Fallen

In the freezing month of the winter wraith, a light is seen over the town of Minceville. A brother and a sister find a stranger on their doorstep and decide to shelter her from the storm.

Part 1

Sleet, carried by the polar winds, traveled horizontally through the town of Minceville. The single street in the village - a strip of ice-glazed gravel - was empty. The only sound save the howling wind was the high-velocity ice, pattering against the wooden walls of the small cottages. A duo of pole-mounted lanterns shed a trembling light over the snow-coated roofs.

“Do you think she’ll wake up?” said Timothy from his place near the fire.

He dabbed a wet cloth on the forehead of the sleeping woman. They had found her on their doorstep. She had been bleeding from her eyes and back, and the hypothermia had claimed her consciousness. 

“We should put her back outside,” Ophelia said and drew a cross on the steamed up window. “Frankly, she deserves it for getting caught in the storm without sensible clothing. One should know better.”

“She’s not from around here,” Tim said. “Maybe she didn’t know how the weather is this time of the year?”

“Well, clearly! Nobody from here is this pretty.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s about. You’ve been sulking ever since we brought her in.”

Ophelia erased the cross from the glass with a sweep of her palm. “You’re going to get hurt, little brother. Father always said not to trust outsiders.”

Timothy couldn’t help but snort. He ignored his sister and touched the rosy cheek of the woman. She was burning up. She’d be lucky if she lived through the night, he thought. He hadn’t considered her looks, but he supposed his sister was right, there was something otherworldly about the symmetry of her face. The golden locks and high cheekbones made her look like the angels in the paintings of the old chapel.

A heavy knock came on the door, and Ophelia flinched and then craned her neck to get a view of the porch. She gave her brother a wide-eyed look, before walking over to open it.

“Reverend, come on in!” she fussed. “Whatever brings you out in this weather?

The cold quickly crept in along with the big man in a bearskin coat, before Ophelia was able to shut the door again. She shuddered and wrapped her blanket tighter around her plump frame.

 “We saw a bright light outside your cabin,” the reverend said and let his long gray hair fall out of his hat as he brushed the snow off it. “Thought I’d come over to see if you were all right.”

“Huh,” Ophelia said. “We’re fine, thank you.”

“But, who might this be?” the reverend said, his eyes reflecting in the light of the fireplace.

“We found her at our doorstep,” Timothy said. “The cold got to her.”

The reverend sat down and ran a big hand through his unkempt beard, ogling the sleeping woman. He mumbled something and shook his head. 

“Pardon?” Timothy said.

“No, I was just thinking,” the reverend answered. “This is a bad omen.”

“What do you mean, Reverend?” Ophelia said.

“The trees in our cemetery are dying, and now this. It’s bad, very bad.”

Another shiver went through the body of the sleeping woman. Timothy had patched up the wounds on her back. Their father had been the doctor of the town, and he had taught Tim a thing or two about treating illnesses and injuries. This was the first time he’d had to use stitches, though, and he was unsure if he’d done a proper job. Carefully, he replaced the bandage over the woman’s eyes. Blood was still rolling down her cheeks like tears.

“She can’t stay,” the reverend said suddenly.

“We can’t move her in this condition,” Tim said.

Ophelia gave him a pitying look. “We need to listen to the Reverend.”

“She can’t be moved. The stitches will rip - it will surely kill her.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” the reverend said. “This is a bad omen; think about the trees watching over our ancestors!”

“I don’t see at all how it is connected,” Timothy said and started dabbing again. “As the current physician of this town, it is my duty to look out for the well-being of my patients.”

“And as the Reverend, it is mine to look out for our people as a whole!” the reverend thundered.

“With all due respect, she’s not going anywhere like this, and that’s final.”

The already red cheeks of the reverend turned crimson. He turned on his heel and stomped into the freezing storm again, slamming the door on his way out. Ophelia gave Tim a concerned look. 

“Now you’ve done it,” she said and sat down by the window again, “you stubborn man.”

Timothy ignored her and kept tending to his patient. He was sure his father would never have allowed any of his patients to be thrown out and left to die in the cold. This had to be the right thing to do.

“It was, indeed,” whispered the blind woman and touched his arm. “I’m forever in your debt, young man.”

Tim threw a glance at his sister. She was still occupied with her childish drawings on the steamy window. He wasn’t sure he had said anything out loud, but it sometimes happened that he spoke without realizing it. Perhaps he had done it again.

“How do you feel?” Tim whispered back. “Here, have some water.”

He put the bottle to her lips and helped her drink. He was surprised that she was awake; an hour ago he had been sure she would be dead before the night was over. Now the fever seemed to have gone down, and she was lucid enough to talk.

“They’re coming,” she whispered.

“They’re coming,” echoed Ophelia. 

Timothy could see lights from at least a dozen torches outside the window. For the second time this night a hard knock came on the door. 

