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Crit-Claw by Holmes

ANGLO

A Short Story

by Cary A. Conder

The mill wheel ground round, its sails taut with the fall breeze off the Zuider Zee. Hunkered down beside the small service door leading to the tiny outside balcony, John---he could not remember precisely when he had ceased to think of himself as Johann---listened intently to the sounds below. Shouted orders and curses were audible above the creaking of the wind wheel, and the grinding and groaning of cogs and millstone.

They had come for him just before dusk, possibly hoping to catch him while he was distracted with evening chores. His gift, that curious ability to sense danger, had warned him just in time. He had fled, abandoning his clogs along the way. By taking refuge in the windmill he had hoped they would not think to look for him here.

I should have known someone would see me duck in here.

It could as well have been one of the locals as one of his pursuers. There were those in the area so poor they would do anything to garner a few extra coins.

Trapped in the cramped loft, John considered his options. His father’s parting words returned to wound him. Don’t wait for me if they ever come for you. They won’t care that you’re just a boy. Take your inheritance and my papers and find a ship that will take you across the North Sea. There’s an address in those papers. Make contact with the people there.

Tall for fourteen years, lean and dark complexioned John could pass for a lowlander as readily as any native. His father however, was naturally fair, from the sea-faring nation that was this land’s enemy. Davyn Weylan had washed ashore during a storm sixteen years ago. Discovered by Lena van Nord as she was gathered whelks for food and dye, Davyn should have died from his cracked skull. Yet he had survived.

Anyone else would have turned Davyn in to the authorities and been well rewarded for it, but Lena risked everyone to hide him, and not just until he was well enough to leave. Lena and her family belonged to a small faction who saw their government’s policies as the reason for their poverty; the unannounced searches for those with special gifts and the heavy taxes weighed heavily on everyone, but especially on the merchants and the lower classes. Not only did she welcome Davyn back whenever he returned, she taught him her language until he spoke it like a native, and showed him how to dress and act so he blended with the merchant class.

“Find the little bastard!”

John flinched. Crates over-turned on the ground level. Wood crunched as slats were smashed in an effort to discover his hiding place. He rested a hand on the door latch. Soon the Marquis’ men would think to look for him in the attic. As a wind gust struck the windmill he opened the small door and slipped outside.

The evening sea breeze off the Zuider snatched at him as it slipped across the dike, ruffling the water. John crouched alongside the thigh-high railing. Through gaps in the floorboards he could see Captain Von Mikael standing just outside the mill entrance. Colourful oaths silently slipped across John’s lips. He quickly flung an apology at God and the saint whose name he had maligned.

“Haven’t you found the whelp yet?” The Captain’s wig ringlets danced, emphasizing his anger. Turning, Von Mikael bellowed for backup. “Pitar, leave the horses and get up here.”

Cloud cover was causing the daylight to fail far more quickly than John liked. This was his only avenue of escape. To attempt it at dusk was folly. In the dark it would be sheer madness.

Go now, John, the voice in his head insisted. For years he had feared the voices and fought to shut them out. Not this time. Unlike in the past it was faint, as though it was having difficulties speaking.

“Well, if he’s not down here, check the loft. He was seen entering the mill,” raged the Captain. Pitar arrived at that moment. “Pitar, help these idiots. I knew I should have brought his lordship’s wizard. I swear they couldn’t find a flea on my favourite hound unless I pointed it out to them!”

As Pitar passed the Captain, Von Mikael followed him into the mill. John seized the moment and slipped through the narrow opening onto the sail hub sheath. He settled on it, not trusting his stocking feet on the worn wood. Legs wrapped around it as if he were sitting farmer Van der Loden’s plough horse, he inched his way out to the rotating vanes. His heartbeat was a gypsy’s drum in his ears.

On a clear day it was possible to see leagues of farmland. With the advent of dusk he could barely make out the water in the canal. Over the years John had come up here with the local boys and, when the vanes were locked, had clambered up and down the latticework. In the gathering gloom, with the mill at full production he risked life and limb.

But I’ll die anyway if they catch me, he thought.

On that, he stepped onto the rotating hub and wrapped an arm through the lattice, clinging for dear life as he was rotated around, upside down and back again. Well-versed in the windmill’s action, John timed each move to coincide with the downward rotation, working his way out to the tip. He fought vertigo and centrifugal force. His supper, already churning his stomach with fear, threatened to fill his mouth at each turn of the vane.

