literature

Two Paths 1: the Test

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She dips her hands into the cool water, and draws it from the basin to her face. Above, the alabaster statue of Cydre the Weeping Mother looks down upon her. She searches the sculpted eyes for a sign of approval, of direction. She finds only sadness and strength there, the dual nature of the Church that she serves. That they all serve.

The dream had come again, during the night. Always the claws, tearing her skin. Always the tongues, unwelcome, exploring. Always the voices, growls, laughter without mirth or mercy. The cool water eases her trembling somewhat, although no one is there to witness it, save the carved likeness of Cydre, and her own reflection in the rippling water.

The dream is not hers alone, nor unique to her sleepless nights. She knows that the voices and the claws and tongues are reaching from a world of nightmare, against which all mortals struggle. It was beaten back once, this dread, yet it claws still at the threshold between the worlds of men and of darkness. They have all felt it, each of her sister novices. They know it will never fade.

On any other morning, the chapel would be filled with novices like her, as a shepherd-priest reverently recites the powerful words of the Encyclicals, calling them to the day’s training and work. This morning, she is alone. It is meant to be so, for she must endure the day’s test alone, the final trial before she may take the Vows of her order. Vigilance, Purity and Obedience.

It must be so, for she must prepare one day to face the dread alone, if need be. Each one of her order must ready herself to be the last to die in the name of Cydre, of God, of humanity. It must be so, no matter the cost.

And the cost would be great.

---

Ashka is the child's name. This dawn marks three winters from day she was taken, fresh from the womb of a woodcutter’s wife, in prison for witchcraft.  Three winters from the day Ashka was put into the hands of the novice Elene.

During the night, Elene discovered a mark on the ball of Ashka’s left foot, an unmistakable sign of what would come, should the child be permitted to live.

Elene walks with heavy steps from the gates of the Bastion, stopping to attend Sister Ormes, who stands like an obelisk in her dark robes, motionless in the newfallen snow. Sister Ormes regards the novice without expression, and inclines her head down, toward the river, where Ashka gathers snow in tiny fingers with small squeals of delight.

Elene, scarce more than eighteen winters behind her, approaches the tiny girl with light steps, as if to avoid breaking the winter morning’s silence.

Ashka looks up from her snow with a beaming smile. On any other morning, the kind woman with the quiet steps would enfold Ashka with a wrap against the cold, and perhaps give her fresh bread to eat while gently chiding her for being lightly clad in such weather. Such it has been for as long as Ashka knows. Her friend, the novice Elene, a name she can barely say.

This time, Elene holds neither wrap nor bread. Her pale fingers clasp tightly together as the young woman prays, and looks not at Ashka with her familiar, soft brown eyes, but at the snow before her steps.

Elene says nothing to Ashka as she takes the child from her feet. No hood may cover the child; the novice must do this with open eyes and bare fingers.  She barely feels the icy grip of the river as her laden hands plunge into the water. She bites off tears as she soundlessly mouths the Rites, her arms shaking against the weak struggles of their burden, a last breath muffled and broken under the frigid current.

It is done in seconds. The weight is heavier, now, as Elene draws a tiny, pale body from the water, and instinctively wraps it in her robes. She kneels on the riverbank, half praying, half weeping over the child she had practically raised from infancy. She does not hear the footsteps, but feels Sister Ormes’ powerful hand on her trembling shoulder.

“See,” the old Sister says in her rumbling brogue, crooking a finger downstream, “the Widows, they hide themselves.”

Elene raises red, crying eyes to the white flowers that line the river, gently closing their blooms, one by one, as if mourning the passage of the child’s spirit. They are called Weeping Widows, these blooms, said to be blessed by the tears of the Little Mother herself.

That the Widows hide their faces now is proof that a tainted life was taken in the waters of the river, if one believes the Encyclicals. Ashka would have been overtaken by evil on her thirteenth birthday, becoming a tool of devils, wielding unknowable, dark powers. What was done today was unavoidable, if one believed.

Elene believed, and had passed her test. There, on the banks of the river, flanked by closed blooms, Sister Elene Hajnalka, of the Order of Saint Inanka the Martyr, cries into her hands.

--

It is early evening when Elene is summoned. Curled on the chapel floor, her knees to her chest, her eyes are red from tears, and her head pounds. She is alone here, save for Cydre’s statue and the candles lit in prayer for Ashka’s soul.

