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Encounter at dusk
I try to bury the metal splinters strewn all over the ground around me under a layer of dead leaves. This might be superfluous, though, as I run no great risk: even if a hunter or a stray farmer found them, they wouldn’t catch their attention for more than a few seconds. To the naked eye, they are just polished shards of some grey metal. Only the microscope could reveal them for what they really are.
But microscopes are hundreds of years away now.
The leaves rustle as I scuff the ground with my feet. Soon every trace of my arrival has vanished, except in the short-lived memories of the beasties that witnessed it. Satisfied, I look up at the blue patch of sky, only visible through the tiny openings in the canopy overhead. It’s hard to guess the exact time of the day without actually seeing the sun, but anywhen from 4 to 5 PM seems a reasonable pick. Perfect timing. I close my eyes and let myself drown into the ambiant stillness, snuffing the air. A complex waft of loam and humus bathes my nostrils. Bird songs fill my ears. Far away I catch a faint squelch, maybe a deer trudging across a mire. An easy prey, should any predator care.
I reopen my eyes, and put my cowl on. I check my bow and my quiver, tally the arrows. Fifty of them, with tungsten carbide heads, carbon shafts and synthetic fletching. Swift and lethal, even through a chain mail. I have my dagger too, just in case. But I should not need it, except for skinning or gutting game. The rest of my weapons are much cleverly concealed.
I stretch. No time to lose dallying, the sun will soon set: I need to gather tinder for tonight’s fire, a not too difficult task in a forest during winter. Then I have to find the right glade, which entails properly finding my bearings. I pick up a compass—one of the rare instruments I won't have to hide away—and check the needle. It confirms the direction I’d already inferred. It’ll be a snap to find the right spot now: the instructions the commissioner gave me before my departure were clear. I can’t get lost.
Sitting close to the fire whose flickering flames cast ghostly shadows, I softly blow into my rough flageolet, playing out a tune that no one shall hear again during the next millenium. No ordinary, sensible traveler would ever do that, of course. The shrill notes that spring from the wooden stick act a magnet to every creature around, be they nocturnal carnivores or, worse, roving brigands. But I’m neither afraid of beasts nor of hoodlums. My only duty is to make sure she doesn’t skirt around and miss me.
A far-off owl hoots, its call answered by the chilling howl of a lone wolf. It sounds unreal to me, like I’ve been carried away from the real world into one of those fairy tales mothers used to read at night to their drowsy children long ago, when artificially induced sleep hadn’t yet been invented. On the edge of the glade, two keen eyes glint a brief instant before backing off into darkness. A fox maybe, curious to see what is going on. I could switch to nocturnal vision, but I don’t really—
Faint, but unmistakable, the clop of a horse. That’s her. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel butterflies in my stomach. Come on, don’t be ridiculous! I resume my tune, eyes locked on the fire that crackles and splutters. Over the melody, I can now distinctly hear the squish of the hooves as they tread the soggy ground at a steady pace. Behind me, louder and nearer. Louder and nearer, until she reaches the edge. Then a break, as she pulls in and contemplates the scene. A large glade, in the centre of which a hooded form squats near a fire, playing an outlandish tune, apparently unaware of her presence. Is that any form of threat? Is this a trap? She must decide. Quickly.
The horse whinnies. I ignore the sound and keep on piping. I imagine her climbing down, so nimbly that she hardly makes a sound when she lands. But now, I can make out her unflinching steps on the grass as she comes towards me. A swish, then the sharp prick of a dagger tip in the middle of my back. I stop playing, and slowly put the flute away from my lips.
“Good evening, Joan! You shouldn’t travel by night. Even the quietest forests have eyes,” I say.
The tip of the dagger shudders as surprise shakes her.
“How do you know my name?” she asks in her strong rustic accent. “You didn’t even turn around. How do you know I’d come here?” Her voice quavers a little, and I figure out her mind ridden with fears and doubts.
“I know many things, young maid. Many things that have come to pass, many others that haven’t yet, and many others that never will.”
“Who are you?”
“Of all questions you may ask, this is one I cannot answer at this point. But believe me, I’m no enemy. I’m here to protect you.”
A short pause. “This is ridiculous. Why should I trust you?”
“Look Joan. I know your name. I know where you come from, and on what quest you embarked. I know you’d be here tonight and I was waiting for you. Do you really believe you can safely sneak through English territory and ride across half of the country to reach the goal you set yourself, and succeed?”
“I’ve placed myself in the hand of God. He shall keep me safe and rid of my path of our true king's enemies. I need no protection, from you or anyone else.”
“Precisely,” I reply, sternly. “God sent me.”
I hear her giggling, as she puts her dagger back in its sheath. “I’ve seen angels with my own eyes. You don’t look like any of them.”
“And what do angels look like, dear?”
She doesn’t answer, but rather comes in front of me, and sits on the ground. Our faces are level. Definitely, she’s not as the later portraitists fancied. Long face, delicate nose, medium dark hair, cut into a short bob that gives her an almost fragile male apparence. Almond-shaped green eyes that betray her intelligence but fail to register my own face, concealed as it is under the hood.
“Why do you keep that hood?” she asks, acknowledging her unsuccessful attempt.
“So that you can’t see my face.”
”Why do you hide it?”
“You don’t want to see it. Under no circumstances. Not before I decide to show it to you. If ever do.”
“You wouldn’t be the Devil, by all means?”
I laugh. “Not that I’m aware of. Did you spot a tail behind me? Or horns spiking under that hood?”
“No. But you could’ve altered your apparence to trick me.”
Hopefully, I have an easy way to wiggle out. “I’m a former leper. The disease left me scarred and deformed. I don’t want to scare you, that’s all.”
She pouts. “I understand,” she finally says. “And I don’t think you’re the devil anyway. He’d try to seduce me, I guess, because of the vow I made to remain staunch to my love of God. He’d probably appear as an elegant, handsome young noble, not as a former leper hidden under a cowl.”
I smirk, but she can’t see it. “Does that—” I break off. Behind me the horse neighs in fear. I swirl around and spot, on the edge of glade, twelve, maybe fifteen pair of feral eyes, whose pupils glint with the light of the fire.
“Wolves!” I shout. “Get to your horse, quick!”
She jumps to her feet, unsheathes her dagger and runs across the grass to her steed. Under the command of a dark grey hound, the pack slowly closes on the horse in a wary, but resolute march. I could use a brand to repel them, but they’re an easy target. I seize a first arrow from my quiver, draw my bow and train it to the leader. The string sings as it snaps, and the missile flies smack bang into the wolf’s head, crushing the skull. I reload flat out over and over and, a few seconds and a dozen arrows later, all that remain of the pack are bleeding corpses lying on the grass.
She looks at me with bulging eyes.
“How… I swear no archer could do that, not even the King’s ones! How did you…do that?” she stammers.
I stand up in turn and stride to the wolves. Hunching down, I begin to gather my arrows, plucking them one by one from the warm bodies, then rubbing them on the grass to wipe the blood away. “Didn't I say I was sent by God to protect you?” I answer, not looking at her.
"I don’t know if I must believe you.”
I pull the last arrow out and turn to her. “Well, either you believe me and you live, either you don’t and you die. It’s as simple as that.” I point at the crude leather jacket she wears as an armour. “Do you think this will protect you against arrows or blades?”
She sighs, and gazes at the dead animals. “Okay,” she finally says. “What do you want?”
“I have good reasons for your mission to succeed, so I’m definitely a friend of yours. I shall endeavour to protect you under all circumstances, until a certain event happens. Then, I will answer every question about me and I will let you go. In the meanwhile, you may not see my face, nor ask any questions about me…” I giggle. “That is, you may try, but I won’t answer. And don’t attempt to remove my hood by force, because I shall stop your hand well before it touches the fabric. For the rest, just pretend I’m your squire.”
She laughs in turn. “I’m no noble lady, I don’t own pages or lads.”
“You soon will,” I answer. “But for the time being, I think you should have some rest. I shall keep watch on you and your horse while you sleep. We’re safe here.”
She rummages in one of the saddlebags her horse is carrying, and pulls a rough blanket out. Walking back to the fire, she spreads the blanket on to the grass, then wraps herself in it, both her arms folded under her head. She observes me for a while, then, “I don’t even know your name. It’s not fair. You know mine, though I don’t know how. What should I call you?”
“Call me John. Joan and John. Looks like the perfect name for a cheesy rock band.”
“What?” she asks. “What are you talking about? A rock band?”
“Never mind,” I answer. “Try and get some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“You’re weird. I wonder who sent you. It’s probably not God. Good night, John.”
“I shall not sleep, but thanks anyway. Good night, Joan.”
She closes her eyes. I ponder on for a while, fiddling with a twig that I poke into the fire, and occasionally looking around for unwanted visitors. Five minutes pass. Ten. She’s asleep now. I turn to her and watch her chest heave and fall regularly as she breathes. I stand up and come closer. Bending, I place a hand on her brow, locking on her alpha waves. Then I let out some low-energy currents, modulated by the proper patterns. It doesn’t have to drag on: the memory imprint will linger in her brain just long enough.
The sun is up since two hours when she wakes up. She opens her eyes, stretches her limbs, sits up and looks at me. “I’ve been visited by God again during my sleep,” she says. “He said he’d sent an emissary to look after me. I’ve no doubt it’s you.”
I smile under my hood. “The sun’s already high and days are still short in February. Let’s not tarry here. If you’re hungry, I suggest you eat on horseback. The road ahead of us is long.”
She nods. Standing up, “If you would excuse me,” she says as she takes a few steps aside, then lowers her pants and pees. The instructors had told me that this period’s customs would be a little off with respect to modern standards, but I’d never imagined that included this sort of scene. Obviously she’s not prude, which makes sense, as daughter of farmers.
Once she’s done, she hitches her pants back up. She walks to her blanket, folds it and puts it back into the saddlebag, from which she picks up a big loaf of bread, already half consumed. Using a pocket knife, she cuts a big slice up. “Want some?” she asks.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry, you don’t sleep.” She clenches the bread with her teeth, then puts a foot on a stirrup and heaves herself on to the horse’s back. Taking the slice back in her hand, “You’re a strange man. If you are a man at all,” she concludes.
“God only knows,” I answer. Racking my brain for today’s weather, “It won’t rain before three days. We should cover as much distance as possible. The rain will slow us, although our path will be safer.”
“Which way should we go,” she asks.
“Haven’t you already chosen a road?”
“Not really. I know little of foreign lands. I was planning to ask for guidance.”
“I think we should avoid big cities, and ride through the forests as much as possible, even if that will slow our progress. Fortunately Champagne is almost covered in trees, except for a few open patches. Do you have any money?”
“Barely. Only what Robert de Baudricourt gave me. Just enough to buy bread for a three-week journey.”
