical aspects of perceiving sound, but it can be when it comes to making sense out of it. Take morse code, for example. If you don't know how to interpret it, it's just noise. That's what I was trying to convey, that Graves had an inhuman ability to derive meaning out of barely audible noises. Maybe "Discenible" was not the best word choice.


Technically, moles and mice are as closely related to each other as cows and mice; they share classification at the class level, that is, they’re both mammals. Your comment strikes me as a bit picayune. If it's a stretch at all to suggest that mice and moles might be kin of some sort, it's certainly not much of one, at least not given their superficial similarities. It might not work for the folks who know their taxonomy as well as you do, but you can't please everyone. (And just what percentage of the population is that, anyway?)


About that...this mouse sure is a moron. I always thought that it was more typical of the species to grab and go.Didn't think of that. You may be right, but I always figured that mice and other scavengers sort of eat on the go. If a mouse is out in a field, it might look for shelter from a circling hawk, but in this almost empty room, what would it be hiding from?


Just a thought: if Graves could fit the cheese under his fingernail, would it really take a mouse this long to finish it? That kind of occurred to me too. I may have drawn it out too long. Would it help to make mention of Graves' extra-long fingernails? :wink3:



“Portent of the tiny din” sounds a bit imprecise to me, since the noises are part of the din, as opposed to something that would foretell a din. Again, I guess I was referring to extracting meaning from the sound. It was meant as portents of the mouse's movement that were contained within the din, not a portent of a comming din. After reviewing the definition of the word portent, it was probably not the best word choice.


Additionally, the “it” in “a small cloud of it” technically refers to “the ground,” since that’s the subject of the previous clause.Hmmm. I don't really see the problem here. If the ground is dusty, one can infer the that ground itself has the property of dustiness. So, whether he kicks up dust or ground amounts to about the same thing, no? Unless you read it as the dust being distinct from the ground, in which case I could see your point. I wasn't thinking of it that way. More like the way baseball infields get in the middle of a dry summer. Very dusty, but it's the ground that became that way, not that a bunch of dust came and settled on the field.


That should be “discreetly,” if you meant that he was trying to hide it. If you truly meant “separately,” then that’s correct, if rather weird.I had no idea these were two discrete words. Or perhaps I should be more discreet about revealing my ignorance. (Thanks! You learn something new everyday.)


“Crouching” seemed to contrast with “relaxed”; the former seems to imply more of a compact, tensed position to me. Hmmm, can't say I agree here. It may be because were are using "tense" in different ways. Certainly, a crouching man's leg muscles must be under tension. But when a person is "tense" it means something different. A crouched fighter who is moving fluidly would not impress me as someone who is tense, whereas one who was stiff and upright might.


As for the rest, I agreed with a lot of it, especailly about the dryness and word repetition. Overall, I would say this chapter has the feeling of having been done in haste, which it was. And yet, the opening section was one that I labored over, and it ended up being over-packed with adjectives, and descriptiveness in general. Getting it just right is the real trick, eh?

Thanks again, Rev!

[RevenantsKnight]

From to Dictionary.Com, under "darted, darting, darts: "To move suddenly and rapidly: The dog darted across the street." It seems that is the way I used it. I don't want to get into dictionary wars, here, but I'm sure I have seen/heard it used this way before. Having said that, I'm still not sure that it was the best word choice, but it does seems correct, no? (Am I missing something?)

No, you're not missing something, though I probably did; that sample sentence works. My mistake...:embarassed: The instance in the story, though, still sounds odd to me somehow...not sure what exactly to suggest.

Intelligence may not be necessary for the physical aspects of perceiving sound, but it can be when it comes to making sense out of it. Take morse code, for example. If you don't know how to interpret it, it's just noise. That's what I was trying to convey, that Graves had an inhuman ability to derive meaning out of barely audible noises. Maybe "Discenible" was not the best word choice.

That struck me as fine, actually, since you're using "audible" too. I might just swap out "intelligence" for something like "mind," which could be read more inclusively.

Your comment strikes me as a bit picayune. If it's a stretch at all to suggest that mice and moles might be kin of some sort, it's certainly not much of one, at least not given their superficial similarities. It might not work for the folks who know their taxonomy as well as you do, but you can't please everyone. (And just what percentage of the population is that, anyway?)

