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Isaac awoke the next day to find one of the foretopman standing over him, gently shaking his shoulder.
“We're at port, running a little ahead of schedule. There's some man who wants to see you, he was waiting when we docked.”
Isaac rubbed his eyes and rolled out of his hammock. “Who is it?”
The sailor shrugged as the youth pulled on a linen shirt and trousers. “He's waiting out there, go take a look. Big fellow.”
Isaac emerged from the ship's hold, squinting in the bright sunlight. A flock of gulls circled in the blue above; other birds ambushed fisherman with nets full of haddock. Sailors and hawkers mingled on the docks, shouting in a multitude of languages over the din of Portsmouth's harbor. His eyes were drawn to a tall figure standing near a stack of crates; he had long, dark hair and impossibly broad shoulders. His eyes were fixed on Isaac, and he nodded as the younger man acknowledged him.
Why was this man so eager to speak to him? He didn't look familiar to Isaac – he was quite sure that he had never set eyes on the man in his life, and yet he must have asked for him by name. Perhaps he was mistaken; he considered returning to the hold and asking the sailor what this “big fellow” looked like. Eventually he decided against it and forced himself down the boarding plank. The man was no longer looking at him, but was staring out over the water.
“Storm is brewing,” he said, though not in English. Isaac's mind numbed. The last time he had heard another speak that language was about ten years ago. The man turned and looked at him expectantly.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” Isaac replied slowly, using the same language he had been addressed in. “The sky is clear.” A cold trickle of sweat dripped down his neck.
“It won't remain that way for long.” His voice was low and difficult to discern over the noise of the docks. “I have something rather urgent to explain, if you wouldn't mind a short walk.”
Isaac glanced upwards, the sun had already crept halfway across the sky. “This isn't a matter that could be discussed here?”
“I'm afraid not. It's rather confidential.”
“Kind sir, I'm not entirely sure that we've been introduced,” he said, an irritated note trickling into his voice.
“Forgive me,” he said, snatching his hat from his head and pressing it to his chest. “I am Osborn Carlisle of Dale, messenger of Eoghan Lynch, esquire, who I am sure would appreciate your cooperation.”
“What do you know of my father?”
“More than you, undoubtedly.”
Isaac wanted to spit on him.
“Follow me, if you please.”
He bit his lip and fell into step with the shadowy figure, winding wordlessly through the streets of the port city. Every impulse he had was telling him to turn around and run. He had unwisely left the ship without a weapon, and this figure, though he spoke of his father, had a less-than-friendly aura.
Eventually they reached a row of terraced houses. They both paused as Osborn turned a key in the lock, eventually forced to lean into it with the weight of his shoulder to push it open. He lit a small oil lamp in the center of a low table and locked the door again before taking a seat.
The drawing room was small and dank. Forest green walls offered little of interest aside from a large mirror, which reflected the dim light allowed by the small windows. The room had evidently been well-furnished at one time, but a thick layer of dust suggested that it had been neglected for several years.
“I must apologize for the state of the room,” Osborn said. He sat down, dwarfing the small chair.
“It's not a problem,” said Isaac, drawing his chair toward the table. He attempted to discreetly loosen his collar; he felt unbearably warm.
“I'm sorry if I've been hostile, but I have very little time to explain a very foreign concept. It is absolutely imperative that when your ship leaves port this evening, you are not on it.”
Isaac paused, mouthing the last few words of the sentence to himself. “Excuse me?”
“There will be a mutiny on your ship tonight.” Osborn leaned back; the chair creaked in protest. “It won't be a quiet one, either. If you remain on board, your life will be unnecessarily jeopardized. Your father has asked that I retrieve you.”
Isaac paused. “I'm not sure I trust you.”
“I've noticed. Even though I speak your language, I know of your estranged father...”
“So did the men who killed my mother.”
“I see.” He paused, staring into the flickering flame.
“Even if you were to tell me how you learned of this mutiny and were able to convince me that you're certain of your sources, I don't think I would be able to accept your offer. If there is to be a mutiny, then I wish to remain and defend my captain.”
“As I feared.” He shook his head. “You are much like him.”
“Captain Branwell?”
“Your father.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled envelope, which he tossed into the table.
Isaac leaned forward to examine it. His own full name was printed neatly in green ink, the a's slanted in a manner curiously similar to the way he formed his own. A lump rose in his throat.
“Take it. You may read it later, if you wish.”
Isaac picked up the letter and held it nearer the lamp. There was a wax seal on the back, with the same coat of arms that he had seen many times on the documents he found in the attic of his childhood home. He traced the edge of the shield with his finger, marveling at the intricacy of the stamp.
