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Page Page, 15:13:52 10/20/09 Tue
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susiej, 15:54:05 10/21/09 Wed
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Me, too! >>>> -- Page, 12:53:09 10/24/09 Sat
>Uh, yea, I'm afraid that ya lost me. I was good
>through the first paragraph but starting losing
>interest in the second. Too much info.
That's what I was afraid of. Although, reading over it again, I've realized I repeated myself several times. Pretty much all the information contained in the first two paragraphs is reiterated later on, so I think I can dispense with those.
>
>As for the POV-starting with Walter shifting to Jay
>again, I know how you feel. I like and write with
>shifting POVs-I tend to get bored in stories that are
>told thru only one very tight POV, but I've been told
>that most people don't like it, find it confusing.
>
>What i've been told is to keep one POV in each
>chapter- again, its what I've been told, not
>necessarily what I do.
I've heard that, too, but like you, I don't do it that way. I do avoid switching POV within a scene, but I don't have a problem with finishing that, then dropping down a few lines and continuing in the other character's POV. For example, when Katie and Jay first slept together it was shown in Katie's POV. But after the deed was done (so to speak!), I dropped down a few blank lines (I suppose in a book, we'd have a line of stars, or wavy lines or something) and switched to Jay's POV. After all, I had been leading up to this for quite some time, and I didn't feel it was fair to ignore Jay's reactions. So I have two POVs in the same chapter, but they don't overlap, or switch back and forth.
>
>I think i'd suggest you tell this from Jay's POV (he's
>sexy and we like being in his head)- how he was nearly
>ready to throw in the towel but met this ruthless
>banty rooster type and ta da...
Now that I see how I repeated myself, I'm going to take your suggestion on this. Jay's more familiar to the reader, while Walter is very much a secondary character.
I wanted to tell you, too, that I remember the bit you posted when the miller's wife is recalling details surrounding Rose's birth, and how much I enjoyed that. Not only did you get a bit of backstory in there in an enjoyable manner (her voice was very pronounced and clear!), but you also left me with the impression that what she'd heard about the birth wasn't all there was to it. It made me want to keep reading to find out what really happened, and I think that's what backstory is all about.
Hugs,
Page
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Page >>> -- dea, 11:24:44 10/22/09 Thu
i did not lose interest, though there was a lot of information. however, i agree with susie about the change of POV. if you allow me, i post a couple of excerpts where i inserted backstory in HOA; one is Ashton thinking, the other is a dialogue. i tried to solve the problem i created by using only Ashton's POV in the whole story... maybe you could write it in Jay's POV, approaching Walter's house for the party and thinking about how he came to that point...
Excerpt #1 - for critique purposes only
Heights of Abraham
by Dea Vianna
Chapter One – A diversion unsigned
Peak District, England, March 2006
She had luminous black eyes, not the blue eyes of her father. Rather thick, but still delicate eyebrows gave them a subtle shade. When Ashton accepted the invitation for tea at the manse, he was glad to feed the curiosity about the older daughter of Sir John at last. The mysterious Bryony Cavendish. He heard things about her. He read a few of her reports. He created this image in his mind. So he was surprised when she literally slid toward him as he stood at the entrance hall, an inexpugnable smile on her face, engulfing him in a wave of vanilla.
‘Dr Duvivier, nice to meet you at last! My father cannot stop praising your feats!’ she chanted.
‘Ms Cavendish, the pleasure is mine. Your father does not save good words when talking about you…’
Warm hand, firm grip. Had he just taken one second longer than appropriate holding it? When he let the hand go, those black eyes fixed on him almost shrewdly. Was it mockery he perceived behind that smile?
‘Duvivier, my lad, welcome. I see you’ve already met my Bryony.’ Sir John appeared by their side, saving Ashton from his embarrassment. He placed a tender arm around his daughter’s shoulders with visible pride, in a way that was not his ordinary reserved, yet amicable disposition. Ashton was surprised when she looked at her father. For a second, there were genuine affection, respect and admiration in those eyes.
‘Oh, well, Sir, yes, at last.’
‘Yes, Pa, we had just begun to tear some silk about each other.’ She smiled. Though it took him a second or two to understand the expression she had just used, Ashton noticed that she was just making a joke this time. The weight of the first impression of, what, suspicion, perhaps, on her side, seemed to have diminished somehow.
‘Indeed you should!’ Sir John laughed a contagious laugh, one that Ashton and Bryony could not avoid joining. ‘Now, come, lad.’
Sir John pulled Ashton by the arm and ushered him out in the spring garden. It was a small party and Ashton was acquainted with most of the people gathered around the white iron table covered with fine embroidered linen.
The moment Sir John finished the few introductions and general conversation went along, Ashton switched on what he used to call the autopilot and began to watch the scene. The ability to maintain an ordinary interaction with a number of interlocutors, while processing information in his mind, was something that had come naturally since his young years. It had proved to be useful throughout surgery residence and especially later, when he had joined the Medecins Sans Frontières.
About eight months earlier he had stepped into the shoes of Bryony Cavendish as head of the Paediatric Department of the Cavendish Children Foundation. Now he had time to take a closer look at his predecessor.
He was somewhat intrigued that he had noticed the eyes first. He had never done that before. He was attracted to shapes, proportions. She was definitely not the kind of woman he would look at twice. He knew she was in her early forties, but looked somewhat younger. Mignon, his mother would have said of her. Long wavy dark hair, with strands of gold and silver. She would probably wear it plaited, but now it fell down loose by the waist. The long butter-coloured lace dress made her resemble the pictures he had seen of her mother, the late Lady Antonia Bragança Cavendish, the Iberian heritage visible on the large, welcoming hips and the soft milk-cocoa skin.
He smiled when he noticed that she was barefoot.