*****

Part 2

Going outside during the dark month of the winter wraith was not only considered foolish but also something that would bring you bad luck. The fact that the entire village had put their superstition aside to gather outside the house of Ophelia and Timothy Rethwood spoke volumes about the reverend’s sway in the small community.

“Lock the door,” Tim said without looking up.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“They’ll murder her.”

“So, what?” Ophelia said but locked the door nonetheless. “She’s an outsider.”

“Listen to yourself!” he said, clenching his fist so hard that the wet cloth started dripping.

“It’s fine - everything will be all right.” The blind woman’s voice was soft like a wisp of morning mist. “Your sister is just afraid. She doesn’t know me like you do.”

She was right, Timothy thought. The bond between a doctor and his patient was special, almost sacred. Nothing his sister or the townsfolk would understand. Another knock came on the door, and the reverend’s muffled voice could be heard. He demanded that they hand over the patient.

“What happened to you?” Tim said, ignoring the ruckus outside. “You’re not from these parts, are you? What’s your name?”

“I used to live in a place much like this town,” she said. “Only brighter and warmer - a place of blossoming daffodils, playful brooks, and birdsong. My name is Reficul, but most people call me Dawn.”

Ophelia had finally noticed that the blind woman was awake, and strode over from the window to the fireplace. Dawn was a lovely name, Timothy thought, very fitting.

“How do you know what this town is like?” Ophelia said, crossing her arms. “You’ve been here for less than a day, and you can’t even see.”

Timothy felt his patient’s fingers on his arm. She tried to sit up and her other hand reached for Ophelia, who instantly shied away. The look in his sister’s eyes was one of utter dread.

“Did father never teach you hospitality?” he said.

“He taught me not to trust liars,” she said promptly. “I’m opening the door.”

“She’s not a liar! The cold has her delirious,” he said. “She’s very sick.”

“Why did you leave your home to come here?” Ophelia pressed on. “There are no brooks or birds here, and the only thing growing are the Oaks in the cemetery.”

“May I hold your hand, Ophelia?” Dawn asked, reaching out in her general direction. “It’s so hard to talk to someone who I can’t see or feel.”

“You may not,” Ophelia said. “And I don’t know how you know my name.”

“Your brother told me.”

Timothy couldn’t remember mentioning his sister’s name, but he supposed that it must’ve slipped out at some point. He caught Dawn’s outstretched arm.

“Tell me what happened.”

“My father is an evil man,” Dawn said. “He took away my sight and threw me out. He robbed me of my freedom and made sure I’d fall without flight.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry,” Tim said. “We must help her, Ophelia.”

His sister shook her head but went over to the kitchen stove. Perhaps there was some sympathy inside her after all, Timothy thought. If only he could convince her to take his side against the reverend, he could nurse Dawn back to health.

“Open the door!” the villagers chanted outside. “Open the door!”

Dawn was special, that much Tim knew. Her silky skin and radiating hair were like nothing he had ever seen before. She was lean and taller than any woman he knew " and her voice, so soft and soothing. At that moment he swore on his soul that would help her to the best of his abilities.

Timothy Rethwood was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice his sister creep up on him. The old frying pan clipped him over the head. He was out cold. 

*****

Part 3

Two days ago...

Reverend Hucklegreene was shoveling the snow from the trail that connected the town of Minceville to its cemetery. For reasons unknown, the winter wraith had released its icy grip on the village for the day, and a couple of stray sunbeams even managed to slip between the slow-drifting leviathans in the sky.

  He wiped his leaking brow and leaned heavily on the shovel. Sun this time of the year could only mean one thing, he thought, evil was brewing.

At the head of a trail of footprints in the virgin snow, the reverend entered the grove. For generations, the veiny bark of the massive trunks had commemorated the past. Every tree, from the most ancient giant to the youngest sapling, represented a life returned to the Lord. A lonely raven squawked and took flight from a high branch.

“A bad omen,” he pointed out and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

The seven largest oaks in the middle of the cemetery encircled a well, from which all the trees drank in the warmer seasons. Hucklegreene ran his gloved hand over the clear ice. The surface was dotted with black grains that hadn’t been there the day before. As he watched, another dark piece tumbled into the well. The oldest trees were shedding their bark. 

*****

Now...

Icy winds whipped billows of snow off the roofs. The entire village had gathered in the blistering cold outside the Rethwood’s home.

“In the icy month of the winter wraith, the Gates of Heaven shall swing open and the Morning Star shall shatter the night. Hear the skies soar and turn red! Behold the trees blacken and wither! Shelter thy children, wife, and brother, for the Devil himself, shall walk the streets!” boomed the voice of Reverend Hucklegreene as he cited the holy book.

“Open the door!” shouted the villagers. “Open the door!”