John reached the tip just as the vane swung down in its final quarter turn. Not daring to risk another full rotation, he took courage in hand.

“St Elmo protect me,” he prayed to the sailor’s saint and released his grip.

Better to beg St Elmo’s help this close to the sea than risk his plea to another. Whether or not his prayer was answered, or if luck took a hand, he hit the ground and fetched up against the mill wall. Dazed and winded, John gasped for breath like a gaffed fish.

Move. Now, urged the voice in his head, goading him to action. He was positive it was his father he heard and that his gift made it possible for them to communicate.

Somehow he got to his hands and knees.. The seat of his threadbare work breeches had split. He muttered another oath directed at no one in particular and checked the pouch at his waist that held the few silvers his father had given him the day before, along with some papers he had yet to read.

Did you know they were coming for you, Vaddy? Why didn’t you go then?

There was no answer to that. He slithered down the dike bank to the lower footpath. Movement up ahead froze him in the shadows. A horse nickered. Grinning like a fool, John eased up to the four horses. Pitar had tied them to one of the sluice gate wood posts.

“Thank you God.”

One of the horses bared its teeth, its ears laid back. John stayed clear of it as he unfastened the reins and led the four animals up the path in the direction from which he had fled. He had no intention of adding horse thief to the charge of spy’s bastard son. Stripping the gear from three of them, he turned the animals loose in a field near the village. The horses bolted away into the gathering gloom. He stuffed the tack beneath a bush just outside of the fence, hanging onto the most tractable of the animals.

“That’ll hold them up.”

Holding the remaining horse to a walk, he urged it down the path and onto a wider thoroughfare atop the polder dike. Shouts went up behind him. They had discovered the missing horses. The familiar scents of the Zuider basin greeted John as he reached the sea, indicating the tide was turning. He dismounted, removed the saddle and tumbled it into the shadows off the path.. Then he pulled the decorative cloth sheaths from the reins and threw those away as well before turning the horse loose. Eventually it would seek out the companionship of its kind at the nearest inn or farm. The horse took several steps forward, following him a short distance before halting to snatch a mouthful of salt grass.

Sharp stones stabbed John’s feet as he scrambled down the polder dike to the narrow footpath below the rim. Here he paused. His mother had died when he was seven while they were living south of Poldersdam. A spring storm had broached the primary sea dike and John had survived only because his gift had warned him just in time. He had taken refuge on the school roof, along with several friends. But their teacher and other classmates had perished, as had over thirty of the local population. The cries, especially his mother’s haunted his sleep even now.

Two days later his father had returned and moved them north. It was then that John had dared tell Davyn about his gift. Instead of accusing him of foul witchery, his father had smiled, gripped his shoulders firmly and cautioned him against telling anyone else.

Don’t wait for me, his father’s instructions raced through John’s thoughts again.

“Who betrayed you, Vaddy?” John searched the darkness for the answer. As to who had betrayed him, another conversation with his father returned to haunt him.

A man might say anything under torture, John, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Under such pain he may betray friends, relatives, even loved ones, just to make it stop. You must never fault anyone for that.

Until last year John would have denied such a thing was possible. But Klemm’s uncle had, under the Inquisitor’s hand, accused his wife of sorcery. Irena had no more gift than the donkey at the granary, but the Inquisitor had been adamant that she was an unregistered Hedge Witch. So Irena had been ‘instructed’ and had drowned in the chair.

John. The boat, the voice in his head directed him. There’s a free trader at anchor beyond the sea dike. Do as I tell you. Use your inheritance. Secure passage. Go, John. Now.

There was a small boat tied up to a dock nearby, its oars stored on the dock. John unlashed the lines. Oars in hand, he stepped into the boat and pushed off. Ahead lay freedom and an uncertain future.

We have two offerings here for you....with comments at the end of each one. This Newest Feature is not meant to degrade, demoralize or offend the author--only to point out things that we feel could be improved, changed or even eliminated in order to improve any story...and of course, are only the opinion of our own Dear Holmes.....

Please read, and feel free to comment in our guest book. These stories are also eligible for votes! The authors who submit to Crit-Claw don't get any cash...but they get a free pdf issue of our latest magazine! Tell us what you think-discussion forum at the bottom of the page!

And our deepest thanks to our authors, who braved to be critiqued online! Through their efforts we all learn!

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Comments from Holmes....

