Love Thy Neighbor by Maureen C. Opening Critique by Robert L. Bacon

Hello Maureen,

As I said in my short e-mail message,you should be very proud of your writing. You are telling a wonderful story in a full and compassionate manner that readers will embrace.  Every editor will have his or her nitpicking (sic, niggling) ideas.  Here, however, is one thing I'm going to suggest that most editors would agree upon if your narrative is written in the same manner as the opening chapter, and this is to Show
the story and not Tell it (I always capitalize the words, they are so important). 

I'm fascinated by Jeff, but to make him and his story come alive, the reader needs
to feel what he and those around him are going through--and not be told what has happened.  Because of time, I can't revise more than a short section of your draft in
a Show environment, but I'll do the opening long paragraph so you can get an idea of what I'm suggesting.  And, yes, a revision will likely involve more work than the four months it required for you to write your initial draft, but when you finish I think you'll have something quite special.  (My last novel required four months to write yet over a year of revisions before it was ready to be sent to agents, a timeline which is not at all uncommon.) 

Also, please go to the Articles Page on my Web site at www.theperfectwrite.com.  It's one of the green links on the right side of the page.  Scroll through the topics until you find the two I've published that deal specifically with Showing vs. Telling, as I think you might find each be of some benefit.

Please keep in mind that the setup I'm crafting from your narrative could be written in an as many ways as there are stars in the sky.  My feeble offering is just one idea for writing your opening in a Showing medium.  And if I can make one other point, it's that readers (and agents, editors, and publishers) like short paragraphs, and Showing action quite often enables this to occur as a natural function of writing in this manner.  Regardless, don't be shy about breaking up paragraphs.

Here now is your original opening chapter Telling the action, followed by one quickly written idea of Showing the opening scene. Your entire original opening chapter can
be viewed after this material.

Telling the Action 

                                                       Chapter 1

Dr. Sylvia Banes handled the records and recalled when she had first met Jeff Green; he was just ten years old and at the time and was living in Broadmere, a residential school for children with emotional problems. His files informed her that he hadn’t spoken for two years; he avoided all eye contact and would only look at his feet.  His body language shouted avoidance, and he seemed to be trying to be invisible.  Always alone, constantly set apart from others, never watching TV or in groups of children his own age. However, this strangely withdrawn child was an exceptionally good student. He excelled at things that other children in his age group were struggling with. He listened though, rarely gave any indication that he understood or accepted what was being said, but he heard it. That was evident with his school work, he sat silently day in and day out doing what the other children were doing and to everyone’s surprise his work was correct.

Showing the Action

                                                     Chapter 1

            Dr. Sylvia Banes opened the first file in the stack she was holding on her lap.  Jeff Green's name was on it, and as she shuffled some of the forms, she looked up from the paperwork and took in the ten-year-old's physiognomy.  Usually she'd be concerned about making initial eye contact with a child at Broadmere for the first
time, and the person becoming more uncomfortable.  But Jeff would present no such problem, since he stared at his feet, and even when Sylvia said his name did not raise his head to look at her.

            Jeff Green was 5-feet tall, and of normal weight for a child his age, but he was so scrunched up in the supple couch on which he was sitting that he seemed half his size.  His breathing was almost imperceptible.  And with his shoes pointed inward, his arms and hands tucked within each other and pressed tight against his chest, and neck pushed well below his shoulders, Jeff appeared as though he were trying to crawl inside himself and render his salient features invisible.

            "I see you're a very good student, Jeffrey," Sylvia said in a tone that was neither pejorative nor complacent, just honest.  She hadn't expected him to respond, and she continued, "You have demonstrated exceptional abilities to comprehend things all by yourself.  This isn't easy, and not many people can do it."  

            She was looking at him as she spoke, but again there was no outward reaction from the boy.  However, Sylvia noticed a brief halt in his shallow breathing pattern when she mentioned he was able to pick up knowledge on his own, and she made a note of this in his file.

            She read more of the material in the folder, then smiled and turned to face Jeff.  She could see he hadn't recognized anything she was doing, since his attention remained fixed on his feet.  "Now that I've explored further, I realize that you're more than a good student.  I have a letter here that says your school work is almost always perfect."
            His respiration changed once more, this time for a half-breath's worth.  She didn't think he was still anywhere near ready to speak, and she would be correct.  But the alteration in his breathing, while modest, was the indicator she needed.  This gave her confidence she could develop a treatment plan that would enable him to shed his insecurities and enjoy the world and the people in it.  And most important, respect himself.