“Is there anything I can say that would convince you not to put your life in danger?”
He took one last glance at the letter before carefully wedging it into his pocket. “No.”
“In that case,” he said, “allow me to leave you with this.” He removed a ring with a large green stone from his finger and set it down on the table. “I ask that you wear it until we meet again. It will allow you to contact me, should the need arise.”
“How does that work?” he asked, skeptical that the large ring would fit him at all. Surprisingly, it fit snugly on his finger.
“You will find out in time. I need something from you in return, though. The silver chain around your neck, could you spare it?”
He touched the silver chain that held the small cross tucked beneath his collar. “I... would rather hold onto this.”
Osborn nodded. “It doesn't matter what it is. I just need something that belongs to you.”
Isaac fished around in the pocket of his trousers until he found a small bronze key. “I have two of these,” he said, pushing it across the table. Osborn picked it up, examining it in the light.
“I still don't see how that helps.”
“It's magic,” he said flatly. “You'll figure it out eventually. For now, just keep that ring with you.”
He slumped back in his chair. Was the man a lunatic, or was he serious? However, Isaac wasn't one to deny the existence of magic – there was, after all, the scar on his shoulder that no doctor could ever explain. He held up his hand to the dim light, watching the stone sparkle as the light caught it at different angles.
“If there's anything I could do to convince you to...”
His words trailed off. Isaac looked up, he pressed a finger to his lips in reply. “There's someone outside the window. Leave through the back door as quickly as you can.”
“What? Why?” Isaac whispered.
“It's you they're after. You're unarmed. I'll hold them off.” He drew something from his jacket; after a moment Isaac realized that he was loading a pistol underneath the table.
“Are you sure?”
“You'll have to trust me on this one,” Osborn said. As he spoke, the front door was forced from its hinges, throwing splinters of wood in all directions. A man with a wooden club stood in the narrow frame; he lunged toward Isaac, who leaped onto the table. The heavy man stumbled over the chair where he had been sitting. Isaac picked up the lamp and threw it at him, and it shattered as it struck him in the head, throwing hot oil and shattered glass across the room.
Two more men plowed through the door frame; one of them held a gun. Both Osborn and the intruder opened fire. The gunman crumpled to the ground, his weapon clattering onto the floor. Osborn clutched his shoulder in pain, a red stain was already beginning to blossom. Isaac knelt to pick up the discarded weapon.
“Run,” Osborn said, already on his feet again. His adversary caught him underneath the chin with a vicious uppercut.
“I can't leave you when-”
“Go!” he shouted.
Isaac stumbled over the glass shards and made a break for the end of the hall. He pulled the back door open violently, looking back briefly to see Osborn hurl a chair across the room. He tumbled into the alleyway, heart pounding, and noisily shut the door behind him. He looked down the street: one end was deserted, a group of cloaked men stood at the other. One of the men had turned to the others and was gesturing toward Isaac. They did not look amiable.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He still had the pistol, but it was useless now – he had no means of reloading it. Of course, they didn't have to know that. He hurried toward the open end of the street, his feet pounding the uneven ground as he ran. Turning the corner, he found himself in the midst of a market. Hoping that the crowd would provide some cover, he turned to see that he was being pursued. One of the cloaked men had just overturned a cart of fruit and was hurrying toward him.
He ducked down a side street and into the courtyard of a church. Crouching behind a lilac bush, Isaac listened for any sounds of his pursuers. The murmur of the marketplace drowned out all but the voice of the vicar inside, mumbling prayers. He sat still for another few moments, his breath eventually returning to an even pace. Who were the men? They were too young to be the same men who had killed his mother, but their dress was almost identical. He hadn't been close enough to the men to see the color of their eyes – a blessing, in Isaac's opinion. He stood and leaned into the street. None of the haunting figures remained.
His chest fell into a sigh of relief, and slowly he began his walk toward the docks. As much as he had disliked Osborn, he couldn't help feeling guilty for leaving him alone. Isaac turned and looked down the street behind him. He had deserted him, there was no way around it – but Osborn had insisted that he leave, hadn't he? The heaviness of regret sat like a stone on his stomach as a clock tower struck six. Was it really that late? He didn't have time to return, unless he wanted the ship to sail without him. Dragging his feet, he continued toward the sea, fiddling with his necklace as he tried not to think about the tall man and the red stain that flowered on his sleeve.
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125,009 Literary Works • 672,837 Reviews
Again, Lyn, brilliant job!! This is an awesome story!! Whenever you post a new chapter, you have to pm me! haha.
So, wait, this language is not common, a lot of people can’t even learn to speak it, and the blokes who killed his mother spoke the same language. I wouldn’t just numb? I’d full out freak out! Haha. Isaac just takes this too casually, is all.
