It's arrived.

Yes, the course materials arrived today, and although it doesn't start for another month I've done the first activity. We are looking at genres, and looked at an opening paragraph of a story. We were then given five different titles, which would point to different genres. We then had to write another 500 words using one of the titles. Here's my version.

Activity 1.1 (Carry on the story for c. 500 words (we’re thinking of genre)

Woman in the Wind

The church clock strikes eight, so those villagers who are awake know without checking that it is six. A cock crows. A body lies across the doorstep of the church, a line crumb-carrying ants marches across the fedora covering its face. There is a serene momentary quiet after the chimes cease. A figure glides past the church wall, before the silence is cracked by a baby crying.

The gentle breeze starts up, caressing the body and stirring the linen folds of the figure’s habit. Sister Agnes pauses a moment, then disappears into the graveyard. All is quiet again. The baby sleeps.

It is an hour before Father José arrives, bleary eyed from a night too full of drink. His carthorse feet stumble against the body, and he grazes his hand against the rough stone wall. A gaggle of his devotees arrive, and this is how they find him – standing over Guillermo, sucking the blood off his palm. There is no nun.

The gaggle send up their prayers. ‘Holy Mother of God’’, Jesus Mary and Joseph’, ‘God help us,’ they squawk, and soon the whole village is there, all except the baby and his mother, who are sleeping peacefully at last.

They know what has happened. It was bound to happen, they say. Guillermo was too free and easy with the women. He angered the men. Him with his city money and city ways. He had it coming to him really. But which one of them has done it? They look at one another surreptitiously. Giacomo is too slight. His asthma makes it unlikely to be him. Alberto wouldn’t have the guts. Fr José is there with blood on his hands. Surely not.

The vigili soon puts their minds at rest. ‘This is poison. See his mouth? Look at his footsteps in the dew. He was poisoned elsewhere, and ran here to make his peace with God. Too late. We must leave his fate to the good God.’

Sister Agnes smiles into her pale hands as the breeze ruffles her skirts anew. It is good to be outside. To feel the wind on her cheeks again. It’s been too long.
The consternation of the villagers reach her from a long way off. They would thank her for it if they knew. The women would miss him, but their souls would be safe. The men need no longer think murderous thoughts in their hearts. Yes, she has done a good thing.

But it isn’t out of goodness. Oh no. What does she care about the mealy mouthed women and the weak willed men. She cares for no one.

But once, long ago, she had cared. She had cared for Guillermo, and he had cared for her. They had made a secret pact. Forsaking all others they had said, that summer, long ago.

Well now he is no more, and she is avenged. He will betray her no more.

The summer breeze whips up into a swirling wind. It tosses the deadly nightshade out of her hands and into the air. With a laugh, that could have been the whinny of a horse, she leaps into the gale, and is carried away up, up, and then down, into the vaults from whence she came. She hears nothing there, but maybe, just maybe, the faint sound of a crowing cock.