Too much infodumping? 1467 words

[Esfires]

Another excerpt from my WIP, here. I've been doling out info to the reader pieces at a time, and this is one of those morsels. There are other thing going on in the scene too, of course, but I mainly need to know if this flows right or if it feels too much like an info dump. But as always, feel free to point out anything that comes to mind while reading. Unlooked-for criticism is the best kind.

For reference, all of these characters have been previously introduced. Simon is a lost teenaged boy that has been through some pretty rough stuff. He has been taken in by the Hillfolk, in particular by the Harper clan. Jesse is a Hillfolk girl of his own age, Eli is her father. Walter lives with Eli's clan, but he is of a wholly different people altogether.

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Simon cocked his arm behind his head and squinted at the tall pine fifteen paces away. He placed his thumb on the top side of the wood haft of the toma as Walter had shown him, feeling the rough grain of the wood against his skin. With a short step forward he snapped his arm down, hurling the short hatchet with a grunt of followed quickly by a sharp knock as the back of the steel axe head bounced off the trunk and the toma spun off into the brush.

Simon stole a quick glance at the leather-faced man leaning, arms crossed, against a nearby tree. Walter’s large eyes remained as unreadable as ever. For nearly a month, the inscrutable man had been taking him out into the woods after the Harper clan camped for the day. Every day Simon would throw the small hand axe that could be found tucked behind the belt of many of the clan’s men, and some of the women, until the sun disappeared behind the high crest of the Hills and the shadows grew too long to continue. And after every throw, every toss of the toma that bounced off into the woods, Walter stood silent. He never showed the furrow of an angry brow, never released a sigh of disappointment. Only an occasional flaring of the nostrils in the man’s wide nose indicated that he took note of the failures at all.

Simon waded into the underbrush to retrieve the axe. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he bent to wrap his fingers around the straight wooden haft topped by a narrow blade, tarnished and gray with age. The Hills kept the sun to a short path between their high wooded peaks, but the air was as thick and humid as any summer day in Hamlin. “I don’t see why I have to learn this,” he said as he trudged back into position.

Walter’s large eyes blinked slowly at him. “Because it is a thing you do not know,” he said.

Simon grunted with wry amusement as he slid his hand down to the bottom of the toma’s haft. That was all the explanation he had come to expect from Walter. The man did what he wanted, with little explanation. Even Jesse hardly ever knew the purposes behind his actions, and she seemed to be closer to Walter than anyone else in the Harper clan.

Simon placed his thumb on top of the haft once more and cocked his arm back for another try. He glared at the trunk ahead, at the pale patch scraped bare by Walter’s knife. A pair of cold blue eyes under thick black hair stared back at him, as they always did. Sometimes he tried to see the face of his father in the wood, but it never held, always dissolving into the visage of the Herald.

Simon gritted his teeth and hurled his arm forward with all his might, desperate to see the blue-eyed face cleaved down the middle by the narrow blade of the toma. The bottom of the haft struck first and the hatchet sprang back before burying itself in the soft ground. The muscles of his jaw remained clenched as he stalked forward to yank the weapon from the ground. “I’m not getting any better,” he said.
Walter’s eyes followed him as he walked back to his starting point. “You will.”

“You don’t know that.”

The reply was harsher than Simon had intended to make it, but the older man took no notice. “It is the way of things,” he replied.

Simon frowned down at the head of the axe. He wiped the mud from the smooth surface of the tarnished blade. The dirt here was moist and dark, like the river soil of his father’s orchards. “Things don’t always end up the way they should,” he murmured.

“When I came from my mother,” said Walter, “I was as all babes, and could not see. Yet did my mother call me Wahuhi, after the way of her people, for my large eyes.” Simon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders as Walter spoke. The man’s voice had a way a doing that. His speech was different from that of the Harper clan, more melodious, and pitched in strange ways. “She knew that one day I would see more than most men,” he continued, “like the wahuhi that hunts in the night. She knew this because it is the way of things.”

Simon frowned at the man. “But everyone calls you Walter,” he said.

Walter shrugged. “The people of Eli speak what seems best to them,” he said.

“And you’re not one of Eli’s people,” said Simon, glad for a break from the frustration of throwing the toma. “You’re not a clansman.”

The beads of Walter’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “It is the fate of my people to be always in the shadow of others,” he said. “We have learned to be still, to let the wind of many winters carry us where it will. We are old, and we endure where others did not, but our time was long ago.”

A whisper teased at the back of Simon’s mind. Gabe’s words, spoken over a low fire and echoing against walls of seamless stone. The Old Folk are no great mystery. There were people, just like you. Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and tilted his head back, studying the old man. “Just how old are your people?” he said.