“That shall be plenty. We’ll hunt and drink water from the springs. Let’s go.” I draw my compass out of my pocket and—
“What’s that?”
“A tool sold by an Italian merchant I once met. Mariners use it, apparently, and it’s been brought back from a remote country. The needle inside the dial always points towards North. With that little thing, you can't get lost, even in the deepest of the deepest forest.”
“Some kind of magic?”
I shrug. “No. Just using the—" I stop short. “Well, the guy said it was called ‘magnetism’, though i have no idea what that means.” I spin, and look at the needle. “North is there, thus…” I mentally conjure up the map of the area, “we should go that way. Assuming we can cover about five leagues a day, we should cross the Loire in about two weeks, God willing.”
With these words, we set out and leave the glade.
We remain in the forest all day, not encountering any other threats than squirrels, hares and foxes. Without any clear view of the sky around noon, I cannot really estimate how long we've travelled, but I guess four to fives leagues is a reasonable guess. As evening falls, we find a suitable spot to overnight. She climbs down from her horse and let it graze peacefully.
“I’m going to find game to eat tonight. You, pick up tinder to kindle, okay?” I say.
She nods, and starts wandering around in search of tinder. I let her at her task and return under the trees. Almost tiptoeing, I proceed as silently as possible, scanning the surroundings for unusual sounds. The forests of this era teem with animals, I won’t have to go to far before—
A grunt just ahead of me, followed by the sound of rooting. I freeze. It’s a chance my body does not emit or leave any scent. Silently, I fetch an arrow in my quiver, draw my bow and I await in perfect stillness.
The big shrub ahead of me jiggles and rustles, and the boar’s head pokes out. A big male, with impressive tusks. It halts and looks up at me in surprise. I cannot let it recover or it will charge. In a fraction of a second, quicker than any organic nervous system can react, my bow is aimed and the arrow shoots. It strikes right between the eyes, lodging itself into the skull. The beast jerks, totters for an instant then flops, dead.
Phase one is over. I glance at the animal: two, maybe three hundreds kilograms. Undaunted, I easily heave the carcass, put it on my shoulder and plod back to the glade.
As I emerge from the forest, I am welcomed by a perky fire whose snaky flames shift and crackle. She whistles as she sees the quarry I bring back.
“Fuck, how can you carry such a load? That boar must weigh over four hundred pounds, or I’ve never seen one.”
“God gave me the strength,” I reply, flinging the carcass on to the ground where it crashes with a thud.
“Don’t blaspheme,” she snaps in a surprisingly earnest tone.
I look at her. “Well, rather than grousing, help me skin and gut this monster, if you want to eat something tonight.” She smiles, grasps her dagger and both of us endeavour to transform the dead animal into something edible.
"I suppose you won’t eat tonight, will you?” she asks, after skewering a hunk of ham and putting it over the fire where it roasts gently.
“You suppose well,” I answer, nodding.
“Aren’t you hungry? How can you eat nothing and still live and carry such a heavy load? You must be some sort of wizard.”
“Magic doesn’t exist. Wizards and hexes are tired stories for simpletons or clodhoppers.”
“WHAT!?” she retorts, obviously shocked. “How can you say that? Hexes exist, they are evil women who sell their soul to the devil in exchange for—”
“Come on!” I cut in. “The devil couldn't care less. He has bigger fish to fry.”
“You’re wrong. Every soul that runs astray from the path of the righteous is a victory for the devil.”
I sigh. “Look,” I say, “I don’t want to engage into a pointless theological argument with you right now. Believe what you want, about me included, I said to you I wouldn't answer any of your questions until the time is ripe. But I’m no wizard, and wizards do not exist. Full stop.”
She frowns and her face assumes sort of sulking expression. Soon she pulls her meat back from the fire and wolfs it down. When nothing is left but the blade, she opens her flask and swills half of its contents down. Then she concludes by a loud belch.
“You’re going to have to mind your Ps and Qs if you want to impress the King,” I comment noncommittally. “Try not to shit before him as you do before me. That could rouse some ill will.”
She laughs. “There ain’t any privies out there. And what’s the matter with you? You ain’t no sissy, so why are you so prissy? Animals crap and pee everyday in the fields, and nobody gives a shit. You drink, you piddle. You eat, you shit. That’s nature. If you don’t want me to shit before you, then don’t look at me when I eat either.”
“I don’t eat.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten that, sorry.” She yawns. “Well, mister-muscles-hidden-under-a-cowl-who-doesn’t-eat, time for me to sleep. I assume shuteye’s not for you.”
“One of us must stay awake while the other sleeps.”
She walks to her horse, takes the blanket out of the saddlebag and, back to the fire, wraps herself in it. “Well good night anyway. And you’re lucky it’s winter. If the weather was warmer, I’d sleep naked.”
I shrug. “I thought you’d sworn to remain faithful to God.”
“Yeah, I made that oath, mostly because of my sister. But being faithful to Him doesn’t mean I’m not authorised to sleep naked, does it?”
“I guess not. What of your sister?”
She pouts. “My sister is a floozy. All she’s interested in is getting laid by the bumpkins she befriends. She’s… she’s a bitch.”
“There’s not much fun to get in a small village like yours…”
“It’s no reason to wallow in sin.”
“You’re inconsistent,” I reply. “On the one hand, you don’t mind shitting in front of a foreigner because that’s natural, but your sister’s lewdness revolts you. But what do beasts in the fields? Just eat, drink, piss and shit? What do you think your stallion here will do if he encounters a mare in heat?”
She ponders. “Well, the scriptures say—”
“Oh come on! Do you think anyone regulates his life according to them? Really?”
“Clerics? Monks?”
“Well, you’ve never set foot in an abbey, my lass.”
Another break as she thinks. Then, unexpectedly, “You won’t rape me, will you?”
I burst in laughter. “Why do you think I would?”
“Well… Men are… just men, if you take my meaning.”
“But I’m no ordinary man. And besides, if I had that in mind, I could’ve done it yesternight while you were sleeping.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’re not my style anyway. I prefer redheads.” An additional lie won’t do any harm.
She does not answer, and silence falls, occasionally disturbed by the cry of some wild animal. Soon she falls asleep, and I prepare myself for another long night.
The next morning, I wake her at dawn and, after her voiding her guts of yesterday’s dinner and chewing her slice of bread, we resume our ride as fast as possible. Around noon, we arrive at the forest’s edge. I have no real idea where we are, so I invite her to make a short pause. She observes me with curiosity as I stick a twig into the ground and start scratching the ground at the end of the shadow the stick projects minute by minute.
“What are you doing,” she asks.
“This is a sort of basic sundial. The shadow here moves with the sun. At noon, it’ll reach its shortest length. Then, not only will I know when noon happens, but the ratio of the length of the shadow to the length of the stick will tell me how south we are, so that I can get a fix on our location.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally says after a while, “I thought you were a wizard but now I see you’re rather a savant.”
“Yeah, that fits me better.”
I can’t tell her I’m helped with this, of course. The device is rough and won’t tell me much, but the latitude estimate I get from it is unquestionably souther. I observe the surroundings and try to make the landscape coincide with the topographic maps registered in my memory, but the correlation is poor at best. The shape of a spire in the distance shows me the way out of this quandary.
“We will be heading for that village over there,” I say, pointing at the spire. “Once we’re close enough, just go and ask for the village’s name. That will tell us exactly where we are. Don’t forget to buy bread, by the way.”
We cut across fields, that still lie in fallow at this time of year, and I stop a mile or so away from the first house, letting her proceed alone. She comes back an hour later with a fresh loaf. “Saint-Marc,” she says. “The Seine flows at the other end of the village. It’s a but a small stream, almost dried up, so we shall ford it easily. Come on!”
We safely skirt the village and cross the river which, as she said, is no more than a sprightly brook, close as it is to its spring. Once we’ve safely reached the opposite bank, we head directly for the nearest thicket where we disappear once again from the civilised world.
The days roll on as we push our way across the high hills of Morvan, avoiding all human life. During the day we trudge amidst the fir forests, avoiding the deepest patches of snow that still covers the highest tops. Hopefully only small shrubs can grow on acid soils such as those found here, so we can progress fairly quickly. At night, we halt in deep dells, usually free from snow, chasing game that is never difficult to find and kill. Rills abound, and our drudging days are perked up by the merry burbling of running water. I occasionally have to use my bow to fend off some foolish predator on the prowl, attracted by the horse’s scent, but we never encounter any serious threat. If brigands swarm in these forests, then we must truly be under God’s protection.
After a dozen days, the Morvan’s downs give way to more flatter terrain, announcing our closing on the Loire river. On the opposite bank begins what’s left of the French kingdom.
“Why is our king so weak?” she asks one night.
I have a readied answer to this question, of course, but I think it’s still too early for her to hear it. “I don't know,” I lie. “Maybe he’s not but his counsellors are bent?”
She nods. “Yeah, that’s what I suspect. I’m sure some of them are spies working for the English. They sap the King of his will.” She pauses, then, “Have you ever been to England?” she asks.
“No.”
“They say they speak a strange language over there.”
“Well, the nobility speaks French, like you and me. The commoners use an other language though, closer to that of the Vikings.”
“How do you know that if you’ve never been there?”
“Savants know a lot of things, even on countries they never visited,” I explain.
“But you despise the English, don’t you?”
“Well…” I try to find a middle-ground. “It’s more a matter of keeping balance in the world. If England won this war, it’d become too powerful a country and all the world would end up under English dominion. That’s something those who sent me cannot tolerate.”
“Who sent you?” she ventures.
“Next question?”
She smiles. “Who will win this war?”
“The French.”
“You say that to prod me into carrying on, don’t you?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
She hesitates, and unexpectedly bursts into tears, burying her head into her hands.
I stand up and come close to her, wrapping a hand around her neck. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I… I don’t know if I’m cut out for this mission any more,” she stammers. “I feel like God has abandoned me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had any more vision since your arrival. No other sign of Him. I feel forlorn…”
I try to call up on the few notions of human psychology I was taught before my departure. “You’re not alone. I’m here to help you. Together, we will succeed,” I say in a deeper, warmer voice.
She turns a miserable face towards me. “You’re so positive… I don’t even know why you help me. How am I supposed to trust you? You’re so… unworldly. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep…”
“Oh I can pretend to, if you prefer.”
“No, it’s fine,” she adds, and resumes her sobbing.
I’m at a loss for words. I hug her close, and let the spasms slowly peter out. I feel her body slide down as she dozes, overwhelmed with fatigue and sorrow. I delicately place her body down on to the ground and covers her with the blanket she’d left aside. “Good night, young princess,” I whisper to her ears, and stroke her brow.
