AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

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.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. 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).

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 did the narrator notice around the animal’s neck?: a rope – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, what was around the animal's neck?: a rope – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the narrator describe as being around the animal's neck?: A rope – 1 mark
• 1.4 When the narrator first sees the apparition, what is around the animal’s neck?: a rope – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd—by some one of

11 whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of

How does the writer use language here to present the narrator’s attempt to make sense of what he saw? 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 analyse how the personification in reflection came to my aid signals a turn to rationalisation, while modal hedging (must have, probably) and passives (had been hung, must have been cut from the tree and thrown) construct a speculative, distancing reconstruction of events. It would also explore how the dash and embedded clause —by some one of whom—, the extended, multi-clause causal chain from Upon the alarm of fire to into my chamber, and the suspended with the view of mimic a methodical yet uncertain reasoning process.

The writer uses personification and a legalistic register to frame the narrator’s rationalising. “At length reflection came to my aid” personifies “reflection” as a rescuer, implying logic will save him from panic. The adverbial “at length” suggests a struggle before reason arrives, and “aid” casts thought as remedial. The aside “I remembered” and the precise “a garden adjacent to the house” adopt measured, technical diction, establishing a controlled, forensic tone as he makes sense of what he saw, and positioning the reader inside his methodical mindset.

Moreover, the use of epistemic modality and passives exposes the instability of his reasoning. The claim the animal “must have been cut” presents deduction as certainty, yet the hedge “had probably been done” immediately qualifies it, revealing a mind oscillating between proof and doubt. Repeated passives—“had been hung,” “had been…filled by the crowd”—erase agency, while the parenthetical dash “—by some one of whom—” inserts a vague culprit, dispersing blame and constructing a convenient chain of causation, prompting the reader to question his reliability.

Additionally, syntax and imagery map a rational route for the phenomenon. “Thrown, through an open window, into my chamber” layers prepositional phrases to plot a step-by-step trajectory, lending a quasi-forensic clarity. The violent verb “thrown” normalises the event by supplying a mundane mechanism. Complex, hypotactic sentence forms, studded with qualifiers, mirror his laborious reconstruction, while the formal idiom “with the view of—” breaks off mid-thought, betraying the limits of his explanation and how his logic cannot quite contain what he witnessed.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A clear Level 3 response would explain how tentative modality and distancing passives show rationalisation: 'must have' and 'probably' signal uncertainty, while 'had been hung', 'had been immediately filled' and the formal 'with the view of' create a controlled, self-justifying tone. It would also note how complex syntax and punctuation organise his thoughts—'reflection came to my aid', 'I remembered', 'Upon the alarm of fire', and the parenthetical 'by some one of whom'—framing violent actions like 'cut' and 'thrown, through an open window' as a logical explanation.

The writer personifies reason to show the narrator trying to rationalise the shock. In “at length reflection came to my aid,” “reflection” is given agency, suggesting logic is a rescuer that steadies him. The adverbial phrase “at length” hints at a long struggle to make sense of events, while the first-person “I remembered” signals a deliberate, conscious reconstruction of what happened.

Moreover, the long, complex sentence beginning “Upon the alarm of fire” mirrors his step-by-step reasoning. The parenthesis marked by dashes—“by some one of whom”—shows a mind inserting possibilities as it goes, and the passive verbs “must have been cut” and “thrown” distance the agent, making the account sound objective. The modal auxiliary “must have” conveys confident inference rather than certainty, and precise prepositional detail (“through an open window,” “into my chamber”) creates a forensic tone, as if he is plotting a logical chain of causes.

Additionally, the hedging adverb “probably” in “This had probably been done” undercuts his certainty, while the formal register of “with the view of” dresses speculation as reasoned argument. Altogether, these choices present a narrator actively constructing a rational explanation to make sense of what he saw, even as hints of doubt remain.

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 shows the narrator trying to think logically, with "reflection came to my aid" and "I remembered", as he explains what happened. Words like "must have been" and "probably", and the long sentence with a dash ("Upon the alarm of fire... by some one of whom"), make his explanation sound uncertain and step-by-step.

The writer uses personification, “reflection came to my aid,” to show he turns to thinking to explain what he saw. It makes his reasoning seem like help that rescues him from shock. Moreover, the adverbs “at length” and “immediately” organise time and cause, so his story feels logical. The passive verbs “had been hung” and “had been immediately filled” make the events sound factual and distant. Furthermore, the modal phrases “must have been” and “probably” show he is guessing but trying to sound certain, which presents his attempt to make sense. Additionally, the long, complex sentence with a dash and extra detail—“by some one of whom the animal must have been cut…and thrown”—and the precise route “through an open window, into my chamber” mirror his step-by-step explanation, while the unfinished phrase “with the view of” suggests his reasoning is still not finished. Therefore, the language shows him building an explanation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies simple thinking words like 'reflection came to my aid' and 'I remembered' to show the narrator is trying to work it out. Notices tentative words such as 'must have been' and 'probably' to show uncertainty, and may mention the dash in 'the crowd—' as a pause.