No idea. Honestly, I didn't know what order moles belonged to off the top of my head, but I was pretty sure that they weren't rodents, so it caught me up when I read it. I admittedly wouldn't be surprised if this doesn't bother most people...it stuck out because I happen to like most rodents. :smiley:

Didn't think of that. You may be right, but I always figured that mice and other scavengers sort of eat on the go. If a mouse is out in a field, it might look for shelter from a circling hawk, but in this almost empty room, what would it be hiding from?

Graves? :grin: In all seriousness, I'd guess that it'd be scared of people, since it apparently checked other, more traveled, rooms for food.

Unless you read it as the dust being distinct from the ground, in which case I could see your point. I wasn't thinking of it that way. More like the way baseball infields get in the middle of a dry summer. Very dusty, but it's the ground that became that way, not that a bunch of dust came and settled on the field.

Ah...you'd described the path to the old crypt as a paved walkway a few chapters back, so that's the image I had. Guess that's not a fair assumption, since I don't know exactly where Adema is.

Hmmm, can't say I agree here. It may be because were are using "tense" in different ways. Certainly, a crouching man's leg muscles must be under tension. But when a person is "tense" it means something different. A crouched fighter who is moving fluidly would not impress me as someone who is tense, whereas one who was stiff and upright might.

I see your point, but I'm still having a hard time thinking of a tiger lying in wait for prey, which is what this suggested to me, as relaxed. Was that what you intended? The way I see it, not only is the tiger in this image literally tense, the atmosphere doesn't seem to fit.

Thanks again, Rev!

My pleasure.

[0xDEADCAFE]

It had been a long walk for Rubia.

Laden only with a light tray bearing an even lighter supper, she found this afternoon’s climb up the tower stairs as trying as if each step was a fortress wall to scale and her burden as heavy as a knight’s sword and shield. That the muted rays of the waning sun lit the stairwell to only a shadowy, dusk gloom did not help lift her spirit. Nor did the deep dread she felt of her inevitable terminus—that room at the top that she had come to regard as a pocket of hell lodged in the loftiest spire of her beloved monastery. Worry and woe weighed upon her.

This is Kurst’s obligation, she thought, shifting her weight with effort onto the next step. Feeding that infernal man—it’s his job, not mine. The heel of her shoe caught for a moment on the rough edge of the step. She stumbled but managed to catch herself.

Damn that boy, Kurst—Kurst!

She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut beneath a contrite frown. Drawing a deep breath between lips that then hurried through an oft repeated prayer, she apologized, promised to do better, and then thanked her heavenly mother, the Lady of the Monastery, for forgiveness. As she renewed her march up the stairs, her thoughts returned to the boy.

Where had he been all afternoon?

It dawned on Rubia that she had not seen him all day, which was very unusual. How he had come around, she mused, that inscrutable boy, so full of fight and spite at first, so resistant to the very idea, but now… In recent days he had embraced his duty, seeing to the old man’s every need like a doting grandson, could barely be persuaded to leave his side.

So where was he?

Rubia came to sudden stop, the last step before her. She stood there, silent in the half light, listening, her eyes sharp for any sign of, well, anything. Her dread was palpable to her then: the sound of her own blood flooding her ears, a tight knot in the back of her throat and, most disturbing to her sense of decorum, a sweaty, almost greasy feeling on the tips of her freshly scrubbed fingers.

Like an oak tearing its roots from frozen ground, Rubia forced her legs up and over that last hurdle: a hard breath, a hard oath, a hard woman emerged from the stairwell.

Stepping out into the hallway, Rubia saw the door to Graves’s room ajar, a reddish glow emanating from the opening. Rubia took another deep breath and then swiftly approached the doorway, with each step gaining a greater view into the room, which seemed to be engulfed in flames. Opening the door, she saw the source of the cool, enveloping fire.

Through the broad western window, the distant mountains, outlined in deepest crimson, eclipsed all but the last, incendiary bulge of the setting sun, which, as if in spite of the rising mountains, poured out its eternal flame, filling the ardent sky and the room about Rubia with its undying luster.

Beautiful…

In that moment Rubia forgot all her worries. She felt vividly the comforting nearness of Her Lady and the reassurance of heaven, and when she finally noticed the empty bed and the simple fact of Graves’s absence, what would just a minutes before have come as great relief at not having to meet with him this afternoon came to her almost as an after thought.

And then it was even more beautiful, as the last glimpse of the sun winked out, and the room darkened just the slightest bit more. It was good, this dusk, this smile rising on her lips, this breath filling her opening lungs so easily and fully, this draught of calm and gladness; so thirsty, she paused to drink.

