Jenny and Grayle, eh? EH?
That Long-Awaited Dream
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KoolestLoser
- GLORIOUS DASARIAN
- Posts: 1132
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 10:42 pm
- Location: Reincarnated, dood.
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obsoletenihilist
- Dasarian Scout
- Posts: 476
- Joined: Thu Nov 23, 2006 11:13 pm
I love the way you engage the reader by switching perspectives. We get something from Grayle's perspective and then something from the perspective of another or simply a third person omniscient.
You leave a little to the imagination but have given the reader enough information on Grayle's character that we can peer a little more deeply into the observations of these other perspectives.
Kudos again.
You leave a little to the imagination but have given the reader enough information on Grayle's character that we can peer a little more deeply into the observations of these other perspectives.
Kudos again.
The proud owner of one Xayne Melzerath
At first I thought this latest chapter wasn't as exposing as the other ones were, however, getting to the end I realised you made him human.
Minuvas may be the most developed character, but Grayle is the most real. I'm looking forward to reading more; I enjoy your stories a lot, because you can write very well and the stories are just very easy to read, they flow.
It was mentioned that you leave little to the imagination, I think that is exactly the opposite; you set the scene in such a way as to allow others to visualize what is happening and this is where that imagery I keep talking about comes from.
Minuvas may be the most developed character, but Grayle is the most real. I'm looking forward to reading more; I enjoy your stories a lot, because you can write very well and the stories are just very easy to read, they flow.
It was mentioned that you leave little to the imagination, I think that is exactly the opposite; you set the scene in such a way as to allow others to visualize what is happening and this is where that imagery I keep talking about comes from.
The winds changed Southerly, bringing with them dark clouds laden with rain. Grayle felt the moisture in his nostrils with every breath. The smells of mud and trees and moss were almost overpowering, scents he had not known since boyhood. His pace slackened. He felt his shoulders relax under the burdon of the scale armor he now wore. His breath still issued as mist, but the mist was no longer born of a hoarish landscape. Three days East of Siliron's Crossing, Spring was come.
Grayle stroked his cheek, marvelling at the new growth and it's feel upon his jaw. He strolled along a muddy lane where the snow was already giving way to turf and grasses. Sunbeams occasionally pierced the clouds, revealing some new bulb or shoot of vibrant colors. Grayle found himself smiling at each one. Dragonflies and honeybees hummed in the air. Grayle's hungry eyes darted to each movement with fascination. He no longer missed Virtuous. Grayle hoped that whichever son-of-a-bitch had stolen him back at the Snared Rabbit was having a hell of a ride. The thief could have even been Jenny, but he didn't care. He was in no hurry having nowhere to go but where his feet led him. The mans eyes followed a green-winged grasshopper that landed in the lane in front of him him. Grayle stopped. Before him in the muddy road was something he had never seen, never imagined, never dreamt.
The strange grey eyes, heavy-lidded but surprised stared back at him. At first, he thought the wavy face was his fathers. He crouched, mouth open in curiousity. From the shallow pool's reflection, Grayle saw his sinewy hand stroking his own chin. He marvelled at this stranger, so old and unfamiliar, yet entirely himself. He pondered how long had he been a man and was unable to answer. There had been no looking glass in his cell and he had been covered with beard and mane. He tilted his head, feeling the locks of his newly shorn hair. He pressed his fingers to his lips, then traced them against a small scar on his left temple. The puddle rippled slightly as a raindrop splished it's surface.
