The Cruel Nature of Redemption - Writers Forum

Nevermore · 04-18-2008, 04:34 PM

This is a short story that I have recently re-edited. It's got something going on with it that I really want to refine, so comments of any nature are welcomed. Thank you in advance for your time.

The Cruel Nature of Redemption
A half-moon dimly lit the doings of that night. The low plains were encased in a bright layer of frost, converting shaded moor and twisted, lonesome tree into the plaintive spirits of their past. A dense mist began to show itself on the dark borders of the horizon, concealing the plains from the moon that was, upon this night, guardian and sentinel of the lost and misguided. The shadow of a horse and rider raced across these departed plains; and at its feet a crowd of frosted sparks were made, whose brief glimmers reached and pleaded to the still, solemn senators that were the stars. Though the soundless air the sound of the hooves upon the earth cascaded and cascaded again with each new turn of steps. With each sound four marks were made upon the earth, four blemishes that desecrated the purity that the clear sky had created; four black wounds to the white.
The rider trusted his steed to steer its own path and travelled with his eyes closed to his surroundings. He clung to the cloth he had wrapped around himself; not wishing to further aggravate his ailment. He felt it within his chest, burning him without warmth. More than his he felt the cold that surrounded him, this cold that was as Death is cold, as Hell is cold; and with burning. Thin tongues of cold fire licked at his face, his fingers; their sting sharp, intense, real.
This cold had need to endure, but endure it may be all he could do. To get as far as the church and die may be his limit, but at least in this he would die in the presence of the Lord.

The horse knew well the way to go and soon made its ascent of the hill that led to the village. It slowed upon its arrival and the rider took control. He led his mount past the small mass of houses, the inn and the empty stables. Just below the apex to the inn’s roof a clock – rusted and unattended – read the correct time of eleven of the clock and twenty. A convenience to all was this clock.
Below the clock their stood a man, slumped within the inn’s doorway. Cast in a weak shadow, no feature or clothing was visible, only a vague silhouette, and a sense of being. At his feet there was a dog, black and although lean, its musculature was apparent through its short coat of hair. Its eyes the rider could not see from his high position, the dog stared intently and a spot on the white ground, unmoving. No condensed breath could be seen from this dangerously alert animal, yet in its focussed state it appeared deeply serene. The man at the door said nothing, did nothing as the rider and horse passed by.
The rider was intrigued by the two, but could not ponder them though what had become a feverous illness. This sudden sense of heat he did not guard against; this thief that had skimmed the shadows of his awareness to deliver onto him a dulling blow about the head – this fever – that had removed much of him from consciousness. A wretched uproar of coughing tore its way through his chest and crowded his mind with fiendish nausea. Now, his only concern was to reach his inevitable destination.
Recovering breath and thought, the rider found himself now outside the church: a good-sized, stable building, standing straight and tall against cold and night, protecting all those in need of the sanctuary of prayer. The ill man ungallantly dismounted his horse, staggering in the face of the church, and upon regaining his balance he made his way to the door - his cloth still wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes still cast down.

The air in the church was warm; upon entering the man was bathed in it, in warmth and in light. On the westward wall, the slow, gentle light made long and profound shadows on the face of the crucified Messiah. Around him, a golden cast was etched in gilt. Their expressions marred by poor craftsmanship, all of them seemed to sneer. Above, more unknown faces stared in their dull burnished shadows. Twelve wood-fuelled, pewter lamps flanked the aisle, the kindling crackling like murmured witticisms from the shining dryads that adorned the metal stands. Their light filled the great and hallowed space, flowed through it, as whole and as pure as the Sun. The scent of wood-smoke was natural and welcoming, yet the ailing, bedraggled man in the midst of this splendour could not evade the tense solemnity that he had inherited from generations past. He was in a place of worship, he could not forget.
The man walked slowly forward, looking up only occasionally to try to find someone there. His fever had worsened, becoming malicious and taunting, and had robbed him of his better sight. The warmth had melted the stiffness that the frozen dark had dealt, but now that same warmth was becoming unbearable. It was only when he stole a minor glance at the pulpit did he notice the young priest standing there.

