Mark Scheme
Introduction
The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.
Level of response marking instructions
Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.
You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.
Step 1 Determine a level
Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.
Step 2 Determine a mark
Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.
Advice for Examiners
In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.
SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives
AO1
- Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
- Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.
AO2
- Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.
AO3
- Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.
AO4
- Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.
SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives
AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)
- Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
- Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.
AO6
- Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 What sound was in the narrator's ears?: A clap of thunder – 1 mark
- 1.2 What does the narrator say may have happened ‘for a moment’?: Being stunned – 1 mark
- 1.3 Where was the narrator sitting?: On soft turf – 1 mark
- 1.4 In relation to the machine, where was the narrator?: In front of the overset machine – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:
1 “There was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears. I may have been stunned for a moment. A pitiless hail was hissing round me, and I was sitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine. Everything still
6 seemed grey, but presently I remarked that the confusion in my ears was gone. I looked round me. I was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a garden, surrounded by
11 rhododendron bushes, and I noticed that their mauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating of the hailstones. The rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud
How does the writer use language here to describe the strange garden and the effects of the hail? You could include the writer's choice of:
- words and phrases
- language features and techniques
- sentence forms.
[8 marks]
Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)
Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would typically analyse how vivid sensory detail, sound patterning, and personification make the garden uncanny and the hail menacing: the onomatopoeic "clap of thunder" and sibilant "hissing" of the "pitiless hail" disorient, the contrast between "mauve and purple blossoms" and "Everything still seemed grey" heightens strangeness, personification in "rebounding, dancing hail" and the violent "beating of the hailstones" against "soft turf" animates the weather’s threat, and short sentence forms like "I looked round me." mirror the narrator’s stunned, fragmentary perception.
The writer uses striking auditory imagery and sound devices to plunge the reader into the hail’s assault. The onomatopoeic “clap of thunder” detonates in the reader’s ears, while the sibilance in “a pitiless hail was hissing” mimics the continuous, needling hiss of ice. Describing the hail as “pitiless” personifies it as deliberately cruel, intensifying its hostile effect. This aggression is sharply juxtaposed with the tactile comfort of “soft turf,” heightening the sense of strangeness as gentleness and violence coexist in the same moment.
Furthermore, tentative modality renders the garden uncanny. Repeatedly, the narrator says it “seemed” to be “a little lawn,” and that “Everything still seemed grey,” signalling disorientation and unreliability. This monochrome pall then gives way to chromatic lexis—“mauve and purple blossoms”—which evokes beauty even as it is threatened. The blossoms are “dropping in a shower,” a metaphor that aligns the plants with rain, while “the beating of the hailstones” personifies the weather as an aggressor, suggesting the garden’s delicate richness is being battered away.
Additionally, kinetic participles animate the scene and suspend time: “The rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud.” The present participles “rebounding” and “dancing” personify the hail as animated and capricious, yet the verb “hung” paradoxically freezes motion, creating a surreal, slow-motion tableau. The metaphor of a “little cloud” implies a concentrated, enclosing pocket of weather that clings to the ground, underlining the hail’s pervasive, disorienting effect.
Moreover, sentence forms reflect the narrator’s shock and recovery. Short declaratives—“I may have been stunned for a moment. I looked round me.”—create staccato parataxis, mirroring a dazed consciousness before the prose lengthens into detailed description. Structurally, this shift charts his move from confusion to acute observation of the strange garden under siege by the hail.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 answer would explain that contrasting sensory imagery makes the garden feel strange and the hail threatening: soft, colourful details like 'soft turf' and 'mauve and purple blossoms' are overwhelmed by the harsh 'pitiless hail' and sibilant 'hissing'. Personification in 'beating of the hailstones' and 'rebounding, dancing hail' suggests relentless movement, while the short sentence 'I looked round me.' and the shift from 'Everything still seemed grey' show his disorientation clearing.
The writer uses onomatopoeia and sibilance to present the violent effect of the hail. The "clap of thunder" and onomatopoeic "hissing" make the soundscape vivid, while the adjective and personification in "a pitiless hail" suggest a relentless force. The narrator’s "stunned" state and the metaphor "the confusion in my ears" emphasise disorientation, making the garden feel strange.
Moreover, colour and sensory imagery create an uncanny beauty. The "soft turf" and the specific noun "rhododendron bushes" evoke an exotic garden, and the colours "mauve and purple blossoms" contrast with "Everything... grey". This shift from grey to rich colour mirrors his recovery and heightens the strangeness of the setting.
Furthermore, dynamic verbs and personification show the hail’s impact on the garden. The blossoms are "dropping in a shower" under the "beating of the hailstones", which personifies the weather as attacking the flowers. The present participles "rebounding, dancing" animate the hail, and the metaphor "hung in a little cloud" suggests a dense veil. The short sentence "I looked round me." shows shock, then longer clauses slow the pace. Altogether, these choices depict a strange garden both delicate and under assault, emphasising the hail’s effects.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses sound words like "clap of thunder" and "hissing" and the adjective "pitiless" to show the hail is loud and harsh. Colour and movement words such as "mauve and purple blossoms", "dropping in a shower" and "rebounding, dancing hail" make the garden seem strange and alive but battered, and short sentences like "I looked round me" show his shock.
The writer uses adjectives and colour imagery to describe the strange garden. The phrase "soft turf" makes the place sound gentle, and "surrounded by rhododendron bushes" shows it is like a neat garden. The "mauve and purple blossoms" are vivid, but "Everything still seemed grey" suggests an odd, dull atmosphere.
Furthermore, personification and sound words show the effects of the hail. The "pitiless hail" makes it seem cruel, while "hissing" is onomatopoeia, creating a sharp, threatening noise. The "beating of the hailstones" sounds violent, and the "rebounding, dancing hail" that "hung in a little cloud" makes it look alive and gathered around him.