Complete Original Opening Chapter 

   
                                                        Chapter 1 

Dr. Sylvia Banes handled the records and recalled when she had first met Jeff Green; he was just ten years old and at the time and was living in Broadmere, a residential school for children with emotional problems. His files informed her that he hadn’t spoken for two years; he avoided all eye contact and would only look at his feet.  His body language shouted avoidance, and he seemed to be trying to be invisible.  Always alone, constantly set apart from others, never watching TV or in groups of children his own age. However, this strangely withdrawn child was an exceptionally good student. He excelled at things that other children in his age group were struggling with. He listened though, rarely gave any indication that he understood or accepted what was being said, but he heard it. That was evident with his school work, he sat silently day in and day out doing what the other children were doing and to everyone’s surprise his work was correct.

Only one teacher was able to reach through his shrouded mind and discovered that he had an interest in computers. Alan Prince was on the verge of retiring after 32 years of teaching. He loved to teach those who were eager to learn; he took pride in what he was able to instill in them.  That particular day Prince had been tinkering with the class computer when this boy had wandered over to watch. Within the first few minutes Prince deduced he was not going to get any conversation from the boy but he also saw that he was taking everything in. Prince talked nonstop explaining every single thing he was doing. Ignoring the silence Prince talked through ninety minutes of computer cleaning and updating; he explained his every movement.  At one point Prince asked the boy if he had ever used a computer, looking away and then down to his feet he took that to be a negative. Step by step Prince explained how to turn on and boot up a computer, he showed how to connect to the Internet and how to do a search.  Shutting the machine down Prince stood and offering his chair he told the boy to boot up and do a search for ‘conversation’. With only the slightest hesitation the boy sat at the computer; booted up and did his search. When he got the answer to his query he turned to Prince and indicated by pointing that he was done.

“A conversation is communication between multiple people. It is a social skill that is not difficult for most individuals [citation needed]. Conversations are the ideal form of communication in some respects, since they allow people with different views on a topic to learn from each other. A speech, on the other hand, is an oral presentation by one person directed at a group. For a successful conversation, the partners must achieve a workable balance of contributions. A successful conversation includes mutually interesting connections between the speakers or things that the speakers know. For this to happen, those engaging in conversation must find a topic on which they both can relate to in some sense. Those engaging in conversation naturally tend to relate the other speaker's statements to themselves. They may insert aspects of their lives into their replies, to relate to the other person's opinions or points of conversation.

Conversation is indispensable for the successful accomplishment of almost all activities between people, especially the coordination of work, the formation of friendship and for learning.”

Prince was pleased and patted him on the shoulder, pointing at the screen he suggested that the piece of information become a goal for him, he must find some way to bring conversation into his life.

            It took two years for Dr. Sylvia Banes to gain enough trust for him to be relaxed in her company. Asking questions had never gained her any insight so she stopped; instead of questions she began explaining psychology, how the mind closes down to protect itself from people, things or situations.  She would have books available, with bookmarked pages that she went over with him; each section would encourage speech as an important form of recovery. He was twelve when she lost her cool calm façade and in frustration asked if he actually wanted to change from the way he was and become responsible for his own life. In an almost inaudible whisper he said “yes”.

            She had been stunned but covered it quickly and continued as if had been normal for him to speak. Over the next couple of months he had spoken but without much animation; he used a flat monotone sound. Just before his thirteenth birthday he began talking to her, freely and without being prompted; he began describing what it had been like to live in his home. Speech wasn’t easy for him, he hesitated often as if not sure what he should and shouldn’t say but little by little over the next few years he became much more animated. As he became used to talking he began to enjoy his twice weekly sessions. She was the only person he spoke with; he still wasn’t comfortable with others. Once away from Dr. Banes Jeff reverted back to being silent though he would look at people when they spoke to him.  That was an improvement but he still had a long way to go. Despite the talking Sylvia Banes still had the feeling that there was something he was holding back. She felt that with time he would share enough to have brought everything out and he would then move forward by leaps and bounds.