The priest was tall, even at the pulpit his true height was apparent. His raiment was perfectly black, straight and outlined his well-proportioned shoulders. Before him was the open Bible, smooth hands resting on the smooth paper made golden by the perfect light. His face was clean-shaven and lean and his light brown hair was seemingly oiled back. His eyes were blue; a, simple, regal blue that showed his dark pupils clearly. These eyes did not evade, they did not steal their glances, they were gallant, they looked into the eyes beneath them and saw all they needed to see. A faint smile appeared; he turned his head so subtly away from the ailing man and quietly said;
“It is a late hour for visiting, my son, so I will assume your business could not wait until morning.”

The fever had taken him, imprisoned him and took half of reality away from him. His sight had blurred as if washed away by the swirling ocean of his nausea, and the sound of water beating against rock; the sound of leaves thrashing in a strong wind; the sound of thunder from the dark sky brought too low, was made from the well-mannered words of the priest.

Outside, the horse remained for fear of being alone too long. It had long been with its master and was old besides. It was wary of the dog outside the inn, a predator in its view and would take occasional glances only to find the dog still staring at the ground. Slowly, the horse moved its own focus when the dog’s head sprang up, fixed upon the church door. The figure in the shadows pushed himself from the door with his shoulders as the horse galloped away, its only aim to put distance between itself and the dog.

“But the Lord is with us all even in the darkest hours of man’s suffering and so, as his servant, I too must be available.”
An aura of ambient gold swarmed to the priest from the gilded walls, marking him as the true centre of this wealth. He did not take his eyes from the man below him as he slowly made his way down the steps from the pulpit. His smile too did not change at all, a smile so small that was so powerfully reassuring. The man still trapped in his fever did not move his vacant eyes from where the priest had been, even as he made his hesitant descent down the stairs.
“What is it that troubles you?”
Any awareness that had graced the man before was lost; no voice could stir his mind now. The priest became troubled, and the smile was replaced by a frown just as subtle.
“I ask you, what troubles you?”
He had reached the last step, and stood but four yards away from his visitor. His piercing eyes conveyed so little of his emotion, but anxiety was in his voice.
The ailing figure had begun to breathe more deeply, more often. The natural, straining pattern of his breathing signified in instinct the troublesome nature of the man’s needs.
“What is it?”
As the priest stepped down onto the floor, the man fell to his knees.

Coughing ensued that flew and echoed through the air as though a swarm of hunting birds had found itself amid the profanity of the church. The priest did not approach, and in his eyes a seamless transition between the soft look of concern and the hard stare of disdain showed clear. The harsh, involuntary cry of this man was frightful and unnerving. Nothing stirred the priest from were he was, but inside stirred a ferocity that took much strength to restrain. It was not restrained for etiquette, nor for the sake of self-discipline but for the fact that no act of anger would be of use to him; the man would clearly not find opportunity to learn from his mistake.

But there was no anger with the man now curled up pathetically or the stone floor. There was no sadness. No guilt. No remorse. Only peace. Reassurance only apparent for a moment was enough for him. This quick death was more merciful than he could ever have been expected for himself.

All was still. The priest still not moved from the bottom of the steps; his visitor now dead on the floor. This undesirable, this vagrant man, was still and lifeless, huddled and broken; dead. The priest exhaled slowly, and muttered;
“You should have knocked”.

DROOM DROOM DROOM DROOM

Four knocks - unmistakable, unequivocal – the great ring handles on the large wooden doors had shaken on their hooks. The priest looked at the doors, looked hard at them, almost daring them to be knocked again. He would not be made a fool of by his own words.

DROOM DROOM DROOM DROOM

The priest’s face was reddening, his lips drawn up over gritted teeth and his light eyes were as ice is; cold and sharp. Unable to stop himself, he charged forward, only briefly avoiding the corpse at his feet. As he past each set of lamps the heat caught the face that was itself aflame with anger. Just as a third set of unearthly knocks came the priest threw open the doors with such energy that they crashed loudly against the walls that they were hinged to.