A slow oscillating thunder echoed overhead, rolling through the valley. He stood, glancing upward and about. Vanguards of Lendose Geese flew overhead for some minutes, thier glotteral calls answering the clouds rumbling. Sebastian wondered where they were going, and where they had been, and in which direction was home. Leveling his gaze, the splintered wooden sign before him seemed to appear from nowhere, yet not as a stage magician's puff of smoke, but as though it's existence was profoundly timed to this very moment...this moment of reflection. It's arm pointed East and read:
Daris and ferry to Cear, 2 leagues
Grayle immediately thought of the old man. He remembered him once mentioning a university in the port city of Cear, having taught there before his imprisonment. He had lived there he said with family....a family which shared the name Sebastian now also shared. In his mind, he saw the stone walls of the oubliette and the map of the known lands that the old man had etched, seen only a few minutes a day in the dim light. The scholars voice resounded in Grayle's ears and he shut his eyes, taking in the fading sound with longing. Even as the knowledge of the lessons learned remained, the beloved sound of his mentors voice was slowly being forgotten. One day, he might no longer remember. Grayle imagined Cears bustling streets filled with barking vendors, it's anchorage and harbors and mighty ships. He wondered if any of the old mans family were still alive, if they were kind or cruel, powerful, rich or simple. He imagined himself walking up the marble path to thier estate and manor, a dirty stranger bearing news from Dasar. He considered thier various reactions: embracing him as a long-lost son; Flogging him from the courtyard as an imposter and vagrant; being dead themselves. He stroked his rough jaw and pondered them returning him to the dungeons of Dasar. Grayle wondered if every mud-puddle in the world would reveal to him such epiphanies, if every sign pointed home. A raindrop landed on his armor, returning him to the afternoon.
He looked down again for the eyes of his reflection, but the downpour had already marred it's once-clear surface. He continued East, his mind bent on possibilites of fear and hope.
Grayle stroked his cheek, marvelling at the new growth and it's feel upon his jaw. He strolled along a muddy lane where the snow was already giving way to turf and grasses. Sunbeams occasionally pierced the clouds, revealing some new bulb or shoot of vibrant colors. Grayle found himself smiling at each one. Dragonflies and honeybees hummed in the air. Grayle's hungry eyes darted to each movement with fascination. He no longer missed Virtuous. Grayle hoped that whichever son-of-a-bitch had stolen him back at the Snared Rabbit was having a hell of a ride. The thief could have even been Jenny, but he didn't care. He was in no hurry having nowhere to go but where his feet led him. The mans eyes followed a green-winged grasshopper that landed in the lane in front of him him. Grayle stopped. Before him in the muddy road was something he had never seen, never imagined, never dreamt.
The strange grey eyes, heavy-lidded but surprised stared back at him. At first, he thought the wavy face was his fathers. He crouched, mouth open in curiousity. From the shallow pool's reflection, Grayle saw his sinewy hand stroking his own chin. He marvelled at this stranger, so old and unfamiliar, yet entirely himself. He pondered how long had he been a man and was unable to answer. There had been no looking glass in his cell and he had been covered with beard and mane. He tilted his head, feeling the locks of his newly shorn hair. He pressed his fingers to his lips, then traced them against a small scar on his left temple. The puddle rippled slightly as a raindrop splished it's surface.
A slow oscillating thunder echoed overhead, rolling through the valley. He stood, glancing upward and about. Vanguards of Lendose Geese flew overhead for some minutes, thier glotteral calls answering the clouds rumbling. Sebastian wondered where they were going, and where they had been, and in which direction was home. Leveling his gaze, the splintered wooden sign before him seemed to appear from nowhere, yet not as a stage magician's puff of smoke, but as though it's existence was profoundly timed to this very moment...this moment of reflection. It's arm pointed East and read:
Daris and ferry to Cear, 2 leagues
Grayle immediately thought of the old man. He remembered him once mentioning a university in the port city of Cear, having taught there before his imprisonment. He had lived there he said with family....a family which shared the name Sebastian now also shared. In his mind, he saw the stone walls of the oubliette and the map of the known lands that the old man had etched, seen only a few minutes a day in the dim light. The scholars voice resounded in Grayle's ears and he shut his eyes, taking in the fading sound with longing. Even as the knowledge of the lessons learned remained, the beloved sound of his mentors voice was slowly being forgotten. One day, he might no longer remember. Grayle imagined Cears bustling streets filled with barking vendors, it's anchorage and harbors and mighty ships. He wondered if any of the old mans family were still alive, if they were kind or cruel, powerful, rich or simple. He imagined himself walking up the marble path to thier estate and manor, a dirty stranger bearing news from Dasar. He considered thier various reactions: embracing him as a long-lost son; Flogging him from the courtyard as an imposter and vagrant; being dead themselves. He stroked his rough jaw and pondered them returning him to the dungeons of Dasar. Grayle wondered if every mud-puddle in the world would reveal to him such epiphanies, if every sign pointed home. A raindrop landed on his armor, returning him to the afternoon.