Peace…

Until she heard it, a shrill and piercing sound as loud as any thunderclap, so overpoweringly loud as to be physically oppressive—as if Hell itself had taken the room into its mouth and bellowed—a din obliterating all other sounds: the tray clattering noiselessly on the floor, the dishes shattering silently into a hundred shards, Rubia, her hands clapped over her ears, screaming mutely into the gathering night.


* * * * * *

By all rights, the monastery should have been viewed as a wonder of the world. The huge central building complex, with its castle-like fortifications and its massive, high tower were of a scale and design that none had seen anywhere else. A vast area around it, including wide grassy fields, a pond and even a small forest, was enclosed within an impenetrable wall of cut stone with four strong gates located precisely at the four points of the compass, and everywhere there was ironwork and masonry far beyond the skills of any craft master.

A wonder indeed, but in those simple times when few devoted any time to wondering, it was thought of, simply, as a part of the landscape. Like the mountains, the sun and stars, it was an imposing fact of the world as surely as the ground itself, but not something to be noticed in particular, not to be questioned, and certainly not wondered at. More than anything it was simply a place where people lived.

And on that evening, the people living in that place, wherever they might have been, out in the yard, in the gardens, among the animal in their stalls, on the practice fields, around the drinking well, on the walkways, beneath the heavy, low-hanging bows of fruit trees, at the guarded gates, along empty clothes lines or perched on roofs in need of repair, in busy kitchens or laying out plates in the dining hall, wherever anyone was working to finish up their daily chores, or loitering lazily in wait of companions, or moving swiftly between appointments, or marching like tired dogs to a much needed rest, the splendor of that evening’s setting sun was not lost on the grateful eyes of the monastery dwellers, and even, in their minds, perhaps, there was a spark of wonder at such an awesome sight.

But if Wonder found small purchase in men’s minds on such rare occasions, Fear and Superstition held court there day and night.

By any measure, it had been a trying time since Graves’s arrival. His strange aspect and presence alone had been enough to unnerve many. The stories of his behavior and the powerful effect he had on those who had come into contact with him convinced the rest that he was at best a harbinger of ill tidings.

Many felt that the man was part of some kind of curse visited upon them all. A few, considering the recent untimely and unexplained death of their beloved gardener, Flyves, held that Graves was much more than a man, and some that he was much less. Some wondered if he could be a kind of devil let loose amongst them, and others even speculated that he might be some kind of savior, sent to them at a time of mortal danger. If the talk of Graves was at times wild-eyed and unfocused, it certainly did not lack for abundance and variety.

On this night, into this sea of worry came the beautiful sky. Like Rubia, all who saw it felt a lessening of their burden of woe, a dissipation of dread, and like Rubia, long before they were ready to let go of their newfound peace and calm, they heard the sound of something strange and powerful that had the unmistakable scent of something all too familiar.

Evil.

If asked, not a man or woman among them might have used that exact word, not a one might have duplicated the description of another, but the essence, the theme that cut through what all came to recognize as a kind of awesome yet inscrutable music, was an evil that each one knew as well as the ache in their back at the end of the day, as well as the stones in their shoes, like the blisters on their hands, the growl in their belly, like the feeling of being outside the gates after dark, like death: not hellish nor heavenly, but the plain, simple, familiar evil of the world.

Unlike poor Rubia, virtually within the mouth of the music, most were spared the full fury of the overture. Yet the cacophony raced outwards and down from the tower like a waterfall, crashing upon those nearby, and flowing in rivers of sound throughout the grounds. All who heard it easily found its source, and each, instinctively gauging the volume of what they heard to the distance from which they stood, turned dumbstruck toward the screaming tower in awe as their ears struggled against an onslaught of music that they could barely comprehend.

Imagine now, not a mob bunched tightly together, but a scattered throng spread out across acres and acres of field and woods, yet acting as of a singular mind, fixated upon a singular sensation, turning from the rapture of a glorious western sky in unison to stare forlornly at their tower, recently made the adopted home of the sinister man, Graves. Imagine their faces, in witness of what could only be yet another dark miracle from that ghost of a man. Imagine the dashing of hopes, the welling of tears; imagine an entire community experiencing the pain of a deep and spreading wound growing right in the middle of their shared home.

And before you forget, imagine poor Rubia all alone at its center, and remember—not a one knew of her plight.

