Young Writers Society

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.

Niamh,

I’m back! Here is the second part of Chapter One.

Yours, CL.

“We best gather our things,” affirmed Faolán glumly, rolling up the blankets from the floor. [hmm… if we are looking at the connotation of words, affirm is a positive word, glum is a negative word, I don’t they fit in conjecture here, I’d just leave off glumly.]

That process did not take long, for the McCann’s owned very little: a few pieces of clothing each, a few [I would delete: a few] meager cooking supplies, blankets, and luckily, oats enough for the journey. Although content with their standing, the McCann’s were of the lowest level of peasantry, Faolán being a mere farmer on a shared plot of land, owned by a wealthy and unjust landlord. [Yeoman farmers?] Every day became a further struggle as new laws were introduced, replacing the old Irish system of Brehon Law. The struggle was greatest [hmm, I don’t like the use of greatest, perhaps worse?] for Cahira, for under Brehon Law, women were extended their own rights, but under these new rules, she was restricted more so than the men.

“I don’t know how to get to Dublin,” realized Cahira dejectedly, as she picked up from under her straw-pile bed her only possession of worth: a beautiful silver brooch, formed as a Celtic trinity knot, three points gracefully meeting in the center. Faolán owned its match. [Aww... how sweet]

His late grandfather, a blacksmith with an aptitude for making ornaments, had willed the brooches to him and Cahira, as a blessing for their wedding. Thinking lovingly and longingly of Faolàn’s grandfather, who had treated her as his own, Cahira pinned the brooch to the front of her long, beige dress.

“Barram’ll know. He’s been all over with his brother,” replied Faolán, collecting his bit of money and putting them into a coin purse, and pinning his own brooch carefully to his worn, [comma here] russet tunic, passing his hand over it, his eyes closed in memory. [Rushing action again - reword: …Faolán replied. Collecting his bit of money and putting them into a coin purse, he pinned his own brooch carefully to his worn, russet tunic; passing his palm over it, he closed his eyes in memory.]

He breathed in deeply, then saying [reword - He breathed in deeply, before saying]: “Anyway, I think I remember the path I took the last time.”

“We have to tell them anyway—I mean, I told Caoimhe that we were leaving. But I didn’t know it would be this soon,” said [I would find another word for ‘said’, perhaps expressed.] Cahira wistfully, worrying that she may never see Barram’s wife Caoimhe, or Barram himself again. Barram and Caoimhe were Faolán’s and Cahira’s [no need for Faolán and Cahira, so just were best friends and neighbors on the shared land] best friends and neighbors on the shared land; Barram’s brother was part of Sir Arthur Aston’s infantry, comprised of Royalists and Irish Confederates—those who stood against Cromwell.

When all their scanty belongings were gathered, Cahira decided they better wait until nightfall. [Reword - When all their belongings were gathered, Cahira decided it was better to wait for nightfall.]

"Don't you think we may have a better chance of not being seen? I want to get out of here without their filthy eyes on us."

"That’ll be hard, I think. Maybe the Ironsides will be sleeping as well. I dunno," mumbled Faolán doubtfully, putting his hands to his face as he sat. [Rushing again - …mumbled Faelan doubtfully. He sat putting his hands to his face as he did.] “I dunno where to start.” His hands moved to his eyes as he tried in vain to stop the tears brimming his eyes. “I just don’t know, Cahira.” [Would he cry though in front of her? And if he does that says a whole lot about his character and his relationship with Cahira.]

Cahira pulled Tiarnan onto her lap, and moved closer to Faolán, who kissed his son’s forehead as he took him into his own arms, and then gently kissed his wife’s cheek. [Again rushing, try to draw out your action. Cahira pulled Tiarnan on her lap and moved closer to Faolán, who kissed his son’s forehead As he took him into his own arms, and then gently kissed his wife’s cheek. Aww… how cute. Also you use kiss a lot here, try maybe using peck once.] Cahira looked away, afraid to glimpse the fleeting moments of wholeness. She felt without Tiarnan, there would be a gaping hole in her entirety, that which her son and husband had once mended. [A little syntax tweaking, She felt that without Tiarnan there would be a gaping hole in her entirety…] [Also the: that which her son and husband had once mended, is very, very confusing. Or at least the wording is. Is it supposed to be: one that her son and husband once mended? But that seems wrong too, because they have yet to be split apart. They are still one family.] But if she were to keep him, she would forever lament surrendering him to the life of torment she now faced as an Irishwoman. Chances were, at some time, she and Faolán would lose everything to the wrath of Cromwell—their home could be dispossessed, and the land sold to the Scottish Presbyterian settlers who had themselves been forced out of their homeland. [Recasting - settlers who had been forced out of their homeland.] Or she and Faolàn might become captives to the English subjugators who slithered around at night, ruthlessly tearing the Irish from their homes and shipping them to the West Indies to work ceaselessly in the bondage of slavery. Any end was a disparaging one.

