Kevin's Watch

I've always said that I could write if only I could think of something to write about. I don't know why, but today an idea suddenly cam to me, and I wrote the piece below. I haven't thought of a name for it yet.


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"Spirits of the earth, accept our offering of peace" he intoned, placing the towns offerings before him. Kneeling within the symbols drawn on the sand, Kojar invoked the ancient words of ritual, as he had done at every new moon for the last fifteen years, without needing to think on what he did. He had performed the rites so many times that they held little meaning to him any more. He was no longer sure he even believed in the spirits, although it was what he had been taught his whole life.

He had listened, had learned, and when the time had come had joined the temple, as his mother would have wanted. He had been praised by his tutors for his fast learning and devotion to the faith, and it had been no surprise when, at the age of thirty, he had been raised to priesthood. That had been long ago. He was old now, yet still he came out to the edge of the desert once a month, to offer the spirits of the sand gifts of meat and wine, to appease their hunger.

And yet, he had often wondered whether it would make a difference if the offering were not made. Out toward the centre the desert was a nightmare of sand and heat, where no man could hope to survive; no man had ever thought to try. There was nothing in the desert. But those far off storms had never come near the edge, where the Ayari lived in their towns. Nor would they ever, as long as the priest gave his offerings - or so he had been taught. But the rituals had been carried out for so long that no one knew if it had been different, if the spirits had truly sent storms to take the lives of those who displeased them. Kojar thought that it may not be so. He also thought that he could be wrong, so he continued to perform the rites, to speak the words of ritual, to kneel in the empty desert and give offerings to spirits that did not seem to listen.

The ritual was long, the desert a cold, uninviting place, so he thought of his home while his mouth spoke the words. While a warm breeze stirred sands his eyes did not see, he thought of his wife. Kari would be waiting when he returned. They had a happy life together, though the spirits had not seen fit to bless them with children, and the thought of her always lifted his mood. The breeze was picking up, flapping the ends of his pale robes, but he was lost in memories of the nights they had spent in each others arms. Despite his wandering thoughts, he still managed to continue the ritual while the swirling wind lifted sand into the air around him.

Suddenly he became aware of what was happening around him. His words stopped midsentence. The wind was getting stronger as it swirled around him, disturbing the symbols he had drawn. Sand buffeted his face while he knelt, frozen, as he suddenly knew.

Already it was becoming hard to see the land around him. At last he could move - he lurched to his feet, trying to get his bearings in the building sandstorm. He could not tell which way led back to the town. He chose a direction and tried to run, but the wind was already becoming a gale, pushing him off his chosen course. The sand it carried left his skin raw.

Still he stumbled on, through the storm which seemed always to be centred on him, desperately trying to find his way out, although he knew it was too late. The spirits had come for him.

All sense of time was lost as energy slowly seeped out of him, as the sand tore at his skin and the wind pulled his robes, yet still he tried to fight his way free. Finally he stumbled and fell, the sand of the desert floor pressing into his bleeding face. It was no use - he could not escape. The spirits had come for him.

They had come because he did not believe.

Now I look at it again, I think I need to rewrite everything from 'Suddenly...' onwards - I said I could write, I didn't say I was good at it.

That was very cool. I'd think an appropriate title would be simply "Faith". Murrin, that would make a nice addition to the Anthology if you were interested.

I don't know about the anthology - I just wrote this cos I felt like it, and it needs a lot of work to make it any good, really (I just wrote it straight off then posted it)...
Thing is, i've always wanted to write, but never had an idea - I wrote this because I suddenly had a concept, and wanted to see if I could do anything with it. I wouldn't want to have it left as a short story if I realise I can make it into something bigger - this would probably be just part of a prologue to the story, if I can work it out.
I still don't think I'm cut out for writing, though.

BTW, do you think that the second half (from 'Suddenly he...') goes by too quickly? I think I should have put more into it, to fit with the first half...

Murrin wrote:
"Spirits of the earth, accept our offering of peace" he intoned, placing the towns offerings before him. Kneeling within the symbols drawn on the sand, Kojar invoked the ancient words of ritual, as he had done at every new moon for the last fifteen years, without needing to think on what he did. He had performed the rites so many times that they held little meaning to him any more. He was no longer sure he even believed in the spirits, although it was what he had been taught his whole life.

He had listened, had learned, and when the time had come had joined the temple, as his mother would have wanted. He had been praised by his tutors for his fast learning and devotion to the faith, and it had been no surprise when, at the age of thirty, he had been raised to priesthood.

raised in the priesthood .. or maybe to THE priesthood .. to follow the priesthood .. to abide by the priesthood .. to honour the priesthood .. mmm .. what do you think?

That had been long ago. He was old now, yet still he came out to the edge of the desert once a month, to offer the spirits of the sand gifts of meat and wine, to appease their hunger.

And yet, he had often wondered whether it would make a difference if the offering were not made. Out toward the centre the desert was a nightmare of sand and heat, where no man could hope to survive; no man had ever thought to try. There was nothing in the desert. But those far off storms had never come near the edge, where the Ayari lived in their towns. Nor would they ever, as long as the priest gave his offerings - so he had been taught.

so he had been taught is ok .. how about "or so he had been taught" .. or .. "as he had been taught" ??

But the rituals had been carried out for so long that no one knew if it had been different, if the spirits had truly sent storms to take the lives of those who displeased them. Kojar thought that it may not be so. He also thought that he could be wrong, so he continued to perform the rites, to speak the words of ritual, to kneel in the empty desert and give offerings to spirits that did not seem to listen.