Additionally, short sentences and first person show his shock. Short lines like "I looked round me" and "I may have been stunned" suggest confusion. The "sound of a clap of thunder" is strong auditory imagery, emphasising how sudden and powerful the storm felt.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses sound words like "clap of thunder" and "hissing" to show the hail is loud and scary, and describing words like "pitiless" and "soft turf" to make the place feel harsh but also soft. Colour and movement in "Everything still seemed grey", "mauve and purple blossoms", and "rebounding, dancing hail" help the reader picture a strange garden with hail everywhere.
The writer uses adjectives to describe the strange garden, like “little lawn” and “mauve and purple blossoms,” which make it seem small but colourful. Furthermore, onomatopoeia and verbs show the hail, as “hissing” and the “beating of the hailstones” suggest noise and force. Moreover, personification is used in “pitiless hail” and “rebounding, dancing hail,” making the hail seem alive and harsh. Additionally, short sentences such as “I looked round me.” show shock after the thunder. Therefore, these language choices help the reader picture the garden and feel the hail’s effects.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Onomatopoeia and violent sound create immediate shock and disorientation (clap of thunder).
- Sibilance/onomatopoeia makes the hail feel relentless and encircling (hissing round me).
- Juxtaposed textures heighten unease: comforting garden vs hostile weather (soft turf).
- Tentative modality conveys uncertainty, making the garden feel unfamiliar (may have been).
- Short, simple sentences mark fractured perception before focus returns (I looked round me.).
- Colour imagery and specific flora replace earlier greyness, suggesting exotic vividness (mauve and purple).
- Personification and violent verbs show the weather assaulting the blossoms (beating of the hailstones).
- Kinetic, anthropomorphic verbs animate the weather with eerie liveliness (rebounding, dancing hail).
- Paradox of motion and suspension suggests a strange, localised microclimate (hung in a little cloud).
- Unusual noun phrase signals disorder intruding into the garden scene (overset machine).
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of tension?
You could write about:
- how tension shifts from beginning to end
- how the writer uses structure to create an effect
- the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]
Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)
Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track how tension is structured to rise and dip: opening in medias res with a disorienting "clap of thunder" and using the storm as a "hazy curtain" to withhold then reveal, the focus tightens on the ominous "crouching white shape" while rhetorical questions ("What might...", "What if...") and the admission "I was seized with a panic fear" intensify anxiety. It would also note the deliberate pivot when "my courage recovered" briefly releases pressure before the perspective widens to "huge buildings" and the imminent threat of "voices approaching", leaving tension unresolved.
One way the writer structures the text to create tension is by plunging us in medias res into sensory disorientation, then staging a gradual “curtain-raise”. The opening auditory shock “clap of thunder” plus clipped declaratives “I looked round me” combine with temporal adverbials “Presently” to slow time. The hail is described as a “curtain” that “wore threadbare”, delaying full sight. This incremental reveal manipulates narrative pace, keeping the reader in suspense as visibility slowly emerges.
In addition, the extract moves from static observation to kinetic threat, tightening tension. Focus shifts outward: the White Sphinx “seemed to advance and to recede” with the storm, while its “sightless eyes” “seemed to watch me”; then “huge buildings” appear, before “voices approaching” and “men running”. This narrowing proximity creates a structural crescendo. Interrogatives at the pivot—“What might appear… What if…”—and modal verbs (“might”, “may”) externalise dread, while temporal markers “At last”, “Already”, “Then” quicken the cadence. The narrator’s failed retreat—“grappled… with the machine”—is a false exit that spikes panic.
A further structural element is the final modulation of mood through contrast and zoom. After the ominous surveillance of “faces… directed towards me”, the camera narrows to one “slight… frail” figure in a “purple tunic”. This deflates the built terror so that “my courage recovered” and, ultimately, “I suddenly regained confidence”. The sustained first-person focalisation makes us experience each shift in pace and focus, from claustrophobic obscurity to exposed clarity, making the tension elastic—tightened by withholding and proximity, then released at the moment of first contact.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly track structural shifts in focus and pace: from the chaotic landing (character disorientation signalled by clap of thunder) to the slow, ominous reveal of the White Sphinx with sightless eyes, then an escalation via rhetorical questions (What if cruelty) and quicker action as he grappled fiercely with the machine. It would also note how the clearing scene reveals new threats (voices approaching me) before the mood moves towards tentative safety (my courage recovered), showing how gradual revelation and contrast build and then release tension.
One way in which the writer builds tension is by opening in medias res and delaying clarity. The passage begins with disorientating noise—‘a clap of thunder’—and, through temporal markers like ‘presently’ and ‘at last’, the focus narrows from the hail to the looming ‘white figure’. This gradual reveal, culminating in ‘sightless eyes… seemed to watch me’ and an ‘unpleasant suggestion of disease’, sustains unease and foreshadows threat.
In addition, a structural shift from external description to internal speculation heightens suspense. After focusing on the Sphinx, the narrator launches a cascade of rhetorical questions (‘What might appear…? What if cruelty…?’), accelerating pace and projecting worst-case futures. The vista expands—‘other vast shapes… huge buildings’—and he switches to frantic action, ‘grappled fiercely’, which spikes the pace and marks rising action towards crisis.
A further device is the contrast between clearing weather and growing exposure, followed by delayed revelation of others. As the storm lifts, the new clarity makes him ‘feel naked’, increasing vulnerability. Their approach is withheld step by step—first ‘voices’, then ‘heads and shoulders’, then a ‘slight creature’—prolonging tension before partial resolution when ‘my courage recovered’. The first-person focalisation confines the reader to his uncertainty.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures rising tension from sudden confusion (the clap of thunder, hissing hail, everything grey) to a slow reveal as the hail curtain grows threadbare and the white figure appears, with worries building to panic fear. As the scene clarifies and people arrive (the voices approaching), the tension drops and he suddenly regained confidence.
