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22/1/05 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
minervasoloRandom writing post. The beginning of an original horror story. Any advice on how to pornounce the Welsh names would be helpful, since I plan to read this at writing group when I'm done and I've picked a really impossible name for the village (the translation of which is the name of the piece). Any other thoughts so far would be great too! I'm quite pleased with it so far, but I'm struggling to actually reach the next bit.
The Place of Prayer in the Tangled Grove
In the mid 1300s the Black Death hit Europe. It decimated villages, destroyed whole communities. It left graveyards overflowing. It travelled by road, by river and by terror.
In Betws-y-Llwyndyrys, a small Welsh village, the death toll was absolute. A few must have lived, to bury their dead, but the village was left empty. The graveyard of the small church was a tangled mass of bodies, the few grave markers entirely arbitrary.
Betws-y-Llwyndyrys would have passed eternity entirely unremarked, slowly falling into complete disrepair, were it not for the church and its graves. Alone, abandoned, and out of the way, neighbours were rare and visitors were rarer. Still, the explosion was visible across the mountain, and other villages, scattered throughout the valleys, were startled by the flash of light in the dead of night.
Within weeks after drawing attention to itself archeologists and geologists and historians scientists poured into the village. Later, the explosion would be blamed on the build up of gas from the decaying corpses, poorly buried and triggered by some slight landslip increasing pressure. No one worried about it happening again.
Rupert Evans was knee deep in skeletons and in heaven. Archeologically, Betws-y-Llwyndyrys was a haven. His girlfriend Jane was sitting on the bank above, furiously cataloging bones. The sleet was doing its best to dampen their spirits, but every dip in mood was quickly countered by Rupert’s comic renditions of Hamlet. It was dark, cold, and wet, but they were not entirely alone on the mountain. Celyn, a keen amateur geologist from a village a few miles away, sat next to Jane above the grave pit, discussing local history predominantly with himself.
“And they say that if any traveler were to spend the night here he would join the grave pit,” he told them. “Death himself haunts the village, damning all those who enter.”
Rupert leant against one of the few still standing stones for a moment, wiping sweat and snow from his brow.
“You know what’s really stupid about that legend?” he asked rhetorically. “There actually are bodies here that are far too recent for the Black Death. I mean, there are coins next to a guy here which can’t be older than Tudor. Jane's got a pocket watch I found earlier.”
“A friend of mine once saw a dark shadow inside the church,” Celyn said proudly. “We were camping out and even though I didn’t see it, there was definitely light over here.”
“Will o’ the wisp,” Jane said, casually ticking off another complete skeleton. “Marsh gas.”
“From what marsh?” Celyn asked triumphantly.
“From the bodies. After all, isn’t that what caused this whole kerfuffle?” Rupert snorted.
Celyn shook his head. “No, it was like candlelight,” he insisted. “The explosion was more blueish. And not very explosiony.”
“Explosiony?” Jane asked, smile tugging at the corner of her face. She’d taken to Celyn as a substitute for her younger brother, currently knee deep in mud in Devon, happily excavating something far less interesting.
Celyn blushed. “Well, you know. It was slow. I guess the grass caught fire or something. There was a flash, and then it died down, and stayed glowing for about an hour, and then there was another flash and it was out. It was mostly blue, though the lunar eclipse was making everything look rather green anyway. Well spooky.”
They turned as one to look at the church. Despite the terrors inflicted on its neighbouring land, it still stood, firm as ever. Most of the visitors to the village had taken time to look inside the neglected place of worship. It stood at the highest part of the village, between this valley and the next, so that from either settlement it stood silhouetted against the sky. Only the bravest, boldest and brashest teenaged boys would accept a dare to enter it. Newspapers testified that not all - indeed, not many - returned. Even now, the three would rather walk the miles to Celyn’s mother’s house than shelter there. Jane had had to take both Celyn and Rupert by the hand and march them in, to look around, three bright mornings ago.