The sun was now fully risen, daylight streaming garishly through the smoke release, illuminating the restricted shack. But the day passed swiftly, like water through the River Shannon, [add a word here - with] Cahira ticking off each second with [change with to in] fruitless mental preparation. It seemed insurmountable, what she was about to do, especially when she tenderly beheld her precious son, his eyes identical to her own, his face so like his father's. When he held her gaze and smiled, he appeared so wise behind his young eyes, as all children do. When he wrapped his dear, tiny hand around her finger, she melted into tears, knowing she would never again feel his adoring grip. Faolán was in much the same state, seemingly afraid to take his eyes from his son.

As the hours passed, Tiarnan seemed to perceive his parent’s grief, for he became unusually fussy, typically a sweet and placid child. [Recasting - grief; he became unusually fussy for a typically sweet and placid child.] Continually, Faolán would apologize to Tiarnan, telling him, more to reassure himself than his son, that bringing him to the Protestants was going to protect him, ensure him a secure life of freedom. Cahira knew that Faolàn’s weakness was doubt in himself; never knowing whether or not he was making the right decision, acting on impulse or reason. [Too much superfluous info, I’d get rid of the whole sentence.]

As the sun sunk beneath the hills, the burden of the impending journey began to weigh down on Cahira, making her realize it was time to gather up her courage. [Reword - Cahira. It was time for to gather up her courage.]

“We have to tell Caoimhe and Barram now, Faolàn,” she affirmed haplessly. [Again you have a positive and then negative words in conjecture. Anyways I don’t think you can affirm haplessly. In the dictionary it defines hapless as doomed, unlucky. Though I could see it working as unfortunate. But still affirmed - perhaps maintained, stated, declared.]

Faolán looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and somber, his enduring horrors visible in his gaze. [Cut off everything after somber, a bit melodramatic there.] “I-I reckon so,” he choked grudgingly. [Delete grudgingly - how does one choke grudgingly, as choke is an involuntary action, does he have superhuman powers or something?]

[Is there supposed to be a jump in time here?]

Leaving their baggage at the door, Faolàn held Tiarnan in his arms, taking Cahira’s hand before passing through the door to see Barram and Caoimhe for what might be the last time. [Again rushing - rework - They left their baggage at the door. Faolan held both Tiarnan and Cahira close as they passed through the door to see Barram and Caoimhe, for what was probably the last time.] An amethyst glow smoldered above the horizon, the rest of the sky fading into endless black, devoid of stars.

Knocking three times to a swift response, Barram cracked open the door suspiciously. [Confusing frag - who is doing the knocking? Wait didn‘t they already pass through the door in the previous paragraph? Er…]

“Oh, it’s just you,” he said jovially. The burly, red haired man widened the door, welcoming his friends. “Ye look mighty grim,” he said unsurely, clapping his large hand heartily on Faolàn’s shoulder. [You use said twice in a close vicinity, not the best diction. Perhaps just having - “Ye look mighty grim.” The burly, red haired man opened (or inched or pried open) the door, welcoming his friends. Also, note, unless Barram has supernatural powers widening the door is impossible.]

“Listen, we’re really sorry,” began Faolán, his voice cracking. [Just have - began Faolán.]

Caoimhe looked deeply [I am pretty sure you cannot look deeply at someone, so nix that.] at Cahira, her green gaze seeming to penetrate her soul. [Hmm… a little melodramatic here, rephrase.] “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked accusingly [just - she accused - works a helluva lot better], flames from the fire emitting an ethereal glow in her golden hair. [This flames from the fire bit = blearrg…; it‘s like you‘re trying to be poetic and it is coming off melodramatic.] “Cahira?” she pled, putting her hand on Cahira’s shoulder. [You don’t always have to put something after the intial dialogue explaining it. I would just say - “Cahira?” She put her hand on Cahira’s shoulder.]

“Yes,” admitted Cahira, her voice shaking. [This would be stronger if you just had - “Yes.”]

Caoimhe then embraced her, crying into her shoulder. [Recast - Caoimhe embraced her then.] “When?”

“Tonight,” replied Cahira miserably. [I think it would be more of a finality if it was just “Tonight.”]

“Tonight?” mumbled [Is mumble the right verb here?] Barram in distress, turning to Cahira. “Why tonight?” he asked, moving toward her. “It’s those blasted Ironsides, isn’t it?”

“Can you at least stay a bit?” Caoimhe beseeched desperately, her small frame shaking faintly as she pulled away from Cahira.

