short story
Jan. 3rd, 2010 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
woolymonkeyI've just completed and sent off my short story assignment for the creative writing course. Thought I'd post it here for my own reference and anyone else who's interested. Not sure yet if I'll be revealing the mark when I get it. (Got a 2.1 for the preliminary assignment.)
Feedback, comments, chat--it's all welcome. (You may find one of the characters seems familiar...)
A big thank you to the multi-talented![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tamaranth who can beta read and monkeysit at the same time.
TMA 02
This TMA accounts for 30% of your continuous assessment mark for the course.
When you have completed the TMA, please send it to your tutor to arrive no later
than 4 January 2010.
Remember to put a word count at the bottom of each part of your TMA.
There are two parts to TMA 02:
1 Write a complete story of 2,200 words in length.
You may freely choose your own narrative strategies: the point(s) of view, number of characters, setting, structure and so on. You may also choose your own subject matter or select from the following prompts:
a closed door;
walking in the rain;
it's your turn...;
a wager;
all in one day.
2 Write a commentary (500 words) about the process of creating your fiction. Describe your aims, the reasons behind your major choices (for example, of the time span of your story or the narrator’s voice), any difficulties you encountered and the solutions you came up with.
Both parts of the TMA are required: 80% of the marks are allocated to the fiction(s) and 20% to your reflective commentary.
Guidance notes
Fiction
Your story must be complete, so think carefully about its structure in order to demonstrate that you can create a finished, satisfying narrative within the given word limit. Pay particular attention to your beginning and ending, the rise and fall of dramatic action or tension, and to the balance of showing and telling throughout. Choose the point of view carefully, keeping in mind that alternating points of view can be difficult to accommodate in a short story.
Katherine Mansfield's story "The Black Cap" (Reading 24, pp.496--501) is discussed in Chapter 9 of the Workbook as an experiment in dispensing with "telling" altogether. As such, it resembles a play script. You are advised not to model your TMA assignment on this story, as its almost exclusive focus on dialogue would give you no opportunity to demonstrate the range of your skills.
Remember to make considered choices about all of the components of your narrative. For example, make sure that your main characters have enough complexity -- contradictions, strengths, weaknesses and desires. Here are some basic questions to ask yourself:
Does your main character change or achieve some important insight in the course of the story?
Does your setting work in conjunction with the character(s) and plot?
18
From whose point of view is your story told? Could you tell it better from another point of view?
Does your story begin and end at the right moment?
Does your dialogue sound natural?
Have you got the right balance of showing and telling? In general, the most important actions and moments should be shown in scenes.
Refer to the relevant chapters to review specific advice where necessary. There is also a revision checklist in Week 13 of the Study Guide.
When you have drafted your fiction, read it aloud to yourself to test for clarity. Unnatural-sounding dialogue, unwieldy sentences, or "gaps" in the story can become obvious in this way. Try to factor in some waiting time before you complete your final draft.
Please ignore references on pages 24, 27, 37 and 39 of the Study Guide to the option of writing an opening chapter or chapters of a novel. These relate to earlier presentations and no longer apply.
Writing for children
Writing for children is not a taught genre on this course, so you are strongly advised to avoid this unless you are able to achieve the kind of "crossover" writing that may also appeal to adults. "Crossover" stories are ones that avoid a clear demarcation as children's literature. There are many classic examples, including Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, The Lord of the Rings, Oliver Twist, The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mockingbird. Contemporary examples include the works of Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling: their popularity with readers of all ages has led to a resurgence of interest in the "crossover". Meg Rosoff's novel for young adults, How I Live Now, won the Guardian Children's Fiction Prize in 2004 and was acclaimed as the best crossover novel since Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which has a 15 year-old narrator with Asperger's syndrome. Crossovers include fantasy and realism. They often tackle big issues. They create a young protagonist with whom both adults and young readers can identify. It is difficult to achieve writing with appeal to all ages, so you should attempt this genre only if you are a well-read fan. If you are contemplating this kind of fiction, seek the advice of your tutor.
Commentary
Listening to how fiction writers talk about their work on CD1 will help you to devise your own commentaries.
19
Remember to focus on revealing the creative process involved in your work rather than on an evaluation of the finished product. Quote from your writing and your reading, where relevant, in order to support your statements.
Part 1: Story
Illumination
It wasn’t that Fulk minded nuns. They were no prettier or uglier than other women, albeit less fetchingly dressed, and more frequently educated. Thus, there was a fair chance they’d laugh at his jokes and appreciate the cleverness that was his best—some might say only—quality. No, nuns weren’t the problem. The problem was being stuck shadowing Bishop Stephen on his visits to them.