We are fairly conservative here at Golden Visions, and the stories we tend to like vary (as you all are well aware) Many times we get submissions that have a story line that we really like, or with lots of potential, but with little things that just don't quite make it click. With those stories, we like to believe that we work well with the authors to 'help' the story line development. Most authors are more than willing to work with us, and in the end the story turns out much better than we ever hoped. A few writers are determined to never change a single word--and while we respect that--you can't get better if you aren't willing to bend. (think of trees and storms....you get the picture.) Excerpts from the story are in green and some comments regarding suggested changes are in red

Now- on with my critique!

One thing we try to keep true to is Point of View (hereby referred to as POV). In the story Anglo, that seemed to shift in places. for example:

I should have known someone would see me duck in here.

It could as well have been one of the locals as one of his pursuers. There were those in the area so poor they would do anything to garner a few extra coins.

We realize that the second paragraph in this example is the main character thinking...but there is nothing that expresses this. We like to use italics, as well as let the reader know that the character is either thinking or speaking to himself....some critique groups or mags like a writer to use a symbol to represent italics _for example_ would let them know that the writer meant for example.

This was not done in this story...and thereby causes a severe POV shift. It could be handled easily by simply doing this..

I should have known someone would see me duck in here, John chided himself.

This happened several times in the story....and it's just those little things that take up so much time. (along with typos and such) We try to fix this in some of our submissions. We give this example to let you know that POV is important...and very hard to maintain at times. Just remember- you can't keep shifting around- it distracts the reader and can be very confusing. If you want to tell us what a character is thinking and feeling, keep it consistent. Your story will flow (yes, that's part of what we mean by that) much better when we don't get confused about who's telling the story.

Here, the author is having the main character recall a warning from his father, but gives no indication that this is different from the rest of the story.....he could have used quotation marks, or even had John remembering his fathers words via (my favorite) italics. It looks like another change in POV, but it really isn't. We would have done it differently....

Trapped in the cramped loft, John considered his options. His father’s parting words returned to wound him. 'Don’t wait for me if they ever come for you. They won’t care that you’re just a boy. Take your inheritance and my papers and find a ship that will take you across the North Sea. There’s an address in those papers. Make contact with the people there.'

Now you know that John is hearing his father's words.....

The next couple of paragraphs feel like info dump to us...yes, we know that the author is giving us a quick history about the main characters father...but it's dropped right in the middle of the beginning. It also shifts from describing John, to telling us about his father...........then to telling us about the person that rescued the father.......thereby qualifying as info dump.

John is hiding- and we don't know for sure why (yet) and now we get some information about his father.....is it important? We don't know yet- but this isn't the right place for this type of data. It could be done several ways- one of which is to offer a bit less information along with the father's words....for example:

Trapped in the cramped loft, John thought of his father, Davyn Weylan, who had washed ashore during a storm sixteen years ago from a sea-faring nation. Rescued by a local family, his father had learned to speak the language, blending in well enough with the merchant class to escape capture.

His father's words played in his mind, a constant warning never to be too trusting. 'Don’t wait for me if they ever come for you. They won’t care that you’re just a boy. Take your inheritance and my papers and find a ship that will take you across the North Sea. There’s an address in those papers. Make contact with the people there.'

Of course, there are other ways to do this...and this is just one example...but unless you mention the other characters later drop them. (Did Lena Van Nord fall in love with this nearly drowned stranger? Did the family take him in as one of their own? These are important details that help build the magical world that John lives in.) If a character is never mentioned again, unless they impact the story greatly- don't bother putting them in. Trim down needless details...give only what you need to make the story work.

I'm not even sure about the information offered in the warning....what inheritance? His father isn't native to this place. Was something else found with him? There's just not enough information to comprehend what or why his father is telling him this....(again, in short stories you can't overload it with such things)

For me, this again violates the POV...We should be told what he hears, sees, smells, etc.... John flinched. He could hear men outside as they turned over crates and smashed wooden slats in an effort to find him. Small changes, but important ones. And who the heck is the Maruis'? Why are they after John?

Right now, John can't see his pursuers, only hear them, so hearing is extremely important to him. The writer also mentioned something about John having some secret ability...but only briefly. His gift, that curious ability to sense danger, had warned him just in time.

Why not offer the reader a bit more....???... When did he first discover this ability? How did it work? Was it like some inner voice warning him of danger? Or did he get a spidey tingle? This isn't me trying to be facetious, but to get everyone to think about their character....sure it's only a story, but done well it can pull a reader into your world and have them lose themselves within your words. You are the dreamweaver! Spin your yarn with care and create a world that readers travel with the characters....be willing to rewrite and rework parts of your story (be it short or long) in order to achieve your goal.

