This week, we're publishing creative work produced by 8th form students for their extended projects. Today's extract is introduced by its author, Tom Salter. 

For my EPQ I planned out a plot of a historical novel, Scorched Grass, and wrote three distinct (non-consecutive) chapters. This excerpt is taken from the second chapter which would have been located towards the middle of the novel’s storyline, where my main character is journeying alone through a 12th century English countryside decimated by civil war. 

—For a while, I wandered across the countryside. If you could call it that. There was nothing at all which distinguished it from a barren desert. No Oxen and no Ploughman tilling the fields. Just the bare earth in the bare field, frozen solid from the winter chill.

As I crossed through, I came across a plough leaning against a hedgerow. The limbs of a hawthorn wrapped around the faded machinery, entwining it in its very own embrace. Stubbled branches stripped of their clothing encircled it, a slow process of deconstruction, the onset of a generation’s work. 

Tentacles hung from the plough, but now they were beginning to crumble as the strength of the sun began to take over. Having paused for a moment, I continued on my way to the end of the field.

I crossed over, and reaching an opening in the bushes, ventured onto the road. Then, I yelled. Lying on the side, looking blankly up at me, was a body. Then I saw another down the road, and then another lying propped up against a fence post, and even more further down.

They were gaunt, but at the same time swollen like wine skins. Bloated, and ready to burst. A pallid hue covered their faces, the skin pulling away from their bones like the ebbing of a tide. You have to have been there. Deathly certainly, but more like they had never lived.  

Already the birds were circling overhead. I think they were Black Kites…

Walter stuttered, and frowned.

—That can’t be right, Kites are brown, not black. They must have been Kites as well, I know what they look like. The tail was forked.

He gestured with his hands, sketching out an impression with a twirl and flourish of his fingers.

 

—My family taught me how to identify all these birds. I know the shape of every bird and beast in the whole of England.

Later, I touched my own face, and wondered. This was no normal time. There was no food really, anywhere. I lived off these scraps of generosity that seemed to appear out of nowhere, from farmers, and village folk who took pity on a rambling stranger. Perhaps God was looking down kindly.

No. 

Walter shook his head. Much of the room seemed asleep, but he could still hear the rise and fall of a gentle murmur.

No. There was no God.

—Suddenly, the woman leaning against the fence post reached out towards me. Shocked, I stepped back, half expecting her to jump up from the dead. She did no such thing, but instead collapsed back wheezing and lowered her eyes.

I felt some semblance of pity, of course I did. Her mangled face, eyes too large, cheeks too hollow, was bound to evoke pity upon even the most emotionless person that came across this sight. But pity was no way to move forward, and I definitely had to move forward. 

Months of slow starvation had ground me down to nothing more than bones and joints, but I had to keep going. I didn't not know why, nor even where, but just that I was on a journey that led to somewhere. Somewhere I had to reach.

Staggering through the Village, I could scarcely believe what had happened. Entire buildings had been burnt to the ground, leaving behind a wreck. Everywhere, the grass was scorched bare. Ash lined the road, fluttering about like butterflies in the summer air, landing upon my forehead, and nestling into my hair. The place was not just burnt, it was utterly razed, scorched to nothingness like the burning of Carthage.

—Who is Carthage?

He sighed, exhaling with painstaking precision. 

—The only thing that remained was a church, peeking over the top of the rubble in the distance. A spire extended upwards into the clouds. Its peak a needle, a stairway to the sky, and whatever further beyond.

To my right, bare hills stretched out into the horizon. I could look down upon a brook winding its tiny path through the valley. Here, there was no shelter. The wind ripped into me, swirling up undisturbed, and slamming into my cheekbones. I touched the tip of my nose. It was frozen solid.

I began to massage it with my hands, taking my time, and then moving down my face to my jaw. I could just about sense the stubble emerging, but the feeling in my fingers had gone as well by this point, so, tying a piece of cloth around my forehead, I continued on my way.

All of a sudden, a small figure appeared flitting through the trees. I called out, but he hurried off into the misty rain. I began to follow him through the undergrowth, my path echoed by the snapping of twigs. 

The air was darker, but I am running now. It feels strangely therapeutic. All I am doing is running, but I haven’t run like this for ages. I have been running away, but never actually running, if you see what I mean.

I steadily close the distance between us, to the extent that he is much clearer to spot, bare feet nimbly avoiding brambles and stones with inches to spare. 

It looked as if he was heading into a clearing. I caught up with him as he burst through, grasping his wrist and pulling him backwards. Then, I stopped with a start, almost toppling over onto my face. 

There was a mound of earth piled up into a heap. Tufts of grass poked out from within, dashes of greenery amidst the empty brown soil. A tree had fallen nearby. The roots stuck up out of the ground, conspicuous in their nakedness, flailing hopelessly in the powerful gusts that swept across the open dell. A branch had snapped and splintered, and the bark was rotting. The peeling had begun, the layers curling outwards into a tight circle, exposing the light wood underneath. 

Sitting on that branch were three figures. No four; the child had slipped out from under my arm. 

Two parents, two children. Grimy hands resting on dull faces. All of them staring wide-eyed back at me. The father was clutching a silver chain in his fist, swinging to and fro with metronomical precision. He hastily stuck it back into his pocket, and drew one child closer to his chest. 