He was just fifteen when his mother passed away; her last weeks were painful and Jeff spent as much time as possible sitting beside her. Whenever she opened her eyes he would smile. There was grief was in his eyes but she never saw it on his lips. Her cancer was swift and she lost her battle after a year. It was exceptionally hard on Jeff.  Dr. Banes had been afraid this would set him back but he grieved without reverting to his former ways. The very next Broadmere review of Jeff established him as being ready to try the outside world again. His aunt had agreed that he would be living with them. Despite Jeff resisting the idea he was picked up by his aunt and uncle and taken to their home. 

_____________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon, Founder

The Perfect Write®

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Terror at Sea Opening-Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

Name Withheld by Request

I want to begin by stating that your opening chapter depicts a well-conceived premise, and it's certainly intelligently written.  With this in mind, I always do everything I can to encourage writers who are trying to create publishable material to write as much and as often as possible, with the caveat that crafting a novel that people will pay to read is not easy or quick.  

To quantify this, on average, my personal circle of friends and acquaintances who are successful novelists have each written five novels during a 14-year period before their first manuscript was accepted by a major royalty publisher.  But if you aren't interested in seeking publication via the Big 6 and Kensington, what follows will not have much relevance and will not be worth your time to read.  However, if you will be pursing a major imprint at some point, then please read on.

Your opening chapter provides solid conflict, quickly established, and the storyline is one that clearly makes sense in the current political climate in which we live.  Your plot, however, presents several developmental issues that I think you'll need to contend with, and you have a number of syntax problems I feel you would benefit from working on.  Please keep in mind that editing is subjective, and often highly so, but I try to focus on that which I have personal experience.  And here are my observation:

Your storyline makes all the sense in the world, but the opening is not fresh in the realm of it being a new concept.  Instead, it's something we've read or heard many times before in one way or another.  The other issue is that mainstream publishers seem to have grown very tired of terrorist-group activities, even if the U.S. and/or our allies come out on top.  The events of 9-11 are deep-seated, and if you check submission guidelines with top agents and major publishers, you're going to have a hard time finding many who are seeking this sort of material to either represent or publish.  However, if you already possessed a huge following, such as Clive Cussler or Tom Clancy for example, this is a horse of a different color, because an established readership is often more interested in the author and his or her characters than the plot.

To have a serious chance at having a publisher pay for something you write, here are some points you might want to consider:

First is formatting.  Use only New Times Roman or Courier fonts, and please make more extended paragraph indentations.  One inch is preferred.  And by all means use quotation marks to set off dialogue and not whatever it is you sent me.  In your defense, the text might've been corrupted by AOL as it was pasted in the body of the e-mail, and if this is the case please ignore my remark.  But if AOL didn't contribute to what occurred, please never send a draft to an agent, editor, or publisher with whatever those hash marks happen to be.  Leave cute ways of setting off dialogue to the likes of Joyce and Frazier.

You have a tendency to leave participles dangling, or as they are more commonly called, misplaced modifiers, such as what occurred when you have the sprouts going out to sea and not the rays from the light.  I noticed misplaced modifiers in several other areas in your first chapter, so you may want to work on developing a clearer understanding of linkage.  You might benefit from the section on linkage in Jacques Barzun's SIMPLE & DIRECT.

Be alert to repeated words close to one another.  I made a number of revision suggestions on the first 3 pages for which I provided a cursory line edit.

Parentheses patronize the reader, and in my opinion should never be used in fiction.  Everyone knows what an AK-47 is, and that it's a popular weapon with bad guys in many settings, so stating this essentially insults the reader.

Use an extra-line break to show a scene shift within a chapter that takes place in the same time frame.  You'll see where I used this technique at one juncture in the text I line edited, and it is different from the hard breaks you employed later in the chapter. A line break enables better overall continuity for a chapter when events occur at the same time.

Whenever possible, don't begin sentences with "It was" or "There were."  We all do this at times, but it's a sign of lazy writing.  You'll see how I revised one sentence you began with It was.  You might want to go through your draft and ferret out any other instances in which "It was" or "There were" started a sentence.

Try to write in an active and not a passive voice whenever possible.  You'll notice a sentence or two I changed around so this was accomplished.  One value of writing in an active voice is that it forces a writer to show rather than tell what is happening; which, among other things, is of great importance from the perspective if pacing.

