Hollow Releif.

The following is a peice of fiction I wrote as a part of my A Level English Language and Literature course last academic year. It was a "text transformation" peice in which I adapted a few fables into the first chapter of a novel, which I named Hollow Releif. It is approximately 2200 words long and set in medieval times. If you like, you can pick out semantic feilds, and metaphors and similies- they were added in intentionally over hours of scrutiny. I hope you enjoy it. Nomi.

I.

   THE night was black as sin. Each shadow danced across the floor, as if by doing so they could erase the dark histories of each poor soul who had suffered the misfortune of being held captive within the castle walls. The castle itself was not much to look at, it was small and old, nobody terribly important had ever resided there, only distant cousins of the great ones, whose names were soon forgotten. The hallways were empty of people, no need to worry about anyone breaking in; nobody had tried in over half a century. Tonight, however, there was a strange smell on the air inside the castle as two unlikely men wandered the corridors.

   Thomas, both the elder and the larger of the two, squinted down his crooked nose and pushed his ear up against, what seemed like, every door in the castle, listening for any sign that the object for which they searched would be found. Thomas viewed himself as a natural leader. As the first born son of a blacksmith, he was the man of the house and thus had all the answers to any problems his family might face. Years ago he had been a common criminal, a thief. Each day he would find his way to a different market and pick the pockets of the town’s folk with tactful ease, and he was good at it. He was never ca caught out until he became too arrogant, believed he was impervious to harm, his grubby hands longing for more. In his trance he had made a hasty decision to change his way of going about his daily ‘street tax’ and was seen by many. Although this hadn’t yielded positive results he had, nonetheless, continued in this reckless manner until at last there were no nearby towns in which he was not recognised. He had escaped the hue and cry one time too many when he met with his companion and given a task that would bring his life new meaning.

   His companion went by Reynard. An enigma to many, in his twenty years on this earth he hadn’t the faintest notion of roots. He had been raised by an elderly couple, who had found him by a stream when he was naught but a screaming infant. Whilst they had been kind, they had no fortune to speak of, and he often starved. When he grew older, Reynard took to the streets; he did what he had to in order to survive, only stealing when needed. He was a small man, his growth stunted from lack of food and years of hiding in small spaces to escape the heavy rainfall that dropped and splattered and threatened the ground nearly every night. It was on one such night that he was come upon by a stranger who had instructed him to find an object that would lead him to a different world.

   “How many tricks and dodges do you know?” Thomas turned to Reynard.

   “Pardon?”

   “How many tricks and dodges do you know?”

   The boy hadn’t even glanced at Thomas when he spoke; he merely continued walking down the hallway, a flickering torch in hand.

   “I don’t know more than one.”

   He bent into the next doorway and, hearing nothing opened the heavy door as quietly as possible, and peered inside. Once they were out once more and the door was closed, Reynard once again spoke.

   “What trick is that, then?”

   “When the guards chase me I jump down the bloody privy, happy? Good, be quiet.” Once again, there was silence. The sound of their footsteps grew deeper in their minds, and once Thomas could take it no longer, he sighed. “And how many tricks do you know?”

   Reynard’s Face lifted as he excitedly, and very proudly, announced that he had seventeen tricks to date, a whole bag of them if he could say so himself.

   “You’ll see, one day we’ll be chased, and I’ll be able to show you my tricks, so the guards won’t be able to catch you.”

   At that moment the sound of metal on stone brought the two to their senses as they realised they had been heard. Immediately Thomas pulled Reynard to the privy where he proceeded to pull off the wooden cover, revealing the full extent of the human waste and its accompanying stench.

   “I thought you were jesting with me! I’m not going down there.” Reynard shook his head, “we shall find another way out.”

  “This way has always worked for me; we cannot take a risk and attempt to think of another.” Thomas took in a breath and threw himself feet first down the slippery stone chute. Reynard hesitated. There was no need. He could find another way out of the castle, perhaps find the Postern Gate? Although that could take years for one who didn’t know the castle, or perhaps he could make his way to the stables and steal a horse to aid his escape? Before too long the guards were within spitting distance and he found himself running down a hallway, away from the privy and out towards the courtyard.

   Finding his way out of the castle was not a difficult task; the task now was to escape the guards, who were chasing after him like a hound would a fox. As the first light of dawn shone across the dewy grass of the fields, he came across a large villein, who was busying himself by chopping wood for the day, and he cried out to him, his ragged breath catching in his throat. He begged the man to let him hide from the guards; they were chasing him for no good reason and he had to get back to his mother, as she was ill, he pleaded. Agreeing for him to hide the man went back to his chopping, and barely was grateful Reynard hidden inside when the guards arrived and stopped to ask the man if he had witnessed him passing through.

   Reynard, by this point, was peering out through a small hole in the wall, that had crumbled away, easily reparable, but no doubt a nuisance during drafty weather, he watched closely with a feeling of dread in the deepest pit of his stomach, as if a faerie was tearing into his flesh, angry at it’s expulsion from the kingdom of heaven, and he saw the villein both declaring his not knowing a thing about Reynard, whilst simultaneously pointing the guards in his direction.

