The Written Word. Dissecting My Historical Fiction Story: A Lark Came A’Callin – The Expressman’s Tale. Chapter 3. The Irreconcilable Mr. Pool.

Taking a ‘Shot’ at Writing

I’m working on a Historical Fiction mystery novel. In it a young French Canadian voyageur tries to solve his parents’ murder. His only clues: a dead lark, or Alouette, left on the bodies of the victims. And a Cross of Lorraine superimposed on a Fleur de lis tattooed on their bodies. Currently I’ve figured out bits and pieces of the plot, or occasionally an entire scene or chapter, which might end up somewhere in the finished novel.

As a little test, to see how the novel flows, I submitted a chapter to a magazine writing contest. I’ve heard back now. I won’t be winning a ‘Booker’ or ‘Giller’ prize for my work any time soon. But, I also wanted feedback about my writing. How do experienced, published writers view my work?

Well, I got the feedback I wanted. And, was relieved that a response like, ‘Heinz, it’s perhaps best if you took up another hobby. Maybe carpentry…’ didn’t appear.

However, here’s what struck me about the judge’s comments. Something I’ve noticed on other occasions as well: quite often the structure of the prose is more important than the ‘story’. I’m not implying that the quality of my story would have gotten me any further in this contest. Probably not.

I’m not alone in pointing out this tendency. There is considerable debate on the topic. No doubt, better prose improve any story, including mine. But, occasionally the ‘structure’ of the prose dominate and diminish the story. Or, no matter how good the prose, they can’t improve a poor story.

I read a lot. Acclaimed literary works, ‘pulp fiction’, and an endless amount of archaeological literature. In archaeology, Louis Binford is arguably one of our greatest thinkers. Yet he is constantly plagued by his critics as being a poor writer. His detractors often fail to see the bigger picture – his incredible academic contributions written in prose which I don’t find difficult to read.¹

Back to my work. One suggestion to improve it is to reconsider how I present my characters’ thoughts. “The characters often think their thoughts directly to the reader.” In other words, “…direct transcription of character thought is distracting in a narrative that is otherwise told in the third person point of view.” I agree with the judge that humans don’t think in clear, well formed sentences. But, occasionally this method is a useful way of conveying information and moving the narrative along. Some very influential writers use it. But sparingly. Dan Brown’s editor, in “Angels & Demons” didn’t find this method troubling.

So, here’s my book chapter submission. And following the chapter are the reviewer’s comments (whose name, and that of the magazine, shall remain anonymous) on how I might improve my work.

Both might interest you.

The Chapter

A Lark Came A’Callin: The Expressman’s Tale

Chapter 3: The Irreconcilable Mr. Pool

On the Peace River, Canada, 1787

Raven watched from his lofty perch, overlooking the ‘big river’. Unjegahu, as the Dene called it. Nothing passed unnoticed by Raven.

As he sat on the spruce branch overlooking the vast, winding northern river, he heard it first. A strange chanting, the joining of many voices. In a tongue new to him.

‘Alouette, gentille alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai….’

Then he saw them. Something he’d never seen on the river before. Five large bark canoes with men, bright colored sashes tied around their waists, paddling feverishly, as if time was in short supply. As they sang, their paddles kept in sync with the rhythm of their music.

When he looked closer, he realized they were not Dene. They were – different. As Raven looked into the future – as only a trickster such as he could – he sensed change, turmoil and pain. But his vision of the future was foggy. He recognized though that here was perhaps an opportunity for revenge for the wrongs the Dene inflicted on his kind, turning them forever black. He flew off the branch chuckling and muttering,

The American trader Peter Pool sat in the front of the canoe watching the raven fly beside his brigade. ‘These fucking birds are a nuisance’, he thought. ‘Always watching, squawking and crapping everywhere. Scaring the game off when we enter the country.’ He felt the rage coming on. Barely seeing the raven through swirling circles of bright lights before his eyes, slicing through the pain in his head. In anger he raised his musket and fired at Raven. The musket’s report scared Raven and sent him spinning towards the water; and he did as the trader predicted – shit everywhere.