The writer uses personification to show the narrator trying to explain, as in “reflection came to my aid,” which makes thinking sound like help. He also uses the verb “remembered” to show he is going back over events. Moreover, words like “must have been” and “probably” suggest uncertainty, so he is guessing to make sense of it. Furthermore, the long sentence with a dash and details like “through an open window” shows he is explaining it step by step. Overall, the language presents his effort to find a logical cause for what he saw.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:

• Personification of reason frames his shift into logical thinking as rescue, showing a self-conscious effort to rationalise (reflection came to my aid).
• Discourse marker and temporal adverbial signal a move from reaction to analysis, emphasising delayed, deliberate thought (But at length).
• Parenthetical memory tag asserts authority of recall, bolstering the plausibility of his explanation (I remembered).
• Passive voice distances agency and implies objectivity, constructing an impersonal causal chain (had been hung).
• Modal verb and hedging adverb reveal inference rather than certainty, highlighting tentative, pieced-together reasoning (must have been).
• Long, multi-clause syntax with a dash and relative clause mirrors step-by-step reconstruction of events (by some one of whom).
• Temporal-causal connective and action sequence create a clear timeline to justify his theory (Upon the alarm of fire).
• Concrete spatial details make the hypothesis feel tangible and credible, anchoring speculation in place (through an open window).
• Indefinite agent and collective noun shift responsibility to unknown others, keeping the account unfalsifiable (some one).
• Unfinished purpose clause gestures toward motive yet leaves it hanging, exposing residual uncertainty (with the view of).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the middle of a story.

How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of eeriness?

You could write about:

• how eeriness intensifies 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 show how the writer structures a trajectory from immediate terror at an 'apparition' with a 'rope about the animal’s neck' to pseudo-rationalising the image via 'lime' and 'ammonia', which perversely leaves a 'deep impression', then rebuilds tension with a delayed reveal of 'some black object' and an uncanny double 'closely resembling him in every respect but one'. It would also track how temporal sequencing—'For months', 'One night', 'By slow degrees'—maps a tonal shift from 'appeared delighted' to 'unutterable loathing', cumulatively intensifying the eeriness.

One way in which the writer structures eeriness is by pairing an initial shock with a cool rationalising digression. We open with an “apparition” and the “rope about the animal’s neck,” so the narrative begins in terror. A pivot follows (“But at length reflection came to my aid”): a causal analepsis (“had been cut… thrown… compressed… the lime… the ammonia”) works as a narrative pause. Even with this logic, the shift to “For months I could not rid myself” shows the fear persisting and deepening.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace to stage a delayed revelation. The setting shifts to “vile haunts… a den of more than infamy”; although his attention is “suddenly drawn,” he has been staring “for some minutes,” slowing time until the revelation: “It was a black cat.” Uncanny doubling (“fully as large as Pluto… except one”) replays the past, while the “indefinite splotch of white” seeds foreshadowing. The landlord’s triadic negatives — “made no claim… knew nothing… had never seen it before” — erase provenance, so it feels fated.

A further structural feature is incremental escalation through antithesis and temporal markers. The creature “domesticated itself at once,” breaching the home, but the narrator’s revulsion accrues “by slow degrees… very gradually,” slowing the pace into dread that “rose into the bitterness of hatred.” In counterpoint, “its partiality… seemed to increase,” a symmetrical pattern that tightens unease. The sustained first‑person focalisation, punctuated by parenthetical hesitations (“—I know not how or why it was—”), confines us within his unstable psyche, sustaining eeriness.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain how the writer structures a progression from rationalising the apparition—Although I thus readily accounted to my reason—to renewed unease via a delayed reveal of some black object that I had not sooner perceived before It was a black cat, creating suspense. It would also note structural echoes and time shifts—closely resembling him yet with a splotch of white and deprived of one of its eyes, plus For months and By slow degrees—to show eeriness intensifying into bitterness of hatred.

One way the writer structures eeriness is the movement from shock to strained rationalisation. The extract opens with the narrator’s "terror" at an "apparition", then a cause-and-effect explanation ("flames", "ammonia") that slows the pace and explains the mark. However, there is a tonal contrast: "it did not... fail to make a deep impression", and the temporal marker "For months" extends the haunting.

In addition, the writer uses a shift in focus and delayed revelation to unsettle. The setting switches to a tavern, and the narrator is "suddenly drawn" to "some black object" he "had not sooner perceived"—a withholding that heightens unease. The zoom from the hogshead to "It was a black cat" jolts, while "in every respect but one" suggests an uncanny double. The landlord’s denial ("had never seen it before") leaves it unaccounted for, deepening the eeriness.

A further structural feature is pacing and repetition of motifs. Urgent transitions ("at once") are juxtaposed with "by slow degrees" and "very gradually", so the narrator’s "loathing" accrues creepingly. The sustained first-person perspective traps us in his disturbed mind. The cat being "deprived of one of its eyes" echoes Pluto, a cyclical pattern suggesting the past returning and intensifying the sinister mood.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might say the structure builds eeriness by moving from a logical explanation (But at length reflection came to my aid) to lingering fear (For months I could not rid myself) and then a sudden discovery (One night my attention was suddenly drawn), so the tension increases. It would also spot the gradual change in feeling (By slow degrees ... into the bitterness of hatred) and repeated links to the first cat (closely resembling him, deprived of one of its eyes), which makes it feel creepy.

One way the writer creates eeriness is how the beginning moves from shock to an explanation. At the start he sees an 'apparition' and his 'terror' is extreme, then he explains it with 'plaster', 'lime' and 'ammonia'. This change in focus calms it for a moment, but the mood stays creepy.

In addition, time markers are used. 'For months' and 'One night' show the middle stretching out while the 'phantasm' stays with him. The reveal in the tavern is delayed - he stares for 'some minutes' before seeing the 'black object' - so suspense grows.

A further feature is the gradual build at the end. Repetition like 'by slow degrees... very gradually' and the detail that the cat is also 'deprived of one... eye' make the eeriness stronger. The first-person voice keeps us inside his uneasy thoughts.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Eeriness grows as the text shifts from my wonder and my terror were extreme to reflection came to my aid, but the lingering phantasm of the cat and the sudden arrival of a black cat bring the fear back. The gradual change in mood (By slow degrees) to the bitterness of hatred, plus the later reveal it was deprived of one of its eyes, make the ending feel creepier.