The tall shape of the priest was blackened against the light inside. He could feel the cold soak into his clothes, pushing back the warmth. A small but bitter breeze had begun to tease the tufts of black grass that had surfaced through the frost. As far as the priest could see, there was no-one there who could have knocked – only a black dog outside the inn.
The priest took another look at this dog. In the moon’s twilight it was no more than a shadow, but a fearsome looking shadow nonetheless. It was easily half the priest’s height and twice as long, and all that was not perfectly proportioned bone was muscle. Its ears were pricked up and triangular, it nose well-sized. Its eyes were impossibly yellow and horrifyingly wide, the pupil’s inside them tiny. What was worse, they were looking directly at the priest.
It could not be denied. It was as obvious at if it were a man, the sense of this dog’s awareness, its accusation, its unmoved revulsion were all too apparent to the priest, the empty fury of this dog constricted his throat, his heart with ropes of ice. This dog’s emotion was immeasurably far form usual; this dog was nothing other than a demon! The priest began to draw a quivering breath as the dog moved silently from its haunches to its legs and bounded across the space that lay between them.
The priest was frozen in the certainty of his fate. His legs spread just too far apart, his arms lifted slightly and left in an awkward place too far from his sides. His lungs began to ache with the cold air in them and made him gag in his terror. His blood rushed, his eyes stung and he cried as the black hound ran swiftly past him and into the church.
He drew strength enough to turn around to see the dog loping to the side to the dead parishioner whom he had all but forgotten about. A coarse wind blew through the doorway that ruffled the fires in the lamps and made the gilded figures wince and turn away. Alerted by this, the priest turned to make his escape and was faced with a man not an inch away from his face.
Startled, he fell back into the church, crawling away as best he could from the strange figure. A scarf covered his face and his deep-set eye sockets kept his eyes concealed. By the inclination of his head, it was clear that he was looking at the priest as he walked past him – his steps in the steady pace of a mourner. The priest followed him with his eyes, and cowered back towards the door as the figure moved aside. In the final moments before the figure slowly turned his gaze away, the priest sensed purpose behind the fascination of this dark being; a reason for his prolonged staring. As the figure walked on, the dog sat to attention at the side of the departed, and the outraged wind slew each pewter lamp in turn; casting church and dog and darkened figure into the hellish embrace of the night.

Sam Winchester · 04-18-2008, 04:55 PM

Quote:

A half-moon dimly lit the doings of that night. The low plains were encased in a bright layer of frost, converting shaded moor and twisted, lonesome tree into the plaintive spirits of their past. A dense mist began to show itself on the dark borders of the horizon, concealing the plains from the moon that was, upon this night, guardian and sentinel of the lost and misguided. The shadow of a horse and rider raced across these departed plains; and at its feet a crowd of frosted sparks were made, whose brief glimmers reached and pleaded to the still, solemn senators that were the stars. Though the soundless air the sound of the hooves upon the earth cascaded and cascaded again with each new turn of steps. With each sound four marks were made upon the earth, four blemishes that desecrated the purity that the clear sky had created; four black wounds to the white.

Honestly, what has this entire paragraph even told me? Nothing. You are trying way too hard to sound "writerly". This is the worst mistake you can make. I can't even get past this first paragraph because there is too much verbose. Your writing is good, but over-descriptiveness and over-writing is not.

Sam.

Nevermore · 04-18-2008, 06:26 PM

Thank you for the criticism, I know that I have a tendency to over-describe, mainly because I do that better than I come up with plot concepts. Although, I had hoped the plot of this story was of merit; perhaps if you were able to read past the first paragraph, you could comment on this also.
I am always concious of drawing my reader into the story straight away, but perhaps to do this with plot tension rather than an intense setting would be more effective, or to give description and plot equal balance, especially in the opening.
I would like to hear more from you about this, perhaps what you would take out and leave in?

djvincent3 · 04-18-2008, 07:33 PM

Hi nevermore,
I am a very new member and happened upon this piece tonight, attracted by its title. I began to take some notes but must agree with Winchester. However, I am intrigued by what you are trying to do here. I wish to go through it more attentively and offer some options so you might get more readily at your subject. However, I am distracted tonight by a visit from my son and numerous other things. I wish to get back tomorrow night. What I fear is that my inability to navigate this sight may lead to my not finding this piece again. If you can, let me know how to access it readily, or to send it to my own "thread", I guess. Whatever is required. I would like to take some time with this piece. I am very interested in what you are attempting to do here.