Walter unfolded his arms and lowered into a crouch, resting on his heels with his hands on his knees. The lids lowered over his large brown eyes and the nostrils of his wide nose flexed as he breathed deep of the thick air. “Many winters ago my people were young,” he said. “The Hills echoed with our brave cries and the wind was in our long hair. We clothed ourselves in the bounty of the wood in those days, and our tamoihecan was of sharp stone.”

His thick brow lowered in a frown. “The people of the Island came,” he continued. “They spread across the land and made it their own. They built their houses wide and high. They made the night into day. They cut their ways through the heart of the earth itself. They did many great things, and shone greater than my people. The toma of my people was of steel in those days, but it grew spotted and dull.”

“The Old Folk,” breathed Simon. “Your people were here even before them.”

Walter opened his eyes and cocked his head at the awe in Simon’s voice. “Is this a strange thing to you?” he asked. “Does a man turn in his path to see no track behind him? Always there must be those who came before. Only the King is eldest.”

Simon’s insides twisted tight and he frowned down at the hatchet in his hand. The gray blade flickered with the light of a bonfire in the night, with blue eyes and red swords waving amidst shouted accusations. He snapped his arm back and forward in one motion, releasing the toma with a bitter cry.

The head of the axe thumped against the tree and it spun off into the dirt. His shoulders slumped and the knot in his middle rose to his throat as he glared down at the weapon. “Has this tree done you a great ill,” said Walter from where he crouched behind Simon, “that you must give so much anger to it?”

Walter stood and walked over to the toma, snatching it up from where it lay and bringing it back to Simon. “Give me your arm,” he said. Simon held out his left hand. Walter took him by the wrist and dragged the blade of the hatchet lightly across the inside of Simon’s forearm.

“Ow!” he yelped and jerked away. He clamped his right hand over the arm and a thin trickle of blood seeped out from beneath his fingers. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

Walter held the hatchet aloft. A line of blood ran down the steel to collect in a drop that trembled as it hung from the blade, glowing red in the fading light of the sun. “The toma is sharp,” he said, “as it was made to be. It does not need the strength of your arm to do that for which it was made.” Walter flipped the hatchet in the air, catching it by the head, and held it out to Simon. He wrapped his fingers around the haft, rubbing his blood into the wood. “Do not throw with so fierce an eye,” said Walter. “Let the toma do the cutting, and the wood will part for you.”

 

[Jo Zebedee]

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Simon cocked his arm behind his head and squinted at the tall pine fifteen paces away.I've tried this a couple of ways but can't imagine that action. He placed his thumb on the top side of the wood haft of the toma as Walter had shown him, feeling the rough grain of the wood against his skinI don't think you need the last 3 words. With a short step forward he snapped his arm down, hurling the short hatchet with a grunt of followed quickly by a sharp knock as the back of the steel axe head bounced off the trunk and the toma spun off into the brush. okay so now I see what you meant. Pulled back his arm?

Simon stole a quick glance at the leather-faced man leaning, arms crossed, against a nearby tree. Walter’s large eyes remained as unreadable as ever. For nearly a month, the inscrutableleather faced, large eyed and inscutable; there's a lot for me to imagine there man had been taking him out into the woods after the Harper clan camped for the day. Every day Simon would throw the small hand axe that could be found tucked behind the belt of many of the clan’s men, and some of the women, until the sun disappeared behind the high crest of the Hills and the shadows grew too long to continue. And after every throw, every toss of the toma that bounced off into the woods, Walter stood silent. He never showed the furrow of an angry brow, never released a sigh of disappointment. Only an occasional flaring of the nostrils in the man’s wide nose indicated that he took note of the failures at all.

Simon waded into the underbrush to retrieve the axe. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he bent to wrap his fingers around the straight wooden haft topped by a narrow blade, tarnished and gray with age. The Hills kept the sun to a short path between their high wooded peaks, but the air was as thick and humid as any summer day in Hamlin. “I don’t see why I have to learn this,” he said as he trudged back into position.

Walter’s large eyes blinked slowly at him. “Because it is a thing you do not know,” he said.

Simon grunted with wry amusement as he slid his hand down to the bottom of the toma’s haft. That was all the explanation he had come to expect from Walter. The man did what he wanted, with little explanation. Even Jesse hardly ever knew the purposes behind his actions, and she seemed to be closer to Walter than anyone else in the Harper clan.

Simon placed his thumb on top of the haft once more and cocked his arm backhere it's fine; I've got the picture in my head now for another try. He glared at the trunk ahead, at the pale patch scraped bare by Walter’s knife. A pair of cold blue eyes under thick black hair stared back at him, as they always did. Sometimes he tried to see the face of his father in the wood, but it never held, always dissolving into the visage of the Herald.

