Since HB has -- belatedly -- led the way in acknowledging his 9,000th post with a return to the old established tradition of putting work up for critique upon reaching 000 figures, regrettably a tradition more honoured in the breach than the observance nowadays, I thought I'd better show willing, too.
This is something new I was considering last summer, but which I didn't take any further than this opening chapter for one reason and another, but New Year and all that, I was wondering if it was worth pursuing. Briefly, it's a fantasy-detective premise set in Georgian England, with a tiny bit of alternative history thrown in for good measure. That alt-history lies in a concord in 54 BC between British-Celtic female druids and Rome’s Vestal Virgins, which later leads to the creation of the Collegium of Drya Vestals. Now, 1400 years after it was founded, during which time it had to bend to the storm winds of Christianity, the Collegium is returning to its pagan roots and its wood-magic. It has also begun to allow senior Vestals to perform ceremonies for private individuals, which is why one of them is here.
I've got some concerns over it, but I'll wait and see if they're picked up in the comments. Sorry it's on the long side at just over 1400 words. NB All the names are placeholders, hence the Drya's daft name and the proliferation of Bs for the others.
~~~~~~~
Whispers. Furtive, excited, delightedly shocked.
“Is that really her? The Vestal?”
“Who else would dare wear the stola?”
Women’s whispers. Thin needles of electrification, surrounding her, charging the air in the room.
“Whatever was the Collegium thinking in sending such a person here?”
Muffled whispers. Spilling from pale, painted faces, concealed behind fans of vellum and ivory, lace and mother-of-pearl.
“Gracious, she’s so very tall.”
“And so very black.”
Wasp whispers, darting ever closer. Stinging.
“What is the world coming to if a slave is allowed to become a Vestal?”
Each sting draws fresh blood, ignites flames of loathing in her breast.
“I’ve heard the colour won’t come off no matter how hard you scrub them.”
She resists the compulsion to turn, to confront the whispers; forces herself to remain at the window. She only moves her gaze, raising her eyes from the alders and willows trembling at the edge of the distant lake, to the oaks and sycamores sweeping down to the slighted ruins of the old castle beyond.
Beneath the whispers, in counterpoint, a drone hum. Male voices spewing from meat-coloured faces – beef-bloody, pork-slabbed. Not muffled by fashion, but pitched low, lip service paid to her status.
“Don’t mind her colour meself, served in the Indies after all, but thought she’d be a damn sight more womanly.”
“One hears stories, of course."
"Stories?"
"Unnatural practices of a carnal nature. Scurrilous, no doubt. Yet one cannot help wondering what befalls at the Grove. So many women without male control.”
More stinging pain, more flames of hatred. Her expression blank though the fire in her soul crackles and spits, like green pine ablaze; thirty years in the Order providing the appearance of composure but never yet the reality.
Louder rumbling from the powdered, periwigged drones.
“All this for a blasted tree. In this day and age. Ludicrous superstition.”
“Gray’s a sailor; they’re superstitious to a man.”
“It’s pagan heresy. The whole diabolic cult should be extirpated, the false temple and its trees destroyed, the women and their credulous supporters subject to penalties as with the Papists.”
Discipline tells her to remain aloof, impervious, but her heart yearns for retribution, to show the parasites her power. The Amici hear. As ever, oak responds first – beams above, floorboards beneath, shivering at her call. With them, she could destroy the whole swarm of insects. Satinwood chairs and card tables, mahogany desk and longcase clock, sycamore bookcases, all quivering, waiting to be used. Walnut stock of a fowling piece above the mantel, boxwood case holding duelling pistols on the desk, both thirsting for blood. Even the birch spills, shuffling in their vase on the mantelpiece, eager for her word.
Discipline holds. She compels her mind to calm, quietens the Amici.
Then among the waspish, droning buzz, a hornet.
“Damn me, but she’s ugly!” Loud, imperious, lordly in his own conceit. “Sure it ain’t a man in disguise? Ought we to look, see if there’s a pizzle under all that outlandish clothing?”
Ridiculous vapours from the wasps, vapid reproaches from the drones. She pays no attention. The blaze of angry hate flares higher, and damping down the flames takes more effort. She succeeds, but broods on retribution.