He wiggled his head slightly. He wondered if her image would ever match the one he had built in his mind. The strong-headed young woman who, unlike her two little sisters, had chosen to travel around the world instead of getting married and having babies. The gifted student who, instead of pursuing a successful career in Law, had taken the reins of the Foundation for more than ten years and run it with an iron grip. The woman who had surprised everybody when she stepped down to take over the PD for another five years; the same woman who had left the Foundation and the country without explanation, shortly before his arrival.
Ashton woke from his considerations when Bryony looked straight at him from the other side of the table. Then, without a word, she poured the steaming amber beverage from the silver teapot in the fine china piece, swiftly searched the three delicate crystal jars to choose from one of them a single cube of sugar, carefully dropped it in the cup and passed it to him. With only a smile. Then she went back to a very lively chat with the woman on her side, whom he knew to be her aunt Rosario.
‘Thanks,’ he replied softly. The restlessness he had been feeling since his arrival enhanced all of a sudden, when the scent of Earl Grey reached him. Had she been told about his favourite tea or had she just guessed? Well, she was wrong about the sugar, he hardly ever had sugar. He decided to take a sip or two just to be polite. And then he gasped when he realised it was not sugar, but crystallized honey. Honey! How could she know that? Perhaps she had just read his mind with her x-ray eyes. He rolled his mind eyes. Perhaps she was the last of a long line of Portuguese witches. Funny. He hid his smile behind the cup, though by now he had already realised that that was futile. It seemed that Bryony Cavendish had eyes on the back of her head and had been watching him as closely as he had been doing with her. Brilliant.
‘A game of croquet, lad?’ He was slightly startled when Sir John appeared on his side. He would not have missed that movement normally.
‘Oh, thank you, Sir, but, no, that’s not really my cup of tea. I’ll be pleased just to watch.’ Ashton replied, standing up.
‘Indeed. I would rather enjoy a horse ride to the river at the sunset, but, you see, someone has to entertain the old birds…’ Had he actually winked, Ashton wondered? He had never seen Sir John in such a good mood. Perhaps he was happy with his daughter’s return. Ashton could relate to that. ‘Bryony, why don’t you take our Duvivier for a stroll? Show him the glasshouse, will you, love?’
‘Yes, Pa, I will.’ Ashton turned round to find out that Bryony had just materialised behind him. ‘Shall we, Monsieur?’
* * *
Excerpt #2
Chapter Four – A path unwinding [excerpt]
* * *
Ashton woke up when the lazy, warm afternoon was at the peak. He stretched his arms above his head against the resistance of the hammock. For a moment he was a little disorientated, with the impression that he was in some refugee camp in the middle of nowhere. He sighed when the flowery green scent reached his nostrils. He rolled to the side to find Bryony looking at him from inside her own hammock, just the head out, like breaking out of a cocoon. Her features rearranged swiftly from tender to mocking. She liked him, he knew, though it seemed she made an effort to conceal it. He stretched his legs and let them fall from both sides of the hammock, touching the ground. He looked around at the rim of the wood; it was quiet, now, with all the little creatures hiding or flying away from the heat. The wind brought the ongoing sound of running water from the waterfall.
‘You have a lush place here’, he mumbled, crossing his arms under his head.
‘Yes. It’s been here for, what, a hundred years. Pa rebuilt it, forty years ago, with his own hands.’
‘He did, did he?’
‘Yes, he’s a very ingenious man.’
‘I see. And he’s an engineer, I hear.’
‘Yes.’
Ashton wondered for a while.
‘How did you parents meet? I mean, your father is very reserved about your mother, but he seems so… tender about her.’
‘Well, it is an interesting story… My father has always been an idealist. He went to Africa in 62. He was twenty five, twenty six, I think. He had joined the Red Cross as a volunteer, to design and build medical facilities. And he worked with teaching the local populations about alternative sanitation and water systems as well.’
‘Smashing! So the spirit of the Foundation goes way back…’ Ashton was pleasantly surprised.
‘Yes… He ended up working in Angola where he met my mother. She was twenty at that time.’
‘Och, so young…’
‘Yes... They fell in love and got married in 64. They moved back to England the next year, because of the threats of riots in the war of independence. She was pregnant with me.’
‘Oh. She was Portuguese, right?’
‘She was born in Portugal, but her family lived in Angola since she was a little girl. She worked as a nurse there, specialised in Paediatrics.’
‘Oh, I see the other root of the Foundation…’ Ashton smiled.
‘Yes…’
‘I was wondering, why didn’t you follow the medical career? I mean, you have interest in medical issues, and knowledge…’
‘I did not find it in me.’
‘I see.’ He smiled. ‘You know, I like your father very much. He’s not… snobbish, as one would suppose he might be, I mean, being a noble…’
‘Oh. But he is not a noble. Not by birth, I mean.’
‘No?’
‘No. He was knighted by the Queen for upstanding services to the Crown; it’s not an inherited title. And the manse belonged to his mother’s family; they were wealthy horse breeders. That’s why he’s so passionate about horses.’ He could notice the pride in her black eyes. Sweet.
‘Oh. That’s remarkable…’ He admired the old man even more. ‘There’s something about him… Somehow he reminds me of my mother. It’s a sort of sweetness, I can’t really explain.’
‘I see. I feel the same.’ She smiled. ‘Your mother… you were close.’
‘Yes. In an odd way, though. She was… I don’t know, out of time. I mean, I had the feeling that she lived in her own world, somewhere in the past.’
‘How so?’
‘Well. She looked… diaphanous.’ He smiled.
‘That’s an interesting way to put it.’ She smiled back.
‘Yes. Tall and lean, with that thin light brown hair. She used to let me brush it every now and then, when I was a boy. I loved it, it was like silk. She had skin like porcelain.’ He smiled. ‘And those blue eyes, like a clear morning sky.’
‘You have her eyes.’