He understood why Bishop Anselm was fed up. There did seem to have been a number of incidents lately involving wine, dice, and the relocation of other people’s property—most recently a side of bacon confused with the corpse of a peasant hidden in a dunghill—but there’d been a reasonable explanation for most of that: an explanation, moreover, that had cleared Fulk of any involvement in turning said peasant into a corpse, for all that he’d undeniably added to the subsequent confusion.
‘Aren’t you getting a little old for student japes?’ Anselm had asked, choosing to ignore the fact that Fulk was more a teacher these days than a student—witness his steady mistress (though Fulk devoutly hoped Anselm didn’t witness Perrotte), and his drinking with lechers and thieves in a town tavern rather than hanging around the rue de la Huchette singing drunken love songs.
‘Clergy who work in the world require knowledge of its ways,’ Fulk had replied in Latin, knowing Anselm would pick up on in saeculo as a reminder that Fulk was secular clergy with no intention of submitting to church or monastic rule any time this millennium. A minimal tonsure, poverty and chastity were as much as he could manage. Well, the tonsure just needed scraping every week or two, and poverty was distressingly easy; chastity was the tricky bit…
‘Fulk,’ Anselm’s voice broke into his daydream just as it might have been getting unchaste. ‘Do you recall the design of Bishop Stephen’s crosier?’
‘Yes, master. It is in the form of a serpent devouring a dove.’
‘And why is that?’
Because Stephen was a rapacious old bugger, and Conrad the ivorist was a know-it-all who’d reckoned (rightly) that he’d get away with it. This probably wasn’t the answer Anselm wanted.
‘It symbolises Our Lord’s instruction that we who serve him should be as innocent as doves and as wily as serpents, master.’
It was always hard to know if Anselm was pleased or merely tolerant, but he’d nodded.
‘A model answer, Fulk. The serpent in you is well nourished. However, your dove is looking a little peaky. In hopes of restoring it, you will assist Stephen whenever he ministers to our sisters of Saint Cecilia. You will let nothing distract you from his presence while he is in the convent. I shall expect a full report in due course—from each of you.’
Fulk had spent the long, muddy walk to the convent trying to work it out. Maybe Anselm thought to frighten him with visions of what his life might become if he didn’t restrain his impulses? That would be just the way the old fox’s mind worked. Fat chance: Fulk’s hypocrisy couldn’t hold a candle to Stephen’s.
Though Fulk could hold a candle while Stephen slurred his way through morning Mass in the nuns’ chapel. Apart from mangling the Latin—once leaving out a whole page—the bishop behaved himself under the watchful eye of Abbess Claire. Afterwards, however, he made free with the wine (consecrated and unconsecrated) and with the young nun attempting to remove and fold his chasuble.
All Fulk had to do was roll his eyes and get in the bishop’s way, and Sister Grace was soon treating him like a co-conspirator, all dimples and winks. Luckily, Anselm had never said he had to leave the convent when Stephen did.
‘Is the bishop always so, um… porcine?’ he asked her as they blew out the last of the candles.
‘When you’re not here, he’s worse. The abbess wanted him dismissed, but apparently that’s too much to ask for. He’s Count Hugh’s uncle, you see. I’m just glad they finally sent someone to keep him in check.’
‘Oh,’ said Fulk, blankly. ‘Um. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I mean, I’m glad they sent me too, but I thought it was the other way around. Me being kept in check, that is. I have some unsuitable character traits—quite a collection, in fact. Very rarely put my hands where they’re not wanted, though.’ Not unless you counted purses and shop counters, which, Fulk felt certain, were an entirely separate topic.
‘So you’re either a saint or a liar.’ She was dimpling again, so Fulk pushed his luck.
‘Either way, you still like me better than Bishop Stephen, eh?’
The dimple vanished. ‘That man’s an abomination. The Lord has cursed him.’
Fulk grinned. ‘You mean the carbuncle—carbuncles. And the twitch.’
‘No more than he deserves.’ She put the last of Stephen’s vestments into a chest, slamming down the lid and twisting the key savagely. ‘I meant the fish babies.’
What? A minute ago, Fulk had thought they were flirting.
‘You didn’t know? Then I’m not allowed to tell you.’
‘Oh. Fine. Thanks for not mentioning it.’
Grace was frowning. ‘But if you somehow found out…’
Fulk wasn’t sure he wanted to.