The young expressman looked on as Pool totally lost it. Over what? A raven flying too close to their canoe? ‘Merde. What an asshole,’ thought Francois Fornier. ‘We’ve traveled thousands of miles, on treacherous waters, from Montreal. And he loses it over a squawking bird.’

Fornier turned to his men, “Steady as she goes, men. Keep up the pace now. Prendre le temps. The days are getting shorter, and we need to eat miles.” The six voyageurs put their backs into their strokes, moving the large birchbark canoe upriver against the current, hour after endless hour. Day after endless day. The four other canoes in their brigade followed them. This was their hundredth day on the water, and they looked as fresh as when they left Montreal. In fact, fresher. As always, a great deal of frolicking and debauchery preceded the departures of the fur brigades into the Canadian northwest. Leading to thick heads when final goodbyes were said.

One of the voyageurs, LaFleur, glanced at both men furtively as he paddled. ‘I don’t trust either of them. That crazy American yelling and screaming. At a silly bird no less. Nor our leader who is as mysterious as the American is crazy. Carries that enormous bow instead of a musket. Educated in England somewhere and does strange things with liquids and such. Some sort of alchemist, they say.’ Then LaFleur rubbed his still tender nose, remembering all too well what the expressman had done to him when he’d stepped out of line. And continued paddling, letting more pleasant things occupy his mind.

Fornier sat on a higher perch at the back of the large birch bark canoe. Watching his men and feeling the rhythm of the song as their paddles dug into the water. He’d trained them well and had their respect despite his young age. He’d earned his place at the back of the canoe leading some of the toughest men on the continent. The challenge from LaFleur earlier on, and the man’s broken nose that resulted, sent a clear message to his men. He was in charge. He owned them. He was their Expressman, or the ‘Loup’ or lead wolf – the foremost voyageur and leader among them. Counted upon to move humans, information, and supplies safely through the Canadian wilderness.

What bothered him though, besides that belligerent asshole Pool, was the whereabouts of the men he secretly pursued. He’d caught glimpses of their sign – a cross of Lorraine on top a Fleur de Lis. Men who killed in the name of France; but indiscriminately. Including his father and mother, so long ago. Men who left a calling card over his dead body, a dead Alouette. Men who refused to believe that France lost this rich land to the English. Their secret society and their motto, For God and Country, sounded hollow in Fornier’s ears.

‘But where are they? Did they come this way? Or take another river? There are so many.’ He wondered about their whereabouts. Worried that he would never find them in this vast wilderness. And finally avenge his parent’s death. But, his every instinct, his training as a young man among the Iroquois, before he left for England, in tracking and forest-craft, told him they were ahead of him. And then he saw the signs. His men missed them, but he hadn’t. Now he felt certain they were closing in.

And what about poor Cataphor? Lost? Dead? Simply disappeared one morning. The expressman felt badly. He was responsible for the young voyageur. There were few signs as to what happened. But he sensed the men he chased were somehow responsible.

His attention returned to Pool. An enigma. Brilliant at times. Engaging. Joking and laughing with his men. A man of great vision. Then suddenly in the blink of an eye he would change. Screaming. And then turning violent. Rumors flew. He had killed a man but was never charged because of insufficient evidence. Fornier sighed, muttering to himself, ‘Je ne comprends pas.’

Fornier recalled Pool’s latest explosion only two days earlier: “The next man who looks at me like that will pay dearly,” yelled Pool. “I’ll eat my own way. You eat the way you want.” Arguing over a bloody meal. Then the stammering and holding his head. As if it were ready to come off. The man needed careful watching. The men were afraid.