One way the writer structures the text to create eeriness is by starting with fear then calm. It begins with the cat as an apparition, then gives an explanation, but the strange feeling stays.

In addition, time words move the story on. “For months” shows it lasting, then “One night” suddenly brings the new cat. This change in time makes it feel creepy and unsure.

A further structural feature is the gradual build. Words like “very gradually” and going from dislike to “hatred” show the feeling getting worse, which adds to the eerie mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:

• Opens on a sudden apparition to jolt the reader, fusing exactness with the uncanny (this apparition)
• A pivot from panic to rationalisation cools the tone yet breeds dissonance and doubt (reflection came to my aid)
• Clinical causation (fire, walls, lime, carcass) imposes order on horror, making it disturbingly plausible (ammonia)
• Reason’s failure to soothe keeps the unease active in the narrator’s imagination (deep impression)
• A time shift shows the dread lingering long after the event, magnifying the haunting (For months)
• Descent into sordid spaces primes menace before the next encounter (den of more than infamy)
• Delayed noticing engineers a slow-burn reveal that feels unsettlingly wrong (not sooner perceived)
• Doubling tightens into uncanny mirroring as the new cat repeats the old injury (deprived of one)
• Boundary-crossing domesticity turns the home into a site of unease (domesticated itself at once)
• Opposing trajectories—his aversion grows as the cat’s fondness rises—intensify claustrophobic inevitability (seemed to increase)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 66 to the end.

In this part of the source, the narrator’s sudden hatred for the affectionate cat seems completely irrational. The writer suggests this reaction comes from the narrator's own guilt, not from anything the cat has actually done.

To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator's irrational hatred for the new cat
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the narrator's guilt
• 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: Level 4: Typically argues to a great extent that the writer frames the hatred as guilt-driven rather than any wrongdoing by the cat, supporting this with close analysis of the narrator’s admissions (I know not how or why it was, a certain sense of shame, remembrance of my former deed of cruelty) and of craft choices such as affection inverted (the cat’s evident fondness for myself provoking disgust and annoyance, By slow degrees into the bitterness of hatred), symbolic doubling (like Pluto, deprived of one of its eyes), and hyperbole (as from the breath of a pestilence).

I largely agree that the narrator’s hatred is irrational and is rooted in his own guilt, rather than anything the cat does. From the outset of this section, the writer engineers a benign, even tender context: the narrator “continued [his] caresses” and “permitted” the animal to accompany him, “patting it” as they go. The cat “domesticated itself at once” and becomes “a great favorite” with the wife. This sequence of affectionate verbs and the swift integration into the home position the cat as harmless; structurally, this makes the subsequent loathing appear starkly disproportionate.

Against this gentle set‑up, the narrator’s admission that he “found a dislike to it arising” and “know[s] not how or why” foregrounds irrationality. The writer intensifies this paradox by juxtaposing the cat’s “evident fondness” with the narrator’s “disgust” and “annoy[ance]”: the oxymoronic pairing of fondness and disgust exposes a perverse reaction that cannot be justified by the cat’s behaviour. The escalation is carefully paced through incremental repetition and adverbial phrasing—“by slow degrees,” then “very gradually”—so that irritation “rose into the bitterness of hatred.” This structural drift feels less like reasoned judgment and more like an inward moral infection.

Crucially, the source of that infection is named: “a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty” restrain him from physical abuse. The writer’s choice of euphemism (“deed of cruelty”) simultaneously acknowledges and distances the crime, suggesting unresolved guilt. Disease imagery in the simile “to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence” externalises that self‑loathing: he treats the cat as contagion when, in fact, the corruption is his own conscience. The hyperbolic lexis—“unutterable loathing,” “odious”—further signals projection rather than rational cause.

The discovery that the new cat, “like Pluto,” lacks “one of its eyes” operates as an explicit trigger. The comparative reference functions as a mirror, forcing him to confront his earlier violence. His assertive modality—“What added, no doubt, to my hatred”—reads as retrospective rationalisation: he seeks a cause in the cat’s appearance, but the writer implies it is what the cat signifies that he cannot bear. The contrast with his wife, whose “humanity of feeling” “had once been [his] distinguishing trait,” sharpens this idea of moral decline and shame. Finally, the ironic inversion—“with my aversion… its partiality for myself seemed to increase”—reinforces the cat’s innocence while amplifying his torment.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer presents a disproportionate, guilt-saturated hatred that arises from memory and shame, not the cat’s actions. If not “completely” irrational psychologically—its likeness to Pluto is a plausible trigger—it remains ethically baseless, and the writer frames it as the narrator’s projection of his own corrupted conscience.

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 that the writer presents the hatred as irrational and guilt-driven, explaining through contrast and emotive language: the cat’s "evident fondness" meets the narrator’s "I know not how or why" disgust, while his "a certain sense of shame" and "remembrance of my former deed of cruelty" fuel the projected "unutterable loathing." It might add that the likeness to Pluto — "deprived of one of its eyes" — works as a guilt trigger rather than a justification, especially since the cat’s "partiality for myself seemed to increase."

I agree to a large extent that the narrator’s hatred is irrational and driven by his own guilt rather than anything the cat does. At first, the animal is presented as harmless and affectionate: it “evinced a disposition to accompany me” and “domesticated itself at once,” becoming “a great favorite with my wife.” Against this benign behaviour, the narrator’s sudden reversal—“I soon found a dislike to it arising within me… I know not how or why”—signals an illogical reaction. The juxtaposition of the cat’s “evident fondness” with his being “disgusted and annoyed” highlights how his response is out of proportion.