‘Perhaps if you were kind enough to help me with the chronicle... I make a lot of the entries, you see. Just in French—I don’t write Latin. A scholar like you could give me some pointers. And you might learn something yourself.’
The scriptorium was quiet, of course. An elderly nun dozed in an alcove and another bent over her work by a tall window. Grace led Fulk to a heavy book resting on a desk at the back.
‘This is from three weeks ago and not my work,’ she told him, heaving it open at a page in an acceptable, basic hand. ‘But you should look quickly to, um… give you a point of reference.’
One delicate finger directed him to an entry half way down.
On the eve of Saint Agnes, a babe brought to us for baptism, close to death and tightly wrapped in linen.
Fulk blinked. Was Grace making him squirm as a punishment for flirting with her? It didn’t seem fair, not after all that dimpling and winking.
‘Now this,’ said Grace, turning back half a dozen pages, ‘is mine. Look carefully.’
November. On the night following All Hallows, red lights in the sky. Ferri’s sows broke out of their sty and ran wild in the street.
Grace had used the upstroke and diagonal of the initial N to form a snug lean-to that sheltered a contented peasant warming his feet by the hearth, his curly hair brushing against the fat sausages and hams that hung from his sloping roof. A mouse gazed hungrily at the pork, concealed from the peasant’s view by his own discarded boots, and unaware that it was itself greedily watched by the skinny cat creeping up behind it.
‘Nice work,’ said Fulk sincerely. ‘I see they caught Ferri’s pigs, then.’
‘Thank you. Yes, apparently our prayers were helpful, so we got a generous share. Very tasty. But I was hoping for your thoughts on the next bit.’
Fulk had been trying to avoid that.
A babe with the tail of a fish found in the chapel porch as the sisters were going to Vigils.
‘Um,’ he said, now definitely wishing he’d left with Bishop Stephen, ‘I’m guessing the one on St Agnes’ Eve was tightly swaddled for more than the usual reasons?’
‘The first one lived ten days. She was bonny—big wide eyes watching everything. She’d clutch onto your finger so hard...’ Grace looked down and blinked, rubbing her smallest finger. Fulk noticed she’d filled a small writing-free corner of vellum with a trio of mermaids, frolicking and holding up their combs. ‘Then she sickened and died. I used to walk around the cloister with her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fulk, wondering... No. Even in fustian, Grace’s waist was much too slender to have borne a child that winter. She’d merely cared for it, and become fond.
‘The mothers live in the village?’
‘Keep reading.’
Something about Count Hugh donating a gold chalice…
Two days before the feast of Saint Catherine, our sister Blanche died falling from the bell tower whither she had gone secretly to pray in an excess of penitential zeal.
Excess of zeal, led astray by the Evil One, driven mad by grief… Phrases to hint at what couldn’t be openly set down.
‘She jumped.’
Grace nodded.
‘The fish baby.’
He glanced round. The elderly nun slept on; the other one was hunched over her work, with her back firmly turned.
‘Yes.’
Grief? Guilt? Madness? He didn’t think anyone would really know.
‘What about the second one—the mother, I mean?’
‘Recovering. I shan’t tell you who. It’s not her fault, is it, or Blanche’s, or the babies’?’
Fulk felt a chill like a winter draught, though the scriptorium was warm and sunny. Abomination. God had punished Stephen by making his children monsters.
He thought of Perrotte, and his own little daughter, crawling and babbling merrily when he’d left them that morning, Perrotte’s belly showing the curve of another. Then, he’d thought the worst he had to fear was Anselm finding out and sending him away. He’d never considered the possibility of intervention by someone—Someone—more powerful, less kind. If Anselm ever sent Fulk away, he’d see to it that Perrotte and the children didn’t starve.
‘So the children get tails, the mothers go mad with grief, and the man who caused it all gets a couple of boils on his well-fed ecclesiastical…’
‘Bollocks.’ Grace said ‘bollocks’ the way other people said ‘surplice’.
‘The word I had in mind was “nose”, but, yes, you’re right. It’s all bollocks.’
Fulk wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped was bollocks, but, if everything was bollocks, then this, whatever it was, must be bollocks too. Years of logic lectures hadn’t gone to waste.
‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’
That was the nun who’d been hunched over the writing desk: only she wasn’t a nun, she was the bloody abbess. Now Fulk was sure he’d been set up.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think Anselm knew about Perrotte and the child—children—but…’
The abbess’ eyebrows shot up.
‘Stop,’ she ordered. ‘Anselm knows more than is good for him, but all he said about you was that you were the man to outfox Stephen.’
