Journeys – Book Excerpt

Hello friend! Today is the book excerpt post that comes from a Dystopian Speculative fiction, Journeys by Jeanne Roland. This is the first book of The Archers of Saint Sebastian series.

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Get to know the author: Jeanne

Welcome to Armed with A Book, Jeanne! Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

I grew up in California, where I spent most of my youth watching old movies and daydreaming. I had a key ring that read ‘I’m running away to join the circus,’ and my favorite moment of the day was when the local movie theater went dark, and the slogan ‘escape to the movies’ appeared on the screen. As an adult, I my passions include all things melodramatic and beautiful — everything from swashbuckling films and romantic poetry to over-the-top, dramatic opera arias — and I became a writer when I realized that I could create my own worlds with words and escape into them. I’m now a professor of Classics in a small midwestern town, where I live with my Greek husband, my fraternal teenage twins, and a Bernese mountain dog named Franco Corelli – that is, when I’m not back in my fictionalized version of 14^th century Belgium, in the archers’ guild of Saint Sebastian, with my characters. I also guest blog occasionally about Greek mythology as the Allegorical Traveler at www.nepenthepress.com.

What inspired you to write this book?

Years ago, I took a family trip to Bruges in Belgium. The place was magical, and in particular I never forgot the archers’ guild of Saint Sebastian there. The romance of an all-male archery guild stayed with me, and I’ve always been a sucker for stories involving girls disguising themselves as boys. I started thinking about the story of a girl forced to disguise herself among a group of (gorgeous) young archers, all competing in a series of archery trials similar to the one in Robin Hood, but I wanted to do some of the tropes differently. 

I also got the name of my heroine, Marieke, from that trip. My father loved the Jacques Brel song Marieke, and when he found out that there was a statue honoring Brel in Bruges depicting the girl in Brel’s song, he insisted we spend an idyllic afternoon searching through the backstreets of Bruges looking for the park in which the statue was supposedly to be found. Somewhere I still have a photograph of my father holding the statue’s hand and pretending to skip along with Marieke, just as somewhere there is a photograph of a younger me, sitting in the guild of Saint Sebastian, and gazing up at a gorgeous painting of the saint, similar to the one that plays a role in my story. 

How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?

10 years? Something like that. I started the book long ago, over one summer, and I wrote some of the introductory portions and the set-up. Then I put it aside, thinking it wasn’t any good. Years later, I came across it again, re-read it, and decided to pick it up again. I was just about at the part where all of the necessary background had been established, and the real plot was ready to begin (i.e. the heroine had gotten to the guild), and when I sat down again to write I found that the story poured out of me. I wrote the bulk of it in about a year. 

What makes your story unique?

First, it has a unique setting. The book is not exactly historical fiction – it is more inspired by late medieval Belgium than actually set there, and I have created a small principality that is fictional, as is the specific archers’ guild and its rules in which the bulk of the story takes place. That said, how many other books have you read lately that are set in 14^th century Belgium, in the world of guilds? Second, the unique genre. The book has all the hallmarks of classic YA – the protagonist is 15, she’s having new experiences and working through growing up and surging teenage hormones, and the book is written in 1^st person from her point of view. But the book doesn’t have most of the typical YA tropes (no “chosen one,” or magic, or insta-love), and it isn’t didactic. It’s simply a fun, character-driven story, full of humor and action, eye-candy, a cast of imperfect but loveable boys, and an ugly girl who stays ugly. 

Who would enjoy reading your book? 

I think I have two very different potential groups of ideal readers. One comprises adult women who enjoy light, fun, escapist books with a touch of romance and who enjoy coming-of-age stories, but who want them to be well written. The other is teens who are tired of standard YA fare, and are looking for an immersive, character-driven read with a little subtlety and style. In other words, my ideal reader is either a literary-minded teen or a young-at-heart adult. I think I’ll coin a new term, for my genre-defying book: young adult for adults (and not because of explicit content!)