She does not look up when the door opens, nor when Sister Ormes’ deep brogue fills the chapel. “Sister Elene,” she says. It is the first time Elene hears the title. She has looked forward to hearing it her entire life. Now, it rings hollow in her ears. “Sister Elene, rise and come with me.”

Rise. The simple command seems impossible to Elene in her anguish and guilt. She cannot tear her mind’s eye from the tiny face of Ashka beneath the frigid water, from her last breath bubbling to the rushing surface.

Prioress Ormes is patient, and eventually, Elene does rise, rubbing a hand over bloodshot eyes. Ormes says nothing more, but only turns and strides down the lamplit, spare corridors of the Bastion, as Elene dutifully follows.

The journey takes the nuns down winding stairways, and through doors which the Prioress unlocks with a heavy, iron key. Elene has never seen this part of the Priory before, and the damp, cold air in the featureless stone halls does not welcome her to visit again.

For the third time, Ormes opens a heavy door with her key, which then vanishes beneath her plain robes. She waves Elene in before her, then closes the door with a deep echo.

The chamber is circular, a chapel, but far less ornate than the others. There is a small shrine to Cydre in the far side, several candles flicker from sconces set into the plain stone walls, which merge into the ceiling to form a dome. In the center of the chamber, a small altar.  Something is there, on the altar, but covered by a white cloth. It is small, the size of a child.

Elene looks questioningly at the Prioress, but the elder nun’s face gives no answers. Ormes only nods at the covered altar.

The young nun approaches the altar slowly, and reaches toward the cloth, only to pull her hand away into a fist. Again, she looks at the Prioress with a plea in her eyes. Ormes is unwavering. “You must do this, Sister Elene. You must remember Ashka for what she truly was.” Then, her voice grows quieter, but no less resolute. “You must let her go.”

It is a long space of breaths before Elene finally takes up the cloth in her hand. She pulls it back with her eyes closed, cursing herself silently for her cowardice. Then, with a prayer, her eyes open.

It is not the little girl for whom she baked bread. It is not the little girl whose laugh she loved so dearly. It is not the little girl whom she wrapped in warm blankets on winter nights.

Ashka’s laugh could not have come from that mouth, that maw, grinning even in death. No blanket would have warmed that skin. Could it be called skin?

It is a nightmare that lies before Elene upon the altar. A beast. A thing. Elene’s eyes squeeze closed with new tears, and she is about to turn away when Ormes speaks again.

“The left foot. You must look, Sister Elene.”

Elene slowly opens her eyes, wipes away the tears again before taking up the tiny, clawed left foot, the flesh clammy and wrinkled beneath her fingers.

She turns the bottom of the foot upward, toward the light. There is the Mark. The same that Elene had seen just a few hours ago, before she met Ashka by the river. Before the memory of Ashka died forever.

“Is it there?” Ormes asks. She knows the answer, but the question is not for the Prioress’ benefit.

Elene nods. She cannot take her eyes from the Mark.

“It is Ashka, then?” Ormes is unrelenting.

More tears fall. Elene nods again. But Ormes presses her.

“Say it, Sister Elene.”

The young nun turns slowly, raises her tear-streaked face to her superior. “Yes, Mother Ormes. This child is Ashka. She was drorenkind.”

The Prioress nods.  “And now?”

Elene wants to look away, but is held by Ormes’ unblinking gaze. “And, now she is with the Mother,” Elene replies.

Ormes nods again, and opens the door, motioning to Elene to leave before her.  “When you think of Ashka from this day forward,” she says, “Think of her in the Mother’s arms. Pray for her. Always remember that you have given her peace. For that…” she inclines her head toward the thing resting upon the altar, “…is only a prison.”

The door closes behind them, echoing against the lonely stone of the catacombs.
This piece is a first glimpse into the lives of an order of nuns tasked with defending their Church against the incursions of evil in a fantasy world of my own creation.

I know this is harsh for a first episode. I'd like to do some more to set things up so that the reasons Elene does what she does are clearer, as well as frame Elene's anguish more poignantly. I don't want to apologize for her, though, or turn her into an angsty Mary Sue type.

Anyway, I'm particularly interested in comments on this. If you're interested, there is also a prologue, as well.

EDIT: Based on comments from :iconezgadi: and :iconfalingore:, I added to the beginning of this part in an effort to provide context for Elene's deeds, without taking away from a level of moral ambiguity that I'm trying to maintain. I'd love to hear how successful or not the efforts are.