The church was more like a fortress than anything else, standing dark and proud on the ragged hill. One side had partially collapsed, giving the illusion of crenulations, and the square tower was squat with narrow windows. The stone was thicker than a man, and the door seemingly made of whole tree trunks. The hinges were iron beasts, riveted to wood and stone alike. Inside it was hard to imagine it ever being a place of light and joyous worship. A few chipped paintings adorned the grim walls, but they were almost indistinguishable from the lichen and moss growing over them. Saints had no noses, angels no hands. Gremlins lurked in the darkest corners, tucked between pillar and roof or pew and wall. The pulpit was a carved mass of ancient wood, crumbled into shadows or faces and shades or grasping hands, as likely to belong to the fiends of hell as the host of heaven. The dark beams of the roof had once been gold. The flagstones and inset grave markers had once been white marble. The windows had once let many glorious hues of summer light into the dim interior.
On the pulpit sat a Bible. The pages were still edged with gold, and the passages opened with glorious illuminated letters. It was in Latin, as expected. Strange though that the damp of the church had not touched its pages, that the mildew growing over the collapsed pews and choir stand made no claim to the aged parchment. Jane was able even to turn the pages without causing damage. The leather of the cover had remained supple and soft. None of the three knew Latin, or they would not have touched the Damned thing.
The Place of Prayer in the Tangled Grove
In the mid 1300s the Black Death hit Europe. It decimated villages, destroyed whole communities. It left graveyards overflowing. It travelled by road, by river and by terror.
In Betws-y-Llwyndyrys, a small Welsh village, the death toll was absolute. A few must have lived, to bury their dead, but the village was left empty. The graveyard of the small church was a tangled mass of bodies, the few grave markers entirely arbitrary.
Betws-y-Llwyndyrys would have passed eternity entirely unremarked, slowly falling into complete disrepair, were it not for the church and its graves. Alone, abandoned, and out of the way, neighbours were rare and visitors were rarer. Still, the explosion was visible across the mountain, and other villages, scattered throughout the valleys, were startled by the flash of light in the dead of night.
Within weeks after drawing attention to itself archeologists and geologists and historians scientists poured into the village. Later, the explosion would be blamed on the build up of gas from the decaying corpses, poorly buried and triggered by some slight landslip increasing pressure. No one worried about it happening again.
Rupert Evans was knee deep in skeletons and in heaven. Archeologically, Betws-y-Llwyndyrys was a haven. His girlfriend Jane was sitting on the bank above, furiously cataloging bones. The sleet was doing its best to dampen their spirits, but every dip in mood was quickly countered by Rupert’s comic renditions of Hamlet. It was dark, cold, and wet, but they were not entirely alone on the mountain. Celyn, a keen amateur geologist from a village a few miles away, sat next to Jane above the grave pit, discussing local history predominantly with himself.
“And they say that if any traveler were to spend the night here he would join the grave pit,” he told them. “Death himself haunts the village, damning all those who enter.”
Rupert leant against one of the few still standing stones for a moment, wiping sweat and snow from his brow.
“You know what’s really stupid about that legend?” he asked rhetorically. “There actually are bodies here that are far too recent for the Black Death. I mean, there are coins next to a guy here which can’t be older than Tudor. Jane's got a pocket watch I found earlier.”
“A friend of mine once saw a dark shadow inside the church,” Celyn said proudly. “We were camping out and even though I didn’t see it, there was definitely light over here.”
“Will o’ the wisp,” Jane said, casually ticking off another complete skeleton. “Marsh gas.”
“From what marsh?” Celyn asked triumphantly.
“From the bodies. After all, isn’t that what caused this whole kerfuffle?” Rupert snorted.
Celyn shook his head. “No, it was like candlelight,” he insisted. “The explosion was more blueish. And not very explosiony.”
“Explosiony?” Jane asked, smile tugging at the corner of her face. She’d taken to Celyn as a substitute for her younger brother, currently knee deep in mud in Devon, happily excavating something far less interesting.
Celyn blushed. “Well, you know. It was slow. I guess the grass caught fire or something. There was a flash, and then it died down, and stayed glowing for about an hour, and then there was another flash and it was out. It was mostly blue, though the lunar eclipse was making everything look rather green anyway. Well spooky.”