‘Oh.’
‘Something about one thief to catch another—entirely figurative, I assume.’
‘Almost entirely.’
So this wasn’t about punishing Fulk. It was wonderful how that unaccustomed weight of guilt was already slipping off his shoulders. It had settled there just long enough to teach him he didn’t care for it.
‘Divine justice can seem harsh, Fulk. Something tells me you don’t like that.”
Fulk didn’t like it at all, but nor did he like walking into traps.
‘The Lord punishes where he must,’ he said, eyes humbly downcast. Helping the nuns get revenge on Stephen wouldn’t bring Blanche back to life, or give the fish babies legs. It wasn’t worth the risk of bringing trouble on himself and Perrotte. ‘But it is permissible to feel compassion for those on whom His Hand falls hardest.’
‘But not anger when He misses His target?’ muttered Grace.
‘Never at Him,’ replied the abbess smoothly. ‘Personally, I believe that when His punishments seem disproportionate, or move us to pity, this is His sign to us that we should seek to bring justice into the world ourselves. On His behalf, of course.’
Fulk liked the way this woman thought, but he’d never been keen on the notion of punishment, partly because he tended to be on the receiving end. When the sin in question was breaking vows of chastity and begetting children out of wedlock, he was on especially shaky ground.
‘But why,’ he asked, finally voicing the thing that scared him most, “why curse Stephen’s children? If every cleric’s baby was born a monster, there’d be… well, a lot more monsters. Wouldn’t there?’
‘Allegory.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To sin is human. Those clerics who beget children through weakness or affection, who care for the children and their mothers, those clerics…’ She shot Fulk a knowing look. ‘…are human in their failings, and thus their children are human. Bishop Stephen is a different kind. Cold, unfeeling, greedy. He swims through life, encased in scale armour, gulping at whatever takes his fancy, showing care or compassion to none… Do I need to continue?’
‘No, thank you, mother.’ Fulk fought down a wave of relief. He’d been right all along: he wasn’t like Stephen. ‘Stephen’s a fish. We can’t hook him ourselves—he’s protected by Count Hugh. But a big, greedy, grabby pike like Stephen… well, he doesn’t really belong in a castle fishpond, does he? With a nudge or two in the right direction, he could soon be making more trouble than he’s worth there. Next thing you know, Hugh’ll be telling his seneschal he wants pike for Friday supper.’
(2,192 words)
Part 2: Commentary
The first decision I made was to set the story in the Middle Ages. I used to study this period and found myself using it for several coursework exercises. I wanted to avoid the cliché of medieval characters who are simply the same as their social role or job.
The setting immediately led to tension between accuracy, explanation, and wanting modern readers to relate easily to the characters. I opted for third person and past tense because I thought it helped to manage those tensions.
Originally, the convent, the fish babies, and the chronicle were part of a longer story without Fulk; Abbess Claire was the point of view character. This wasn’t satisfying because she knew everything from the start, so I brought Fulk in to figure things out with the reader. I’m pleased with this in terms of suspense and character interaction, but it’s cost me some plot development, partly because of the word limit, but mostly because of the change of focus. Bringing Fulk in made it a story about his discoveries and feelings.
The thing I’m least happy with is the ending, but it was the best I could manage without moving too far from Fulk’s personal development. I could have ended with more about why the fish babies were born, or Stephen’s his come-uppance, but I thought forcing it all in would just be confusing, and would unbalance the story.
With a lot to explain, I had to take things fast, so I tried to tell the straightforward stuff, but use showing for more complex things (Grace’s feelings about the baby, Fulk and Anselm) where showing could convey different aspects more concisely than telling.
I thought about starting at a later point—Fulk watching Stephen at the convent. This would have the advantage of getting straight to the main setting, and I also liked the idea of doing something fancier, just to show I can. But, in the end, it seemed unnecessarily confusing to jump around in such a short piece that already has a lot of ‘oh, so that’s what happened’. Instead, I went for a chronology that follows events, not in the order they happen, but in the order in which Fulk gets to hear of them.
However, I started with a paragraph that puts Fulk in the convent, and establishes that he doesn’t want to be there. I hope this catches people’s interest enough to give more point to the recalled conversation and explanation of how he’s got himself here, which also does most of the establishment of his character before the fish babies set him thinking in new ways.
Fulk himself comes out of two things: the exercise about writing a character with conflicting aspects, and the crozier with a snake swallowing a dove. This is a real object. I’ve always thought the standard explanation of the symbolism was a bit too simple, so I played around with having characters talk about it, and with the tension between what each of them thinks, and what he’s prepared to say.