I’m not sure this sounds like something Isaac would do. So far, he just doesn’t strike me as that kind of person.
Get rid of the I. With it, it has the same structure as the sentence “Even though I enjoyed the fair, I knew it was time to go home.” It took me a little while to realize you were listing something.
Mate, a person can be completely insane without any sense or wit about them, and still be deadly serious. For instance, when I was on some medication for pain after a surgery, the meds did weird stuff to my mind. I was hallucinating, seeing odd stuff everywhere. I told my brother, “Mitt, your arm’s on fire!!” Of course, I was a "lunatic" at that moment, but I was gravely serious. I really, truly thought his arm was on fire. So see if you can change that.
First off, you’ve got a run-on. Need a comma after moment.
Second on, what Osborn is saying is a little choppy. Each sentence starts with a pronoun. “It’s…You’re…I’ll….” And they have the same rhythm and structure.
Haha, okay, that makes no sense. Commas connect related topics. Stretch it out a little bit; you have too many actions in too little words. He makes for the crowd, hopes to lose his pursuers, turns, find it fails, runs.
And, one more thing: I like Osborn. I mean, he seems like a cool enough guy. Yet I can tell you don’t want me to. I guess what really doesn’t fit is the hat-removing thing he does when he meets Isaac. I got the image of a sheepish old man holding a crumpled cap to his chest with a close-mouth smile so big that his eyes disappear. Haha. That’s not Osborn.
But other than that, well done, mate, good job.
Oh, what Ghost said? haha. I totally disagree. I liked how this chapter ended. It’s not totally resolved, everything is not okay, Isaac is not at peace. There’s still the mutiny to go through, you can tell the image of Osborn being shot is going to haunt him, and so on. The ending doesn’t bother me at all.
Cheers! Keep on writing!!
~Vee
Finally, I'm able to read your second chapter. Truly sorry for the delay, but I had to rush at a few things yesterday. Okay, so here I go.
Nothing much to say, but one thing I noticed was when Isaac and the man (can't remember his name. Forgive me) were taking about the death of Isaac's mother. There wasn't enough emotion in that part from Isaac, well, internally that is. I don't really know, maybe that's just me - and I also don't know what you're up to from this point. I just wanted to point that out. Maybe just a hint of the emotion? A sudden tinge of pain? I don't really know... Keep on writing! I'm looking forward to the rest.
“Isaac awoke the next day to find one of the foretopman standing over him”
- “Fore-topmen” Perhaps would look a little less confusing? Also “men” when you’re using plurals.
“A flock of gulls circled in the blue above; other birds ambushed fisherman with nets full of haddock.”
- It sounds like the birds are ambushing with nets of haddock.
Hehe, I think if you just rearranged it to “whose nets were full” It’s completely cleared up. Although the chance of some wordiness is there. But, think about it?
“He didn't look familiar to Isaac”
- You don’t need “to Isaac” here.
"he was quite sure that he had never set eyes on the man in his life, and yet he must have asked for him by name."
- I’d think about turning that third “he” into something more descriptive of the other man. “the large man” “the intruder” something interesting that deletes the “he” (that’s the main goal.)
Perhaps he was mistaken; he considered returning to the hold and asking the sailor what this “big fellow” looked like.
- Here, I would suggest using “Isaac considered…” instead of “he”
"Isaac glanced upwards, the sun had already crept halfway across the sky."
- “upward” also, a semi colon after “upwards”
"he said, an irritated note trickling into his voice."
- Perhaps change to “an irritated note trickled into his voice” – The use of “he” is getting confusing.
“Forgive me,” he said, snatching his hat from his head and pressing it to his chest.
- “The stranger responded, snatching…” would eliminate the “he” here.
“They both paused as Osborn turned a key in the lock, eventually forced to lean into it with the weight of his shoulder to push it open”
- I would have liked a line just a small “it stuck with water rot” or something, to make it clear why it was difficult in particular.
“the a's”
- Perhaps have the “a” in italics, just to set it apart.
That’s a fantastic end to the chapter, dear. Very nicely done, the wording was particularly perfect.
You have a problem, however, with the amount of “he/him/his” that’s in here. When you have a text dominated by male characters this easily becomes confusing, you did well during the fight, however, to keep them clear. It also becomes noticeable the more times you use “he” in a sentence, I’ve picked out some and provided some examples of what else you could use. Have a read though and see what you can do with that. Otherwise, nice work.
I am immensely enjoying this story, and I look forward to the next chapter.
*Hearts* Le Penguin.
Hi Lyn!
