Redemption Sought - a retro-gothic story about the abuse of power - Writers Forum

Nevermore · 01-21-2008, 05:19 PM

I wrote this fairly recently and I'm happy enough with it to post it here. If anyone can comment I would be grateful. Thank you!

Note; this is my first post ever!

A half-moon dimly lit the doings of that night. The low plains were encased with a bright layer of frost, converting shaded moor and twisted, lonesome tree to the spirits of their past. A dense mist began to show itself on the dark borders of the horizon, concealing it victim - the plains and all within them – 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 made at its feet a crowd of frosted sparks that reached and pleaded to the still, solemn senators that were the stars. The sound of the hooves upon the earth was all that could be heard in this lifeless night, and cascaded though the air and cascaded again upon the next 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 reins and to the cloth he had wrapped around himself; he did not wish to further aggravate his ailment. He felt his illness within his chest, burning him, but 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 it 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 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 fifty. A convenience to all was this clock.
Below the clock their stood a man, slumped against the inn’s door. He was cast in shadow by the inlet of the door, 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 animal deeply serene but also dangerously alert. 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 that 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 and put a wall of unperceived motion between the mind and the world. 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, 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. Twelve wood-fuelled, pewter lamps flanked the aisle and 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, become malice 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 itself. 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 this 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 basic, 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 taken half of reality away from him. His sight had blurred as if it had been 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 comfort, the sound of blood pounding at the eardrum, 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. It would take occasional glances only to find the dog still staring at the ground. Slowly, the horse moved its own focus to the ground, when the dog’s head sprang up, looking straight at 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.”
The priest 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 and unassuming that was so powerfully reassuring. The man still trapped in his fever never moved his vacant eyes from where the priest was, even as he made his hesitant descent.
“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 4 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 instinctively the troublesome nature of the man’s objective.
“What is it?”
As the priest stepped down onto the floor, the man fell to his knees.

Coughing ensued that flew through the air and echoed off the wall as though a swarm of hunting birds had found itself within the sanctity 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, but 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 could ever have been expected.

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 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 his face and accentuated his face that was 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 inside. 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, 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 was nothing other than a demon! The priest began to draw a quivering breath as the dog moved silently from its haunches to 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 he gagged in his terror as the black hound swiftly ran passed 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 threw the doorway and ruffled the fires in the lamps. 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 felt back into the church, shuffling way 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 with the steady pace of a mourner. The priest followed him with his eyes, and crawled 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 to the hellish embrace of the night.

Forgotten Abyss · 01-21-2008, 05:44 PM

Really good story.

Large amounts of detail, and great characters. But I felt kinda sad the story ended so quick, because it read fast.

I, personally only have four complaints.

One is that the end text, is smaller then the rest of the text.

Two Sometimes you double spaced your paragrahs, sometimes you didn't. It was just crazy to read both of this at the same time.

Three the story starts out very 'block-o-text'-ish. Its hard to read, so instead you can use the double space system. Or like other books, seperate the paragraphs using 'Tab' on you key board for the start of each paragraph. Like how you read it in books.

And finally four, which is the least importent, I have read in the study of demonology that demons can not cross, nor tread on holy ground. But maybe in your universe they can, which is no problem really.

Good story, hoping to read more from you.

AF82 · 01-21-2008, 06:24 PM

Very good story, super descriptive. Almost too descriptive, actually.

Nevermore · 01-22-2008, 10:43 AM

I'm not too sure what the dog is exactly, but I felt sure that the preist would see it as a demon. As for formatting, I'll try to pay more attention... =D

I know that my descriptions can be a bit long-winded, but I think the plot is simple enough to support it. I'm concious of involving my readers, but i'll try to hold back next time.

Glad you enjoyed it!! =]

Forgotten Abyss · 01-22-2008, 03:46 PM

That dog itself, actually was an interesting character, it would've have been cool to learn more about it.

Simple plot indeed, but the was simple enough to let you drive it forward with imagery. I like it!

Keep up the good work.