A still angry Pool yelled at no one in particular. “Where’s that bundle of feathers now? I’ll give him another shot if he shows. His ass will be so heavy with lead it will be dragging in the water when he flies.” As he shouted his men continued to paddle up the great river, heads down, now in silence. Trying to avoid the man’s wrath by ducking low and letting his words flow harmlessly out onto the water.

Fornier said nothing. It rankled him that his men were always in the Connecticut man’s line of fire. But Pool had hired the expressman to lead his canoes. As far up this river as possible. And Fornier reluctantly respected his wishes. ‘But I don’t like this one bit’, thought Fornier. He sensed trouble.  

Pool looked askance at his Dene guide. “Where the hell are we anyway? Do you know the way?” Pool knew little about the Athapaukow country, or its people. But he’d heard the stories. Stories of a great river leading west towards the mountains, and possibly the Pacific Ocean. And, of another even larger river, leading north and ending the northern ocean. And, of a people who lived along the river. Who, if the stories were true, were not to be trifled with. They were the Dene, or the real people. ‘Then what the hell are we,’ thought Pool? ‘Never mind…’

His guide responded. “We’re on the Unjegahu, also known as the ‘River of Peace’. This is the river we must travel to go further towards the setting sun.” Then he fell silent. Better that way. Knowing what frame of mind Pool was in.

“Well good. The river of Peace. We’ll be welcomed with open arms by these real people then.” Silence. Only the churning water from the continuous paddling responded.

Pool, now beginning to cool off. Pondering. ‘Am I on the right river? The one that leads to the Pacific Ocean? Or is this another wild goose chase, and these red-skinned heathens don’t really know? Did my expressman lead me astray?’ The swirling colors before his eyes had subsided. But his head still throbbed. No more sweating, his speaking back to normal. And no more heart palpitations. Often, when these fits came on, he almost blacked out. ‘Just like that little incident with that black bird,’ he thought. ‘I must be more careful.’

…………………………..

Now resting, the men sat in their canoes, smoking their tobacco pipes. Talking about home and their loved ones. What they’d do with their hard-earned money once they reached Montreal again next summer. Impressing their women with tales of the Canadian northwest. “Well, I’m buying my woman the finest dress in Montreal when we get back,” drawled a young Louis. “She’ll be the best-looking belle femme in the city.”

“First you need to find a woman, Louis. You’re so ugly, and smell so bad, even the bears along the river are staying away.” Louis shot Guy a grisly look but said no more. The other men’s laughter, along with their tobacco smoke, drifted over the water.

The Expressman barely listened to the banter. He glanced at Pool. He seemed to be gathering himself but still looked like shit after that last bout. Something was wrong. He could sense it. That feeling of foreboding. When he was young, he had asked his Iroquois elder about it.

“Saunadanoncoua, it makes no sense. But I feel something. Whenever there’s danger or change. Why?”

“There are things we can’t explain about our feelings. But because we can’t explain them, we shouldn’t ignore them. Ignoring your senses, your feelings, could cost you your life.”

‘Good words to live by,’ thought Fornier. Something was wrong. He looked upriver again, up the vast valley of the Unjegahu. Finishing their smoke, the men took up their paddles and the canoes began moving again. Ahead a sharp bend appeared in the river, where it narrowed the high bluffs almost overhung the water.

As they neared, they heard the harsh squawking of the ravens, circling above the bluff. “This time I won’t miss,” shouted Pool, reaching for his musket. He was about to fire, when a large steely arm shot out and stopped him.

“Stop. There’s something wrong ahead.”

“What do you mean something’s wrong, expressman? Just a bunch of noisy birds…”

“Quiet. And put your musket down,” whispered Fornier. A shocked Pool hesitated, then did as the expressman asked.

“The birds are warning us, something’s up ahead. You said so earlier that they scare all the game away if they sense danger.” Pool grudgingly shook his head, now trapped by his own words.

Suddenly Fornier waved the other canoes to shore, shouting. “Set up camp. We stay here for the night.”

