The Next Generation

New Literature – Re-Write


This is a rewrite of a novel “Cry, the beloved country” by Alan Paton. Paton is a South African author and the novel was first published in 1948. The protagonist is a black priest in a small village, Stephen Kumalo. He is distressed that the young ones are leaving the village to go to Johannesburg and his community is falling apart. He travels to Johannesburg to search for his sister and his son who had also left. The security is deteriorating in the big city by crimes committed by natives. The priest finds his son but he had killed a white man and was tried and sentenced to be hanged. The victim was the only child of the priest’s neighbour, James Jarvis. The priest returns to his village with his son’s newly married wife who is expecting their child.

The rewrite is from the eyes of the unborn child named Peter as per his father’s wish before he was executed and the son of the murdered man, Arthur Jarvis Jr. Both had gone through the Apartheid and seen it end. Time has past and Peter is telling a story to his grandchild.



The Next Generation

As any proud grandparent would tell you, nothing in the whole wide world could be better than watching your grandchild grow. Day by day, week by week. The first step, the first cackle, the first crying outburst. As if he was the centre of the universe, the innocence this child radiates into Peter’s heart was at the best of times exhilarating, but other times, suffocating.

At the dusk of his life, he sat content in his comfortable deckchair, watching his young man play. Nothing seemed to worry the little man. He is slightly smaller than the boys of similar age. Maybe it was inherited. Just like his father, and his father. But he is bright. And mischievous. Every time he argues, you can see a gap in his front teeth. His infant tooth will all be replaced with a permanent set in no time; he will no longer be treated as a baby. And Peter feels nostalgia.

The little boy will soon grow up to be a real man and leave his home. Independence is in his blood. Will he go narrow and straight? Or will he choose a wrong kind of friends who will lead him into temptation and seek an easy life despite being brought up by a hard working, honest family? The old man fears. That is what he does and has been doing all his life. He fears for the child, he fears for the family, he fears the sun may never come up and he fears it is too good to be true to pass peacefully.

“Child, I cannot understand why you speak like that.”

What do you mean, Pop?

“You argue and confront and do all the things that I would dare, in my wildest dreams, say or do to my elders. You have no fear. Where do you find such confidence and lack of respect to others?”

But Pop, my Dad always tells me to speak my mind.

“Speak your mind? Is that right? Everything that is in your mind come out of your mouth, is that right? When I was your age, I would say, ‘I understand you, grandfather’ or ‘I hear you, mother.’”

Pop, are you telling your stories again?

“Child, you will hear it as many times as your father did.”

Dad says, it all happened a long, long time ago and it doesn’t have any substance any more. It happened long before and you shouldn’t have to worry anymore.

“No substance, did he say? Is that right? I wonder where I went wrong. I am the son of the man who made his father weep. I am the son of the man who broke his father’s heart. How could this be, is it the curse?”

What do you mean, Pop?

“Nothing, Child. I am old. And I am fearful.”

Don’t be afraid, Pop. People are coming to South Africa from all over the world for the soccer games soon. It’s the World Cup. A once in a lifetime thing. We’re going to show the whole world that South Africa is a great country. And they’re going to say, South Africa is a great country.

“Yes, we have come a long way, Child. There is no reason to be fearful. But I cannot help it. For every time the aromas of my beautiful land quiver my nostril and make me think who I am, it reminds me of my father and my grandfather. I cannot help but be fearful.”



Arthur Jr.’s story (Peter 15, Arthur Jr. 25 years old) 1963

Do you speak Zulu, Peter?

“Yes, Inkosi.”

Who taught you, Peter?

“My wise grandfather did, Inkosi. He taught me to speak with respect and he would expect nothing less.”

He was a good man, Peter. He taught me Zulu before you were born. I was ten years old. I came after your grandfather’s funeral. Do you remember me?

“Yes, Inkosi. I also remember you sent beautiful flowers on the day of his funeral. Why would you do such a thing?”


When my grandmother died, your grandfather and the people of the village sent beautiful flowers to my grandfather. He was deeply touched. He said, ‘I can feel his pain also.’ I didn’t understand at the time but I missed my Zulu teacher all the same. How old are you now, Peter?

“I’m 15 years old, Inkosi.”

Your grandfather called me Inkosana, little inkosi, little master. Do you think about your father, Peter?

“No, I don’t know him and my mother would not speak about him. But I know what he did to your father. And I know that he wanted to name the baby Peter if it was a boy.”

You have grown up to be a fine young man, Peter. I’m sure your grandfather is very proud of you. After my father died, Grandpa came to live with us in Johannesburg. I was sad that Dad wasn’t with us anymore but happy to have Grandpa in the same house, I liked him very much. Grandpa saw the good of his son only after Dad was killed by your father. He finally understood that his beloved son was not a show off or selling of his people but that he loved his country and her people very much.

It was a blessing in disguise that Grandpa and Dad finally reconciled. But the abuse and disrespect for Grandpa when he took over Dad’s work to lift the lives and spirits of the natives was enormous. The whole family was ostracised.

“For all the hard work that our forefathers put in so we could have a better life and prosper the land, this is how you repay the good deed!?”

“You think you can single-handedly undo their effort of building a country we now call home? How could you be so selfish? “

“Please think about what really happened. Your only son was brutally murdered by a savage!”

“Arrogance.”

“He must’ve gone mad with grief. Poor soul.”

“Native sympathiser.” “May God have mercy and spare us from this man’s sin. Forgive us for we have done nothing wrong. And punish him for the wrongs he is committing.”

I could feel the hatred and fear of the white people attacking Grandpa. His name was shamed, his cars were vandalised, his house smeared with racial slurs and the taunting of derogative remarks were continuous. His whole being was disgraced by the yelling on the street wherever he went. And they didn’t like it one bit that Grandpa wasn’t repentant. He was an old bugger.

Stubborn to the core. He could have lived a comfortable life with the so-called friends and friends of a friend begging for his love and money and attention. People used to shower him with gifts, with some worldly fine and expensive stuff, you know? Spitting out sickening sweet praises like a child wanting to become someone’s favourite pet.

“Mr Jarvis, you are indeed a model citizen. We couldn’t have been more honoured to have you.”

All of that vanished with a blink of an eye. Our security disappeared over night. It was like a dream. A not so pleasant one, though. But I saw them. Women screaming her head of chanting what I never imagined a woman, for the sake of God, would ever say if she wanted her place in the sanctuary of the sky above. But they were all there, all bare in front of me.

“You villain!“ “Traitor!”

And the most unforgiveable, unfavourable one it was according to the leader of the pack. I didn’t understand. Mum was crying. She begged Grandpa not to become a martyr but Grandpa didn’t say anything. 　

I don’t think Grandpa was happy with Dad before he died. Grandpa said all sorts of things about him but Dad said he was fighting for justice, not for the natives. Our fathers’ path crossed on that fateful day, Peter. I believe that your father never meant to kill. Your grandfather was distressed and very afraid throughout the whole ordeal.