One way the writer structures the opening to create tension is by starting in the middle of action. The sudden “clap of thunder” and hail, and short sentences like “I looked round me,” make the beginning confusing. The focus on the strange “White Sphinx” keeps the reader uneasy.
In addition, in the middle the focus shifts from the setting to the narrator’s thoughts. A series of questions (“What might…? What if…?”) builds uncertainty, and the pace quickens into action: “I was seized with a panic fear” and he “grappled… with the machine.” This feels like a climax and builds tension.
A further structural feature is a change in mood at the end. As the storm clears, the focus moves to people (“I heard voices… a slight creature”), and he “regained confidence.” This contrast gives a brief resolution, but approaching figures keep tension so we want to read on.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer creates tension with wild weather ("clap of thunder", "pitiless hail") and first-person fear ("I was seized with a panic fear"), then it builds as he asks "What might appear" and hears "voices approaching me" and sees "men running", before easing at the end when he "suddenly regained confidence".
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create tension is by starting in the storm. We are thrown straight in, with hail and noise, and short sentences make it tense.
In addition, the focus shifts from the machine to the White Sphinx and to huge buildings. The writer uses questions like “What might appear?” which add worry.
A further structural feature is the change at the end. “Then I heard voices” and people run in, so the mood shifts. The first-person viewpoint keeps his fear in our minds.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- In medias res shock opening jolts the reader into disorientation, immediately generating tension (clap of thunder)
- Withheld clarity and a gradually thinning veil keep the reveal delayed, sustaining anticipation (hail curtain had worn threadbare)
- Recurrent fixation on the statue creates a structural focal point that feels uncanny and threatening (seemed to watch)
- Oscillating visibility as weather thickens and thins makes danger feel unstable and shifting (advance and to recede)
- A crescendo of rhetorical questions escalates inner dread from wonder to fear of hostile change (What if)
- Temporal markers pace the build-up, moving from stunned stasis to decision and urgency (At last)
- The frame widens from a small lawn to monumental architecture, amplifying scale and exposure (other vast shapes)
- Pacing spikes with urgent, physical struggle, peaking the tension in frantic action (grappled fiercely)
- Stark tonal contrast as the storm clears heightens vulnerability in the revealing brightness (felt naked)
- Shift from distant watchers to a slight, frail figure partially releases tension as threat seems reduced (regained confidence)
Question 4 - Mark Scheme
For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 81 to the end.
In this part of the source, the description of the approaching creature as beautiful but “frail” makes him seem completely harmless. The writer suggests the Traveller’s fears about facing a powerful and cruel new human race were wrong.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of the beautiful and graceful but frail creature
- comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the creature is harmless
- support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]
Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)
Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer largely reassures us the Traveller’s fear was misplaced by presenting the newcomer as 'very beautiful and graceful' yet 'indescribably frail', and by charting the narrator’s shift to 'more curiously and less fearfully', his 'regained confidence', and 'I took my hands from the machine'. However, it would challenge “completely harmless” by noting the morbid 'consumptive'/'hectic beauty', the watchers in the 'circular opening' with 'their faces were directed towards me', the figures 'running', and the reliance on a 'prompt retreat', suggesting the writer’s reassurance is provisional.
I largely agree that the creature’s beauty and “frailty” make him seem harmless, and that the writer punctures the Traveller’s fear of a “powerful and cruel” future race; however, “completely harmless” overstates it, because subtle structural and tonal cues preserve a thread of unease.
Initially, Wells heightens the Traveller’s anxiety through violent natural imagery and predatory simile, priming us to expect threat: the “sun smote” and the storm “vanished like the trailing garments of a ghost,” a spectral comparison that colours the scene with uncanny otherness. The narrator’s vulnerability is explicit—“I felt naked”—and the predator–prey simile (“as… a bird… knowing the hawk wings above and will swoop”) intensifies the expectation of a cruel, dominant species. The semantic field of struggle (“frenzy,” “grappled”) sustains this fear. Crucially, the structural pivot arrives with the discourse marker “But”: “with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered.” The repetition foregrounds that his confidence initially rests on escape, not on any proof of benign locals.
Against that fearful backdrop, the approaching figures are introduced in a way that disarms alarm. The “group of figures clad in rich soft robes” and their “faces… directed towards me” suggest spectatorship and curiosity rather than aggression, especially as no weapons or hostile cries are mentioned. Even “men running” through the bushes is immediately reframed by the first individual’s minimized stature and gentle attire: “a slight creature—perhaps four feet high—clad in a purple tunic,” with “sandals or buskins,” “legs… bare,” and a “head… bare.” The caesural dashes around “perhaps four feet high” emphasise tentativeness and smallness, while the classical clothing and colour imagery (“purple”) connote ceremony or decadence, not militarism. The sensory shift—“I noticed… how warm the air was”—mirrors the tonal easing from panic to poise.
The most decisive demystification comes in the evaluative lexis: “very beautiful and graceful… but indescribably frail.” The medical allusion to the “consumptive,” and the paradox of “hectic beauty,” fuse aesthetic appeal with illness, underscoring incapacity rather than cruelty. This directly counters the fear of a “powerful” new humanity. Structurally, that perception triggers action: “At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence. I took my hands from the machine.” Letting go of the machine is a symbolic relinquishing of defence, endorsing the impression of harmlessness.