The writer develops this irrationality through structure and language. The gradual escalation—“By slow degrees… very gradually”—shows resentment swelling without cause. Hyperbolic and emotive nouns and adjectives (“unutterable loathing,” “odious presence”) exaggerate the threat, while the simile “to flee… as from the breath of a pestilence” uses a semantic field of disease to suggest a pathological, not rational, aversion. This figurative language makes the hatred feel like a projection rather than a reasoned response to the cat.

Crucially, the narrator’s own admissions point to guilt as the source. He confesses that “a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty” stopped him from attacking the animal. The discovery that the cat, “like Pluto… had been deprived of one of its eyes,” “added… to my hatred” because it mirrors his past violence. The contrast with his wife—this same trait “endeared it to my wife”—underscores that the cat’s condition is innocent, but his conscience is not. Even the irony that the cat’s “partiality for myself seemed to increase” suggests his loathing feeds on being reminded of his own cruelty, not on any wrongdoing by the cat.

Overall, I largely agree: the writer presents the hatred as irrational, intensifying through guilt and shame. Any “reason” (the missing eye) is only a reminder of his crime, so the blame lies with the narrator’s conscience, not the cat.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Typically notes the hatred seems irrational because the cat shows "evident fondness" and "partiality for myself", yet the narrator feels "disgusted and annoyed" and grows to "bitterness of hatred". Links this to guilt by citing "a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty", perhaps adding the exaggerated image "as from the breath of a pestilence" to show overreaction.

I mostly agree with the statement. The narrator’s hatred of the new cat does seem irrational, and the writer suggests it comes from his own guilt rather than anything the cat does.

At first the cat is harmless and friendly: it “evinced a disposition to accompany me” and he “continued my caresses.” It “domesticated itself at once” and is a “great favorite” with his wife. Despite this, the narrator admits “I know not how or why” a “dislike” begins. This confession makes his reaction seem unreasonable. The first-person narration lets us hear his thoughts directly, so we notice the lack of a clear cause.

The writer shows the feeling growing “by slow degrees” and “very gradually” into “bitterness of hatred.” This repetition of adverbs suggests a steady build-up, not triggered by the cat’s actions. The simile “as from the breath of a pestilence” makes his loathing extreme, as if the cat were a disease, which seems over the top.

Crucially, the narrator mentions a “sense of shame” and the “remembrance of my former deed of cruelty” stopping him from abusing it. This points to guilt. When he discovers the cat has also been “deprived of one of its eyes,” “like Pluto,” the similarity becomes a constant reminder of what he did before. The contrast with his wife, for whom this “endeared it,” highlights how his response is not normal. The cat’s “partiality for myself seemed to increase,” showing it is affectionate, not threatening.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents the narrator’s hatred as largely irrational and driven by shame and memory, not by anything the cat actually does.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response typically identifies simple agreement that the hatred is irrational, noting the cat’s evident fondness and the narrator’s a certain sense of shame and remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, to show his bitterness of hatred comes from guilt rather than anything the cat did.

I agree to a large extent that the narrator's hatred is irrational and comes from guilt. At the start of this part, the cat is very affectionate. It ‘evinced a disposition to accompany me,’ then ‘domesticated itself at once’ and became a ‘favorite with my wife.’ This shows the cat has done nothing wrong. The writer uses words like the adjective ‘fondness’ to show kindness, but the narrator says he felt ‘disgusted and annoyed.’ He even admits, ‘I know not how or why it was,’ which makes it seem irrational.

His dislike rises ‘by slow degrees’ and ‘gradually—very gradually.’ This repetition shows the build-up. He also has ‘a certain sense of shame’ and remembers his ‘former deed of cruelty,’ which suggests guilt. He begins to ‘flee… as from the breath of a pestilence.’ The simile makes his reaction sound over-the-top. The one-eyed cat, ‘like Pluto,’ also reminds him of his crime, so his hatred grows even more.

With his aversion, the cat’s ‘partiality for myself seemed to increase,’ so the more the cat loves him, the worse he feels. Overall, I agree the writer shows the hatred is irrational and caused by guilt, not by the cat.

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:

• First-person rationalisation versus conscience signals cognitive dissonance, suggesting guilt drives his perceptions rather than the cat’s actions (if not altogether to my conscience)
• Haunting fixation implies a mind burdened by guilt, colouring his reactions to the new animal (could not rid myself)
• Initial regret and replacement-seeking hint at remorse motivating his choices, not any fault in the creature (regret the loss)
• Juxtaposition of tender animal behaviour with his disgust frames his hostility as unfounded and self-generated (evident fondness for myself)
• Self-confessed absence of reason underlines the irrational basis of his growing aversion (I know not how or why)
• Gradual escalation structure points to an internally brewing obsession rather than external provocation (By slow degrees)
• Lexis of shame and recalled cruelty shows guilt both restrains violence and fuels aversion (former deed of cruelty)
• Disease imagery suggests projection of his own moral corruption onto the cat, intensifying repulsion (breath of a pestilence)
• The one-eyed resemblance offers a partial rationale—a reminder of his crime—yet confirms guilt as the true trigger (deprived of one of its eyes)
• Contrast with the wife’s affectionate response positions the cat as blameless and the narrator’s judgment as unreliable (endeared it to my wife)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

An international conservation charity is gathering creative writing for its youth magazine.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a remote place where a rare animal lives from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a long journey to find something precious.

