An exercise: To suggest a character’s emotion by the description of colours. This is a scene from my novel set in the 10th Century.
Byrhtnoth waited outside the Hall. It was strange to be back here, the village where he had lived as a child. Everything looked the same, and yet different. Smaller, because he had been a child when he left and was now, if not quite a man, close to it. But he had changed in so many other ways too.
He was hungry. How long had they been travelling since the few mouthfuls of food this morning? He glanced up at the sky. The sun was invisible; the cloud was the livid yellow grey of a half healed bruise. It stretched to the horizon, where it merged into the waters of the marsh. The whole dreary expanse broken only by the rusty black reeds, emerging from the water like the spears of drowned warriors. He shivered as the dank air seeped into his body.
Below him lay the village, a scattering of houses on either side of the road. Not really a road, more a dank muddy ditch. Dung brown churned mud, studded with slime green pools of water. He tried to pick out his old home, somewhere down there, on the right, but it was impossible; they all looked the same: a field of rotting grey mushrooms slowly sinking into the mud. The only colour came from the patches of virulent green moss on some of the roofs.
There was no one to be seen. Where was everybody? Out in the fields, he supposed. They would be ploughing the rich dark soil, a long walk from the village. Christmas was long gone now. If there had been any revelry here, there was no sign of it now.
Why had he been brought here? Was it to spend the rest of his life in this place? When he’d left, he had just been an extra mouth to feed. Now he would be a useful body, a strong back to work in the fields. Surely after all the training he had been given, that couldn’t be his future. The memory of his friends and all the colour of the Court seemed to be draining away. Sinking, like the village, into the glutinous grey mud of reality.
He couldn’t stand it. He would run away. He didn’t know where, but he couldn’t stay here.
The drizzle turned to rain. The clouds thickened and seemed to smother him, like a heap of dirty grey sheepskins. Oily drops of water started to fall on him. He backed up against the wall of the hall. The sodden rotting boards felt spongy, as if they were pulling him in and the dripping thatch seemed to reach down to grab him. It was too late. He wasn’t going to get away ever again.
The door opened and Eadric looked out at him. “He will see you now.”
Byrhtnoth waited outside the Hall. It was strange to be back here, the village where he had lived as a child. Everything looked the same, and yet different. Smaller, because he had been a child when he left and was now, if not quite a man, close to it. But he had changed in so many other ways too.
He was hungry. How long had they been travelling since the few mouthfuls of food this morning? He glanced up at the sky. The sun was invisible; the cloud was the livid yellow grey of a half healed bruise. It stretched to the horizon, where it merged into the waters of the marsh. The whole dreary expanse broken only by the rusty black reeds, emerging from the water like the spears of drowned warriors. He shivered as the dank air seeped into his body.
Below him lay the village, a scattering of houses on either side of the road. Not really a road, more a dank muddy ditch. Dung brown churned mud, studded with slime green pools of water. He tried to pick out his old home, somewhere down there, on the right, but it was impossible; they all looked the same: a field of rotting grey mushrooms slowly sinking into the mud. The only colour came from the patches of virulent green moss on some of the roofs.
There was no one to be seen. Where was everybody? Out in the fields, he supposed. They would be ploughing the rich dark soil, a long walk from the village. Christmas was long gone now. If there had been any revelry here, there was no sign of it now.
Why had he been brought here? Was it to spend the rest of his life in this place? When he’d left, he had just been an extra mouth to feed. Now he would be a useful body, a strong back to work in the fields. Surely after all the training he had been given, that couldn’t be his future. The memory of his friends and all the colour of the Court seemed to be draining away. Sinking, like the village, into the glutinous grey mud of reality.
He couldn’t stand it. He would run away. He didn’t know where, but he couldn’t stay here.
The drizzle turned to rain. The clouds thickened and seemed to smother him, like a heap of dirty grey sheepskins. Oily drops of water started to fall on him. He backed up against the wall of the hall. The sodden rotting boards felt spongy, as if they were pulling him in and the dripping thatch seemed to reach down to grab him. It was too late. He wasn’t going to get away ever again.
The door opened and Eadric looked out at him. “He will see you now.”