Many white men as well as black people supported your grandfather. There was a lawyer and a priest. There was the reformatory officer and even my uncle. They were white men, good men. But they were all tagged, beaten and stomped on the head. Most left the country in despair not long after the trial and not long after your father’s execution.

After Grandpa died, I made a vow to stay with my mother. I know she’s quite capable of looking after herself. She had been my fierce protector since my father’s death and she remains a staunch matriarch. I admire her strength, head held high, her undeniable faith and I’m going to be her loyal companion, on behalf of my father. I intend to stay in South Africa. I don’t know about you Peter, but I think I’ll stay in my country, because I am her subject.”



Peter’s story (Peter 47, Peter’s son 25 years old) 1995

Warg's Tail - Part Four: With Friends Like These

Fangorn Forest, Rohan

Years 3012-3017 of the Third Age

The next three years of Ralph’s life were interesting, if occasionally lonely ones.

Treebeard, for all that he was the beating heart of this strange forest, was mostly a very still heart, and spent much of his time like the trees that he herded. Which meant sleeping.

This in turn meant that Ralph basically had the place to himself. Once his injuries had healed, he felt more capable of trotting around the woods, sometimes for days on end, just getting to know it better.

One such day he found a lookout post – a great stone out cropping that rose above the canopy – and met a strange creature named Stormkettle.

Stormkettle was a raven, one of the old breed that could speak all languages of Men and Beast and a little of the Elves speech too, though with a terrible accent. She was middle-aged, for her species, and having had an eventful career as a messenger for Dwarves, had now decided she was going to settle down and raise a brood. She faced several obstacles though, she told Ralph.

One: her husband was still in the service of the Dwarves and often away from home.

Two: huorn keep dislodging her nests because apparently they itched.

And three, oh dear, three…

“I don’t know why,” she lamented. “F---! I don’t know why this would happen to me now! I hardly ever f---ing swore while I was carrying! I keep telling myself, ‘Nevermore! I’ll curse nevermore! S---!’ but as you see it doesn’t seem to bloody well work.”

Ralph was no stranger to foul mouths but this was quite beyond the pale. He could only sit in abject shock and listen to Kettle’s tragic – and filthy – diatribe.

When he got back, Treebeard took one cock-eyed look at him and said, “Ah, yes, hroom, hum, I suppose…I am no great judge of wolfish expressions, but room-doom, yes, I can see from yours you have met Stormkettle.” He smiled a great slow smile. “She is, hmmm, quite something, is she not?”

“Err. Yes,” was all Ralph could say.

Treebeard laughed. The great rolling sound made Ralph think of hills and sprawling mountains. “Come, little wolf. I will give you something to ease your senses and sensibilities.”

It was then that he was shown Wellinghall, were Treebeard spent his time when he wasn’t out seeing to the huorn and minimizing squirrel consumption. The Ent also gave the young wolf his first taste of Entdraft.

Ralph had never tasted anything so wonderful in his life. It was like drinking sunlight, and the colour of new leaves, and springtime, and…

…and it made him grow.

For as long as he could remember, Ralph had been the smallest of the pack. There were whelps three years younger who had already outgrown him, and he himself hadn’t done a great deal of growing since he was two and his family had moved to Isengard to join the ranks of the fighting hoard.

So, as one can imagine, it was something of a surprise to find himself broader through the shoulder, with a longer spine and limbs that reached further than before. He was clumsy as a yearling for a month afterwards, trying to find his new centre of balance and letting his brain catch up with the new proportions of his body.

But once he got the hang of himself again…he could outrun the wind. No creature that ran on four-legs save the Mearas ever ran as swift and sure and smooth as Ralph did when he ran through the trees of Fangorn or across the plains of Rohan as its people slept oblivious.

It was on the plains that Ralph was forced to go if he wanted food, for nothing edible lived in Fangorn apart from a few unlucky squirrels (quietly, he suspected the huorn had disposed of whatever else there might have been out of sheer crotchetiness).

On the plains and in small copses of trees that stood separated from the forest he found deer and rabbits, partridge and pheasant, and if he was lucky, the occasional lost sheep. He was always careful make his kills quick and clean, and hide the remains where no Man or Horse-Lord would find them and suspect a wolf of having come to live upon the boarder of Rohan.

It was no surprise, really, that on a steady diet of rich game and Entdraft, Ralph continued to grow, until he was at least as big as a full-grown Warg and, like them, could have brought down a horse if he’d half a mind to.

Luckily for one horse in particular, he hadn’t the slightest inclination.

Three years, and perhaps a few months after Ralph came to live in Fangorn, so did that one horse in particular.

Ralph had spent the morning sitting at the tree line, lazily observing the sky and plains…and mocking a rather stupid dog that had come upon him as it passed the woods. Ralph suspected it was a Dunleading’s dog that had gotten lost while its master went about poaching at night.

Or tried to poach. For all anyone knew, the poor sod could be folded in half and tucked up under the roots a savage old beech tree by now.

Ralph wasn’t hugely worried. If daft humans wanted to go poking about in the bowels of woods that could eat you that was their business. In the meantime, he was going to make faces at the silly hound they’d left behind and see just how far the creature’s stupidity went.

The hound, for its part, knew that going into the trees was a bad idea, but was by this point half mad with aggravation at the wolf (forgetting that it was at least ten times the size that it was; this was one very dim dog) and about two minutes from charging in anyway. It sat and paced and yammered in its garbled doggy speech and generally had a bit of seizure every time Ralph made an awful face at it or called it names wolf-tongue, which it seemed to understand most of.

Certainly understood the swear words, at any rate.

The pair of them were so occupied that they didn’t hear the thunder of dinner-plate sized hooves until the dog came within a hair’s breadth of being trampled by them. Ralph looked up in time to see a great blur of grey very nearly on top of them and let out a yelp of surprise. The dog turned, yelping itself and darted away, howling unhappily. Ralph was just swift enough to leap to the side and watch, shocked, as the big grey cart-horse, as it turned out, charged past him and into the depths of the woods.

“Oh, no,” Ralph groaned, and took off after it.

If there was a horse here, he thought frantically as he ran, then Men would soon follow, looking for the blasted thing. And in looking for it they might find him and…that didn’t bear thinking about, actually.

“Come back!” he shouted. “Come back here!”

But the horse ignored him, blindly running deeper and deeper into the woods.

Ralph shook his head at the stupidity of some animals and kept running. He soon outpaced the runaway animal, finding it caught in a corral of branches; the trees were be beginning to close ranks about it, hemming it in. Ralph smoothly leapt up into the out-stretched limbs of a Bay Fig and started yelling again, trying to get its attention.

“Hey! Hey! Hey, Horse!”

