By Pearl S.
Opening-Chapter Critique
by Robert L. Bacon
Hello Pearl,
In your vivid portrayal of the action in the opening scene in THE DEVIL'S TOWER, you have achieved the two most important aspects of any good adventure: creating a solid hook and provided characters readers will root for. Readers immediately have a vested interest in Louise and Madeline, and they want to read more. This in itself is as good as it gets. Another element you handle quite well is Showing and not Telling the action. And from what little I've read of your storyline, it seems rock solid. Here, however, are a few issues I noticed that you might want to consider:
The short opening (the pseudo-prologue if I can be allowed to call it that, ha ha), while well-written, is probably best left out. It tells a critical aspect of what the reader is about to encounter, and for this reason takes away from the full impact of Madeline's abduction. You've written a highly visceral scene, why diminish its strength in any way?
I did a cursory line edit of the first three pages, and I might mention that there was very little to suggest revising. However, from a grammatical standpoint, I found a number of instances in which I felt punctuation was beneficial--primarily commas, and a hyphen would be a good idea in "wide-open." You'll also see that I moved some clauses around to create what I felt was more fluent prose (not better, mind you, just a little easier on the eye). Some of this is tomato/tamato stuff, but there are are few instances in which I think the improvement is noticeable. Also, there are spots where I think conjunctions on the order of "and" might help. Again, you'll find these when you review what I'm returning to you.
I also substituted some repeated words that were close to one another. It's always prudent to be alert to this. And submissions editors will call you on phrases such as: The entire village pants for relief…. since it's not possible for a village to pant. Villagers can, not buildings. Oftentimes I find this sort of nitpicking ludicrous, just like when a community can't be aware of something, but the inhabitants can be alert to what's going on. I'm certain you get my point. This is red flag stuff, and why wave one in front of the bulls we have to endure at every crossroads on our way to publication?
I noticed a few verb tense issues when I went through your draft one more time prior to posting it on this blog, but your material is one instance when mixed tenses worked for me. An agent or editor might require you to reconcile them, but as I read the shifts in Louise's voice, they seemed perfectly natural to me, especially when I consider the era in which this story is written.
I noticed a few verb tense issues when I went through your draft one more time prior to posting it on this blog, but your material is one instance when mixed tenses worked for me. An agent or editor might require you to reconcile them, but as I read the shifts in Louise's voice, they seemed perfectly natural to me, especially when I consider the era in which this story is written.
Pearl, I like your writing style very much, and after the edited three pages, these same pages are provided without the line-outs, highlights, etc., to precede the remainder of your excellent chapter.
The Devil’s Tower
From a village in southeast England, 1790
Louise de Bourneuf
My name is Louise, the only daughter of Marguerite and Henri de Bourneuf, who was a family of powerful noble nobility during the reign of King Louis XV of France. My parents, Catholics of wealth and nobility esteem, taught me to be honest, and to respect the beliefs of all and their right to live freely. As a maiden, in my naïveté I trusted others without discernment, sometimes with grievous consequences.
Long before the Revolution, my friend Madeleine, a Huguenot maiden, was arrested and deprived of her family. I promised to bring her home from the Tour de Constance, an impregnable prison tower in the south of France. No one, I discovered, is ever freed from the Tour or defies the State and lives.
Indifferent or fearful citizens ignored women of unswerving unwavering will and faith, leaving them to die in that tower. Unlike these citizens people, I knew nothing of evil’s power and endurance.
During these many years of exile from my beloved France, I have ventured to returned there, only when it is safe to travel, for a high price is on my head and there are many who seek it.
The faces and poverty of the women in the tower haunt me. My own body and soul suffered pain when I was there, and I bear scars from my devotion to free the prisoners. And in time, I came to know steadfast love and faith that delivered me from the cruelest of devils.
*****
The village of St. Martin in the Hérault region of southern France, July 17, 1760
Louise de Bourneuf
Sometime during the heat of the night, sweaty and restless, I removed my nightdress. I toss and turn on a lumpy mattress with coarse bed linens that chafe my skin and keep me on the edge of wakefulness. How I long for my own bed, with its cool, silky sheets that give the sensation of floating on water.
