WriterJosh
Well-Known Member
What is about to follow is the first chapter of the novel I'm currently trying to get representation for. I should very much like a critique of this beginning.
Some background; Becca and Pat live on a large heath of dead rock where little vegetation grows. The heath was one of the sites where a great Ragnarok occurred, and some remnants of that battle are still around. Her "job" is scavenging among the rock looking for anything she can use or sell.
Some background; Becca and Pat live on a large heath of dead rock where little vegetation grows. The heath was one of the sites where a great Ragnarok occurred, and some remnants of that battle are still around. Her "job" is scavenging among the rock looking for anything she can use or sell.
THE RAGGED LANDS
“You can’t chop at it like that. You might break it.”
Becca took the shovel from Pat’s hand and gently began to dig at the shale, scraping it away from the glinting metal.
“See? Like this. We want it as intact as we find it if we ever hope to sell it.”
Pat smiled at her and took the shovel back, performing the same actions she did. He had been applying too much pressure before. Now he wasn’t applying enough. Becca smiled back at him and grabbed her own shovel. Gently, but with more force than her brother, she began to clear away the packed shale around the crest.
“What is it, Becca?” asked Pat.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think it’s a helmet.”
The crest looked like a gryphon, and it was attached to something larger. It was too small to be a standard, so a helmet it must be. Or a rondel, but she doubted a rondel would take so much work to get it loose.
Becca’s back and neck were slick with sweat, but Pat’s fair skin hardly seemed to notice the oppressive heat. There was very little sun. Nothing in this land but the grey cast of clouds, as long back as anyone could remember. But somehow, the heat of the sun could always break through.
“A helmet,” said Pat. He paused in his scraping and a look of wonder shone on his face. “Maybe it belonged to Ronan!”
“I doubt it,” said Becca. “Ronan didn’t die here.”
“Ronan’s still alive,” said Pat. The poor thing. He smiled at her again; that sweet, angelic smile that had no malice, no ill will. “But he might have dropped a helmet here.”
Becca shook her head. She had forgotten for a moment that Pat held fast to the ending of the tale of Ronan; that he might some day return. She kept scraping, and decided it was time to change the subject.
“If we can get a fair price for this,” she said. “We might be able to get some mushrooms from Till’s market.”
“Mushrooms!” Pat shouted. He lost himself and began to dig faster, hacking again at the stone and threatening to shatter whatever lay beneath it.
“Pat, stop!” said Becca. She regretted the angry tone that crept into her voice. Pat needed to feel useful. He was here supposedly because he was much stronger than Becca and could reach the salvage items quicker. He was stronger than she, and quite a few others, but his unfocused strength was quickly becoming more liability than aid.
“Hey, I have an idea,” she said. Pat brightened. “Why don’t you go get the wagon? This looks like it’s armor, and could be heavy. I may need you to lift it out of the ground, but I’ll definitely need you to put it in the wagon.”
“Okay!” said Pat. He bounded away, dropping his shovel. Becca smiled at his retreating form and set to work clearing more of the shale away. It would take him only a few minutes to retrieve the wagon. In the meantime, she had to get the metal piece mostly clear.
It didn’t take her long, once Pat was gone and she was able to clear away the stone without having to stop and correct him every few minutes. Becca had cleared away a good chunk of the dead rock well before her brother arrived again, pulling the wagon behind him.
“It is a helmet,” he said. He crouched and stared as Becca gingerly took the nose guard in one hand, and the gryphon crest in the other and worked them back and forth, further loosening the dead earth around it. Pat gazed transfixed until it was free.
“A whole helmet!” he exclaimed. “We’re rich!”
“Calm down,” said Becca. “It’s not whole, Pat. Look. It’s missing a cheek guard, and the gryphon’s eyes used to be stones. See?” She pointed at the hollows of the gryphon’s eyes. “They probably had rubies in them. Ronan’s armies liked red.”
Pat’s face fell a bit. “Oh,” he said. “I bet only Ronan was rich enough to have real rubies in his helmet.”