Pool started arguing, “But we could still paddle two more hours before the suns disappears, expressman. This is outrageous—”

Fornier cut him off with a glare. “We camp here, Pool. We go no further today.” Fornier had seen the signs. Every abandoned campfire they passed as they paddled up the river, looked fresher. They were catching up. And, he had seen the glint of a brass dragon side-plate on the musket up on the bluffs. These weren’t the real people. But they might be the real enemy he had chased across half a continent.

His companion and friend John Bertrand, who was manning another canoe, approached him once they were on shore. “What’s wrong loup? Why are we stopping so soon?”

Fornier hesitated. Although he trusted his one and only friend immensely, he needed to handle this alone.

“I think we’re catching up to them. They might be waiting for us to come near that bend ahead. Up in the bluffs there. Above the river. Let’s make camp, John. Let me think what to do.”

The men were already busy making camp. After one-hundred days, everyone knew what to do, almost doing it in their sleep. As night fell, some of the men settled around the fire after their spartan meal. Others were already asleep under their overturned canoes.

Suddenly the silence of the evening was shattered, as it seemed all hell was about to break loose in the valley. The wolf pack began chorusing, the sound echoing down the river valley. The men looked around furtively. The expressman was gone.

St. Germaine spat into the fire. “I tell you boys, there’s something about that expressman. Gives me the shivers. Merde. I’ve heard the stories back in Quebec. Some say he runs with the wolves. A true runner of the woods, like his uncle who raised him. Some even say he’s a shapeshifter. Maybe running with those wolves right now.”

Lafleur looked at St. Germaine. “Merde, Germaine, you’ve got some imagination. And you haven’t even been drinking. But I agree, something’s off. Why would an educated man, from a wealthy, well respected French family, sign on with this crew? And that crazy shit who thinks he leads us?”

And young Roy, in a conspiratorial whisper, “And what are those larks tattooed on each arm all about? And, why always that song: Alouette, gentille alouette…when we paddle? I’m getting sick singing about plucking larks’ feathers, and heads.”

Further away, sitting by his own campfire, Pool also wondered where the expressman had gone. And what his real purpose in this voyage was. But what could he do? He was fighting his own demons. And the expressman had gotten them this far. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone off without saying much.

Bertrand listened to the men but said nothing. He had seen Fornier silently glide into the woods, large bow in hand. And a quiver of arrows on his back. He knew where le loup was headed. And what he was doing. Just as he was thinking these things, the wolf pack now nearer, continued to fill the valley with their songs. In-between their high-pitched chorusing, he thought he heard an explosion off in the distance but couldn’t be certain.

……………………….

As dawn emerged the men prepared to depart, moving like waifs through the swirling mist which had engulfed the river valley during the night. As they loaded the canoes, the expressman sat by the morning fire finishing the last of his breakfast. As if nothing had happened during the night. As if he’d been there all along.

Bertrand walked by and looked at his friend. “Everything alright, loup?”

“Just fine, John. Get these men moving. We need to get on the water.”

“But what about the bend up ahead?”

“All good, John. No need to worry.” The expressman got up and prepared to leave.

As he bent down to pick up his belongings, John noticed the strange medallion around his friend’s neck. Fornier glanced up just in time to see Bertrand’s confused expression. But neither man said anything as they walked towards their canoes.

“Get your asses into these canoes, you lazy bastards. We have to make up lost time for yesterday,” shouted Pool. Already standing in the shaky canoe and getting himself riled up even as dawn broke. He seemed to forget one of the voyageur’s warnings about these canoes. ‘De canoe, she’s so tippy, dat you hav to keep de tongue in the middle of your mouth, or you go in de water.’

They were soon on their way. As they neared the bend, Bertrand glanced at the high bluffs above the river. Instead of seeing any threat, he was only greeted with an eery silence. They were almost past when an enormous wolf appeared on the edge of the bluff, out of the lifting fog. Licking his bloody maw.