This July, like every other since I can remember, I am in St. Martin to visit my childhood friend, Madeleine Dubois, who is fast asleep on the cot opposite mine. Unlike our sturdy manor, the Dubois’ house is constructed of rough-hewn wood with thin walls. Exterior sounds penetrate the dwelling, and the ears of passers-by hear all the family says and does in their daily routine.
This summer, without respite, July has been drifting from hot to even hotter days and nights without respite. The entire residents of the village pants for relief and has have yet to feel the cool air that descends in the evening from high in the mountains by night to freshen our their bodies and spirits.
Dawn must be near. Nature stirs in the twitter of birds and moan of farm animals asking for their morning feed. Pale morning early light filters into Madeleine’s bedroom through half-closed louvered shutters. Last night we argued about spreading them wide- open for better movement of air, but Madeleine hesitated. From the kitchen below has seeped A stale smell of yesterday’s cooking has seeped from the kitchen below and lingers in the bedroom and melds with our sweaty sticky clothing.
I have slept poorly this night, and my ears are alert to every sound. On the road outside the bedroom window horses snuffle and whinny low. Someone hawks, spits, and curses. I blink my eyes open, reach for the bed sheet I flung off in the night and draw it over my nakedness. An acrid whiff of lathered horses and the sour smell of men who have ridden hard assault my nose. The muffled laughter and snickering I hear makes me feel uneasy. Decent folk are abed. Who would enter a mountain village while its inhabitants slept sleep? Decent folk are abed.
I am tempted to open the latched shutters to see who is outside. Are the men waiting for someone to come—or for something to happen? It is unusual for anyone to travel before prior to sunlight spilling over the mountaintops into the valley, before the baker’s cock rooster crows to his signal a village to begin the day. I roll over, perch on the edge of the bed and peer at Madeleine.
“Madeleine.” I stretch across the narrow gap between our beds and poke a finger into her lean hip. “Wake up.” I jab her again. “There are men outside.”
Madeleine squirms, snorts, but sleeps on. I slip into my chemise and start to rise. Before my toes touch the floor, I stiffen on hearing steel rasp out of a long sheath.
Madeleine startles me by bolting upright.
“Hush, Louise. Don’t move.”
She rolls off the bed and tiptoes to the window to peer at the scene on the road through a crack in the shutters at the scene on the road. As if struck full in the face, she reels backward. She presses a finger against my lips then slinks to the end of the bed to rummage in an oak chest.
“I recognize the coats of the king’s soldiers,” she whispers, returning to sit beside me. “If they arrest me, I’ll need these warm clothes for cold weather.”
I am confused by what my friend says. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and drop my voice. “If they arrest you…?
Madeleine releases the tremulous sigh of an old woman. In the quietness that remains I am aware something has changed outside.
The Devil’s Tower
From a village in southeast England, 1790
Louise de Bourneuf
My name is Louise, the only daughter of Marguerite and Henri de Bourneuf, a family of powerful nobility during the reign of King Louis XV of France. My parents, Catholics of wealth and esteem, taught me to be honest, and to respect the beliefs of all and their right to live freely. As a maiden, in my naïveté I trusted others without discernment, sometimes with grievous consequences.
Long before the Revolution, my friend Madeleine, a Huguenot maiden, was arrested and deprived of her family. I promised to bring her home from the Tour de Constance, an impregnable prison tower in the south of France. No one, I discovered, is ever freed from the Tour or defies the State and lives.
Indifferent or fearful citizens ignored women of unwavering will and faith, leaving them to die in that tower. Unlike these people, I knew nothing of evil’s power and endurance.
During these many years of exile from my beloved France, I have returned there only when it is safe to travel, for a high price is on my head and there are many who seek it.
The face of the women in the tower haunt me. My body and soul suffered when I was there, and I bear scars from my devotion to free the prisoners. And, in time, I came to know steadfast love and faith that delivered me from the cruelest of devils.
*****
The village of St. Martin in the Hérault region of southern France, July 17, 1760
Louise de Bourneuf
Sometime during the heat of the night, sweaty and restless, I removed my nightdress. I toss and turn on a lumpy mattress with coarse bed linens that chafe my skin and keep me on the edge of wakefulness. How I long for my own bed, with its cool, silky sheets that give the sensation of floating on water.
This July, like every other since I can remember, I am in St. Martin to visit my childhood friend, Madeleine Dubois, who is fast asleep on the cot opposite mine. Unlike our sturdy manor, the Dubois’ house is constructed of rough-hewn wood with thin walls. Exterior sounds penetrate the dwelling, and the ears of passers-by hear all the family says and does in their daily routine.