* * * * * *

Old Benilde clung to the skinny wooden stool on which he sat like a drowning man clutching at a log. Sweat fell in rivulets from his bowl of a hairline, down his cheeks, his back, along the sides of his great bulbous nose. It pooled in his slackly open mouth and clung to the creases underlying his draping chins. His robe clung wetly to him everywhere, especially around his chest, which labored futilely for a satisfying breath.

The heat was unbearable, at least he would have said so, but bear it he had no choice. For now, the stool was his island and he a forlorn castaway. He could no more have heaved his enervated bulk up off that spindly stick of a chair than he could have lifted the tower above him from its foundation. His overwhelming concern was merely to maintain his unsteady perch, to avoid what for his fragile old body could easily be a fatal crash to the stone floor—the floor, all but hidden by the thick steam around him, littered with coal-dust and wood splinters, helter-skelter with the charred remnants of fagots of sticks and tree branches—in a corner, a rusty axe and saw blade—and slick with sweat and mud and smeared ash.

No illuminating swatches of the uplifting color gracing the roof of the world could be seen from where he sat. There were no windows in the wide room at the base of the tower, and even if there were, Benilde doubted if the smoky fog filling every square inch of it would have admitted anything but the merest hint of the sunset tones. Yet the room was not devoid of color, for a great fire burned there.

Through the haze, Benilde’s watery eyes could just discern the crimson-fringed outline of Kurst’s tireless figure, ever in motion, performing what seemed an almost mad dance before the huge brass boiler from which an oppressive heat poured through the open door; the boy had been stoking the fire for hours.

The tireless boy…

As exhausted as he was, Benilde could not help but marvel at the boy’s relentless pace. Since before dawn, when Kurst had appeared at his rectory door, through a morning of scouring the entire grounds for fuels: firewood, charcoal, dead branches, discarded furniture—anything that would burn, it seemed—to the afternoon of firing the ancient burner, the boy seemed to be moving as if at a constant run. And to foggy old Benilde, the blur that was Kurst seemed inflamed with a maniacal and terrible joy, a boundless, unnatural energy that was far more than mere youth could explain. And what made it all the more terrible for worrisome old Benilde, was the knowledge that Kurst had not slept that night, either.

The boiler, the old scroll had read in an ancient tongue. Not merely a furnace, the huge, round, brass oven was part of a great machine. Above it, suspended on eight slender and segmented granite pillars, the likes of which Benilde had never seen, hung another brass monstrosity, a wide and rotund vessel, looking like the belly of some huge metallic spider nesting atop the equally sprawling burner.

Kurst had filled that water tank during the night. How he did it, even over an entire night, Benilde could not fathom. How many trips to the well, how many gallons—no!—how many tons of water had to be carried up the rickety ladder and emptied into that titanic tank? And that tank, the tank that was now boiling, that Benilde knew was now, though hidden from his view, transformed into a boiling cauldron, he knew was yet another piece of an even larger and far more intricate device.

The old books and scrolls in the chapel library were many, but few were those that Benilde could fully translate and understand. One, in particular, had bewildered him on more than one occasion. The notations in most of the thick, loosely bound volume were beyond anything that he would describe as writing. Row after row of dots and lines and squiggles—Benilde could scarcely imagine how it could even be a language, much less devise a way to translate it.

Just one slim section at the back of the weighty sheaf was written in one of the more recognizable ancient tongues, but he had never noticed it before today, before Kurst’s unexpected visit with his precise yet confusing message from the powerful and dreaded man reposing in the cold, open room high in the tower. Because of that message, today, he read it for the first time

It was, more or less, an instruction manual for a great musical instrument built literally into the monastery tower. Or perhaps it and the tower were built at the same time, both parts of the same incredible machine—the text wasn’t clear on that point—but it went on in exhaustive detail describing the operation of valves and pipes and pedals and keys. It was too much for Benilde to take in at once, especially with Kurst being so impatient and specific in is request. He needed Benilde to understand how to open the main steam valves, but beyond that, nothing.

Even this small request took time, throughout which Kurst squatted anxiously on the table, bouncing lightly on his haunches in such a way as to make the guttering candle—the only light Benilde had to illuminated the ancient manuscript spread out upon his desk in the dusty chapel basement—flicker even more.

Despite the poor light and Kurst’s relentless stare, Benilde translated the text quickly. It was in a script he knew well, and he was helped in his efforts by the organization of the book, which broke the descriptions into short chapters for each of the main parts of the machine. The whole time he was working he was distracted by the thought of the much larger front section of the book, with its pages and pages filled with the tiny, odd notations he couldn’t read, but finally he found what he needed.