The next morning we ride out of the forest and reach the bank of the Loire. We turn towards North and ride flat-out along the towpath. I could run faster than her horse gallops, but that would surely attract the attention of the rare pedestrians we come across, so I settle for a slower, but unremarkable pace. About two hours later, we reach the walls of La Charité, which we find surprisingly unguarded. Fortunately, the town is renewed not only for its Cluniac abbey, but also as one of the main stops in the Camino de Santiago, so the citizens are used to seeing hooded, penitent figures. She slows her horse to a trot, and we push on under the arch of the main entrance. Once beyond the walls, she briefly halts to buy her ration of bread. We then proceed to the river, crossing it through the well known ford that made the town’s reputation.
As we set foot in Berry, still under the control of Charles VII, she reins her horse in and turns around.
“Good bye Burgundy,” she hails. “Soon we shall meet again, God’s willing, and this time you shall feel the wrath of the King.”
I don’t comment, but I know she’ll indeed be back to this town at the head of a large army, though she’ll fail to seize it, protected as it is under its heavy battlements.
The next day, our expedition looks up. We don't have to hide anymore, since we are in friendly territory, and being able to ride along the main roads speeds us greatly. Only at night do we take shelter in groves. Judging from our nightly bantering, she feels better now, as the goal is at hand. And indeed, three days later, as the sun sets, we arrive at last in view of Chinon, where Charles VII has established his residence.
We warily avoid from the town, and establish our last camp close to the edge of the nearest wood.
“Time for me to answer your questions, my lass,” I say, as she devours the leg of a hare I’ve shot earlier in the day. And, as she turns to me, I finally throw my hood back and uncovers my face.
Of course, she fails to recognise me.
“You’re not a leper!” she says. “Why did you hide your face all along?”
“I’ve my reasons.”
“That’s not fair,” she protests. “You promised you’d answer every question I’d ask.”
“Look my lass. The reason will soon be clear to you. Look at my face closely, so you’ll be sure to recognise me if need be.”
“I don’t understand. You don’t want me to see your face, and now I’m supposed to scrutinise you.”
“Just do as I say.”
She examines me carefully. “Who are you?”
“That too, you shall learn tomorrow by yourself. So be kind and refrain your curiosity for a little more.”
“Who sent you?”
“That I’ve already told you. People that do not want the English to win the war. That should be enough for you. I swear to God it’s the truth, and I’ll prove it tomorrow.“
She fixes me with a dubious stare, but finally gives up speaking any more. Instead, she resumes her dinner and, when she’s polished off the rabbit, she silently warps herself in her blanket and, “Good night, mister mystery,” she simply says.
“Tomorrow morning I shall be gone. But proceed as you would have, with your laissez-passer you’ll be admitted to the King’s retinue. There, you’ll be asked a question, and all will be clear to you. Good dreams, my lass, and God’s willing, we shall meet again, sooner than you expect.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I just wink at her, and smile. She grins in return, “Thanks for all,” she whispers before shifting to her side with her back facing me.
It’s an easy task for me to climb all the way from the river up to the foot of the walls. The clouds that blot the moon out ease my task further, as I stalk through the shadows of the coppice that grows on the slope. A good defence device against an army, but notoriously inefficient against a loner such as me. Arrived there, a couple of minutes suffice to locate a really dark corner, and I endeavour to climb again to the roof, my cowl blending with the colour of the outer blocks.
Once on the top, I crawl over the roof to the right chimney. Smoke rises from it, a token of the the “King”’s presence in his bed. I gently unroll the metal wire into the duct, and carefully attach the grapple to the chimney edge. Activating the anti-thermal field, I set about on my descent.
It’s unfortunate, but almost inevitable, that I disturb a burning log as I set foot on the floor, hopping over the oversized hearth. Falling from the top of the heap, the log crashes on the ground with a loud noise. Quick! There’s no time to lose: I reach for the glass ampul in the pocket of my cowl and hurl it on the floor, next to the bed whose occupant stirs and opens his eyes.
And sees me.
But that’s too late. Already the devious gas has attacked his nervous system and no sound escapes from his throat as he tries desperately to call for help.
I haven’t been programmed to gloat over such easy victories, but somehow I can’t resist the morbid pleasure. As his body stiffens, I slowly walk up to him.
“Hello, me!” I begin. “Don’t we share the same DNA, after all? But the semblance stops here. It’s such a pity that London has always doggedly refused to send androids back in time, preferring to stick to feeble, clumsy humans agents. Now, you only have a few seconds left to contemplate your utter failure, which should be plenty.”
I know he can hear me, but cannot answer any more.
“Tomorrow, it’s me she will meet. And be sure I will endow her with a full-fledged army. You can say goodbye to your wicked future and your earthly tyranny.”
Now is the time to strike the final blow. “And thanks for lighting this gorgeous fire. It’s amazing how those medieval chimneys are huge…” I bend over him and grasp his rigid body, which I lift up as easily as a straw. "Huge enough, indeed, to accommodate a human body…”
Blindfolded, she’s led into the room by two guards.
“Leave her,” I command. Her body shivers as she probably recognises my voice.
“Joan of Arc!” roars La Hire next to me. “You pretend you’ve been missioned by God to help the King be crowned in Reims and rout the English armies out of France. We are ready to hear what you have to say, but first you must prove you genuine faith. We will remove the rag that blinds you, and you shall point to whomever you think is the King among us. If you stray, you shall be put to death.”
He motions one of the guards who unknots the rag. She blinks, then looks around at the assistance in awe, until her eyes lock on me.
As a smile plays on her lips, and her eyes fill with tears, she falls on her knees and humbly raises her finger, pointing at me, to the amazement of the bystanders.
But microscopes are hundreds of years away now.
The leaves rustle as I scuff the ground with my feet. Soon every trace of my arrival has vanished, except in the short-lived memories of the beasties that witnessed it. Satisfied, I look up at the blue patch of sky, only visible through the tiny openings in the canopy overhead. It’s hard to guess the exact time of the day without actually seeing the sun, but anywhen from 4 to 5 PM seems a reasonable pick. Perfect timing. I close my eyes and let myself drown into the ambiant stillness, snuffing the air. A complex waft of loam and humus bathes my nostrils. Bird songs fill my ears. Far away I catch a faint squelch, maybe a deer trudging across a mire. An easy prey, should any predator care.
I reopen my eyes, and put my cowl on. I check my bow and my quiver, tally the arrows. Fifty of them, with tungsten carbide heads, carbon shafts and synthetic fletching. Swift and lethal, even through a chain mail. I have my dagger too, just in case. But I should not need it, except for skinning or gutting game. The rest of my weapons are much cleverly concealed.
I stretch. No time to lose dallying, the sun will soon set: I need to gather tinder for tonight’s fire, a not too difficult task in a forest during winter. Then I have to find the right glade, which entails properly finding my bearings. I pick up a compass—one of the rare instruments I won't have to hide away—and check the needle. It confirms the direction I’d already inferred. It’ll be a snap to find the right spot now: the instructions the commissioner gave me before my departure were clear. I can’t get lost.
Sitting close to the fire whose flickering flames cast ghostly shadows, I softly blow into my rough flageolet, playing out a tune that no one shall hear again during the next millenium. No ordinary, sensible traveler would ever do that, of course. The shrill notes that spring from the wooden stick act a magnet to every creature around, be they nocturnal carnivores or, worse, roving brigands. But I’m neither afraid of beasts nor of hoodlums. My only duty is to make sure she doesn’t skirt around and miss me.
A far-off owl hoots, its call answered by the chilling howl of a lone wolf. It sounds unreal to me, like I’ve been carried away from the real world into one of those fairy tales mothers used to read at night to their drowsy children long ago, when artificially induced sleep hadn’t yet been invented. On the edge of the glade, two keen eyes glint a brief instant before backing off into darkness. A fox maybe, curious to see what is going on. I could switch to nocturnal vision, but I don’t really—
Faint, but unmistakable, the clop of a horse. That’s her. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel butterflies in my stomach. Come on, don’t be ridiculous! I resume my tune, eyes locked on the fire that crackles and splutters. Over the melody, I can now distinctly hear the squish of the hooves as they tread the soggy ground at a steady pace. Behind me, louder and nearer. Louder and nearer, until she reaches the edge. Then a break, as she pulls in and contemplates the scene. A large glade, in the centre of which a hooded form squats near a fire, playing an outlandish tune, apparently unaware of her presence. Is that any form of threat? Is this a trap? She must decide. Quickly.
The horse whinnies. I ignore the sound and keep on piping. I imagine her climbing down, so nimbly that she hardly makes a sound when she lands. But now, I can make out her unflinching steps on the grass as she comes towards me. A swish, then the sharp prick of a dagger tip in the middle of my back. I stop playing, and slowly put the flute away from my lips.
“Good evening, Joan! You shouldn’t travel by night. Even the quietest forests have eyes,” I say.
The tip of the dagger shudders as surprise shakes her.
“How do you know my name?” she asks in her strong rustic accent. “You didn’t even turn around. How do you know I’d come here?” Her voice quavers a little, and I figure out her mind ridden with fears and doubts.
“I know many things, young maid. Many things that have come to pass, many others that haven’t yet, and many others that never will.”
“Who are you?”
“Of all questions you may ask, this is one I cannot answer at this point. But believe me, I’m no enemy. I’m here to protect you.”
A short pause. “This is ridiculous. Why should I trust you?”
“Look Joan. I know your name. I know where you come from, and on what quest you embarked. I know you’d be here tonight and I was waiting for you. Do you really believe you can safely sneak through English territory and ride across half of the country to reach the goal you set yourself, and succeed?”
“I’ve placed myself in the hand of God. He shall keep me safe and rid of my path of our true king's enemies. I need no protection, from you or anyone else.”
“Precisely,” I reply, sternly. “God sent me.”
I hear her giggling, as she puts her dagger back in its sheath. “I’ve seen angels with my own eyes. You don’t look like any of them.”
“And what do angels look like, dear?”
She doesn’t answer, but rather comes in front of me, and sits on the ground. Our faces are level. Definitely, she’s not as the later portraitists fancied. Long face, delicate nose, medium dark hair, cut into a short bob that gives her an almost fragile male apparence. Almond-shaped green eyes that betray her intelligence but fail to register my own face, concealed as it is under the hood.
“Why do you keep that hood?” she asks, acknowledging her unsuccessful attempt.
“So that you can’t see my face.”
”Why do you hide it?”
“You don’t want to see it. Under no circumstances. Not before I decide to show it to you. If ever do.”
“You wouldn’t be the Devil, by all means?”
I laugh. “Not that I’m aware of. Did you spot a tail behind me? Or horns spiking under that hood?”
“No. But you could’ve altered your apparence to trick me.”