Yet “completely” is contestable. The ghostly simile lingers as an inquieting undertone; the “circular opening… high up” from which the robed figures watch implies surveillance and hierarchy; and his earlier courage was shored up by the possibility of “prompt retreat.” Thus, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s juxtaposition of violent prelude with diminutive, soft-focused description convinces us the Traveller’s worst fears are, for now, misplaced, but the narrative tactfully keeps a residual caution alive.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the creature’s delicate portrayal—“slight creature,” “perhaps four feet high,” “very beautiful and graceful” but “indescribably frail”—and the narrator’s reaction (“suddenly regained confidence,” “took my hands from the machine”) present him as harmless, suggesting the Traveller’s fears were misplaced here. However, it would also note hints of uncertainty in “voices approaching me” and “a group of figures,” so “completely” harmless may be overstated.
I mostly agree that the creature’s beauty and “frailty” make him seem harmless, and that the Traveller’s immediate fears of a powerful, cruel new race are shown to be misplaced in this moment. At first, the narrative voice establishes intense anxiety: the storm clears “like the trailing garments of a ghost,” and the simile “as perhaps a bird may feel… knowing the hawk wings above” evokes a predatory threat. This ominous imagery and the violent verb “smote” create a fearful tone.
However, there is a clear structural shift once the Traveller secures “a prompt retreat,” as his “courage recovered.” This pivot from panic to poise is reinforced by the writer’s focus on observation: he looks “more curiously and less fearfully,” which prepares us to accept the next impression as benign rather than menacing. The physical description diminishes any sense of power. The newcomer is “a slight creature—perhaps four feet high,” the adjective “slight” and specific height undercutting the idea of a dominant species. The group in the wall wears “rich soft robes,” a tactile adjective suggesting luxury and gentleness rather than militaristic hardness.
Most decisively, the traveller judges him “a very beautiful and graceful creature, but indescribably frail.” The cumulative adjectives and the comparison to “the more beautiful kind of consumptive” (that “hectic beauty”) connote delicacy and illness, inviting pity rather than fear. This language triggers a behavioural change: “I suddenly regained confidence. I took my hands from the machine.” That action is a clear structural marker of lowered threat.
Yet “completely harmless” may be overstated. The phrase “voices approaching” and “men running” keeps a flicker of tension, and the earlier “hawk” simile lingers in the reader’s mind. Overall, though, in this section the writer’s contrasts, sensory imagery, and diminutive detail strongly suggest the Traveller’s fears of a cruel, powerful race were, at least for now, wrong.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that the Traveller’s fears were wrong, noting the creature is “very beautiful and graceful” yet “indescribably frail,” so he seems harmless and the Traveller “suddenly regained confidence.” It would give simple method comments, e.g., gentle description and calming contrast as the “sun smote” and the “grey downpour… vanished,” to show fear easing.
I mostly agree that the creature is made to seem harmless, so the Traveller’s fears look exaggerated at this moment. The writer’s choices make the newcomer seem delicate rather than dangerous.
At first, the writer builds fear. The storm clearing is shown with striking imagery: the rain “vanished like the trailing garments of a ghost.” Even though the sky turns “intense blue,” the Traveller feels hunted, saying he is “as perhaps a bird… knowing the hawk… will swoop.” These similes and the verb “swoop” create threat, and his “fear grew to frenzy.”
However, the description of the approaching figure undercuts this. The man is “slight… perhaps four feet high” and “clad in a purple tunic,” which sounds decorative, not military. The adjectives “beautiful and graceful” and especially “indescribably frail” suggest weakness. The comparison to a “consumptive” gives a sense of illness and delicacy. As a result, the Traveller “suddenly regained confidence” and “took my hands from the machine,” showing the effect of the description: he stops preparing to flee. This contrast changes the tone from fear to curiosity.
Still, there are hints that keep some tension: “voices approaching” and “men running” could be threatening, and a “group of figures” stare from above. So I do not think the text proves the future race cannot be cruel; it only suggests this first contact appears harmless. Overall, I agree to a large extent that the creature’s beauty and “frail” look make him seem harmless, and the Traveller’s fears seem, for now, to be wrong.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response would broadly agree, simply pointing to words like very beautiful and graceful, indescribably frail, and noting that the Traveller regained confidence and took my hands from the machine, which suggests his fears were wrong and the creature seems harmless.
I mostly agree with the statement. At the start of this part, the Traveller is afraid, saying, “My fear grew to frenzy,” and the simile “like the trailing garments of a ghost” makes the place feel dangerous. The “hawk” image suggests he might be attacked from above, so he expects a powerful enemy.
However, when the creature reaches him, the writer makes it seem harmless. The adjectives “beautiful and graceful” and “indescribably frail” show someone delicate, not strong. We are told he is “perhaps four feet high,” which makes him sound small. The comparison to a “consumptive” with “hectic beauty” gives the impression of sickness and weakness. Because of this, the Traveller relaxes: “At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence. I took my hands from the machine.” This suggests his earlier fears were wrong, at least for now.
Even though there are “voices approaching” and “men running,” the focus on the purple tunic and the slight figure makes the creature seem gentle. Overall, I agree to a large extent that this description makes him seem completely harmless, and the writer suggests the Traveller’s fears about a cruel, powerful new race were mistaken in this moment.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.
AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:
- Rhetorical questions build dread of cruelty and power, so the delicate arrival undercuts those expectations, supporting the claim: overwhelmingly powerful
- Pathetic fallacy shifts from storm to calm, easing threat and priming a safer impression of this world: intense blue
- Diminutive scale makes the newcomer non-threatening; his being a slight creature reduces the sense of danger
- Emphasis on fragility makes him seem harmless rather than hostile; he is indescribably frail
- Illness imagery invites pity over fear, as with the hectic beauty of a consumptive
- Costume detail suggests softness and civility in this society, steering us away from brutality: rich soft robes
- The narrator’s reaction endorses harmlessness; at the sight of him he regained confidence, implying reduced threat
- Yet monument and statue imagery keep unease alive, challenging “completely”: an unpleasant suggestion of disease
- Predatory metaphor sustains vulnerability despite beauty; the world may still threaten: hawk wings above
- The manner of approach remains ambiguous—curious or hostile—as he sees men running, so “completely harmless” feels overstated
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
A local radio show about unexplained events is inviting creative pieces from its listeners.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a creature of the night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about a local legend that turns out to be true.
