Allison Tebo's Blog, page 11
August 29, 2018
Life At Hedgerose – Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Walking On Water And Walking On Eggshells
Titus had known that something was brewing in Folrolf’s mind since before Spring Festival. His guardian would drift about the house for days, muttering to himself and trailing scraps of parchment—like flotsam in the wake of a receding wave. The paper was covered in strange equations, measurements, and queer, tipsy drawings of figures suspended over wavy lines of water, wearing what looked like giant pumpkins on their feet.
Peculiar behavior was customary behavior for Folrolf. It was only what he was being peculiar about that changed. It was just as customary that Titus ever learned anything about these daily absorptions, thus he didn’t pay much attention until very early one morning several weeks after the Spring Festival.
He was fast asleep when his bedroom door was flung open with a crash that and his quilts ripped forcibly off of him.
Titus lurched forward in bed, swinging his arms in a panic and almost swimming up it to the headboard and cracking his skull against the bed frame, letting out a tortured yell. He was still writhing under a tangle of blankets when Folrolf fished underneath the quilts and heaved him clear to bellow in his ear. “Shake yourself, Titus—we don’t have all day!”
“All day . . . for what?” Titus gasped, rubbing at his eyes. His head was pounding.
“My project,” Folrolf exclaimed, eyeing Titus as if he were more than a little dense. “Are you blind, boy? The project I’ve been working on all week.” He let out a huff of annoyance. “Now come along, come along. Get dressed and find yourself something to eat. I’ve already had my breakfast.” With that, he let Titus drop limply back onto the pillows and swept out of the room.
Titus lay there a moment, groped dully out for a fistful of covers and pulling them over his head. A sudden explosion of a less-then-patient-sounding Harumph! from down the hall sent Titus leaping out of bed and into his pants. He realized darkly that the sharp-eared Folrolf had left the bedroom door open to ensure that Titus didn’t go back to sleep. Folrolf was apparently satisfied with the sounds of Titus stumbling around the room for an instant later, the study door slammed shut.
Titus had barely begun to button his shirt before there was a crash and tramping footsteps. Folrolf swarmed into view long enough to chuck a leather-bound ledger, a drippy inkwell, and a mangled quill on a side table and bellow, “Here Titus, you take notes.” before he whirled away and disappeared again, leaving Titus scrambling to keep up.
Seconds later, with a day old scone in his mouth, his pants pockets full of oat cake and his vest pocket bulging with an orange, his arms full of book, quill and inkwell, Titus staggered out of the house, yawning and feeling vaguely as if he had just inhaled a mouthful of fog. It was as thick as porridge outside, so thick that Titus felt as if the wispy trails of mist were fingers touching his face, like extensions of Folrolf’s bony fingers, prodding at him to make sure he was awake.
Turning slowly to survey the grey morning—rimmed and flecked with dull gold that promised sun and heat but offered neither now—Titus’s gaze caught on a figure behind the cottage. He squinted through the glare and fog and saw Folrolf legging it through the tall grass, carrying two large objects in one hand and supporting too poles over his shoulder with the other—looking like a tall and spindly ghost.
Titus hurried after him and in the subsequent twenty-minute walk—of which he was not very aware, as he stumbled through a physical and mental fog and mechanically chewed on his scone—it slowly dawned on him where they were going.
True to Titus’s suspicions, Folrolf was waiting for him on the bank of Rivenstream when he stumbled out of the undergrowth of Petalmist forest, batting at a patch of briars that had attached itself to his leg.
Folrolf spun around and threw open his arms—his peculiar bundles had been thrown willy-nilly on the ground at his feet. “Ah, Titus! There you are! Sit down and take notes. You are about to witness a truly historic event!”
“What are you going to do?” Titus asked—though glancing at the river and recalling the numerous strange drawings he had been seeing all week, we wasn’t completely surprised when Folrolf looked up and said, “Prepare to be amazed young Titus Benjamin. I am preparing to walk on water!”
He peered deeply into Titus’s face for a moment, as if waiting to receive a suitable reaction.
“Oh,” said Titus, fumbling for his orange.
Folrolf grunted, obviously too excited to care about Titus’s lack of enthusiasm, and sat down on the wet grass. His robes billowed around him, like a hen fluffing her feathers in an effort to get comfortable, and he began to insert his immense boots into the wooden objects he had carried with him to the river, both of which had a carved foot well for this very purpose.
This procedure took some time to accomplish and was accompanied with much grunting and muttering as Titus peeled his orange and peered at the objects curiously. They didn’t look like pumpkins at all; they were more like cucumbers. He noticed that the poles were not fishing poles as he had first believed. They were hefty wooden pools, firm and straight, with hand grips and two disks attached to the ends of them—like plates or lily pads.
Titus shrugged and took his time finding a dry spot on the ground. Once he located a spot to his liking, he stuck his orange in his mouth, and leisurely situated himself. He set the inkwell next to his elbow in tiny hollow of stone in the middle of a large knobby rock, carefully unscrewing the lid as he watched Folrolf procedures with vague interest. He set the sticky bottle top down beside the inkwell, propped the open ledger against his knee, dipped the quill into the inkwell and jotted down the date at the top of the page.
Folrolf tucked his poles under his arm and staggered with some difficulty to the water’s edge, using the branch of a weeping willow that jutted out over the stream to support himself. Titus knew better then to offer to help him. He tapped his quill against his knee and waited.
Apparently Folrolf hadn’t quite thought out how he would launch himself into the water once he actually had his shoe floats on. Clutching his poles, he wrapped his arms around a tree branch for several moments, examining the swirling eddies, slippery bank, and his own peculiar footwear for several moments. Muttering something to himself, he gave a kind of leap—accompanied by a great deal of flapping that made him look uncommonly like a malfunctioning wind-mill that was about to fly to pieces. Titus was surprised when he actually ended up on top of the water instead of under it. He made a notation in his ledger.
Folrolf wobbled and waving his arms a great deal, stabbing viciously at the water with this poles as if he were trying to kill it, not walk across it— and he occasionally found it necessary to clutch at the weeping willow branch behind him, keeping up a constant narration of impolite words between his teeth.
Finally, cherry-red from his exertions, Folrolf was standing very awkwardly erect. Not exactly erect; but much more in the way a knobby-kneed colt would stand in their first moments after birth. Folrolf stood, huffing and vibrating, for one moment under his own power—flushed with victory. And then he tried to straighten his knees and with a whoosh the floats bobbed out from underneath him, the poles flew out of his hands and he fell forward with a terrific crack as his face hit the water.
Titus bent his head over his ledger and wrote carefully. Attempted to walk on water . . . attempt failed.
He looked up just as Folrolf thrashed to the surface. His face was as red as their ripe tomatoes, whether from rage or the icy water, it was difficult to tell. Water cascaded off the battered brim of his hat like an upside down fountain and his robes floated around him like dead leaves. Folrolf spat out a stream of water and punched his fist into the water, howling, “Blast!” at the top of his voice.
There was a sudden spluttering of laughter from the opposite bank.
Titus had to look around for a moment before he saw a gorse gnome sitting under a bush on the opposite bank, several yards to the right of Folrolf. The absurd little thing was rolling about on its back, kicking its almost nonexistent feet in the air and laughing helplessly. Every few moments he would roll into a sitting position, stare at Folrolf as he tried to pull a lily-pad out of his robes, and then dissolve into out-of-control laughter again. Folrolf had finally stood upright in the middle of the stream—the water came to his chest—and was apparently unable to hear the gnome’s merriment, judging from the way he was vigorously shaking his head to and fro and tugging at his ears.
The gnome gave a hysterical hiccup, as if it couldn’t stand to laugh any longer and very slowly sat up, clasped its hands and stared eagerly, with a delighted smile on his ugly face, at the disheveled spectacle in front of him. The sight of Folrolf plucking a dead leaf from his hat proved to be too much for it and it and it burst into laughter again.
This time Folrolf heard it, and his head began whipping in all directions. He looked suspiciously at Titus, and finding him grave as a judge, cast a savage glare up and down the bank until he located the source of the sound. He also had some difficulty seeing the gnome as it blended with its surroundings and when he finally did, he peered distastefully at the gnome, past the hair plastered over his forehead and sagging hat brim and demanded, “And what, pray, is so amusing, creature?”
The gnome giggled into its hands, grinning fiendishly at Folrolf and saying nothing, but its eyes winking devilishly as if it were waiting for some new entertainment.
Folrolf glared imperiously at the gnome, wrenched his hat off, and wrung it out. This caused his already disheveled hair to fly into even more disarray and brought a new wave of laughter from the bank.
Folrolf, realizing the laughter was directed at him, glowered fiercely at the gnome. Titus was well-versed enough in the ways of Folrolf to recognize the expression as an indication that Folrolf was being pushed beyond his limit. His eyebrows rose and fell with his heaving chest as he struggled wildly for some insult that would do his feelings justice. The gnome had been laughing into his hands and peeked at Folrolf the way a child peeks at a performing puppy, and he was not disappointed. He pointed at Folrolf’s contorted face and burst into a new explosion of sniggers.
The cork on Folrolf’s anger exploded like a button popping off a shirt and with a furious yell of, “You little hobgoblin!” he began surging across the river towards the gnome like a tidal wave.
The gnome stopped laughing, took one uneasy look the nemesis coming towards him and, with a little squeak, hopped to its feet. It snatched up its robes and took to the woods only a moment before Folrolf reached the bank. Folrolf was after him with impressive speed, and it didn’t take long for the bellowed insults, terrified squeals, and violent thrashings to recede into the quiet of the forest.