What if she were to avenge herself? Not on all the insects, merely on one? Covertly, so her powers remain concealed as required by the Order? Which of the Amici would she use? Oak, too dangerous. Satinwood, mahogany, sycamore, all too large, too obvious. Walnut and box, still too overt. Birch spills, too weak.
There. A fan wielded close to the hornet. The fan’s guards stained and lacquered to resemble costly tortoiseshell, but beneath the paint, plain cheap deal. The slivers of pine tremble under the touch of her mind, releasing their long-forgotten memories of life – cold wind blowing sleet from the mountains, the cry of eagles, the howl of wolf and skitter of deer, the companionship of resin-scented brothers stretching mile after mile over the Scottish uplands. Majesty reduced to a painted, lying trinket in a fat woman’s hand.
Laughter from the hornet. “Face like that, black as my horse to boot, no surprise she’s a Virgin, eh, for who would want to ride her?”
An eruption of fire, a volcano of hate, discipline overwhelmed. The slivers of pine heed her call. The fan tears itself from the woman’s grasp, flings itself at the hornet’s face.
A scream of pain. A clatter as the bloodied fan drops to the floor.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t shift her gaze from the patient trees, doesn’t allow her expression to alter, but in her grim heart RoseOak laughs.
I should have been threading my way through the crowd, greeting, smiling, playing the role ordained for me, not quite lady of the house, not quite housekeeper, and my part should have been enacted not in the cramped confines of the library, but in the great drawing room, its furniture mostly removed in order to cope with the numbers, for the Admiral had invited half the county to the ceremony. Yet the crush in the room and my failure of duty were all too soon the least of my concerns.
Our being in the library and not the drawing room was due to the Drya Vestal herself. With the Admiral in tow, she had stalked though each of the rooms on the piano nobile, looking not at the new and expensive furnishings he had purchased, but at the view from each window. Upon reaching the library, she could not be persuaded to move further. The Admiral’s guests were there because their frenzy to be in her presence overrode their sense of decorum, as it did mine, for I stood in the corner, scarce able to tear my eyes from her. I had seen eminent women before, influential and aristocratic women, for until his final illness Great-Uncle Thomas had entertained widely. Yet whatever power those women possessed came second-hand, from their father’s rank or their husband’s money. She, though, Lady RoseOak, she was power incarnate and I was transfixed.
My absence of good manners went unnoticed, the women too absorbed in spiteful gossip, the men with lewd remarks. Then Mr Eliot spoke. An intelligent, gracious man, the embodiment of moderation in all things save his dislike of Catholics and Dissenters, and, as it appeared, the Collegium of the Drya Vestals. I would have listened with interest to his argument, but I was immediately distracted, and thereafter incident piled upon terrible incident, until all was forgotten.
The distraction came – I can scarce write this without thinking how absurd it must sound – as the room shuddered. No volumes shifted in the bookcases, the many paintings – ships, ships and more ships by indifferent artists, and one exquisite Canaletto – moved not one hair’s breadth on the walls, the fragile porcelain lids of the Chinese jars upon the mantelpiece made no sound, yet the sensation was as palpable to me as though the earth had quaked beneath us. No one but I appeared to notice, however, for the gossip and lewd talk continued uninterrupted. Indeed, the lewd talk temporarily increased in depravity and volume, for, as though summoned by the shuddering, Mr Edgar Wilson appeared. His offensive remarks ended the gossip and talk as the room’s convulsions had not.
Several ladies felt offended enough to enjoy an attack of the vapours, which recalled me to my duty as I sent a footman for sal volatile and a few feathers to burn. Some gentlemen provided aid to the vaporous by assisting them to the chairs and window seats, while others, Mr Eliot not excepted, reproved Mr Wilson. Whether they would have extracted the apology demanded of him, I cannot say, for after he burst forth with yet more offence, a second strange incident occurred: old Mrs Browning hurled her fan at him, cutting open his cheek.
I was dealing with the aftermath of this assault – not least endeavouring to comfort the tearful Mrs Browning herself, who claimed the fan had flown from her grasp – when the Admiral’s nephew, Mr Barker, appeared at my side.
“Have you seen the Admiral, Miss Barrington? It is surely time for us to think of commencing the picnic dinner.”