(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]
(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]
Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)
Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.
- Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.
Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.
- Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.
Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.
- Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.
Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.
- Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.
Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.
Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).
Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)
Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.
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Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.
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Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.
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Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.
Model Answers
The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.
- Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)
Option A:
The night buttons itself across the trees; on a branch knotted like an old fist, the Hush opens its eyes. They are not simply eyes but little wells of moonlight—black, reflective, patient—so polished they seem to drink rather than look. Feathers, ash-pale and smoke-dark in concentric ruffs, halo that blank, disc-like face; each filament takes the faint breeze and lays it down again. Resin breathes from the bark; damp leaf-mould rises in cool spirals; the air tastes faintly of a coin on the tongue. Stillness arranges itself around the creature as if the forest were a room waiting for a word.
It is built for silence. The beak is narrow, seam-ripper sharp; the feet are lacquered hooks, articulate as hands. When it shifts, the branch mutters. When it breathes, it seems the whole tree inhales with it. Wings—long, lamellar, moth-soft—tremble, then settle, then tremble again: a thought rehearsed and postponed. No rustle accompanies that small rehearsal; the feathers are edged with a fine, secret fray that chews the air into velvet. It waits. Waits. The Hush is devout in its waiting, which is perhaps why the night values it.
Concurrently, below, the hedgerow exchanges its quiet revenues: a bead of footfall, a scuttle, the thin tick of a beetle folding itself beneath a leaf. The skull tilts, minutely, aligning with some invisible arithmetic drawn between stars and thistle-tips. Sound arrives to it as shape, not noise; one vibration is a thread, another a disk, another a small, erratic square trying to be a circle. (If it keeps accounts, they are not ours.) The undergrowth rasps, the bramble sighs; the Hush notices the sigh before the rasp, the before before the call.
Then—without fuss, without ceremony—it is gone. Not away, exactly; rather, the place it occupied has been folded neatly and put elsewhere. Wings unfurl, describing a geometry of shadow; they lift not on the air but on the lack of it, and the creature pours forward, solvent, dissolving its own edges as it moves. There is, for a heartbeat, a quick silver slice of moon on the primaries; then nothing. Then everything. A soft, decisive pinch of sound as claws close; a rush like a gasp pulled inside out; a mouse converted into a hush of fur and heat, and then into the black purse of the Hush’s throat.
However, to name it is already to make it smaller. It is not merely bird, nor ghost, nor fable: it is the pause between words; the precise hinge where night turns toward morning. Its face is a clock without hands. Its eyes do not glimmer; they absorb. In the hour when dew stitches itself along the nettles and the sky bruises faintly at the hem, it returns to its gnarled station with what it has gathered: hunger lessened; shadows rearranged; the ledger of silence balanced.
And when the first, foolish bird clears its throat, the Hush closes its eyes and vanishes into its own stillness, as if shaken out like dust—almost gone, not quite, and, for now, enough.
Option B:
Autumn. Season of fog; nets dozing on the quay; gulls reduced to smudges; the tide tugging the edge of the world in and out. In Greywater, everything drew in when the mist rolled—and the old story stretched itself awake.
They told it in the pub and on the bench above the causeway: when the sea raced and the fog erased the horizon, a single lantern bloomed on the stones. Follow and live; turn aside and the tide would take you. Someone's uncle had seen it.
I didn't believe it. I believed in diesel, in the grit of salt between my teeth, in bus timetables that never arrived. Legends were for tea-towels; facts were for locals. Nevertheless, Mum texted—bring Gran her tablets—and the tide table was at that liminal interval when the causeway lay open: slick, dark, glistening. I went.
Mist muffled everything. It pressed against my cheeks, damp and deliberate, made the world an ellipsis. The stones were black and treacherous; runnels stitched across them; on either side, the sea breathed a slow, patient threat. Halfway, the wind died. Only my boot soles crepitated and the water whispered.
Then I saw it: a tremor of brightness where brightness had no right to be. Not the cold white of a phone; not the skitter of a torch. An old light—low, amber, pulsing like a held breath—hovered ahead. It lifted, drifted, settled. It waited.
I laughed—too loud in that boiled world—and the sound died, embarrassed. Yet my feet moved. After all, what harm in walking towards a lamp? The tide made a clandestine lunge; water slicked the stones beside me. I hesitated; the light shifted, one careful pace back, as if giving me room. My next step was suddenly slick with water.
So I followed. I didn't say thank you; I didn't run. It kept a skittish distance—close enough to reassure, far enough to refuse questions. Not straight but sideways it led me, along a line no sane person would choose: past the old posts and over the seam where tide pools lurk. Each time the sea nosed across the path, it paused, then carried on.
By the time the island's granite stepped from the fog, I was giddy with relief. I turned—and the lamp rose a little, aligning with the rusted bracket of the first marker. For a heartbeat, the fog thinned: a man in an oilskin, lantern held out, the beard from the black-and-white photo in The Dolphin. Mr Perowne, the last Keeper, drowned, 1927. He inclined his head—and the light went out.
I stood, throat salted, tablet packet crinkling, and understood that sometimes the old stories aren't warnings or wishes—they're directions.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
Night loosens its seams and the garden exhales. Fences darken to velvet; the path becomes a ribbon of pewter; the apple tree leans like a question, each twig a thin, arthritic finger. A coppered moon hangs, and the streetlamp—half-sullen, half-awake—spills a puddle of light on the gnarled branch above the shed. There is a smell of damp earth and tired roses; a cold that tastes of tin. In this hush, something unclasps itself from the dark.