The horse wheeled, snorting its fear and rage and rearing to beat its hooves against the boles of the encroaching trees.

“Whoa! No, no, don’t do that!” Ralph was getting frantic now; he could feel the huorn getting angrier. Any minute now they would catch the horse’s ankles with their roots and drag it down, crushing it and pulling it under the earth. “Don’t do that! The trees –”

Too late.

The horse smashed its forefeet into the trunk of the Bay Fig where Ralph perched. The tree trembled and swayed. Ralph was forced to dig in his dew claws to stay aloft. A low roar like the bending and grinding of tree-limbs sounded under the canopy.

Not. Good.

From his vantage point, Ralph saw one of the Bay Fig’s aerial roots lift and knock against the horse’s legs, sending it staggering as it spun away. It let out a whinny of alarm, eyes rolling to show the whites.

“No, no, no!” He turned to begging the huorn. “Please, please don’t, he’s afraid, he’s crazy, just don’t –”

Another root snaked out to grip the horse’s ankle.

“No!”

Ralph leapt from his perch, turning in midair to shove the horse with his rounded shoulder.

The creatures screamed with distress and staggered back.

Then it spotted Ralph.

And froze.

Ralph ignored it for moment, circling the corral, nudging and nipping roots that still reached for it

“Back, back, please,” he said, addressing the trees, “this one meant no harm, he didn’t, I promise you. Back, back…”

It was very lucky that the huorn still liked Ralph. For all he knew they were letting him get away with this because they assumed he was going to eat the horse himself. He turned towards the creature in question, watching it curiously.

“Please,” it breathed in horse-speech, “oh, please don’t eat me.”

Ralph started at it, experiencing a moment of déjà vu before he started laughing. “You,” he wheezed, struggling to get his breath, “you are the luckiest of horses!”

“I – I am?”

“Yes!” Ralph laughed. “Not only do I speak Horse, but I am possibly the only wolf on the face of the world who would actually listen to you!”

The horse stared at him, still trembling a little. “But…but you’re…you’re not going eat me? Is that what you’re saying?”

Ralph sat, head tilted to one side and a wide smile on his face. The horse flinched a little at the sight of so many sparkling white teeth but stood its ground.

“I am not going to eat you,” Ralph confirmed. “I’ve never eaten a horse, and I don’t intend to.”

“Er, I may be pushing my luck here, but…why not?”

Ralph shrugged his shaggy shoulders. “Men value you too highly. It is not worth my while to cross them just for a meal. Besides which, I speak your tongue, and it seems very strange – and not a little unnerving – to want to eat something whose language you’re not deaf to. Men are free to kill any number of things because they do not know how to converse with them; they eat sheep and cows and some of the Dunleadings even eat elderly horses –” here his companion put his ears back and quivered “– and they feel no fear or remorse because they do no hear those creatures pleas for mercy, nor the cries of pain from trees as they are cut down.”

The horse stared at him. “Trees can speak?”

“You were nearly eaten by at least twelve of them,” Ralph said drily. “Is it a stretch too far to believe they were talking to one another, coordinating their attack as they reached for you?”

The horse peered warily at the trees that still swayed and creaked around them. He put his dappled ears back and muttered, “No. No, I suppose not…”

Ralph let out a soft snuffling laugh. “Come on then, I’ll guide you back out.”

“Back out?”

“Of the woods. You can’t stay here, clearly. You might be eaten. I can’t spend every waking moment keeping you from being caught by the huorn.”

He turned and began to make his way back out of the trees, prodding some of the more reluctant roots out of the path. He got about three feet before he realized that there was no accompanying sound of hoof beats behind him.

Ralph paused, looking over his shoulder. “Well, come on.”

The horse shuffled uncomfortably. “Um. I’d rather not.”

Ralph stared. “What?”

“I ran in here for a reason you know,” came the rather peevish reply.

The damned horse wasn’t the only one getting annoyed. Ralph glowered. “Which is?” he demanded.

The horse skittered. “I, um, well… I’m a cart-horse.”

“Yes. I can see that. What of it?”

“I don’t want to be.”

There was a pause. Ralph stared at the horse. The horse stared back at Ralph.

“You jest,” Ralph said eventually.

“No, really,” the horse said earnestly. “I don’t want to pull carts. I…well, I want to be free.” He flicked his tail, ears pricking forward. “I want to run upon the hills, and drink in rushing streams, and eat wild grasses and to…um.”

“And to what?” said Ralph, who was rapidly beginning to believe that the whole world was slowly but steadily going mad; first a walking tree-creature, then huorn that ate people and now a horse that didn’t want to pull carts.

It got better. Or worse. Or something.

“I want to…” the horse sighed dreamily. “I want to compose poetry.”

…what?

“What?” said Ralph.

“Yes,” the horse continued, oblivious to his companion’s incredulity, “I will be a master of verse and prose. My rhythms and rhymes will ring from the hilltops. I shall wax lyrical to the denizens of the plains...!”

Even the huorn seemed puzzled by this peculiar turn of events. Their surprise was nothing compared to Ralph’s.

“Alright,” the wolf said slowly, “so…you want to be a poet. That’s just…great. For you. Er…but what has that got to do with you charging in here and nearly being eaten by omnivorous trees?”

The horse blinked. “Well…I ran away from the farmer. He’s looking for me. His dogs were chasing me.”

“They were?”

“Yes, only I’m much faster. I saw one as I came in here though. It must have gotten lost.”

“Likely,” Ralph put in. “It did seem very stupid. So, you came in here to hide?”

“Yes! No dog would follow anyone in here unless they were dragged.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Ralph muttered under his breath. “In any case, you can’t stay here. You’ll still be eaten no matter how lyrical you wax.”

The horse put his ears back again and stamped one hoof. “Then where will I go?”

“I’ll lead you to the other side of the woods. Neither the Riders of Rohan nor the Men of Dunland go there for fear of the elves that live in nearby Lorien. With any luck you will meet an elf who will look after you and you can compose as much poetry as you like.”

The horse reluctantly began to follow him, this time deeper into the trees. “Would elves not have wagons and carts for me to pull?”

“They live in trees by all accounts. How could you pull a cart through trees?” he answered, tilting his head to indicate the dense wood around them.

“How do you know they live in trees?” the horse asked suspiciously. “Come to that, how do you know the speech of horses? Who are you?”

“Treebeard told me, Treebeard taught me and my name is Ralph.” He looked over his shoulder again at the horse. “And who are you, uncart-horse?”

“I am called Drum. For the sound of my hooves, you know,” the horse explained. “When I run, it sounds like drums.”

“Very appropriate,” Ralph said dryly, remembering the approaching thunder of Drum’s arrival.

The walked the rest of the day and by sunset came upon the northern edge of Fangorn.

“It looks nice,” Drum said, observing from the tree-line. “Thank you, Ralph.”

The wolf shrugged. “Nice enough. Farewell, Drum.” He turned to go.