‘Well, so they say. But that’s pretty much all I have of her. Perhaps the hands.’ He stared at his long, thin fingers.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She was a pianist, a remarkably good one. She was born in a village by the sea in Bretagne, St. Brieuc, but she moved to Paris in 72, I think, to go to a music school. She could have been a piano soloist, you know, concertos? But then she got pregnant with me that same year, married soon after, moved to London, where I was born the next year. She still gave lessons until she passed away…’
He stopped and they remained in silence for a while, staring at the woods. He looked down again and he could almost see the ghost of his mother’s hands over his. Weird that only now he realised that however much he had tried to exorcise his father, the Major was in him. The same thick dark brown hair with the bad habit of getting spiked at the top of the head; the thick eyebrows, the long nose skew-whiff almost on the same spot, the high cheekbones, the straight thick lips and the big smile, the shape of the jaw, the dark skin of the Black Scots. The broad shoulders, large hips, even the awkward catwalk, like a cowboy with a worn-out hip. Everything in him was the Major. He gave a shrug.
Another thing bothered him now. Whereas they had talked a lot about her father, she had not asked about his; actually, it seemed she had deliberately avoided the subject. Although it was not his idea of a fine conversation and at the risk of spoiling the day, he decided to ask her straight.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you avoid asking about my father?’
‘Why do you ask?’ By now he was used to her quite annoying habit of answering a question with another.
‘Well… curiosity.’ He had to lie.
‘Hmm… I assumed it might be some sort of taboo subject to you.’
‘Oh. What gave you that idea?’ Had he inadvertently given her some undesired impression about his feelings toward the Major?
‘Well, Duvivier is your mother’s name, right? I assumed there might be a very good reason for you not to bear your father’s name. A reason that will remain private as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I see.’
‘And I did not want to run the risk of losing you — your company.’ She sighed.
‘There’s no risk of that.’ Somehow he feared that phrase had been too eloquent.
‘So far…’ She laughed.
‘So far.’ He laughed as well.
He looked up and the chant of some bird hidden in the wood lit a candle in his memory.
‘Funny to remember that now, he called my mother Melodie. You know, her name was Élodie, he called her Melodie.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet. Élodie is a beautiful name.’
‘Yes.’ He frowned. For the first time in years he had something good to say about the Major. He felt sort of puzzled and strangely relieved.
[end of chapter]
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Two very excellent examples >>>>> -- Page, 13:06:56 10/24/09 Sat
You've done a brilliant job of smoothly incorporating backstory without losing the flow of the story, or boring the reader. That's what I'm after! *G* In your first excerpt, I love the way you describe Ashton switching to autopilot. I think almost everyone does that very thing at one time or another, and it's was a very familiar way to introduce Ashton's previous thoughts about Bryony, so he could compare those with his impressions of the actual woman in front of him. And in your second excerpt, you again used something that's going to be very familiar to your readers -- two people getting to know each other, telling about their parents. Everyone does that. It was very easy, very smooth, and you incorporated some very important parts of the character's lives without overkill.
Thank you so much for sharing those, and giving me some ideas!
Hugs,
Page
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I think everyne's hit the high points -- Debi, 12:29:08 10/25/09 Sun
>This is the beginning of a chapter. This chapter
>falls after Adam and Jay have put together Shadowed
>Knight. It's January 1969, and one month before Katie
>leaves Adam, so you'll know where we're at. After
>this opening, we get back into present-day action in
>January:
>
I didn't lose interest but it's like my first intro to Old Dogs, it just didn't have that "oomph". Starting with Walter seemed a little odd to me too, since he doesn't seem to figure prominently in the subsequent story. Maybe starting with a little bit of Jay's Story Thus Far, show him meeting Walter, discussing his rep in the business, that sort of thing. That way you can get the infor without just telling it all in one lump. As always, JMHO, take what you like, leave the rest.
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You pointed out something interesting I'd missed >>>> -- Page, 15:49:15 10/25/09 Sun
>it just didn't have that "oomph".
I'd obsessed over how much backstory to add, how much to leave out, where to begin, whose POV it should be, etc., and didn't realize my voice was noticeably absent throughout the whole thing. And no matter how technically right I might get it, if the voice isn't there, then it won't fly. Thank you so much for pointing that out! I'm still struggling with this piece, but I've made some progress. Y'all were all right on the mark about using Jay's POV. And since I can hear Jay, I think perhaps the voice will return to the piece as I continue to work on it.
Hugs,
Page
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K, you posted this a week ago, and so, I’m positive that it isn’t like this anymore…but follow me anyway, cause I just have to reply >>> -- Esther, 14:15:34 10/27/09 Tue
First off, I want you to know that I haven’t read any of the other comments, so this isn’t influenced by anything other than my own initial reactions. Second off, I’m going to be blunt. I’ve always found those straight, no nonsense comments to be the most helpful, so I’m going to attempt to put it out there without worrying how it sounds and hope you understand I mean it in a good way. I love this story, and want to read it in its entirety one day after all. Best not to alienate the author. *G*
This is the beginning of a chapter. This chapter falls after Adam and Jay have put together Shadowed Knight. It's January 1969, and one month before Katie leaves Adam, so you'll know where we're at. After this opening, we get back into present-day action in January:
Excerpt from Carey On
©2009 by Juli Morgan
Posted for purposes of critique only, and does not constitute publication
Innovation wasn’t Walter MacIntyre’s strong suit, but that didn’t deter him from becoming a bloody good manager. He’d realized early on that he didn’t have the vision needed to forge new paths in the music industry, but he did have the talent of keeping his nose to the ground, sniffing out the best of what other managers were doing, and utilizing those ideas for his own purposes. He was also an obnoxious little prick, and, despite his lack of height and physical beauty, he was able to intimidate enough record company execs and concert promoters to gain a reputation for ruthlessness, until even he came to believe it himself. As a result, he never put a foot wrong, and his reputation grew, along with his bank account.