(507 words)
Feedback, comments, chat--it's all welcome. (You may find one of the characters seems familiar...)
A big thank you to the multi-talented
tamaranth who can beta read and monkeysit at the same time.TMA 02
This TMA accounts for 30% of your continuous assessment mark for the course.
When you have completed the TMA, please send it to your tutor to arrive no later
than 4 January 2010.
Remember to put a word count at the bottom of each part of your TMA.
There are two parts to TMA 02:
1 Write a complete story of 2,200 words in length.
You may freely choose your own narrative strategies: the point(s) of view, number of characters, setting, structure and so on. You may also choose your own subject matter or select from the following prompts:
a closed door;
walking in the rain;
it's your turn...;
a wager;
all in one day.
2 Write a commentary (500 words) about the process of creating your fiction. Describe your aims, the reasons behind your major choices (for example, of the time span of your story or the narrator’s voice), any difficulties you encountered and the solutions you came up with.
Both parts of the TMA are required: 80% of the marks are allocated to the fiction(s) and 20% to your reflective commentary.
Guidance notes
Fiction
Your story must be complete, so think carefully about its structure in order to demonstrate that you can create a finished, satisfying narrative within the given word limit. Pay particular attention to your beginning and ending, the rise and fall of dramatic action or tension, and to the balance of showing and telling throughout. Choose the point of view carefully, keeping in mind that alternating points of view can be difficult to accommodate in a short story.
Katherine Mansfield's story "The Black Cap" (Reading 24, pp.496--501) is discussed in Chapter 9 of the Workbook as an experiment in dispensing with "telling" altogether. As such, it resembles a play script. You are advised not to model your TMA assignment on this story, as its almost exclusive focus on dialogue would give you no opportunity to demonstrate the range of your skills.
Remember to make considered choices about all of the components of your narrative. For example, make sure that your main characters have enough complexity -- contradictions, strengths, weaknesses and desires. Here are some basic questions to ask yourself:
Does your main character change or achieve some important insight in the course of the story?
Does your setting work in conjunction with the character(s) and plot?
18
From whose point of view is your story told? Could you tell it better from another point of view?
Does your story begin and end at the right moment?
Does your dialogue sound natural?
Have you got the right balance of showing and telling? In general, the most important actions and moments should be shown in scenes.
Refer to the relevant chapters to review specific advice where necessary. There is also a revision checklist in Week 13 of the Study Guide.
When you have drafted your fiction, read it aloud to yourself to test for clarity. Unnatural-sounding dialogue, unwieldy sentences, or "gaps" in the story can become obvious in this way. Try to factor in some waiting time before you complete your final draft.
Please ignore references on pages 24, 27, 37 and 39 of the Study Guide to the option of writing an opening chapter or chapters of a novel. These relate to earlier presentations and no longer apply.
Writing for children
Writing for children is not a taught genre on this course, so you are strongly advised to avoid this unless you are able to achieve the kind of "crossover" writing that may also appeal to adults. "Crossover" stories are ones that avoid a clear demarcation as children's literature. There are many classic examples, including Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, The Lord of the Rings, Oliver Twist, The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mockingbird. Contemporary examples include the works of Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling: their popularity with readers of all ages has led to a resurgence of interest in the "crossover". Meg Rosoff's novel for young adults, How I Live Now, won the Guardian Children's Fiction Prize in 2004 and was acclaimed as the best crossover novel since Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which has a 15 year-old narrator with Asperger's syndrome. Crossovers include fantasy and realism. They often tackle big issues. They create a young protagonist with whom both adults and young readers can identify. It is difficult to achieve writing with appeal to all ages, so you should attempt this genre only if you are a well-read fan. If you are contemplating this kind of fiction, seek the advice of your tutor.
Commentary
Listening to how fiction writers talk about their work on CD1 will help you to devise your own commentaries.
19
Remember to focus on revealing the creative process involved in your work rather than on an evaluation of the finished product. Quote from your writing and your reading, where relevant, in order to support your statements.
Part 1: Story
Illumination
It wasn’t that Fulk minded nuns. They were no prettier or uglier than other women, albeit less fetchingly dressed, and more frequently educated. Thus, there was a fair chance they’d laugh at his jokes and appreciate the cleverness that was his best—some might say only—quality. No, nuns weren’t the problem. The problem was being stuck shadowing Bishop Stephen on his visits to them.
