Heyla Niamh,
I realized as I was going along, reading and criting your story that a. my handwriting illegible, and b. I did most things in short hand, thus it makes it very confusing for someone who isn’t intimately immersed in my brain. So, I’ve transferred everything to the computer. If you have any questions or thoughts or comments on anything please do shout out. So here goes the first part of my 1649 crit.
Yours, CL.
Chapter One
Drogheda, Ireland. September 3, 1649
Cahira McCann woke with a start. […woke with a start, is quite a clichéd beginning, try jazzing it up a little. Give the reader something sparkly, something to catch their attention more.] There had been a swift knock [swift knock, huh? Can knocks be swift? I can swiftly knock, but it sounds peculiarly weird in third person. Also there is tense shift between the first two sentences, woke and had been, perhaps A knock on the feeble door caused her husband...] upon the feeble door, causing her husband Faolàn to rise from beside her, his copper hair disheveled. His golden eyes opened [Is he just opening his eyes? Or are they already open? If they are already open, I would use something like narrowed instead.] warily, a confused look on his gaunt face. A visitor at this hour was unusual.
He muttered something incoherent, smiling at his infant son Tiarnan, still asleep in his mother’s arms, before stumbling sleepily [delete sleepily] to the door.
The tiny, single roomed [It should be room not roomed.] house was gently illuminated by the early dawn. Minute streams of light passed through the holes in the walls of packed thatch and earth, gleaming pastel pink, like the gathering radiance above the hills. [Beautiful prose. I love it. ]
“Please, come in, Father,” [Hmmm, this dialogue seems particularly broken, “Please, come in Father,” seems a more likely syntax.] said Faolàn as he creaked open the door, sounding puzzled.
Father Blandon, Cahira’s trusted advisor, and the town's most trusted priest [There is more than one priest? Big town?], sauntered [sauntered implies swagger, is Father Blandon swaggering?] wearily in, removing his woolen hood to reveal an exhausted expression upon his aged face. Cahira averted her eyes, a jolt of panic shaking her. This was definitely a very unusual guest.
“Very ill news, I’m afraid,” he informed regretfully, speaking very quickly. [Too much information - either say he informed quickly, or he informed. So, he informed, “I can‘t…] “I can’t stay long.”
“What ill news?” interjected Cahira, her soft voice unusually demanding. She walked abruptly to him with Tiarnan still in her arms, her round, cobalt eyes suddenly awake. [Cahira or Tiarnan’s eyes?]
Father Blandon met her gaze, uttering frantically: “Cromwell is here! Early this morning a scout came to the church, to warn us--reporting he is now outside the city walls, on this side of the river—he waits for Aston’s surrender—he has brought thousands of followers—Ironsides! He has blockaded the city!” [Reword - Early this morning a scout came to the church to warn us. Cromwell is now outside the city walls, he waits for Aston’s surrender. They had blockaded the city with thousands of Ironsides!”]
“Please, [no need for comma] sit down, Father,” implored Cahira, her hands now shaking terribly. She set Tiarnan on a red-dyed woolen blanket, while picking up [she is setting down Tiarnan and picking up something at the same time?] another for Father Blandon to sit on, the home being devoid of furniture, due to destitution. [Too much information, delete due to destitution, that is implied by the lack of furniture.]
“I cannot stay,” he repeated unwaveringly [delete unwaveringly, superfluous], backing slightly away from the blanket. “I have come because I fear the time will be cut short for our next meeting at church. You must leave now. Have you chosen your path?”
“We intend to bring Tiarnan to a Protestant church. [I still find this strange because are not they Catholics? The whole rift between the religions. It seems a bit unlikely for good Catholics to give their son up to a Protestant Church, even more their priest is advocating that…] But if this is a blockade, how are we supposed to get out?” pressed Faolán, his eyes ablaze with foreboding. [ablaze with foreboding? Huhzits, what its? Exactly what is ablaze with foreboding? I’d nix that and just put pressed Faolán.]