Bertrand glanced at Fornier, who also was looking up as they passed. “The pack must have made a kill last night.” Fornier said no more as the two canoes drifted further apart. Bertrand shuddered, wondering who had really made a kill last night.

Pool was keeping his own council. In his head. Occasionally mumbling to himself. As if having an argument with some imaginary friend. ‘He’s fighting it again,’ thought Fornier as he watched the man. ‘Great! Just when we’re entering the most dangerous part of our journey.’

His Chipewyan guide interrupted his thoughts pointing up the river. Fornier looked and saw it. In the distance, white plumes of mist were rising from the river hundreds of feet in the air. Then the tremendous roar of millions of gallons of water falling met his ears. They were near the ‘chutes’ – the great falls on the big river.

Pool suddenly came out of his self-induced stupor. “This river looks peaceful enough, my friend. Its wide, with a strong current, but nothing really to stop us or endanger us.”

‘God, he doesn’t even see or hear the falls up ahead. Perhaps he thinks that’s just the roaring between his ears. Where is that man’s brain,’ mused Fornier?

“That will soon change,” said his Dene guide. Soon we’ll come to the falls, where we hopefully will meet the real people.”

“What are our chances of getting permission from them to go further up,” he asked his guide?

“I really don’t know. Our people haven’t had much contact with them since the disease came to our lands. They’re extremely suspicious of strangers, especially those who might bring the disease to them.”

“But that smallpox epidemic is already three years old. Surely by now they would still not harbour any fears about it?”

“I don’t know what more to tell you. They’re fearful of this disease. They saw firsthand what it did to their long-time enemies, the Cree. They’re fearful and suspicious with anything to do with White men. Disease might just be an excuse to avoid you.”

“Well, can’t we just go past them, asked Pool?

“Unwise. A powerful shaman leads them. To him all Whites are trash, and all the things they bring with them are useless and trivial. This encounter will not be pleasant.” His guide said no more. Soon they would find out for themselves.

Fornier listened intently to the conversation. Letting Pool handle this encounter could be disastrous. But what choice did he have? Except prepare himself for all possibilities.

Pool reflected on the guide’s words. “We must get further up this river. I must know where it leads. We must establish forts for hunting in those lands. I’ll do anything to make that happen.”

Fornier only shuddered when he heard those words. And remembered Saunadanoncoua’s words long ago when living with the Iroquois. “You Whites are so impertinent. Thinking that out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thousands of us, you are in charge.”

‘Stupid,’ thought Fornier, was a better word how they sometimes acted toward the Natives.  

Finally, Pool heard it, and smiled. Even louder than the rumble between his ears. The distance the roar of the water, as it cascaded over jagged rocks, and a precipice, some twenty feet high.

As they paddled closer the sound increased until they could barely talk over it. The boiling, roiling waters shook the ground, so tremendous was its force. It was an awe-inspiring sight, as the falls stretched across wide expanse of the river.

Pool and his crew sat in their craft mesmerized by the sight. Finally, Pool turned and shouted at his guide, “How long are these rapids and falls? There must be some way around them.”

His Native guide looked at him quizzically. ‘Long’? What did that mean? “It would take half a day to walk on the trail along the falls, to get to the other side. The trail is treacherous, but well enough marked and used.”

‘Christ,’ thought Pool. This was a major obstacle if they built further upriver.

LaFleur, trying to make friends with Pool spoke up. “A trifle, my friend. I’ve seen worse. We’re voyageurs. Accustomed to this work. With our sashes tied to the bales, we easily carry two ninety-pound bales over the trails. Some of us even carry three…”

And then they saw them. There on a rocky ledge above the roaring falls stood the Dene hunters quietly watching them. Among them was one who immediately caught Pool’s attention. Bigger than the others, standing very erect, he gazed stonily at them. He had sharp features, green eyes, and his hair were as black as that raven Pool had shot at. Tied to his hair was one raven feather – white.

“Is that him,” Pool asked his guide?