“Wait!”

Ralph looked back at the horse. Drum stood between the great trees with the fading daylight spilling about him, watching Ralph with curious dark eyes.

“Why…why did you save me?”

Ralph tilted his head to one side. “I told you, Drum; because Men would follow after you, and find me and…well. Find me and kill me.” He looked steadily at Drum. “I don’t want to die.”

Drum didn’t seem satisfied. “Is that all?” he said, stamping one huge hoof. “You saved me to save yourself, and because of my value to Mankind?”

Ralph was about to say yes, that was the whole of it…but something stopped him. He looked down at his paws, thinking.

“No,” he murmured. “No, now that I think on it, that is not the only reason.” He sighed. “You were trapped, there in the trees, and angry and afraid. And I have been like that; hemmed in on all sides and full of despair. I remember that. I don’t want it for anyone else.” He looked back up at Drum, smiled a little. “Even some silly uncart-horse who wants to compose poetry.”

Drum put his ears forward, eyes bright, the corners of his own soft mouth curled in an equine smile.

“And so I say again,” he murmured. “Thank you, Ralph.”

They were friends from then on.

Right up until the day Drum disappeared.

---

On-Site Journal of Erin Berenger

Alpine dig-site 8, Rohirric Region, Misty Mtns

Saturday, August 28, 2010, Seventh Age

I’m an idiot.

That’s the only explanation I can come up with. I’m not a Tirith City University graduate with two degrees under her belt and a Masters thesis in the pipeline; I’m a complete ninny with absolutely no instinct of self-preservation. I am out of my freaking tree.

I’m back in Fangorn.

So maybe that makes me too far into my tree.

I don’t know. Oh, gods and ancestors, I don’t know why I keep coming back here. I used to hear horror stories about this place when I was a kid and have nightmares about it. But now that I’m here…I can’t seem to stay away.

Toby’s worried. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell. I keep getting these sidelong looks and when I put in for the transfer to the dig out here he left the Prof’s office and wouldn’t look at me at all. I think he thinks it’s him; that I’m trying to get away from him and what we had and…

Only its not, you know, it’s this place. It’s still calling my name, and I’m beginning to understand why. I think. I hope.

I’m writing this because I made a find yesterday.

There’s this clearing, where I am now, and I honestly just came here to take a breather, get some sunlight, but I stumbled over what looks like some kind of habitation. Or evidence of one, at any rate. There’s a spring, and a deep streambed that must have flowed here for centuries and in the undergrowth beside them, I found two stone jars. I took samples – scrapings – and got them tested.

Third Age. No doubt about it. Obie, the tech who did the processing for me nearly wet himself. Wants to see the source. I had to dissemble like a fiend to get out of that one.

There was something else though; a residue that sort of…glittered. Glowed, really. I got it on my hands when I was handling the jars and didn’t even realize. The weird thing though, is that I had a scrap on my left hand, and after I touched the jars…well, it’s gone. Healed. Like it was never there.

I keep waiting to wake up…

Popular Genres week 1

Week 1: Comics as Graphic Novels 1

Do you think comics are a children's or adult genre/media?

I grew up around many comics and my classmates were always reading them in their spare time. I wasn’t very interested because I thought the stories were childlike. My friends tried to encourage me to read girls comics about romance too. After reading the reader and thinking back to that time, I can see comics as both for adults and children. Some of the comics are very clever and the stories and very interesting. I can now understand how the use of the pictures and timing in comics can be another part of the art form that is just being recognised now and respected in the academic world. I think comics are still mostly for children and teens but those that read growing up continue in adulthood and search for more sophisticated ones.

How does Farr (1991) justify Tintin's appeal to adults?

Farr talks about how the comic of Tintin appeals not only to children but also to adults making in so popular. Herge’s process of creating Tintin required huge research into detail for all parts of the story. This included the background, objects and most importantly the political themes which were related to the real world. This gave appeal to adults. Farr talks about the political accuracy in The Blue Lotus and how it was so close to the situation in China with the Japanese occupation. Sometimes too close and a bit dangerous for Herge.


References
Farr, Michael. (1991). Tintin: the complete companion. London: John Murray.
Herge. (1936). Tintin and the Blue Lotus: The Adventures of Tintin (Les adventures de Tintin). London: Casterman.

Oz - The Ending

VII

"No!!!!!!!" Oeste wailed at the sight of Ralph's limp carcass. "What has happened?"

After Jeremy recounted what he had seen on the grassy knoll Oeste appeared as a heroic statue, fallen and borken, caste and pale, the only sign of life beneath the marble-esque form was a single tear navigating its way down her lilly cheek and traversing the fine edge of her flacid jaw before pausing suspended from her chin.

In her mind a storm of perfect magnitude was tossing senarios and regrets and possibilties on a sea of dark and merky emotion. Was it folly to send such fine friends to their doom? Could she have foreseen the outcomes as possibility? Was she overly hasty in her strategy to reach out to Dorothy?

Eventually signs of life started to return to her hardened aspect. A breath descernable in a rising and falling chest.

"I feel so sharply the loss we are suffering and I feel that is my own responsibility that such great friends have trusted my leadership and fallen for naught.

"I must employ means that would I would otherwise not wish to. Jeremy, find me Hanuman, take him an arrow and ask in my name that he comes to our aid."

VIII

It was fading to night when the the giant monkey form, suspended beneath godly feathered wings, beat its way to the balcony of Oeste's tower.

"Oeste, you have called me for a purpose which I sense you are uncertain. Bid me the service you wish and it will be done."

Oeste addressed the monkey god with much humility. "Hanuman, thank you for coming to our aid. We are at the point where strange happenings may become, through some unknown design, the demise of our way of life. Our adherence to the ways of those who came before will end and if they do there will be none left to repeat the name of your king and the source of our light. If your tenure in Oz were not so tenuous I would not have called."

Hanuman nodded in understanding and knew, as he had always done as he was a god, that his time may well be at an end. Hanuman turned and leapt into the air and departed immediately to intercept Dorothy and her travelling company.

It was not long latter that Hanuman returned with Dorothy, a dog and a cat. Dorothy herself had fainted with fear when Hanuman had appeared to them so was placed in a room, on a bed, on which to recover. The Lion had also been borne back to the tower and Oeste had him taken him and the dog to Ralph's now empty kennels.

IX

Where am I? What is this place with such homely comfort? It feels like Kansas. It smells like Kansas. Kansas. Toto! Where is Toto? What is happening... the pile of wolf corpses, the circling crows, the giant monkey...

I must have fainted again. This place. This world. Why am I here? Why can I not go home?

"Who's there?" I asked as I heard the sound of a door handle squeaking. "Who's there?"

"Fear not," came a voice, not unpleasant I must admit, not unlike Auntie Emma's own, "my name is Oeste and I mean you no harm."