“That’s why we came,” divulged Cahira, placing her hand on Barram’s arm as she turned to him. “We didn’t know until today or I swear I would have told you sooner.” She turned back to Caoimhe. “Father Blandon came to us-”

“To your house?” interrupted Barram.

“Yes. To warn us that—that Cromwell had come,” finished Faolán, bowing his head.

“We’re sorry,” uttered Cahira, genuinely remorseful. “We hate to do this.”

“But you are coming back?” questioned Caoimhe at once.

“We mean to,” nodded Faolàn. “We’re to go to Dublin, on Father Blandon’s order. Barram, I know the time to ask isn’t fitting, but have you any directions? It’s been so long.”

“It is directly south of here, a hefty town, you can’t miss it if you stay toward the east as you go. Stay away from the shores! If you meet the port of Dublin, you’re in trouble. The slave ships leave from there, and it’s teeming with Ironsides. I could go with you-”

“No. It isn’t safe,” said Cahira firmly, a sudden rush of guilt flowing in her veins. “I can’t put you at risk as well.”

“I have vague knowledge anyhow,” said Faolán, having once been there three years before.

“Then—you should take this,” said Caoimhe, offering a small bag of apples to Cahira.

“Barram nicked ‘em from the fields yesterday, so no one could sell them to the Ironsides. Nasty traitors, they are. You’ll need them on the way.” She bent to Tiarnan, in Faolàn’s arms. “Can I hold him a last time?”

“’Course ye can,” said Faolán understandingly, handing Tiarnan to her.

“I’ve always wanted a family,” mused Caoimhe mournfully, her sweet voice trembling. "It's not safe though, not now. It’s the curse Cromwell, I tell ye."

Barram stroked his wife’s hair, looking at her apologetically before moving across the room. He then opened a chest at the end of the house, pulling out a long box.

“Me brother gave me this,” he said to Faolán, carefully opening the box to reveal a musket.

“It’s a matchlock. When my brother was given a flintlock for Aston's army, he gave this to me, for protection. He wasn’t supposed to. A little piece of value to this house, I guess.”

Barram extended the musket to Faolàn. “You’ll need it more.”

“I don’t know how to use it--” admitted Faolàn, looking astounded, never having seen a musket.

“Here, I’ll teach you to use it,” said Barram. “First, I hope I remember properly—right, you move the striker like this,” he said, moving the cock of the gun half open. “Take this cartridge,” he continued, pulling showing Faolán a paper cartridge, “and open it with your teeth. The lower part has the powder,” he noted, showing Faolán the cartridge again, but not opening it, “drop the powder down the barrel, and shove the paper left over in as wadding. Then add the bullet,” he said, pointing to the upper part of the cartridge, and the remaining paper for wadding again, and compact it with the ramrod—it’s still in the case.

Now you can light the match—and don’t let it go out, or you can’t fire, rendering this useless, really. When cocked, the gun will push the match to the powder, which ignites to fire. Move the striker watch out--stay far from him if he has to fire, Cahira--it'll make a terrible jolt. I'm right hopeful you won't have to fire--takes years to load. Best to load it if you see someone questionable in the distance. Here, I'll talk you through it till you catch on."

As Barram taught Faolán, Caoimhe beckoned Cahira to sit.

“I can’t believe your actually going. I knew you would eventually. I didn’t know it would be today, or tomorrow or the next. It’s so hard to fathom,” she told Cahira, her pastel skin streaked with tears. She tilted her head to Tiarnan, “I’m going to miss ye, little wee’n. But you’ll be free, you’ll be alright.”

She turned to Cahira, her eyes staid:

“Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble, try and stay away from the Ironsides—I dunno if they’d follow you, would they?”

“Aye, I imagine taking the names of me parents’ll spare us from some hardship. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll actually be meeting with any Protestants,” replied Cahira.

“It’s getting dark,” recognized Caoimhe forlornly. “Ye sure you can’t stay one more night?”

“Wish we could. Wish we didn’t have to go at all. But Father Blandon told us to leave now, I imagine it’s best to do as he says,” answered Cahira sullenly. “You be safe yourself. We’ll be away from the Ironsides. You’re right near ‘em.”

Saying what might be last words, and exchanging last embraces, despondency rampant in departing tones, the McCann’s left their neighbor’s doorstep, the last friendly faces for a long time to come. As they moved out into the dark night, they took the first steps toward whatever nameless fate awaited them.

[My version of the above - Recasted, trimmed down and such -

“Can you at least stay a bit?” Caoimhe beseeched. Her small frame shook faintly as she pulled away from Cahira.

“That’s why we came,” divulged Cahira, “We didn’t know until today or I swear I would have told you sooner. Father Blandon came to us-”

“To your house?” interrupted Barram.