He understood why Bishop Anselm was fed up. There did seem to have been a number of incidents lately involving wine, dice, and the relocation of other people’s property—most recently a side of bacon confused with the corpse of a peasant hidden in a dunghill—but there’d been a reasonable explanation for most of that: an explanation, moreover, that had cleared Fulk of any involvement in turning said peasant into a corpse, for all that he’d undeniably added to the subsequent confusion.
‘Aren’t you getting a little old for student japes?’ Anselm had asked, choosing to ignore the fact that Fulk was more a teacher these days than a student—witness his steady mistress (though Fulk devoutly hoped Anselm didn’t witness Perrotte), and his drinking with lechers and thieves in a town tavern rather than hanging around the rue de la Huchette singing drunken love songs.
‘Clergy who work in the world require knowledge of its ways,’ Fulk had replied in Latin, knowing Anselm would pick up on in saeculo as a reminder that Fulk was secular clergy with no intention of submitting to church or monastic rule any time this millennium. A minimal tonsure, poverty and chastity were as much as he could manage. Well, the tonsure just needed scraping every week or two, and poverty was distressingly easy; chastity was the tricky bit…
‘Fulk,’ Anselm’s voice broke into his daydream just as it might have been getting unchaste. ‘Do you recall the design of Bishop Stephen’s crosier?’
‘Yes, master. It is in the form of a serpent devouring a dove.’
‘And why is that?’
Because Stephen was a rapacious old bugger, and Conrad the ivorist was a know-it-all who’d reckoned (rightly) that he’d get away with it. This probably wasn’t the answer Anselm wanted.
‘It symbolises Our Lord’s instruction that we who serve him should be as innocent as doves and as wily as serpents, master.’
It was always hard to know if Anselm was pleased or merely tolerant, but he’d nodded.
‘A model answer, Fulk. The serpent in you is well nourished. However, your dove is looking a little peaky. In hopes of restoring it, you will assist Stephen whenever he ministers to our sisters of Saint Cecilia. You will let nothing distract you from his presence while he is in the convent. I shall expect a full report in due course—from each of you.’
Fulk had spent the long, muddy walk to the convent trying to work it out. Maybe Anselm thought to frighten him with visions of what his life might become if he didn’t restrain his impulses? That would be just the way the old fox’s mind worked. Fat chance: Fulk’s hypocrisy couldn’t hold a candle to Stephen’s.
Though Fulk could hold a candle while Stephen slurred his way through morning Mass in the nuns’ chapel. Apart from mangling the Latin—once leaving out a whole page—the bishop behaved himself under the watchful eye of Abbess Claire. Afterwards, however, he made free with the wine (consecrated and unconsecrated) and with the young nun attempting to remove and fold his chasuble.
All Fulk had to do was roll his eyes and get in the bishop’s way, and Sister Grace was soon treating him like a co-conspirator, all dimples and winks. Luckily, Anselm had never said he had to leave the convent when Stephen did.
‘Is the bishop always so, um… porcine?’ he asked her as they blew out the last of the candles.
‘When you’re not here, he’s worse. The abbess wanted him dismissed, but apparently that’s too much to ask for. He’s Count Hugh’s uncle, you see. I’m just glad they finally sent someone to keep him in check.’
‘Oh,’ said Fulk, blankly. ‘Um. I hadn’t thought of it that way. I mean, I’m glad they sent me too, but I thought it was the other way around. Me being kept in check, that is. I have some unsuitable character traits—quite a collection, in fact. Very rarely put my hands where they’re not wanted, though.’ Not unless you counted purses and shop counters, which, Fulk felt certain, were an entirely separate topic.
‘So you’re either a saint or a liar.’ She was dimpling again, so Fulk pushed his luck.
‘Either way, you still like me better than Bishop Stephen, eh?’
The dimple vanished. ‘That man’s an abomination. The Lord has cursed him.’
Fulk grinned. ‘You mean the carbuncle—carbuncles. And the twitch.’
‘No more than he deserves.’ She put the last of Stephen’s vestments into a chest, slamming down the lid and twisting the key savagely. ‘I meant the fish babies.’
What? A minute ago, Fulk had thought they were flirting.
‘You didn’t know? Then I’m not allowed to tell you.’
‘Oh. Fine. Thanks for not mentioning it.’
Grace was frowning. ‘But if you somehow found out…’
Fulk wasn’t sure he wanted to.
‘Perhaps if you were kind enough to help me with the chronicle... I make a lot of the entries, you see. Just in French—I don’t write Latin. A scholar like you could give me some pointers. And you might learn something yourself.’