This summer, without respite, July has been drifting from hot to even hotter days and nights. The residents of the village pant for relief and have yet to feel the cool air that descends in the evening from high in the mountains to freshen their bodies and spirits.
Dawn must be near. Nature stirs in the twitter of birds and moan of farm animals asking for their morning feed. Pale early light filters into Madeleine’s bedroom through half-closed louvered shutters. Last night we argued about spreading them wide-open for better movement of air, but Madeleine hesitated. A stale smell of yesterday’s cooking has seeped from the kitchen below and lingers in the bedroom and melds with our sticky clothing.
I have slept poorly this night, and my ears are alert to every sound. On the road outside the bedroom window horses snuffle and whinny low. Someone hawks, spits and curses. I blink my eyes open, reach for the bed sheet I flung off in the night and draw it over my nakedness. An acrid whiff of lathered horses and the sour smell of men who have ridden hard assault my nose. The muffled laughter and snickering I hear make me uneasy. Decent folk are abed. Who would enter a mountain village while its inhabitants sleep?
I am tempted to open the latched shutters to see who is outside. Are the men waiting for someone to come--or for something to happen? It is unusual for anyone to travel prior to sunlight spilling over the mountaintops, before the baker’s rooster crows his signal to begin the day. I roll over, perch on the edge of the bed and peer at Madeleine.
“Madeleine.” I stretch across the narrow gap between our beds and poke a finger into her lean hip. “Wake up.” I jab her again. “There are men outside.”
Madeleine squirms, snorts, but sleeps on. I slip into my chemise and start to rise. Before my toes touch the floor, I stiffen on hearing steel rasp out of a long sheath.
Madeleine startles me by bolting upright.
“Hush, Louise. Don’t move.”
She rolls off the bed and tiptoes to the window to peer at the scene on the road through a crack in the shutters. As if struck full in the face, she reels backward. She presses a finger against my lips then slinks to the end of the bed to rummage in an oak chest.
“I recognize the coats of the king’s soldiers,” she whispers, returning to sit beside me. “If they arrest me, I’ll need these warm clothes for cold weather.”
I am confused by what my friend says. I put my arm around her thin shoulders and drop my voice. “If they arrest you…?
Madeleine releases the tremulous sigh of an old woman. In the quietness that remains I am aware something has changed outside.
“I don’t hear the men,” I say.Madeleine throws off her nightdress, pulls on her chemise and dress, twists her long red curls into a knot and shoves them under a cap. Following her lead, I gather my own dress and shoes.
“Dress later, Lou-Lou. I’m going to hide you.”
“Hide me? Why?”
Madeleine tears a mat off the floor between our two beds and kneels to remove several loose floorboards.
“It’s dangerous for you to be found in a heretic’s home—even if you are a Catholic—and it’s too late to escape.”
I drop to my knees beside Madeleine, my thoughts awhirl. “I won’t hide and leave you alone,” I say, running my hand around the perimeter of a hiding space barely large enough for me to lie down. “You’re my friend.”
Several loud bangs on the door downstairs make us jump.
Madeleine digs her fingers into my shoulders and hisses. “Get in.”
My stomach burns as if hundreds of ants are devouring my insides. I swing about to seek Madeleine’s face in the faint light and shrug off her hands. “I’m not afraid to stay with you.”
“Don’t be foolish. We don’t know what those men will do to us. If you’re quiet they won’t find you.”
I feel the tremor in Madeleine’s hands on my shoulders and search her face for another answer.
“It won’t be for long, Lou-Lou. Don’t come out until you know the soldiers have gone.”
She hands me a rolled bundle of my dress and shoes. “You can dress later. Go home across the hills and tell your parents what happened here.”
My heart swells inside my chest I am so choked with fear and anger. “I will.”
“Promise you’ll stay hidden?”
“I promise—if the soldiers arrest you,” I say as we cling to each other and wipe aside our tears, “to find where you are imprisoned and bring you home.” I kiss her cheeks three times.
Madeleine releases me and stands. “Goodbye dear friend.”