He looked down again for the eyes of his reflection, but the downpour had already marred it's once-clear surface. He continued East, his mind bent on possibilites of fear and hope.
Heh, Grayle never saw himself before - he's like a little child, finding out new things every day.
And that's a great little line. Can't wait to see what happens when he gets to Daris. That should be interesting. Like the story (again); the imagery is both wonderful and saddening at the same time.Grayle wrote:Vanguards of Lendose Geese
The old man known as Grayle was full of wisdoms, the reach and breadth of which a child could never perceive. His speech was so fluidly delivered and obviously built of fond memory, that whatever story he attended to Sebastian's ear was told as if he were there. The dark morning would come, the dark afternoon would arrive, a few hours of reaved light and then nightfall. For every question the boy asked, the old man had a lengthy answer. Days-long answers. When weather permitted it, Grayle showed Sebastian places on the deeply rut map on the stone wall. To the East, lay Daris. The old man often spoke of this village by the sea.
The war marched Eastward as the Empire of Varana expanded it's borders beyond known places. Grayle spoke often about the great war, but almost never about how he was involved. Such details were not so important in Sebastian's youth, as long as there was some exciting matter at hand. Eagerly and frequently, Sebastian would ask about great heroes and great acts of valor, especially by Knights. The old man would only reply "There are no more Knights: A Knight protects a king. There are no more Kings." He would then guide the puzzled child toward some other activity, like catching each water droplet from a certain point in the sweating wall or learning to speak some ancient tongue. Every moment of every day that was not spent asleep, the old man provided a task worth completing or a truth worth contemplating. By the Autumn of the first year the boy lingered within that dungeon, he grew thin enough to slip from his manacles. By Winter he was reading and writing. By Spring, he had been taught to read maps.
Daris had once been a farming and fishing community, across from the Cear peninsula. Before the great war, this townshippe had thrived under the loose rule of a local Baron, last of a line of dwindling nobles of the old Kingdom of Dasaria. Due to the village's lack of stringent laws, it became a haven for mercenary and footpad alike. The old man mentioned seeing a bard's performance at a theatre there by the great Casio, when he was just a boy. For Sebastian, it was hard to imagine that the world was that old. The boy's master seemed to him as ancient as the stone that lined thier prison.
An arrow thudded against a tree next to Sebastian's face. His eyes focused on the quivering dart a moment, then he bolt from the road and fell, tumbling through snow covered undergrowth, shaking dead limbs from trees. Something hit his shoulder with a staggering impact. The tall man managed to get to his feet and push his way past a tangle of thorny vines and wild Sagemantle. Looking back over his shoulder he saw noone give chase but lifted his legs high, dragging along dead underbrush with his boots as reeds and brambles scratched at his face. Sebastian hopped down a small embankment, breath fast and heavy. Mist poured from his lips and nostrils as he realized he was beside what remained of a stone mortared wall. It was covered with Ivy.
Grayle pawed at his shoulder and felt an arrow in his back. There was no pain, and Grayle sighed in relief at his decision to wear Magg's scaled armor. The man looked about, his back bent but standing slowly. There was a metal on metal sound coming from over a mound and yelling that perhaps Grayle had not been hearing over his own breathing and tramping on dead leaves. Over what grew to be a crescendo of voices raised in anger, one hoarse command could be heard above the din. "Glory for Varana! Glory for Marcus!"
Grayle dropped to his belly as the obvious sound of battle grew closer and more acute. He crawled up a a rise and looked down onto a scene of war, but it was nothing like the old man had ever described. The old man had never spoken in terms of blood and gore, of the desperation of screaming men clawing and clinging to life to murder another, as they too slipped into death's hungry maw.
The Phalanx stood braced within the clearing, thier spears entangled amongst the arms of thier enemy, an uncountable amount of what Sebastian supposed were Orcs. There were dark armored figures everywhere, brandishing whips and cruel blades of strange shapes. Thier language was a vulger uttering of harsh sounds. They yelled furiously as they assaulted the Varana troops. Blood poured from faces as helms were riven in two. Piles of dead orcs grew taller as the soldiers of the Empire thrust and cut. Thier number, too was dwindling. Grayle's eyes took in a bearded man, screaming before his head was cut from his body. The Orc sawed at the neck with his toothed sword before another soldier broke his spine with a great mallet.