“No,” said Becca. She held up the helmet to what little light there was and pulled her knife from her belt sack. As she cleaned the black dirt from the grooves and ridges in the lobstered neck guard, she patiently explained the old story again to her brother. “Rubies were more common back then,” she said. “Still pretty valuable, but richer soldiers could still afford to put them on their armor. Knights definitely could.”
“This was a knight’s helmet?” asked Pat.
“Could have been,” she said. She kept cleaning at the mud. “Not like it really matters, now.”
“If he had a helmet on,” said Pat. “How’d he die? Doesn’t a helmet protect you?”
Becca sighed. Trying to explain it in terms Pat would understand was like trying to gather water with a fish net. You might get results, but not the ones you were looking for.
“Helmets only protect the head,” she said. “And even then, there are things that can break a helmet.”
“Like what?”
“Like a sword, swung really hard,” she said. “Or an axe.” Her teeth were starting to grind together.
“If a sword can break a helmet, what good was it to wear one?” He had started asking questions, and wouldn’t stop until she could satisfy every last one.
“Well,” she said. “Let me ask you something. Do your hands get sore when you carry firewood in from the yard?”
“Sometimes,” said Pat.
“Right, even though you wear Da’s old gloves.”
“When I don’t wear the gloves I sometimes get splinters.”
“So, there you go,” said Becca.
Pat was silent for all of a minute.
“But what’s that got to do with helmets?”
“Just put this in the wagon and let’s go,” she said. With another sigh, she handed the helmet to Pat, who didn’t notice that Becca had been holding it aloft unaided and obviously could have put it into the wagon herself.
She glanced at today’s haul. One helmet, what looked like it might have been the quillion of a sword, but could also have been part of an ox-bow; it was too rusted and incomplete to tell, some iron crossbow bolts and the axel of an old wheelbarrow. She would be lucky to get them five copper shillings for the other items put together. The helmet was the richest part of it.
“I’ll ask a silver mark for it,” she said.
“Think there’s a spirit in there?” asked Pat.
“If there is, they better speak up soon,” said Becca.
“Otherwise, it’s going to market.”
The light was dimming, but the two of them kept on, Pat pulling the wagon and Becca clunking her shovel in the rocky ground every few steps, listening for the tell-tale hollow thunk noise that indicated there was more than shale packed beneath it. She kept one ear open for other noises, for rumblings in the ground other than those the wagon’s wheels made. There weren’t any, at least for now.
Becca took the shovel from Pat’s hand and gently began to dig at the shale, scraping it away from the glinting metal.
“See? Like this. We want it as intact as we find it if we ever hope to sell it.”
Pat smiled at her and took the shovel back, performing the same actions she did. He had been applying too much pressure before. Now he wasn’t applying enough. Becca smiled back at him and grabbed her own shovel. Gently, but with more force than her brother, she began to clear away the packed shale around the crest.
“What is it, Becca?” asked Pat.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think it’s a helmet.”
The crest looked like a gryphon, and it was attached to something larger. It was too small to be a standard, so a helmet it must be. Or a rondel, but she doubted a rondel would take so much work to get it loose.
Becca’s back and neck were slick with sweat, but Pat’s fair skin hardly seemed to notice the oppressive heat. There was very little sun. Nothing in this land but the grey cast of clouds, as long back as anyone could remember. But somehow, the heat of the sun could always break through.
“A helmet,” said Pat. He paused in his scraping and a look of wonder shone on his face. “Maybe it belonged to Ronan!”
“I doubt it,” said Becca. “Ronan didn’t die here.”
“Ronan’s still alive,” said Pat. The poor thing. He smiled at her again; that sweet, angelic smile that had no malice, no ill will. “But he might have dropped a helmet here.”
Becca shook her head. She had forgotten for a moment that Pat held fast to the ending of the tale of Ronan; that he might some day return. She kept scraping, and decided it was time to change the subject.
“If we can get a fair price for this,” she said. “We might be able to get some mushrooms from Till’s market.”
“Mushrooms!” Pat shouted. He lost himself and began to dig faster, hacking again at the stone and threatening to shatter whatever lay beneath it.