Don’t care if he’s a prick or if he lacks height or physical beauty or even if it was because he was ruthless that he was good at what he did. You have a purpose for writing this story, and I’m wondering how this matters to me as a reader when I’m more invested with the main characters. In all probability, I’d skim this and then forget it.
Walter’s main strength, though, was recognizing real talent when he saw it, and when he’d seen Jay Carey’s band Wonderkind performing at an outdoor festival in Wales in early 1965, he’d felt a shiver of premonition. The band as a whole had adequate talent to make it, but Carey had that extra something that set all of Walter’s acquisitive juices flowing. It didn’t matter that Wonderkind already had a manager; if the man had been worth his salt, the band wouldn’t have been wasting their time at Welsh music festivals, and Walter had no compunction about approaching Jay to offer his services.
Okay, besides highlighting that Jay has that spark, that I recognize because I’ve seen it for myself, I don’t get the reason for dragging Wonderkind into it. Adding the 1965 to it might help with the timeline, but again, I want to read about the present.
By the time he met Walter, Jay was seriously considering abandoning the music business. He had had his fill of playing at underground clubs, universities, and other venues where the music was secondary to getting smashed. He’d played on a few sessions in London, but, although he appreciated the money that went along with it, he truly hated playing other people’s music in a style not his own. So, turning his back on a steady paycheck, he’d doggedly continued putting together bands that went nowhere. He had high hopes for Wonderkind, even though he’d not been able to get Adam Greene as the singer, but despite his aspirations, it, too, seemed to be floundering before it could get started.
Ah! So Jay recognized Adam’s talent. That is important. And I’d think, easy to incorporate into the rest of the story without a chapter of backstory. It’s your story, find a place it fits.
Walter’s offer to take over the management of Wonderkind was what Jay had been looking for. He was under no illusions about Walter. Jay was also adept at keeping up with what was happening in the industry, and he knew Walter simply borrowed from others what worked, and discarded what didn’t. But Jay didn’t care how Walter did it, as long as he got results. So Jay had convinced the rest of the band to switch managers in mid stream, and before he knew it, they had a contract with Palm Records, and not long after that, Wonderkind found itself in the United States, opening for well known acts, and developing a following of their own. Three gold records were hanging on Jay’s wall before he admitted to himself that he was dissatisfied with Wonderkind. He’d had to settle for Marty Harrison when Adam turned him down, and he’d never been happy with the band’s sound. He was even less happy with the constant bickering and backbiting that went on among them, and decided to get out before the whole thing imploded.
Repetitious, and again, the reason Wonderkind split up could be incorporated. That thought I had before…didn’t Adam tell Katie when he first met her in the pub that something was happening, er…he was a singer and had a line out/something in the works, or something? Sorry, can’t remember for sure, and have no way to check dammit, so…anyway, no need for backstory, as it’s in the present, or could be.
Walter had been in complete agreement with Jay’s decision to break up the band. After all, it was Jay Carey’s talent he’d been after; the band was just background noise. Shadowed Knight, though, had the personnel it took to be not only successful, but to be freakin’ huge. The wiry little manager was thrilled with new line up Jay had put together, and was even more thrilled with the recording contract he himself had wrung out of Palm. So what if Peter Grant had blazed the trail with Led Zeppelin? There was nothing wrong with Walter’s using the same tactics for Shadowed Knight, and the results were all that mattered. Now that the band was together, and the contracts all sewn up, Walter decided to throw a party to celebrate. Jay’s birthday provided the perfect excuse for a big blow out, and on a cold January night, some of the biggest names in British music converged on Walter’s house, ready to wish Jay Carey a happy twenty-fifth.
And holy crap woman! If nothing else, can’t all this come out at the party???? In real time, show not tell mode, with the charters themselves dissing the goods?
Okay. You’ve got my reactions. And I just hinted at the biggest thing here that bothers me about this. It’s all very telling. It’s like the players in this scene are in limbo. There’s no link between what I’m reading and the characters I want to know about. Where’s the voice? I won’t go into POV, but having a chunk of narrative when no other scene has it, makes it stand out as odd. This isn’t a scene, this is what I’d call an info dump. Which, just because it’s the way I am, I’d forget as soon as the page turned and I got back into January.
So, what do I suggest? Go back through this and only pull out the parts that are critical. Backstory should reveal something that needs to be there otherwise the now won’t make sense. It’s like revealing a secret. Not knowing your story, mine would be that Jay wanted Adam to be involved in Wonderkind. Perhaps the reason for Wonderkind not being a success. Yours may be different as they should be. Then take the road to incorporate them into the story in whatever way you can. Dialogue between the involved characters. Flashbacks. Memories. Your characters are in the era of experimentation. Take us on a trip. And of course, something must trigger the need for backstory in the first place. As I said, this is just kinda floating out there for me. Now if Jay was firing Walter, he could have been reminiscing. Or if Jay and Adam are fighting it out, Adam could mention (gloat) how Jay’d be sorry to see him go since he was after him to join up with him in a previous band. You see what I’m saying?
Now, you’ve also stated that you’d like to ‘see’ what we have done, so I’m going to take that literally, er…show you vs. tell you. *G* But be warned, this is long. Posted on the board at one time or another, this is actually two consecutive scenes. When you read this, remember, I love everything and anything to do with flashbacks, so when I was writing Pander I experimented with them quite a bit. In the last few months when I was working on this, I noticed that Karma never had any flashbacks, it was only Grey and Shadow. And I have to say I think its because the bulk of it is in Karma’s view as 1st person. Any of her backstory, she can just think it. The rest, I had to be a bit more creative. But anyway, here’s a couple scenarios for you of how I handled backstory for Shadow, and while it’s long, please note that everything that’s in here has some bearing on something else going on in the story at one point or another. These are pieces of the puzzle. Okay, enough blabbering…
Excerpt from working title “Pander”
by E.M. Sawatzky © 2004 All rights reserved.