Satisfied with himself, he smiled and informed the boy only to find himself at once being practically dragged out of the dusty basement and across the monastery grounds by the still-bouncing, almost ape-like Kurst exhorting him to hurry, hurry, hurry to the base of the tower, where the boy unlocked and opened an ivy-covered door that he hadn’t even known was there and pulled him into a room he hadn’t known existed, the room where he now sat pondering the limits of his aged body’s ability to endure.

As his body faded, Benilde’s mind faltered. Weak, tired old Benilde, feeling much put upon and cranky over the physical exertions having been demanded of him, and now languishing in he sweltering room with its suffocating steam, no surprise, that on this day of stress and hurry he would again fail to appreciate the significance of that one volume as he had done on many days before. His order of monks, obsessed as they had been for so many generations by warfare and preparing for the prophesied apocalypse, had had little use for music. Perhaps unique among the people of the world, these monks were a singularly unmusical group. No angelical choirs sang at their masses; there were no flutes or drums or horns to be heard on restful evenings under the stars, and no deft hands crafted fine instruments out of animal gut and fine wood. It was rare, even, to hear anyone whistle.

Such a people could be forgiven, then, generations ago, for not recognizing the huge and hugely complex instrument sequestered among the lower stories of the tower, for puzzling over the wide and massive keyboard only briefly, and then locking up all the rooms and hanging the keys in a forgettable place.

After all, it was a stagnant time for such things as technology and magic, if there is a difference. It was not a time when Wonder’s first cousin, splendid Discovery, could easily find its stride, or even take small steps. No, to those who even bothered to scratch their heads and squint at it, the thing in the tower would haven been merely an enigmatic artifact, a thing not to be understood, but just accepted like some magical sword they might hear about in beery tales at the local tavern or in a child’s fairy tale.

As if, in the people of that age, there was an unspoken narrative, an ever-present whisper: “There were, once upon a time, gods or people who could build things like this in the world, but no more. And for what purpose, well, best not to ask.”

Such is the way of Ignorance, not so much a not knowing as a not caring to know, and every bit as fat and greasy as noble old Benilde, that impudent and indolent spirit maintained a place of honor in the court of Fear and Superstitution—he was their benefactor, after all.

And so, with perhaps an ember of curiosity, the monks who resettled the monastery some hundreds of years ago shook their heads, perhaps one or two scratching at their balding scalps, but soon locked and shuttered the magnificent machine, turned their backs and put it distinctly out of their minds.

For as long as anyone then alive remembered, the tower had been thought of as an empty place, save for the lookout at its summit and the broad open room one floor below. This morning, even as he read the yellowed text that so clearly explicated the machine’s design and purpose, Benilde could barely hold it together in his mind. It was all a dense fog like the one now clouding his view, and the dreadful feeling it gave him, of a truth almost too great to be known, of a secret that was so big and so long kept, lit a fire in his belly like the heat now filling the room.

Now!

Now, the fire was blazing, now, the water was boiling, and now, as the door of the burner clanged shut, he knew it was time for something he could barely turn his mind to and clutched his seat even tighter.

And Kurst, his task finally complete, seemed a vision out of a dark fairy tale, no longer just a boy, but a frantic life-size marionette cut loose from its strings. With no more water to draw and carry, no more wood to gather or chop or throw into the burner, no more physical labor to absorb the unearthly energy running through his veins, his body convulsed in a furious, athletic dance: running, leaping, pirouetting with no apparent purpose, whipping about like an open flame at the mercy of the inexhaustible inner fire that had moved him all day and night.

To blurry Benilde it looked the dance of a demon. And with the steam and the ash and the heat, and his consciousness faded to a dreamlike state, it might as well have been that hell had risen up about him. The thought burned him, but not for very long, only for a moment more, when, like poor Rubia, alone in that high open room, he heard and felt the all-encompassing flood of sound that seemed to pour from the very walls and ceiling.

In a flash, the pages of dots and lines and squiggles appeared before his eyes, and never, for his life, would he have imagined that this was music.

* * * * * *

(continued in next post...)

[0xDEADCAFE]

(...continued from previous post.)