The ritual was long, the desert a cold, uninviting place, so he thought of his home while his mouth spoke the words. While the warm breeze stirred sands his eyes did not see,

"stirred thesands .. or .. maybe "stirred sand" singular .. but the latter isnt as convincing

he thought of his wife. Kari would be waiting when he returned. They had a happy life together, though the spirits had not seen fit to bless them with children, and the thought of her always lifted his mood. The breeze was picking up, flapping the ends of his pale robes, but he was lost in memories of the nights they had spent in each others arms. Despite his wandering thoughts, he still managed to continue the ritual while the swirling wind lifted sand into the air around him.

thats really nice imagery

Suddenly he became aware of what was happening around him. His words stopped midsentence. The wind was getting stronger as it swirled around him, disturbing the symbols he had drawn. Sand buffeted his face while he knelt, frozen, as he suddenly knew.

Already it was becoming hard to see the land around him. Finally he managed to lurch to his feet, trying to get his bearings in the building sandstorm. He could not tell which way led back to the town. He chose a direction and tried to run, but the wind was already becoming a gale, pushing him off his chosen course. The sand it carried left his skin raw.

Still he stumbled on, through the storm which seemed always to be centred on him, desperately trying to find his way out, although he knew it was too late. The spirits had come for him.

excellent .. fluid and tight.

All sense of time was lost as energy slowly seeped out of him, as the sand tore at skin

tearing at skin is ok .. but are you specifically referring to 'his' skin .. are there others skin around him that the sand is also besieging?

and the wind pulled his robes, yet still he tried to fight his way free. Finally he stumbled and fell, the sand of the desert floor pressing into his bleeding face. It was no use - he could not escape. The spirits had come for him.

They had come because he did not believe.

oh poor him! I feel like I have been left hanging is he really doomed? what has he done to offend the spirits .. just doubt?

lol .. ok is there more? if so i need to know what happens to him

is it all over for our main character? surely not .. This short story seems merely an introduction to a greater story ..

It was excellently written .. and i thought to myself .. wow this english is really good .. English is your first language Murrin? I thought you were from Norway or Sweden or something .. forgive me .. I dont recall.

Anyway .. your writing flows very nicely .. I enjoyed reading what you have created. I just hope there is more

I have a tendency toward brevity with a lot of the short stories I write. I like to cut to the chase and then stay there until its done. I thought your work had a nice pace and flowed well from beginning to end. An author is rarely satisfied with his work so I’m not going to try to convince you it is flawless. In my opinion however, it stands well as is. Since interest in Hierachy’s Anthology idea is somewhat lacking, I suspect it will be quite some time before we become serious with it. Time that you could spend making this story more to your liking. Just a thought. Your writing style is very readable. I encourage you to explore it further.

Skyweir - Thanks for the good comments. You're right, I think I did intend to write 'his' skin, but as often happens when I type the word was accidentally dropped as my thoughts went on to the rest of the sentence.

Kojar is not a main character - if you have read Soul of the Fire by Goodkind you'll see what I'm doing here. The stuff about the spirits is his perception of what is happening - he was taught that it was this way, so he believes, in the end, that the spirits came for him. I was thinking if I continued this to show one or two other people in other places killed in other ways, but all because of the same thing - those would be part of a Prologue, then the main character would appear in Chapter One.


And I am British (English, in fact) - English is the only language I speak fluently (I have studied others - French, German, Spanish - but I hardly remember anything of them).


Edit - I have made one or two minor tweaks to it - some things Skyweir pointed out, and some of my own (I used 'finally' twice in close succession, so changed one to 'at last'). I'm contemplating making an attempt to add the cliched 'his last thought was of...' just so it is clear what happened to him, but I'm not sure if this would ruin the end...

well now that you have explained .. i dont know if you really need to phrase a final sentence like that ..

you could actually leave it hanging .. and i think from the background you have given me .. it would be more powerful.

but .. lol .. you have had to explain to me the greater context of the story .. which exposes a weakness to integrity of the piece ..

if you intend on writing more re: others experiences and weaving all the stories together into one solid fabric .. then your intent would explain itself in the weaving ..

but if not .. i am not sure how you would address this in the context of this short work.

Really, I didn't expect that people would not realise he died at the end - I never thought to make it any clearer simply because it seemed so clear to me (bad assumption to make with writing, I know - the reader never knows as much about the story as you do).

I'll put my hand up as one who assumed it was the ned for Kojar.

Nicely done, Muzza! Enjoyed it thoroughly!

yep it did seem like curtains for the poor guy but i kept wondering why??

surely this is too harsh a fate for naive doubt or even disbelief ..

so i was kinda caught between .. oh no he's a gonna and but that cant be the ned

Typing up ideas like this into a post helps me think it through, so don't expect anything worthwhile to be in this post, heh.
At last I'll admit that this is the story I'm currently working on. I'm attempting to put together a sequence of events on the day before this piece, but having some trouble with details. Turns out I am going to stick with Kojar for a while - the idea mentioned earlier about the prologue thing has been dropped completely.
Hmm. I've been... re-evaluating the necessity of Kojar's death. I'm not entirely decided yet, but he may just survive this... albeit a little the worse for wear. For know I'll just stick with it, see what happens.

And you know, if i'd just started working on this a few months earlier, I probably would have submitted this part of it to the Anthology...


[Edit (1/5/05): I had an epiphany. I know where this story is going. I may actually start writing soon. I will chronicle Kojar's desperate and frightened journey to a far off land.]