Posted for critiquing purposes only and does not constitute publication
Lies and deceit were the basis of his existence. No wonder he was such a bastard. He sat cross-legged in front of the blaze, impassive and unflinching as she told him of atrocities that changed his whole perception.
She withdrew some herbs from her medicine pouch, chanting a healing prayer to the Great Spirit for his quick recovery. Her tone and the rhythm of the words matched the throbbing of his wound, a jagged tear in his side from a blade. Finished with both grisly tasks and aware of his distrust, she spoke to him in a soothing voice. “These will help the pain if you chew them.”
With fluid grace and surprising speed, he caught her arm as she made a move to put them in his mouth. He looked into her wide eyes, his own conveying the hatred bred into him. “Any tricks and you die, old woman.” Disgusted, he released her when she nodded her understanding.
Her shaky fingers inserted the herbs into his mouth, applying a gentle pressure against his lips to indicate she needed him to open wider so she could get them past his teeth.
The feel of the herbs on his tongue, the vile and bitter taste, combined with the smell of sweat and blood in his lodge recreated a scene from his past. Instincts took over. He bit down, hard, tasting the addicting spice of blood. The rush of the warm liquid, the murmur of pain as teeth sank deep sealed his fate. He remembered.
Powerful muscles of his horse rippled beneath him and carried him through the village they raided. Warriors plundered the vulnerable village, hacking down anyone in their path, including elders, women and children. It didn’t matter who. Chaos surrounded him. Smoke from the burning lodges turned the village into a haze, smothering all within it, disorienting and choking those who tried to flee. Excruciating pain sliced into his heart and left him exposed to attack. He felt nauseous. All he could feel was heat. All he could hear were screams. His tomahawk fell from his deadened fingers, his vision blurred. Darkness drew him inward. Death waited in the shadows.
His body jerked at the impact of the arrow as it impaled deep in his chest, somehow missing his heart and lungs. The physical pain revived him and allowed him to stay on his horse until he was on the outskirts of the village. Then he simply let himself go. Arms outstretched, a prayer on his lips, he gave himself to the Great Spirit.
He felt no physical pain and welcomed mother earth’s embrace as the Great Spirit took him to the next life. He passed from this life the way he wanted, proud to die in battle, fighting against a worthy opponent, a warrior’s death. He watched his body being dragged to safety and witnessed his father grip the arrow and wrench it out. Blood ran in rivers down his chest. His skin tore and the muscle tissue followed. The fool! The arrow shouldn’t have been removed; it was too deep to pull out. The pain was nothing compared to the earlier agony he felt, but he knew it didn’t matter. Pain meant life, so he lived.
He opened his eyes when the shaman pried his mouth open and ordered him to chew. Years of self-preservation made him follow the instruction despite his desire to die. The herbs left a vile taste in his mouth, but he didn’t have the strength to swallow the water offered. Images swam before his eyes, voices drowned in the distance. He gave in to the weakness in his body. The herbs provided the escape his mind needed, allowing him to drift as if in a dream. He didn’t know what was real anymore, yet it didn’t matter, he didn’t care. He let the Great Spirit decide his fate.
His blood a sacrifice, he left his body and saw himself from a distance. Indifferent, he looked past himself to the battle continuing around him, wondering with an idle interest, why the hunters hadn’t returned with the lengthening shadows.
A wolf howled. His attention shifted. The moon was full, although obscured by clouds. At the whimper, he looked down to see his spirit animal sitting by his side, the ground underneath their feet shifting from soft dirt to sharp rock. He turned, and as he did so, the terrain changed to the mountainous territory belonging to the Ktunaxa. The wolf ran a few paces and then looked back to him, ears pricked forward, a soft whine as he turned and ran. The wolf would show him the way. In this trancelike state he walked the earth, following the wolf in the endless search for the reason behind the excruciating pain he felt in his heart before the arrow struck. A hawk followed, circling overhead and keeping pace.
Shadows darkened with the setting sun, the feeling of despair grew. The raptor and the predator led him to a man. To himself. Curious, he approached, experiencing the anguish he was going through. In his arms was a woman. “I won’t let you go. I won’t say goodbye.” He repeated the words. Spoken in a strange language, he understood their meaning. He stroked her hair, the only place it would not cause her hurt.
Her eyes fluttered open. Weakly, she lifted her hand and wiped it through the blood on his face, using up her strength to touch him one last time. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Waiting so long, love you. Sorry.”
Intrigued, he watched the image of himself end her suffering, the blade of his bloody dagger plunging deep, and felt the loss as if it were his own.
The woman rose with a dignity taken from her in life, and touched the grieving man’s shoulder, allowing her fingers to trail through his hair. “Thank you,” she whispered, before turning her attention to where he stood, walking the short distance to his side. “You’re hurt,” she said.
He glanced to where he sat in the dirt, her lifeless body cradled in his arms. “You’re dead.”
Her smile was the perfect picture of serenity, of peace. “You shouldn’t be here. Go back.”
“There is nothing for me to go back to.”
She smiled again, her fingers gentle as she touched the wound on his chest. “No?”
“No. Vengeance isn’t worth returning for.”
“Some would disagree.” She gestured to her body, to the man that held her close.
“I am not him.” It was the truth. He had his answer, and besides, he didn’t have mercy in him to show another.
Her head tilted in acknowledgement. “Who are you?”
“I am Lone Wolf.”
“Tell me Lone Wolf, who is left to grieve for you?”
“There is no one.”
“No one to feel your pain when you can experience that of another? Who is he to you?”
“I…I…don’t know.” With indecision came pain. Not as acute as before, but noticeable.
“Your time grows short so you must listen. You’re not ready. Go back. Find the answers you seek.” She took a step backward.