EDIT: I added a new part to the end of this chapter, to clarify Ashka's true nature. I tried to do this while still leaving something to the imagination. Comments are welcome.

EDIT 1-27-08: Fixed some clunky lines and word choices. Thanks so much to :iconkadarian: and :iconshadowmaev: for your help!

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© 2007 - 2024 Memnalar
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LiliWrites's avatar
:star::star::star-half::star-empty::star-empty: Overall
:star::star::star-half::star-empty::star-empty: Vision
:star::star::star-half::star-empty::star-empty: Originality
:star::star::star-half::star-empty::star-empty: Technique
:star::star::star-half::star-empty::star-empty: Impact

Hi! <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt=":)" title=":) (Smile)"/>

You know all about how critique works, but let me just remind you that these are merely suggestions. Use or disregard them as you see fit. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/h/h…" width="15" height="13" alt=":heart:" title="Heart"/>

<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/> Initial Impressions <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/>

I read the prologue before I read the first chapter, so I knew that Elene at some point becomes a full fledged warrior. This episode is an excellent introduction to the growth of that character, I think. You managed to give us some innocence in her anguish over the death of Ashka, but also maturity in her nearly unflinching execution. That creates a very complex character that I want to keep reading about because I can imagine her in some role in the real world.

Quite honestly, I don't feel like the prologue is necessary with an opening chapter as strong as this. But I haven't read further, yet, so that's just an initial impression.

I got confused with the switching of the titles from 'Sister Ormes' to 'Prioress Ormes'...I'm honestly not very familiar with how titles work in a religious order, but am I to understand that since Elene moved from novice to 'Sister' that Ormes moved up as well? If not, I think some clarification around the title change is in order.

Your description of the creature Ashka became is specific enough to give us an idea and vague enough to keep us wondering. What I most wonder is how long the transformation from child to creature took, since Elene pulled a child's body from the river. (Wonderful moment with the blooms closing there, btw.) I also wonder what that transformation would look like on a child's thirteenth birthday. Pleeeeeeease tell me we'll get to see that in later chapters. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="15" height="15" alt=":D" title=":D (Big Grin)"/>

<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/> Line by Line <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/>

The number one thing that jumped out at me was article use and repetitive description. It was not enough to hinder the story, just slow down the reading. So, I'm going to go through line by line and make editing suggestions. It seems easiest and most efficient. I'll try to give an explanation for the edit wherever necessary.

She dips her hands into the cool water, and draws it from the basin to her face. Above, the alabaster statue of Cydre the Weeping Mother looks down upon her. She searches the sculpted eyes for a sign of approval, of direction. (Good foreshadowing!) She finds only sadness and strength there, the dual nature of the Church that she serves. That they all serve.

The dream had come (came - cut out 'had' wherever possible) again, during the night. Always the claws, tearing her skin. Always the tongues, unwelcome, exploring. Always the voices, growls, (Consider a dash instead of a comma here.) laughter without mirth or mercy. The cool water (that's the second time you've described the water as cool. Once is enough.) eases her trembling somewhat, although no one is there to witness it, save the carved likeness of Cydre, and her own reflection in the rippling water (ripples - 'water' gets repetitive).

The dream is not hers alone, nor unique to her sleepless nights. She knows that the voices and the claws and tongues are reaching from a world of nightmare, against which all mortals struggle. It was beaten back once, this dread, yet it claws still at the threshold between the worlds of men and of darkness. They have all felt it, each of her sister novices. They know it will never fade.

On any other morning, the chapel would be filled with novices like her, as a shepherd-priest reverently recites the powerful words of the Encyclicals, calling them to the day’s training and work. This morning, she is alone. It is meant to be so, for she must endure the day’s test alone, the final trial before she may take the Vows of her order. Vigilance, Purity and Obedience.

It must be so, for she must prepare one day to face the dread alone, if need be. Each one of her order must ready herself to be the last to die in the name of Cydre, of God, of humanity. It must be so, no matter the cost.

And the cost would (will? I think that's proper present tense use of the verb) be great.

---

Ashka is the child's name. This dawn marks three winters from day she was taken, fresh from the womb of a woodcutter’s wife, in prison (imprisoned - make prepositional phrases verbs wherever you can) for witchcraft. Three winters from the day Ashka was put into the hands of the novice Elene.

