Something's not working here. I've read it, re-edited, added and subtracted but I feel like something's missing. I was hoping it might a chrons-objective eye to point out.
The premise is this: Henry has returned to his home town from working on a watermill project for a priory in Cranbowen. He's lashed loosely beneath a tripod of coloured staves by his wrists and neck. It's part of a yearly spring ceremony set in 1348 in Dorset, UK. His role in the ceremony is to represent that of 'Black Peter' - an archetype symbol of fertility or some such. It's meant to introduce the call and response between the villagers and the Hocktide steward.
It's written from Henry's POV; this happens every year, Henry's been Black Peter in the past, so he's familiar with the ceremony and so doesn't remark on it much (he's more concerned about things he's just done elsewhere, his missing wife, and he's dog-tired), and I think that might the problem.
Any comments? Thank you.
*****
Henry could no longer feel his arms, but despite the pain - perhaps because of it - he found he was slipping in and out of something like sleep. The smell of hot tar drifting across the common snapped him out of his latest doze and he tried to focus his swimming eyes on the singing mass that approached.
The township danced towards him with their banners and pennants. When he was at Cranbowen, he had occasion to work with Brother Lawrence who would notate his instructions and plans in the scriptorium. One cold morn as he waited for the monks to finish terce prayers, he looked through what Lawrence had later called a bestiary. The mob ahead of him looked like the glorious illustrations in that tome, a bestiary made from every colour of the rainbow: dog-faced boys, fantastical animals with human features, walking fish and horned things called out in song as they pranced and spun their way to him.
‘Cry the wrist, risk the neck, we have him, we have him, we have him!’ the steward sang.
‘What ‘ave ‘ee, what ave ‘ee, what ave ‘ee?’ the crowd responded.
‘I bring you Black Peter, affixed by the feet, Black Peter, Black Peter, Black Peter!’
‘Black Peter! Hurrah! Hurrah, for the feet!’ the town chanted back.
Henry joined in, mumbling the final call, and together the entire town sang:
‘I’m Death, I come in water and flame, to draw the flesh from Black Peter’s frame, let the worms renounce their claim, for hanged he’ll be, oh, hanged he’ll be.’
The premise is this: Henry has returned to his home town from working on a watermill project for a priory in Cranbowen. He's lashed loosely beneath a tripod of coloured staves by his wrists and neck. It's part of a yearly spring ceremony set in 1348 in Dorset, UK. His role in the ceremony is to represent that of 'Black Peter' - an archetype symbol of fertility or some such. It's meant to introduce the call and response between the villagers and the Hocktide steward.
It's written from Henry's POV; this happens every year, Henry's been Black Peter in the past, so he's familiar with the ceremony and so doesn't remark on it much (he's more concerned about things he's just done elsewhere, his missing wife, and he's dog-tired), and I think that might the problem.
Any comments? Thank you.
*****
Henry could no longer feel his arms, but despite the pain - perhaps because of it - he found he was slipping in and out of something like sleep. The smell of hot tar drifting across the common snapped him out of his latest doze and he tried to focus his swimming eyes on the singing mass that approached.
The township danced towards him with their banners and pennants. When he was at Cranbowen, he had occasion to work with Brother Lawrence who would notate his instructions and plans in the scriptorium. One cold morn as he waited for the monks to finish terce prayers, he looked through what Lawrence had later called a bestiary. The mob ahead of him looked like the glorious illustrations in that tome, a bestiary made from every colour of the rainbow: dog-faced boys, fantastical animals with human features, walking fish and horned things called out in song as they pranced and spun their way to him.
‘Cry the wrist, risk the neck, we have him, we have him, we have him!’ the steward sang.
‘What ‘ave ‘ee, what ave ‘ee, what ave ‘ee?’ the crowd responded.
‘I bring you Black Peter, affixed by the feet, Black Peter, Black Peter, Black Peter!’
‘Black Peter! Hurrah! Hurrah, for the feet!’ the town chanted back.
Henry joined in, mumbling the final call, and together the entire town sang:
‘I’m Death, I come in water and flame, to draw the flesh from Black Peter’s frame, let the worms renounce their claim, for hanged he’ll be, oh, hanged he’ll be.’