Workshop: An Introduction to Writing for Children and Young Adults
Attack
(3)
Narah
slid down the steep slope to the waterbed. The channel was low today. She waded
a few yards to a thick patch of tall grass her grandmother needed. With swift
expertise Narah examined and picked the best pieces. Wrapping them together
carefully, she laid them on the bank while searching out a special bouquet for
Timon. Her hair kept falling in her face, slowing her progress. The narrow
channel wound a jagged path through the rolling brown hills down from the
mountains. Not many miles past their village towards the grasslands, it became
a trickle and went underground.
“I
wonder if the tiny, blue flowers are open yet?” Narah’s voice rippled in the
silence.
She
walked along the river’s edge to the far end of the village land, then into the
water to round the narrow bend. The flowers glistened in the hot sun, their
deep, dark blue a contrast to the pale sky. She bent low under a canopy of
shiny leaves. The shallow stream had exposed Narah’s special hiding cave. She
started to clear the debris from its entrance. A few feet into the cave the mud
walls turned to rock and opened into a small tunnel. Narah liked to crawl
inside to cool off on hot summer days. Although the other village children
seldom came past the bend, Narah had often fashioned a grass overhang to hide
the entrance.
Narah
hummed as she worked. Flies joined her, buzzing back and forth over her head.
Hot sun warmed her back. A donkey brayed in the village, followed by muffled
voices scolding.
Bits
of twigs, grass and mud covered Narah’s arms. She slid down to the stream to
wash, then she lay in the sun. Above her an eagle swooped, diving and soaring.
“How
far to the next village, eagle? Can you see it?” Narah closed her eyes. “I will
fix Betta a bed of our pillows,” she yawned, “to ease the shaking and the bumps
of the cart tomorrow. Are you, too, going to hear the prophet? My uncle Timon
is with him,” she mumbled drowsily.
Screams
pierced Narah’s dreams. She sat up, startled, not sure where she was. The
ground shook like a thunderstorm. Dust and smoke filled the air. Fire! A fire
in the village. Narah ran through the stream, heedless of the rocks cutting
into her feet.
“Betta,
Betta,” she sobbed.
She
scrambled up the steep bank, and ducked instinctively as a huge, black horse
reared, narrowly missing Narah’s head. Horses? Narah cowered in the grass.
Through the smoke she could barely make out figures. Soldiers and horses were
dragging women and children into carts, and then setting the huts on fire.
Narah choked. “Grandmother!”
Share: In what way do the sensory
details strengthen or weaken the setting? How?
Read deep, marcy
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