Titus scratched his last note into the ledger, Suggest new equipment for further experiments in walking on water, and corked the ink bottle up again. He took his time in cleaning the tip and, setting the quill on the rock to dry, he ate an oat scone and waited, watching the sun finally push its way through the tree tops to spread its beams across the stream.
It wasn’t long before Folrolf came huffing back through the trees again, slapping underbrush aside impatiently and trampling briars underneath his boots with unnecessary vigor.
He plunged without a pause into the river and swarmed across it—pausing in his headlong rush only long enough to collect the floats and poles that were caught in various small whirlpools and knots of reeds. Now that he was closer, Titus could see the eyebrows were nearly knotted together.
Folrolf stumped out of the river without a word and stood there rigidly—ringing out his robes while Titus got up and collected the ledger, quill, and inkwell. The two of them turned and walked side by side into the woods back towards Hedgerose, saying nothing.
Titus had not lived with Folrolf for nearly eight years without learning how to read his tempers. Titus could feel Folrolf softening beside him, like an eggshell that is boiled soft. Perhaps it was the sunlight dispelling the mist, or the burst of pearly-gray color as a bird started out of a bush bright with blossoms. Most of all, it was probably Titus’s careful silence that caused Folrolf to thaw.
True to his suspicion, they hadn’t walked five minutes before Folrolf cleared his throat, almost sheepishly, and spoke. “You know . . . I really am thankful that Providence doesn’t let me get away with my quick temper. I’m sure I would have throttled that little beggar—it was foolish of me.”
Titus looked up at him, surprised, but Folrolf was looking straight ahead, his profile thoughtful as he said almost more to himself. “Today’s results weren’t what I’d hoped for, but we’ll try again some other time, ay?” then he looked down at Titus and his eyes gentled into a smile and Titus wasn’t in the least surprised when the old man’s hand dropped gently onto his shoulder.
It remained there all the way home.
***
The moment they stepped inside the cottage, Titus had the funny feeling that something was wrong. Some of the glow that had warmed him more than the rising sun had on the walk home dissipated when he stepped into the kitchen and heard a crunch under his boot.
Folrof bustled past him, heading for the crumpet jar and Titus slowly raised his foot to examine the bottom of his shoe, expecting to find glass. Instead, what looked like eggshells was plastered to the heel.
He stared at it stupidly and was vaguely aware of Folrof freezing with a crumpet halfway to his mouth.
The crate that held their foster-egg had been tipped over. There was a pile of eggshell on the ground, coated in stickiness.
The dragon had hatched.
“It’s hatched!” Folrolf roared with excitement, flinging out his arms. The crumpet went flying. His wet robes slapped Titus in the face like the blow of a fish that had been jerked out of a pond. “It’s hatched, it’s hatched!” Folrolf was gabbling at the top of his lungs. “Now be quiet, Titus! Quiet, quiet, quiet!” he shouted. “We don’t want to frighten it!”
There was a trail of eggshells leading away from the crate to the corner of the kitchen, disappearing behind a tall cupboard.
Folrolf attempted to creep forward, his huge clomping boots not aiding his efforts at all, and Titus followed. They peaked around the cupboard.
“It’s a spanking new dragon!” Folrolf exclaimed softly.
The hatchling was covered in brilliant dark blue scales, with small green wings. Its wings looked to small and its feet looked to large for its small, clumsy body. It had his back turned to them and when they spoke, it turned around. Its belly was the same softer quality as his wings, but pale blue. It had an immense nose, a pair of sharp looking ears, a pointed horn in the center of its forehead, and a pair of luminous black eyes.
But the first thing that Titus really noticed was the embroidered dish cloth on the floor—Titus guessed that Folrolf had dropped it there absently when snatching some breakfast—and the dragon had used it to clean himself. It rolled across it now and wriggled through it like a dog, his foreclaws kicking at the air.
“Why, what a clever fellow,” Folrolf murmured.
Titus didn’t see what was so clever about it. Anybody could destroy a towel. He must have coughed to hide his derision, for the dragon swung its head around and blinked at him a moment. He might have known it; the dragon hated the very sound of his voice. Animals always had, and always would, hate him.
Titus moved instinctively backwards, but the dragon didn’t seem much interested in them. It abandoned the towel, scratched his horn against a cupboard. It appeared to be trying to sharpen it.
“I don’t think that’s a good sign,” Titus volunteered.
The dragon raised a tentative paw, shaking a little as he struggled to maintain his balance and shuffled vaguely forward. It bumped into a cabinet and looked affronted.
“Don’t look at me; Folrolf moved it there,” said Titus as the dragon coughed with displeasure.
Folrolf shushed him and watched raptly as the dragon slowly crawled away, its fleshy tail tip flapping aimlessly behind him as he headed for the door.
Folrolf followed slowly, half-bent, stroking his chin and watching with the expression of a scholar making an important discovery and Titus followed him, feeling foolish and more-than-a-little annoyed.
“We should write everything down,” Folrolf said suddenly, as if reading Titus’s mind. “We may be some of the few people ever to witness a hatchling in these first precious moments!”
Titus rolled his eyes. Folrolf was starting to sound like the author of a very-badly written book about dragons and their natural habits.
The dragon had wandered into the parlour, and he bared his teeth at the knitting needles and scrambled back a few steps. Perhaps he thought they were the horns of another dragon.
“It’s all right, they won’t hurt you,” Folrolf assured him, while Titus made a mental note to start wearing knitting needles strapped to his head to ward off the dragon’s inevitable munchings.
The dragon eyed the knitting needles a second longer, waggling with a mixture of aggression and fear, then satisfied that he was safe, he turned and wandered away, still staggering and tacking randomly as he eased forward; a little scaly drunk.
Instead of walking around a chair, he burrowed under it, emerging a second later with a layer of fine dust decorating his face and his horn.
Titus coughed and shot a guilty look at Folrolf (he hadn’t cleaned under the furniture) even though Folrolf was physically incapable of seeing grim or clutter.
The dragon wrinkled its muzzle and sneezed, like a tiny clap of thunder, his wings flying straight out, overbalancing him so that he nearly fell on his face. He looked startled for a moment, then he shook his head and returned to his waddling.
Folrolf, still dripping with river water, wrung his sleeves—partially to dry himself (he left a sizable puddle around his feet that Titus would have to clean up later) and partly because he was so excited he apparently needed something to do with his hands. “Now wasn’t that cute?” he whispered gleefully to Titus.
The dragon had ambled uncertainly towards the bookcase. He poked his nose into the dusty lower shelves, and poked a claw tip at a heavy volume.
Folrolf’s hand dropped slowly to Titus’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Titus turned to stare at Folrolf’s hand and then at Folrolf’s. His guardian didn’t do things like that.
Folrolf’s face was positively agog and his voice was hushed with wonder. “Would you look at that? He likes books!” He beamed like a new parent.
Titus could not quite keep from sounding skeptical, he might have even sounded a little bit sarcastic. “He could be trying to eat them for all we know.”
Folrolf sailed on as if he hadn’t heard him; he probably hadn’t. “We’ll have to name him, of course.”
“Folrolf,” Titus cautioned. “You said we wouldn’t be keeping him.”
“No, no, of course not,” Folrolf said distantly.
“What would we even do with a dragon?” Titus thought a moment and added ominously. “What would it do with us?”
“It’s a he, Titus. The proper grammar would be, what would he do with us.”
Titus only just managed not to roll his eyes as he pressed his point. “He might eat us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever heard of a baby eating its own parents?”
“PARENTS?”
“I mean, guardians,” Folrolf tacked skillfully away from Titus’s spluttering protests and swept across the room.
“We’ll have to name him,” Folrolf said, stooping down to pick up the dragon.
“Folrolf, be careful!” Titus protested. “He’ll bite you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course, he won’t bite me—will you, little fellow?”
The hatchling squalled as he was lifted off the ground, kicking his feet in confusion.
“Now, now, don’t fuss,” Folrolf assured him. “I just want to have a look at you.”
“I’d put him down if I were you,” said Titus. “Sir.”
Folrolf flipped a dismissive hand at him as he studied the hatchling. “Let’s call him Hatch.”
Hatch? After all that build-up, it wasn’t very inventive.
“What do you think of that, Hatch?” Folrolf asked the dragon.
Hatch gave him a disgusted look and then turned to stare out the window.
“He thinks it’s stupid,” Titus volunteered, thinking that, if nothing else, the hatchling was a convenient person to blame for his own private sarcastic opinions.
“No, he doesn’t,” Folrolf rejoined. “I saw him smile.” His voice grew low and sugary as it slid into the tone usually reserved by old ladies for nappied babies as he chucked the dragon under the chin. “Didn’t you, little Hatch?”
Hatch answered by biting him with a ferocious crunch.
***
As Titus called Folrolf to dinner, and as Folrolf walked slowly into the room, his nose stuck in a book, there was the clatter of claw tips as Hatch shadowed the wizard into the kitchen.
Titus glared at Hatch and decided he would give his guardian the silent treatment to demonstrate his displeasure at there being a dragon in the house.