Hopefully, I have an easy way to wiggle out. “I’m a former leper. The disease left me scarred and deformed. I don’t want to scare you, that’s all.”
She pouts. “I understand,” she finally says. “And I don’t think you’re the devil anyway. He’d try to seduce me, I guess, because of the vow I made to remain staunch to my love of God. He’d probably appear as an elegant, handsome young noble, not as a former leper hidden under a cowl.”
I smirk, but she can’t see it. “Does that—” I break off. Behind me the horse neighs in fear. I swirl around and spot, on the edge of glade, twelve, maybe fifteen pair of feral eyes, whose pupils glint with the light of the fire.
“Wolves!” I shout. “Get to your horse, quick!”
She jumps to her feet, unsheathes her dagger and runs across the grass to her steed. Under the command of a dark grey hound, the pack slowly closes on the horse in a wary, but resolute march. I could use a brand to repel them, but they’re an easy target. I seize a first arrow from my quiver, draw my bow and train it to the leader. The string sings as it snaps, and the missile flies smack bang into the wolf’s head, crushing the skull. I reload flat out over and over and, a few seconds and a dozen arrows later, all that remain of the pack are bleeding corpses lying on the grass.
She looks at me with bulging eyes.
“How… I swear no archer could do that, not even the King’s ones! How did you…do that?” she stammers.
I stand up in turn and stride to the wolves. Hunching down, I begin to gather my arrows, plucking them one by one from the warm bodies, then rubbing them on the grass to wipe the blood away. “Didn't I say I was sent by God to protect you?” I answer, not looking at her.
"I don’t know if I must believe you.”
I pull the last arrow out and turn to her. “Well, either you believe me and you live, either you don’t and you die. It’s as simple as that.” I point at the crude leather jacket she wears as an armour. “Do you think this will protect you against arrows or blades?”
She sighs, and gazes at the dead animals. “Okay,” she finally says. “What do you want?”
“I have good reasons for your mission to succeed, so I’m definitely a friend of yours. I shall endeavour to protect you under all circumstances, until a certain event happens. Then, I will answer every question about me and I will let you go. In the meanwhile, you may not see my face, nor ask any questions about me…” I giggle. “That is, you may try, but I won’t answer. And don’t attempt to remove my hood by force, because I shall stop your hand well before it touches the fabric. For the rest, just pretend I’m your squire.”
She laughs in turn. “I’m no noble lady, I don’t own pages or lads.”
“You soon will,” I answer. “But for the time being, I think you should have some rest. I shall keep watch on you and your horse while you sleep. We’re safe here.”
She rummages in one of the saddlebags her horse is carrying, and pulls a rough blanket out. Walking back to the fire, she spreads the blanket on to the grass, then wraps herself in it, both her arms folded under her head. She observes me for a while, then, “I don’t even know your name. It’s not fair. You know mine, though I don’t know how. What should I call you?”
“Call me John. Joan and John. Looks like the perfect name for a cheesy rock band.”
“What?” she asks. “What are you talking about? A rock band?”
“Never mind,” I answer. “Try and get some rest. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“You’re weird. I wonder who sent you. It’s probably not God. Good night, John.”
“I shall not sleep, but thanks anyway. Good night, Joan.”
She closes her eyes. I ponder on for a while, fiddling with a twig that I poke into the fire, and occasionally looking around for unwanted visitors. Five minutes pass. Ten. She’s asleep now. I turn to her and watch her chest heave and fall regularly as she breathes. I stand up and come closer. Bending, I place a hand on her brow, locking on her alpha waves. Then I let out some low-energy currents, modulated by the proper patterns. It doesn’t have to drag on: the memory imprint will linger in her brain just long enough.
The sun is up since two hours when she wakes up. She opens her eyes, stretches her limbs, sits up and looks at me. “I’ve been visited by God again during my sleep,” she says. “He said he’d sent an emissary to look after me. I’ve no doubt it’s you.”
I smile under my hood. “The sun’s already high and days are still short in February. Let’s not tarry here. If you’re hungry, I suggest you eat on horseback. The road ahead of us is long.”
She nods. Standing up, “If you would excuse me,” she says as she takes a few steps aside, then lowers her pants and pees. The instructors had told me that this period’s customs would be a little off with respect to modern standards, but I’d never imagined that included this sort of scene. Obviously she’s not prude, which makes sense, as daughter of farmers.
Once she’s done, she hitches her pants back up. She walks to her blanket, folds it and puts it back into the saddlebag, from which she picks up a big loaf of bread, already half consumed. Using a pocket knife, she cuts a big slice up. “Want some?” she asks.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry, you don’t sleep.” She clenches the bread with her teeth, then puts a foot on a stirrup and heaves herself on to the horse’s back. Taking the slice back in her hand, “You’re a strange man. If you are a man at all,” she concludes.
“God only knows,” I answer. Racking my brain for today’s weather, “It won’t rain before three days. We should cover as much distance as possible. The rain will slow us, although our path will be safer.”
“Which way should we go,” she asks.
“Haven’t you already chosen a road?”
“Not really. I know little of foreign lands. I was planning to ask for guidance.”
“I think we should avoid big cities, and ride through the forests as much as possible, even if that will slow our progress. Fortunately Champagne is almost covered in trees, except for a few open patches. Do you have any money?”
“Barely. Only what Robert de Baudricourt gave me. Just enough to buy bread for a three-week journey.”
“That shall be plenty. We’ll hunt and drink water from the springs. Let’s go.” I draw my compass out of my pocket and—
“What’s that?”
“A tool sold by an Italian merchant I once met. Mariners use it, apparently, and it’s been brought back from a remote country. The needle inside the dial always points towards North. With that little thing, you can't get lost, even in the deepest of the deepest forest.”
“Some kind of magic?”
I shrug. “No. Just using the—" I stop short. “Well, the guy said it was called ‘magnetism’, though i have no idea what that means.” I spin, and look at the needle. “North is there, thus…” I mentally conjure up the map of the area, “we should go that way. Assuming we can cover about five leagues a day, we should cross the Loire in about two weeks, God willing.”
With these words, we set out and leave the glade.
We remain in the forest all day, not encountering any other threats than squirrels, hares and foxes. Without any clear view of the sky around noon, I cannot really estimate how long we've travelled, but I guess four to fives leagues is a reasonable guess. As evening falls, we find a suitable spot to overnight. She climbs down from her horse and let it graze peacefully.
“I’m going to find game to eat tonight. You, pick up tinder to kindle, okay?” I say.
She nods, and starts wandering around in search of tinder. I let her at her task and return under the trees. Almost tiptoeing, I proceed as silently as possible, scanning the surroundings for unusual sounds. The forests of this era teem with animals, I won’t have to go to far before—
A grunt just ahead of me, followed by the sound of rooting. I freeze. It’s a chance my body does not emit or leave any scent. Silently, I fetch an arrow in my quiver, draw my bow and I await in perfect stillness.
The big shrub ahead of me jiggles and rustles, and the boar’s head pokes out. A big male, with impressive tusks. It halts and looks up at me in surprise. I cannot let it recover or it will charge. In a fraction of a second, quicker than any organic nervous system can react, my bow is aimed and the arrow shoots. It strikes right between the eyes, lodging itself into the skull. The beast jerks, totters for an instant then flops, dead.
Phase one is over. I glance at the animal: two, maybe three hundreds kilograms. Undaunted, I easily heave the carcass, put it on my shoulder and plod back to the glade.
As I emerge from the forest, I am welcomed by a perky fire whose snaky flames shift and crackle. She whistles as she sees the quarry I bring back.
“Fuck, how can you carry such a load? That boar must weigh over four hundred pounds, or I’ve never seen one.”
“God gave me the strength,” I reply, flinging the carcass on to the ground where it crashes with a thud.
“Don’t blaspheme,” she snaps in a surprisingly earnest tone.
I look at her. “Well, rather than grousing, help me skin and gut this monster, if you want to eat something tonight.” She smiles, grasps her dagger and both of us endeavour to transform the dead animal into something edible.
"I suppose you won’t eat tonight, will you?” she asks, after skewering a hunk of ham and putting it over the fire where it roasts gently.
“You suppose well,” I answer, nodding.
“Aren’t you hungry? How can you eat nothing and still live and carry such a heavy load? You must be some sort of wizard.”
“Magic doesn’t exist. Wizards and hexes are tired stories for simpletons or clodhoppers.”
“WHAT!?” she retorts, obviously shocked. “How can you say that? Hexes exist, they are evil women who sell their soul to the devil in exchange for—”
“Come on!” I cut in. “The devil couldn't care less. He has bigger fish to fry.”
“You’re wrong. Every soul that runs astray from the path of the righteous is a victory for the devil.”
I sigh. “Look,” I say, “I don’t want to engage into a pointless theological argument with you right now. Believe what you want, about me included, I said to you I wouldn't answer any of your questions until the time is ripe. But I’m no wizard, and wizards do not exist. Full stop.”
She frowns and her face assumes sort of sulking expression. Soon she pulls her meat back from the fire and wolfs it down. When nothing is left but the blade, she opens her flask and swills half of its contents down. Then she concludes by a loud belch.
“You’re going to have to mind your Ps and Qs if you want to impress the King,” I comment noncommittally. “Try not to shit before him as you do before me. That could rouse some ill will.”
She laughs. “There ain’t any privies out there. And what’s the matter with you? You ain’t no sissy, so why are you so prissy? Animals crap and pee everyday in the fields, and nobody gives a shit. You drink, you piddle. You eat, you shit. That’s nature. If you don’t want me to shit before you, then don’t look at me when I eat either.”
“I don’t eat.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten that, sorry.” She yawns. “Well, mister-muscles-hidden-under-a-cowl-who-doesn’t-eat, time for me to sleep. I assume shuteye’s not for you.”
“One of us must stay awake while the other sleeps.”
She walks to her horse, takes the blanket out of the saddlebag and, back to the fire, wraps herself in it. “Well good night anyway. And you’re lucky it’s winter. If the weather was warmer, I’d sleep naked.”
I shrug. “I thought you’d sworn to remain faithful to God.”
“Yeah, I made that oath, mostly because of my sister. But being faithful to Him doesn’t mean I’m not authorised to sleep naked, does it?”
“I guess not. What of your sister?”
She pouts. “My sister is a floozy. All she’s interested in is getting laid by the bumpkins she befriends. She’s… she’s a bitch.”
“There’s not much fun to get in a small village like yours…”
“It’s no reason to wallow in sin.”
“You’re inconsistent,” I reply. “On the one hand, you don’t mind shitting in front of a foreigner because that’s natural, but your sister’s lewdness revolts you. But what do beasts in the fields? Just eat, drink, piss and shit? What do you think your stallion here will do if he encounters a mare in heat?”