His guide responded. “Yes, he leads.” Pool looked on. The man had slightly stained red hands. He was dressed mainly in leather. On his shirt, near his heart, etched in red and green paint, were two circles, each with a dot in the center. Symbols of his people. Around his neck hung two strikingly brilliant green stone celts. Pool and his men had a hard time keeping their eyes off them. The man continued to gaze at them, saying nothing.

In front of the man sat an enormous dog, or wolf, or something in between. Pool wasn’t sure what it was. The beast stared at him as well, like that of his owner, with one blue and one green eye. ‘If looks could kill,’ thought Pool, ‘I’d be dead mightily fast. From either one.’

After gazing at the animal, Pool finally whispered to his now nervous Native guide.

“What’s his name? What do I call him?”

“That is the Two Hearts,” his guide managed to stutter. “He has crossed many game trails in his dreams and has the powers from many animals.”

“Two Hearts? What kind of name is that for a man?”

“Well, he comes by that name honestly. One heart is soft, gentle and compassionate for his people. The other heart is cold, calculating and merciless for his enemies.

Now a shuddering Pool managed to ask. “Can we get per….permission to go ffff…..further upriver from him?”

“He’s highly respected by all the river People. His people go all the way to the great mountains, and he has relatives all along this river.”

“Well, at least we’re talking to the right man then,” replied Pool. He motioned for his men to paddle closer to the shore so that they could disembark and meet this man. No sooner had he done so than the shaman held up his open hand, palm out, extended his arm toward them and started talking to their guide. He spoke for some time and then stopped and continued to look at them.

“What did he say,” Pool asked his guide? “Did he greet us and welcome us to his land?”

The guide paled at Pool’s words. “No. He told us to stay in our canoes and not come ashore. He asked what we want, why are we here, this far up the river?”

“Why won’t he let us land?”

“He says the disease is still among us and to come closer would endanger his people. He dreamt this. You must stay away.”

“Is that bugger crazy,” shouted Pool over the waterfall? “Tell him that epidemic is long over with, and he need not fear us, or our goods.”

The guide translated Pool’s request, but the Two Hearts only shook his head. And the way he shook it told Pool, that there would likely be bad consequences if they didn’t listen.

“He refuses your request. He says not to come up the river any further or he will kill all of us.”

Pool only stared in disbelief. He could feel a rage coming on, his chest tightening, his face reddening. ‘God, I must control myself.’ But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Te-tell, hhimm, we bring gifts, tobacco, brandy, knives and guns, which we would bbbee ha…happy to give him if he allows us to continue upriver,” stuttered a now unraveling Pool.

His guide again translated, and the Two Hearts listened, and then shook his head again.

“He says your gifts are tainted, so are your clothes and all you possess. Even your hearts – tainted and bad. He dreamt this. He says his people have lived in these lands forever without all these things. He says to leave immediately, and not come back for the next two summers. He may then reconsider your request.”

Now Pool was shrieking, spit flying in all directions. “That fucking idiot. It took us months to get here, and now he tells us to turn back.” Somehow Pool had managed to stand up in his tippy canoe wildly swinging and waving with his hands. His men cringed in fear. No one could swim, except Fornier.

“I’ll shoot the red-handed bastard, if he doesn’t listen.” Pool bent down to reach for his musket. But his musket had mysteriously disappeared from where he last put it. “Where’s my fucking mus… musket? Who took it? I want to tear this heathen another arsehole. Where’s issss…is it?”

‘To shoot this red-handed bastard as this idiot called him, would mean sudden death,’ thought Fornier. That’s why the musket had disappeared, hidden among the goods, well away from Pool’s shaking hands.

Finally, Fornier stood in the canoe and took out his great horned bow, constantly looking at the shaman. And then to his guide, “ask him to show me his powers. Are they as great as mine?” The guide translated and the shaman nodded. He recognized the challenge.

The shaman touched the two circles on his chest. Suddenly, they changed colors, turning a bright blue then fading completely. Then he talked to the guide.

