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Extracted from Entwined

The following is a part I extracted from "Entwined", a series of novel I'm working on.

Hope you'll like it.

       Her heart pounding against her chest, she crept closer to the tent and peeked through an aperture in the side. Four men gathered around a table. On it spread a large map, held in place by a dirk stabbing it in a corner to the wood underneath. They were speaking in hushed tones and in the dim light of the candle burning low, Anastasia was unable to make out their features. She listened intently.
        “We cornered them then.” spoke a rough, scratchy voice which came from a stick of a man who towered above the others. If it hadn’t been for the mail and armor, Anastasia believed that a strong gust of wind could have taken him into the air.
        A deep and melodic but strangely familiar voice laughed disdainfully. The owner of the voice was tall and sturdy of build and his garment, Anastasia could see, was of fine velvet richly elaborated with silver thread that glowed even in the gloom. He moved closer to the table, his back to her. “And they had been so blindly confident. What was that they called out before war, Hans? Hail Queen Anastasia? Anastasia? Not King Lointon! I name that conspiracy, gentleman, and if her idiot of a brother had more sense in him, he would have had her killed. Never has it been a wise thing to do to make a woman a general…especially an exquisite one. That adds to her inability to harness an army of men. They want her, not her capability. I say she is terribly wasted on the field, while she could be such a pleasure…”
        Anastasia gritted her teeth, I’ll show you capability, she promised. But how could they have known? They couldn’t have…unless…She stayed and listened on.
        Scratchy voice chuckled “It appears that Bandaekock is gravely scarce of competence.”
        “What are we to do with the prisoners, your Highness?”
         A potent shock slammed into Anastasia as she recognized the voice of the young boy she had saved at the creek. Anger soon took over. How could she be foolish enough to believe the cock and bull story he had fed her? An orphan from the village of Johan? She should have let him die, or better, killed him herself. Now their plans and movements have probably all been penetrated because of her moment of blind mercy and stupidity. Perhaps the man was right, she thought bitterly to herself, I’m as incapable as he said.
        A squat man spoke “I say we torture them until they yield the location of their lair.” he replied in a voice so deep that Anastasia could almost feel the air rumbling around her. “We’ll then seek it, then exterminate it. Then, we’ll come back and kill them.”
        The boy muttered something incoherent. The other three men laughed cruelly “This is war, boy!” barked the second voice “There is nothing we won’t do.” The man picked up the candle and illuminated his leer at the boy, forcing him a step back. At the sight of the man’s face, Anastasia nearly cried out in surprise.
The cruel face in the weak candle light was Miraque’s. He pulled the dirk out from the table with his other hand and the heavy parchment map slid soundlessly to the earth packed ground. “I won’t even hesitate to slit your throat with this if I can achieve greater benefit from it. All I’ll have to do is…” with one swift motion, he had the boy locked in one arm with the blade right under his chin. The boy let out a weak whimper. Miraque let down the dirk and joined in the others’ laughter.
“Useless youth.” spat the squat man with the bull-frog voice “Useless. Just kill him, I say. We have no use for such useless—”
“Mind your place, Qoure. And you said useless thrice.” Miraque said dangerously. “No one is to lay a hand on my squire. His life is mine to hold. Hans,” he laid the candle and dirk back onto the table and turned to his squire. “I won’t tolerate cowardice in my service, you hear me? I’ll beat it out of you once I see any trace of it. Now, bring me the map.” Hans the young boy hurriedly picked up the map and handed it up to his master. Miraque pulled out a stool from beneath the table and sat while his men stood around him, as still as statues. He studied it carefully for a few moments then finally, lifted his head “Good news, gentlemen, my brother’s efforts at the Creek have finally come in good use. We have surmounted our original plan.”
 Anastasia sighed silently with relief, learning that the cruel man wasn’t Miraque. That had to be Padraish, his infamous war-loving brother. But relief soon turned into horror as she heard Padraish’s next words. “Whereas our plan was to take down Barhwrath a fortnight later, we’ll accomplish this task in less than three days. Miraque has cleared the Gorgon’s ford for us, which once stood in our way and now it’s up to us to take the rest of it. We enter the Peacock Kingdom from the Spirit’s Pass.” He slid his index finger across the parchment indicating the route to the men. “I believe Jagatah will be kind enough as to eliminate those creatures for us. They will be unprepared and vulnerable. I will send another troop to the end of the pass, so when we drive and scatter the creatures from the rear, Jagatah could kill them off one by one in the front. What do you think, gentlemen? Is this not a wholesome and constructive plan?” he asked, looking proudly at his men.
Those words sent stabs of panic through Anastasia. I have to warn Sateira. However, she noticed that she wasn’t the only anxious one. Padraish’s men exchanged secret uneasy glances “Your Highness.” ventured stick-man. “I…uh…”
“Speak whatever you conceive in mind,” Padraish said impatiently “or speak no more.”
“My pardons, your Highness,” said stick-man “yet how are we to be sure the Spirits will fall as easily as we wish? Spirits are wise things and Spirit’s Pass itself is a treacherous land that fights whoever disturbs it.” The other two men nodded. “Those are Spirit’s lands, your Highness, and we cannot hope to—A prudent choice it would be to skirt that place.”
“You really are growing old, Sentin.” complained Padraish. He looked up scornfully “perhaps I ought to find a new commander.” He stood up again and kicked over the stool. “Did you miss the part I said about Jagatah? He has told me he knows the secret to a Spirit’s death.”
“But we can’t trust Jagatah.” objected the man named Sentin, “He is a wizard and it is known that wizards can’t be trusted.”
“Those people have no reason to say so.” replied Padraish. “What about this, Sentin? Give me reasons to trust you rather than him.”
Sentin went down on one knee at once. “I serve you with loyalty and I serve you with my life.”
“Jagatah said as much.” said Padraish, waving his hand, “and he did serve me well. Better than you even, sometimes. Would you like me to make him commander instead of you? Would you?” Sentin remained silent. “Good. Then we have no more issues on this. The Spirits will be exterminated, and Bandaekock will be ours in no time. Hail Wendaegaria!”
“Hail Wendaegaria” repeated the others, though not half so enthusiastically.
I’ve heard enough. Anastasia was about to leave, when a movement at the entrance of the tent caught her eye. She slinked back into the shadows, certain her heart was likely to thump a hole into her chest anytime.