She ponders. “Well, the scriptures say—”
“Oh come on! Do you think anyone regulates his life according to them? Really?”
“Clerics? Monks?”
“Well, you’ve never set foot in an abbey, my lass.”
Another break as she thinks. Then, unexpectedly, “You won’t rape me, will you?”
I burst in laughter. “Why do you think I would?”
“Well… Men are… just men, if you take my meaning.”
“But I’m no ordinary man. And besides, if I had that in mind, I could’ve done it yesternight while you were sleeping.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’re not my style anyway. I prefer redheads.” An additional lie won’t do any harm.
She does not answer, and silence falls, occasionally disturbed by the cry of some wild animal. Soon she falls asleep, and I prepare myself for another long night.
The next morning, I wake her at dawn and, after her voiding her guts of yesterday’s dinner and chewing her slice of bread, we resume our ride as fast as possible. Around noon, we arrive at the forest’s edge. I have no real idea where we are, so I invite her to make a short pause. She observes me with curiosity as I stick a twig into the ground and start scratching the ground at the end of the shadow the stick projects minute by minute.
“What are you doing,” she asks.
“This is a sort of basic sundial. The shadow here moves with the sun. At noon, it’ll reach its shortest length. Then, not only will I know when noon happens, but the ratio of the length of the shadow to the length of the stick will tell me how south we are, so that I can get a fix on our location.”
“I’m sorry,” she finally says after a while, “I thought you were a wizard but now I see you’re rather a savant.”
“Yeah, that fits me better.”
I can’t tell her I’m helped with this, of course. The device is rough and won’t tell me much, but the latitude estimate I get from it is unquestionably souther. I observe the surroundings and try to make the landscape coincide with the topographic maps registered in my memory, but the correlation is poor at best. The shape of a spire in the distance shows me the way out of this quandary.
“We will be heading for that village over there,” I say, pointing at the spire. “Once we’re close enough, just go and ask for the village’s name. That will tell us exactly where we are. Don’t forget to buy bread, by the way.”
We cut across fields, that still lie in fallow at this time of year, and I stop a mile or so away from the first house, letting her proceed alone. She comes back an hour later with a fresh loaf. “Saint-Marc,” she says. “The Seine flows at the other end of the village. It’s a but a small stream, almost dried up, so we shall ford it easily. Come on!”
We safely skirt the village and cross the river which, as she said, is no more than a sprightly brook, close as it is to its spring. Once we’ve safely reached the opposite bank, we head directly for the nearest thicket where we disappear once again from the civilised world.
The days roll on as we push our way across the high hills of Morvan, avoiding all human life. During the day we trudge amidst the fir forests, avoiding the deepest patches of snow that still covers the highest tops. Hopefully only small shrubs can grow on acid soils such as those found here, so we can progress fairly quickly. At night, we halt in deep dells, usually free from snow, chasing game that is never difficult to find and kill. Rills abound, and our drudging days are perked up by the merry burbling of running water. I occasionally have to use my bow to fend off some foolish predator on the prowl, attracted by the horse’s scent, but we never encounter any serious threat. If brigands swarm in these forests, then we must truly be under God’s protection.
After a dozen days, the Morvan’s downs give way to more flatter terrain, announcing our closing on the Loire river. On the opposite bank begins what’s left of the French kingdom.
“Why is our king so weak?” she asks one night.
I have a readied answer to this question, of course, but I think it’s still too early for her to hear it. “I don't know,” I lie. “Maybe he’s not but his counsellors are bent?”
She nods. “Yeah, that’s what I suspect. I’m sure some of them are spies working for the English. They sap the King of his will.” She pauses, then, “Have you ever been to England?” she asks.
“No.”
“They say they speak a strange language over there.”
“Well, the nobility speaks French, like you and me. The commoners use an other language though, closer to that of the Vikings.”
“How do you know that if you’ve never been there?”
“Savants know a lot of things, even on countries they never visited,” I explain.
“But you despise the English, don’t you?”
“Well…” I try to find a middle-ground. “It’s more a matter of keeping balance in the world. If England won this war, it’d become too powerful a country and all the world would end up under English dominion. That’s something those who sent me cannot tolerate.”
“Who sent you?” she ventures.
“Next question?”
She smiles. “Who will win this war?”
“The French.”
“You say that to prod me into carrying on, don’t you?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
She hesitates, and unexpectedly bursts into tears, burying her head into her hands.
I stand up and come close to her, wrapping a hand around her neck. “What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I… I don’t know if I’m cut out for this mission any more,” she stammers. “I feel like God has abandoned me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had any more vision since your arrival. No other sign of Him. I feel forlorn…”
I try to call up on the few notions of human psychology I was taught before my departure. “You’re not alone. I’m here to help you. Together, we will succeed,” I say in a deeper, warmer voice.
She turns a miserable face towards me. “You’re so positive… I don’t even know why you help me. How am I supposed to trust you? You’re so… unworldly. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep…”
“Oh I can pretend to, if you prefer.”
“No, it’s fine,” she adds, and resumes her sobbing.
I’m at a loss for words. I hug her close, and let the spasms slowly peter out. I feel her body slide down as she dozes, overwhelmed with fatigue and sorrow. I delicately place her body down on to the ground and covers her with the blanket she’d left aside. “Good night, young princess,” I whisper to her ears, and stroke her brow.
The next morning we ride out of the forest and reach the bank of the Loire. We turn towards North and ride flat-out along the towpath. I could run faster than her horse gallops, but that would surely attract the attention of the rare pedestrians we come across, so I settle for a slower, but unremarkable pace. About two hours later, we reach the walls of La Charité, which we find surprisingly unguarded. Fortunately, the town is renewed not only for its Cluniac abbey, but also as one of the main stops in the Camino de Santiago, so the citizens are used to seeing hooded, penitent figures. She slows her horse to a trot, and we push on under the arch of the main entrance. Once beyond the walls, she briefly halts to buy her ration of bread. We then proceed to the river, crossing it through the well known ford that made the town’s reputation.
As we set foot in Berry, still under the control of Charles VII, she reins her horse in and turns around.
“Good bye Burgundy,” she hails. “Soon we shall meet again, God’s willing, and this time you shall feel the wrath of the King.”
I don’t comment, but I know she’ll indeed be back to this town at the head of a large army, though she’ll fail to seize it, protected as it is under its heavy battlements.
The next day, our expedition looks up. We don't have to hide anymore, since we are in friendly territory, and being able to ride along the main roads speeds us greatly. Only at night do we take shelter in groves. Judging from our nightly bantering, she feels better now, as the goal is at hand. And indeed, three days later, as the sun sets, we arrive at last in view of Chinon, where Charles VII has established his residence.
We warily avoid from the town, and establish our last camp close to the edge of the nearest wood.
“Time for me to answer your questions, my lass,” I say, as she devours the leg of a hare I’ve shot earlier in the day. And, as she turns to me, I finally throw my hood back and uncovers my face.
Of course, she fails to recognise me.
“You’re not a leper!” she says. “Why did you hide your face all along?”
“I’ve my reasons.”
“That’s not fair,” she protests. “You promised you’d answer every question I’d ask.”
“Look my lass. The reason will soon be clear to you. Look at my face closely, so you’ll be sure to recognise me if need be.”
“I don’t understand. You don’t want me to see your face, and now I’m supposed to scrutinise you.”
“Just do as I say.”
She examines me carefully. “Who are you?”
“That too, you shall learn tomorrow by yourself. So be kind and refrain your curiosity for a little more.”
“Who sent you?”
“That I’ve already told you. People that do not want the English to win the war. That should be enough for you. I swear to God it’s the truth, and I’ll prove it tomorrow.“
She fixes me with a dubious stare, but finally gives up speaking any more. Instead, she resumes her dinner and, when she’s polished off the rabbit, she silently warps herself in her blanket and, “Good night, mister mystery,” she simply says.
“Tomorrow morning I shall be gone. But proceed as you would have, with your laissez-passer you’ll be admitted to the King’s retinue. There, you’ll be asked a question, and all will be clear to you. Good dreams, my lass, and God’s willing, we shall meet again, sooner than you expect.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I just wink at her, and smile. She grins in return, “Thanks for all,” she whispers before shifting to her side with her back facing me.
It’s an easy task for me to climb all the way from the river up to the foot of the walls. The clouds that blot the moon out ease my task further, as I stalk through the shadows of the coppice that grows on the slope. A good defence device against an army, but notoriously inefficient against a loner such as me. Arrived there, a couple of minutes suffice to locate a really dark corner, and I endeavour to climb again to the roof, my cowl blending with the colour of the outer blocks.
Once on the top, I crawl over the roof to the right chimney. Smoke rises from it, a token of the the “King”’s presence in his bed. I gently unroll the metal wire into the duct, and carefully attach the grapple to the chimney edge. Activating the anti-thermal field, I set about on my descent.
It’s unfortunate, but almost inevitable, that I disturb a burning log as I set foot on the floor, hopping over the oversized hearth. Falling from the top of the heap, the log crashes on the ground with a loud noise. Quick! There’s no time to lose: I reach for the glass ampul in the pocket of my cowl and hurl it on the floor, next to the bed whose occupant stirs and opens his eyes.
And sees me.
But that’s too late. Already the devious gas has attacked his nervous system and no sound escapes from his throat as he tries desperately to call for help.
I haven’t been programmed to gloat over such easy victories, but somehow I can’t resist the morbid pleasure. As his body stiffens, I slowly walk up to him.
“Hello, me!” I begin. “Don’t we share the same DNA, after all? But the semblance stops here. It’s such a pity that London has always doggedly refused to send androids back in time, preferring to stick to feeble, clumsy humans agents. Now, you only have a few seconds left to contemplate your utter failure, which should be plenty.”
I know he can hear me, but cannot answer any more.
“Tomorrow, it’s me she will meet. And be sure I will endow her with a full-fledged army. You can say goodbye to your wicked future and your earthly tyranny.”
Now is the time to strike the final blow. “And thanks for lighting this gorgeous fire. It’s amazing how those medieval chimneys are huge…” I bend over him and grasp his rigid body, which I lift up as easily as a straw. "Huge enough, indeed, to accommodate a human body…”
Blindfolded, she’s led into the room by two guards.
“Leave her,” I command. Her body shivers as she probably recognises my voice.
“Joan of Arc!” roars La Hire next to me. “You pretend you’ve been missioned by God to help the King be crowned in Reims and rout the English armies out of France. We are ready to hear what you have to say, but first you must prove you genuine faith. We will remove the rag that blinds you, and you shall point to whomever you think is the King among us. If you stray, you shall be put to death.”
He motions one of the guards who unknots the rag. She blinks, then looks around at the assistance in awe, until her eyes lock on me.
As a smile plays on her lips, and her eyes fill with tears, she falls on her knees and humbly raises her finger, pointing at me, to the amazement of the bystanders.