He fell, his weakness overtaking him. “Wait. Who are you?” He lifted his hand to her but she was gone and so he let it drop to the earth. Voices came from a great distance. His fingers dug into the soft dirt as he glanced around at his surroundings before closing his eyes. He was so tired and so very cold.
“Evil spirits have him.”
“What was he saying?”
“Kill him.”
“No. Leave him. We have to meet the others and continue on with the attack.” His father’s voice was clear.
“There is no honour dying like a sick old woman.”
“What did you say?”
“Show him the proper respect for a fallen warrior. Dying from sickness and fever and being left to rot is no honour.”
Lone Wolf forced his eyes to open so he could see his father. Cruel One’s intention manifested itself in the dagger that emerged from its sheath. “No.” His voice was the barest sound, hardly discernable, but his friend heard.
Cruel One smiled at the distraction. “He has earned no respect.” With a quick motion, he slit the young warriors’ throat, the blood spraying on to him and splattering down to the ground where his son lay. “And will know no mercy.” His eyes searched those who had the misfortune to be near. “You,” Cruel One said pointing at one of the younger braves, “Take his weapons. He won’t need them in this life, and he’s too weak to carry them into the next. Kill his horse.”
They blurred before his eyes, the effort to keep watch of Cruel One costing him much needed energy. “Not the horse,” he murmured, tossing his head back and forth, not able to separate reality from dreams. Yet the fist that clenched his sweat dampened hair and held his head immobile felt real. “Not my horse,” he said, trying to focus on the eyes piercing into him. He thought he saw Cruel One smile before he welcomed the darkness.
The forlorn cry of the hawk woke him. He opened his eyes to see the bird of prey beside him, her razor-sharp talons scoring the wood she perched upon. Her glassy eyes regarded him without malice, her head tilted in curiosity.
“Go back yourself.” He motioned her away. “You don’t belong here.”
Great wings spread out; dirt swirled around him when powerful movements stirred the air currents. She rose up within the choking mass until she was above him, her talons descending towards his eyes. “This is the fate you’ve chosen.”
“No!” He jerked away.
She retreated only to attack again. Claws opened. Talons struck.
His arms protected his face. Something hit his chest. And then…Nothing.
He moved his arms away from his face and blinked at the sunlight, bright against the shadows he had faced. Through his teary vision, he searched. She was gone, another part of his dream. No, not a dream. He focused on her perch; he saw the scratches from her talons.
Dizzy and thirsty, he cursed himself for trusting the shaman. In an attempt to clear the fever induced haze out of his mind, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright. His vision blurry, he shook his head, cringing when the sharp spike of pain exploded in his temples. When he could open his eyes again, his first sight was of the dead warrior, his throat slashed from ear to ear. Flies swarmed around the body, gorging themselves. His hand went to his wound and found the skin tender and inflamed.
By will alone, he staggered to his feet and glanced around, seeking weapons he knew were gone. Fury followed at the sight of his horse, the one he had spent years training. Dead. The stallion’s belly was bloated from lying in the scorching sun, his eyes plucked out and scavengers feeding on the flesh. The stench of decay mingled with the smell of illness. He tried to remember what happened. Eyes closed, he pushed hard on his wound, releasing the puss of infection, welcoming the nausea and crippling pain that sent him to his knees. The images and words from his dreams came.
He could have accepted the decision to leave him behind; surprise was their only hope if their plan was to succeed. The Ktunaxa had to stay in the mountains if they were to secure the plains. But to take his weapons? To kill his warhorse while he still lived? That was a mockery of everything he had accomplished.
Startled, he stared at the ground, his hand unsteady as he reached for the arrowhead. A broken shaft, the one his father ripped from his chest. His thumb stroked over the three identifying scores. “Cruel One.”
Proud and defiant he stood, raising the arrow towards the sky. “Hear my vow Great Spirit. I will live for vengeance. I will find their camp and I will kill them one by one, until I find the soul unlucky enough to have my weapons and who killed my horse. Him I will torture. It will be him alone and defenceless. Not I!”
In agony and on foot he set out to the nearest settlement. He stole horse after horse and rode them past the point of exhaustion. His strength grew, feeding off his hatred. He lived only to find them. Relentless, he followed the trail of plundered villages until he found their camp and extracted his revenge.
Under the cover of night, he crept up behind one of the braves on watch. It was easy to take the braves’ knife and slit his throat before his presence was detected. Armed with weapons from the fallen warrior, he went seeking the second one. Not bothering to hide, he boldly walked up, swung the tomahawk and let it fly, relishing the sound as it flew in the air. It plunged deep into his enemy’s chest, snapping ribs and killing him in a heartbeat. Without breaking stride, he approached the fallen man, ripping the weapon out with a brutal force. He claimed the weapons of the dead man and went in search of the third.
In a rage, driven by bloodlust and hate, the third warrior didn’t have as easy a death. He stabbed him viciously in the stomach, grunting with the effort to rip up for all he was worth and gut him while he still lived. The splatter of gore and the smell of blood incensed him further. He only lived to kill. In retribution for the warning call during their struggle, he cut out the braves tongue before he died. He would not be able to talk in the afterlife. Or so they would believe.
They were all fools deserving of death. They ignored the signal that would have saved their lives. He taunted them, imitating the call of the wolf, and still they were ignorant of his presence. Covered in blood and smelling of death, he moved through the camp, his many years of stealth aiding him in remaining unseen. He slaughtered all those he came across, mutilating the bodies so their families would believe their loved ones spent eternity deformed. Repeatedly he killed, the dagger an extension of his hand, the tomahawk slick with blood, the crimson liquid shining black in the moonlight. All the while, he searched without mercy for the thief who had his weapons.
He found the brave. He should have known Cruel One would choose the youngest warrior with the raiding party, the one with the most to prove. The one with no experience. The one he had said he would take responsibility for and watch over. The betrayal hurt. Enough so that he took his time with the young brave, calculating with deadly accuracy just how much damage the body could sustain and not die.