During the night, Elene discovered a mark on the ball of Ashka’s left foot, an unmistakable sign of what would come, should the child be permitted to live.

Elene walks with heavy steps from the gates of the Bastion, stopping to attend Sister Ormes, who stands like an obelisk in her dark robes, motionless in the newfallen snow. Sister Ormes regards the novice without expression, and inclines her head down, toward the river, where Ashka gathers snow in tiny fingers with small squeals of delight.

Elene, scarce more than eighteen winters behind her, approaches the tiny girl with light steps, as if to avoid breaking the winter morning’s silence.

Ashka looks up from her snow with a beaming smile. On any other morning, the kind woman with the quiet steps would enfold Ashka with a wrap against the cold, and perhaps give her fresh bread to eat while gently chiding her for being lightly clad in such weather. Such it has been for as long as Ashka knows. Her friend, the novice Elene, a name she can barely say.

This time, Elene holds neither wrap nor bread. Her pale fingers clasp tightly together as the young woman prays, and looks not at Ashka with her familiar, soft brown eyes, but at the snow before her steps.

Elene says nothing to Ashka as she takes the child from her feet. No hood may cover the child; the novice must do this with open eyes and bare fingers. She barely feels the icy grip of the river as her laden hands plunge into the water. She bites off tears as she (and - avoids the double use of 'as') soundlessly mouths the Rites, her arms shaking against the weak struggles of their burden, a last breath muffled and broken under the frigid current.

It is done in seconds. The weight is heavier, now, as Elene draws a tiny, pale body from the water, and instinctively wraps it in her robes. (Really good sensory details) She kneels on the riverbank, half praying, half weeping over the child she had practically (you said earlier she had been given the child, so there's no practically about it) raised from infancy. She does not hear the footsteps, but feels Sister Ormes’ powerful hand on her trembling shoulder.

“See,” the old Sister says in her rumbling brogue, crooking a finger downstream, “the Widows, they hide themselves.”

Elene raises red, crying eyes to the white flowers that line the river, gently closing their blooms, one by one, as if mourning the passage of the child’s spirit. (Lots of commas in that sentence. Consider breaking it up or else using some other punctuation.) They are called Weeping Widows, these blooms, said to be blessed by the tears of the Little Mother herself.

That the Widows hide their faces now is proof that a tainted life was taken in the waters of the river, if one believes the Encyclicals. Ashka would have been overtaken by evil on her thirteenth birthday, becoming a tool of devils, wielding unknowable, dark powers. What was done today was unavoidable, if one believed.

Elene believed, and had passed (believes, and has passed) her test. There, on the banks of the river, flanked by closed blooms, Sister Elene Hajnalka, of the Order of Saint Inanka the Martyr, cries into her hands.

--

It is early evening when Elene is summoned. Curled on the chapel floor, her knees to her chest, her eyes are red from tears, and her head pounds. She is alone here, save for Cydre’s statue and the candles lit in prayer for Ashka’s soul.

She does not look up when the door opens, nor when Sister Ormes’ deep brogue fills the chapel. “Sister Elene,” she says. It is the first time Elene hears the title. She has looked forward to hearing it her entire life. Now, it rings hollow in her ears. “Sister Elene, rise and come with me.”

Rise. The simple command seems impossible to Elene in her anguish and guilt (That makes the sentence a tell instead of show statement). She cannot tear her mind’s eye from the tiny face of Ashka beneath the frigid water, from her last breath bubbling to the rushing surface.

Prioress Ormes is patient, and eventually, Elene does rise, rubbing a hand over bloodshot eyes. Ormes says nothing more, but only turns and strides down the lamplit, spare corridors of the Bastion, as (I'd split this in two sentences to bring a little more variety to your structure.) Elene dutifully follows.

The journey takes the nuns down winding stairways (Passive statement here. The journey is not taking the nuns, the nuns are taking a journey. Here's an excellent chance to describe how they're walking, if their footsteps are shuffling or echoing, etc.), and through doors which the Prioress unlocks with a heavy, iron key. Elene has never seen this part of the Priory before, and the damp, cold air in the featureless stone halls does not welcome her to visit again. (Nice personification!)