Oh, a time-war, those are always fun even if tricky. Here we have a competent example of this. The problem is that it really never becomes more than that.
Let's start with a couple of technical issues. I cite them but they'll not impact much m vote, being just tie-breakers if I'm undecided between how to place two stories.
There are a some typos here and there (ambiant, snuffing, renewed instead of renowned). There are also a couple of grammar mistakes here and there, but nothing an editing passage couldn't fix.
The language baffled me a bit more, mainly during the dialogues. They switch from what feels a modern banter to something a bit more archaic and then back again a bit later. This has more to do with remaining consistent than with one form being better than the other. Still, it's nothing too aggravating and that couldn't be fixed with a bit of time.
Now to the story:
Time conflicts are tricky. They either devolve in some closed loop, are crushed under the inertia of history or devolve in a headache of plans that foil plans until something changes. A bit like a KO situation in Go. Here that doesn't seem to happen, and I can accept that there is a reason we don't have a horde of Charles VII fighting it out in the room and on the roofs, but you should give me a hint on why that is.
On the other hand, I appreciated the context of the conflict and the turning point it focuses on. The idea of England and France still brawling up and down the time is interesting and funny. I also liked a lot the details you have put into the story, they helped a lot in flashing out the time and the place.
Tl;dr: competent story with a couple of nice touches here and there but missing something to elevate it.
Let's start with a couple of technical issues. I cite them but they'll not impact much m vote, being just tie-breakers if I'm undecided between how to place two stories.
There are a some typos here and there (ambiant, snuffing, renewed instead of renowned). There are also a couple of grammar mistakes here and there, but nothing an editing passage couldn't fix.
The language baffled me a bit more, mainly during the dialogues. They switch from what feels a modern banter to something a bit more archaic and then back again a bit later. This has more to do with remaining consistent than with one form being better than the other. Still, it's nothing too aggravating and that couldn't be fixed with a bit of time.
Now to the story:
Time conflicts are tricky. They either devolve in some closed loop, are crushed under the inertia of history or devolve in a headache of plans that foil plans until something changes. A bit like a KO situation in Go. Here that doesn't seem to happen, and I can accept that there is a reason we don't have a horde of Charles VII fighting it out in the room and on the roofs, but you should give me a hint on why that is.
On the other hand, I appreciated the context of the conflict and the turning point it focuses on. The idea of England and France still brawling up and down the time is interesting and funny. I also liked a lot the details you have put into the story, they helped a lot in flashing out the time and the place.
Tl;dr: competent story with a couple of nice touches here and there but missing something to elevate it.
You had a few sentences that were clearly questions but didn't use question marks that stuck out to me. More complicatedly, I think your voicing is awkward... In a sense, when coming from the narrator, that's fine, and probably good at establishing the disconnect from future and past. But there are places where Joan feels very off: casual use of 'okay,' 'you're weird,' and most jarringly, 'You ain’t no sissy, so why are you so prissy?' Voicing is very very difficult, and this is a short timeframe to write in, but it's something you could sharpen if you plan on taking this story somewhere else.
I think though that this failed to resolve into a clear point. I got from very, very early on that the narrator was from the future, and when Joan showed up, the rest of the story fell into place. Unfortunately, that means everything else from that point onwards was marking time, without adding anything new. There's no real twist at the end; the business with the king's identity was clever but didn't change anything about my understanding of the story or the characters. Your work here is solidly done; it's just a concept that struggles to feel fresh or meaningful.
I think though that this failed to resolve into a clear point. I got from very, very early on that the narrator was from the future, and when Joan showed up, the rest of the story fell into place. Unfortunately, that means everything else from that point onwards was marking time, without adding anything new. There's no real twist at the end; the business with the king's identity was clever but didn't change anything about my understanding of the story or the characters. Your work here is solidly done; it's just a concept that struggles to feel fresh or meaningful.
Hmm... the opening grabbed me, as time-travel is wont to do.
You lost some of my interest pretty quickly, however, particularly with the wolves; I highly doubt a pack of wolves would attack a human, especially one with a fire. They're really extremely cautious animals, and humans are not their usual prey. Oh, and describing one of them as a 'hound' really threw me. Wolves are hunted with hounds. (Probably poodles, in France.)
Also, former leper? Perhaps I'm wrong, but even if leprosy was curable then (which I doubt) I don't think Joan would buy this, or even be willing to be near someone who'd had leprosy. The disease does not have a nice reputation. Consider some form of pox, perhaps?
Further on, this descends into a sort of bizarre slice of life? Not really sure what to make of the middle bit.
The ending does give some closure to the time-travel, and is honestly a pretty decent wrap-up. I can't help feeling, however, that most of the preceding doesn't really play into it. This would have been, for me, very nearly the same story if everything between their meeting and parting was cut out.
This is competently written, but drags a bit too hard in the middle to really hold my interest; I feel it would be better if more of that was spent building to a more compelling ending, instead of just banter and navigation and 'ooo, so mysterious'.
Aaaaah, sorry, one last nitpick. They really don't need to skin the pig, or probably even gut it much. (And if they do, they shouldn't do it near their camp!) Just hack off the bits they plan to eat, or go straight for the liver. Pig liver's supposed to be pretty good.
Anyways, this wasn't bad, per se. Just not, you know, very compelling or gripping. I like the concept, and the mechanics are sound enough, but the execution of the plot leaves something to be desired.
You lost some of my interest pretty quickly, however, particularly with the wolves; I highly doubt a pack of wolves would attack a human, especially one with a fire. They're really extremely cautious animals, and humans are not their usual prey. Oh, and describing one of them as a 'hound' really threw me. Wolves are hunted with hounds. (Probably poodles, in France.)
Also, former leper? Perhaps I'm wrong, but even if leprosy was curable then (which I doubt) I don't think Joan would buy this, or even be willing to be near someone who'd had leprosy. The disease does not have a nice reputation. Consider some form of pox, perhaps?
Further on, this descends into a sort of bizarre slice of life? Not really sure what to make of the middle bit.
The ending does give some closure to the time-travel, and is honestly a pretty decent wrap-up. I can't help feeling, however, that most of the preceding doesn't really play into it. This would have been, for me, very nearly the same story if everything between their meeting and parting was cut out.
This is competently written, but drags a bit too hard in the middle to really hold my interest; I feel it would be better if more of that was spent building to a more compelling ending, instead of just banter and navigation and 'ooo, so mysterious'.
Aaaaah, sorry, one last nitpick. They really don't need to skin the pig, or probably even gut it much. (And if they do, they shouldn't do it near their camp!) Just hack off the bits they plan to eat, or go straight for the liver. Pig liver's supposed to be pretty good.
Anyways, this wasn't bad, per se. Just not, you know, very compelling or gripping. I like the concept, and the mechanics are sound enough, but the execution of the plot leaves something to be desired.
Oh dear. This is a cheesy story, and I don't think you meant for it to be one. I mean, I can kind of see how this concept would be played for laughs, but that only happens in a few spots, like when you have Joan say the "you ain't no sissy" line. I sincerely doubt that Joan of Arc talked like Flava Flav in casual situations. The stuff with her explaining her rude habits in contrast with her devotion to God is weird slice of life stuff that doesn't really jibe with her distress that God hasn't been speaking to her lately.
The best thing you can do for this story is decide what you want to do with it. Either you dumb it up and make it like, I dunno, Konosuba with a real historical figure, or you go for a more straight-laced sci-fi/historical tone. It's probably possible to do both, but that "sissy" line sank your chances of that.
This story is weak. (3/10)
The best thing you can do for this story is decide what you want to do with it. Either you dumb it up and make it like, I dunno, Konosuba with a real historical figure, or you go for a more straight-laced sci-fi/historical tone. It's probably possible to do both, but that "sissy" line sank your chances of that.
This story is weak. (3/10)
I'm using horizon's HORSE rating system, which you can learn more about here.
17 – Encounter at dusk
There's a lot of good stuff going on in the opening here, but it could use a heavy tightening pass. You hook my interest in where the story is headed, but I'm actually going to do something a little weird here and really dig into the first paragraph, because based on content, I suspect the best advice I can give you here is going to be some precise prose targetting. So here's that paragraph:
First sentence: you're adding a lot of extra words, mostly in prepositional phrases, that don't add any meaning. Generally clunky, though the real flag for me here is that you don't fully concretize your hypothetical, which mostly wastes space (a small case could be made that having both hunter and farmer in ther adds setting info, but I think you can do better adding more novel setting info elsewhere). Second sentence also has a they/their pair where those two pronouns refer to different things. General tightening in sentences three and four. Also, drop the low-information cliche in the end of sentence four. If I were going to pare this down without making major changes, it'd probably look something like:
If this were me, I'd go even farther and do some rewording, and I might end up with:
That's a 40% reduction in word count, and the only pieces of information you've lost are that there were many splinters scattered around the perspective character, and that farmers are a common part of this setting. I think it's likely that both of these are acceptable casualties. Anyway, let's drop the workshopping and get back to the story.
There's some occasional usage oddity here (which makes me wonder if I might have hit Monokeras's story finally, after all his exhuberant protestations). Author, if the issues here are stemming from EFL, I'd get a native speaker's eyes on this for some proofreading. If the issues are simply a lack of editing time, I'd go with the read-aloud trick to try catching them. Either way, they seem pretty minor—but consistent enough to be worth a quick mention.
It's a story about Joan of Arc? Okay, thinking Monokeras even more strongly now...
I hope I'm not being led astray by my authorial suspicions, but really a lot of the problems I'm flagging with this story are very small things like word choices that carry weird information, like using "giggle" for the perspective character, which sounds very strange in the context of the way this character has been acting in the story. A laugh would be perfectly reasonable, a giggle carries some very different character information for me. Anyway, I'm going to skip out of text-edit mode now, read some more, and move on to larger issues.
I'm enjoying the pace and the scene selection here. The story moves at a pretty good clip, and there's usually something fun to read ever couple hundred words. I think the area I'm seeing the most trouble is in the characterization, primarily through the dialogue. You've got two very different characters here, but both speak in a way that feels modern and colloquial, and belies their fundamental differences. I feel like you've definitely begun working on giving the characters' dialogue content that makes sense for their situation and personalities (e.g. the way they both approach theological matters), but it's important to get the tone of their dialogue to match as well. Is one more serious than the other? Is one able to make better logical arguments than the other? Is one more prone to angry outbursts, or to trying for humor? Thinking about the tone adopted by your characters in dialogue will help make them more real and better separated to the reader. (Also, you've got a lot of colloquial phrases running around, both in and out of dialogue. Clichés are usually best avoided in writing, and I personally feel like your writing would be improved pretty much every time you're using one if you'd avoided the cliché and gone for something more direct.)