Simon gritted his teeth and hurled his arm forward with all his might, desperate to see the blue-eyed face cleaved down the middle by the narrow blade of the toma. The bottom of the haft struck first and the hatchet sprang back before burying itself in the soft ground. The muscles of his jaw remained clenched as he stalked forward to yank the weapon from the ground. “I’m not getting any better,” he said.
Walter’s eyes followed him as he walked back to his starting point. “You will.”

“You don’t know that.”

The reply was harsher than Simon had intended to make it, but the older man took no notice. “It is the way of things,” he replied.

Simon frowned down at the head of the axe. He wiped the mud from the smooth surface of the tarnished blade. The dirt here was moist and dark, like the river soil of his father’s orchards. “Things don’t always end up the way they should,” he murmured.

“When I came from my mother,” said Walter, “I was as all babes, and could not see. Yet did my mother call me Wahuhi, after the way of her people, for my large eyes.” Simon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders as Walter spoke. The man’s voice had a way a doing that. His speech was different from that of the Harper clan, more melodious, and pitched in strange ways. “She knew that one day I would see more than most men,” he continued, “like the wahuhi that hunts in the night. She knew this because it is the way of things.”here I'm scratching my head, you just told me he doesn't do explanations.

Simon frowned at the man. “But everyone calls you Walter,” he said.

Walter shrugged. “The people of Eli speak what seems best to them,” he said.

“And you’re not one of Eli’s people,” said Simon, glad for a break from the frustration of throwing the toma. “You’re not a clansman.”

The beads of Walter’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “It is the fate of my people to be always in the shadow of others,” he said. “We have learned to be still, to let the wind of many winters carry us where it will. We are old, and we endure where others did not, but our time was long ago.”

A whisper teased at the back of Simon’s mind. Gabe’s words, spoken over a low fire and echoing against walls of seamless stone. The Old Folk are no great mystery. There were people, just like you. Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and tilted his head back, studying the old man. “Just how old are your people?” he said.

Walter unfolded his arms and lowered into a crouch, resting on his heels with his hands on his knees. The lids lowered over his large brown eyes and the nostrils of his wide nose flexed as he breathed deep of the thick air. “Many winters ago my people were young,” he said. “The Hills echoed with our brave cries and the wind was in our long hair. We clothed ourselves in the bounty of the wood in those days, and our tamoihecan was of sharp stone.”

His thick brow lowered in a frown. “The people of the Island came,” he continued. “They spread across the land and made it their own. They built their houses wide and high. They made the night into day. They cut their ways through the heart of the earth itself. They did many great things, and shone greater than my people. The toma of my people was of steel in those days, but it grew spotted and dull.”It is info dumpish, but presumably you have to get it across somehow.

“The Old Folk,” breathed Simon. “Your people were here even before them.”

Walter opened his eyes and cocked his head at the awe in Simon’s voice. “Is this a strange thing to you?” he asked. “Does a man turn in his path to see no track behind him? Always there must be those who came before. Only the King is eldest.”

Simon’s insides twisted tight and he frowned down at the hatchet in his hand. The gray blade flickered with the light of a bonfire in the night, with blue eyes and red swords waving amidst shouted accusations. He snapped his arm back and forward in one motion, releasing the toma with a bitter cry.

The head of the axe thumped against the tree and it spun off into the dirt. His shoulders slumped and the knot in his middle rose to his throat as he glared down at the weapon. “Has this tree done you a great ill,” said Walter from where he crouched behind Simon, “that you must give so much anger to it?”

Walter stood and walked over to the toma, snatching it up from where it lay and bringing it back to Simon. “Give me your arm,” he said. Simon held out his left hand. Walter took him by the wrist and dragged the blade of the hatchet lightly across the inside of Simon’s forearm.

“Ow!” he yelped and jerked away. He clamped his right hand over the arm and a thin trickle of blood seeped out from beneath his fingers. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

Walter held the hatchet aloft. A line of blood ran down the steel to collect in a drop that trembled as it hung from the blade, glowing red in the fading light of the sun. “The toma is sharp,” he said, “as it was made to be. It does not need the strength of your arm to do that for which it was made.” Walter flipped the hatchet in the air, catching it by the head, and held it out to Simon. He wrapped his fingers around the haft, rubbing his blood into the wood. “Do not throw with so fierce an eye,” said Walter. “Let the toma do the cutting, and the wood will part for you.”

I liked the scene, there was only one paragraph which felt a bit info dumpish. My main concern is you've set me up a character who isn't going to tell me and then he does, and I feel it's more for the author's need to tell the story than in keeping with the character himself, if that makes sense. Nice dialogue, smooth.