When the door eventually opened, everyone in the crowd fell silent. Out stumbled Ophelia Rethwood wrapped in a blanket. She looked unusually pale, and her hair was bushy and tangled. She dropped a frying pan in the snow, took three steps, and then tumbled to the frozen ground. Two of her neighbors hurried to help her, and together they carried her into the house across the street.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” yelled the reverend. “Go in there and grab the outsider!”

The town’s blacksmith, along with two able young men entered the Rethwood Cottage. Minutes came and went. Apart from the howling of the wind, the silence reigned supreme. The villagers looked at each other anxiously. Even the bombastic reverend seemed to have lost some of his confidence. 

“What’s going on in there?” Hucklegreene took a step towards the cottage. “Hello?”

Every second of silence seemed to have a strangling effect on the crowd. Some were backing away. Others moved closer. A woman clad in a thick elk skin coat went all the way up to the porch steps before her neighbors grabbed her and pulled her back.

“Andreas, honey!” she cried. “Say something!”

“Nobody is allowed to go near,” the reverend announced. “Bring the firewood.”

“But my son is in there!” The woman struggled against the hands that held her.

“I’m sorry, Geraldine…” The reverend turned away and looked at the sun that was rising over the dark treetops, painting the gray clouds in a palette of blood red and deep crimson. “Evil has come to Minceville… Burn the house to the ground!”

The flames roared up, licking the wooden façade and nibbling at the roof - crackling and hissing where the sparks touched the snow. Soon a tower of swirling smoke connected the red sky to the orange bonfire. Wails of despair echoed over the frozen landscape. Many lives had been lost, the reverend thought, but it was all for the greater good of the town.

“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes,” he said. “Ashes to ashes…”

He lost his voice as he noticed a silhouette in the fire. With flames swirling around her legs the outsider stepped out into the street. Unharmed by the flames and unconcerned by deadly cold, she walked naked up to the trembling reverend. She towered over the big man, drops of blood rolling down her cheeks and shoulder blades. Her lips twisted into a chilling smile. She leaned closer.

“Murderer,” she whispered.

Reviews

[JayG]

• Sleet, carried by the polar winds, traveled horizontally through the town of Minceville.

Why begin with a weather report? The characters are inside, so at this point in the story, we should be meeting the characters, not looking out the window.

You’re telling the reader what they would see were this a film, because you’re thinking cinematically. But does knowing that it’s sleeting make me see the picture? No. I don’t know what century we’re in, or where we are, so the houses can’t appear in my visual picture.

You’re thinking in terms of Story—the visuals and events. Don’t. think of what your protagonist needs in the moment they call now. That’s what matters to them, and it’s their story, not your Story. So let them live, instead of you explaining what you see in your mind.You're someone one the reader can neither hear nor see, talking in an emotion-free voice. They're living the events. For them it's real. The best you can do is narrate a slide show, with the reader unable to see the slides.

• “Do you think she’ll wake up?” said Timothy from his place near the fire.

Think about this from a reader’s viewpoint. They just arrived. They don’t know what world they’re on, let alone the era and society. They don’t yet know if they’re inside or huddled around a fire in a trash barrel. And they don’t know if Tim is standing, sitting, or chained to the wall upside down. Might it not make sense to place your reader in time and space, introduce them to the people they can’t see, and let them know what’s going on. Doesn’t it make sense to place a woman with him BEFORE he wonders if she’ll wake up?

How about placing the one he’s talking to on the scene before he speaks? How about him using ophelia's name, so we know her from the opening credits.

You know who’s there. You know what’s going on. So do Tim and Ophelia. But the one you wrote this for, the one who wants to share the adventure, doesn’t. See the problem? For all I know Tim is ten years old. He might also be ninety. But it makes a big difference to the feel of the story, as does his relationship to Ophelia.

• He dabbed a wet cloth on the forehead of the sleeping woman. They had found her on their doorstep.

You’re placing effect before cause. First we learn that he uses the cloth, but not why. Then we find who out where they found her (but not why he needs to wet her forehead). First he wonders if she’ll wake, then we learn how she got there. How can it feel real if we hear about events backward? In life cause always precedes effect. Right?

In general, you write well. And though I have some quibbles, mostly related to showing instead of telling, the story flows well. The problem is that you’re telling your story from the outside in, as the dispassionate observer, reporting events. But that has several serious problems:

First, because the reader can neither see nor hear your performance, the narrator’s voice is dead. The only emotion in it is what the punctuation and the words, themselves suggests to the reader, based on their background. You can hear emotion as you read, because you know the characters and the situation before you read the first word. The reader can’t.

Next, because you are telling the story, you’re focused on the flow of events. That’s Story, with a deliberate capital S. You’re telling the plot, and doing it in overview, so it reads too much like a report, and dispassionate.