“Pat, stop!” said Becca. She regretted the angry tone that crept into her voice. Pat needed to feel useful. He was here supposedly because he was much stronger than Becca and could reach the salvage items quicker. He was stronger than she, and quite a few others, but his unfocused strength was quickly becoming more liability than aid.
“Hey, I have an idea,” she said. Pat brightened. “Why don’t you go get the wagon? This looks like it’s armor, and could be heavy. I may need you to lift it out of the ground, but I’ll definitely need you to put it in the wagon.”
“Okay!” said Pat. He bounded away, dropping his shovel. Becca smiled at his retreating form and set to work clearing more of the shale away. It would take him only a few minutes to retrieve the wagon. In the meantime, she had to get the metal piece mostly clear.
It didn’t take her long, once Pat was gone and she was able to clear away the stone without having to stop and correct him every few minutes. Becca had cleared away a good chunk of the dead rock well before her brother arrived again, pulling the wagon behind him.
“It is a helmet,” he said. He crouched and stared as Becca gingerly took the nose guard in one hand, and the gryphon crest in the other and worked them back and forth, further loosening the dead earth around it. Pat gazed transfixed until it was free.
“A whole helmet!” he exclaimed. “We’re rich!”
“Calm down,” said Becca. “It’s not whole, Pat. Look. It’s missing a cheek guard, and the gryphon’s eyes used to be stones. See?” She pointed at the hollows of the gryphon’s eyes. “They probably had rubies in them. Ronan’s armies liked red.”
Pat’s face fell a bit. “Oh,” he said. “I bet only Ronan was rich enough to have real rubies in his helmet.”
“No,” said Becca. She held up the helmet to what little light there was and pulled her knife from her belt sack. As she cleaned the black dirt from the grooves and ridges in the lobstered neck guard, she patiently explained the old story again to her brother. “Rubies were more common back then,” she said. “Still pretty valuable, but richer soldiers could still afford to put them on their armor. Knights definitely could.”
“This was a knight’s helmet?” asked Pat.
“Could have been,” she said. She kept cleaning at the mud. “Not like it really matters, now.”
“If he had a helmet on,” said Pat. “How’d he die? Doesn’t a helmet protect you?”
Becca sighed. Trying to explain it in terms Pat would understand was like trying to gather water with a fish net. You might get results, but not the ones you were looking for.
“Helmets only protect the head,” she said. “And even then, there are things that can break a helmet.”
“Like what?”
“Like a sword, swung really hard,” she said. “Or an axe.” Her teeth were starting to grind together.
“If a sword can break a helmet, what good was it to wear one?” He had started asking questions, and wouldn’t stop until she could satisfy every last one.
“Well,” she said. “Let me ask you something. Do your hands get sore when you carry firewood in from the yard?”
“Sometimes,” said Pat.
“Right, even though you wear Da’s old gloves.”
“When I don’t wear the gloves I sometimes get splinters.”
“So, there you go,” said Becca.
Pat was silent for all of a minute.
“But what’s that got to do with helmets?”
“Just put this in the wagon and let’s go,” she said. With another sigh, she handed the helmet to Pat, who didn’t notice that Becca had been holding it aloft unaided and obviously could have put it into the wagon herself.
She glanced at today’s haul. One helmet, what looked like it might have been the quillion of a sword, but could also have been part of an ox-bow; it was too rusted and incomplete to tell, some iron crossbow bolts and the axel of an old wheelbarrow. She would be lucky to get them five copper shillings for the other items put together. The helmet was the richest part of it.
“I’ll ask a silver mark for it,” she said.
“Think there’s a spirit in there?” asked Pat.
“If there is, they better speak up soon,” said Becca.
“Otherwise, it’s going to market.”
The light was dimming, but the two of them kept on, Pat pulling the wagon and Becca clunking her shovel in the rocky ground every few steps, listening for the tell-tale hollow thunk noise that indicated there was more than shale packed beneath it. She kept one ear open for other noises, for rumblings in the ground other than those the wagon’s wheels made. There weren’t any, at least for now.
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