 

[Esfires]

I understand what you're saying. I need to give Walter a reason to tell those things to Simon.

 

[The Judge]

A few thoughts.

red = suggested additions/amendments
blue = suggested deletions
purple - comments

Simon cocked his arm behind his head and squinted at the tall pine fifteen paces away. He placed his thumb on the top [side] [not needed] [of the wood haft] [to avoid ungainly repetition] of the toma's haft as Walter had shown him, feeling the rough grain of the wood against his skin. With a short step forward he snapped his arm down, hurling the short [repetition] hatchet with a grunt of [of what?] followed quickly by a sharp knock [when I read this I thought he had received the knock, ie the axe had rebounded, hitting him. I'd suggest you use a noise-word to link it better to grunt otherwise the linking of "followed" is ineffective] as the back of the steel axe-head [as written this made me think the head had come away from the haft] bounced off the pine's trunk. [and] The toma spun [off] away [to avoid repetition] into the brush. [it gives more impact to the action if it's in its own sentence]

Simon stole a quick [too-close repetition of quickly/quick] glance at the leather-faced man leaning, arms crossed, against a nearby tree. Walter’s large eyes remained as unreadable as ever. For nearly a month, the inscrutable [repetition of idea with unreadable in the preceding sentence] man had been taking him out into the woods after the Harper clan camped for the night [day] [to avoid too-close repetition of day]. Every day Simon would throw the small hand axe that could be found tucked behind [behind? you mean under?] the belt of many of the clan’s men, and some of the women, [this is info -dumpy -- if we've seen the people already, tell us they all have the axe in their belts there] until [as written it reads as if the axe remains in the belts until sunset] the sun disappeared behind the high crest of the Hills [and the shadows grew too long to continue]. [repetition of idea, and not sure it adds anything] And after every throw, every toss of the toma [ungainly alliteration] that bounced [repetition] off into the trees [woods], [to avoid repetition] Walter stood silent. He never showed the furrow of an angry brow, never released a sigh of disappointment. Only an occasional flaring of the nostrils in the man’s wide nose indicated that he took note of the failures at all.

Simon waded into the underbrush to retrieve the axe. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose [too-close repetition of nose] as he bent to wrap his fingers around the straight wooden haft [you've already told us the haft is made of wood. I'd suggest you add the "straight" somewhere else where he's holding it, remove the "wrap fingers around" and leave it as "to pick up the toma." -- keep it simple] topped by a narrow blade, tarnished and gray with age. [by adding the description to the blade onto the previous bit, it almost reads as if he's wrapping his fingers around the blade, too. I'd suggest you move "its narrow blade..." etc somewhere relevant] The Hills kept the sun to a short path between their high wooded peaks, [as written this makes it appear the hills are physically trammelling the sun itself, not the sun's beams. I assume what you mean is the hills cast shadows over the land, so no direct sun falls in the woods -- it might be better to say so plainly] but the air was as thick and humid as any summer day in Hamlin.

[best as a separate para] “I don’t see why I have to learn this,” he said as he trudged back into position.

Walter’s large eyes [I can see the point of this repetition if it's deliberate, but it might be better to remove the earlier one and leave this] blinked slowly at him. “Because it is a thing you do not know.” [he said.] [not needed]

Simon grunted [near repetition] with wry amusement as he slid his hand down to the bottom of the toma’s haft. That was all the explanation he had come to expect from Walter. The man did what he wanted, with little explanation. [far too-close repetition] Even Jesse hardly ever knew the reasons [purposes] [picky, but I don't think purposes lie behind actions, they are the things driving the actions, a different matter] behind his actions, and she seemed to be closer to Walter than anyone else in the Harper clan.

Simon placed his thumb on top of the haft once more and cocked his arm back for another try. He glared at the trunk ahead, at the pale patch scraped bare by Walter’s knife. A pair of cold blue eyes under thick black hair stared back at him, as they always did. Sometimes he tried to see the face of his father in the wood, but it never held, always dissolving into the visage of the Herald.

Simon gritted his teeth and hurled his arm forward with all his might, desperate to see the blue-eyed face cleaved down the middle by the narrow blade [you've already told us it's narrow] of the toma. The bottom of the haft struck first and the hatchet sprang back before burying itself in the soft ground.

[think separate para here -- and if not here, then definitely before he speaks] The muscles of his [I'd prefer "Simon's" here, though I'm not sure why since there can't be any confusion] jaw remained clenched as he stalked forward to yank the weapon from the ground. “I’m not getting any better,” he said.