As I watched the door open I was startled by the sight of a woman who for all intent and purposes, bar the attire, was the spitting image of my Aunt from Kansas. I knew that it could not be as the adornments in the room were so alien, and yet the sweet smell of country air, the sounds of bird and beast tickle playfully in my ear. "Who are you and what do you want? Am I still in Oz, or have I come to a new place?"
"You are indeed still in Oz Dorothy." How does she know my name? "I am Oeste. I live here by grace of those who have come before me and the bounty of our nature."

The soft tone of her voice, the familarity, the honesty that could be felt behind each convicted word was enough to calm my nerves considerably, but not my curiousity. "How do you know my name? Where are we?"
"Dorothy I know your name as our paths are crossed. Not a week ago you arrived from Kansas in your house and when you did the house you were travelling in landed on my dear sister Ester."

"The witch? Your sister? Then you must be the Wicked Witch of the West!" I am doomed, those wolves must have been sent by her, the monkey... the thought makes me shudder so uncontrolably.

"No. A Wicked Witch of the West I am not." Aunt Em's doppleganger took a deep breath. "Nor was Ester a wicked witch in her eastern lands. We are, were, merely leaders of people. We have fought long and hard against the 'progress' propaganda of Arrabella Nortón and North Enterprises..."

"Arrabella is a good witch. She helped me find my way to the Wizard and he has said he can help me get back to Kansas. Why do I feel so uncertain as I say this? What is going on here?" I am so confused.

"Arrabella is no more witch than I am and to call oneself good is easy when all who would say otherwise have their voices taken from them. The Wizard and his 'green' city have been sucking up the resources of the auslands in order to build the monuments to the glory of themselves. They have forgotten that there are cycles which have evolved of generations, millenia that cannot be broken without consequence. Those who tend the fields and dig the mines that pay for the gaud are, through suggestion, convinced that they love their servitude though they would not call it that. They call it 'getting ahead', 'accululation of wealth' yet all they accumulate are emperial clothes and empty cupboards so that they must take more from Oz and deliver it to the Wizard in exchange for that which they would otherwise have."

"What is all this that you are telling me? I do not understand, I do not want to understand, I want to go home to Kansas!"

"That is why I have brought you here. My friends have seen and been watching you since you arrived and I believe that you are not part of their plan. The Wizard wants me dead so that our part of Oz can be 'freed' for development, 'sustainable development' mind you..."

This is all too much. My mind is hurting, the sound of her voice is at once soothing through the memories they refresh and simultaneously the tormenting reminder of my current predicament. I want nothing but to be free from this place, from these people .

X

These past weeks Dorothy has been like a zombie. I have tried to bring her around, giving her things to do, but she is just becoming a cog. She takes to task but she is still very much in her own head. When I do manage to coax a response she maintains that the Wizard is to be her only salvation and holds the notion that the shoes which Arrabella gave her hold some power. To Dorothy the only reason I have not yet vanquished her is because of that thimble she was given.

I feel that the trial of her ordeal has taken a great toll on her psychologically and, even with a return to Kansas, she will take a while to get over this. I am at a loss as to my next move.

XI

It is over. Today Dorothy tripped and lost a one of her 'shoes' from her foot. I picked it up to return it to her and she got up in a rage and grabbed a bucket and threw it at me.

In a flash, as the water followed it's gravity assisted trajectory across the room, an idea came to me. As I was doused I feigned horror and proceeded to pretend that water was my kryptonite and collapsed to the floor and 'died'.

I heard Dorothy scream a wicked scream before legging it from the room. I quickly removed my wet clothes and absconded to an antechamber in time to hear her return with C. Howard-Lee and her dog. From her words she has descended completely into a fantastic world where she is champion of witches and has secured the salvation of some 'primitive' races previously under the spell of evil oppressors.

As they left the room I called to Jeremy. "Jeremy, it is time for us to leave this place. Dorothy believes me 'melted' and she will want to return to the Wizard to find her way back to Kansas. We must leave this place before she gets to the green city."

"Where will we go Oeste? Will we become 'Those who came before' to those who come after? But where? There is nothing but desert as far as anyone has ever seen."

"Jeremy, it does not matter now. Go, let everyone know that we will leave the day after tomorrow and that we must travel light..."

FIN

Rewrite assessment

Hello New Lit Bloggers,
Please note that though your rewrites may be posted here as works in progress, or as finished articles, I will still need you to send me your 'final' copy / finished version as a word doc. by email please:
emann@aut.ac.nz

Please let me know sooner rather than later is you are having time issues and wish to get and extension, Esther :)

Warg's Tail - Part Three: Into the Woods

Isengard

Year 3012 of the Third Age

The pack spent that night under the stars, in a field just beyond the walls of Orthanc’s circle.

There had been a raid on one of the villages at the edge of Rohan, and those taken prisoner had been slaughtered while Ralph and his brothers were in the training pit. The young Wargs were to have their first taste of man-flesh.

Ralph, however, was oblivious to the excitement of his packmates. He lay off by himself amongst the long grass and gazed down the river valley, wondering.

He knew he had to get out, had to leave…but leave and go where? The world was not a safe place for a lone Warg these days, even one who by all accounts looked more like a common hound than a true Warg. Anyone or anything he came across was like as not to try and kill him before he could even get two words out to explain. Not only that, if his own packmates found him after he’d left, he’d likely be killed as a deserter.

Ralph shivered.

He didn’t like the Orcs. They were vicious, needlessly vicious, and terribly creative. There was no telling what kind of horrors they would visit on him before they killed him. And it would be them to carry out the punishment; the alliance between wolves of all kinds and Orckind had been slipping into the latter’s favour for decades now. Slowly but surely, Wargs and their wolfish cousins were being ranked among beasts of burden and warhorses. His people were becoming tools.

If he didn’t go somewhere, he too would be fitted with a yoke and sent to die for the White Wizard’s campaign.

There was the rumble of footsteps approaching and a thud beside him. Ralph stared at the bloodied hunk of meat and bone that had been dropped at his feet. Then he looked up at the one who had brought it to him.

Ruud blinked his small black eyes back at him.

“Uh, Ruud,” Ralph said cautiously, “what is that?”

“Man-flesh,” said Ruud. “Its what’s for dinner.”

Ralph nodded, eyeing the hunk of meat with great reluctance.

“That would explain the fingers,” he muttered.

It smelt…wrong. Not horrific and nose-burning like Orc meat, but just…wrong. It still smelt like a person. Not like something you ate.

What he wouldn’t give for a nice, fat, stray sheep…

“Tell you what, Ruud, I’m not really hungry. Why don’t you have it?”

Ruud blinked at him again, disbelieving this time, then said, “Alright,” and fell on the severed limb like a starving pup.

Ruud was rather single-minded – and more that a little messy – when he ate, so Ralph left him to it, and began scouting out something more palatable.