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Posted by Jev on 2013-06-15 15:45:06 | Permalink | Comments(-1) | TrackBacks(0)

The green and I

This was actually meant to be my assignment of the English Poetry class, but I really don't see the harm of putting it here, where, people of the same interests may see it.

 

The Green and I     By Josephine Vandorsa
When the grey wind rages through the valley
and the rain releases its wrath upon the vast moor;
The crops and fruit they spoiled aplenty
and the roots of great sentinels they tore.
Even the highest of mountains weep with fear,
for rivers of mud, consuming all in its way as it goes
are the tears they bear.
Oh, what powerful brothers, the wind and the rain!
Oh, the vilest of bandits, the wind and the rain!
Wherever they go, ruins lay in their wake.
But there, a tiny patch of green afar!
The wind tries to sweep it up within its talons
yet the green presses its flexible self tightly against mother earth, out of the wind’s reach.
The rain then attempts to drown it with gallons
yet the green sways at ease along with the flow, not in the least breached.
With a howl, the wind retreats, and
its companion, the spiteful rain, with a roar.
Tranquility returns, and the grass stands straight and proud.
And it’s in that very same moor, where I can be found.
 
 
This is an assingment of the chapter "Figurative Language 2---Symbol and Allegory". A symbol may be defined as something more than what it is. (Sound and Sense) 
In this assignment, every student is asked to find something that can be used as a symbol of him or herself and deliver it through a poem. In this poem, I appeared to be refering to grass and its tenacity and how even the strong winds and heavy rain can't destroy it. The one I'm implying, through this, is me. I'm a person who persists, even in the hardest of times and in the foulest of luck. I have always prided myself in being a person who is able to take failures positively and turning it into a chance of making my self better. My perspective of life, can be presented through a single blade of grass. You may have played with grass once, and find it hard to tug away from the earth, regardless of how fragile it may seem. If you tug at it forcefully, you may even end up cutting your fingers. Even if you succeeded in plucking it away from the earth, it returns again, after several days, for its roots are deep in the ground where you can't see it, and if the root is there, it will always be there.
This is what a tiny blade of grass is capable of. Small as it may be in the eye of many, its vitality and potential fecundity is not to be underestimated. It follows the flow of life, and let life carry it on its way, instead of fighting it in the face. When brutally treated, it simply lowers it head and waits for the force to end, and after that, it rises up, uncathed and stronger than before. I suppose this is who I am and who I will always be---a blade of grass.

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Posted by Jev on 2013-02-22 20:44:13 | Permalink | Comments(-93) | TrackBacks(0)

A POEM WORTH SHARING--THE HIGHWAYMAN

I just saw this poem a few days ago, and I love it so much that I feel compelled to write and share this with you.
I first heard this poem sung in a song by Loreena McKennitt and found the story such a beautiful and sad one. The way the poem is delivered, with the music and Loreena's enchanting voice (when she sings, you can imagine a bard coming from far away, telling you a long forgotten story) makes this simply impeccable (my personal opinion)

This is the poem~
THE HIGHWAYMAN
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark innyard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come at the dawning; he did not come at noon,
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement,
The road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"now keep good watch!" And they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say
"Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years!
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!

Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still!

Tlot in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment! She drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were the spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.


After I had read this poem, I asked myself "What would I do if I were Bess?" At first glance, this may look like a foolish deed, to die for one you've met only once and barely knew. Yet as I brooded more on the question, I realized that I would do the same if I were the land lord's daughter; not out of the reason of love, but of the sense of obligation and bitter spite for the red cloaks. Perhaps Bess had thought that way, too, but linking this with love would make this story much more beautiful in a certain way. And the highway man's choice to return in vengeance for Bess also made this tragic love story all the more poignant. Imagine, the story would have made a very sharp turn if the highwayman chose otherwise, to flee instead, which would make him seem ungrateful and somehow even hateful. The author, Alfred Noyes, also did a very good job with imagery in this poem; it is as if I could find myself standing in the middle of the lonely purple moor, watching the highwayman pass by you in his fine raiment, the moment of romance he had with Bess, and feel the chill crawling up my spine as I see the group of red approaching from afar, hunting for the highwayman. And later I would find myself standing over the struggling Bess with blood tricking down her wrists into a small red pool on the wooden floor of the inn because of her efforts to help the man, and hear her last sigh right before the gunshot rang through the tranquil night. Lastly, feeling the highwayman's remorse and sorrow upon learning the death of Bess and coming back along with him, only to see him fall off his horse when the King George's men gave him the deadly shot. But he wasn't forgotten, for on cold winter nights, he would come by this moor once again, proud and handsome as ever, and the beautiful tragedy repeats itself once more before my eyes.

This is my opinion about the poem, and the reason I love it. I have always loved sad poems and tragedies, and this is one of the best I've ever seen.
I hope you would enjoy it, too.

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Posted by Jev on 2013-02-21 22:43:52 | Permalink | Comments(-1) | TrackBacks(0)