   He tried to think of any way he could escape the guards should they come in, whilst still keeping an eye on them through the hole. Perhaps a weapon of some description would aid him? Would he be able to find one whilst ensuring he wasn’t come upon by surprise? He could use his own dagger, but that was small, and was better suited for frightening someone who does not know its size and bluntness, rather than for fighting. The sound of his beating heart grew louder and more painful with every second that passed, rattling his chest and darkening his vision, until he found himself letting off a breath of pure relief. The guards were moving on. He was safe.

   Once he was sure of his safety, Reynard made his way outside and continued on his way, walking this time, without so much as glancing at the ‘man’ whose house he had hidden in, angering the hefty man.

   “You ungrateful fellow! You owe your life to me, and yet, you’re leaving me without a word of thanks.” Holding onto his temper, Reynard turned to him and spoke coolly.

   “Indeed, I should have thanked you fervently if your deeds had been as good as your words, and if your hands had not been traitors to your speech. Tell me, how many men have you condemned to those… those animals? Do they pay you well for your distinguished service or are you simply a shiftless swine?”

   At this point he turned away from the reddening man who obviously hadn’t before realised he had been seen in his act, and he walked away towards the village in which he and Thomas had previously agreed to meet. He would have arrived at this village in good time had he not come across the sight of five young boys attacking a fallen knight.

   The boys were of varying ages, the smallest being a mere eight years of age and the eldest of around nineteen. Reynard saw their technique and knew that they were squires. The build of their bodies and their skill with wielding weapons was of a specific technique that could only be the polished training of a knight. Reynard could hardly believe that the future of this country’s defence would soon rely on these boys, and he found himself becoming quite angry and, foolishly, he stepped unto them, pulled the smallest of them away and held onto him as he addressed the young squires.

   “How can you hope to be knights if you behave this way?” He glanced at the fallen knight on the floor. “You attack one of your own? Is this how you would act should the King himself walk down this road?”

   The eldest of the squires drew his sword on Reynard and gave him instruction to release the page and go about his business. Reynard refused, they should not kick a man whilst he is down, it went against a code of honour that even he, as a thief, was obliged to adhere to.

   “You are but a common peasant, and you are not permitted to speak back to me in this manner, now release the page and go on your way or else I shall be forced to engage you in combat.”

   “So be it, if you are willing to fight an unarmed man.” He dropped the page on the floor and brought his arms out beside him.

   “I shall provide you with a sword, but you have questioned my honour and so I shall cut you down where you stand. William, your sword.”

   A boy of roughly sixteen years of age stepped forwards, drew his sword and threw it to Reynard’s feet. Reynard bent to pick it up and as soon as his fingers touched the hilt of the sword, he found himself being charged at. This squire seemed to forget his training, and rather gave way to the anger and frustration that surged through his body, swinging furiously in large sweeping motions.

   This boy, we have learned, was named Arthur, who could come to play an important part in the history of Briton, but who, at the tender age of nineteen, was lost and searching for meaning in the world around him. He knew nothing of Magic and stone tables, all he knew was the importance of a good grip on your weapon.

   Reynard had decided quite early on, not to actually harm this boy, and so was manoeuvring his weapon to parry, but not riposte; defending without retaliation. This only served to increase the young man’s frustration, spurring him into a tearful frenzy of flailing attacks. This went on for some time, and was only broken apart when a rout of knights came upon their battle and forced them apart.

   Reynard knew now that he was done for, as the children all began to speak, condemning him as the man who had attacked the fallen knight; they were merely defending their master and apprehending his attacker. The maddened knight holding Reynard took this as a cue to drive his knee into Reynard’s back, causing him to wince as his back throbbed. Before he could make sense of the situation, his hands were tied and he was stumbling back toward the castle behind the knights and their horses.

   The way back was long and arduous, as Reynard has stumbled, the horses had continued, and so he was forced to clamber to his feet and he was dragged unceremoniously across the rocky dirt roads. How strange, he had thought, that they had decided to take the longer path to the castle, when the one less travelled would take a small fraction of the time and effort. Could it be that these knights were ruthless towards one who would harm one of their own? Were they even taking him to the castle, or rather some deserted area to perform the dark deed of disposing of this bane of society?

   The dungeons were dark and damp and the disgusting smell of human waste and congealed blood was rampant, making his eyes water. He was not alone; there were some six other men down here, older than he. They looked to have been there for some time, and did not acknowledge his arrival. The walls themselves were stained with dark remnants of blood and there were deep grooved in the wall where previous inhabitants had clawed away at the walls in fits of madness, searching for a way out.

   As he pulled himself to a small corner of the room, he laughed hollowly at the cruel irony that he had refused to suffer a small time in the stench of human waste, when he would now live in it for the foreseeable future.

photo from October 2008.
Let it be known-this was the first draft. I can't find the rest of my files.

Written Badly by Naomi Wong