It didn’t take long to see that the raiding party had brought some livestock back with them too. There was a cow hobbled beside the tree line, lowing pitifully and letting out alarmed bellows whenever a Warg came too close. Her calf stood shaking beside her, nearly immobile with fright.

Ralph sidled round and through the trees. When the opportune moment came he slipped forward and nipped the calf’s lead that bound him to his mother’s collar then caught the little bugger by the throat before it could mouth off and alert the rest to his thievery. He killed it quick in the shelter of the trees and ate until his stomach begged for mercy.

Half an hour later, he had dozed off…only to be woken by the furious yelling of an Orc captain.

“Where’s that bleeding calf?” the captain was roaring. “That was for the Master’s table! Where is it? Which one of you sniveling fleabags has skulked off with it?”

“Here,” said another voice, “here, look, Captain, the tracks go this way!”

They were coming into the trees…

I’m dead, Ralph thought, scrambling to his feet and taking off further into the woods, up the eastern side of the valley. He let out a soft groan when he heard the sound of quick Orcish feet behind him.

“Get back here!” a horrid croaking voice yelled, echoing against the side of the trees. It was the captain. “Get back here, thief! Get back here so I can slit your cowering belly and take back what you stole!”

But Ralph didn’t. In a moment of near-blinding clarity, he saw two paths ahead of him, beneath his feet as they beat upon the earth. If he took the first and turned back, he would be beaten, savaged by the clubs of the Orcs and by the fangs of his pack. Likely, he would die.

If he took the second…

There was no clear end. The path went on, far into the horizon of his mind. Maybe his end would be terrible there too, but it would not be for a while, and then again it might not be terrible at all.

A shiver ran the length of his spine, like a great warm hand drawn along his back…and he put on a burst of speed, throwing himself forward and running like he’d never run before.

Behind, him, the Orcs' voices were getting further and further away.

He kept going, and saw that as the valley became steeper, the trees became denser, older, and the woods around him darker. The air seemed still, and there was no sound of night birds or insects.

There was a yelp behind him; an unexpected sound of Orcish fear.

Ralph pulled up short, spinning about.

There was nothing there.

He stood for a moment, listening to the sound of his own breathing and the steady double thump of his heart.

Another yelp sounded; he realized that the still air carried noises further so that things sounded closer under these trees.

“Quit yer whinging,” he heard the captain snap.

“But it got me, it got my foot!” another Orc insisted.

“It did not – argh! Back, back, retreat!”

There was the sound of furiously scrabbling feet and clanking armor…then something like a branch bending…a whip crack…and a fearful wail.

Ralph’s jaws dropped open in a grin.

Unbelievable; they were really going back.

He’d escaped.

He was free…

---

On-Site Journal of Erin Berenger

Alpine dig-site 8, Rohirric Region, Misty Mtns

Wednesday, August 25, 2010, Seventh Age

It’s my day off, so here I am at Dig 8, seeing the sights and taking long soothing walks around the woods.

Also, one particular walk through the woods. Which, I know, we’re not supposed to do, because it’s easy to get lost in there and even rescue crews have trouble moving about in such densely pack trees…but I just couldn’t help myself.

It was almost like…something was calling my name.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Personally, you can take your loopy mysticism and shove it where the sun don’t shine, but there is something frigging creepy about Fangorn Forest. The entire time I was there, it was like I was drugged. Like a voice was whispering my name, but I couldn’t really hear it. I got up to the tree line and thought, this is a bad idea.

But kept walking.

Once I was in there, under the trees…oh, it was so weird. All the noise from the dig disappeared; everyone’s voices, the sounds of the quad bikes and all-terrains, just gone. As though someone had shut a door on them.

I walked for a little while, looked around.

At one point, I thought I heard something behind me. When I turned around there was nothing there, but I thought I saw…

I can’t believe I’m writing this.

I thought I saw a tree with eyes.

---

Western-most edge of Fangorn Forest

Year 3012 of the Third Age

He ran for the rest of the night, despite his exhaustion and the pain of his still aching injuries. He fell once, and the cut on his cheek split open again, blood spilling hot and thick down his face.

Ralph ignored it, and plowed onwards, running as fast as his paws could take him and as far. Fifty miles as the crow flies, up hill and down dale, and the trees growing ever bigger, older, more twisted the further into them he plunged. The air was almost choking, but still he gasped and drew it in, ‘til it didn’t feel thick anymore, only rich with ancient scents.

Deeper and deeper. Darker and darker. Until his legs simply gave out, and he crumpled to the forest floor.

Above him, the trees whispered in a language he didn’t understand. Leaves rustling, bark twisting, limbs groaning and sighing.

But Ralph was deaf to it, able only to hear his own thundering heart and bellows of his breaths. He managed to crawl into a hollow made by an oak tree’s roots, a cradle pillowed with deep leaf litter and soft earth.

“Thank you,” he breathed, without quite knowing why, “oh, thank you…”

The trees spoke, watching him without eyes, listening without ears.

…what is he…? they wondered.

…edible… some answered.

…evil…! cried others.

…only young… murmured the oak whose roots Ralph had cuddled down in. …only young, with a path to tred and besides…besides…he said thank you…

…yes…yes…we suppose…yes…he did say thank you…

The trees settled with a collective sigh.

Ralph was oblivious to how close he came to being eaten by omnivorous huorn.

He was already asleep, and had been for the past five minutes.

---

Morning came too soon, and Ralph was woken by sunlight trickling through the canopy where it could, golden fingers making valiant attempts to pry apart the deadening blankets of leaves.

He blinked, eyes still bleary with sleep…

“HROOM!” roared quite possibly the biggest, most frightening voice Ralph had ever heard, “HOOM! WHAT IS THIS?”

Ralph was grabbed by his left hind leg and hauled inexorably upwards. Therefore his only possible response was, “Gah!” followed by a loud yelp of terror.

“WHAT MANNER OF BEAST ARE YOU?” demanded the great and powerful voice.

Ralph swung back and forth, staring in horror at the thing that had hold of him. It looked like a tree – and that was where his mind simply stalled because while, yes, it did look like a tree, it appeared to be a tree with a face.

“I – I – I –” was all Ralph could get out.

“SPEAK!” the Tree-With-A-Face said, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY WOODS?”

“I – I’m – oh, please, please don’t eat me.”

The Tree stared at him, perhaps surprised.

“Hrum!” it laughed. Laughed! “Hoom-doom-hooroom, why, oh why, would I want to eat you, whatever-you-are?”

“Uh,” said Ralph, nonplussed. “It’s generally what larger things do to smaller things that they’ve caught, in my experience.”

“Hum, hoo now, that is true, I suppose, yes…hoom. But I do not eat things like you. It is only Entdraft and such for me, and sunlight where it falls, yes.”

It peered at him with amber eyes that seemed to pin him the way he remembered pinning rabbits beneath his paws as a whelp.