Graves hands rested lightly on the keys. With his eyes closed, back straight, wrists arched, his curled fingers began a slow dance over the keyboard, touching but not pressing the dusty, yellowed keys in a mime of practice. Hearing the music in his mind, but yet savoring the silence, he imagined the pleasure of the feel of it in his ears, like a child savoring the thought of dessert through a long and tedious dinner, and then deliberately forestalling it when it came, stretching out the anticipation to make the treat at the end all the more enjoyable.

What a long and meatless feast it had been.

For years, for uncountable solitary mornings and afternoons and evenings while he lay prostrate and helpless in whatever bed happenstance had brought him to, Graves had been composing this piece in his mind. Day after day, hour after hour, marking the endless, tedious minutes of his death-like life with notes—composing, always composing—placing note after note on an endless musical staff that stretched to the infinite reaches of his mind.

His Magnum Opus, or rather, a musical homage to such, for his true great work had been his life itself. The sonata, which he had crafted so meticulously, was the story of that life and more; it was the story of the world itself, from the moment of its birth, eons before the oldest human history up to the present day, a story related to him many times by his unearthly master, now set to a music that was all his own.

Just yesterday he had finished it, and today he would hear it for the very first time.

Very soon now…

From his seat in the organ pit on the third level of the tower, Graves monitored the progress of the setting sun. If Benilde and Kurst had executed his plan as specified, the steam would be at full pressure just as the sun set, and the immense, immensely old instrument would be ready to play.

It was almost time.

He opened his eyes, and as his ghostly hands continued their feathery dance above the crackled enamel of the ancient wooden keys, he cast his gaze across the huge bronze pipes lining the walls on all sides. From beneath the floor where they would be fed by steam from the boiling tank, up and up they stretched, the largest of them wide as a century pine, extending through the shadowy, high ceiling of the organ room, and up through the fluted walls of the room above, and up to the very roof of the tower, where they ended open-mouthed beneath the roof, hidden from all but those who sat where Graves now did.

The sun’s metallic glint on the smooth, round pipes flickered, winked and then died. It was time.

Graves waited one moment more—a single beat—gauging in his mind the precise tempo that his performance would observe, concentrating upon the emotions he sought to evoke in the minds of his listeners: he would play like a titan with ten fingers on each hand, and especially for the opening chord, which betokened the moment of creation.

And one…

Ten fingers pressed on ten keys, ten delicate metal arms opened ten perfect valves, ten blasts of pressurized steam curled through ten meticulously machined pipes—the tower opened its mouth and bellowed like an awakening god, stepping forward to take the stage from the dying sun and vying with its voice to match the brilliance of the other’s celestial light.

The sound filled Graves with an ecstasy he had long forgotten. It was a long chord, a full measure, but never long enough. The player longed to hold the opening chord—forever would have been long enough—to revel in the pure unbroken tone of the screaming pipes, but such was not the composer’s will, nor the true representation of the story to be told.

The four beats passed and like clockwork Graves moved into the next musical phrase. The chord repeated once, then again, and thereafter for several measures, but in shorter bursts, and quickly he settled into a rhythm that was like a heart beat, the pulse of the newly born earth. Into of the rhythm he wove ubtle variations. The regular repetition of the chord broke up into different related chords, and soon the chordal structure itself dissolved into runs of individual notes, arpeggios, credenzas, all the details of the burgeoning earth, the story of mountains and valleys, rivers and oceans, the opening of the sky, the busy creation of all things earthly.

It passed in minutes, this composition of years, this story of eons. Graves noted the irony and played .

Quieter now, and slower, the fiery chaos of creation cooling to the orderly march of nature, years and seasons passing, almost peaceful, harmonious. The strains of it wax pleasantly until Graves, leaning to his right, adjusting a stop, reaching for a far black key, presses a shrill, single note, a lone star piercing the jet black primeval sky and then elongating to become a line stretching across the firmament, dividing the sky into halves, and then sundering it. For a moment the sky seems to hang from a thread, and then

Two, three, four…

It falls!

Another titanic chord screams forth from the tower, an angry cry filled with dissonance and dread—it is the end of the first movement, the birth of hell. Now, Graves does hold the chord too long, longer than the composer intended, for the the sheer ecstasy of its feeling against the player’s body.

This hell was heavenly, he thought, grinning at his own joke, yet knowing he could not hold it forever—the steam had limits even if he didn’t. Mentally calling to the stops, the many small capped rods arranged over and beside the keyboard that steered the course of the steam as it wound its way through the maze of pipes ringing the belfry, without lifting his fingers from the keys, with his eyes alone, he willed them to slide, slowly, evenly, to a gentle close, achieving the perfect fade to silence of the final chord of his opening movement.