The scriptorium was quiet, of course. An elderly nun dozed in an alcove and another bent over her work by a tall window. Grace led Fulk to a heavy book resting on a desk at the back.
‘This is from three weeks ago and not my work,’ she told him, heaving it open at a page in an acceptable, basic hand. ‘But you should look quickly to, um… give you a point of reference.’
One delicate finger directed him to an entry half way down.
On the eve of Saint Agnes, a babe brought to us for baptism, close to death and tightly wrapped in linen.
Fulk blinked. Was Grace making him squirm as a punishment for flirting with her? It didn’t seem fair, not after all that dimpling and winking.
‘Now this,’ said Grace, turning back half a dozen pages, ‘is mine. Look carefully.’
November. On the night following All Hallows, red lights in the sky. Ferri’s sows broke out of their sty and ran wild in the street.
Grace had used the upstroke and diagonal of the initial N to form a snug lean-to that sheltered a contented peasant warming his feet by the hearth, his curly hair brushing against the fat sausages and hams that hung from his sloping roof. A mouse gazed hungrily at the pork, concealed from the peasant’s view by his own discarded boots, and unaware that it was itself greedily watched by the skinny cat creeping up behind it.
‘Nice work,’ said Fulk sincerely. ‘I see they caught Ferri’s pigs, then.’
‘Thank you. Yes, apparently our prayers were helpful, so we got a generous share. Very tasty. But I was hoping for your thoughts on the next bit.’
Fulk had been trying to avoid that.
A babe with the tail of a fish found in the chapel porch as the sisters were going to Vigils.
‘Um,’ he said, now definitely wishing he’d left with Bishop Stephen, ‘I’m guessing the one on St Agnes’ Eve was tightly swaddled for more than the usual reasons?’
‘The first one lived ten days. She was bonny—big wide eyes watching everything. She’d clutch onto your finger so hard...’ Grace looked down and blinked, rubbing her smallest finger. Fulk noticed she’d filled a small writing-free corner of vellum with a trio of mermaids, frolicking and holding up their combs. ‘Then she sickened and died. I used to walk around the cloister with her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fulk, wondering... No. Even in fustian, Grace’s waist was much too slender to have borne a child that winter. She’d merely cared for it, and become fond.
‘The mothers live in the village?’
‘Keep reading.’
Something about Count Hugh donating a gold chalice…
Two days before the feast of Saint Catherine, our sister Blanche died falling from the bell tower whither she had gone secretly to pray in an excess of penitential zeal.
Excess of zeal, led astray by the Evil One, driven mad by grief… Phrases to hint at what couldn’t be openly set down.
‘She jumped.’
Grace nodded.
‘The fish baby.’
He glanced round. The elderly nun slept on; the other one was hunched over her work, with her back firmly turned.
‘Yes.’
Grief? Guilt? Madness? He didn’t think anyone would really know.
‘What about the second one—the mother, I mean?’
‘Recovering. I shan’t tell you who. It’s not her fault, is it, or Blanche’s, or the babies’?’
Fulk felt a chill like a winter draught, though the scriptorium was warm and sunny. Abomination. God had punished Stephen by making his children monsters.
He thought of Perrotte, and his own little daughter, crawling and babbling merrily when he’d left them that morning, Perrotte’s belly showing the curve of another. Then, he’d thought the worst he had to fear was Anselm finding out and sending him away. He’d never considered the possibility of intervention by someone—Someone—more powerful, less kind. If Anselm ever sent Fulk away, he’d see to it that Perrotte and the children didn’t starve.
‘So the children get tails, the mothers go mad with grief, and the man who caused it all gets a couple of boils on his well-fed ecclesiastical…’
‘Bollocks.’ Grace said ‘bollocks’ the way other people said ‘surplice’.
‘The word I had in mind was “nose”, but, yes, you’re right. It’s all bollocks.’
Fulk wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped was bollocks, but, if everything was bollocks, then this, whatever it was, must be bollocks too. Years of logic lectures hadn’t gone to waste.
‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’
That was the nun who’d been hunched over the writing desk: only she wasn’t a nun, she was the bloody abbess. Now Fulk was sure he’d been set up.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think Anselm knew about Perrotte and the child—children—but…’
The abbess’ eyebrows shot up.
‘Stop,’ she ordered. ‘Anselm knows more than is good for him, but all he said about you was that you were the man to outfox Stephen.’
‘Oh.’
‘Something about one thief to catch another—entirely figurative, I assume.’