“You are most strange,” it said, “leaf and twig, yes, very strange indeed. You are no hound that follows Men, that I can see, but no Warg that hunts the fields either. Hroom, hrum…you are perhaps, a wolf, I think.”

Its great craggy mouth parted in a smile that made Ralph curl up a bit, tucking his paws closer to his body.

“I am?” he squeaked.

“Oom, doom, yes.”

“Is…is that a good thing…or a bad thing?”

“Good or bad? Ah, mmm…that is not a question to be hasty in answering,” the Tree-creature said slowly. “After all, I do not know you very well.” It tilted its head ponderously. “You may be a very bad kind of beast…then again; you may prove to be quite a good one.”

It blinked at him, veeerrry slooowleey, and then added, “What is your name, little wolf?”

“Ralph,” said the ‘little wolf’, who was still under the impression he could be consumed at any moment.

“Hmmm. Ralph,” the Tree murmured considering. “It is a very quick, hasty sort of name. Mine is much longer, in Entish…but I suspect you do not know that tongue (very few do, you know), so it hardly matters. You, young Ralph, may call me Treebeard…and if your luck holds out, and the huorn do not begin to object to you…I suppose, hroom, yes, I suppose you may stay.”

“Oh,” said Ralph, slurring a little, “that’s – that’s really kind of you, Treebeard, sir, but…but do you think you could put me down, now? Only the blood is rushing to my head and ooh…”

Ralph passed out.

Treebeard stared at the limp wolf in surprise and, muttering an Entish approximation of ‘Oops,’ carefully laid him on the forest floor.

This is how Ralph came to be one to the two sole occupants of Fangorn Forest.

Apart from the semi-carnivorous trees, that is.

Hello,

I have been researching colonial novels in Mediterranean settings with characters I could represent in my rewrite. My original idea was to cover a French novel written during the colonization of Tunisia, Algeria or Morocco, unfortunately I could find none that were translated to English and/or with a substantial Mediterranean character. I then shifted my focus onto colonial novels written during the Egyptian colonization and came across a few novels: Alexandria Quartet, The rivers of Babylon, Islandia, and Almayer's Folly, but for the purposes of this assessment the most suitable novel with substantial representation of 'other' cultures was Almayer's Folly. This is a novel that was written by Joseph Conrad in 1895 and it was set in the 1800's and highlights the prejudices of that era well. It covers the story of Kasper Almayer, a Dutch trader who travels to the Malaysian jungle with a wealthy captain (Lingard) to trade and search for hidden treasures. During this time Almayer agrees to a marriage with Lingard's adopted Malaysian child whom the author Joseph Conrad depicts through colonial eyes common to the English writers of that era. From this loveless marriage Almayer has a daughter (Nina) whom he grows attached to and brings up in a 'European' manner and tries to prevent her from any Malaysian influence. Meanwhile his ventures for treasure and trade are failing and his wife leaves him. He has all his hopes on his daughter who's beauty he sees as European and would likely marry successfully to a European noble. However Nina grows increasingly close to Dain, a Malay prince and they end up eloping. This shatters Almayer's last hope of success in life and he spends the rest of his days in grief, poverty, addicted to opium and slowly losing his sanity leading ultimately to his death.

I am hoping to represent events from the point of view of Nina, Almayer's daughter, which I hope I can do justice to. I will try to cover the loveless marriage of her mother so in a way it will be similar to Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea where Antoinette retells the story from her childhood leading to the events of Jane Eyre.

Warg's Tail - Part Two: Law of Club and Fang

Author’s Note:

When imagining Ruud’s voice, think of the daft Rottweiler from the second Garfield movie. Or Matt Damon in Team America. I’m sure clips of both are available on YouTube.

Isengard

Year 3012 of the Third Age

Ralph had never been in so much pain in his life.

He lay blowing hard in the Warg dens below the White Wizard’s tower, the racket and unending roar of Isengard’s industry battering his ears. One lay torn nearly in half against his cheek, blood clotting his coat and crusting at the corner of his left eye. His limbs burned with fatigue, the fire spreading in long agonizing lines across his back and shoulders, to the wounds on his sides and the bloodied wreak of his right haunch. He was sure something was broken inside him, some crucial piece come loose and shredding what was left of his insides.

For the first time in his life he longed for home, for the Packlands, where fights were to pass the time, not to decide who would go into battle at the whim of a twisted human filled with magic and ambition…

There were footsteps, one set with two feet that shuffled and loped, the other with four beats and a familiar heavy tred.

“Up,” snarled an Orcish voice, and strong hands clamped on his shoulder, hauling him upwards.

Ralph howled, filled to the brim with pain.

“Be silent,” his mother’s voice said, and he felt her beside him, bracing him to keep him upright. He lay against her side and whimpered.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she growled. “Otsoa should have just killed you. His mercy is an insult you will have to rebuff.”

“Why are you here?” Ralph rasped, voice lowering to a whimper or a growl as the Orc began going about cleaning his wounds and stitching the worst of them. The scars would be ugly, but hopefully hidden under the fullness of his coat.

“You are my whelp,” Úlfa muttered. “I’m obliged to be here.”

Ralph didn’t answer; he was trying to focus on bearing the pain of the bone needle sewing his side up so his insides weren’t at risk of falling out. Then the needle bit too deep and Ralph snarled, flinching and curling his body away from the Orc, throwing his jaws forward to close with a snap an inch from the fell creature’s flat nose.

The thing squealed and scuttled back, bulbous eyes wide with fear.

Ralph stayed where he was, each breath a growl that rattled in his chest and throat, his eyes luminous yellow, his hackles high along his spine and his teeth like lines of blood-stained ivory.

“Maybe it was worth keeping you,” Úlfa remarked dryly.

---

On-Site Journal of Erin Berenger

Alpine dig-site 7, Isen Valley, Misty Mtns

Friday, August 20, 2010, Seventh Age

Toby and I got a call from Dig 7 today. We took a helicraft over the mountains and came down in the Isen Valley, where the Isen River begins to escape the mountains and head for the ocean.

Six years ago, while I was still farting about at University wondering why I was doing accounting

instead of something interesting, there was another archaeological team that set up a major dig here and found that there had been a dam once. It had broken, for reasons we’re still not entirely clear off, and hit the tower at the bottom of the valley. It filled in these big cavities that had been dug in around the tower and even washed out a lot of whatever was inside them. The bodies it must have carried away are still being excavated from halfway down the valley, about 30 miles as the crow flies.

It’s what Professor Brigs called us about, actually. When we got down there, she showed us the latest skeleton found in the silt banks.

Its one of the ‘orc-wolves’, like the ones we’ve been finding in at the Rhovanion sites. Its no surprise, really, they probably came over the mountains looking for game, or maybe it was another pack altogether, but…

Turned out it wasn’t just one. It was dozens. No where near the numbers of skeletons that have been found on our sites, of course, but still. So many. Most of them are young, too. And none of them died from old age. Each one has some kind of trauma, fatal or near fatal. The one the Prof gave us a good look at was maybe 8-10 years old, judging from the growth rings on his bones. The cause of death was easy to see; the top of his skull had been crushed by some awesome force.