(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.

• 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.

• 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.

• 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.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• 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:

Snow upholsters the world; even sound seems padded, cautious. In this high northern basin, above the last road and the last excuse for a map, the forest stands still as a verdict. Fir and spruce rise in regimented ranks, their shoulders thick with hoarfrost, their shadows blue as bruises across the drifts. A river—remembering movement—lies under a rind of ice; light glances off its milky plates. The air is so clean it almost tastes metallic, a cold coin held under the tongue. Distance has settled here; silence holds.

Wind travels like a rumour: a whisper between needles, a susurrus, then nothing. Above, the winter sun is a pale disc, brittle, beautiful, insufficient; it hangs. Every so often, a bough unburdens itself and sheds a veil of powder—shhh—then the hush composes itself again. The ridge beyond lifts like the spine of a sleeping giant, snow scoring every rib; behind it, more whiteness. Here the rhythm is slow: drip from a stubborn icicle; a distant crack as ice shifts; the soft settling of flakes.

At the copse where the trees stoop, prints punctuate the drift: ovals with thin commas of claw—too large for fox, too deliberate for dog. They arrive and seem to reconsider themselves, fading where spindrift curls in small scrolls. It lives here: the winterglass wolf, seldom seen, almost superstition. Not white, not quite; rather, a shade that pretends to be absence, its coat catching the light and returning it as a low blue. Its eyes are old honey sealed in ice. When it breathes, the air flowers in ghostly blossoms—brief, brief, gone.

It steps from the pines with the economy of a practised thought. Muscles ripple beneath the fur—spare, made by miles; this is a body the distance designed. Each footfall is nearly silent; even so, the snow makes a squeak, a complaint too polite to matter. The wolf listens more than it looks. It drinks the forest with its ears; the tail writes a sentence along the crust and, with a final flick, edits it away. A feather drops; the creature watches it turn, and time seems to slow, almost to a crawl.

Beyond the frozen river, the valley opens like a cold hand; in spring, it will loosen, releasing water, scent, sound. For now, everything is pared back to essentials—resin, iron, breath. No fences, only thresholds: spruce gives up to ice; daylight unthreads into a wide, colourless night; then the night is stitched with green silk as aurora lifts and drapes. Under that ghostly cloth, the winterglass wolf is a rumour among constellations. If someone were here, they might call it breathtaking. The place will outlast the impulse. The land holds its rare animal, and the animal holds its rare land—mutual, necessary, secret.

Option B:

Dawn was the hour when promises looked possible; a pale seam of light unpicked the night while the road ahead composed itself in confident, silvery lines. Frost fretted the hedgerows, the fields breathed out little ghosts of mist, and telegraph wires sang their thin, metallic hymns. Journeys always begin like this—quietly, almost politely—before time gathers speed and the miles grow teeth.

Iris cinched the buckles on her scuffed rucksack and tested the weight with a small, brave nod. Inside were the essentials: a creased map like a folded bird; a flask of tea; a heel of bread and a wedge of cheese; a notebook of phone numbers; the postcard whose message she knew by heart—Darling girl, keep this safe; it is your grandmother’s words—and, pertinently, the absence that tugged at everything. The blue notebook, her mother’s blue notebook, had slipped from their lives in the flurry of a house-clearance, vanishing as innocently as a gull into cloud. Recipes, little sketches, names and dates, fragments of history written in her mother’s looping hand: all the small, stubborn details that memory forgets and paper remembers. Precious wasn’t the right word, really—indispensable was closer, though even that felt flimsy.

The trail was ridiculous and real. A receipt found under a chair cushion; a volunteer on a crackling line who thought she recalled a man with paint on his cuffs buying “a sky-blue journal with a frayed ribbon”; a town three trains away where the charity shop window wore a gaudy crown of porcelain cats. Iris wrote it all down as if coordinates could hold when grief could not. She tucked the postcard deeper into the bag and, almost superstitiously, pressed her palm to the canvas. It was not much and it had to be enough.

At the station the air smelt of coffee and brake-dust. Announcements unfurled—sibilant, self-important—and the concourse was a palimpsest of hurry: boots, umbrellas, wheeled suitcases with careless elbows. She bought a ticket with fingers that felt fumbly and slow. How do you measure the distance between a memory and its paper body? She tried to calculate it in platforms, in departures, in the strange camaraderie of strangers standing shivering under a shared clock. Even so, beneath the arithmetic she felt something unlooked-for: a thin filament of excitement, like a wire glowing.

On the train, the carriage rocked into motion—an unshowy miracle—and the city fell away in panes: brick, billboard, allotment, sky. Hedgerows resumed their patient arguments. A lone horse flicked an inattentive ear. Iris let the rhythm of wheels become a metronome and rehearsed what she would say if (when) she found the man with paint on his cuffs. Nothing elaborate: a simple plea, the truth. She could be elaborate later. The countryside opened like a book written in a language she half-remembered—familiar, but with blanks she would have to sound out—and the horizon kept moving, as horizons do.

After all, this was not about treasure that glittered; it was about ink that did. If luck was merely preparation meeting opportunity, she would prepare, and she would meet whatever came: the wrong street, the wrong shop, the right voice saying wait. A pilgrimage of small, stubborn steps. And somewhere ahead, folded into the day like a secret, the blue that matched her mother’s eyes.

• Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)

Option A:

Beyond the last road, the land forgets its own name. It opens into a white amphitheatre of spruce and stone, a bowl of cold light where sound freezes before it can form; the sky, washed thin, hangs low, and the sun is a coin rubbed smooth by many fingers.