It arrives without announcement; it is the room you forgot to close. Not exactly an owl, though it wears the grammar of one. Its eyes are coins of pale fire, ringed with soot; pupils tighten, then bloom, accounting for each stray movement, even the shiver of a leaf. Feathers absorb the light—soft, ash-grey filaments that drink sound, that make absence. The head tilts with deliberate curiosity, a metronome of thought; the beak, fine as a nib, writes scratches into the bark.
One foot—scaled, deliberate, ending in ivory hooks—tightens on the branch. It waits. A motion you would call silence presses at the windows; the hedges bristle with small lives. Somewhere, a mouse stitches itself through grass. The creature hears this; it hears the seam of a moth’s wing. Yet it is not greedy. Patient, almost courteous, it counts; it measures the night with slow blinks, and then it drops—no flourish, only a soft collapse of air, a half-note of shadow.
Under the roses, it lands. A single feather loosens and turns like a flake of winter. The creature’s wings fold with a whisper (paper against paper); the garden holds its breath again. In that pause, it gathers its food: not blood, not fur, but what the day leaves behind—mislaid whispers, a worry abandoned, a forgotten name on the tongue. There is a sibilant sip, almost nothing; the leaves seem lighter. I realise, with an odd relief, that it is tidying the dark. I am not sure if that comforts me.
I am at the window; it knows. The luminous head tilts once more, and in those pale irises I find a calm that is neither kindness nor malice, only function. Then, as the horizon bruises into a thinner blue, it withdraws. It climbs the air with orderly beats; it becomes a crease in the sky, then a thumbprint on the moon, then nothing. The branch remembers; it trembles. The garden exhales again, smelling faintly of rain and iron and something cleaner—like a page turned in time.
Option B:
They call it the Drowned Bell, as if iron could sleep and still remember its duty. Our harbour is a spine of tar-dark planks; gulls bicker, nets steam, and the air tastes faintly of coins. The story is unhelpfully precise: when cloud sags over St. Olfrid’s and the wind turns needling, a bell rings from beneath the bay; when it rings, someone from the town will not see morning. Tour guides joke; my grandmother never did.
Nanna told it every October when the clocks went back (she’d tap the mantel as if putting time in its place). I’d nod—careful, companionable—yet the words endured, snagging on memory like hooks. Perhaps it was loyalty; perhaps the neatness of warnings that arrive as sound. My father's name, bright in the lifeboat room, made neutrality impossible. So, on the Friday the forecast turned spiteful, I took my coat, my phone, and a determination that pretends to be bravery, and I walked to the pier.
Dusk drained the colour from the town; the sodium lamp cast an apricot smear. Boats ticked against their moorings; halyards clicked like restless teeth. The planks were stiff with salt. I stood where the pier narrows and watched the water muscle itself into slow ridges. A tangle of rope swung and tapped—tick...tick—against a cleat. The smell of kelp rose, and something rusted: that metallic tang you can almost taste.
At first, only the ordinary made itself heard: a radio from the fish shed, a cough, the gulls’ skirl. Then the harbour paused. The air seemed to lean in. It arrived not at ear-level but through bone; it rose through the wood, through my boots, a round, solemn note. One toll. Not the church—its bells are silent; not the buoy—too tinny. The second toll came, and with it the planks trembled as if a giant had laid a steady hand on the pier.
I found I had stepped back, though there was nowhere safer to be. Across the iron water a shape detached from the end berth and stood, stiff as a post, listening; when it turned, I recognised Mr Reed from the lifeboat crew. We looked at one another, then at the bay, already heaving. The legend did not blink. It stood there, audible, undeniable. When the third toll lifted the hairs on my arms, I understood: we had not inherited a story; we had inherited a warning.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
It perches on the gnarled spine of an old ash, where the path forgets itself and the hedges knit together. The night holds its breath. Moonlight slicks along its shoulders and gathers in the hollows of wings, so the creature seems stitched from shadow and silver; a moving cut-out against the milky sky. Its eyes are round and steady, too bright for comfort—coins that never clink, turned slowly by a patient, ancient hand.
Meanwhile, the fields whisper with a damp, low mist. Somewhere, a gate creaks once; a fox threads the brambles; far off, a car sighs along a bridge and is gone. The creature listens to all of it. It turns its head with a soft, mechanical mercy, a hinge oiled by darkness. It waits; it watches. The stillness around it grows thicker, almost velvet, almost sound.
Close up, it is not quite owl and not quite anything I know. Ear-tufts curl like brackets around the mind inside. Its beak is narrow—more needle than knife—and there is a pale comma of scar beneath one eye, a small imperfection that refuses to heal. The feathers are a sober map of greys: soot, pewter, ash. On its chest: a scatter of lighter flecks, as if frost once fell there and decided to stay. When it breathes, the down lifts and settles—up, down, up, down—tiny tides under a skin of air.
Because it is a creature of the night, it carries the scent of leaf-mould and a cold iron gate. Its talons flex on the branch with a faint pinch; bark dust drifts like pepper. Even the air seems to lean toward it. There is a trace of sound when it moves—no more than the softest page turned in a library—and then nothing, only the wake of disturbed moth-dust glimmering where it passed.
All at once, it unlatches from the tree. Not a leap, a release. The wings open—broad, undramatic, deliberate—and the dark accepts their stroke. Down through the hedge-shadow, along the hedge’s green seam, it writes itself into the field. A blade of movement, a bracket of silence, a low arc. Then, a pause; a pause so complete that the whole night seems to hang by it.
It returns to the branch as lightly as breath. Dawn is a thin rinse at the horizon now, paling the hedges, thinning the mist. The creature blinks, slow, satisfied. It settles. As the first bird chatters, it is already dissolving back into bark and knot, as if it was never here at all.