Mortified at this further dereliction of my duty – for I was charged with the arrangements for this strange meal – I was about to reply that I had not seen him for some half an hour, when a piercing scream came from outside. The Admiral had been found. His body, that is.
This is something new I was considering last summer, but which I didn't take any further than this opening chapter for one reason and another, but New Year and all that, I was wondering if it was worth pursuing. Briefly, it's a fantasy-detective premise set in Georgian England, with a tiny bit of alternative history thrown in for good measure. That alt-history lies in a concord in 54 BC between British-Celtic female druids and Rome’s Vestal Virgins, which later leads to the creation of the Collegium of Drya Vestals. Now, 1400 years after it was founded, during which time it had to bend to the storm winds of Christianity, the Collegium is returning to its pagan roots and its wood-magic. It has also begun to allow senior Vestals to perform ceremonies for private individuals, which is why one of them is here.
I've got some concerns over it, but I'll wait and see if they're picked up in the comments. Sorry it's on the long side at just over 1400 words. NB All the names are placeholders, hence the Drya's daft name and the proliferation of Bs for the others.
~~~~~~~
Whispers. Furtive, excited, delightedly shocked.
“Is that really her? The Vestal?”
“Who else would dare wear the stola?”
Women’s whispers. Thin needles of electrification, surrounding her, charging the air in the room.
“Whatever was the Collegium thinking in sending such a person here?”
Muffled whispers. Spilling from pale, painted faces, concealed behind fans of vellum and ivory, lace and mother-of-pearl.
“Gracious, she’s so very tall.”
“And so very black.”
Wasp whispers, darting ever closer. Stinging.
“What is the world coming to if a slave is allowed to become a Vestal?”
Each sting draws fresh blood, ignites flames of loathing in her breast.
“I’ve heard the colour won’t come off no matter how hard you scrub them.”
She resists the compulsion to turn, to confront the whispers; forces herself to remain at the window. She only moves her gaze, raising her eyes from the alders and willows trembling at the edge of the distant lake, to the oaks and sycamores sweeping down to the slighted ruins of the old castle beyond.
Beneath the whispers, in counterpoint, a drone hum. Male voices spewing from meat-coloured faces – beef-bloody, pork-slabbed. Not muffled by fashion, but pitched low, lip service paid to her status.
“Don’t mind her colour meself, served in the Indies after all, but thought she’d be a damn sight more womanly.”
“One hears stories, of course."
"Stories?"
"Unnatural practices of a carnal nature. Scurrilous, no doubt. Yet one cannot help wondering what befalls at the Grove. So many women without male control.”
More stinging pain, more flames of hatred. Her expression blank though the fire in her soul crackles and spits, like green pine ablaze; thirty years in the Order providing the appearance of composure but never yet the reality.
Louder rumbling from the powdered, periwigged drones.
“All this for a blasted tree. In this day and age. Ludicrous superstition.”
“Gray’s a sailor; they’re superstitious to a man.”
“It’s pagan heresy. The whole diabolic cult should be extirpated, the false temple and its trees destroyed, the women and their credulous supporters subject to penalties as with the Papists.”
Discipline tells her to remain aloof, impervious, but her heart yearns for retribution, to show the parasites her power. The Amici hear. As ever, oak responds first – beams above, floorboards beneath, shivering at her call. With them, she could destroy the whole swarm of insects. Satinwood chairs and card tables, mahogany desk and longcase clock, sycamore bookcases, all quivering, waiting to be used. Walnut stock of a fowling piece above the mantel, boxwood case holding duelling pistols on the desk, both thirsting for blood. Even the birch spills, shuffling in their vase on the mantelpiece, eager for her word.
Discipline holds. She compels her mind to calm, quietens the Amici.
Then among the waspish, droning buzz, a hornet.
“Damn me, but she’s ugly!” Loud, imperious, lordly in his own conceit. “Sure it ain’t a man in disguise? Ought we to look, see if there’s a pizzle under all that outlandish clothing?”
Ridiculous vapours from the wasps, vapid reproaches from the drones. She pays no attention. The blaze of angry hate flares higher, and damping down the flames takes more effort. She succeeds, but broods on retribution.
What if she were to avenge herself? Not on all the insects, merely on one? Covertly, so her powers remain concealed as required by the Order? Which of the Amici would she use? Oak, too dangerous. Satinwood, mahogany, sycamore, all too large, too obvious. Walnut and box, still too overt. Birch spills, too weak.