[separate para needed] Walter’s eyes followed him as he walked back to his starting point. “You will.”

“You don’t know that.” [you could link this with the next line in the same para if you hive off Walter's dialogue as suggested]

The reply was harsher than Simon had intended to make it, but the older man took no notice.

[again separate para] “It is the way of things,” he replied.

Simon frowned down [ungainly rhyming] at the head of the axe. He wiped the mud from the smooth surface of the tarnished blade [you've already told us it's tarnished]. The dirt [here] [not needed and too much of the present tense] was moist and dark, [in a pine forest?] like the river soil of his father’s orchards. “Things don’t always end up the way they should,” he murmured.

[all of the next bit rather comes out of nowhere and for no apparent reason]
“When I came from my mother,” said Walter, “I was as all babes, and could not see. Yet did my mother call me Wahuhi, after the way of her people, for my large eyes.” [this is now the third time you've told us he has large eyes]

[needs a separate para for Simon's thinking] Simon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders as Walter spoke. The man’s voice had a way a doing that. His speech was different from that of the Harper clan, more melodious, and pitched in strange ways.

[separate para]“She knew that one day I would see more than most men,” Walter [he] continued, “like the wahuhi that hunts in the night. She knew this because it is the way of things.”

Simon frowned [repetition] at the man. “But everyone calls you Walter.” [he said.] [not needed]

Walter shrugged. “The people of Eli speak what seems best to them.” [he said.] [not needed]

“And ["But" rather than "And"?] you’re not one of Eli’s people,” said Simon, glad for a break from the frustration of throwing the toma. “You’re not a clansman.”

The beads of Walter’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “It is the fate of my people to be always in the shadow of others. [” he said. “] [not needed] We have learned to be still, to let the wind of many winters carry us where it will. We are old, and we endure where others did not, but our time was long ago.”

A whisper teased at the back of Simon’s mind. Gabe’s words, spoken over a low fire and echoing against walls of seamless stone. The Old Folk are no great mystery. There [?They?] were people, just like you. Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and tilted his head back, studying the old man.

[new para] “Just how old are your people?” he asked [said].

Walter unfolded his arms and lowered himself into a crouch, resting on his heels with his hands on his knees. The lids lowered over his large brown eyes [this is the fourth time you've told us] and the nostrils of his wide nose [you've also told us of his wide nose] flexed as he breathed deep of the thick air. [if the repetition is deliberate, all well and good, but...] “Many winters [since he referred to the winter wind, I'd suggest you find another season here] ago my people were young,” he said. “The Hills echoed with our brave cries and the wind [again, he referred already to the wind, it might be best to find something else] was in our long hair. We clothed ourselves in the bounty of the wood [in those days], [not needed but see next para -- if to be kept, move after "stone"] and our tamoihecan was of sharp stone.”

His thick [too-close repetition] brow lowered in a frown. [repetition again] “The people of the Island came. [” he continued. “] [not needed] They spread across the land and made it their own. They built their houses wide and high. They made the night into day. They cut their ways through the heart of the earth itself. They did many great things, and shone greater than my people. The toma of my people was of steel in those days, [if this is deliberate repetition, you need to make the sentences balance each other -- the other "those days" referred to their clothing, not the blades] but it grew spotted and dull.”

“The Old Folk,” breathed Simon. “Your people were here even before them.”

Walter opened his eyes and cocked [repetition] his head at the awe in Simon’s voice. “Is this a strange thing to you? [” he asked. “] [not needed] Does a man who turns in his path [to] [as written this means the man turns in order to see no track which is a bit odd] see no track behind him? Always there must be those who came before. Only the King is eldest.”

Simon’s insides twisted tight and he frowned down [ungainly rhyme] at the hatchet in his hand. [ungainly alliteration] The gray [you've already told us it's gray] blade flickered with the light of a bonfire in the night, [on first reading I thought this was literal and wondered what bonfire was around -- I'd suggest you make it clearer he only sees this] with blue eyes and red swords waving [as written this means the blue eyes were waving as well] amidst shouted accusations. He snapped his arm back and forward in one motion, releasing the toma with a bitter cry.

The head of the axe thumped against the tree and the toma [it] [otherwise only the head of the axe spins off] spun off [repetition] into the dirt. His shoulders slumped and the knot in his middle rose to his throat [not sure about this image] as he glared [down] [not needed] at the weapon. [slumping and glaring arise from wholly different emotions -- I'd suggest you choose one only]

[should be new para] “Has this tree done you [a] great ill, [” said Walter from where he crouched behind Simon, “] [not needed] that you [must] give so much anger to it?”

Walter stood and walked over to the toma, snatching [too aggressive an action for him] it up from where it lay and bringing it back to Simon. “Give me your arm,” he said.