I'm sooooo sorry that I'm just getting around to this. I was kinda busy this summer, but now school started and I have more time at home, so I'll be here more often!
So here's the crit:
First off, sometimes you used 'he' too much. I got kind of confusing as to which 'he' you were talking about.
And also, I don't exactly get what you mean by that different language that Osborn Carlisle and Isaac were talking...
You also need to put anything that Isaac thinks in italics.
Anyway, it was a very exciting chapter, and your story is progressing nicely!
Good job! Keep up the good work!
~Timea
Yeah, the "smooth as glass" was supposed to be part of the dreamlike atmosphere, but I agree that waves can't really be lapping at the shore if it's completely smooth. I'll have to look at that.
You're right, I could definitely do a better job of that - I guess the trick is figuring out how. I'm trying to think of scenes in books that made me nervous... Scarlet Letter had a lot of that, I guess I should go back and reread it.
Again, thanks for the great review.
On the first chapter:
One continuity error: he's looking at the sea, but it's smooth as glass? This I guess I could believe if he's looking at an inlet or a lagoon, but then you mention waves. If there is some other body of water, make that clear. Or is it because this is the logic of dreams?
I like the character of the gunner; Issac definately interests me but I want to see more of this guy as well, and intriguing secondary characters are always a plus.
On the second:
Not much else to say that magicman hasn't pointed out. But I didn't get a sense of forboding when he was in the room with Osborn; it was obviously a strange encounter, and one that turned potentially deadly. I think the break-in and the escape would work better if the scene before it had been set up to be more unsettling. It doesn't have to be obvious foreshadowing, or shouldn't be, but I want to read that scene and feel nervous, even if I don't know why it makes me nervous. It would be in the word choice or minor description between the dialouge, body language maybe, or the play of the light.
Oops. Those are, again, I-edited-this-sentence-and-then-didn't-catch- that-it-made-the-next-one-awkward mistakes. I tried the "reading backwards" thing this time, apparently it helped a little... but not much. I went ahead and fixed them so that they hopefully won't bother future readers.
It's kind of funny, because I was talking about this with Andy about four seconds before I posted this. He was talking about how he was splitting up his chapters into smaller parts now that they were getting longer; I thought that was interesting because when I'm outlining I don't split anything into chapters at all. I outline the entire work, and then just write until I get to what I feel is a natural break, and then post it as a chapter. I think you're right, and I think this is the source of my problems. My method doesn't really work that well. I'm going to do some serious thinking and reworking before I write the next chapter, I know that much.
edit: ...and then you posted while I was writing this! Speak of the devil. Thanks for the comments, I'm glad the action scene was okay. I had never really done anything quite like that before, and I was worried about the pacing.
Thanks again for the help.
A very exciting chapter. Here, Issac is given a ring, but I wonder what is the ring for. I was surprised that he got jumped straight after he aquired the ring. It must had been quite valuable. Again, this flowed very well and I couldn't stop reading the story. I wanted to know what happened next. It was that exciting
The battle scene was described very well. You only mentioned the important aspects of the fight and that was enough to create a vivid image in my mind. I'm waiting to see what Issac is going to do next with the ring.
Great work, keep it up.
Hey, Lynlyn. ^_^ On to the critique, then?
You tell us her rolled out of bed twice. This makes a story jerk, and ultimately makes the flow awkward. Make sure not to repeat actions, because your reader will notice, even if their not really aware what the problem is.
I'm sure you'll agree the "was" isn't needed.
As for the rest, I don't think I have much else to comment on. These were the only typos I could find, and plot-wise, this is very good. You have the right amount of intrique and conflict, but never going to over-dramatic like some stories.
But besides all the goodness, there is one thing that I picked out. By the end of the scene, Osborn is fighting off the bad guys while Isaac flees. But...then what? What is Issac's plan of action from then on? Is he going to take Osbourn's advice and avoid the mutiny, or is he firmly determined to stay on the ship? At the end it seems as if he could go either way.
Every conflict should end with a disaster, where yours is resolved. Isaac got away; he is safe. What you need to do is make him not safe. By the end we don't really get a feel for the significance of the men attacking them, since Isaac gets out relatively okay. This isn't generally good. You need to make sure there's something Isaac needs to do, an immediate goal, so that we feel compelled to keep reading. The impending mutiny is a good hook, but you also have to have a short term goal for him to keep our attention now.
Hopefully I haven't lost you? All I'm trying to say is don't let any scene end peacefully, unless it's the very end. And although this scene has been anything but peaceful, from a structural perspective, its ending was. Just something to think about.
Good luck with the rest of the story, and I'll most likely be back for more. ^_^
MM