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

To be honest, I think one of the great strengths of my book is that I didn’t write it trying to push an agenda or to teach a lesson. I think that one reasons teens don’t read enough is because they get bored with books that preach at them, rather than draw them in with a great, absorbing story. That said, I really hate the trend in many modern books that equate being a strong female with being “kick-ass,” rude, assertive – in other words, essentially coded male, or at least, the things that we tend stereotypically to think of as male and to condemn as ‘toxic masculinity.’ Ironically, my heroine is pretending to be male, she even desires to be male, because of the limits of her society, but she proves to be a strong female in realistic ways that are also positive: through hard work, perseverance, loyalty, friendship, and putting others first, to name just a few. In other words, I think it is high time that we stressed that you can be heroic and strong by displaying qualities that have been traditionally coded as “feminine.” I also hate the trope of girls who think they are plain or ugly, but everyone else thinks they are beautiful. My heroine is badly scarred, her face was severely damaged by a kick from a mule, and everyone thinks she is ugly – and she stays that way. She even uses it to her advantage. Her worth isn’t determined by her beauty, but by her other qualities, and I do think this is an important message. One look at TikTok will tell you that our society is even more obsessed with beauty than ever in the past, and the pressure on young girls to be “liked” for their looks is enormous. Even if they don’t have broken faces like my heroine, I think most girls probably feel unattractive and therefore “less than.” External beauty is not possible for everyone, and it is, in fact, overrated. It’s time we as a society emphasized that being ‘liked’ is not as important as what we do for others, and that is what you do and what you achieve that gives you a sense of worth and gives your life meaning.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

I’ll confess that there are many, since I love my book (and why not? If you don’t love your own work, you can’t expect anyone else to love it, either!), but describing them would involve spoilers. However, in terms of a quote or phrase that I return to, I’d have to say it’s the motto that I made up for my archers’ guild, non me occident sagittae. That’s Latin for “arrows won’t kill me,” and it’s a reference to St. Sebastian’s martyrdom: he was first shot full of arrows, but he didn’t die. In the book, however, the phrase becomes a metaphor for the heroine’s life. The arrows of misfortune just keep coming, but she doesn’t let them stop her. The guild motto becomes a symbol of her resilience.

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Book Excerpt from
Journeys

Only the faintest hint of grey light is coming in through the windows when I slip from under my covers and make my way silently between the rows of cots pushed neatly up against the walls of the long, spare room. I don’t exactly sneak, but I prefer to rise before the other boys, if I can, so I can steal a few moments to wash while I’m still alone on the empty field. I never undress, so it’s probably an unnecessary precaution, and I might as well admit it, I do like to be the first one out to the training area to get our station ready. This is the time of day I enjoy most: working off the chill of dawn by going through my meticulous, almost ritualistic preparation of our equipment — stocking the quivers, checking the arrows, and seeing to the great yew bow Tristan uses for morning practice. 

But it’s getting harder and harder to keep this time for myself. Some of the other boys have started getting up earlier, too, as though we’re in competition amongst ourselves, or as though I’m motivated by some sort of misguided ambition to show them up and make them look lazy. They’ve got it all wrong, of course. I’m conscientious, but really, ‘ambitious squire’ is an oxymoron. Either you find satisfaction in what you do, or you don’t, since there isn’t really anywhere to go from here. Not for me, anyway. But there’s no way to explain to them what this hour of solitude means to me, this hour safely absorbed in small tasks — simple ones, but ones in which I can take some measure of pride. On mornings like this, it all feels natural. I’m part of something bigger than myself, and I almost convince myself that I belong here. 

This morning, I’m alone. No one else stirs as I make my way carefully across our dormitory. The stone floor feels like ice under my feet in the unheated room after the relative warmth beneath my blanket, but I wait until I reach the door to pull on my boots. As I step out into the corridor it’s a bit warmer, since the kitchens lie just beyond and the cooking fires will have been started by now. I stop here a moment as always, partly to warm myself before the inevitable plunge into the cold outdoors, but mostly to consider my route. The shortest way out to the training ground is to cut directly across the great hall, which opens before me to the left. On the opposite side of the hall, a door leads out to a covered portico which shades a walkway between the hall and an adjacent walled garden. From there a little gate gives easy access out to the place where a row of wooden sheds stands, each one assigned to a journeyman archer for the storage of his gear. Technically we’re not supposed to cut through the great hall, but all the boys do. At this hour there’s no one to see, except perhaps one of the kitchen staff or old Albrecht, but he always turns a blind eye to misdemeanors of this sort. 

The other route, past the Journeymen’s rooms and the archives in a circuitous loop to the stables, is not only much longer, but there’s always the distinct possibility of an awkward encounter in the hallway if one of the Journeymen should happen to wake early, or worse, a master. This has never happened to me, but it’s happened to some of the others, and I don’t relish the thought of meeting, say, Master Guillaume wandering the halls in a state of undress on his way to the veterans’ lavatory, yawning and stretching, holding up his britches in one hand and scratching his hairy belly with the other. Or catching Taran unawares in a cramped corridor, still sluggish from sleep but no doubt just as brutish and unforgiving as he is when he’s wide awake. 