He dished up the main course, certain that he was bristling visibly with disapproval as he maintained his stony silence—but his demonstration wasn’t very effective since Folrolf was reading and unaware that the world even existed. The only thing that seemed to disturb him was that when he tried to lick his thumb to turn a page, he was licking an enormous bandage. A brief flicker of annoyance passed over his face and then passed as he reached for his fork and took a bite of hash. He must have gotten to an exciting bit because his eyes grew wide and he stopped chewing.
Hatch had hopped up onto a chair but was having difficulty reaching the table.
“Hey, get off!” Titus made a shooing motion, not daring to touch the dragon.
Hatch gave him a “Oh, please,” look and turned his back, staring at the stove top.
That reminded Titus his soup was about to boil over. He raced over and ladled up two bowls. Then, grumbling under his breath, he rummaged around in the icebox for a piece of meat for the stinking dragon. He tossed it into a bowl and poured in some milk. He had no idea what baby dragons ate; as long as it wasn’t people, he didn’t care.
He shoved everything onto a tray and hurried back to the table before his hash could get cold, only to find his plate empty, decorated only by what looked suspiciously like saliva. He leaned forward over the table and stared down at the seat occupied by Hatch. The dragon gazed back at him innocently, but a bit of yam on his horn betrayed him.
He glanced at Folrolf, who was finally mechanically reached down to his plate to fork some more hash into his mouth. He stabbed around for several moments, and finally the sound of tin scrapping against porcelain dragged him from the depths of his book and he looked down.
Folrolf’s eyebrows worked furiously for several seconds as he stared silently at his empty plate—all that was left on his plate, aside from dragon drool, was a piece of parsley garnish.
“He ate it,” said Titus. “Don’t worry, there’s more.” After a significant pause he said mercilessly. “Are you sure you still want to keep a dragon in the house?”
Folrolf gave him a look and started to eat his soup.
Titus sighed and glanced over the table to look at Hatch. He could have sworn the dragon was smirking at him.
He glared and kicked the chair the dragon was sitting on.
He hadn’t meant to tip the chair over, but tip over it did, depositing the baby dragon on the floor with a deafening crash. Hatch hit the ground and flew across the room like a dropped marble, wailing at the top of his voice.
Folrolf exploded out of his chair, his book dropping to the floor and his tin clattering against the table. “Now, see here, Titus Benjamin—I will not countenance any cruel behavior from you—ever. We have to be kind. After all, nobody has taught him any better.”
“Well, I don’t think its kind to keep an animal in the house when you know I don’t like them.”
“Hatch isn’t an animal, he’s a dragon.”
“It’s the same thing,” Titus stormed and then he dropped his head and shoved in his food, his shoulders hunched.
He was vaguely aware of Folrolf’s surprised look, but he didn’t speak and they finished the meal in an awkward silence. Folrolf did offer to wash the dishes, which he hardly ever did anymore, so Titus guessed he was trying to sooth him. It didn’t work, but Titus let his guardian clean up as he tore up to his room and shut the door.
***
An ill-tempered voice blew a steady stream of disgruntled thoughts into his mind, fat, unpleasant bubbles of ideas that shoved out the story he was trying to read.
It wasn’t fair . . . Folrolf knew Titus didn’t like animals, and yet he insisted on keeping that creature in the house . . . Folrolf cared more about that dragon then he did about Titus.
A second voice, far more calm than the first, whispered that maybe Titus wasn’t being very fair . . . after all, what boy could say he had a dragon in his house?
Titus didn’t really wish to listen to either voice and he attempted to stop the thoughts by shoving his nose deeper into book. All that did was make him go cross-eyed.
The sound of a voice outside his bedroom window caused him to toss the book down on the bed and swing off his bed so he could look outside.
Folrolf had taken the baby dragon into the garden for some air.
Titus went to his desk and rummaged inside it for some paper and a quill. Lighting a candle, he scrawled out a hasty letter. He felt rebellious. With or without Folrolf’s permission, he would send the letter to the castle and ask them to come take charge of the dragon.
He shoved the cork back into his inkwell and went back to the window, flapping the letter and waiting for the ink to dry as he looked out into the garden.
Folrolf had settled down on a stone bench; Titus could see his stooped grey head bobbing away as if he were doing some funny song and dance to entertain someone.
Folrolf was pointing and obviously talking, patting the dragon on the head. Hatch squirmed out from under his hand and in doing so; accidentally fell off the bench and into the grass. Folrolf was so distracted by his own dissertation he didn’t notice that Hatch had fallen. Titus hadn’t heard Hatch squall, but he could just imagine the annoyed look on the dragon’s face.
Titus sighed and folded the letter, shoving it into his pocket. He’d just watch and wait. Folrolf didn’t stick with many things for long. He was a shooting star always racing away to some new planet to revolve around. Pretty soon he would grow bored with the idea of having a dragon, and, if Titus kept on making sure he was aware just how bothersome owning a baby dragon would be, he might even lose patience with the creature and agree to send the dragon to a better place.
But he wouldn’t send the letter off tomorrow. Firstly, it would make him guilty to go behind Folrolf’s back and secondly because reason told him it would accomplish just the opposite of his desired end; if Folrolf felt pressured he would keep the hatchling out of sheer stubbornness.
He could hear the steady, monotonous thread of Folrolf’s voice, weaving some kind of story. Hatch watched the wizard for a moment until a firefly suddenly darted by his face. Hatch gave a startled snort and stared after it as if he couldn’t decide whether it was food or something else far more mysterious. He followed it, still unsteady on his legs, but determined.
The moon smiled down, the garden was radiant with its shining, shot through with the lightning-streak glow of fireflies, and in the cool glow, Titus could see the ink-dark figure of the baby dragon, pouncing at fireflies like a cat.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© Please do not use or copy without permission.
If you missed Chapter One, you can read it HERE.
If you missed Chapter Two, you can read it HERE.
If you missed Chapter Three, you can read it HERE.
Add Life At Hedgerose to your Goodreads shelf HERE.
Okay, people – you know the routine! What did you think?
As a fun behind the scenes note, the baby dragon was actually originally going to hatch at the very end of the story on the final page. Ohhhh yeah. THAT would have gone over well. I knew that that if I had stuck to that original plan, my dear readers would turn on me.
The people wanted the baby dragon now. The people spoke, and behold, the dragon hatched!
Special thank to my stuffed dragon, Blog, for inspiring me to add a dragon to the story in the first place! He’s one of my little wistful companions that sit on my bookcase as I write.
So is there something you would like to happen next? What are you anticipating in this story? Tell me everything!
ALSO – I’m actually not at all happy with the name of “Hatch” for the baby dragon. LET’S HAVE SUGGESTIONS. What do YOU think would be a good name for the hatchling?
(more detailed rules about how this serialized and participatory story works (think Wattpad) can be found HERE )
Walking On Water And Walking On Eggshells
Titus had known that something was brewing in Folrolf’s mind since before Spring Festival. His guardian would drift about the house for days, muttering to himself and trailing scraps of parchment—like flotsam in the wake of a receding wave. The paper was covered in strange equations, measurements, and queer, tipsy drawings of figures suspended over wavy lines of water, wearing what looked like giant pumpkins on their feet.
Peculiar behavior was customary behavior for Folrolf. It was only what he was being peculiar about that changed. It was just as customary that Titus ever learned anything about these daily absorptions, thus he didn’t pay much attention until very early one morning several weeks after the Spring Festival.
He was fast asleep when his bedroom door was flung open with a crash that and his quilts ripped forcibly off of him.
Titus lurched forward in bed, swinging his arms in a panic and almost swimming up it to the headboard and cracking his skull against the bed frame, letting out a tortured yell. He was still writhing under a tangle of blankets when Folrolf fished underneath the quilts and heaved him clear to bellow in his ear. “Shake yourself, Titus—we don’t have all day!”
“All day . . . for what?” Titus gasped, rubbing at his eyes. His head was pounding.
“My project,” Folrolf exclaimed, eyeing Titus as if he were more than a little dense. “Are you blind, boy? The project I’ve been working on all week.” He let out a huff of annoyance. “Now come along, come along. Get dressed and find yourself something to eat. I’ve already had my breakfast.” With that, he let Titus drop limply back onto the pillows and swept out of the room.
Titus lay there a moment, groped dully out for a fistful of covers and pulling them over his head. A sudden explosion of a less-then-patient-sounding Harumph! from down the hall sent Titus leaping out of bed and into his pants. He realized darkly that the sharp-eared Folrolf had left the bedroom door open to ensure that Titus didn’t go back to sleep. Folrolf was apparently satisfied with the sounds of Titus stumbling around the room for an instant later, the study door slammed shut.
Titus had barely begun to button his shirt before there was a crash and tramping footsteps. Folrolf swarmed into view long enough to chuck a leather-bound ledger, a drippy inkwell, and a mangled quill on a side table and bellow, “Here Titus, you take notes.” before he whirled away and disappeared again, leaving Titus scrambling to keep up.
Seconds later, with a day old scone in his mouth, his pants pockets full of oat cake and his vest pocket bulging with an orange, his arms full of book, quill and inkwell, Titus staggered out of the house, yawning and feeling vaguely as if he had just inhaled a mouthful of fog. It was as thick as porridge outside, so thick that Titus felt as if the wispy trails of mist were fingers touching his face, like extensions of Folrolf’s bony fingers, prodding at him to make sure he was awake.
Turning slowly to survey the grey morning—rimmed and flecked with dull gold that promised sun and heat but offered neither now—Titus’s gaze caught on a figure behind the cottage. He squinted through the glare and fog and saw Folrolf legging it through the tall grass, carrying two large objects in one hand and supporting too poles over his shoulder with the other—looking like a tall and spindly ghost.