Worse than that, because you’re looking at it according to what your plot needs to have happen, the characters have no say in what they do. You want the wound he stitched to drip blood and so it does. But what doctor wouldn’t place a pressure bandage on it? Your doctor asks Ophelia if she thinks the woman will wake. But he’s the doctor.

Were you thinking with HIS mind, he wouldn't wonder iof she would wake. He would have observed her condition, checked her pulse, felt her cheek, and made a diagnosis, not conversation. And he'd tell you "No!" when you try to force him to do something not in his nature. He serves his own needs and desires, not yours.

And because you’re thinking cinematically, we don’t know what he’s thinking, what his reaction is to events, his analysis and his priorities. And if we don’t know that we don’t know him. So why would we care that he gets hit with a frying pan? We don’t know why she did it, because we never saw the expressions on her face and never knowledgeably reacted to her words and actions, we just learned that they happened. You needed her to hit him, so she did.

Remember, in your mind, you can see the expressions and body language of the actors. The reader can’t.

So let’s back up and tell the story in HIS viewpoint:
- - - - - -
We begin with Ophelia doing something mundane, and perhaps asking Tim if he thinks the sleet will let up before morning. He replies that this time of year that’s unlikely. So we've learned both the weather and the season.

Then, abruptly, she says, “What was that? Something just hit the ground outside the door.” Tim volunteers to check and she tells him to be careful. He takes some kind of protection and opens the door a crack and peers out. It’s dark and he sees nothing, so he gets a light source, checks again, and then opens the door, shouting, Ophelia, help me. Someone’s on the ground and it looks like they’re hurt.”
- - - - -
Approached that way we learn everything you told the reader, AS IT HAPPENS, not as a report from someone not on the scene or in the story. We learn the character’s reactions and the narrator doesn’t have to stop the action to explain things. And in his view, we’re telling the story from the inside out, in real-time, not overview.

Done that way, we're with him when he makes the diagnosis. We're with him when HE notices her beauty, and evaluates her injuries. And as he stitches the wound we learn of his skills. Perhaps he says, "I'm glad I paid attention when dad was teaching me to stitch a wound, though I hope the scar isn't too bad. It's a shame to scar such a pretty face. And with that we learn that he's been taught medical skills and that she's pretty. All without you having to step on stage and stop the action.

When Tim says, “Ophelia, help me. Someone’s on the ground…” the reader will have an emotional reaction, and wonder what he sees and how that person will effect the story’s progression. In other words, uncertainty has entered the story. And readers feed on uncertainty. Compare that to YOU saying, “They had found her on their doorstep.” All the reader can do is say, “Uh-huh," in response. It’s a fact, immutable and free of uncertainty.

I used a trick, of course. But every profession is full of tricks that aren’t obvious till they’re pointed out. And in our school days no one ever points out that the reports and essays we write are to make us proficient in the writing skills employers need: nonfiction, which is designed to inform. So we leave school with writing skills that are fact-based and author-centric, when fiction is designed to entertain, and needs skills that are emotion-based and character-centric.

Kind of a large whoops, but who’s to tell us? Our teachers learned to write in the same classrooms, and our fellow students have no more a clue than do we. So in reality, we leave high school exactly as well prepared to write a novel or a screenplay as to perform an appendectomy. And THAT’S what you need to address. If we want to write like a pro we need to know what the pro knows.

Simple, right? And it is. Unfortunately, it’s not all that easy, because it is an entirely different way of approaching the act of writing, and unrelated to either verbal storytelling or how a film is presented. And learning that takes time, study, and practice.

But that’s true of any profession, so it’s no big deal. And the good news is that the knowledge you need is available in the library’s fiction writing department, where you’ll find the views of writers, publishing pros, and successful writers.

Based on your current writing skills I’d suggest you go right to the best. Dwight Swain wrote, Techniques of the Selling Writer, about fifty years ago, so he talks about your typewriter not your keyboard. And like the men of his time he assumed that serious writers were men, and can seem a bit sexist. But…in the time since he wrote that book no one has done it better. He focuses on the basics, of what a story is, and how it works to draw us in. He explains what viewpoint is, and how to make it work for you. And I guarantee that from chapter two on, every few pages you will stop, shake your head, and wonder why you didn’t see it for yourself.

It’s a book to be read slowly, with plenty of time spent thinking about each point as it’s raised, and how it fits into your presentation. You need to spend time practicing each point, too, to be certain you don’t forget it exists it a week later. It’s also a book that you need to read a second time a few months later, after a bit of practice, because knowing where he’s headed on a given point you’ll learn as much the second time as the first.

For a kind of overview, most of the articles in my writing blog are based on Swain's teachings.

I know you weren’t hoping to hear something like this. But factor this in: I read damn few posts to the end. But I did read yours.

And apropos of nothing, I’ve not met a Lilwa before. I like the way it rolls from the tongue, and will probably use it in a story, if the situation permits. So thank you.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/