Here the air tastes of iron and resin; it scours the mouth, clean and a little bitter. Snow squeaks under a boot, then resumes its tight composure, blank and meticulous. Trees stand as black calligraphy on an endless page, their needles wearing a glittering crust—minute knives that catch and let go. It looks deserted. It is not empty; it is attentive. When the wind remembers itself, it writes brief messages across the drifts: arabesques that curl, dissolve, curl again.

In this patient wilderness lives something most people never see. They call it the glass wolf in the low towns; the name is wrong and right at once. At noon it is almost not there, a mirage stitched to the air by fur that borrows the colour of whatever it passes by. At dusk a tilted ear is edged in rose, a flank flickers with aurora, a paw print sets its arrow. It moves as weather moves—deliberate, unhurried, exact.

Sometimes it watches from the timberline, head lifted, nostrils quivering at the faint salt trace you cannot help but carry. Its breath—breathe and pause, breathe and pause—hangs like a glass ornament and then falls, gone. The eyes are not mystical; they are practical amber, busy with calculation. Broad-pawed, it ghosts through drifts that would drown a deer, skirting the creek where black water shows its teeth. It hunts the small fires that persist here: ptarmigan, hare, vole; it takes what it needs and leaves neat hieroglyphs of passage.

When night folds down, the cold gains weight; the stars feel near enough to breathe upon. Even the old ice begins to speak, a bass note under the bark of a far fox, under the minute drip in the cave of a stump. For a moment, time stands still. In that pause the place seems to decide whether to keep you, and the wolf, or to let you go. With a shake that sends a pale glitter through the air, it slides between trunks, and the forest reknits itself. The clearing remains: a bowl of light, a page waiting.

Option B:

Maps tell comfortable lies. On paper, the world folds into neat corners; miles flatten; oceans shrink to a thumbprint of blue. The line to the lighthouse looked harmless—a stroke, a dot, a name in small print. Under my boots, the word far had teeth.

I zipped the rucksack; inside, everything that felt necessary and nothing that truly was: a flask, two apples, the compass that had been Granddad's, and the letter (creased, tobacco-scented) that drew me north. The thing I wanted wasn't gold. It was paper and ink; it was the last he wrote to her. Precious, because it was almost gone.

November's air tasted metallic; breath hung like faint ghosts. Street lamps blinked themselves out, one by one, as if they, too, were tired of watching people leave. I left before anyone could say "be careful" again. The plan was inelegant but sturdy: bus, train, path, then—if the weather behaved—a small hired boat to the rock that held the lighthouse in its cold fist.

On the bus, the seats were shiny with old stories. A woman knitted something the colour of rain; a boy in a green hoodie slept with his mouth open. I wondered whether I had mistaken stubbornness for courage. What does precious mean, if not the ache of it? I pressed my thumb against the letter through the canvas and felt the ridges of hurried words, like Braille I didn't fully know how to read.

At the station, gulls argued over nothing. The boards clicked and changed; a voice announced delays with polite despair. The compass needle fussed and trembled; so did I. Still, I had made a rule I could keep: don't turn back. Not when the train door sighed open; not when the wind shoved; not later, when the sea tried to persuade me otherwise.

The train shouldered past warehouses and allotments, then into fields that held winter in their knuckles. Hedges unspooled; pylons marched; the sea arrived in flashes—a strip of pewter, a mouthful of salt. I counted stiles and tried not to count doubts. In my pocket, the letter warmed; in my palm, the compass steadied. Somewhere ahead, under loose stones on a black rock, a tin box waited.

It was a small thing to cross so many miles for—a handful of pages no heavier than breath—but it was, somehow, everything.

• Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)

Option A:

Far beyond the last road, the forest holds its breath. Snow is everywhere, a blank sheet spread to the horizon; it hushes the earth until even your thoughts sound loud. Pines stand like long, dark spears; frost rims each needle, each twig, as if the trees have been dipped into crushed glass. The cold presses in, not cruelly, but decisively. It stings the nostrils, prickles the throat, and tastes faintly metallic—like a coin resting on the tongue.

Here, light behaves differently. Morning arrives reluctantly, sliding through the branches in slanted, pale stripes. A river, if it can still be called that, lies under a rigid lid of ice; the water troubles itself somewhere below, murmuring, waiting. The wind drifts powder across the clearing, back and forth, back and forth, and then stops, and the world is still again. Sound, when it comes, is small: the soft creak of a distant trunk; a feathered rush as a raven adjusts its black, glossy shoulder.

It is in this wide, white quiet that the glass wolf lives. That is not its true name, of course—it has no need of names—but the coat it wears reflects the winter so faithfully that it seems transparent from a few steps away. You do not see it first; you feel the air lift, you feel attention, as if the forest itself has turned its head. Then, a shape materialises at the edges: long-limbed, narrow-muzzled, ears pricked like commas in a sentence. Its eyes hold a thin, amber light; their watchfulness is patient.

The animal moves with a measured certainty: careful, careful, pause. It writes nothing on the snow unless it chooses to; even its prints are neat ellipses that drift closed behind it. When it crosses the river’s frozen spine, it tests each step, reading the thickness through the pads of its feet. It eats little, less than you would think, taking what the place will give—voles, a sleeping grouse, the moonlight itself (that is how it looks), and the marrow of silence.

No path cuts to this clearing; no signposts lean and point. The only lines are the shadows, long and thin, and the furrows left by deer that pass through and keep moving. Sometimes the wolf raises its head, scenting a future you can’t imagine, then lowers it again, committed to now.