Titus hurried after him and in the subsequent twenty-minute walk—of which he was not very aware, as he stumbled through a physical and mental fog and mechanically chewed on his scone—it slowly dawned on him where they were going.
True to Titus’s suspicions, Folrolf was waiting for him on the bank of Rivenstream when he stumbled out of the undergrowth of Petalmist forest, batting at a patch of briars that had attached itself to his leg.
Folrolf spun around and threw open his arms—his peculiar bundles had been thrown willy-nilly on the ground at his feet. “Ah, Titus! There you are! Sit down and take notes. You are about to witness a truly historic event!”
“What are you going to do?” Titus asked—though glancing at the river and recalling the numerous strange drawings he had been seeing all week, we wasn’t completely surprised when Folrolf looked up and said, “Prepare to be amazed young Titus Benjamin. I am preparing to walk on water!”
He peered deeply into Titus’s face for a moment, as if waiting to receive a suitable reaction.
“Oh,” said Titus, fumbling for his orange.
Folrolf grunted, obviously too excited to care about Titus’s lack of enthusiasm, and sat down on the wet grass. His robes billowed around him, like a hen fluffing her feathers in an effort to get comfortable, and he began to insert his immense boots into the wooden objects he had carried with him to the river, both of which had a carved foot well for this very purpose.
This procedure took some time to accomplish and was accompanied with much grunting and muttering as Titus peeled his orange and peered at the objects curiously. They didn’t look like pumpkins at all; they were more like cucumbers. He noticed that the poles were not fishing poles as he had first believed. They were hefty wooden pools, firm and straight, with hand grips and two disks attached to the ends of them—like plates or lily pads.
Titus shrugged and took his time finding a dry spot on the ground. Once he located a spot to his liking, he stuck his orange in his mouth, and leisurely situated himself. He set the inkwell next to his elbow in tiny hollow of stone in the middle of a large knobby rock, carefully unscrewing the lid as he watched Folrolf procedures with vague interest. He set the sticky bottle top down beside the inkwell, propped the open ledger against his knee, dipped the quill into the inkwell and jotted down the date at the top of the page.
Folrolf tucked his poles under his arm and staggered with some difficulty to the water’s edge, using the branch of a weeping willow that jutted out over the stream to support himself. Titus knew better then to offer to help him. He tapped his quill against his knee and waited.
Apparently Folrolf hadn’t quite thought out how he would launch himself into the water once he actually had his shoe floats on. Clutching his poles, he wrapped his arms around a tree branch for several moments, examining the swirling eddies, slippery bank, and his own peculiar footwear for several moments. Muttering something to himself, he gave a kind of leap—accompanied by a great deal of flapping that made him look uncommonly like a malfunctioning wind-mill that was about to fly to pieces. Titus was surprised when he actually ended up on top of the water instead of under it. He made a notation in his ledger.
Folrolf wobbled and waving his arms a great deal, stabbing viciously at the water with this poles as if he were trying to kill it, not walk across it— and he occasionally found it necessary to clutch at the weeping willow branch behind him, keeping up a constant narration of impolite words between his teeth.
Finally, cherry-red from his exertions, Folrolf was standing very awkwardly erect. Not exactly erect; but much more in the way a knobby-kneed colt would stand in their first moments after birth. Folrolf stood, huffing and vibrating, for one moment under his own power—flushed with victory. And then he tried to straighten his knees and with a whoosh the floats bobbed out from underneath him, the poles flew out of his hands and he fell forward with a terrific crack as his face hit the water.
Titus bent his head over his ledger and wrote carefully. Attempted to walk on water . . . attempt failed.
He looked up just as Folrolf thrashed to the surface. His face was as red as their ripe tomatoes, whether from rage or the icy water, it was difficult to tell. Water cascaded off the battered brim of his hat like an upside down fountain and his robes floated around him like dead leaves. Folrolf spat out a stream of water and punched his fist into the water, howling, “Blast!” at the top of his voice.
There was a sudden spluttering of laughter from the opposite bank.
Titus had to look around for a moment before he saw a gorse gnome sitting under a bush on the opposite bank, several yards to the right of Folrolf. The absurd little thing was rolling about on its back, kicking its almost nonexistent feet in the air and laughing helplessly. Every few moments he would roll into a sitting position, stare at Folrolf as he tried to pull a lily-pad out of his robes, and then dissolve into out-of-control laughter again. Folrolf had finally stood upright in the middle of the stream—the water came to his chest—and was apparently unable to hear the gnome’s merriment, judging from the way he was vigorously shaking his head to and fro and tugging at his ears.
The gnome gave a hysterical hiccup, as if it couldn’t stand to laugh any longer and very slowly sat up, clasped its hands and stared eagerly, with a delighted smile on his ugly face, at the disheveled spectacle in front of him. The sight of Folrolf plucking a dead leaf from his hat proved to be too much for it and it and it burst into laughter again.
This time Folrolf heard it, and his head began whipping in all directions. He looked suspiciously at Titus, and finding him grave as a judge, cast a savage glare up and down the bank until he located the source of the sound. He also had some difficulty seeing the gnome as it blended with its surroundings and when he finally did, he peered distastefully at the gnome, past the hair plastered over his forehead and sagging hat brim and demanded, “And what, pray, is so amusing, creature?”
The gnome giggled into its hands, grinning fiendishly at Folrolf and saying nothing, but its eyes winking devilishly as if it were waiting for some new entertainment.
Folrolf glared imperiously at the gnome, wrenched his hat off, and wrung it out. This caused his already disheveled hair to fly into even more disarray and brought a new wave of laughter from the bank.
Folrolf, realizing the laughter was directed at him, glowered fiercely at the gnome. Titus was well-versed enough in the ways of Folrolf to recognize the expression as an indication that Folrolf was being pushed beyond his limit. His eyebrows rose and fell with his heaving chest as he struggled wildly for some insult that would do his feelings justice. The gnome had been laughing into his hands and peeked at Folrolf the way a child peeks at a performing puppy, and he was not disappointed. He pointed at Folrolf’s contorted face and burst into a new explosion of sniggers.
The cork on Folrolf’s anger exploded like a button popping off a shirt and with a furious yell of, “You little hobgoblin!” he began surging across the river towards the gnome like a tidal wave.
The gnome stopped laughing, took one uneasy look the nemesis coming towards him and, with a little squeak, hopped to its feet. It snatched up its robes and took to the woods only a moment before Folrolf reached the bank. Folrolf was after him with impressive speed, and it didn’t take long for the bellowed insults, terrified squeals, and violent thrashings to recede into the quiet of the forest.
Titus scratched his last note into the ledger, Suggest new equipment for further experiments in walking on water, and corked the ink bottle up again. He took his time in cleaning the tip and, setting the quill on the rock to dry, he ate an oat scone and waited, watching the sun finally push its way through the tree tops to spread its beams across the stream.
It wasn’t long before Folrolf came huffing back through the trees again, slapping underbrush aside impatiently and trampling briars underneath his boots with unnecessary vigor.
He plunged without a pause into the river and swarmed across it—pausing in his headlong rush only long enough to collect the floats and poles that were caught in various small whirlpools and knots of reeds. Now that he was closer, Titus could see the eyebrows were nearly knotted together.
Folrolf stumped out of the river without a word and stood there rigidly—ringing out his robes while Titus got up and collected the ledger, quill, and inkwell. The two of them turned and walked side by side into the woods back towards Hedgerose, saying nothing.
Titus had not lived with Folrolf for nearly eight years without learning how to read his tempers. Titus could feel Folrolf softening beside him, like an eggshell that is boiled soft. Perhaps it was the sunlight dispelling the mist, or the burst of pearly-gray color as a bird started out of a bush bright with blossoms. Most of all, it was probably Titus’s careful silence that caused Folrolf to thaw.
True to his suspicion, they hadn’t walked five minutes before Folrolf cleared his throat, almost sheepishly, and spoke. “You know . . . I really am thankful that Providence doesn’t let me get away with my quick temper. I’m sure I would have throttled that little beggar—it was foolish of me.”
Titus looked up at him, surprised, but Folrolf was looking straight ahead, his profile thoughtful as he said almost more to himself. “Today’s results weren’t what I’d hoped for, but we’ll try again some other time, ay?” then he looked down at Titus and his eyes gentled into a smile and Titus wasn’t in the least surprised when the old man’s hand dropped gently onto his shoulder.
It remained there all the way home.
***
The moment they stepped inside the cottage, Titus had the funny feeling that something was wrong. Some of the glow that had warmed him more than the rising sun had on the walk home dissipated when he stepped into the kitchen and heard a crunch under his boot.
Folrof bustled past him, heading for the crumpet jar and Titus slowly raised his foot to examine the bottom of his shoe, expecting to find glass. Instead, what looked like eggshells was plastered to the heel.
He stared at it stupidly and was vaguely aware of Folrof freezing with a crumpet halfway to his mouth.
The crate that held their foster-egg had been tipped over. There was a pile of eggshell on the ground, coated in stickiness.
The dragon had hatched.
“It’s hatched!” Folrolf roared with excitement, flinging out his arms. The crumpet went flying. His wet robes slapped Titus in the face like the blow of a fish that had been jerked out of a pond. “It’s hatched, it’s hatched!” Folrolf was gabbling at the top of his lungs. “Now be quiet, Titus! Quiet, quiet, quiet!” he shouted. “We don’t want to frighten it!”