“Now he wants to see your powers.”

Fornier nodded then nocked a strange looking arrow onto his bowstring and pulled aiming at a large rock exposed in the falls. The arrow flew and hit the rock squarely creating an explosion so powerful that the rock vanished, and everyone was nearly thrown off their feet. The voyageurs sat paralyzed in their canoes. And then, what seemed like an eternity, small pieces of rocks rained down on them.

The shaman, seemingly unperturbed muttered to his companions, “This man knows of the earth’s powers.”

Fornier also muttered, “The man’s a ‘flippin’ chemist. In his own way.”

The shaman spoke to their guide, who translated. “He says you possess great power and he might reconsider…..”

His words were cut off, when behind the shaman, an enormous grizzled, bearded white man appeared, pushing before him, poor Cataphor, now on his knees, hands tied behind his back. Pool’s men gasped at the sight.

Then the trader took his large knife and held under the young voyageur’s neck threateningly. “Now listen you American shit. I’ll slit his throat two days from now, if I don’t hear back from the men I sent downriver. Understand. Two days.”

Fornier looked on in horror. There was nothing he could do or say that would help now. Those men were never coming back.

Pool’s canoes began floating back downriver. The last thing the Dene saw, was a totally out of control Pool beating his guide over the back with a paddle, and then trying to destroy the canoe with it.

The Two Hearts watched the episode in silence. This was getting out of control. He had seen the expressman slyly take Pool’s musket and hide it. And, just for an instant while doing it the young men’s eyes locked. Then he noticed the strange medallion around the man’s neck. And he shuddered. ‘Another one? Just like this butcher beside me?’

Fornier too was watching the Dene leader’s group as they drifted away. He had seen the trader’s forearms. On them was tattooed cross on top of the Fleur de Lis. He had finally found them. But what were they doing with the Dene? How had they gained their confidence? And how was he going to get Cataphor back?

As the canoes disappeared, the Two Hearts turned and walked up the portage trail with his people, and the strange tattooed white man, pushing a reluctant, trembling Cataphor in front of him. Thinking. ‘These two traders are both butchers. Not hesitating to kill their own. What can I do? I must protect my own too.’

 But as he walked, he also wondered about the voyageur with the same ornament around his neck as his white trading companion. He had great powers. And he wondered what the larks tattooed on his arms meant. After all, weren’t all marks symbols? Signs of the past. Or of what lay ahead?

After drifting downriver a few miles, the brigade finally put ashore for the day. A still seething Pool stomped around, knowing now he was defeated. “Where the fuck’s the expressman? I want a word with him,” shouted Pool. Everyone looked around. The expressman had vanished.

“Heeeeeeeee, heee, si… signed a cont… contract. What do yo… you mean he’s gone?” Pool, now drenched in sweat, saw again the grand colors swirling before his eyes.

Bertrand reminded him, “You remember the words in the contract, Pool. His and mine. It stated we would take you up this river as far as possible. We have and now the contract is fulfilled.” With that he walked off, taking his few possessions and disappeared in the woods along the riverbank.

 The last thing Bertrand heard was a screaming Pool, demanding they come back. He headed upriver to join his friend. He knew exactly where the expressman had gone. And what he intended to do. Again, the lark was a’callin.

…………………………….

The Judge’s Review

Dear Heinz,

Thank you for sending us “A Lark Came A’Callin.”  Unfortunately, your work was not accepted for publication, but we are grateful for the chance to review it. Thank you also for requesting an editorial letter. In addition to giving you some insight into the selection process, this option allows me (and others on staff) to spend more time with individual submissions.

While inherently subjective, I hope this editorial feedback is both actionable and encouraging.