‘Almost entirely.’
So this wasn’t about punishing Fulk. It was wonderful how that unaccustomed weight of guilt was already slipping off his shoulders. It had settled there just long enough to teach him he didn’t care for it.
‘Divine justice can seem harsh, Fulk. Something tells me you don’t like that.”
Fulk didn’t like it at all, but nor did he like walking into traps.
‘The Lord punishes where he must,’ he said, eyes humbly downcast. Helping the nuns get revenge on Stephen wouldn’t bring Blanche back to life, or give the fish babies legs. It wasn’t worth the risk of bringing trouble on himself and Perrotte. ‘But it is permissible to feel compassion for those on whom His Hand falls hardest.’
‘But not anger when He misses His target?’ muttered Grace.
‘Never at Him,’ replied the abbess smoothly. ‘Personally, I believe that when His punishments seem disproportionate, or move us to pity, this is His sign to us that we should seek to bring justice into the world ourselves. On His behalf, of course.’
Fulk liked the way this woman thought, but he’d never been keen on the notion of punishment, partly because he tended to be on the receiving end. When the sin in question was breaking vows of chastity and begetting children out of wedlock, he was on especially shaky ground.
‘But why,’ he asked, finally voicing the thing that scared him most, “why curse Stephen’s children? If every cleric’s baby was born a monster, there’d be… well, a lot more monsters. Wouldn’t there?’
‘Allegory.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To sin is human. Those clerics who beget children through weakness or affection, who care for the children and their mothers, those clerics…’ She shot Fulk a knowing look. ‘…are human in their failings, and thus their children are human. Bishop Stephen is a different kind. Cold, unfeeling, greedy. He swims through life, encased in scale armour, gulping at whatever takes his fancy, showing care or compassion to none… Do I need to continue?’
‘No, thank you, mother.’ Fulk fought down a wave of relief. He’d been right all along: he wasn’t like Stephen. ‘Stephen’s a fish. We can’t hook him ourselves—he’s protected by Count Hugh. But a big, greedy, grabby pike like Stephen… well, he doesn’t really belong in a castle fishpond, does he? With a nudge or two in the right direction, he could soon be making more trouble than he’s worth there. Next thing you know, Hugh’ll be telling his seneschal he wants pike for Friday supper.’
(2,192 words)
Part 2: Commentary
The first decision I made was to set the story in the Middle Ages. I used to study this period and found myself using it for several coursework exercises. I wanted to avoid the cliché of medieval characters who are simply the same as their social role or job.
The setting immediately led to tension between accuracy, explanation, and wanting modern readers to relate easily to the characters. I opted for third person and past tense because I thought it helped to manage those tensions.
Originally, the convent, the fish babies, and the chronicle were part of a longer story without Fulk; Abbess Claire was the point of view character. This wasn’t satisfying because she knew everything from the start, so I brought Fulk in to figure things out with the reader. I’m pleased with this in terms of suspense and character interaction, but it’s cost me some plot development, partly because of the word limit, but mostly because of the change of focus. Bringing Fulk in made it a story about his discoveries and feelings.
The thing I’m least happy with is the ending, but it was the best I could manage without moving too far from Fulk’s personal development. I could have ended with more about why the fish babies were born, or Stephen’s his come-uppance, but I thought forcing it all in would just be confusing, and would unbalance the story.
With a lot to explain, I had to take things fast, so I tried to tell the straightforward stuff, but use showing for more complex things (Grace’s feelings about the baby, Fulk and Anselm) where showing could convey different aspects more concisely than telling.
I thought about starting at a later point—Fulk watching Stephen at the convent. This would have the advantage of getting straight to the main setting, and I also liked the idea of doing something fancier, just to show I can. But, in the end, it seemed unnecessarily confusing to jump around in such a short piece that already has a lot of ‘oh, so that’s what happened’. Instead, I went for a chronology that follows events, not in the order they happen, but in the order in which Fulk gets to hear of them.
However, I started with a paragraph that puts Fulk in the convent, and establishes that he doesn’t want to be there. I hope this catches people’s interest enough to give more point to the recalled conversation and explanation of how he’s got himself here, which also does most of the establishment of his character before the fish babies set him thinking in new ways.
Fulk himself comes out of two things: the exercise about writing a character with conflicting aspects, and the crozier with a snake swallowing a dove. This is a real object. I’ve always thought the standard explanation of the symbolism was a bit too simple, so I played around with having characters talk about it, and with the tension between what each of them thinks, and what he’s prepared to say.
(507 words)