Option B:
Mist arrived early on our fen and never learned to leave; it pooled in the hollows and tugged at the ankles of the lanes, smudging edges and swallowing distance. People here tell the same story with small variations, the way they stir tea differently but still prefer it strong. There is a light—blue, foxfire-bright—that drifts over the black water. It calls you, they say. It leads you. It doesn’t care where your feet end.
‘Follow no lights but your own,’ Gran used to warn, tapping the torch by the back door. ‘No matter how pretty.’
I didn’t come out tonight for folklore. Old Mr. Hales had asked me to walk the takeaway across the causeway to his son at the mill; the bus driver had shrugged at the fog and turned the other way. It was only a mile. I knew every kink in the path, every rotten post that marked the ditch. My cheap torch cast a tired circle on the grit, its beam trembling when I breathed on it—cold that went straight into my fingers, cold with a smell like wet iron and old tea.
The first light rose so quietly I thought it was my eyes adjusting. A bead of blue lifted from the reed-bed and hovered, as if deciding. It pulsed, soft as a thought. Then it moved, playful, ten paces ahead, skimming where the causeway thinned.
‘Very funny,’ I called into the woolly dark. ‘Dan? If that’s you, it’s not even clever.’
No answer; only a curlew’s thin cry, the lap of water against peat, the chafe of sedge. The light drifted left. I knew left was wrong. Left was where the dyke widened into that tannin-brown pool that took the Harris’ dog one winter. My torch hissed, a delicate filament syllable, and dimmed. The blue brightened, obliging, almost helpful.
‘Follow no lights but your own,’ I muttered, like a charm, pressing the torch to my palm to warm it. It flickered, faltered, died.
The silence after was a living thing. The blue hovered at my eye-line now; closer, insistently present. When it spoke, it did not use a voice so much as a memory—my name, said the way Gran used to say it when I was half-asleep. The syllables bloomed inside my mouth.
I threw a pebble where the light waited; it vanished without a sound. There should have been a splash. There should have been something. The light rose, just a fraction, as if smiling.
And in that small, brittle second, I knew the legend hadn’t been born out of boredom or fear at all. It was here, patient as fog, choosing.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The night folds itself over the trees like a thick coat. The path is a ribbon of grey, and the branch above me is gnarled into a shape that could be a fist. The air smells of damp bark and cold iron; somewhere a slow drip ticks. I hold my breath because the wood seems to be holding its breath, too. On that branch, balanced with strange grace, my creature waits.
I have seen it before, in moments when the sun is gone and the moon is thin. It is part owl, part shadow. Its face is a pale saucer, ringed with feathery fronds, and the eyes are coins of honey light that do not blink enough. The feathers are patched—smoke and frost—and when it lifts a wing the edges whisper like torn paper. A dark beak hooks down; the talons are careful scythes, curved and shining. It watches; it listens; it seems to count every movement in the hedges.
When it moves, there is no fuss. The creature drops, not falling but sliding, as if the air has threads only it can see. A moth stumbles in the light and disappears, neat and clean. The sound is more absence than noise. The branch above gives a tiny tremor, then settles again, and the night carries on as before, ticking, breathing, waiting.
I call it the Night-Watcher. It is not cruel, it is necessary. It belongs to this hour, writing its soft loops over the dark field with wings that know the wind. Dawn will smudge it out like chalk, and no one will remember except the small bruise on the silence where it sat. For now, it turns its head, the world seems slower; it blinks, and the moon answers.
Option B:
Our town sits around Merrin Water like a ring around a finger, tight and familiar, holding its shine and its secrets. On warm days, the surface looks harmless—flat, bright, a mirror for buses and birds—but everyone knows what lies beneath. Years ago, before I was born, they flooded the valley and buried a church. Since then, people say the drowned bell rings when something is about to change. Grown-ups call it plumbing; grandmothers cross themselves; children dare each other to go and listen.
In August, the fair left the common smelling of sugar and smoke, and the last fireworks faded into a sky as heavy as wet wool. Leah nudged me towards the path that curls down to the rail. “Just five minutes,” she said, already walking. My trainers squeaked on the damp grit; the air had a faint, metallic taste. We leaned our elbows on the cold bar and looked down at the concrete lip, at the black water resting against it like a stubborn dog.
It was so quiet. No breeze, no boat, no geese, only the far-off crackle of a stall being packed away. “What did we expect?” I whispered. Ghosts? A light flickered on the opposite bank—someone’s kitchen perhaps—and my breath clouded in front of me even though it was still summer.
Then, beneath the silence, a slow, round note rose up. Not a ding like a bike; not the thin cry of a gull. It was fuller, deeper, like the rim of a glass being stroked, but it trembled through the rail into my arms. It came again; the water shivered, as if the sound had a shape. Leah’s fingers tightened around my sleeve. “You hear it,” she said, her voice very small. I nodded because I couldn’t speak. From the road behind us, a siren began to wail—sharp, insistent—climbing the hill towards the estate. People always said the bell meant change, or trouble, or a name about to be spoken. In that moment, with the drowned note echoing and the blue lights flickering behind the trees, the legend didn’t feel like a story at all. It felt true.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
Night folds over the trees like a heavy coat; the moon sits low, a thin nail clipping caught in cloud. On a gnarled branch, the creature settles — still as bark, darker than the gap between stars. Damp wood, a green smell. A far road hushes; leaves murmur. Then nothing. A held breath. The branch creaks, only a little, as it draws itself in and watches.
It isn't quite an owl. Its face is a pale dish ringed with soot, and the eyes — two polished stones — do not blink for a long time. It's feathers look moth-soft, mottled, stitched from fog and ash; when it shifts, dust lifts like smoke. Hooked toes grip the knotted wood with a patient, careful hunger. It listens, again and again, turning the world like a record under a needle, tick by tiny tick.