For me, I think that having the story begin with the portion where the Captain is shouting to his men to search for the young boy....you know start it off with getting the readers pulses racing. Who's hunting whom? And Why? Then slowly add the little details that let us know that John is 'special'.

I see that near the end, you did mention that the 'gift' was like hearing his father's voice in his head...again, I reiterate- mention this important little detail when you first describe it. (not near the end)

The scene describing the escape from the windmill has some good and some not so good parts. Many of us may not be familiar with the workings of such a device, so take care to use proper terms and quick, simple explanations of what they are. If we don't know what something is, then we can't envision what is going on...

One final point to make about this submission is this...we are introduced to John and know that his father was shipwrecked sixteen years earlier, rescued by a local farmer, and that his mother and father never properly married. I feel that the part about his mother dying and all the other people that perished was rushed over.

Why mention this here? Why not (if it's relevant to the story) mention it when he's struggling for survival in the windmill?

Nearly drowning would surely cause him to think about the tragedy that took his mother from him....and might serve to make the reader feel pity for the boy and hope that he could escape harm's way once more.

Okay, now for the final words about all of this.....

We give the story a C-minus. Why? Because of several things....it was a bit hard to follow. Point of view shifts (due to not indicating when the main character was thinking, or remembering things) forced me to read it several times to fully follow what was happening.

The main character, John, is not fleshed out...what do I mean about this? Well, we know he is special (his gift, or ability to 'sense' danger) and that it possibly came from his father (who was not native to this place)...but we are left hanging. Why were they hunting for this boy? It never really was clear to me....why would they need a wizard to hunt a boy? We (the readers) are left to suppose that something must have caused someone to tell the authorities that John was 'different'...but we never know who or why. I feel that this is important.

Several characters are thrown in that never really serve a purpose in the story (Pitar, Klemm's uncle...etc) Yes, I know that it's to try to explain why John is running...but it's too weak to do that...it doesn't work here. In such short pieces it's best to keep characters at a minimum...you don't have the time to developer them properly in short works, and it ends up just making the reader confused.

Why did the father not just take the boy away after the mother died? Too much is left out to make the story feel complete....to feel like we have come to know and care about John....and what happens to him.

In order to make the story work, we have to know the very same things that we were taught in school...who, what, when, where, why and how....

Who- that should be John...tell us tiny things about him. (you did some of that, but not quite enough) He's fourteen and running....but from whom is he running? Who is the Marquis'? Why does he want John? We never know....so basically the plot is missing from this story.

When- you don't have to give specific dates and times (although oft times some mild indication lets the reader know that this maybe happening in the past)

Where- you mentioned only briefly anything to tell us about this....where John's father came from and where he ended up...but where is that place? In fantasy, most of the time all places are made up...but even made up places have the same makings as real places....so use all your resources to build your fantasy world.

Why- I'm not sure we ever truly learned why....why were they hunting John? Why didn't John's father take him away if he had papers and money to do so? His wife (John' mother) was dead...what was keeping him there? Again- why did the Marquis' want him?

What did they want from him? Could his ability be useful for something other than warning him that danger was present? What was the true purpose for telling this story? What about his gift- his ablity to sense dnager? What about his father? What , after sixteen years, did his father think John would find elsewhere?

How? How did he know they were coming for him? How could he be sure that he could elude them again? Would they not search the harbors and ships for someone trying to escape? How are you planning on getting John safely away from the mysterious Marquis'?

Too many unanswered questions. Too many characters that play no role in the story. No true plot. We have the beginning of what could be an interesting story- a young boy running for his life with little more than some strong instinct and some papers and money. We never learn who he is running from (mentioning the Marquis does not qualify-since he is mentioned by this title only)- or why he is running.

Ask yourself these questions, and any others that you can think of. Once you have answered these questions, and a few more, then you might be able to go back and do justice to the character of John.

The actions scenes are decent (not fabulous) but they are the best part of this story. It needs a complete revision- and several parts could be cut without affecting the story line one bit.

Come on readers...what do you think?

The Cause

By Edward McDermott

“It was all for the cause,” he said, sipping his third whiskey and lighting a Lucky Strike.

The bartender came over, pointed at a sign on the wall, and said, ”Heh, buddy. There’s no smoking in here.”

Hennesy just looked at him, didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle. That bartender was a big guy, with meaty hands, and massive arms, but he stepped back and walked away. Hennesy had that mad dog, in his case mad rat look, of a man that didn’t really care.