Straining my neck, I peered towards the hole in the ground. Plates, spoons, and even a jug lay scattered about, half buried by the dirt. 

Slowly raising my hands, I backed away. The father lowered the blunt knife that had been pointed towards me. Despite that, I thought it wise to retreat. Upon reaching the edge of the clearing, they began to pile the earth back on to their possessions. 

When I turned around one last time, they were but a speck amongst the shrubs and overgrown weeds. Crouching down on their hands and knees, heads bobbing up and down as they set about burying their lives in the dank mud. 

Conveniently, a path materialised before me upon my way back. Walking down, it soon grew narrower, and the trees seemed to grow tighter in. Wiry birches, pale and harshly white. Nature was in hibernation, all apart from a rustling that revealed itself in the form of a solitary squirrel gliding up a tree in front of me. 

The path felt peculiar, as if I was descending slightly. So having paused, I surveyed the situation surrounding me. The birches seemed delicate, but the undergrowth not so. It was fiercely overgrown. Tangled roots and bushes enveloped the bare line of dirt in its parasitic destruction.

Feeling slightly queasy, totally unrelated to a month of starvation no doubt, I came upon the conclusion that to return from whence I came would be a waste of time. I should carry on.

Time continued to slide into the future for what felt like an eternity, but the edge of the wood was growing closer. I could feel it.

Finally, after what seemed like many hours, where in reality it was a quarter of that at least, I stood out facing the open chill. To my dismay, I was looking into what was, unmistakable despite the gloom, the bottom of a hill. I could see the church spire above, resting just above the top. 

Some innate will pushed me up, or maybe it was just my wish for a roof over my head, I don’t know. It could have been either, but whatever it was, it seemed to fling me back to my feet every time I stumbled, every time I fell. The wet grass was slippery underfoot, and more than once I slid back down, my knees jarring against the rocks stuck within the soil.

The tower of rain was taller than ever before, and I had to continuously wipe the stream of droplets with a dirtied hand. All that did was to cause my eyes to sting. By God did they sting. 

With one last effort, I crawled onto flat ground. Shivering, more from the rain than the cold, I sat there at the top. I sat there, and gazed out. I gazed out over the treetops shrouded in mist, and over the hills beginning to be covered in the throes of night’s omniscient grip. 

Do you remember the church I mentioned? I went to that church. It stood in the centre of the village, guarded by a pair of yews. Much of the wall was fragile and crumbling, but the basic outline remained strong. I guess you could say it was conspicuous in its entirety, the only building not to have any kind of irreversible damage attached to it near where I stood.

I entered through a side door, a piece of finely crafted oak lined with wrought iron. The iron was filled with craters, as if someone had bashed them in with the hilt of a sword. The wood itself was scratched bare and blackened at the edges.

Inside, the glass panes catch your attention straight away. For it being situated in such a small village, it was awe-inspiring. Intricate patterns wove their way around the glass in a cacophony of colour and life. It must have been a sight to behold, especially when the sun’s rays would project its beauty onto the stone canvass.

And yet, I saw none of this. It was dark outside, and cold. Inside it was mildly warm, yes, but no light came through. Biting down upon a chunk of bread that I had found earlier in one of the houses, I shuffled towards the altar. The cross had toppled over, and lay prone on its side on the cobblestones. 

The bread was hard, and I had to use my teeth to tear it apart. While doing so, I noticed that my knuckles had been grazed raw. The droplets of blood were trickling down my finger, and splattering upon the grey stone at my feet. It wasn’t really that painful though. Wrapping a piece of cloth around my hand, I proceeded to tie it together to stem the dripping. I had already left somewhat of a path behind me. 

Taking a closer look at the altar, I saw something that made me draw my head forward, peering through the dark. The altar itself was not unusual. Some sort of ornate wood carving interspersed with what looked like gold ingrained upon each side. And yet there was something about it which was different. I couldn’t quite place what that abnormality was, until in a flash, I found it. It was the carving.

It was not this ornate pattern as first expected, but instead a series of crude indentations. With my nose less than a hand’s width away, I realised that they were letters. Straining my eyes, I was just about able to discern the meaning.

Here, Walter lowered his voice to a guttural whisper. The phrase lay hidden amongst his disjointed breath, but was nonetheless remarkably distinct. 

—’Fear, because Christ and his Saints are asleep.’

He nodded, reaffirming his statement as if it needed doing so. 

I’m not sure why that struck me in the way that it did. After all, it was most likely the work of some irreverent fool who thought it amusing to write such a thing in a church. Yet, there was something about it. I’m not sure what. 

Outside again the following day, I took in the village one last time. I had slept in an abandoned house, and felt as refreshed as one could be given the circumstances.

The Spire hadn’t changed, still scything in all its majesty through the wide open expanse. The walls were still crumbling, and the moss and lichen were still dotted sporadically across the stone. As I watched, a small section of rocks came tumbling down from the top, eventually coming to rest alongside the tall grass. 

Later on, I could still see it in the valley, a crumbling pillar standing tall amidst the desolation below. 

 

Many thanks to Tom for allowing us to publish this extract from his novel.