I was wondering exactly where this was heading. I do think I like that as a stopping point.
Okay, upsides here: The pacing of the story keeps me moving along well, and I never felt like it really dragged. There are a number of sections where I actually quite enjoyed the prose. I'm pretty happy with the scene selection inasmuch as there's usually something interesting happening, even if it's just a boar fight.
Downsides: I definitely would have liked better foreshadowing of the reveal in the second-to-last section. I know there was a little, about what would happen if England won this war, but it turns out that this is as much of a key thread in the story as all the Joan of Arc stuff, and so it definitely feels a little undercooked. Word choice issues, as mentioned. Characterization issues, as mentioned. We get to spend a good amount of time with John and Joan, but I don't feel like they ever have to confront issues that really make us come to understand them well as characters. Joan has a crisis of faith at one point, which is probably the right type of thing to do, but which felt a little overblown to me since it seemed to mostly come out of the blue. And finally, overall plot structure. There's really never a clear conflict that needs resolving here. John is trying to get Joan to Chinon, and they interact along the way, but there's never a clear indication that Joan's destiny at Chinon might be threatened in any way, through her inability to get there, or through the wrong events unfolding once she did. The only real spot where it seems like there might be conflict around preventing this is when John kills his counterpart, and this happens suddenly and without much foreshadowing, so there isn't really any tension or release tied to this since it's all so sudden.
My advice for future stories would be to work on building a stronger framework in terms of plot and character. Do some hard-core outlining before you get into the writing—even if it's for the write-off. A shorter story with a strong outline on the plot/character front is going to serve you better in the long run. The English issues are troublesome, but they're also the sorts of things you should be able to iron out through your own editing, or with the help of some editors/friends who have an easier time with some of that stuff than you may. At this point I'd say the larger, structural issues are where you should be concentrating most of your attention.
HORSE: ▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉
TIER: Flawed but Fun
17 – Encounter at dusk
There's a lot of good stuff going on in the opening here, but it could use a heavy tightening pass. You hook my interest in where the story is headed, but I'm actually going to do something a little weird here and really dig into the first paragraph, because based on content, I suspect the best advice I can give you here is going to be some precise prose targetting. So here's that paragraph:
I try to bury the metal splinters strewn all over the ground around me under a layer of dead leaves. This might be superfluous, though, as I run no great risk: even if a hunter or a stray farmer found them, they wouldn’t catch their attention for more than a few seconds. To the naked eye, they are just polished shards of some grey metal. Only the microscope could reveal them for what they really are.
First sentence: you're adding a lot of extra words, mostly in prepositional phrases, that don't add any meaning. Generally clunky, though the real flag for me here is that you don't fully concretize your hypothetical, which mostly wastes space (a small case could be made that having both hunter and farmer in ther adds setting info, but I think you can do better adding more novel setting info elsewhere). Second sentence also has a they/their pair where those two pronouns refer to different things. General tightening in sentences three and four. Also, drop the low-information cliche in the end of sentence four. If I were going to pare this down without making major changes, it'd probably look something like:
I try to bury the metal splinters strewn over the ground beneath a layer of dead leaves. This might be unnecessary, though, as I run no great risk: even if a hunter found them, they wouldn't catch his attention for more than a few seconds. To the naked eye, they are just polished shards of grey metal. Only a microscope could reveal their true nature.
If this were me, I'd go even farther and do some rewording, and I might end up with:
I bury the metal splinters under a layer of dead leaves. Perhaps I am being too cautious. Even if a hunter found them, to the naked eye they are no more than polished shards of grey metal. Only a microscope could reveal their true nature.
That's a 40% reduction in word count, and the only pieces of information you've lost are that there were many splinters scattered around the perspective character, and that farmers are a common part of this setting. I think it's likely that both of these are acceptable casualties. Anyway, let's drop the workshopping and get back to the story.
There's some occasional usage oddity here (which makes me wonder if I might have hit Monokeras's story finally, after all his exhuberant protestations). Author, if the issues here are stemming from EFL, I'd get a native speaker's eyes on this for some proofreading. If the issues are simply a lack of editing time, I'd go with the read-aloud trick to try catching them. Either way, they seem pretty minor—but consistent enough to be worth a quick mention.
It's a story about Joan of Arc? Okay, thinking Monokeras even more strongly now...
I hope I'm not being led astray by my authorial suspicions, but really a lot of the problems I'm flagging with this story are very small things like word choices that carry weird information, like using "giggle" for the perspective character, which sounds very strange in the context of the way this character has been acting in the story. A laugh would be perfectly reasonable, a giggle carries some very different character information for me. Anyway, I'm going to skip out of text-edit mode now, read some more, and move on to larger issues.
I'm enjoying the pace and the scene selection here. The story moves at a pretty good clip, and there's usually something fun to read ever couple hundred words. I think the area I'm seeing the most trouble is in the characterization, primarily through the dialogue. You've got two very different characters here, but both speak in a way that feels modern and colloquial, and belies their fundamental differences. I feel like you've definitely begun working on giving the characters' dialogue content that makes sense for their situation and personalities (e.g. the way they both approach theological matters), but it's important to get the tone of their dialogue to match as well. Is one more serious than the other? Is one able to make better logical arguments than the other? Is one more prone to angry outbursts, or to trying for humor? Thinking about the tone adopted by your characters in dialogue will help make them more real and better separated to the reader. (Also, you've got a lot of colloquial phrases running around, both in and out of dialogue. Clichés are usually best avoided in writing, and I personally feel like your writing would be improved pretty much every time you're using one if you'd avoided the cliché and gone for something more direct.)
I was wondering exactly where this was heading. I do think I like that as a stopping point.
Okay, upsides here: The pacing of the story keeps me moving along well, and I never felt like it really dragged. There are a number of sections where I actually quite enjoyed the prose. I'm pretty happy with the scene selection inasmuch as there's usually something interesting happening, even if it's just a boar fight.
Downsides: I definitely would have liked better foreshadowing of the reveal in the second-to-last section. I know there was a little, about what would happen if England won this war, but it turns out that this is as much of a key thread in the story as all the Joan of Arc stuff, and so it definitely feels a little undercooked. Word choice issues, as mentioned. Characterization issues, as mentioned. We get to spend a good amount of time with John and Joan, but I don't feel like they ever have to confront issues that really make us come to understand them well as characters. Joan has a crisis of faith at one point, which is probably the right type of thing to do, but which felt a little overblown to me since it seemed to mostly come out of the blue. And finally, overall plot structure. There's really never a clear conflict that needs resolving here. John is trying to get Joan to Chinon, and they interact along the way, but there's never a clear indication that Joan's destiny at Chinon might be threatened in any way, through her inability to get there, or through the wrong events unfolding once she did. The only real spot where it seems like there might be conflict around preventing this is when John kills his counterpart, and this happens suddenly and without much foreshadowing, so there isn't really any tension or release tied to this since it's all so sudden.
My advice for future stories would be to work on building a stronger framework in terms of plot and character. Do some hard-core outlining before you get into the writing—even if it's for the write-off. A shorter story with a strong outline on the plot/character front is going to serve you better in the long run. The English issues are troublesome, but they're also the sorts of things you should be able to iron out through your own editing, or with the help of some editors/friends who have an easier time with some of that stuff than you may. At this point I'd say the larger, structural issues are where you should be concentrating most of your attention.
HORSE: ▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉▉
TIER: Flawed but Fun
Like >>Not_A_Hat, I found myself hooked by this one from the beginning, and found it smooth reading marred by a few details that should be easy to address in editing. I agree that the wolves were the first thing that broke me out of the story, but for a different reason: it wasn't until later on, when John lifted the boar and didn't eat, that I realized he had to be a robot. Up until then, I assumed he was a human time-traveler, and the fact that he singlehandedly wiped out an entire wolfpack with a bow broke me out of the story. (That should be easy to address, by lampshading it as he kills them, or by dropping more clues to John's real identity earlier on.) Other notable moments breaking my suspension of disbelief: the odd ignorance over magnetism when they're discussing the compass (especially when John earlier narrates "The shrill notes that spring from the wooden stick act a magnet to every creature around"); "former leper"; and the robot having an apparent nudity taboo and describing sex as "fun".
On the whole, though, the setup and introduction felt strong. The high technology introduced throughout fit into the story naturally. I also thought the peeing scene was an excellent inclusion, illustrating the sort of culture shock this premise makes inevitable.
The middle of this story is where it faced the most challenges. I agree with >>Bradel that this could benefit from outlining before you start your writing -- but don't just plan what happens in each scene, but how each scene moves your story forward. Even though there's a whole lot of interaction between John and Joan, and a lot of little minor problems solved, I never felt like there was an arc for either character, showing them growing or changing as they overcame challenges and got to know each other better. They very much feel like the same people at the end as they do when they first meet each other, and some of their concerns seem to go in circles -- for one egregious example, Joan deciding based on the dream that John was sent by God, and then being suspicious of his motives when she has her crisis of faith and he comforts her (despite the fact that he's been aiding her for weeks and asking for nothing in return). With the amount of time we spend traveling with these characters, we really should watch them both grow.
I do like the end, but agree with the other reviewers that it brings up some questions about why -- if there was an opposing time-traveling force -- there wasn't more opposition during the story itself. The only thing we ever see either of them fight (except for the king at the end) is a pack of wolves! It also seems odd that she would need to see John's face beforehand, given that 1) he speaks right before the blindfold is taken off, and she's had a month to recognize his voice; and 2) if he's pretending to be a king, shouldn't he have a crown on and be on a throne, or something? How is the room set up that they would expect her not to recognize the king?
Don't get discouraged, though, author: I cite a lot of individual little problems here, but those are nitpicks easily addressed by editing single scenes. The only big structural problem I see is the meandering middle, and adding some specific character arcs will go a very long way toward fixing that.
Tier: Almost There
On the whole, though, the setup and introduction felt strong. The high technology introduced throughout fit into the story naturally. I also thought the peeing scene was an excellent inclusion, illustrating the sort of culture shock this premise makes inevitable.
The middle of this story is where it faced the most challenges. I agree with >>Bradel that this could benefit from outlining before you start your writing -- but don't just plan what happens in each scene, but how each scene moves your story forward. Even though there's a whole lot of interaction between John and Joan, and a lot of little minor problems solved, I never felt like there was an arc for either character, showing them growing or changing as they overcame challenges and got to know each other better. They very much feel like the same people at the end as they do when they first meet each other, and some of their concerns seem to go in circles -- for one egregious example, Joan deciding based on the dream that John was sent by God, and then being suspicious of his motives when she has her crisis of faith and he comforts her (despite the fact that he's been aiding her for weeks and asking for nothing in return). With the amount of time we spend traveling with these characters, we really should watch them both grow.