Don't state the obvious:  Their heads broke through the blackness of the sea followed by the rest of their bodies.  Could anything else occur if the team was emerging from the water?                            

And accuracy is important.  Could this really happen?  …crept out of the water without making a sound.  I made a revision by suggesting they emerged from the water in relative silence, since it would be impossible to complete this action without making a sound.  And I think emerging from the water might sit better with readers instead of creeping from it, which I also think would be very hard to do, especially since you had originally written …their heads broke through followed by the rest of their bodies….  In and of itself, this action indicates they were already on or near shore.

Say things once:  Asad's voice went up a couple of decibels. They will pay for this.  No matter how long it takes me, I will get my brothers back alive.  He walked a short distance towards the beach and threw the expended flashbangs several yards out to sea.  He turned to face Fouad.  They came ashore right here.  He pointed at some groves and tracks on the beach.  Then he screamed in the direction of the sea.  You bastards will pay for this!  In my revision I dropped the first reference.

It's usually best to explain a character's features when the person is first introduced to the reader, not in later scenes.

And in what you sent me, a new chapter can begin with Imad Yousif's introduction.

Here are the first 3 pages of your draft, for which I provided a cursory line edit, along with the same pages cleaned up so you can compare both narratives.  At the very end of everything I'll have some closing ideas for your to consider.

                                                   Chapter 1

       Their late night meeting was took place in an old, faded-white farmhouse on the coast of Libya, not far from Tobruk.  It was a The rectangular building structure was made of concrete and situated at the base of a small hill. The only door to the building was made of  constructed of heavy wood and the windows were boarded up shut. An electric power line ran to the house from a single wooden pole. .  A lone security lamp ligh atop of the pole it burned bright at the front of the house. Its luminescence shone a glistening path of light across the dried-up dirt that once sprouted up crops, and its rays extended out a short way beyond the shore and into the dark waters of the Mediterrean Mediterranean Sea.

   Two guards, each armed with Chinese versions of the vaunted Russian AK-47 assault rifle (the weapon of choice of terrorists), patrolled the area outside area the farmhouse–one moving in a clockwise path around the perimeter of the property while the other walked in the opposite direction.

   Inside the building, three of the five senior military commanders of the National Front for the Liberation of Islam, or NFLI as it was commonly referred to, and were seated around an improvised table of plywood table that was supported by four rusteding barrels, were. Several lesser operatives of NFLI lesser stature also sat at the table, along with a number of heavily armed guards inside the building. An open map of Europe lay on the table., and laptops and briefcases were strewn around the room.

  
     Clad in black dark wetsuits, the a joint team operation composed of US Navy SEALS and the British Special Boat Service swimmer-canoeists crept out of emerged from the water without making a sound in relative silence.  They pulled two identical rubber boats were pulled onto the beach.  Leaving their masks, snorkels and fins on the boats with two team members, the group of , and two SEALS who remained in the crafts as a ten-man team moved towards the farmhouse.

     Two team members moved ahead of the group while the others knelt Kneeling with their M4A1s and MP5s at the ready.  , they waited on two team members who had moved ahead of the group.  

     In the blink of an eye, the one guard walking counter-clockwise went down as the result of a single shot from a subsonic sniper rifle with a sophisticated silencer attached to it. The same fate was delivered to befell the second guard. Not a sound wash No one came to the door, so it was obvious indicating that those inside the building were had not been alerted to what was happening.

     A single brief flash of light from two different locations told the waiting group rest of the team the area was clear. They moved closer to the house with a deliberateness and preciseness akin to a military drill team. With stealth and precision, they moved toward the house.  When they reached the door, At the only door leading inside the house, two the SEALS readied flashbangs. On a signal from the group commander, they opened the door a few inches and tossed the grenades inside.

      After the explosion, the group waited a couple of seconds and threw the door open. the door was thrown open and the team As they charged inside the room. , f Five men went right and the other five went left.  , Ggunfire erupted. A few minutes passed as the gunfire subsided. After about five minutes, the group  spraying a volley of bullets in every direction in front of them.  When the raid was over, the team captured  with a half-dozen prisoners, and two laptops along with various documents. The group put the laptops and the documents , the latter placed into waterproof containers.  pouches.

    The group then paddled drove the boats out to sea for a rendezvous with a submarine - the USS New Hampshire – loaded with an early Christmas gift for Washington and London.