[suggest new para] Simon held out his left hand. Walter took him by the wrist and dragged the blade of the hatchet lightly across the inside of Simon’s forearm.

Simon [“Ow!” he] [sounds faintly ridiculous] yelped and jerked away. He clamped his right hand over the arm and a thin trickle of blood seeped out from beneath his fingers. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

Walter held the hatchet aloft. A line of blood ran down the steel to collect in a drop that trembled as it hung from the blade, glowing red in the fading light of the sun. “The toma is sharp,” he said, “as it was made to be. It does not need the strength of your arm to do that for which it was made.” [gnomic pronouncements are all very well, but does that make any sense? And why did he cut Simon?]

[suggest new para]Walter flipped the hatchet in the air, catching it by the head, and held it out. [to] Simon [. He] wrapped his fingers [repetition] around the haft, rubbing his blood into the wood. [why?]

[suggest separate para]“Do not throw with so fierce an eye,” said Walter. “Let the toma do the cutting, and the wood will part for you.”

As you'll have seen, I think you need to pay more attention to the detail. You repeat ideas and actual words too frequently in too short a space. You also need to think about what you have actually written, as opposed to what you meant to write.

You also need to watch your paragraphs more -- if there is a lot of narrative, shoving a line of dialogue at the end reduces its impact; far better to give it a line of its own. And where there is an intervening action by the other person, definitely a new para to avoid confusion. I've taken out bits which aren't needed -- where there are only two character who talk very differently you shouldn't have to tag every line of dialogue.

Although I wouldn't have objected to the info being given here if it arose naturally, I share springs' concerns that you've told us Walter doesn't explain things and then you have him tell all this, where it isn't relevant anyway.

Overall, it's clear you know what you're doing, the scene is fluid, the characters shown well and the dialogue fine. You've got the structure OK, but I do think you do need to come down and look at the detail of your writing more.

 

[luci2also]

Though I would tend to agree with some- not all of the critique given so far- over all I like what you did. What doesn't work is in the first few paragraphs you almost lost me. Maybe a product of too much tell not enough show. But I'm not as inclined to red letter every other sentence.
Examining it as if it's the beginning of the story tends to cause a person to expect the hook and not see that you are trying to build the mood and lead to the revelation that Walter will on occasion explain things. And yes maybe more time could be spent addressing how that might happen.

Perhaps what might help after following some of the suggestions is to examine the lead in and if possible break the first three paragraphs up to help the reader move through that more quickly and into the important stuff.

 

[Bowler1]

Simon cocked his arm behind hishead and squinted at the tall pine fifteen paces away. He placed his thumb onthe top side of the wood haft of the toma as Walter had shown him,feeling the rough grain of the wood against his skin. With a short step forwardhe snapped his arm down, hurling the short hatchet with a grunt of (small error – remove of) followedquickly by a sharp knock as the back of the steel axe head bounced off thetrunk and the toma spun off into the brush.

Simon stole a quick glance at the leather-faced man leaning, arms crossed,against a nearby tree. Walter’s large eyes remained as unreadable as ever. Fornearly a month, the inscrutable man had been taking him out into the woodsafter the Harper clan camped for the day. Every day Simon would throw the smallhand axe that could be found tucked behind the belt of many of the clan’s men,and some of the women, until the sun disappeared behind the high crest of theHills and the shadows grew too long to continue. And after every throw, every tossof the toma that bounced off into the woods, Walter stood silent. Henever showed the furrow of an angry brow, never released a sigh ofdisappointment. Only an occasional flaring of the nostrils in the man’s widenose indicated that he took note of the failures at all.
This is a little info dumby – toma all the clan carried would have done.

Simon waded into the underbrush toretrieve the axe. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he bent to wrap hisfingers around the straight wooden haft topped by a narrow blade, tarnished andgray with age. The Hills kept the sun to a short path between their high woodedpeaks, but the air was as thick and humid as any summer day in Hamlin. “I don’tsee why I have to learn this,” he said as he trudged back into position.

Not sure about the suns path and hills, I could not quite picture it – too much detail confused me.

Walter’s large eyes blinked slowly at him. “Because it is a thing you do notknow,” he said.

Simon grunted with wry amusement as he slid his hand down to the bottom of the toma’shaft. That was all the explanation he had come to expect from Walter. The mandid what he wanted, with little explanation. Even Jesse hardly ever knew thepurposes behind his actions, and she seemed to be closer to Walter than anyoneelse in the Harper clan.
Nice character development.