There. A fan wielded close to the hornet. The fan’s guards stained and lacquered to resemble costly tortoiseshell, but beneath the paint, plain cheap deal. The slivers of pine tremble under the touch of her mind, releasing their long-forgotten memories of life – cold wind blowing sleet from the mountains, the cry of eagles, the howl of wolf and skitter of deer, the companionship of resin-scented brothers stretching mile after mile over the Scottish uplands. Majesty reduced to a painted, lying trinket in a fat woman’s hand.
Laughter from the hornet. “Face like that, black as my horse to boot, no surprise she’s a Virgin, eh, for who would want to ride her?”
An eruption of fire, a volcano of hate, discipline overwhelmed. The slivers of pine heed her call. The fan tears itself from the woman’s grasp, flings itself at the hornet’s face.
A scream of pain. A clatter as the bloodied fan drops to the floor.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t shift her gaze from the patient trees, doesn’t allow her expression to alter, but in her grim heart RoseOak laughs.
*
I should have been threading my way through the crowd, greeting, smiling, playing the role ordained for me, not quite lady of the house, not quite housekeeper, and my part should have been enacted not in the cramped confines of the library, but in the great drawing room, its furniture mostly removed in order to cope with the numbers, for the Admiral had invited half the county to the ceremony. Yet the crush in the room and my failure of duty were all too soon the least of my concerns.
Our being in the library and not the drawing room was due to the Drya Vestal herself. With the Admiral in tow, she had stalked though each of the rooms on the piano nobile, looking not at the new and expensive furnishings he had purchased, but at the view from each window. Upon reaching the library, she could not be persuaded to move further. The Admiral’s guests were there because their frenzy to be in her presence overrode their sense of decorum, as it did mine, for I stood in the corner, scarce able to tear my eyes from her. I had seen eminent women before, influential and aristocratic women, for until his final illness Great-Uncle Thomas had entertained widely. Yet whatever power those women possessed came second-hand, from their father’s rank or their husband’s money. She, though, Lady RoseOak, she was power incarnate and I was transfixed.
My absence of good manners went unnoticed, the women too absorbed in spiteful gossip, the men with lewd remarks. Then Mr Eliot spoke. An intelligent, gracious man, the embodiment of moderation in all things save his dislike of Catholics and Dissenters, and, as it appeared, the Collegium of the Drya Vestals. I would have listened with interest to his argument, but I was immediately distracted, and thereafter incident piled upon terrible incident, until all was forgotten.
The distraction came – I can scarce write this without thinking how absurd it must sound – as the room shuddered. No volumes shifted in the bookcases, the many paintings – ships, ships and more ships by indifferent artists, and one exquisite Canaletto – moved not one hair’s breadth on the walls, the fragile porcelain lids of the Chinese jars upon the mantelpiece made no sound, yet the sensation was as palpable to me as though the earth had quaked beneath us. No one but I appeared to notice, however, for the gossip and lewd talk continued uninterrupted. Indeed, the lewd talk temporarily increased in depravity and volume, for, as though summoned by the shuddering, Mr Edgar Wilson appeared. His offensive remarks ended the gossip and talk as the room’s convulsions had not.
Several ladies felt offended enough to enjoy an attack of the vapours, which recalled me to my duty as I sent a footman for sal volatile and a few feathers to burn. Some gentlemen provided aid to the vaporous by assisting them to the chairs and window seats, while others, Mr Eliot not excepted, reproved Mr Wilson. Whether they would have extracted the apology demanded of him, I cannot say, for after he burst forth with yet more offence, a second strange incident occurred: old Mrs Browning hurled her fan at him, cutting open his cheek.
I was dealing with the aftermath of this assault – not least endeavouring to comfort the tearful Mrs Browning herself, who claimed the fan had flown from her grasp – when the Admiral’s nephew, Mr Barker, appeared at my side.
“Have you seen the Admiral, Miss Barrington? It is surely time for us to think of commencing the picnic dinner.”
Mortified at this further dereliction of my duty – for I was charged with the arrangements for this strange meal – I was about to reply that I had not seen him for some half an hour, when a piercing scream came from outside. The Admiral had been found. His body, that is.