Blood pooled in his mouth and trickled over his lips. He unclenched his jaw and spat to the side, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. Then his expressionless eyes met those of the medicine woman. He turned his face away and stared into the fire, dismissing her as she drew her hand against her chest.
His hands rested palm up on his knees, the fingers curling to make a tight fist before relaxing and going through the movement again. Eyes closed, he took a deep breath, welcoming the pain so he could focus. Another deep breath brought more of the pungent air into his lungs, heightening the sense of light-headedness and nausea, but these feelings had nothing to do with the herbs and smoke, and more to do with the foulness of his life. He forced himself to relax, exhaling and settling into a comfortable position, his fingers motionless.
By concentrating, he was able to distance himself from his surroundings; he wanted to forget the thick acrid air, the numbing cold seeping into his body, the physical agony of his injuries. He wanted to focus on his past, not his battles.
He wanted answers, and he meant to have them.
Excerpt from working title “Pander”
by E.M. Sawatzky © 2004 All rights reserved.
Posted for critiquing purposes only and does not constitute publication
Through the damning night, he relived the painful parts of his life, seeking answers through the memories that still had the power to make him feel like a lost child. He searched deep inside himself for his first recollection. It was of a white woman. He recalled the insanity in her eyes, the knife she held, the confusion he felt when he realized he was in danger, the knowledge he had done something wrong. She said killing him would be her revenge, that she was doing him a favour. Even as fear ate his insides, he stood his ground because he knew the consequences of showing his terror. Despite how afraid he was of the woman, he feared his father more. She lunged toward him with her knife, only to be hauled away from him when his father intercepted her. No matter how hard he tried, no more memories of the woman he thought had been his mother came forth.
Floodgates opened. Memory after memory came crashing to the surface of his mind, each swell more painful and jarring than the last. All the cruel punishments he had endured in silence, all the lessons in torture he perfected as an adult.
He took his time, dissecting his existence piece by piece. By dawn he had progressed to the boy who had betrayed him. Ironically, it was the one man he wished to kill more than any other that kept him alive. Cruel One had returned to find the raiding party wiped out, the bodies mutilated, the makeshift camp burned to the ground.
Inevitably, rumours began to circulate. Many of those he had slain in cold blood he had grown up with. His fellow tribesmen shunned him, further isolating him from his surroundings. No one trusted him, and he trusted no one himself. He left the tribe preferring the solitude, the hollow existence he chose for himself.
When he was weak and close to death, she came to him in a vision. She, a beautiful woman, stood in front of a rustic cabin, laughing and hugging a wild wolf, the sun glinting off her long hair. Another wolf appeared in the clearing. The two predators fought, hackles raised, jaws snapping, until one lay dead, leaving the victor to turn to the woman, snarling, fangs dripping. He didn’t know what his vision meant, but he knew he had to find her. He had to protect her.
She was the reason he went back to his tribe. Why he had raided the white settlements all these years. She was why he had followed his father in the brutal killings taking place. He killed when necessary, but his father enjoyed what he did. Cruel One took pleasure in the torture and rape of the women. Their screams were his medicine, what made him powerful, or so he believed. He feared his father would find the woman and her beautiful hair would end up as a trophy on his lance. Nothing within his power would allow such a tragedy.
He opened his eyes and was not surprised to see the elder who had raised him sitting opposite the smouldering remains of the fire.
“What troubles you, my son?”
He fed the evil lurking within. Hatred burned in his dark eyes, although he remained relaxed and his facial expression didn’t change. “You, Cruel One.”
Cruel One laughed. “The medicine woman said you were looking for me.”
Lone Wolf smiled.
“What do you want?”
“Answers.”
The appearance of a smile touched Cruel One’s lips, the movement twisting the scars on his face.
“When I was a boy, you would take me the whiskey forts. The firewater made you stupid. You said many things. Were they true?”
“I do not speak with a forked tongue.”
“Then explain to me why you led me to believe my mother was white, when it was my father.”
“You know we often take children and raise them as our own.”
“Husbands take children to replace the ones they lost to the Great Spirit. You had no wife and no baby. Why would you take a child?”
“I had a wife.”
An arrogant brow arched. “Funny. I didn’t think your hatred would allow you to honour a white captive in such manner.”
“She wasn’t white.”
“That does create a problem since I’m a half-breed.”
“She was taken captive on a raid of an enemy’s village. A white trader known as White Hunter stole her from me.” His fingers traced the scars on his cheek. “They left together to go back to her tribe. Eight moons later, I was with the raiding party and we came across their camp. They had fallen behind her tribe. White Hunter was a great warrior and he fought with skill, but we were many and he was alone. We overtook him.
“I went into the shelter to find her and steal her back. My honour would have been restored. Instead, I found her in childbirth. At the time it was possible you were mine. I refused to give you up. If you were mine, I had a son. If you were his, I would have my revenge.” Cruel One laughed. “I named you Breed so I would always remember her betrayal.”
He swallowed past the foul taste in his mouth. “And I was punished because of it.”
“It’s unfortunate White Hunter never knew of you,” Cruel One said smiling. “I would have liked him to see his son turned into someone he despised.”
“I am nothing like you, Cruel One.”
Again Cruel One laughed, regarding the warrior in front of him. His fine features, the high cheekbones from his mother’s blood, the strength and height a testament to his white father. “No? You have earned your name of Traitor.”
Lone Wolf acknowledged the truth with a slight incline of his head, aware of the name used behind his back. His eyes narrowed. “Who was the white woman who cared for me?”
Cruel One waved his hand in annoyance at the question. “She was no one important. A slave. She had given birth a few days before I came back to camp with you. You were near death, and I wanted you to live.”
“Her baby?”
“I killed her.”
“Yours?”