                                                                          

     Hours later, Asad, the leader of the NFLI, Asad emerged from the old farmhouse and stared out to sea. Fouad, his chief lieutenant, followed behind him, along with two bodyguards, followed behind him. armed with their favorite assault rifles.

   "The Americans did this. I know it," Asad said.

   "They killed or captured everyone who was at the meeting. There isn't much we can do now, is there?" Fouad asked.

   Asad's voice went up rose a couple of decibels. They will pay for this. "No matter how long it takes me, I will get see the return of my brothers who are still alive." He walked a short distance towards the beach and threw the expended flashbangs several yards out into the sea water. He turned to face Fouad. "They came ashore right here." He pointed at some grooves and tracks on the beach. Then he screamed in the direction of the sea, "You bastards will pay for this!"

Revised Text
                                                     Chapter 1

            Their late night meeting place took place in an old, faded-white farmhouse on the coast of Libya, not far from Tobruk. The rectangular structure was made of concrete and situated at the base of a small hill. The only door to the building was constructed of heavy wood and the windows were boarded shut. A power line ran to the house from a single wooden pole.  A lone light atop it burned bright at the front of the house. Its luminescence shone a glistening path across the dried-up dirt that once sprouted crops, and its rays extended a short way beyond the shore and into the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

            Two guards, each armed with Chinese versions of the vaunted Russian AK-47 assault rifle, patrolled the area outside the farmhouse–one moving clockwise around the perimeter of the property while the other walked in the opposite direction.

            Inside the building, three of the five senior military commanders of the National Front for the Liberation of Islam, or NFLI as it was commonly referred to, were seated around an improvised plywood table that was supported by rusted barrels. Several operatives of lesser stature also sat at the table, along with a number of heavily armed guards. An open map of Europe lay on the table, and laptops and briefcases were strewn around the room.

    

            Clad in dark-colored wetsuits, a joint operation composed of U.S. Navy SEALS and members of the British Special Boat Service emerged from the water in relative silence.  They pulled two identical rubber boats onto the beach, and two SEALS remained with the crafts as a ten-man team moved towards the farmhouse.

            Two team members moved ahead of the group while the others knelt with their M4A1s and MP5s at the ready.  In the blink of an eye, one guard went down as the result of a single shot from a sniper rifle with a sophisticated silencer attached to it. The same fate befell the second guard. No one came to the door, indicating that those inside the building had not been alerted to what was happening.

            A brief flash of light told the rest of the team the area was clear. With stealth and precision, they moved toward the house.  When the reached the door, the SEALS readied flashbangs. On a signal from the group commander, they opened the door and tossed the grenades inside.

            After the explosions, the door was thrown open and the team charged inside. Five men went right and the other five went left, spraying a volley of bullets in every direction in front of them. When the raid was over, the team captured a half-dozen men and acquired two laptops and various documents, the latter placed into waterproof pouches.

            The group then drove the boats out to sea for a rendezvous with a submarine--the USS New Hampshire--loaded with an early Christmas gift for Washington and London.

                                              .                             .                               .

            Asad, the leader of the NFLI, emerged from the old farmhouse and stared out to sea. Fouad, his chief lieutenant, along with two bodyguards, followed behind him.

            "The Americans did this, I know it," Asad said.

            "They killed or captured everyone who was at the meeting. There isn't much we can do now, is there?" Fouad asked.

            Asad's voice rose a couple decibels. "No matter how long it takes me, I will see the return of my brothers who are still alive." He walked a short distance toward the beach and threw the expended flashbangs into the water. He turned and faced Fouad. "They came ashore right here." He pointed at some grooves and tracks on the beach. Then he screamed in the direction of the sea, "You bastards will pay for this!"

This was a cursory line edit at best, but it will give you an idea of the way the text can read once the syntax elements I mentioned are given some attention.  You might find it beneficial to go to the Articles Page on my Web Site at www.theperfectwrite.com and scroll through the titles.  Many of the pieces pertain directly to issues I brought up in my critique--and illustrated via the line edit.

I want to wish you the best of luck with your writing, and if you have any questions about this critique, please feel free to contact me.

Regards,

Robert L. (Rob) Bacon, Founder

The Perfect Write®

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The Devil's Tower Critique by Robert L. Bacon

The Devil's Tower
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.

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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