Simon gritted his teeth and hurled his arm forward with all his might,desperate to see the blue-eyed face cleaved down the middle by the narrow bladeof the toma. The bottom of the haft struck first and the hatchet sprangback before burying itself in the soft ground. The muscles of his jaw remainedclenched as he stalked forward to yank the weapon from the ground. “I’m notgetting any better,” he said.
Walter’s eyes followed him as he walked back to his starting point. “You will.”
Missed again would have done – chipped the bark for a closer miss, the full detail of a second miss is heavy – trust the reader more.


“When I came from my mother,” said Walter, “I was as all babes, and could notsee. Yet did my mother call me Wahuhi, after the way of her people, formy large eyes.” Simon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders as Walterspoke. The man’s voice had a way a doing that. His speech was different fromthat of the Harper clan, more melodious, and pitched in strange ways. “She knewthat one day I would see more than most men,” he continued, “like the wahuhithat hunts in the night. She knew this because it is the way of things.”
I have no idea what has been said – I get the idea of what you attempted but it’s not worked for me this time anyway.


The beads of Walter’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “It is the fateof my people to be always in the shadow of others,” he said. “We have learnedto be still, to let the wind of many winters carry us where it will. We areold, and we endure where others did not, but our time was long ago.”
That was good.

Simon’s insides twisted tight and he frowned down at the hatchet in his hand.The gray blade flickered with the light of a bonfire in the night, with blueeyes and red swords waving amidst shouted accusations. He snapped his arm backand forward in one motion, releasing the toma with a bitter cry.
I thought it was light, now dark – you did say day earlier. Also, sadly, the description above lost me – missed again maybe!!!.



Ok interesting. You do characters well, that is a strength you should be happy with. The writing is dense in some sections, especially when you do descriptions which are currently overdone and lost me in most of these sections – this defeats the purpose needless to say. Yet the dense writing seems to work with the characters, which is odd, but it’s what I think.

You’re trying to find your style,trust the reader more and try for less dense. It is info dumping in some places. Yet it was not all that bad, some parts work very well. Esfries, resist the urge to paint a full picture and back drop with your writing, try for impressionist, see how you do. Keep the characters going - you have done very well there.

 

[Bowler1]

You got the Judge, lucky you - needless to say, I was thinking the very same things!!

 

[Esfires]

Sounds like I've got a good foundation, I just need to spend more time and effort in the editing process.

Here's my revised attempt. I took most of your guys' suggestions, and I think it certainly works out better.

------------------------------------

Simon cocked his arm back behind his head and squinted at the tall pine fifteen paces in front of him. He placed his thumb on the top of the raised haft of the toma as Walter had shown him, the grain of the wood rough under his skin. With a short step forward he snapped his arm down, hurling the short hatchet with a grunt that was quickly followed by a sharp knock as the back of the narrow blade met the trunk and the toma spun off into the brush.

Simon stole a glance at the leather-faced man leaning, arms crossed, against a nearby tree. Walter’s eyes remained as unreadable as ever. For nearly a month, the man had been taking him out into the woods after the Harper clan camped for the evening. Every day Simon would throw the small hand axe of the Hillfolk until the sun disappeared behind the high crest of the Hills. And after every throw, every toss of the toma that bounced off into the trees, Walter stood silent. He never showed the furrow of an angry brow, never released a sigh of disappointment. Only an occasional flaring of the man’s large nostrils indicated that he took note of the failures at all.

Simon waded into the underbrush find the axe. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he bent to retrieve the weapon. The long shadows of the Hills sheltered him from the glare of the sun, but the air was as thick and humid as any summer day in Hamlin.

“I don’t see why I have to learn this,” he said as he trudged back into position.

Walter’s large eyes blinked slowly at him. “Because it is a thing you do not know.”

Simon grunted with wry amusement as he slid his hand down to the bottom of the toma’s haft. That was all the explanation he had come to expect from Walter. The man did what he wanted. Even Jesse hardly ever knew the reasons behind his actions, and she seemed to be closer to Walter than anyone else in the Harper clan.

Simon placed his thumb on top of the haft once more and cocked his arm back for another try. He glared at the trunk ahead, at the pale patch scraped bare by Walter’s knife. A pair of cold blue eyes under thick black hair stared back at him, as they always did. Sometimes he tried to see the face of his father in the wood, but it never held, always dissolving into the visage of the Herald.

Simon gritted his teeth and hurled his arm forward with all his might, desperate to see the blue-eyed face cleaved down the middle by the gray blade of the toma. [FONT=&quot]The hatchet clunked against the tree and sprang back to bury itself in the soft ground.[/FONT]

The muscles of his jaw remained clenched as he stalked forward to yank the weapon free. “I’m not getting any better,” he said.