At dusk, the sky bruises from milk-blue to indigo. Breath ghosts from tree to tree. A single note peels from the wolf—not loud, but clear—and hangs there, trembling; it is both invitation and warning. Then it folds itself back into the whiteness, and the forest, remote as ever, resumes its waiting.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of departures; doors shrugging open, cats slipping under fences, the road still wet with last night’s weather. Our street held its breath, while the sea behind the houses muttered in a long, grey voice. Mist laced the allotments; bins wore crowns of dew; the sky, pale as paper, waited for ink.

In my pocket, the paper was soft from being unfolded again. A hand-drawn map, stained with tea, lined with my grandmother’s cramped notes: three ash trees, a blackthorn gate, a stream that sounds like bees. She told me once—half-laughing—that she hid her swallow brooch on the moor before evacuation. She never showed me. What is precious is not only the metal; it is the echo of her voice; it is belonging.

I zipped my rucksack, twice for luck, and stepped into the thin light. At the corner, the bus stop leaned like a tired sentinel. A milk van clattered past; a newspaper slapped a doorstep. When the bus came it sighed to a halt, exhaling warm diesel. 'Single to Hawksbridge,' I said. 'Long way,' the driver replied, not unkindly. I nodded. The coins chimed in the tray. My hands were already cold.

Fields unrolled, green upon green, stitched with hedges and stone. Crows swung like commas above furrows; sheep dotted the slopes. By the time we turned inland, the sun gilded the wet roofs; leaving the last suburb, something inside me loosened. How far would I go for a thing that can sit in my palm? Far enough. I pressed my thumb to the map until the paper shivered.

However long it took—a day, a week, a tangle of wrong turns—I would go. The journey would be a chain of small acts: buses, then a train; a lane that narrowed into a track; boots eating distance; rain; asking for directions that were more stories than routes. I was not brave, not really, but I was stubborn. The road hummed beneath the tyres, and somewhere ahead a moor waited with its black water and its birds. I breathed out, and began.

• Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)

Option A:

The forest sits at the end of the world, or it feels like it does. Under a thin winter sun the hills fold into each other, white upon white. The pines stand close; their shadows are blue and long. There are no roads: only the white ribbon of a river sealed in ice. Even the air tastes sharp, metallic—so clean it almost hurts.

Here the silence is almost deafening. Snow swallows footfall, and every sound carries. Sometimes a far-off crack opens the stillness: a branch shifting, the river turning, a raven stitching the sky. The wind brushes loose crystals backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. The place feels patient, as if waiting for years.

In this hollow lives a rare creature: the frost-wolf, pale and elusive. Its coat is silver-white; it catches the thin light and seems translucent, like breath on a mirror. Amber eyes watch from the shade. When it moves, it is quiet, gliding between roots as if the forest trained it. Sometimes it pauses, ears pricked, listening to the snow itself.

It lowers its muzzle to the brittle crust, tasting iron in the cold. Resin, ice, the faint scent of hare—it reads them the way I read a page. Paws press neat ovals; then the track vanishes under a drift. The trees whisper; the wolf lifts its head—alert, calm.

At night green ribbons cross the sky; the river groans under starlight. Hardly anyone comes here, so it survives: a pale thought in a dark forest, a secret kept by the cold.

Option B:

Morning crept along the terraced street, brushing the roofs with a dull, pearl light. Windows blinked awake; kettles began to hiss. On the kitchen table, the map lay like a sleeping animal, all folds and scars. I smoothed it with my palm and felt the paper's roughness. Today it would finally lead me somewhere instead of just decorating the corner.

Nan used to say the precious things weren't always gold. Sometimes they were small and stubborn, like a seed. The locket she wore every day had both: metal and memory. When she slipped it into my hand the night she fell ill, the chain snapped and the charm slid between the floorboards, into the house's throat. After the funeral, the builders took the house; soon the lot was a fenced hole. I promised I'd find it anyway. The rubble had been hauled to the coast; dumped beyond the town at a yard with cranes and salt wind.

My backpack sagged with water, sandwiches, a torch, and Nan's old compass—ornamental, but it still pointed at something. The list on the fridge said: bus to Roseway; change at the airport; ferry across the estuary; walk to the yard. It looked simple on paper. Outside, the air smelled of wet dust. At the stop, the timetable shook on its metal frame, rattled by a thin wind. People stood like punctuation marks: a dash of scarf, a question of a boy with a case.

The bus growled up, sighed, and swallowed us. Seats were patched, warm in places, cold in others. I sat by the window. Buildings slid away and fields opened like pages; pylons stepped across them in tall, iron strides. Was I chasing a trinket or a promise? I didn't know; I only knew one thing: I could not go back. Rain began, tapping at the glass—steady, patient. The wheels kept turning. So did I.

• Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)

Option A:

Silence lives here. It sits on the high plateau like a patient cat. The land is a pale sheet of snow, white upon white, while black firs stand like spears. The sun hangs low, a dull coin; the sky is a thin glass lid. Wind is thin, it whistles between the trees and rubs the branches, again and again. The lake is frozen; it wears a milk-blue skin that cracks with tiny clicks. The air tastes metallic. Pine resin stings; the cold bites through gloves.

This is where the Glass Wolf lives. It is rare for a reason, it learned to vanish in this transluscent world. Its coat gathers light and then gives it back in a soft shimmer; sometimes you see only a moving braid of brightness. It moves like smoke between trunks. Its eyes are pale—two coins in a narrow face—and they flicker, not afraid. Snow hardly holds its weight. Prints appear then vanish, as if the ground forgets. When it exhales, its breath hangs like small ghosts—then snaps, gone.