Wave upon wave of cursing orcs pushed the dwindling phalanx staggering backwards. Arrows and spears impaled upon shields, making them to heavy to lift. As rows of Varana soldier fell, a warrior greater than the rest burst from the front rank. His yellow and black tunic was ribboned and dripping with blood. He killed three before any enemy managed to strike at him. As his men fell about him, pressed backwards, he ruthlessly strode forward, hacking into orcs and driving them before him. A large brute swung an axe into his shield, splintering it as the Talon stabbed, burying his blade deep into the orcs belly before disemboweling him.
A fog grew in the glen as he chased one orc before staggering and fighting for his balance, breathing heavy under an iron helm. He killed one that approached him from behind. Others jeered and taunted, circling him from just beyond sword's reach. He dropped his shield to the ground, standing defiant as they came slowly closer and closer. Thrusting his sword into the air as blood poured from his battered arm, he yelled "Glory for Varana!" as the orcs pounced upon him, stabbing him in the throat and chest with barbed knives. They tossed the head about as if in sport, joy and rage in thier black voices.
He could not be sure if the pounding he heard was from within his chest or from Vokk Drums. Grayle slid back down the mound and ran. He ran for his life.
The war marched Eastward as the Empire of Varana expanded it's borders beyond known places. Grayle spoke often about the great war, but almost never about how he was involved. Such details were not so important in Sebastian's youth, as long as there was some exciting matter at hand. Eagerly and frequently, Sebastian would ask about great heroes and great acts of valor, especially by Knights. The old man would only reply "There are no more Knights: A Knight protects a king. There are no more Kings." He would then guide the puzzled child toward some other activity, like catching each water droplet from a certain point in the sweating wall or learning to speak some ancient tongue. Every moment of every day that was not spent asleep, the old man provided a task worth completing or a truth worth contemplating. By the Autumn of the first year the boy lingered within that dungeon, he grew thin enough to slip from his manacles. By Winter he was reading and writing. By Spring, he had been taught to read maps.
Daris had once been a farming and fishing community, across from the Cear peninsula. Before the great war, this townshippe had thrived under the loose rule of a local Baron, last of a line of dwindling nobles of the old Kingdom of Dasaria. Due to the village's lack of stringent laws, it became a haven for mercenary and footpad alike. The old man mentioned seeing a bard's performance at a theatre there by the great Casio, when he was just a boy. For Sebastian, it was hard to imagine that the world was that old. The boy's master seemed to him as ancient as the stone that lined thier prison.
An arrow thudded against a tree next to Sebastian's face. His eyes focused on the quivering dart a moment, then he bolt from the road and fell, tumbling through snow covered undergrowth, shaking dead limbs from trees. Something hit his shoulder with a staggering impact. The tall man managed to get to his feet and push his way past a tangle of thorny vines and wild Sagemantle. Looking back over his shoulder he saw noone give chase but lifted his legs high, dragging along dead underbrush with his boots as reeds and brambles scratched at his face. Sebastian hopped down a small embankment, breath fast and heavy. Mist poured from his lips and nostrils as he realized he was beside what remained of a stone mortared wall. It was covered with Ivy.
Grayle pawed at his shoulder and felt an arrow in his back. There was no pain, and Grayle sighed in relief at his decision to wear Magg's scaled armor. The man looked about, his back bent but standing slowly. There was a metal on metal sound coming from over a mound and yelling that perhaps Grayle had not been hearing over his own breathing and tramping on dead leaves. Over what grew to be a crescendo of voices raised in anger, one hoarse command could be heard above the din. "Glory for Varana! Glory for Marcus!"
Grayle dropped to his belly as the obvious sound of battle grew closer and more acute. He crawled up a a rise and looked down onto a scene of war, but it was nothing like the old man had ever described. The old man had never spoken in terms of blood and gore, of the desperation of screaming men clawing and clinging to life to murder another, as they too slipped into death's hungry maw.
The Phalanx stood braced within the clearing, thier spears entangled amongst the arms of thier enemy, an uncountable amount of what Sebastian supposed were Orcs. There were dark armored figures everywhere, brandishing whips and cruel blades of strange shapes. Thier language was a vulger uttering of harsh sounds. They yelled furiously as they assaulted the Varana troops. Blood poured from faces as helms were riven in two. Piles of dead orcs grew taller as the soldiers of the Empire thrust and cut. Thier number, too was dwindling. Grayle's eyes took in a bearded man, screaming before his head was cut from his body. The Orc sawed at the neck with his toothed sword before another soldier broke his spine with a great mallet.