“Yes. To warn us that—that Cromwell had come.” Faolan bowed his head as he spoke.

“We’re sorry,” uttered Cahira, “We hate to do this.”

“But you are coming back?” Caoimhe voice was full of hope.

“We mean to,” nodded [verb confusion - spoke not nod] Faolàn. “We’re to go to Dublin on Father Blandon’s order. Barram, I know this isn’t the time to ask, but have you directions? It’s been so long.”

“Go directly south of here, fer it’s a hefty town, you can’t miss it if you stay toward the east as you go. Stay away from the shores. If you meet the port of Dublin, you’re in trouble. The slave ships leave from there, and it’s teeming with Ironsides. I could go with you-”

“No. It isn’t safe,” Cahira interjected, “I can’t put you at risk as well.”

“I have vague knowledge anyhow,” mentioned Faolán, having once been there three years before.

“Then—you should take this.‘ Caoimhe offered up a small bag of apples to Cahira.

“Barram nicked ‘em from the fields yesterday so no one could sell them to the Ironsides. Nasty traitors, they are. You’ll need them on the way.” She bent to Tiarnan in Faolàn’s arms. “Can I hold him a last time?”

“’Course ye can,” said Faolán handing Tiarnan to her.

“I’ve always wanted a family,” mused Caoimhe, her sweet voice trembling. "It's not safe though, not now. It’s the curse Cromwell, I tell ye."

Barram stroked his wife’s hair, before moving across the room. He then opened a chest at the end of the house, pulling out a long box.

“Me brother gave me this.” He carefully opened the box to reveal a musket. “It’s a matchlock. When my brother was given a flintlock for Aston's army, he gave this to me, for protection. He wasn’t supposed to. A little piece of value to this house, I guess.”

Barram extended the musket to Faolàn. “You’ll need it more.”

“I don’t know how to use it--” admitted Faolàn, looking astounded, never having seen a musket.

“Here. First, I hope I remember properly—right, you move the striker like this,” he announced, moving the cock of the gun half open. “Take this cartridge,” he continued, showing Faolán a paper cartridge, “and open it with your teeth. The lower part has the powder,” he noted, showing Faolán the cartridge again, but not opening it, “drop the powder down the barrel, and shove the paper left over in as wadding. Then add the bullet,” he said, pointing to the upper part of the cartridge, and the remaining paper for wadding again, “and compact it with the ramrod—it’s still in the case.

Now you can light the match—and don’t let it go out, or you can’t fire, rendering it useless, really. When cocked, the gun will push the match to the powder, which ignites to fire. Move the striker, watch out--stay far from him if he has to fire, Cahira--it'll make a terrible jolt. I'm right hopeful you won't have to fire--takes ye years to load. Best to load it if you see someone questionable in the distance. Here, I'll talk you through it till you catch on."

As Barram taught Faolán, Caoimhe beckoned Cahira to sit.

“I can’t believe your actually going. I knew you would eventually. I didn’t know it would be today, or tomorrow or the next. It’s so hard to fathom,” she told Cahira, her pale cheeks stained with tears. She tilted her head to Tiarnan, “I’m going to miss ye, little wee’n. But you’ll be free, you’ll be alright.”

She turned to Cahira, “Be careful. Don’t get yourself into trouble, try and stay away from the Ironsides—I dunno if they’d follow you, would they?”

“Aye, I imagine taking the names of me parents’ll spare us from some hardship. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll actually be meeting with any Protestants,” replied Cahira.

“It’s getting dark,” recognized Caoimhe forlornly. “Ye sure you can’t stay one more night?”

“Wish we could. Wish we didn’t have to go at all. But Father Blandon told us to leave now, I imagine it’s best to do as he says,” Cahira answered sullen. “You be safe yourself. We’ll be away from the Ironsides. You’re right near ‘em.”


They said their last words in despondent, departing tones and exchanged their last embraces, before the McCann’s left their neighbor’s door. As they moved out into the dark night, they took the first steps towards whatever nameless fate awaited them.]



1. You have some issues where you try to be poetic and just come off melodramatic.
2. You don’t have to have a description of what a person says after each piece of dialogue, sometimes its stronger if you don’t. Think of it as this - the less you say, the more it affects the reader.
3. You rush sometimes with your actions, and try to get too much into a sentence. This gets confusing for the reader. Slow down, good times ahead.
4. Try working on your syntax flow more, read out loud sentences for clarity.
5. Storytelling is very good.

Till next time.
- CL.

Thanks so much! This must have taken forever to revise. I'll be sure to go through my story and use the suggestions you gave. I really appreciate this--it helps so much!! Thanks!

No problem hon, glad I could help. When I get some free time again, probably tomorrow I'll go through the rest.

Ta, CL.