I curl up in the hiding space and clamp my eyes shut. Madeleine has reset each floorboard over the hole and slaps the mat down against the floor. I hear her feet scurry to her bed then mine. A cracking sound tells me that the men ramming the door have broken it down, for I hear shouting from below.
Madeleine must be standing above me, for dust rains on my face. Monsieur Dubois’ voice wails for God to save him. A window shatters. Madame Dubois cries for mercy and men howl with laughter. I hear heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs and into Madeleine’s bedroom. A silence turns my spine to ice.
The soldiers curse and threaten my friend, but a cold, authoritative voice intervenes and stops them. When the same voice orders the soldiers to take Madeleine away, I want to cry out. To my shame, I remain silent and hold my breath.
How long is it since the soldiers left Madeleine’s bedroom? I cannot endure this confinement much longer. I pant for air and brush dust from my eyelids. My calves are knotted with cramp and my nose twitches to sneeze. The clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen below, and the scraping of furniture along the stone floor warn me that the men are still in the house. Someone shouts a command from outside, and all activity ceases.
The floorboards pop apart easily when I push them up to rise out of my hiding place. I stretch my limbs and creep to the window. My toe nudges a small hard object that I pick up and know is Madeleine’s Protestant bible. Without thinking, I tuck it into the pocket of my chemise. Madeleine’s winter clothes are in a heap on the floor at the end of her bed.
Outside in the pale light silhouettes are darting around one another. Some struggle to control horses stacked with small furniture and bulging saddlebags. Apart from the pillage a handful of men straddle horses. I spy a soldier dragging behind him what appears to be a heavy sack. He tosses it across the back of his horse and there is a scream of pain as the man climbs into the saddle behind it. I stifle a cry when I recognize Madeleine’s voice.
At the head of the mounted riders a tall man sits erect, a broad-rimmed hat tipped low over his face. He snarls at the soldiers for their slowness. It is the voice of the man who ordered Madeleine’s arrest. Hidden behind the shutters, I watch the soldiers gallop away and the last rider toss a flaming torch toward the Dubois’ house. The flimsy walls ignite. I shrink from the window and rush for the stairs.
In the Dubois’ bedroom streaks of light pour through shards in a broken window. I halt at the sight of debris and stained walls. In front of me, an arm and a leg are on the floor and across the bed sprawls the torso of monsieur Dubois. The bed is soaked with blood.
Vomit rises into my throat, gagging me. My body convulses as burning liquid rushes up inside me and sprays out of my mouth and nose onto the front of my chemise. I cannot stop my bowel and bladder soiling my chemise, legs and feet. I try to run from the room but slip and slide in the blood on the floor.
Madeleine’s mother is tipped over the side of the bed, bare legs straight up in the air. I step backwards, trip over broken furniture and with arms flailing fall into a slippery substance. As I sweep the floor with my hands for something to pull myself up, they snatch at a stringy object near the end of the bed. My fingers skim over two moist, round spheres set on either side of a hard ridge, drop lower and dip into a large cavity as big as my fist. I scramble to get up and slap aside the severed head of madame Dubois. A rapid clicking in my throat locks in my screams, but I am helpless to control the convulsing. On my hands and knees I heave until there is nothing left in my stomach.
Smoke from the fire has penetrated the bedroom. The carnage before me locks inside my memory. I spit out bits of vomit, wipe my mouth and stagger into the foyer, marking with blood whatever my soiled hands and feet touch.
Concealed near the entrance to the Dubois’ home, I watch the sun rim the distant hills with rosy light. At once the baker’s cock crows. Shutters latched tight overnight fling wide and heads dart out of windows. Men and women in their nightclothes spill onto the road.
The Dubois’ home is ablaze. Some villagers run for water to extinguish the flames; others cluster in a semi-circle across from the house, questioning how this could have happened to their neighbours. Before I am discovered or burnt alive, I flee into the Dubois’ garden.
On a path leading into a meadow and the hills beyond, I hesitate to look back, stare at the Dubois’ burning home and know I will never return.
*****
Home at last, I find the courtyard empty of servants and limp toward the door. When I fall against the latch, it gives way. I pitch into the foyer and collapse on the floor.
“Mama.” I shout with my waning strength. The clop-clop of sabots on the stone floor echoes around me. I feel a servant lift me up and my mother’s grasping hands on me.
“My child, what has happened to you?”
“The King’s soldiers arrested Madeleine and killed her parents.”
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