At that thought, I hesitate, my foot hovering over the threshold of the hall, and I think, perhaps this is the morning I’ll take the shortcut, too. 

But I know I won’t. 

Still, I can’t stop myself from taking a quick glance into the cavernous depths of the great hall, which the thin panes of colored glass placed high along on its walls do little to light even on the brightest day. Now with only the early morning gloom pressing in, it’s as black as pitch in there and a good ten degrees colder even than it was back in our dormitory. The wan streaks of blue and greenish light reaching in through the windows only add to the unpleasant atmosphere, mingling with the darkness like swirls of murky water. Above, the high ceiling of blackened wood greedily swallows what little light struggles upward, trapping it within the maze of its intricately carved coffers. The odor of musty wood and candle wax gives the air a thick quality that’s slightly nauseating, as though something palpable is forming within the shadows. It would only be a matter of seconds to cross the hall, and from where I’m standing I can clearly make out the outline of the door to the portico on its opposite side, but still I hesitate. I’m not afraid of the dark, and I know there’s nothing really waiting there for me. Nothing alive, anyway. 

It’s not the darkness that stops me, it’s the painting. 

The massive canvas hangs at the far end of the room, covering the wall virtually from floor to rafters. Even in the full light of day, it’s a commanding presence. Now in the stark emptiness of the hall it seems to have grown to fill the space completely. Its rich background hues of sumptuous blue-blacks and deep reds bleed into the surrounding darkness, so that the huge, lone human figure bristling with arrows at its center seems suspended in agony in the middle of the room, its vast expanse of naked, rent flesh as pale and as luminous as a moon in a midnight sky. For a moment I’m as mesmerized by that tortured figure again as I was the first time I saw it, not so many weeks ago. I remember every detail of that day, but my first sight of the painting stands out most vividly. Its image has become jumbled in my mind with other images, ones I don’t allow myself to see even in my mind’s eye, and confused with memories of the terrible events that were quickly to follow. So much has changed since then that I can’t trust the accuracy of my memories anymore, but I remember my reaction to the painting very clearly. I couldn’t forget it if I tried, because I thought it was the most exquisitely beautiful thing I had ever seen. Now I can’t bear to look at it. 

The morbid painted figure staring past me, eyes glazed with pain, is more than a gruesome reminder. It’s an accusation, a riddle I can’t solve. I fight down a wave of revulsion and give myself a mental shake. I have to be sharp today; this is no time to get caught up in memories or lost in grim fancies, and Tristan’s strange mood these past few days already has me on edge. Besides, perhaps it isn’t the painting, after all, that keeps me now from crossing the room. Perhaps it’s the plaque next to the arched doorway, which reads: 

Great Hall, Archers’ Guild of St. Sebastian.
Members only beyond this point. No women allowed.

I hesitate for a moment longer, then turn and proceed down the passageway along the Journeymen’s quarters, as I always do. Today isn’t going to be the day I try the shortcut after all. I’m lucky, though, and I make it out through the stables without meeting a single soul, except for a few stable boys still huddled asleep in one of the empty stalls. It’s probably not really luck at this hour, but I feel as though I’ve run a gauntlet unscathed anyway. I cross out onto the corner of the field where barrels filled with water for washing are lined up under the stable’s overhanging eaves. Although it’s still early, I content myself with splashing some water on my face and washing my hands thoroughly. Today is the first day of the trials, and I’m understandably nervous. If everything goes as expected, we should breeze through these preliminaries, but I can’t take any chances. I haven’t come this far to fail now. 

I run my wet hands through my hair and give my distorted reflection a quick check in the rippled glass of the empty archive window. Staring back at me is a young boy of indeterminate age. He could be anywhere from ten to thirteen, depending on what criteria you use to judge him: a little taller than you’d expect for a ten-year- old, but with a face and limbs that are still childishly soft and rounded. The facial features are small and delicate, except for the nose. That’s been spectacularly broken, leaving it crooked and misshapen. Short, lank hair frames the face, either hanging down in hanks of irregular length or sticking straight up at awkward angles, as though it’s been hacked off by a drunken pair of dueling barbers. It’s a singularly wretched cut, but it lends an air of vulnerability at odds with the brutality of scars, old and new, that snake across the nose to adorn the left brow. In all, I see just a rather average, ugly twelve-year-old boy, nothing extraordinary. 

No, nothing extraordinary — except for the fact that up until ten weeks ago, I was a fifteen-year-old girl.

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Interested?

Find this book on Goodreads, IndieStoryGeek and Amazon. Connect with Jeanne on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Goodreads. Get updates on her website.

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Cover Photo by vaun0815 on Unsplash