“She was a slave. What do you think?”
“You killed her too.”
“I could not risk her getting to you. I still had hopes you were mine.”
“Did you kill White Hunter?”
“He hadn’t moved from the time I went in to your mother to the time I left with you.” Scars twisted in the grimace of a smile. “That is all I know.”
“My mother?”
Cruel One shrugged, unconcerned. “She was no longer important. I had what I wanted.”
Lone Wolf looked around the tepee, the home where he had never belonged and where he never should have been. “What tribe were they from?”
Cruel One smiled.
“What tribe?” he asked again, the calmness in his voice deceiving.
The old warrior regarded him, his eyes intense and focused on the man’s face. “Ktunaxa.”
He laughed in delight. “Our enemies. Pushing them back over the mountains wasn’t enough for you, that’s why you continued the raids. So why do you expect me to believe that you wouldn’t kill a woman who made you look a fool?”
“Why didn’t you kill the boy that betrayed you?”
Lone Wolf smiled. “Because he would suffer more alive.” His smile faltered. “You believe in death she would be with White Hunter and wouldn’t have to live with her choice.”
“Traitor, you are like me whether you admit it or not.”
“But it’s not that simple is it father? I’ve been on raids. I’ve seen women sacrifice themselves to give their child a chance at life, however unlikely they will survive. She just wouldn’t hand over her newborn.”
Cruel One indicated he agreed with a slight nod. “No one came to claim you Traitor.” He smiled. “Your own mother thought you were worthless and gave you to her sworn enemy.” All traces of humour left Cruel One’s face, his tone expressed the hatred he carried around with him for years.
Lone Wolf’s expression was a mirror of Cruel One’s. “Why?”
“It does not matter.”
“Why”
“She traded your life for theirs.”
He smiled at his tormentor. “Theirs?” He deliberately taunted him. “Her husband was already dead.”
It was Cruel One’s turn to sneer at him. “Possibly dead. I didn’t check to make sure.” He met his young enemy’s gaze, shrugging to emphasize his words. “It didn’t matter either way. No one would come for you. She gave me her word.”
He waited in vain. Cruel One wasn’t volunteering the information he wanted. Her word, perhaps. But the father wasn’t bound by it, and no warrior would let his enemy have his child.
Despite sitting in the same position all night and his injuries sustained in the previous battle, Lone Wolf stood, purpose evident in every movement. With ice-cold surety, he walked over to his bow and picked it up before turning back to look at the warrior who had changed his destiny. His muscles rippled with casual strength as he notched the arrow, pulling back on the drawstring until he could feel the tension, the breaking point.
Cruel One laughed. “Killing me won’t give you the answers you seek.”
“Find the answers you seek,” he repeated, the foreign words familiar, the voice he heard not his own, but that of a dead woman he had met in the spirit world. He chose his target with deliberate care. Time slowed as he released the arrow, the feathered tip spinning in perfect balance as it sought to reach its mark. With controlled movements, he lowered the bow, and let the tension ease from his body. The arrow struck.
Cruel One rose to his feet, a sigh audible in the silence. “Again you disappoint me.”
From his pouch, Lone Wolf removed the broken shaft of the arrow he carried these many years. “Why didn’t you just kill me and end it?”
His eyes never left the arrow. “I could ask the same of you.”
“But you aren’t. Why not kill me?”
A wistful smile curled the elder’s lips. “I gave her my word you would not die by my hand or my order.”
Lone Wolf smiled. “A vow you have regretted these long years.”
Cruel One’s smile widened at the truth of those words. “You would see it that she was ensuring you would survive. But know it wasn’t just you she was protecting.” He turned to leave, but hesitated at the entrance when he heard the sound of laughter. “It’s time you left.”
“Yes, father. I believe you are right.” He waited for Cruel One to face him. When he did, he spoke with cold conviction. “I could have killed you that day. Why I didn’t, isn’t as important as this. Know we will meet again Cruel One. And on that day, your blood will flow and you won’t be able to raise a hand against me to stop it.”
Cruel One nodded, but when he bent to exit the tepee, he paused, and then stood to his full height, his shoulders back in a proud stance Lone Wolf recognized. “The medicine woman is with the Great Spirit and wished me to tell you safe journey.”
“Maimed.”
His scars twisted at the curl of his lips. “The scars she carries to the next life are many.” With the dignity of the righteous, he lifted the flap and left his son in the shadows.
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Ah, you do know me well >>>> -- Page, 21:30:45 10/28/09 Wed
You're spot on -- this has not only been changed, it's been relegated to the Discard file.
You're right, it was an info dump, and dumped there by a secondary character who isn't very likeable. And, upon further reflection, I wondered why the hell this was important anyway. *G*
So it's gone. The fact that Jay wanted Adam to be part of Wonderkind is already elsewhere in the story, so having it here was just needless repetition.
And now on to your two brilliant examples. Both were riveting, especially because Lone Wolf's feelings were so dominant in both. In the first, you truly brought in a mystery, the white woman. In the second, Lone Wolf sought the answers she told him to seek. Loved them both, and I thank you for posting them. It's helped a ton!
Hugs,
Page
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susiej, 16:17:59 10/20/09 Tue
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Page, 16:13:20 10/25/09 Sun
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It is frustrating Page. A very well known agent just recently gave a talk>>> -- susiej, 20:05:50 10/26/09 Mon
challenging authors not to put in backstory for the first 50 pgs. Yet, his best known client, begins his series with a 60 year old man telling us he's writing his story- (that's backstory right there) he goes into the story of a battle- within a few pages backtracks to tell us how he met the commander.
By the time he finishes that huge passage set on another continent, and goes back to that first battle sequence, I was like- what? where are we? And I am a very patient reader. I don't have to be grabbed right away. But the ENTIRE first 50 pages was nothing but bactracking backstory.
It makes me want to scream- get off your highhorse dude!
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