Sound breaks the silence: a tremor in the grass. The creature tilts, then melts into the air. No flurry, no fuss — just a glide, a shadow drawn with one clean line. It slips between branches, slides across the lane, dips; rises. The night seems to lean to help it. Below, the small thing pauses, breath a bead of silver. A whispering rush, a soft thud, and the world holds its breath again.
When it returns, the branch accepts it like an old friend. A single feather lands on my sleeve, cold as a coin. What are you, really? A rumor with wings, a question in the dark. It looks past me, into tomorrow.
Option B:
Autumn. The season of smoke and soft rain; leaves glued to the cobbles like old pennies. Stalls folded along the market, tarpaulins snapping. Above us the clock tower watched the square with its brass face, speckled with soot.
In Willowby we pass the legend around like a biscuit tin: when fog bruises the town, the tower rings thirteen and somebody is claimed by the river. Gran swears she heard it the winter Mrs Healey disappeared. Mr Penn from the hardware scoffs, says metal slips in the cold. I pretended to agree—but I always counted anyway.
That Friday night the fog came early, fat and low, it slid along the canal and over the square. I waited under the statue for Dad to close the shop. One, the bell said, deep as the bottom of a well. Two. Three. Each note rolled round the bricks and into my bones. By twelve the pigeons lifted, a black scatter. Then: another. Thirteen.
Silence seemed to bend. A thin cry threaded from the lock, or maybe it was the water worrying the steps. Dad burst from the shop, keys rattling, and we ran, because you run when the town calls like that. At the canal gate the chain hung slack and a scarf—red—was caught on the bolt, quivering like a flag. I wanted to say coincidence. I really did. But the bell still echoed, and the old story had come to life.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
The night pools under the trees, thick and blue, and the moon hangs like a pale coin over the park. On a gnarled branch, a creature perches, still as frost. Its silhouette is thin and hunched, part bird, part shadow, as if the dark itself learned to breathe. Cold air nudges my cheeks; the leaves whisper, hush-hush. Occasionly a moth skims past. It waits. It watches. Stars prickle the sky, small but sharp.
I see its eyes first: twin, luminous marbles that collect every scrap of light. They blink slow, then not at all. Its head turns round, smooth, careful, like a key in a lock. Feathers layer its body in mottled brown and ash, its natural camoflage. The beak is curved; it's head looks wise, old. Talons squeeze the bark, testing it, as if the branch had a pulse.
Meanwhile, the night keeps breathing. Suddenly, the creature opens its wings; the world pauses. They unfold like dark paper. Then, with a small push, it glides. No clap of wind, only a hush on my face. The smell of wet bark and moss creeps up. Finally it drops, quick as a thought, and the trees swallow it.
Option B:
Autumn. The time of fog and bonfires; hedges pricked with blackberries, the canal brown, the skies early-dark. Our town had its own stories. Everyone knew the legend of Carter's Bridge, passed on at bus stops and in the chippy: a girl who cried when the river would rise.
They said you could hear her if you stood still and turned off your light. What if they were right? It sounded silly, and a bit cruel. But that evening, with my phone at 5% and my rucksack full of homework, I walked the towpath. The iron ribs of the bridge creaked, the stones were slick with moss. Wind pushed my hood and the water flickered like broken glass.
I told myself it was just pipes and ducks—normal stuff. I whispered, "Alright, I get it," to the dark. Then I stopped. A thin sound leaked out from under the arch, steady, not like a fox. It went on; it got inside my chest. Crying, crying.
I stepped closer, knees jittering. My torch blinked, died. The railing felt icy, like a hand. And the river that had been lazy began to hurry, lapping higher against the bricks. Someone, somewhere, was crying my name.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The night is heavy and cold like a wet cloth. On a old tree the creature sits. It has big round eyes, yellow like coins. They blink slow, or sometimes it dont blink at all. Its feathers are dark and patchy, like a coat that is to big. It turns its head back and forward, back and forward. The branch is twisted and rough, it digs its claws in, scratch, scratch!
Its breath is quiet, I can hear it anyway. The moon makes a pale circle on the ground. There is the smell of damp leafs and old wood, like rain. It watches, it waits. It watches, it waits.
I think it knows the dark street. It sits like a king of night, but smaller, sharper, meaner. When a mouse moves the ears twitch, then nothing... It opens its wings slow and wide like a door, the air pushes, a soft whoom, and it is gone.
Option B:
People in our town always talked about the old well at the end of Marsh Lane. They said if you go at midnight you hear a bell and you see a girl in a wet dress. They said the well is hungry, like a mouth.
I didn't beleive it, not really. Me and Jay took a torch and we walked past the shops. The air was cold, it smelled like damp leaves. What if it was just a story? It was quiet, the dogs was quiet.
We stood by the stones. The rope was frayed and the dark water looked back at us.
Then the bell rang.
It was thin and small and there was no wind, but it rang again, clang, clang, like somebody down there was calling. I felt my fingers shake and I said, "Jay, do you see that—"
A pale hand on the edge.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The creature comes out when the sky is black. It sits on a twisted branch and it looks at me. Its eyes are big and round like coins and they glow a little in the dark. The wings are long and dusty, they move slow, they whisper. It makes a low hoot, again and again and again. I think it watches for a mouse or a thing, I don't know. It moves and then it is still - like a shadow. I feel small. I think about my bed at home for a second. It waits, it waits, it waits.
Option B:
Everyone in our town say there is a woman by the river. People tell it to kids to keep away. I didnt really listen, I just wanted to get home. I was hungry and wanted chips. It was late and fog came in like milk. The bridge was old and the wood creak. My phone had no battery so it was just me, my breath. Then I heard a bell, like a cat bell, it came again and again. Someone called my name, whispering it wrong. I felt my hair pull. I ran but the bell followed I saw her dress on the water. It was true!