They turned as one to look at the church. Despite the terrors inflicted on its neighbouring land, it still stood, firm as ever. Most of the visitors to the village had taken time to look inside the neglected place of worship. It stood at the highest part of the village, between this valley and the next, so that from either settlement it stood silhouetted against the sky. Only the bravest, boldest and brashest teenaged boys would accept a dare to enter it. Newspapers testified that not all - indeed, not many - returned. Even now, the three would rather walk the miles to Celyn’s mother’s house than shelter there. Jane had had to take both Celyn and Rupert by the hand and march them in, to look around, three bright mornings ago.
The church was more like a fortress than anything else, standing dark and proud on the ragged hill. One side had partially collapsed, giving the illusion of crenulations, and the square tower was squat with narrow windows. The stone was thicker than a man, and the door seemingly made of whole tree trunks. The hinges were iron beasts, riveted to wood and stone alike. Inside it was hard to imagine it ever being a place of light and joyous worship. A few chipped paintings adorned the grim walls, but they were almost indistinguishable from the lichen and moss growing over them. Saints had no noses, angels no hands. Gremlins lurked in the darkest corners, tucked between pillar and roof or pew and wall. The pulpit was a carved mass of ancient wood, crumbled into shadows or faces and shades or grasping hands, as likely to belong to the fiends of hell as the host of heaven. The dark beams of the roof had once been gold. The flagstones and inset grave markers had once been white marble. The windows had once let many glorious hues of summer light into the dim interior.
On the pulpit sat a Bible. The pages were still edged with gold, and the passages opened with glorious illuminated letters. It was in Latin, as expected. Strange though that the damp of the church had not touched its pages, that the mildew growing over the collapsed pews and choir stand made no claim to the aged parchment. Jane was able even to turn the pages without causing damage. The leather of the cover had remained supple and soft. None of the three knew Latin, or they would not have touched the Damned thing.
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Date: 23/1/05 11:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 23/1/05 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 23/1/05 12:27 pm (UTC)Probably best to specific which year the Black Death arrived, because it's widely known. 1348: England. May have been late 1348 or early 1349 that it reached Wales, I'm not sure, but the Internet knows all...
Please ignore next paragraph if you've studied medieval buriel practices :) In the fourteenth-century only the rich had grave markers that have survived until today, and those are invariably made of stone, weigh tons and are indoors. Any grave markers outside would have decayed or simply not existed. The rich were buried in the church because that was closer to God, the poor were buried outside and couldn't afford to mark the graves unless with wood. Mostly, bodies were left to rot or put into a communal plague grave/pit. This didn't have to be in consecrated ground, which was a real subject of fear for those left alive. Also, it's been theorised that a lot of settlements were abandoned not because everyone died, but because the few survivors legged it somewhere else. So it's perfectly plausible that all your plague victims were in the churchyard, but sadly not that they had any grave markers. Sorry, I really hate being a pernickety bugger, it's just this rang a bit oddly to me and spoiled the atmosphere of the first few paragraphs of the story :P
Um, not sure about the gas from corpses blamed for the explosion, unless there'd been recent buriels there or it was all the travellers who've been sucked into it!
Rupert and Jane are cool, I like them muchly. You've created a real feel for both of the chracters just through the single paragraph that they're introduced in.
The standing stone that Rupert leans against, is that a grave marker? It could be the base of a celtic cross, as there are loads of them about and a lot are in the grounds of far later medieval churches. I don't know how many are in Wales, but I'm sure there are a few.
*applauds* for the description of the church. Perfectly blocky with anrrow windows, but (gah, another but, sorry!) they didn't have pews in the C14th. The poor sat on the floor, the ill and elderly sat on benches by the walls, and the rich sat on cushions. If one side has gone then is the roof all there or not? If no, then it's highly unlikely any wood would have survived. I love your description of the pulpit, but again, not in the middle ages! It could be that the Victorians decided to give the church a going over and installed pulpit and pews (as they did just about everywhere), and then they'd be at about the right state of decay for your description.
Wonderful bible! I love that. A great intoroduction of the supernatural after such a creepy description of decay. I want to know what happens next now. The last sentence is ominous and just right.
Again, sorry for tearing apart a few of the aspects of the story, but I know these are things that quite a few people would pick up on, so I thought them worth mentioning. It is also worth mentioning the your description rocks, as does your characterisation :)
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Date: 23/1/05 01:40 pm (UTC)