Wave upon wave of cursing orcs pushed the dwindling phalanx staggering backwards. Arrows and spears impaled upon shields, making them to heavy to lift. As rows of Varana soldier fell, a warrior greater than the rest burst from the front rank. His yellow and black tunic was ribboned and dripping with blood. He killed three before any enemy managed to strike at him. As his men fell about him, pressed backwards, he ruthlessly strode forward, hacking into orcs and driving them before him. A large brute swung an axe into his shield, splintering it as the Talon stabbed, burying his blade deep into the orcs belly before disemboweling him.
A fog grew in the glen as he chased one orc before staggering and fighting for his balance, breathing heavy under an iron helm. He killed one that approached him from behind. Others jeered and taunted, circling him from just beyond sword's reach. He dropped his shield to the ground, standing defiant as they came slowly closer and closer. Thrusting his sword into the air as blood poured from his battered arm, he yelled "Glory for Varana!" as the orcs pounced upon him, stabbing him in the throat and chest with barbed knives. They tossed the head about as if in sport, joy and rage in thier black voices.
He could not be sure if the pounding he heard was from within his chest or from Vokk Drums. Grayle slid back down the mound and ran. He ran for his life.
I agree with Will, that's a very nice chapter in the story. I liked how you managed to get the "flashback" and the "present day" scenario work very well. I always find that's very hard to do.
It didn't have the same character building statements that you normally find in your stories, but not all of them should or could, I think.
It didn't have the same character building statements that you normally find in your stories, but not all of them should or could, I think.
The wagon lurched against some jutting stone in the roadway, bouncing Grayle from an uneasy sleep. Fat drops tapped against the leather hide under which he lay, but it was not a cold rain that filled the forest of Daris. Metal scales from his armor had made his back stiff and sore. He winced as he tried to turn himself over on the uncomfortable sacks of grain and flour.
"Where are we, Miller?" Grayle asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Several hours still from Lendose." The knobby-nosed man mumbled. He whipped the reins upon his two mules. "GET YA!" The Miller had the distinct ability to whisper when speaking to people, but loudly yell when speaking to his animals. The contrast was almost alarming.
Grayle sat backwards against the side of the wagonbed, stretching his legs and looking upward. The sky was an intriquite pattern of dark silhoettes of branches and leaves and bright sky. It was only an hour or so after dawn. Grayle marvelled at the plants and trees in such proximity to him and to each other. Vines tangled and strangled about ancient trees, thorny bushes and ivy wrapped about saplings and stones, each competing with the other for the struggling light, dispersed and diffused as it was on the forest floor. Gathered raindrops grew large, sliding down leafy tendrils and dropping from the canopy. A bobcat hissed at Grayle as he stared, unable to react. The wagon lurched again, tossing a small cloud of flour-dust into the air.
"Why d'you wear armor, and not carry a weapon?" The old Miller asked over his shoulder.
"Well, the armor was found. I've not been fortunate enough yet to come across a hand-and-a-half."
"Seems ta me, wearing 'spensive armor and not displayin' a broadsword is a good way to get yourself robbed. Lessin' you're a priest." The Miller stated and spat.
"Already been robbed. Had a horse." Grayle paused a moment, reflecting. "And before that, a man tried to rob and kill me near Dasar."
The commoner spied the man over his shoulder, turning slightly and regarding Grayle with a stern eye. "So, you think you've got troubles?"
Grayle started to respond, but the Miller sounded off against his animals with an echoing, thundercrack. "ON'THA! GIT!" He snapped the reins.
"You don't know nothin' of troubles. What are ye, some rich man's son, got a fancy to travel about rather than work an honest day? Here ya are, asleep in my wagon, whilst I husband these animals and navigate, all the while wide awake and in an effort to get my fare here to market. And market's poor of late. Lots of people sick in Lendose. Some say it's plague. You quibble about inconvenience while others truly suffer from illness, or rot in debters prison cuz they've no silver ta pay taxes. So, someone tried to take what was yours? Good! If'n a man can't keep what's his, he don't deserve to keep it. Read your Lochwar, idiot."