A moment it seemed, since he had started playing, a moment only, not the quarter hour—a long opening movement—that it was. Leaning backwards, stretching, lifting his arms and then clasping his hands behind his neck he savored the thought of the next movement. Graves, the ageless wizard, the inhuman titan, delighted in the thought of his music like a child given candy.

He would be his own audience for the next movement, the slow march of hell’s armies across the nascent earth and the subjugation of its newly awakened inhabitants, mankind. He would leave his hands clasped behind his head, and call to the keys now, really playing like a titan with ten fingers on each hand of his mental hands.

He began, and as a score of invisible fingers marching out the impossible chords of the second movement, the stops dutifully slid back out of their smooth round holes. Slowly, the repeating refrain grew louder and louder, building from a whisper with each passing second.

Graves smiled. In his mind he saw dark multitudes rising from fiery chasms, heard the sound of uncountable boots pounding the hard ground, a low thrumming, from far away.

One! two, One! two, …

Sliding the stops, he brings the boots gradually closer. The chords take on a more sinister tone; he sees the army cresting a high hillside. As the volume builds again to a deafening roar, he can see the endless line of their grotesque and misshapen silhouettes standing on the edge of the horizon. All at once, they stop. One massive figure strides forward flanked by banner-carrying minions; a single, high pitched note, quavering, the banners waving, a second, note dissonant to the first, the banners stop still in the hot wind, then a third so off-key that even Graves’s wizened eyes wince every so slightly, the banners fall.

Up-tempo…

The next passage attacks the ear with the fury of a bloodthirsty horde thundering down the hillside. Though still a march, the tempo is barely recognizable, the theme a dizzying tapestry of iron-laden soldiers, their torsos and immense strides, running, bounding, falling, clambering towards slaughter as sweet as candy.

There is a clash, a tumult, but the battle hymn is sickeningly brief. After the cacophony of the charge comes the stillness of the aftermath: death and devastation. A dry tear duct presses against the hard wrinkles of one of Graves’s eyes. He knows he cannot give this moment its due, cannot express even with this instrument the enormity of the calamity that befell humanity on that dark day, but he throws his passion into the rondo, the lightening quick fall of civilization.

He draws the crescendo of the charge and battle into a dirge, and for the first time since his return to the monastery he allows his own humanity to leak out, but still no tears emerge from Graves’s stony eyes. In fellowship he reaches with all his senses to people on the grounds outside; he can feel around him—all around him—wherever a monastery dweller stands or sits rapt in his music, a flood of tears, and he wonders if any among them can imagine, or even wonder, what he senses so clearly, that not a one of them suffers alone, but that each is a part of a communal outpouring of sorrow. And just as clearly, he knows they do not.

Such a pity; if only they knew…

The piece continues.

Gradually, a new melody emerges. The banner-flanked figure, their queen, having waited and watched from on-high strides forward. There is a gathering of survivors—a regent must have subjects—and the making of plans: the building of a fortress, a tower, a throne, a seat from which a matriarch’s dominion can be secured.

Again, Graves peeks into the mind of his audience. Do they see it? Have they noticed it—the similarity. Can they conceive of it: the fortress, the tower, their tower?

The end of the second movement speaks of grandeur, of spectacle, of coronation, and in irresistible, marching passages, sets like a foundation stone into the minds of the listeners a vision of a dreadful new world order, the hellish enslavement of mankind.

There is silence again in the monastery, but Graves is not quite done.

Properly, his sonata should have a third movement, and it does, but the musical score to this final section is incomplete; it is in fact quite short, a mere prologue. Now he unclasps his fingers and again leans forward to lay his hands lightly on the keys. Though unseen by any, this act is symbolic; he would again take matters into his own hands, for the last movement was his even more his than the first two, for it tells of the coming of the Slayer.

Flesh and blood flingers press again against cold wooden keys. The initial theme is reminiscent of the first movement, as it should be, for again there are stirrings in the firmament, in that place called Hell, though the name Heaven would serve as well. A powerful rival of the crowned Queen of Slaughter, perhaps a brother, perhaps a jilted suitor, or perhaps just another demon god beset by envy—what does it matter—casts his gaze across the ash-covered fields of human misery, looking for an ashen-faced human pawn with which to strike at the black hearted queen.