djvincent3 · 04-19-2008, 07:15 AM

Goodmorning Nevermore,
Thanks for your e-mail. As it happens this thread was open already as I came on sight, so I am back to it with no difficulty.
A few things. As in your conversation with Winchester, the descriptive narrative is excessive, though beautifully written; it is a skill at which you excell. The problem for me is I felt like I was digging through it, trying to get it out of the way so I could access the gem beneath. The descriptive material acts as an opaque surface through which the story cannot be seen.
The piece feels like writing that is seeking something it cannot quite grasp. In a way, I think of writing in general as just such a process. But I understand my own frustration with not quite getting at the core. Your introduction to the posting alludes to the same frustration. I am no seasoned writer, I will offer a few suggestions which would be what I would do. However, I would like to wax philosophically for a moment.
When I think of redemption I think of a powerful internal journey that by its very nature defies language; which is precisely why we should write about it. We are, however, left to analogy and metaphore to get at it. I wonder, in your piece, what it is you wish to say about this journey. Is it that redemption is not all furry puppies and sugary lollipops, but more derives out of suffering? Who is more powerful in the end, the demons or the Priest? Is the mysterious rider Redeemed, saved, or does he become fodder for the demons?
There is great interplay between light and dark, cold and warm (I love the prickly cold in the opening paragraph. It reminded me of touching a steel rail with my bare hand on a sub-zero morning; a cold that burns). At one point your Priest stands on the very boundary between these opposing forces when he is at the door of the church. But, in the end, darkness and cold invades. Has there been redemption? The mysterious rider dies with a sense of calm and unexpected ease. Is this the redemption?
These are the questions I was asking. I wonder if you are asking them too.
It is a very important subject, and your piece has a sense of journey in the character of the rider, it has a sense of conflict and a searching for release, relief, redemption. What, in the end, does the rider need to be saved from?
I offer these suggestions.
Outside of the written piece, tell yourself the story of the dark rider. Give him a history, in your own understadning of him. This can be painted in to the first paragraph when you are satisfied. Also, do the same with the Priest. Give him a back story. Sometimes, and I have heard this from many writers, the characters will take on a life of their own and begin to tell you the story; leading you toward that which you seek.
The only other suggestion would be to lay-out the story in a series of four to six distinct scenes. Create a skeleton. Give each scene a forward and aft boundary, so that each successive scene is a distinct next step in the journey. Then, take your descriptive flesh and fit it to the skeleton. I do not think this to be a lot of work. Your piece is already set for this kind of structure, it would need only some tweaking. The skeleton, however, is where your story is; it is the "plot" you are seeking. It should become evident with some charater building.
Forgive my excessive analysis, I just know where you are at with this piece and can sympathize. I hope this is helpful. Godd-luck to you.

Ungood · 04-19-2008, 11:46 AM

Dang ! I got chills from some of this... Good stuff... Good Stuff... All good Stuff!

Only suggestion is, it feels a bit 'Purple', but some people like rich descriptions, while others don't. I guess it is a matter of balance to what and who you want reading you work.

All in all... well written and good "Feel" of this dark night of terror and loss.

Sadly... I am one of those people that does not like long descriptions... so I fell out of it and died away.

But that in no way makes this a bad work! I am just not your target audience.

Ungood.

Nevermore · 04-19-2008, 12:18 PM

Thank you, D J Vincent. Despite your inexperience with this forum your comment is quite certainly the most useful I have received to date, from any source. I am heartened by your philosophical interpretation of my work; you are the kind of reader I continue to write for. =D>

It has always seemed to me that redemption, much like religion, is dependent on your point of view. We have to ask in redemption, For whom are we redeeming ourselves?
The aim behind this piece was to highlight that redemption is only possible to those who see themselves as being in need of it; this is its cruel nature. The rider sees himself as less worthy than the priest; the priest himself thinks the man is not worthy of his aid. The finale is an otherworldly reminder of the priest's mortality, whose position has led him to become conceited and hoarding. I do not put to fine an edge on my characterisation, for the cast are all but symbols, but it seems my priest must be more menacing in order for the reader to demand his redemption. I shall see to this in time.

If description is flesh, then this piece is nothing short of a 'chubbers'. I would have hoped this may translate to muscle, but obviously not

. I feel that the opening paragraph foreshadows the themes of encroaching darkness and the abuse of high status, but clearly there must be a little shuffling of priorities to find the balance I am looking for. Can characterisation create as much tension as plot? This could only serve to give the reader a greater sense of loss in the rider's death, and therefore anger when the priest does not help him. The time for personality has come!