There was a trail of eggshells leading away from the crate to the corner of the kitchen, disappearing behind a tall cupboard.
Folrolf attempted to creep forward, his huge clomping boots not aiding his efforts at all, and Titus followed. They peaked around the cupboard.
“It’s a spanking new dragon!” Folrolf exclaimed softly.
The hatchling was covered in brilliant dark blue scales, with small green wings. Its wings looked to small and its feet looked to large for its small, clumsy body. It had his back turned to them and when they spoke, it turned around. Its belly was the same softer quality as his wings, but pale blue. It had an immense nose, a pair of sharp looking ears, a pointed horn in the center of its forehead, and a pair of luminous black eyes.
But the first thing that Titus really noticed was the embroidered dish cloth on the floor—Titus guessed that Folrolf had dropped it there absently when snatching some breakfast—and the dragon had used it to clean himself. It rolled across it now and wriggled through it like a dog, his foreclaws kicking at the air.
“Why, what a clever fellow,” Folrolf murmured.
Titus didn’t see what was so clever about it. Anybody could destroy a towel. He must have coughed to hide his derision, for the dragon swung its head around and blinked at him a moment. He might have known it; the dragon hated the very sound of his voice. Animals always had, and always would, hate him.
Titus moved instinctively backwards, but the dragon didn’t seem much interested in them. It abandoned the towel, scratched his horn against a cupboard. It appeared to be trying to sharpen it.
“I don’t think that’s a good sign,” Titus volunteered.
The dragon raised a tentative paw, shaking a little as he struggled to maintain his balance and shuffled vaguely forward. It bumped into a cabinet and looked affronted.
“Don’t look at me; Folrolf moved it there,” said Titus as the dragon coughed with displeasure.
Folrolf shushed him and watched raptly as the dragon slowly crawled away, its fleshy tail tip flapping aimlessly behind him as he headed for the door.
Folrolf followed slowly, half-bent, stroking his chin and watching with the expression of a scholar making an important discovery and Titus followed him, feeling foolish and more-than-a-little annoyed.
“We should write everything down,” Folrolf said suddenly, as if reading Titus’s mind. “We may be some of the few people ever to witness a hatchling in these first precious moments!”
Titus rolled his eyes. Folrolf was starting to sound like the author of a very-badly written book about dragons and their natural habits.
The dragon had wandered into the parlour, and he bared his teeth at the knitting needles and scrambled back a few steps. Perhaps he thought they were the horns of another dragon.
“It’s all right, they won’t hurt you,” Folrolf assured him, while Titus made a mental note to start wearing knitting needles strapped to his head to ward off the dragon’s inevitable munchings.
The dragon eyed the knitting needles a second longer, waggling with a mixture of aggression and fear, then satisfied that he was safe, he turned and wandered away, still staggering and tacking randomly as he eased forward; a little scaly drunk.
Instead of walking around a chair, he burrowed under it, emerging a second later with a layer of fine dust decorating his face and his horn.
Titus coughed and shot a guilty look at Folrolf (he hadn’t cleaned under the furniture) even though Folrolf was physically incapable of seeing grim or clutter.
The dragon wrinkled its muzzle and sneezed, like a tiny clap of thunder, his wings flying straight out, overbalancing him so that he nearly fell on his face. He looked startled for a moment, then he shook his head and returned to his waddling.
Folrolf, still dripping with river water, wrung his sleeves—partially to dry himself (he left a sizable puddle around his feet that Titus would have to clean up later) and partly because he was so excited he apparently needed something to do with his hands. “Now wasn’t that cute?” he whispered gleefully to Titus.
The dragon had ambled uncertainly towards the bookcase. He poked his nose into the dusty lower shelves, and poked a claw tip at a heavy volume.
Folrolf’s hand dropped slowly to Titus’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Titus turned to stare at Folrolf’s hand and then at Folrolf’s. His guardian didn’t do things like that.
Folrolf’s face was positively agog and his voice was hushed with wonder. “Would you look at that? He likes books!” He beamed like a new parent.
Titus could not quite keep from sounding skeptical, he might have even sounded a little bit sarcastic. “He could be trying to eat them for all we know.”
Folrolf sailed on as if he hadn’t heard him; he probably hadn’t. “We’ll have to name him, of course.”
“Folrolf,” Titus cautioned. “You said we wouldn’t be keeping him.”
“No, no, of course not,” Folrolf said distantly.
“What would we even do with a dragon?” Titus thought a moment and added ominously. “What would it do with us?”
“It’s a he, Titus. The proper grammar would be, what would he do with us.”
Titus only just managed not to roll his eyes as he pressed his point. “He might eat us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever heard of a baby eating its own parents?”
“PARENTS?”
“I mean, guardians,” Folrolf tacked skillfully away from Titus’s spluttering protests and swept across the room.
“We’ll have to name him,” Folrolf said, stooping down to pick up the dragon.
“Folrolf, be careful!” Titus protested. “He’ll bite you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course, he won’t bite me—will you, little fellow?”
The hatchling squalled as he was lifted off the ground, kicking his feet in confusion.
“Now, now, don’t fuss,” Folrolf assured him. “I just want to have a look at you.”
“I’d put him down if I were you,” said Titus. “Sir.”
Folrolf flipped a dismissive hand at him as he studied the hatchling. “Let’s call him Hatch.”
Hatch? After all that build-up, it wasn’t very inventive.
“What do you think of that, Hatch?” Folrolf asked the dragon.
Hatch gave him a disgusted look and then turned to stare out the window.
“He thinks it’s stupid,” Titus volunteered, thinking that, if nothing else, the hatchling was a convenient person to blame for his own private sarcastic opinions.
“No, he doesn’t,” Folrolf rejoined. “I saw him smile.” His voice grew low and sugary as it slid into the tone usually reserved by old ladies for nappied babies as he chucked the dragon under the chin. “Didn’t you, little Hatch?”
Hatch answered by biting him with a ferocious crunch.
***
As Titus called Folrolf to dinner, and as Folrolf walked slowly into the room, his nose stuck in a book, there was the clatter of claw tips as Hatch shadowed the wizard into the kitchen.
Titus glared at Hatch and decided he would give his guardian the silent treatment to demonstrate his displeasure at there being a dragon in the house.
He dished up the main course, certain that he was bristling visibly with disapproval as he maintained his stony silence—but his demonstration wasn’t very effective since Folrolf was reading and unaware that the world even existed. The only thing that seemed to disturb him was that when he tried to lick his thumb to turn a page, he was licking an enormous bandage. A brief flicker of annoyance passed over his face and then passed as he reached for his fork and took a bite of hash. He must have gotten to an exciting bit because his eyes grew wide and he stopped chewing.
Hatch had hopped up onto a chair but was having difficulty reaching the table.
“Hey, get off!” Titus made a shooing motion, not daring to touch the dragon.
Hatch gave him a “Oh, please,” look and turned his back, staring at the stove top.
That reminded Titus his soup was about to boil over. He raced over and ladled up two bowls. Then, grumbling under his breath, he rummaged around in the icebox for a piece of meat for the stinking dragon. He tossed it into a bowl and poured in some milk. He had no idea what baby dragons ate; as long as it wasn’t people, he didn’t care.
He shoved everything onto a tray and hurried back to the table before his hash could get cold, only to find his plate empty, decorated only by what looked suspiciously like saliva. He leaned forward over the table and stared down at the seat occupied by Hatch. The dragon gazed back at him innocently, but a bit of yam on his horn betrayed him.
He glanced at Folrolf, who was finally mechanically reached down to his plate to fork some more hash into his mouth. He stabbed around for several moments, and finally the sound of tin scrapping against porcelain dragged him from the depths of his book and he looked down.
Folrolf’s eyebrows worked furiously for several seconds as he stared silently at his empty plate—all that was left on his plate, aside from dragon drool, was a piece of parsley garnish.
“He ate it,” said Titus. “Don’t worry, there’s more.” After a significant pause he said mercilessly. “Are you sure you still want to keep a dragon in the house?”
Folrolf gave him a look and started to eat his soup.
Titus sighed and glanced over the table to look at Hatch. He could have sworn the dragon was smirking at him.
He glared and kicked the chair the dragon was sitting on.
He hadn’t meant to tip the chair over, but tip over it did, depositing the baby dragon on the floor with a deafening crash. Hatch hit the ground and flew across the room like a dropped marble, wailing at the top of his voice.
Folrolf exploded out of his chair, his book dropping to the floor and his tin clattering against the table. “Now, see here, Titus Benjamin—I will not countenance any cruel behavior from you—ever. We have to be kind. After all, nobody has taught him any better.”
“Well, I don’t think its kind to keep an animal in the house when you know I don’t like them.”
“Hatch isn’t an animal, he’s a dragon.”
“It’s the same thing,” Titus stormed and then he dropped his head and shoved in his food, his shoulders hunched.
He was vaguely aware of Folrolf’s surprised look, but he didn’t speak and they finished the meal in an awkward silence. Folrolf did offer to wash the dishes, which he hardly ever did anymore, so Titus guessed he was trying to sooth him. It didn’t work, but Titus let his guardian clean up as he tore up to his room and shut the door.
***
An ill-tempered voice blew a steady stream of disgruntled thoughts into his mind, fat, unpleasant bubbles of ideas that shoved out the story he was trying to read.