Walter’s eyes followed him as he walked back to his starting point. “You will.”

“You don’t know that.” The reply was harsher than Simon had intended to make it, but the older man took no notice.

“It is the way of things,” he replied.

Simon gazed down at the head of the axe. He wiped the mud from the smooth surface of the tarnished blade. The dirt at the bottom of the canyon was moist and dark, like the river soil of his father’s orchards. “Things don’t always end up the way they should,” he murmured.

“When I came from my mother,” said Walter, “I was as all babes, and could not see. Yet did my mother call me Wahuhi, after the way of her people, for my large eyes.”

Simon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders as Walter spoke. The man’s voice had a way a doing that. His speech was different from that of the Harper clan, more melodious, and pitched in strange ways.

“She knew that one day I would see more than most men,” Walter continued, “like the wahuhi that hunts in the night. She knew this because it is the way of things.”

Simon frowned at the man. “But everyone calls you Walter.”

Walter shrugged. “The people of Eli speak what seems best to them.”

“So you’re not one of Eli’s people?” said Simon, glad for a break from the frustration of throwing the toma. “You’re not a clansman?”

The beads of Walter’s braids clicked softly as he shook his head. “It is the fate of my people to be always in the shadow of others,” he said. “We have learned to be still, to let the wind carry us where it will. We are old, and we endure where others did not, but our time was long ago.”

A whisper teased at the back of Simon’s mind. Gabe’s words, spoken over a low fire and echoing against walls of seamless stone. The Old Folk are no great mystery. There were people, just like you. Simon wiped the sweat from his brow and tilted his head back, studying the old man.

“Just how old are your people?” he said.

Walter’s stony mask slipped a little, eyes tightening as he fixed Simon with a questioning stare. “Why do your ears search for these things?” he asked. “Is there not birdsong enough to satisfy them? Do not the trees and the good soil fill your nose, so that it need not seek out the scent of old and dead things? Why do you ask after my people?”

Simon suppressed the grin that threatened to curl the corner of his mouth. “Because it is a thing I do not know,” he said.

Walter grunted and unfolded his arms. He lowered himself into a crouch, resting on his heels, the fingers of his rough hands splayed wide over his knees. The lids lowered over his large brown eyes and his nostrils flexed as he breathed deep of the thick air.

“Many seasons ago my people were young," he said. The Hills echoed with our brave cries and the wind was in our long hair. We clothed ourselves in the bounty of the wood, and our skin shone as bright in the sun. Our tamoihecan was of stone in those days, clean and sharp.”

His dark brow lowered, deepening the lines of his face. “The people of the Island came. They spread across the land and made it their own. They built their houses wide and high. They made the night into day. They cut their ways through the heart of the earth itself. They did many great things, and shone greater than my people. The toma of my people was of steel in those days, but it grew spotted and dull.”

“The Old Folk,” breathed Simon. “Your people were here even before them.”

Walter opened his eyes and cocked his head at the awe in Simon’s voice. “Is this a strange thing to you? Does a man turn in his path to see no track behind him? Always there must be those who came before. Only the King is eldest.”

Simon’s insides twisted tight and he scowled down at the weapon in his hand. The blade seemed to flicker with the light of a bonfire in the night, with blue eyes and red swords waving amidst shouted accusations. He snapped his arm back and forward in one motion, releasing the toma with a bitter cry.

The head of the axe thumped against the tree and the toma spun off into the dirt. His shoulders tensed and the knot in his middle climbed into his throat as he glared down at the weapon.

“You throw the toma as if you mean to drive it into the Hills themselves,” said Walter. Has this tree done you a great ill, that you must give so much anger to it?”

Walter rose and walked over to the toma, plucking it from the ground and bringing it back to Simon. “Give me your arm,” he said.

Simon held out his left hand. Walter took him by the wrist and dragged the blade of the hatchet lightly across the inside of his forearm.

Simon he yelped and jerked away. He clamped his right hand over the arm and a thin trickle of blood seeped out from beneath his fingers. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

Walter held the hatchet aloft. A line of blood ran down the steel to collect in a drop that trembled as it hung from the blade, glowing red in the fading light of the sun. “The toma is sharp,” he said, “as it was made to be. It does not need the strength of your arm to do that for which it was made.”

Walter flipped the hatchet in the air, catching it by the head, and held it out. Simon wrapped his fingers around the haft and met the old man’s steady eyes.

“Do not throw with so fierce an arm,” said Walter. “Let the toma do the cutting, and the wood will part for you.”

 

[Bowler1]

Better, but you know that already. It's still a little slow, but, I would read on for more. You still have to watch your pace, but the characters carry me onwards. A lot clearer, well done.