“You must leave for Dublin—all the Catholics have been driven from that town,” declared Father Blandon sourly. [I would switch the words around - Father Blandon declared sourly.] “The Ironsides are blocking Drogheda city itself--the city within the walls; you live beyond the boundaries of the city walls. In fact, people of this countryside are selling food to the Ironsides-- ”
“What? No. No—that can’t be true. They wouldn’t betray our forces like that!” cried Cahira wrathfully. [Reword - “What? No. No-that can’t be true. They wouldn’t--” cried Cahira.]
“I fear it is true. But in this case, it is to your advantage,” replied Father Blandon desolately. “You can slip out unnoticed. Find away around them--you must do this, I tell you now, it will be worse if you stay. I fear it is your son's last chance for freedom. Cahira, you must take the name of your parents, and all the money you have. I still advise you to keep yourselves anonymous, inside Dublin city, and the church. It is inside the once-Catholic churches the Protestants now worship. Take him to the closest one you can find, and I mean the closest. There may be one in the northern fringe of Dublin, if I remember correctly what I was told. I warn you, there isn’t a lot of time.” [Major detail dumping, definitely reword this. Don’t say so much, leave some mystery in the dialogue.]
“Have you no further advice?” whimpered Cahira, her head now reeling. [Reword - Cahira whimpered, her head reeling.]
“I’m afraid not. And I fear this may [may seems wrong here, perhaps will] be our last meeting,” replied Father Blandon somberly.
“I cannot stay to say good bye. It is too painful to dwell. All I can say is that I have prayed for you, my most pious children.”
[The above two paragraphs were both Father Blandon correct? Well, then they should be enjambed. Also this Father Blandon dialogue makes him seem overly dramatic. I would cut down the wording.]
“Thank you, Father,” wept Cahira. [Wept? Erm, isn’t she talking?]
“With all our hearts,” said Faolán, tears glimmering on his cheeks. [said implies that someone says something, that there is no degree of emotion in their voice, but Faolán has tears on his cheeks, I’d find another word for said to go more with his emotions.]
“Bless you, and your son. May the Lord be forever with you in your journeys,” said Father Blandon, before rushing out the door, hastily pulling his hood back over his head. [You are rushing too much here, try and drag these actions out.]
For a long while, Cahira stood staring after him, [another clichéd phrase.] her hand clutching her heart and her mind clouded with uncertainty. Could this have possibly been their last meeting with the man who had done so much to save her son? She could think of nothing but the last time she had met with Father Blandon, in secrecy, less than a week before.
She remembered the rain pouring heavily against the vibrant glass windows of her Catholic church as she waited dolefully [? Can you wait dolefully? I suppose you can, but it sounds, seems weird. I think it is the fact that the dolefully is in conjecture with the waiting and not that Cahira was doleful, which seems more likely.] for Father Blandon. Her umber hair dripped [hair drips, that’s new. ] onto the stone floor as she writhed her hands anxiously. [the writhing of the hand implies anxiousness, so anxiously is superfluous.]
As the man who had been praying departed reverently, Father Blandon entered.
“Bless me, Father,” began Cahira [Switch - Cahira began…] as he approached, but her voice faltered. She turned nervously away from him. [I would have this more fluid - but her voice faltered, and she twisted nervously from him.]
“What is it, child?” asked Father Blandon concernedly, sitting next to her on the pew bench. [Reword - Father Blandon sat next to her on the pew bench, and although he was characteristically attentive, his eyes were unusually distant.] Though he was characteristically attentive, his eyes were unusually distant as she turned to face him.
“I-I need your help,” she told him, vaguely comforted by his tone and the safety offered by her church. “I must get my son to safety—away from here. I-I don’t know where.”
“Why away from here?” asked Father Blandon incredulously. [Reword - asked Father Blandon incredulous…] “The rest of the world is equal in hostility.”
“Father, we all stand within Cromwell’s grasp!” Cahira took a painful breath, restraining tears. “Folk say he’s in Dublin as we speak! I cannot surrender my son to the life that now awaits us. I don’t want to fail him--folk say the Ironsides are taking slaves—Tiarnan is too young to work [Wait, isn‘t Tiarnan an infant, why would she be worried about him working?] , and I fear --” Cahira lost her composure at the thought of what devastation the Ironsides could reek if they reached her village, or her son—he was but four months old.