It wasn’t fair . . . Folrolf knew Titus didn’t like animals, and yet he insisted on keeping that creature in the house . . . Folrolf cared more about that dragon then he did about Titus.
A second voice, far more calm than the first, whispered that maybe Titus wasn’t being very fair . . . after all, what boy could say he had a dragon in his house?
Titus didn’t really wish to listen to either voice and he attempted to stop the thoughts by shoving his nose deeper into book. All that did was make him go cross-eyed.
The sound of a voice outside his bedroom window caused him to toss the book down on the bed and swing off his bed so he could look outside.
Folrolf had taken the baby dragon into the garden for some air.
Titus went to his desk and rummaged inside it for some paper and a quill. Lighting a candle, he scrawled out a hasty letter. He felt rebellious. With or without Folrolf’s permission, he would send the letter to the castle and ask them to come take charge of the dragon.
He shoved the cork back into his inkwell and went back to the window, flapping the letter and waiting for the ink to dry as he looked out into the garden.
Folrolf had settled down on a stone bench; Titus could see his stooped grey head bobbing away as if he were doing some funny song and dance to entertain someone.
Folrolf was pointing and obviously talking, patting the dragon on the head. Hatch squirmed out from under his hand and in doing so; accidentally fell off the bench and into the grass. Folrolf was so distracted by his own dissertation he didn’t notice that Hatch had fallen. Titus hadn’t heard Hatch squall, but he could just imagine the annoyed look on the dragon’s face.
Titus sighed and folded the letter, shoving it into his pocket. He’d just watch and wait. Folrolf didn’t stick with many things for long. He was a shooting star always racing away to some new planet to revolve around. Pretty soon he would grow bored with the idea of having a dragon, and, if Titus kept on making sure he was aware just how bothersome owning a baby dragon would be, he might even lose patience with the creature and agree to send the dragon to a better place.
But he wouldn’t send the letter off tomorrow. Firstly, it would make him guilty to go behind Folrolf’s back and secondly because reason told him it would accomplish just the opposite of his desired end; if Folrolf felt pressured he would keep the hatchling out of sheer stubbornness.
He could hear the steady, monotonous thread of Folrolf’s voice, weaving some kind of story. Hatch watched the wizard for a moment until a firefly suddenly darted by his face. Hatch gave a startled snort and stared after it as if he couldn’t decide whether it was food or something else far more mysterious. He followed it, still unsteady on his legs, but determined.
The moon smiled down, the garden was radiant with its shining, shot through with the lightning-streak glow of fireflies, and in the cool glow, Titus could see the ink-dark figure of the baby dragon, pouncing at fireflies like a cat.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© Please do not use or copy without permission.
If you missed Chapter One, you can read it HERE.
If you missed Chapter Two, you can read it HERE.
If you missed Chapter Three, you can read it HERE.
Add Life At Hedgerose to your Goodreads shelf HERE.
Okay, people – you know the routine! What did you think?
As a fun behind the scenes note, the baby dragon was actually originally going to hatch at the very end of the story on the final page. Ohhhh yeah. THAT would have gone over well. I knew that that if I had stuck to that original plan, my dear readers would turn on me.
The people wanted the baby dragon now. The people spoke, and behold, the dragon hatched!
Special thank to my stuffed dragon, Blog, for inspiring me to add a dragon to the story in the first place! He’s one of my little wistful companions that sit on my bookcase as I write.
Google Images
So is there something you would like to happen next? What are you anticipating in this story? Tell me everything!
ALSO – I’m actually not at all happy with the name of “Hatch” for the baby dragon. LET’S HAVE SUGGESTIONS. What do YOU think would be a good name for the hatchling?
(more detailed rules about how this serialized and participatory story works (think Wattpad) can be found HERE )
August 18, 2018
For The Love Of Tintin
Tintin is not a superhero; nor does he possess special powers. He is an ordinary person to whom extraordinary things happen. Curious to a fault, Tintin has been known to follow a story to the ends of the earth, even if this means entering the shadowy worlds of smugglers, jewel thieves, gun runners, tomb robbers and extraordinarily ruthless crime lords! The stakes are always high and the odds are stacked against him, but Tintin has one thing his enemies don’t count on – the support and assistance of a Sea Captain with a drinking problem and the undying loyalty of a little white dog, called Snowy.
Excerpt from news article. Full article found here.
Many of you probably never heard of a wonderful magazine called Explore!
Explore! was a children’s magazine that ran from 2000 to 2001. It featured top-notch photography and incredible articles full of the wild, wacky, and wondrous. Always informative, always quality, this magazine featured only non-fiction . . . except for one section.
Every issue had a comic section – a serialization from graphic novels entitled . . Tintin.
September 2000 began an infatuation for a young hero with a cowlick that just wouldn’t lie down.
When I met Tintin, I was struggling to read; nothing about reading came easily to me. It was so hard, it didn’t even seem worth the effort.
But art – now that was something I understood. I had been drawing since I could hold a pencil. I was captivated by artwork, stimulated by my eyes.
A new children’s magazine was exciting in theory, but I wasn’t truly interested (bah, more black squiggles on paper!) until I turned a page and saw the opening illustrations for The Black Island.
Talk about starting off with a bang!
Here was an incentive to get even the most reluctant reader to start sorting through words. As you can see, the storyboard itself (the artwork and “cinematography” of each frame) is so intuitive, one can almost follow the basic story without even reading.
Certain old comics produce an unusual reader response. These comics possess artwork that is so well crafted and cinematic, with a pacing so flawless – I actually enter in to the comic itself. It becomes an immersive 3-D experience. I am not just watching a movie, I’m inside of it. If you’ve never read some of these great graphic novels, it’s hard to describe.
And so the adventure began. Every month we got a new issue – and every month, my siblings and I fought over who would read it first. Tintin was always the highlight.
For some reason that I cannot now recall, we missed an issue, and it was years before I found out how Tintin got out of that burning building when the last time we saw him he was lying unconscious on the floor. Fortunately, the puzzle was completed years later, but for a time, that part of the adventure was missing and a real frustration.
We reached the end of that remarkable adventure called The Black Island, and, sadly, Explore! came to a untimely end after only a year. We were extremely disappointed not to have the magazine anymore . . . everyone but me. At that time, I hadn’t really read the other articles (I read them a few years later and loved them) . . . all I cared about was Tintin.
Tintin was one of the many beloved elements that opened a whole new world for me because it encouraged me to read; and now opportunity and success are at my fingers because of it.
Thank you, Tintin, for captivating my interest and forcing me to learn.
Thank you, also, for teaching me how to insult people with great style and imagination.
Excerpt from news article. Full article found here.
Many of you probably never heard of a wonderful magazine called Explore!
Explore! was a children’s magazine that ran from 2000 to 2001. It featured top-notch photography and incredible articles full of the wild, wacky, and wondrous. Always informative, always quality, this magazine featured only non-fiction . . . except for one section.
Every issue had a comic section – a serialization from graphic novels entitled . . Tintin.
September 2000 began an infatuation for a young hero with a cowlick that just wouldn’t lie down.
When I met Tintin, I was struggling to read; nothing about reading came easily to me. It was so hard, it didn’t even seem worth the effort.
But art – now that was something I understood. I had been drawing since I could hold a pencil. I was captivated by artwork, stimulated by my eyes.
A new children’s magazine was exciting in theory, but I wasn’t truly interested (bah, more black squiggles on paper!) until I turned a page and saw the opening illustrations for The Black Island.
Talk about starting off with a bang!
Here was an incentive to get even the most reluctant reader to start sorting through words. As you can see, the storyboard itself (the artwork and “cinematography” of each frame) is so intuitive, one can almost follow the basic story without even reading.
Certain old comics produce an unusual reader response. These comics possess artwork that is so well crafted and cinematic, with a pacing so flawless – I actually enter in to the comic itself. It becomes an immersive 3-D experience. I am not just watching a movie, I’m inside of it. If you’ve never read some of these great graphic novels, it’s hard to describe.
And so the adventure began. Every month we got a new issue – and every month, my siblings and I fought over who would read it first. Tintin was always the highlight.
For some reason that I cannot now recall, we missed an issue, and it was years before I found out how Tintin got out of that burning building when the last time we saw him he was lying unconscious on the floor. Fortunately, the puzzle was completed years later, but for a time, that part of the adventure was missing and a real frustration.
We reached the end of that remarkable adventure called The Black Island, and, sadly, Explore! came to a untimely end after only a year. We were extremely disappointed not to have the magazine anymore . . . everyone but me. At that time, I hadn’t really read the other articles (I read them a few years later and loved them) . . . all I cared about was Tintin.
Tintin was one of the many beloved elements that opened a whole new world for me because it encouraged me to read; and now opportunity and success are at my fingers because of it.
Thank you, Tintin, for captivating my interest and forcing me to learn.
Thank you, also, for teaching me how to insult people with great style and imagination.
August 12, 2018
When Beauty Blooms – Blog Tour
Goodness gracious me – that cover is SO PRETTY.
I have something Very Nice to share with you today, people! I am part of a blog tour for my lovely friend, Victoria Lynn.
She has just released a new novelette, When Beauty Blooms. I can’t wait to share more about the book, an author interview, AND a fabulous giveaway. Let’s get started!
Book Synopsis
Revolutionary War Era England
Marjorie Kirk is a woman with no fortune, no prospects, no family, and no skills. Or so she thinks. She is awkward, shy, and the farthest thing from any semblance of a society lady.