Grayle wondered if everyone in Lendose was like this man. For whatever aptitudes or abilities the Miller posessed, whether it be of mind or of body, a genius in his particular trade or a doggedly persistant man, blessed with determination. For all those potential strengths of character, he was unhappy. Grayle leaned forward and regarded the down-turned corners of the man's mouth, before settling back again.However unhappy, tho, the man was accomplishing something important to his community. Grayle marvelled at life's complexities as his head tilted backward against a sack of meal. Uneasy with the silence, he queried the Miller again.
"Ever been to Cear?"
"Go to t'hells, college boy."
The world was full of unfriendly people. Grayle closed his eyes, his head slightly wobbling in rhythm to the wagons jostling. "Just got out, old da."
"Where are we, Miller?" Grayle asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Several hours still from Lendose." The knobby-nosed man mumbled. He whipped the reins upon his two mules. "GET YA!" The Miller had the distinct ability to whisper when speaking to people, but loudly yell when speaking to his animals. The contrast was almost alarming.
Grayle sat backwards against the side of the wagonbed, stretching his legs and looking upward. The sky was an intriquite pattern of dark silhoettes of branches and leaves and bright sky. It was only an hour or so after dawn. Grayle marvelled at the plants and trees in such proximity to him and to each other. Vines tangled and strangled about ancient trees, thorny bushes and ivy wrapped about saplings and stones, each competing with the other for the struggling light, dispersed and diffused as it was on the forest floor. Gathered raindrops grew large, sliding down leafy tendrils and dropping from the canopy. A bobcat hissed at Grayle as he stared, unable to react. The wagon lurched again, tossing a small cloud of flour-dust into the air.
"Why d'you wear armor, and not carry a weapon?" The old Miller asked over his shoulder.
"Well, the armor was found. I've not been fortunate enough yet to come across a hand-and-a-half."
"Seems ta me, wearing 'spensive armor and not displayin' a broadsword is a good way to get yourself robbed. Lessin' you're a priest." The Miller stated and spat.
"Already been robbed. Had a horse." Grayle paused a moment, reflecting. "And before that, a man tried to rob and kill me near Dasar."
The commoner spied the man over his shoulder, turning slightly and regarding Grayle with a stern eye. "So, you think you've got troubles?"
Grayle started to respond, but the Miller sounded off against his animals with an echoing, thundercrack. "ON'THA! GIT!" He snapped the reins.
"You don't know nothin' of troubles. What are ye, some rich man's son, got a fancy to travel about rather than work an honest day? Here ya are, asleep in my wagon, whilst I husband these animals and navigate, all the while wide awake and in an effort to get my fare here to market. And market's poor of late. Lots of people sick in Lendose. Some say it's plague. You quibble about inconvenience while others truly suffer from illness, or rot in debters prison cuz they've no silver ta pay taxes. So, someone tried to take what was yours? Good! If'n a man can't keep what's his, he don't deserve to keep it. Read your Lochwar, idiot."
Grayle wondered if everyone in Lendose was like this man. For whatever aptitudes or abilities the Miller posessed, whether it be of mind or of body, a genius in his particular trade or a doggedly persistant man, blessed with determination. For all those potential strengths of character, he was unhappy. Grayle leaned forward and regarded the down-turned corners of the man's mouth, before settling back again.However unhappy, tho, the man was accomplishing something important to his community. Grayle marvelled at life's complexities as his head tilted backward against a sack of meal. Uneasy with the silence, he queried the Miller again.
"Ever been to Cear?"
"Go to t'hells, college boy."
The world was full of unfriendly people. Grayle closed his eyes, his head slightly wobbling in rhythm to the wagons jostling. "Just got out, old da."
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muletang
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 826
- Joined: Fri Sep 22, 2006 10:04 pm
- Location: Aotearoa - Land of the Long White Cloud
always a pleasure to read mate. I've not had the time to keep up with a number of the tales on here so it was nice to get back up to date. Like the way hes been growing.
I don't feel any shame, I won't apologise
--
"...I do not entertain the possibility of an afterlife, or any deity capable of offering it. Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him..."
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"...I do not entertain the possibility of an afterlife, or any deity capable of offering it. Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him..."