The melody begins gently, expansive and ethereal, like the far reaching gaze of an all-seeing, searching eye. Soon, it changes, simplifying and contracting as the eye narrows its focus on one out of the many, and soon it changes again, as the demon’s unearthly reach stretches up from the depths, takes the unsuspecting man in its grasp, and claims him as its own.

Another new melody superimposes itself on the theme: Graves’s own, the man in a god’s hand as it lifts and squeezes, the man, like clay, being molded, reshaped to better fit Hell’s infernal design. Graves almost forgets the music, remembering his own shock and pain, but this passage, too, is short and the song is almost over.

A dark smile shines above the hardening clay. Soon the piece is put into play and the game is on. With the birth of the Slayer a new war is joined, and with it perhaps a new future for mankind, a hope at least, a chance for peace in the form of a contract with the devil, the hardened pawn’s price for his service in this chess match between gods.

Graves lifts his hands for the last time; for now, he is done, though the piece is not. So many times through the years had he envisioned a grand finale, a crescendo, a climax, but it was not to be, could not be. The music must merely stop and leave the audience with an unsettling, unfinished feeling.

For the rest of his story cannot be played on even such an awesome instrument as this. Neither does it have a glorious ending, or any ending at all according to prophesy. Even if it did, other instruments will be needed to finish even this movement, instruments of war such as those housed by the locked and unopened trunk at the foot of his bed: his wand and talismans, his circlets and rings and jewel-encrusted gauntlets, instruments of power and arcane origin. Soon, it would be time for Graves to take them up again.

Tomorrow he would be reborn and take his place on the board, but today, today he would revel in his humanity. Casting his mind across the now-silent fields of the monastery grounds, he reaches out to the frightened and aimless masses and bids them calm. He shares his sadness with them, his broken dreams of the life he hoped for as a young man, and in that moment they are united. He feels their tears and longs for his own.

The sun’s setting glow has all but vanished from the sky now and a chill breeze blows through the heights of the tower. In the uppermost reaches of the organ chamber, the invisible clouds of spent steam, the ghostly remnants of the organ’s mighty voice, shiver in the breeze and then in a predictable and utterly explainable miracle of nature condense into pure water. In a flash, the ceiling and walls, the arches and pipes, every crevice and filigree, every surface of the tower’s musical innards are covered with water droplets.

Still reaching into the minds of the many, Graves throws his head back. Their pain and sorrow, so like his own so long ago, is almost unbearable. But bear it he does. Throwing his head back, he turns his face skyward in quiet supplication. For what he doesn’t know, and neither does he expect any response, but one comes. All at once the droplets congealing out of the cooling steam swell to a point just too heavy to can maintain their watery cling. Down they fall like rain onto Graves upturned face, turning the wells of his grateful eyes into pools of cool tears. He smiles.

It is a fitting finale.

* * * * * *

That night an exhausted but elated old man was borne lightly back to his bed by his strong and devoted servant. Graves slept that night with an uncharacteristic smile while Kurst slept, characteristically, at his feet, lightly, on guard, one unsleeping eye ever vigilant to the needs of his master.

Benilde still clung to his stool, unable to move, as tired as death. For a while he stared unseeing from beneath heavy lids. In time his eyes closed, and he slept—his great bulk wedged into a corner, some wizened instinct holding him in place, miraculously balancing atop the stool even in deepest slumber.

Outside, the sparse throng had long since turned away from the tower, picked up whatever tools they had dropped at the sound of that first chord, and marched grimly toward whatever place they took their rest, their dulled heads echoing with the doom of their world and the meager place their lives has in it, thinking little of anything or anyone else, and even less of themselves.

At some point in the night, with hard oaths squeezed between harder breaths, a hard woman who had had the hardest time of all, crawled doggedly out of the tower. Thinking only of duty—unkindly of it—she feels a curse rising on her lips, but before she gives it voice she feels, to her astonishment, a strong hand on her shoulder, and a kind voice in her ear.

“Let me help you, Rubia.”

“Thank you, Adema. Bless you.”

And for the second time that night Rubia felt the touch of grace and glimpsed a small hope of peace.

[RevenantsKnight]

Good to see you writing again, 0xDEADCAFE, and my apologies that I didn’t get to this sooner.

Overall, I thought this latest chapter did quite well at what it tried to do, though it turned perhaps a bit slow and heavy at times (by my opinion only; there’re definite preferences on my part that might well be different for o