Its sobering, to see something that must have once been so mighty killed in such a way.

-

We’re back at Dig 5 now. Just got a call from the Prof on results for the ‘orc-wolf’ with the crushed skull. Measurements and fracture patterns came up positive for, get this, the jaws of another wolf. It must have been a quite literal battle to the death. Not only that, the same goes for a lot of the other skeletons.

Why would a pack turn on its own like that?

---

Isengard

Year 3012 of the Third Age

Weeks later, he was thrown back into the training pits with his brothers.

Otsoa was there, a yellow-toothed grin stretching his jaws. He and his lieutenants circled the new ones, Ralph among them.

“So,” the General barked, “some of you lived! How very fortunate…” The snarl began, low in the reaches of his barrel chest. “Some of us were getting bored.”

It was all the warning they had before the veterans leapt at them, roaring and snapping, going for their throats.

Ralph put his ears back and tried to back away, bumping his brothers’ flanks and letting out a soft whine as he went.

He bumped into something solid and spun about with a yelp just in time to see Ruud throw one of the lieutenants to the ground. Ruud was the largest of Úlfa’s brood, his shoulders broad enough to walk across, his jaws wide an Orc’s shield and the bristles of his coat more like spines than hair.

His savagery knew no bounds…

Ralph watched, eyes wide, as his big brother threw the veteran warrior onto his back and snapped his jaws over the other Warg’s throat. There was a wet crunch as his opponent died and gouts of red gore flew upwards and spattered across the dirt floor of the pit.

Ruud lifted his bloodied jaws and said, “Hello, Ralph,” in his big, slow voice.

…He wasn’t very bright though.

“Uh, hello, Ruud.” Ralph ducked to avoid a hind limb that spun over head. “How – how’s it going?”

Ruud looked down at the corpse. “I’m good at this,” he stated.

“Good for you,” Ralph said. “I’m not sure I am.”

“But it’s easy,” Ruud said cheerfully. And so saying, he spun about and grabbed the veteran trying to creep up on him, shattering the other’s Warg’s face with one crushing bite and tossing the gurgling body over Ralph’s head. It crashed somewhere behind him in the melee.

“Right…”

At that moment there was a roar from behind him, and when Ralph looked over his shoulder, it was to see Otsoa approaching, murder in his, dark, beady eyes. The General’s jaws were parted, his teeth on full display, each one stained with decade’s worth of gore and sharpened to a deadly point. Ralph could see some unfortunate’s sinew caught in those teeth, could picture the mess they would make of him, again, and yet he could not move. He stayed frozen with fear, his spine a livewire of terror, his head singing with an internal scream.

“Your mother should have just let you bleed dry in the dens,” Otsoa mocked. “It was a waste of gutstrings to stitch you back together. You would have been better split open and made rug for the Master’s floor.” He sneered as he stalked closer, and Ralph could only watch him like a fledgling watches an approaching snake. “Look at you, you can’t even run.”

Run.

Run, run, run.

Can’t even run…

But he could. He could and he had to, because it was all he’d ever been good at…

It was like the livewire of his spine had been tripped, as though something had come alive inside him and the pieces were of some puzzle were slipping into place. The tension in him built to shocking heights, living lightning firing across his muscles, filling his extremities.

RUN!

And he did.

Every limb moved in beautiful sync and suddenly he was flying, darting fluidly between the thrashing bodies of his still fighting packmates, ducking and weaving and speeding through the carnage like he was made of quicksilver.

Otsoa let out a savage howl of thwarted rage, trying to come after him, but he was too big, too slow, his thickly muscled body too heavy to follow where Ralph’s lithe gait could go.

The young Warg threw himself forward, aiming for the walls of the pit, for freedom. He gathered speed, hearing the General’s bellows behind him, and gathered himself for a leap.

At that moment, a body crashed in front of him, hitting the dirt floor with a thud he felt in his bones. Blood spewed across the ground, clotting in the dust. Another veteran with a leather strap around his neck and gore upon his exposed chest. Ruud appeared, leaping onto the veteran’s chest and worrying his throat.

Ralph didn’t even slow down.

With reaching limbs, he flew into the air and landed on Ruud’’s shoulder, which it turned out really were broad enough to walk across, and using his surprised brother as a spring board, leapt again for the edge of the pit.

“That’s cheating,” Ruud said indignantly at the same time as Otsoa howled, “Get back here you little runt!”

Ralph didn’t hear either of them. He had caught his forepaws on the lip of the pit, dew claws straining to keep hold, and was trying to get propel himself over by digging in and scrabbling with his hind legs.

He was close, so close…

The blow came out of nowhere.

An Orc’s club struck him across the face, hard enough to split the skin of his cheek and rattle his teeth. Ralph leant perilously back, staring in alarm and shock at the Orc standing over him. It raised its club again and the young Warg let out a yelp and let go of the lip of the pit. He fell backwards, writhing in midair to get his feet under him. By some miracle he only stumbled a little when he hit the ground.

Otsoa let out a triumphant snarl – only for it to be cut off as another two Orc’s caught his neck strap and tightened it, hauling him back. It was happening all over the pit; those Warg’s still living were being collared and dragged back to their dens.

“Release me!” the General demanded, his voice reverberating off the sides of the wide pit. “I’m not finished here!”

“Yes, you are,” the Orc with the club stated. “They’ve spilled much blood, torn much flesh. These we will ride in the Master’s name.” It pointed the end of the club at Otsoa. “Stand down, Warg.”

“No!” Otsoa bellowed, thrashing in his bonds.

Ralph crouched against the side of the pit and watched as the two Orcs holding his neck strap were pitched back and forward until one came loose. The General was on it in a flash, gripping its throat in his jaws and shaking it like rat until black Orcish blood flew in rain-fine splatters and the thing’s high, rusty squeals had stopped. He dropped the body and stood over it breathing hard for a few seconds.

Then his eyes flicked up, pinning Ralph and sending a bolt of fear through him.

I’m going to die, he thought.

But Otsoa merely bared his teeth, dark with brackish Orc blood, and turned very deliberately away, stalking after the rest of the pack and their handlers. It was an insult, another one, and this time it said simply, I offer you my back, weakling, because I know you will never strike it.

Ralph heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as he stepped away from the wall. He could feel a fine tremor making its way down his legs as the racing fear of the battle wore away, leaving him drained. He let a handler loop a strap around his neck and lead him from the pit, into the tunnels that lead to the dens…

…but though he walked quietly, and didn’t flinch when the handler smeared unguent on his bleeding cheek, his mind was afire with one thought:

I have to get out of here.