For the third time, Ormes opens a heavy door with her key, which then vanishes beneath her plain robes. She waves Elene in before her, then closes the door with a deep echo. (That prepositional phrase reads awkwardly for me. Maybe something more like: "She waves Elene in before her. The closing door produces a deep echo." It isn't necessary to tell us who is closing the door, but giving it an action helps define the detail you're going for, I think.)

The chamber is circular, a chapel, but far less ornate than the others. There is a small shrine to Cydre in the far side, several candles flicker from sconces set into the plain stone walls, which merge into the ceiling to form a dome. In the center of the chamber, a small altar. Something is there, on the altar, but covered by a white cloth. It is small, the size of a child.

Elene looks questioningly at the Prioress, but the elder nun’s face gives no answers. Ormes only nods at the covered altar.

The young nun approaches the altar slowly, and reaches toward the cloth, only to pull her hand away into a fist. Again, she looks at the Prioress with a plea in her eyes. Ormes is unwavering. “You must do this, Sister Elene. You must remember Ashka for what she truly was.” Then (Then is a time indicator. We know her next words are said after the first words, so it really isn't necessary to use 'then' in this case.) her voice grows quieter, but no less resolute. “You must let her go.”

It is a long space of breaths before Elene finally takes up the cloth in her hand. She pulls it back with her eyes closed, cursing herself silently for her cowardice. Then, with a prayer, her eyes open.

It is not the little girl for whom she baked bread. It is not the little girl whose laugh she loved so dearly. It is not the little girl whom she wrapped in warm blankets on winter nights.

Ashka’s laugh could not have come from that mouth, that maw, grinning even in death. No blanket would have warmed that skin. Could it be called skin? (Good injection of horror/revulsion with that question.)

It is a nightmare that (A [or perhaps 'The', referring to her earlier dreams?] nightmare) lies before Elene upon the altar. A beast. A thing. Elene’s eyes squeeze closed with new tears, and she is about to turn away when Ormes speaks again.

“The left foot. You must look, Sister Elene.”

Elene slowly opens her eyes, wipes away the tears again before taking up the tiny, clawed left foot, the flesh clammy and wrinkled beneath her fingers.

She turns the bottom of the foot upward, toward the light. There is the Mark. The same that Elene had seen just a few hours ago, before she met Ashka by the river. Before the memory of Ashka died forever.

“Is it there?” Ormes asks. She knows the answer, but the question is not for the Prioress’ benefit.

Elene nods. She cannot take her eyes from the Mark.

“It is Ashka, then?” Ormes is unrelenting.

More tears fall. Elene nods again. But Ormes presses her.

“Say it, Sister Elene.”

The young nun turns slowly, raises her tear-streaked face to her superior. “Yes, Mother (Another title?) Ormes. This child is Ashka. She was drorenkind.”

The Prioress nods. “And now?”

Elene wants to look away, but is held by Ormes’ unblinking gaze. “And, now she is with the Mother,” Elene replies.

Ormes nods again, and opens the door, motioning to Elene to leave before her. “When you think of Ashka from this day forward,” she says, “Think of her in the Mother’s arms. Pray for her. Always remember that you have given her peace. For that…” she inclines her head toward the thing resting upon the altar, “…is only a prison.”

The door closes behind them, echoing against the lonely stone of the catacombs. (Very strong ending.)

<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/> Wrap Up <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="10" height="10" alt=":bulletpurple:" title="Bullet; Purple"/>

<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/p/p…" width="11" height="10" alt=":pointr:" title="Point Right"/> Work on varying your sentence structure. Lots of comma usage where you could employ a dash, semi-colon, or even split the sentence into two separate ones. Keep in mind that sentence variety is extremely important to the pace of your story. Make sure you mix it up from time to time.
<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/p/p…" width="11" height="10" alt=":pointr:" title="Point Right"/> Keep an eye on those prepositional phrases. They often mean you've turned a perfectly good show statement into a tell statement. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/w/w…" width="15" height="15" alt=";)" title=";) (Wink)"/>
<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/p/p…" width="11" height="10" alt=":pointr:" title="Point Right"/> Pick a title for Ormes and stick with it. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/let…" width="15" height="15" alt=":P" title=":P (Lick)"/> I'm seriously confused about that.

Otherwise, this is some solid writing! Love the characterization, the narration, and the mood you've given me. Onto the next chapter!

<img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/h/h…" width="15" height="13" alt=":heart:" title="Heart"/> Lili

P.S. Ignore the stars. I've taken to disregarding them when I leave critique.