Beyond the ridge there is nothing: no road, no roof, no map. Here time drags, then suddenly runs. Sometimes the sky unrolls green curtains and the wolf lifts its head to listen, to some quiet song. The trees lean; the wind answers with a tired groan. I shift my boots; the crust cracks, loud in the hush. I feel small under so much sky. Who would come this far? Only this creature, and the quiet. Only the quiet.

Option B:

Dawn. The time when roads hold their breath; when bags gape and lists don’t help. I folded the creased letter until my thumbs ached. It was my mother’s handwriting, brave loops, with a tiny map in the margin. I wasn’t hunting gold. I was going for a small silver locket she lost before I was born, near a river and a broken chimney.

The bus station smelt of diesel and rain. Lights blinked like tired eyes, and the timetable clicked. My rucksack felt like an anchor; straps cut my shoulders. The doors hissed, the driver nodded, and we rolled out past shuttered shops and a dog that chased our shadow. How far would I go for a memory?

Fields slid by like a slow green river; pylons stepped after us. I tried to plan: bus to train, then feet—maybe a borrowed bike. Names blurred on signs I couldn’t pronounce. The horizon didn’t move, it just kept getting painted further away. I tasted the metal of coins, and the window glass burned with cold.

Gran used to say, Keep going until the road runs out. Then keep going. Her voice crept between the engine noise. Somewhere ahead was a cottage, a river, a chimney that leaned like a tired man. Somewhere ahead was the precious thing; or maybe just a story. I didn’t know. When the bus stopped in a place I’d never been, I stood, shoulders stiff, and stepped into the thin, bright morning.

• Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)

Option A:

In the far north, the forest stretches out like a white sheet left to dry. Tall fir trees stand in rows, their branches heavy with frost; they hardly move, as if they are tired. The air is so cold it bites your lips and nose, and your breath floats like a cloud. There are no roads, no tracks, no names. If you listen, you hear almost nothing: the faint crack of snow and the whisper of wind.

This is where the Moon Wolf lives, a rare animal people talk about but rarely see. Its fur looks silver in the pale light, and its eyes shine a soft yellow. It steps carefully, soft and slow, soft and slow, leaving neat prints that the next gust will cover. When it moves, the forest watches. The smell of pine sap and clean frost folds around it. Sometimes it lifts its head, and a low call slides out, thin, lonely.

Out here, days pass like snowflakes: separate, silent, cold. The place keeps secrets, and the wolf belongs to them. You might think you saw it between the trees, but did you? It melts back into the white, and the hush closes again, steady, steady.

Option B:

Morning came slow, like a lid lifting from a box. Grey light leaked through the curtains onto the map on my table. The paper was creased, stained with tea, and Grandad’s arrows pointed north. He said the locket was out there, hidden where the river bends twice. Precious, he called it: the last piece of Nan. I traced the line with a shaky finger and something tight pulled inside me.

I packed badly but with determination: boots, biscuits, the dented compass, my cracked phone. The backpack felt heavy as a stone, but I hauled the straps. First I would catch the early bus; then I would walk the lanes, then the fields. Simple, I told myself—simple and long. I wrote a note for Dad, short and messy, and slipped Nan’s photo in my pocket.

At the bus stop the wind fussed my hair and puddles shivered. The bus was late, of course, the driver half asleep, and I almost turned back—I didn’t. The town dissapeared like a curtain closing. Roads unrolled, hedges leaned to whisper, my heart beat quick like a drum. How far could a map really carry me? I checked it; the ink had bled in places, but the arrows still led on.

• Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)

Option A:

The place is far away, past big hills and a empty sky. Snow covers the ground and the pines stand thin. The wind pushes, it keeps pushing, it sounds like a slow whisper. There is no house, no road, only white and trees.

A rare wolf lives here. It is silver and its eyes are pale like ice. Only one thing moves: the wolf.

It moves slow at first, quick, its paws make small crunches; the sound is small and lost. The wolf have scars on its side. Your breath comes out like smoke and you can smell pine sap, it is sharp. The forest watches and the snow waits. It is very quiet, very still, very cold.

There isn’t no path, only marks that get filled again by wind, powder. The sky goes grey, then dark. It waits and waits. The place stays the same.

Option B:

Morning. The road was long and grey. I stood at the end of our street with my small bag. Inside was a map, a sandwich, and the photo of Nans ring. She smiled at me from years ago, it made my chest feel tight. It was small and gold and precious.

They said it was lost at the old house by the sea. So I had to go. I tied my laces wrong and did them again. My hands was shaking like the bus when it turned. I told myself: it is only a long walk, then a bus, then a train; I can do it, I can.

The wind pushed my face. My bag felt heavy like a rock.

I walked.

I walked again the town went thin behind me and fields came flat and muddy. I looked at the picture then, and I put it back fast in case it blew away.

• Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)

Option A:

It is far away, a cold wood with deep snow. The trees stand thin and tall and the sky is pale. The air is quiet and the sound is small. A rare white wolf live there, it moves slow, it looks at me from a long way and then it goes between the trunks. Its paws make soft prints in the snow and the wind make them fade. You can smell ice and pine and your hands hurt. There is no roads, only a narrow path and dark water. I think it is a secret place, sometimes I think of my house and the bus, but here there is nothing.

Option B:

The road was long and grey and I go out early to find the thing that is precious to me, I dont even stop for breakfast. The wind pushes my coat and the rain feels like pins. I keep the small map in my pocket like a secret and my feet are sore already its hard and slow. I think about the box, it is tiny but important, it got lost, it slipped away. I walk and walk and the town is behind me now, fields, fences, a quiet dog. Im tired but I keep going because I have to find it, I have to get it back!