“We worked on it for four years,” he continued, “and finally we had something that worked. You know that Sun Tzu considered the perfect victory in ‘the Art of War’. That was one where you sapped the enemy’s will to fight, until he was defeated with shooting a single arrow. That was our mission.”

I wanted to pull out my notepad and takes notes, but I didn’t move.

“’All warfare is based on deception.’ Naturally, it had to be chemical, and it had to be subtle. We wanted something that could be dispersed before the shooting began. Either waterborne, or airborne. It was supposed to cause depression. When a soldier loses his will to live, he looses his will to fight. And by God we found it.”

He finished his drink and looked for the bartender. I stepped over to the bar and picked up two more shots of whiskey for him.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We tested it, naturally. Tried it in a prison, and it worked. The number of cases of depression skyrocketed and the number of suicides as well. Gang violence dropped. The effect of a single dosing lasted for months, years. The experiment is still running. A bloody dream weapon. That’s what we thought.”

“And?”

“And the Israelis got it somehow. I don’t know if it was a leak, a spy, or a favor from the state department.”

“And?”

"They used it on Jenin. Thought it would stop the Infitada. Just one little mistake. Political ideologues are different from gang members. They have a cause. It didn’t stop the resistance. It just increased the suicide rate. That was when the suicide bombings began.”

And now the crit.....

One thing varies greatly in this story from the first one that we offered you...can you spot it? Not just the length (while it is quite obviously shorter- that's not what we are getting at.)- but the fact that the author kept characters at a minimum.

You have Hennesy (your main character), the person telling the story (told in first person, yet while we don't really know who this person is, it doesn't matter since it has no effect on the story) and a brief interaction with a bartender (who really doesn't serve much as one of the characters except to show us that Hennesy isn't one to be messed around with.)

My point with the first story was that they tried to have too many characters in a short piece with no true relevance to the story....this story makes full use of the characters in a minimal amount of words. While others may be mentioned, they remain 'others'- no names and no reason to wonder why they were mentioned.

The plot becomes very apparent at the end, there is no wondering why the story was being told or why the person was telling it. It is simple, forthright and kept an even flow throughout...no info dumps, no run on background history, no trying to explain too much.

Other than maybe a couple of unneeded commas and questionable words (Heh, buddy? Is this a typo? Hey Buddy! There's no smoking in here!" I found nothing that truly needed changing in order to make this story work. (unless I would leave out specifically mentioning Israelis, since it is not limited to one group to have suicide bombers. Perhaps just saying 'The Middle East', and that would make it more reasonable why this action is one that is used by radical groups living within the population. Alhtough other groups in recent history have used such vile tactics to kill, we are not here to debate politics, just to tell a story) Leaving out specific names and references makes the story more like something we might expect to happen at any time in our history, not just the present.

It (the cause) let the reader wonder if indeed the same thing that caused the suicide bombings was responsible for the quick retreat of the rather beefy bartender....and if the story teller didn't bother to get his notepad out because it was just too much effort. (another result of the chemical that was supposed to stop the war?)

We know who is telling the story and why- what happened, when and where and how it happened...no unanswered questions...no fancy footwork.

Short, to the point, and leaving the reader wondering about what or who else might have been affected by the good intentions behind the governments playing around with people's 'minds' with mood altering drugs. For me, any story that lets my imagination run rampant is a good one!

We give this story a solid B+. It's well written with a nice flow and doesn't leave you wondering what the writers intent was. It would have earned an A, but mentioning one specific group tends to make it just too politically incorrect. (Yes, we do have that to think about.)

Edward P. McDermott

About The Author

Born in Toronto, Edward has pursued a professional career during the day, while taking writing courses, joining writer's groups, and writing at night. When not writing, he spends his time sailing and fencing, and working as a movie extra. Currently, Edward is sailing his sailboat off the Florida Coast. Perhaps in the Bahamas.

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Biography: Born to British parents in Colombia, South America, I never lived anywhere longer than five years until I was twenty-six: my father was in mining. I am the third of four children; the only girl. In 1983 I began a career with the Canadian military and have served in both the Sinai desert and in the high Arctic. Both of my parents have since passed on. Presently single, I live in Victoria, BC with three crazy cats, my daughter and my youngest brother. I am a life member of ASFA, specializing in one-of-a-kind original fantasy needlepoint, enjoy costuming, travel and horseback riding.