Father Blandon leaned back in the pew, his old knotted hands passing over his face in frustration. For a long while he sat in silence, furrowing his heavy brow in deep consideration.
Cahira shifted uncomfortably where she sat [where she sat, delete, superfluous], waiting for a response.
“You have options,” his weary voice croaked reluctantly [too much info, delete reluctantly], as if afraid to divulge what the choices were. “Options that are—inopportunely limited—by costs.”
“That much we assumed,” assured Cahira. “We have saved as much as possible—lived on crumbs, really.”
“Right then,” he nodded, his voice still troubled [his voice still troubled, delete]. “The first, but mind you, least probable option is to leave Ireland entirely.”
Cahira winced.
“Leave for the Spanish Netherlands [fragment - You could leave for…], where you will not be persecuted as a Catholic. But the journey, costs aside, is treacherous in itself; if hunger does not take you first, the Ironsides will.”
Disheartened, Cahira waited anxiously for the next alternative, eagerly hoping it would hold more promise.
“Your second option would be to send your son to live within a Protestant church--”
“That was our first thought,” confessed Cahira, peering at Father Blandon searchingly, hoping he would not now question her piety.
“If you were to send him to a Protestant church, it would likely require a donation on the church’s behalf. There, he will grow as a man of their beliefs—their God," he added bitterly. "He will be educated and safe. I do not blame you for wanting to send him there, alas, the only refuge in Ireland, it seems. But getting him there is the hard part. Upon delivering him, you must take a Protestant name—that of your parents, perhaps?” [Again, it seems weird that a Catholic priest would advocate this, not improbable, just weird…]
“Perhaps,” replied Cahira sensitively, wishing he had not mentioned her parents. [I would just leave it at: replied Cahira sensitively…]
Four years before, when she was sixteen, her parents left for the North, having decided to convert to Puritanism, and resenting Cahira for refusing to join them. Ever since, the feeling that she had somehow failed to be the ideal daughter had beleaguered her, believing she had unintentionally forced them away—that they did not need her, though she needed them. [Info dump, I would withhold some of this information, drag it out sparingly about her estrangement with the parents, make it more suspenseful.]
"But what if we are found out? What are the chances of that?" inquired Cahira impatiently, pushing thoughts of her parents away. [I would delete everything after the dialogue.]
" I would advise you—that if you were to leave your son—and the donation within the church without drawing attention to yourself, he would be protected. I mean, leave him anonymously within the care of the laity. Not even that church would dare harm a child. In fact, maybe that is the better way to plan--that way you have no risk of being caught—unless you intend to leave as well? Perchance, join your son?"
“Protestant or not, Faolán and I are still Irish, and our past will not be easily forgotten. Tiarnan is an infant—he cannot tell them from whence he truly came, or to which religion he was born, when we ourselves cannot hide it,” Cahira professed bitterly, twisting her skirt in her hands. She then bowed her head penitently; she had not meant to take that tone before Father Blandon, let alone in her church. [delete everything after tone.]
“There is much to take into consideration,” Father Blandon acknowledged. “If you would come again next Friday, I will have time to council with those who may perhaps aid you in this. Be not ashamed of your tears—I too feel the weight of the times.”
Cahira blushed, feeling he had read her thoughts. She smiled as much as she could muster.
“I cannot thank you enough, Father.”
“Bless you."
Father Blandon's words echoed with Faolàn's as she was drawn back into the future.
Faolàn placed his malnourished hand lovingly on her shoulder, but when she looked at him, his bleak expression offered little solace, for it mirrored the way she felt.
1. You picked a part of history that is not overly used, and that’s very cool.
2. I still find it hard to believe that they would give their child to Protestants considering the stigma, the hatred, and such. Also from what you have explained of Cahira she is a devout catholic, even estrangement from her Puritan covert parents, and that says something.
3. What ever happened to the name Sadhbh?
4. I love those few lyrical descriptions of things you had.
5. Wonderful place to drop your writer, right in the middle of conflict.
Hope this helps, hon. Till next time. CL.
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