As for structure, it was my greatest labour. The horse's retreat was a late addition to the first draft in an attempt to break up the church scene. Perhaps some brief sort of prologue would make for a good opening? The characters all taking their first places before the off? It could work, after all the greatest hallmark of the tragedy is a stout prologue.

Again, thank for your comment. You have given much to think about, I think in one more, new version I'll have cracked it. As they say, 'Third time lucky!'

BillyxRansom · 04-19-2008, 12:29 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Nevermore

Thank you for the criticism, I know that I have a tendency to over-describe, mainly because I do that better than I come up with plot concepts. Although, I had hoped the plot of this story was of merit; perhaps if you were able to read past the first paragraph, you could comment on this also.
I am always concious of drawing my reader into the story straight away, but perhaps to do this with plot tension rather than an intense setting would be more effective, or to give description and plot equal balance, especially in the opening.
I would like to hear more from you about this, perhaps what you would take out and leave in?

I am absolutely HORRIBLE at description. Can we maybe feed off each other and get ideas? I can give you plot ideas, you give me ways of describing things I'm trying to get across? Sound okay?

Nevermore · 04-19-2008, 12:32 PM

Thank you also, Ungood. I've have replied in one post but you commented as I was writing the last one.

I'm glad to see someone keeping an open mind to long descriptions, I hope that I can find that audience, as it's a fairly small target.
I wrote this around Christmas time, hoping to nail that old time Gothic-Christmas tradition, so rich and Purple are good to hear! But not as good as the news of chills; I was doubtful I could achieve as much without bloodly violence, but I guess that's the greatest feature of description for you.

I hope that, some time in the future, my final draft can hook a few more readers.

Nevermore · 04-19-2008, 12:38 PM

Is this coinceidence, or do I just take too long writing comments??

Billy Ramson, I think this would be a great idea, somehow I feel I must protect our world's adjectives. Should I comment on your lastest thread? I'll focus on discussing desciption.

I don't know waht this simley is about, but I want to use it, so here it is;

.

BillyxRansom · 04-19-2008, 12:53 PM

I hovered my mouse over the smiley, and it says "Drunk". Are you drunk?

It's Ransom, but thank you for directly addressing me all the same. I also will have to agree with your declaration of defending the adjective. It is an art that should not be taken lightly, by any means. I know this, and this is why I feel that it is utterly vital that I get it right. Though I don't want to get lost in it. I just want to get a good grasp of it.

Do you have an instant messaging service of some kind? AIM or Yahoo? I have both. I even have MSN Messenger. Email would also work just fine.

I can be reached there at will_alarie@yahoo.com

Thanks again so much.

-Billy

Ungood · 04-19-2008, 12:57 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Nevermore

I was doubtful I could achieve as much without bloodly violence, but I guess that's the greatest feature of description for you.

What? You don't need "Violence" for chills..

"not wishing to further aggravate his ailment. He felt it within his chest, burning him without warmth. More than his he felt the cold that surrounded him, this cold that was as Death is cold, as Hell is cold; and with burning. Thin tongues of cold fire licked at his face, his fingers; their sting sharp, intense, real."

That is some really good "Ooooooo I felt Shivers" type stuff... in many cases this is what really drives home the "touching"

Ungood.

djvincent3 · 04-19-2008, 07:48 PM

Hi Nevermore, I was awestruck by your response today. Redemption dependent on your point of view. That one must come to realize they want/need redemtion. It strikes at the heart of Christian Theology; this notion that "grace" is freely given, without the concommitent notion that one must also take of it. When you described in your post what you were doing in your writing, it all became very clear.
I am glad you found my responses helpful and of interst. I was a bit nervous being so instructive, which says something about me, and my appreciation of your piece. I think I identify with your mysterious Rider, I suppose this is why I wanted to know more about him. Nonetheless, it is a great piece and I hope you can tweek it to gain readers, who like myself, can identify. Enough said. Look forward to continuing our conversation and sharing writing. By the way, I was in this thread earlier around this whole debate concerning descriptiveness. You were in the crowd. I fell upon an idea about the purpose for which we write and how that dictates our style. Its half-baked, at this point. We'll talk. Doug