Here’s what I enjoyed about this piece – I appreciate that this novel plunges us directly into a unique historical time period that not many people will have a great deal of understanding about. It’s especially cool that you have so much experience as a historian of this time and place, and therefore, your reader can trusts that the details you provide are accurate and true to life. Mr. Pool is certainly an interesting, cantankerous, character, and your reader is likely to be compelled by the force of his personality as he crashes through the wilderness. I also enjoyed getting Raven’s perspective up front – an interesting framing device and a good way to signal to your reader that change is afoot in this wilderness.

However, right now, the prose gets in the way of the story somewhat. The characters often think their thoughts directly to the reader, bracketed in single quotation marks. Consider this sequence, for example:

The American trader Peter Pool sat in the front of the canoe watching the raven fly beside his brigade. ‘These fucking birds are a nuisance’, he thought. ‘Always watching, squawking and crapping everywhere. Scaring the game off when we enter the country.’ He felt the rage coming on. Barely seeing the raven through swirling circles of bright lights before his eyes, slicing through the pain in his head. In anger he raised his musket and fired at Raven. The musket’s report scared Raven and sent him spinning towards the water; and he did as the trader predicted – shit everywhere.

The young expressman looked on as Pool totally lost it. Over what? A raven flying too close to their canoe? ‘Merde. What an asshole,’ thought Francois Fornier.‘ We’ve traveled thousands of miles, on treacherous waters, from Montreal. And he loses it over a squawking bird.’

This sort of direct transcription of character thought is distracting in a narrative that is otherwise told in the third person point of view. The more natural way to frame these thoughts would be to put them in the expositional voice: “Peter Pool thought ravens were a fucking nuisance.” That way, your reader won’t have to jump from head to head so quickly, which may cause them to lose track of whose perspective we’re in. Also, people rarely think thoughts so clearly and grammatically in their heads. So, a direct transcription of complete sentences that read more like dialogue, presented as thought, feels artificial to your reader. It can also have the effect of making all of your characters’ thoughts sound as if they’re written in the same voice, as though their internal monologues all sound the same. (On a surface level, wouldn’t Francois be thinking in French?) This can flatten the unique voices of your characters, and it can make them seem more like puppets under the control of a third person narrator than like real people popping off the page. Upon revision, you might want to consider putting your characters’ thoughts into the third person exposition.

On a more general level, this piece is written in the third person omniscient, which means we hop from point of view to point of iew as new characters make their appearance on the page. The omniscient voice isn’t the most modern voice, and it’s more commonly found in the work of Masters like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and George Eliot. In order for the omniscient voice to work well on the page, it’s important that the narrative voice feel separate and distinct from the characters’ voices. Have you ever read One Hundred Years of Solitude, for example? It’s a masterclass on manipulating the thoughts and feelings of a huge cast of characters while maintaining a consistent third person point of view. Upon revision, you might want to consider beefing up the narrative voice as a distinct entity on the page. That way, your reader won’t feel like we’re swinging from close third to close third, which can be confusing. Instead, a confident omniscient voice will hold all of the pieces together.

Finally, just in general, you might want to consider reading your work out loud. That way, you’ll catch awkward grammatical structures and convoluted phrasing as well as typos and missing or misplaced punctuation.

Some other questions I had as a reader about your work that you might consider answering upon revision are:

• What does your work have to say about the current moment? Why is it important to tell this story now?
• What does your work have to say about stories of the wilderness?
• What does your work have to say about how strong personalities interact with difficult circumstances?

I enjoyed reading your work. I hope these comments help to inspire and guide you in your revision process. Thanks again for trusting me (and ************ Mag)! After thoughtful revision, you might consider submitting to the following journals: Pithead Chapel, The Chestnut Review, X-R-A-Y Litmag, and The Jellyfish Review.

Best of luck with this piece and all your future writing endeavors!

Warmly,

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Footnotes:

1. I’ve always been a ‘content/results first’ guy. It’s not how pretty the excavation looks, or how elegant the project is written. It’s all about the results attained and adequately communicated. And that’s probably where I get into trouble in the literary world. A world where syntax and structure bear a lot more weight in the credibility of a piece of work.[↩]