The new minister keeps turning up in the most awkward of places and she can’t help but feel that her life is doomed to one of embarrassment. But will her flaws actually be the thing that others find the most attractive?
A story of a young woman with social anxiety and how she learned to bloom.
Author Bio
Victoria Lynn is in her 20s and if she’s not writing, she is probably sewing, singing, playing the piano, washing dishes, creating something with her hands, or learning something new. She has a passion for serving her Creator, encouraging others and being creative. She blogs at www.rufflesandgrace.com about writing, fashion, modesty, her walk with God and life. She lives in Michigan with her parents and 8 siblings.
Find The Book: Goodreads Amazon
Find The Author: Blog Facebook Instagram Goodreads Amazon
And now, an interview with Victoria Lynn!
When Beauty Blooms is set in Revolutionary War era England. What kind of research do you do, and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book?
That’s a somewhat shaming question because I don’t really do a lot of “research” before starting a project. I usually research as I go for certain things I am not clear on, but my whole life has been a research session. I have grown up with an incredibly thirst for history and historical fiction, so all that time spent buried in it during my school years has really prepared me to write historical fiction.
I grew up reading a lot of history and historical fiction too! It definitely develops an unconscious knowledge of different times. So do you think When Beauty Blooms will ever have a prequel or a sequel?
Meh, probably not. But you never know! Marjorie’s children may make an appearance at some point, but I don’t really have any plans.
Yay, children! That’s exciting. Tell me – what has been some of your favorite feedback from your published works so far? Do you have any special feedback that really touched or encouraged you?
Two instances come to mind. It wasn’t direct feedback, I kind of stumbled on it on Goodreads at one point. Someone was talking about how much she loved the book and she had gotten her brothers to read it and they loved it and were having sibling conversations and arguments about the book. I felt so famous or something. LOL! The other instance was from someone who really blessed me by buying the book in the first place. His feedback literally had me sobbing. It was everything that I ever hope to accomplish with my writing and it blew my mind that God had taken my prayers and made them come true for this young man. He told me how my story really touched him and that it really encouraged him in his faith as he had lost someone very close to him and he really related with the grieving process of the characters (in London in the Dark) and how it just really drew him closer to the Lord. I actually printed that out and put it in my journal. God can do amazing things if we only give it over to Him.
That’s amazing! Now, what authors did you dislike at first but later grew to like?
That’s a really hard question because I actually have some sort of Short term memory loss when it comes to books. OH! I just thought of one. Suzanne Woods Fisher. It was an Amish book, or so I thought, but I ended up really liking it! It was called Phoebe’s Light.
Interesting! Here’s a loaded question. How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?
Gurl. You don’t even want to know. I don’t even count them anymore. Some of the main ones that I can think of right off the bat are 5-6 that are actually half done or completely rough drafted.
Haha – I can really relate! What is your favorite and least favorite part of the writing process? Editing, plotting, outlining, publishing?
Editing is pretty crummy, I have to say. I don’t mind plotting or outlining, and sometimes those can go better for me than the nitty gritty detail of the creative writing process. But editing is probably the worst. I have come to enjoy some aspects of publishing, as you know, cover design and formatting, so definitely the editing is the worst.
I hear you on editing, bleh. Last question. What is something you HAVE to have to write? A specific location? Quiet? Music? Coffee? Chocolate?
I COULD write without it, but the one thing for me and always has been music. It somehow fuels that part of my brain. It really gets me to focus and centers me in that world. If a good soundtrack is playing, those wheels just naturally start turning.
Thank you so much for the interview, Miss Victoria!
Thanks so much for having me Allison! Your questions were amazing!
And now . . . .
THE GIVEAWAY!
Enter HERE to win a signed paperback copy of When Beauty Blooms and a $10.00 Amazon Gift card!
And make sure you stick around for the rest of the blog tour, my pretties!
Aug. 11
Angela Watts // Spotlight //
Thepeculiarmessenger.wordpress.com
Aug. 13
Jana Tenbrook // Review //
Reviewsfromthestacks.wordpress.com
Lilly Shyree // Review/Interview
Alillyingodsgarden.blogspot.com
And that’s it.
I have something Very Nice to share with you today, people! I am part of a blog tour for my lovely friend, Victoria Lynn.
She has just released a new novelette, When Beauty Blooms. I can’t wait to share more about the book, an author interview, AND a fabulous giveaway. Let’s get started!
Book Synopsis
Revolutionary War Era England
Marjorie Kirk is a woman with no fortune, no prospects, no family, and no skills. Or so she thinks. She is awkward, shy, and the farthest thing from any semblance of a society lady.
The new minister keeps turning up in the most awkward of places and she can’t help but feel that her life is doomed to one of embarrassment. But will her flaws actually be the thing that others find the most attractive?
A story of a young woman with social anxiety and how she learned to bloom.
Author Bio
Victoria Lynn is in her 20s and if she’s not writing, she is probably sewing, singing, playing the piano, washing dishes, creating something with her hands, or learning something new. She has a passion for serving her Creator, encouraging others and being creative. She blogs at www.rufflesandgrace.com about writing, fashion, modesty, her walk with God and life. She lives in Michigan with her parents and 8 siblings.
Find The Book: Goodreads Amazon
Find The Author: Blog Facebook Instagram Goodreads Amazon
And now, an interview with Victoria Lynn!
When Beauty Blooms is set in Revolutionary War era England. What kind of research do you do, and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book?
That’s a somewhat shaming question because I don’t really do a lot of “research” before starting a project. I usually research as I go for certain things I am not clear on, but my whole life has been a research session. I have grown up with an incredibly thirst for history and historical fiction, so all that time spent buried in it during my school years has really prepared me to write historical fiction.
I grew up reading a lot of history and historical fiction too! It definitely develops an unconscious knowledge of different times. So do you think When Beauty Blooms will ever have a prequel or a sequel?
Meh, probably not. But you never know! Marjorie’s children may make an appearance at some point, but I don’t really have any plans.
Yay, children! That’s exciting. Tell me – what has been some of your favorite feedback from your published works so far? Do you have any special feedback that really touched or encouraged you?
Two instances come to mind. It wasn’t direct feedback, I kind of stumbled on it on Goodreads at one point. Someone was talking about how much she loved the book and she had gotten her brothers to read it and they loved it and were having sibling conversations and arguments about the book. I felt so famous or something. LOL! The other instance was from someone who really blessed me by buying the book in the first place. His feedback literally had me sobbing. It was everything that I ever hope to accomplish with my writing and it blew my mind that God had taken my prayers and made them come true for this young man. He told me how my story really touched him and that it really encouraged him in his faith as he had lost someone very close to him and he really related with the grieving process of the characters (in London in the Dark) and how it just really drew him closer to the Lord. I actually printed that out and put it in my journal. God can do amazing things if we only give it over to Him.
That’s amazing! Now, what authors did you dislike at first but later grew to like?
That’s a really hard question because I actually have some sort of Short term memory loss when it comes to books. OH! I just thought of one. Suzanne Woods Fisher. It was an Amish book, or so I thought, but I ended up really liking it! It was called Phoebe’s Light.
Interesting! Here’s a loaded question. How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?
Gurl. You don’t even want to know. I don’t even count them anymore. Some of the main ones that I can think of right off the bat are 5-6 that are actually half done or completely rough drafted.
Haha – I can really relate! What is your favorite and least favorite part of the writing process? Editing, plotting, outlining, publishing?
Editing is pretty crummy, I have to say. I don’t mind plotting or outlining, and sometimes those can go better for me than the nitty gritty detail of the creative writing process. But editing is probably the worst. I have come to enjoy some aspects of publishing, as you know, cover design and formatting, so definitely the editing is the worst.
I hear you on editing, bleh. Last question. What is something you HAVE to have to write? A specific location? Quiet? Music? Coffee? Chocolate?
I COULD write without it, but the one thing for me and always has been music. It somehow fuels that part of my brain. It really gets me to focus and centers me in that world. If a good soundtrack is playing, those wheels just naturally start turning.
Thank you so much for the interview, Miss Victoria!
Thanks so much for having me Allison! Your questions were amazing!
And now . . . .
THE GIVEAWAY!
Enter HERE to win a signed paperback copy of When Beauty Blooms and a $10.00 Amazon Gift card!
And make sure you stick around for the rest of the blog tour, my pretties!
Aug. 11
Angela Watts // Spotlight //
Thepeculiarmessenger.wordpress.com
Aug. 13
Jana Tenbrook // Review //
Reviewsfromthestacks.wordpress.com
Lilly Shyree // Review/Interview
Alillyingodsgarden.blogspot.com
And that’s it.
August 4, 2018
July In A Nutshell
Why, hello there.
First of all, can I lodge an official protest that OVER HALF OF 2018 IS OVER AND I FEEL LIKE THE SUMMER JUST STARTED. #help
Ahem. But I digress. This is the monthly wrap up post where I reflect on what happened in the previous month and what I accomplished. I got quite a bit done in July, in spite of everything!
Let’s take a look, shall we?
– WATCHED –
I shall refrain from going over everything I watched and just list my top favorites of July!
Search for Spock
The Search For Spock is my favorite Star Trek movie of all time. Every time I watch this gem, I tear up. There’s more truthful emotions and beautiful relationships in Star Trek than a gazillion Hallmark movies put together!