I do like the end, but agree with the other reviewers that it brings up some questions about why -- if there was an opposing time-traveling force -- there wasn't more opposition during the story itself. The only thing we ever see either of them fight (except for the king at the end) is a pack of wolves! It also seems odd that she would need to see John's face beforehand, given that 1) he speaks right before the blindfold is taken off, and she's had a month to recognize his voice; and 2) if he's pretending to be a king, shouldn't he have a crown on and be on a throne, or something? How is the room set up that they would expect her not to recognize the king?
Don't get discouraged, though, author: I cite a lot of individual little problems here, but those are nitpicks easily addressed by editing single scenes. The only big structural problem I see is the meandering middle, and adding some specific character arcs will go a very long way toward fixing that.
Tier: Almost There
>>horizon
Oh. Um. Yes. Horizon raises a good point. That whole thing at the end with the king makes a lot less sense if you don't already know the story of Joan of Arc. (Bax, the idea is that there was a fake king in the room and she ignores him and goes for the real king hanging out on the side, looking like any old courtier. This gets screwed up a little by the fact that in the story, it's John who orders her brought in and she hears his voice, though, so the "king" she's supposed to be tricked by is never really mentioned or clearly alluded to here.)
Also I actually think the magnet thing is fine. The author makes a point of mentioning that the compass is period-appropriate technology, but when Joan doesn't know what it is, he has to come up with an explanation that doesn't out him too far. John totally understands magnetics, and I had no difficulty reading his response to Joan as a way of trying to not blow his cover.
Otherwise, unsurprisingly, general agreement.
Oh. Um. Yes. Horizon raises a good point. That whole thing at the end with the king makes a lot less sense if you don't already know the story of Joan of Arc. (Bax, the idea is that there was a fake king in the room and she ignores him and goes for the real king hanging out on the side, looking like any old courtier. This gets screwed up a little by the fact that in the story, it's John who orders her brought in and she hears his voice, though, so the "king" she's supposed to be tricked by is never really mentioned or clearly alluded to here.)
Also I actually think the magnet thing is fine. The author makes a point of mentioning that the compass is period-appropriate technology, but when Joan doesn't know what it is, he has to come up with an explanation that doesn't out him too far. John totally understands magnetics, and I had no difficulty reading his response to Joan as a way of trying to not blow his cover.
Otherwise, unsurprisingly, general agreement.
This was a smooth read, and I really love the concept. I also liked the gradual reveal that the protagonist was a robot.
I'd like to agree with previous reviewers that the dialogue was a bit... meh. Sometimes, it felt generically stilted to me, other times just unfitting. If I learn Joan has a rustic accent and grew up on a farm, I expect to see that reflected in her dialogue to some extent. Also, the robot could've done with a more unique voice, both in dialogue and in closer POV narration (a thing this story could've used more IMHO).
I felt a bit uncomfortable with the wolf pack scene, as this behaviour is highly improbable in wolves. Also, this is one of the rather rare actions scenes, and describing the headshot of the first wolf, and then just stating "yeah, killed the other 11, too," killed most of the immersion.
The lack of emotional POV makes part of the story read more like a travel log, which would seem plausible if this android was in some kind incapaccitated in feeling emotions, yet during some dialogue scenes he shows a lot of these, even the bad ones, like obviously gloating despite stating that he's not programmed for it.
This overall lack of emotional involvement made me also go 'wut' when Joan had her emotional meltdown. Never saw that coming, and I see little justification for it even in hindsight.
I'd like to say the ending saved it, but it didn't. At no point in the story did it look even remotely as though this mission could fail, so the payoff of it all working out fall flat for me, also because I don't know why I should favour a French rule over an English one, or why I should empathize with any of the people and non-people involved.
I'd like to agree with previous reviewers that the dialogue was a bit... meh. Sometimes, it felt generically stilted to me, other times just unfitting. If I learn Joan has a rustic accent and grew up on a farm, I expect to see that reflected in her dialogue to some extent. Also, the robot could've done with a more unique voice, both in dialogue and in closer POV narration (a thing this story could've used more IMHO).
I felt a bit uncomfortable with the wolf pack scene, as this behaviour is highly improbable in wolves. Also, this is one of the rather rare actions scenes, and describing the headshot of the first wolf, and then just stating "yeah, killed the other 11, too," killed most of the immersion.
The lack of emotional POV makes part of the story read more like a travel log, which would seem plausible if this android was in some kind incapaccitated in feeling emotions, yet during some dialogue scenes he shows a lot of these, even the bad ones, like obviously gloating despite stating that he's not programmed for it.
This overall lack of emotional involvement made me also go 'wut' when Joan had her emotional meltdown. Never saw that coming, and I see little justification for it even in hindsight.
I'd like to say the ending saved it, but it didn't. At no point in the story did it look even remotely as though this mission could fail, so the payoff of it all working out fall flat for me, also because I don't know why I should favour a French rule over an English one, or why I should empathize with any of the people and non-people involved.
I actually really enjoyed this one – like, really super enjoyed it, and it made me smile throughout. Though at the same time, I can’t argue with any of the criticisms that have been levelled at it. In particular, Joan’s dialogue bothered me in how inconstant it felt, switching from full on countryisms to modern day city talk at the drop of a hat. And I fully agree with everyone who said that the middle section was noticeably weaker – in fact, I felt basically the same way as Ferd Threstle, in that the whole story kind of fell into place early on, and then didn’t offer up much in the way of fresh twists and surprises (although that said, I loved the ending, even if it wasn’t very substantial).
I had other issues as well, but I won’t dwell on them since other reviewers have already covered them. You’ve had some really great feedback on this one :-)
But yeah! Issues aside, the writing flowed smoothly, the pacing was decent, and the concept itself was irresistible. The adventures of a time-travelling robot teaming up with Joan of Arc!! What’s not to love? It's like some sort of strange riff on The Terminator, and I simply adored it.
This round has been incredibly strong, and I’ve absolutely struggling with how I’m going to vote. But I think this’ll end up pretty high on my slate.
I had other issues as well, but I won’t dwell on them since other reviewers have already covered them. You’ve had some really great feedback on this one :-)
But yeah! Issues aside, the writing flowed smoothly, the pacing was decent, and the concept itself was irresistible. The adventures of a time-travelling robot teaming up with Joan of Arc!! What’s not to love? It's like some sort of strange riff on The Terminator, and I simply adored it.
This round has been incredibly strong, and I’ve absolutely struggling with how I’m going to vote. But I think this’ll end up pretty high on my slate.
Cursory recap
>>Orbiting_kettle
>>Ferd Threstle
>>Not_A_Hat
>>Solitair
>>Bradel
>>horizon
>>Bradel
>>wYvern
>>Lucky_Dreams
Thanks guys for reading this dreck. I was somewhat happy with the basic idea, but as a matter of fact I had no idea of what would happen between the beginning and the end, and that gave birth to this rather lengthy, insubstantial and dragging middle, where I simply juxtaposed ideas after ideas without any cohesion. On top of that I botched the dialogues, and the picture is almost complete. My week-end was bumpy, and I couldn’t really afford more than a few writing spells of half-an-hour or so, so no wonder it sounded so disjointed. And then, as I went ahead and realised I was botching the story, I lost about all momentum, so I really slaved at writing the last thousands of words, and when it was finished, it was rather ‘phew’ than ‘yeah!’.
I’m not really proud of it.
Lucky_Dreams, I’m really glad you enjoyed it despite all its flaws. Ferd Th. I’m honoured you could even consider that this fic could be remotely suitable for publication, which was galaxies away of what I thought. For all the others, your reviews were spot on, and thanks for your valuable advice, as always. At least, I’m more or less happy that—barring the dialogues—the English had only minor scars. And Solitair, thanks for being blunt.
Good luck to all finalists and see you during the next round in ten days or so.
>>Orbiting_kettle
>>Ferd Threstle
>>Not_A_Hat
>>Solitair
>>Bradel
>>horizon
>>Bradel
>>wYvern
>>Lucky_Dreams
Thanks guys for reading this dreck. I was somewhat happy with the basic idea, but as a matter of fact I had no idea of what would happen between the beginning and the end, and that gave birth to this rather lengthy, insubstantial and dragging middle, where I simply juxtaposed ideas after ideas without any cohesion. On top of that I botched the dialogues, and the picture is almost complete. My week-end was bumpy, and I couldn’t really afford more than a few writing spells of half-an-hour or so, so no wonder it sounded so disjointed. And then, as I went ahead and realised I was botching the story, I lost about all momentum, so I really slaved at writing the last thousands of words, and when it was finished, it was rather ‘phew’ than ‘yeah!’.
I’m not really proud of it.
Lucky_Dreams, I’m really glad you enjoyed it despite all its flaws. Ferd Th. I’m honoured you could even consider that this fic could be remotely suitable for publication, which was galaxies away of what I thought. For all the others, your reviews were spot on, and thanks for your valuable advice, as always. At least, I’m more or less happy that—barring the dialogues—the English had only minor scars. And Solitair, thanks for being blunt.
Good luck to all finalists and see you during the next round in ten days or so.
>>horizon
I think you have been improving in ways that the Writeoff finds very difficult to measure, because there's only one score number and it measures way too many things at once. And if I'm right, it sounds like you're reaching the point at which your improvement will start being reflected in the things that the Writeoff measures.
:P :P
I think you have been improving in ways that the Writeoff finds very difficult to measure, because there's only one score number and it measures way too many things at once. And if I'm right, it sounds like you're reaching the point at which your improvement will start being reflected in the things that the Writeoff measures.
:P :P
>>Monokeras
Did you actually check your personal scoreboard before posting that? You came within 1 point of setting a new personal record, and the upward trend over time is clear.
There were so few entrants this time that if you're only measuring by number of places from the bottom, your math is going to be off.
Did you actually check your personal scoreboard before posting that? You came within 1 point of setting a new personal record, and the upward trend over time is clear.
There were so few entrants this time that if you're only measuring by number of places from the bottom, your math is going to be off.
>>horizon
Cripes! 28 points! :P
Really, I see no real trend (and I’m not saying that in bad faith).
Why? I don’t understand. It was just as bad as usual.
>>Cold in Gardez
I imagine if mine had: you would’ve blinked thrice! :P :P
Ok, I’m out. :P
You came within 1 point of setting a new personal record, and the upward trend over time is clear.
Cripes! 28 points! :P
Really, I see no real trend (and I’m not saying that in bad faith).
There were so few entrants this time that if you're only measuring by number of places from the bottom, your math is going to be off.
Why? I don’t understand. It was just as bad as usual.
>>Cold in Gardez
no one would have blinked twice.
I imagine if mine had: you would’ve blinked thrice! :P :P
Ok, I’m out. :P