Perfect movie making, incredible acting, dynamite pacing, heart-moving music (James Horner actually had the genius to use silence more than score in this movie) and themes of sacrifice and the love of family.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s one of the most emotional movies I have ever watched. When I first watched it years ago, I burst into cheers and applause at the end (I was in my living room). Anyone who hasn’t watched the Original Series though will not be able to appreciate the power and beauty of this chapter of our heroes journey.
The Patriot
I watched this one for the 4th of July and got to show it to my sister! You can’t get much more patriotic than this.
The Patriot is a beautifully crafted film made by true artisans. Unlike the desensitized, chaotic, senseless film-making of many modern films – The Patriot’s editing and pacing harks back to a better time of movie making.
Mel Gibson carries this movie with powerful acting and subtle skill and is the highlight of the cast.
My other favorite aspect of the film is that it focuses on a family – and how each member contributes in their own way based on their unique abilities.
Aside from its technical aspects, The Patriot is backed with beautiful themes – the best of them being that it is impossible to stay out of the fight. There is no third option – it’s one side or the other. Those that try to hide will find the battle follows them to their doorstep.
Crime Travelers (TV show)
This series is amazing! The episodes are so mind-bending that there are still scenes and elements that I have yet to figure out.
This show was so good, that we literally re-watched the entire series a week later and I wouldn’t mind rewatching them again. I hardly ever do that with a film or a show.
All six of my family members have diverse tastes, and it’s a rare show that can entrance all of us.
These two are the most adorable pair of buddies. They complement each other perfectly. Slade’s wild, impetuous personality and his ironic sense of humor plays off of Holly’s cerebral, by-the-book, intensity.
Oh my goodness, guys. You know how picky I am – and YET I SHALL TELL YOU LOUD AND CLEAR – THIS PAIR IS ONE OF THE BEST!!!
And by the way, if you’re looking for a “strong female character” – Holly is a fantastic character without being an obnoxious teeth-kicking prima donna. She’s a female mad scientist (since when do we see that?) with a Sherlock-esque mental intensity and focus that the actress portrays perfectly.
Ellery Queen (TV show)
Jim Hutton plays the eternally distracted but ever-pleasant Ellery to perfection, and his vague, kind personality is balanced wonderfully by David Wayne, who plays his practical, sharp-eyed and salty-tongued father.
Ellery Queen also features one of my favorite character actors of all time, John Hillerman, who is delightfully obnoxious in a British version of Crying Bryan Dern from Adventures in Odyssey.
Fun and engaging mysteries with a fantastic 1930s setting. It also had a “Choose Your Own Adventure” vibe to it that makes it extra fun. Watch it, and you’ll see what I mean.
– READ –
I only read 11 books for the month of July. I had a lot of eyestrain in July so it really cut into my reading but on the plus side, I began listening to more audio books.
I’m an impatient reader, and I read so quickly I have a tendency to inhale a book to the point where my comprehension isn’t always as good as it should be. When I started listening to more audio books last month, it forced me to slow down and to really live in the book. It was an utterly immersive experience that overtook all my senses and I slipped effortless into the book. I’m really enjoying it, even if I do sometimes miss the old binge-reading days.
July 21, 2018
Best Reads of 2018 – 2nd Quarter
You know the drill – I think.
It’s time to talk about what we read today! Every quarter, I post mini reviews of my favorite reads of the year (so far) and it’s time to share my second quarter of great reads.
So let’s start reading!
Mystery of the Gulls
Phyllis A. Whitney
One of Phyllis A. Whitney’s leading characteristics as a writer is the ability to utterly transport a reader to a location – any location – and steep you in it’s atmosphere. There were intriguing references to Mackinaw’s unique history that had me captivated and made me desperately wish I could visit. Taffy Saunders is a sweet and relatable heroine with a believable goal and she is a satisfactory narrator for a easy-going but entertaining mystery that held my attention for every page.
Mystery of the Angry Idol
Phyllis A. Whitney
This book was the quintessential mash-up of summer house escape and mysterious closed-door situation. I really liked the unique spin of having a relationship between a granddaughter and her great grandmother be the focus of the story. Just about anything Asian has always interested me, so the little tidbits of Althea’s backstory of growing up in China and fleeing due to the Boxer rebellion were intriguing. Like the other Whitney book mentioned above, The Mystery of the Angry Idol completely transported me to Mystic Seaport and made me yearn to go there again. There was just enough mystery to keep me interested but not utterly surprised (or utterly lost) in its natural procession to a satisfying ending.
Redcoat in Boston
Ann Finlayson
The real skill of an author is to make any character believable. The ability to step into a different perception so thoroughly, that we are completely immersed in a different mindset and simply accept it – while at the same time, keeping it clear in the narrative that the mindset is not correct. Written with a droll, matter-of-fact masculinity that is delightful to behold – where it’s simply accepted that boys will be boys – and matters of honor and vengeful fisticuffs are the order of the day. Historic details are woven seamlessly throughout the story, coupled with the engaging narrative and relatable characters.
It was also a treat to have the main relationship be between our young hero, Harry, and his sister. Far too many interesting relationships are often tossed by the wayside in favor of a prefabricated, homogenized romance. It was a joy to see a book centered and anchored around siblings. The author also tackles something people conveniently forget – the culture clash between British and American cultures. From the weather to poison ivy to Christmas – cultural clashes abound. Finlayson does an excellent job of showing two groups of peoples, chaffing and jostling one another, a powder keg of tension that is both humorous and foreboding and moves inexorably towards an explosion known as the Boston Massacre.
The Crippled Lamp
Max Lucado
As we turn the beautifully illustrated pages of this book, it’s clear where we’re going – a beautiful journey of confirmation that God loves us and has crafted our story with a pure and perfect love.
I don’t usually get misty over books, but I confess I did a bit with this one – because it’s so full of the Truth of God’s Grace and His perfect plan.
For anyone that’s ever felt looked over, abandoned or crippled – this book is for you.
Stephen’s Feast
Jean Richardson
A wonderful story of sacrifice and generosity that is gorgeously illustrated. I could almost hear the wind swirling in my ears and feel the snowflakes brushing my face. A lovely read that seems to hold winter between its pages.
Marlon Bundo’s Day In the Life of the Vice President
Caroline Pence
A charming little book featuring the darling pet bunny, Marlon Bundo! Illustrated by the talented Second Lady of the United States, Mrs. Karen Pence’s career in art therapy is clear in these illustrations, full of soothing and gentle watercolors. Written by the Vice President’s gracious daughter, Charlotte Pence in a loosely rhyming style with some fun facts sprinkled throughout. I especially liked the emphasis on Mike Pence’s faith and his nightly reading of the Holy Bible.
“At last he gets out his Bible,
And he quietly bows his head.
I place my paw on his hand
For one little prayer before bed.
and I remember how blessed I am
To call his great nation my home.”
Master of Morgana
Allan Campbell McLean
They simply don’t write clean intrigue like they used to. Beautifully written and with just enough intrigue and adventure to pique one’s interest. I was certain early on that I had figured out the mystery, only to keep turning the pages and be completely surprised. The descriptions are incredibly evocative and the reader is transported to the Isle of Skye – and in the misty hills, the rocky cliffs and waving grass – we are trapped in a mystery. In the echo and crash of the surf and the creak of the oars – we hear danger. Elements of the story were a “modern” day take (this book was written in the 1960s) on Treasure Island – with clever nods to the original woven in a natural and intriguing way throughout the novel, especially in regards to certain characters (I can say no more, due to spoilers). The story runs all the way to the very last page and ends with a twist that will illicit a gasp of surprise and a laugh of delight. Not to mention a great deal of head shaking.
Searching for Dragons
Patricia C. Wrede
Our characters are charmingly casual about being magical and living in an Enchanted Forests – everything is approached with a down-to-earth feeling and the fantastic becomes the ordinary. Everyone in this world is bursting with personality – including the Forest itself.
There is a darling randomness to this book – here we bump into a lion guardian a magical pool, here we have breakfast with giants, and here we ride a magic carpet. A sweet and unexpected romp. As we embark, we have no idea what will happen – we bump into Dragon Queens, or we just might encounter Rumplestiltskin, and apparently, he has a far different motivation than we are lead to believe! A cute little fairy tale with fun world building and an enraging and smooth narrative.
For some reason, something about it made me think of my Tales of Ambia series – perhaps it was its laid-back zaniness.
It’s time to talk about what we read today! Every quarter, I post mini reviews of my favorite reads of the year (so far) and it’s time to share my second quarter of great reads.
So let’s start reading!
Mystery of the Gulls
Phyllis A. Whitney
One of Phyllis A. Whitney’s leading characteristics as a writer is the ability to utterly transport a reader to a location – any location – and steep you in it’s atmosphere. There were intriguing references to Mackinaw’s unique history that had me captivated and made me desperately wish I could visit. Taffy Saunders is a sweet and relatable heroine with a believable goal and she is a satisfactory narrator for a easy-going but entertaining mystery that held my attention for every page.
Mystery of the Angry Idol
Phyllis A. Whitney
This book was the quintessential mash-up of summer house escape and mysterious closed-door situation. I really liked the unique spin of having a relationship between a granddaughter and her great grandmother be the focus of the story. Just about anything Asian has always interested me, so the little tidbits of Althea’s backstory of growing up in China and fleeing due to the Boxer rebellion were intriguing. Like the other Whitney book mentioned above, The Mystery of the Angry Idol completely transported me to Mystic Seaport and made me yearn to go there again. There was just enough mystery to keep me interested but not utterly surprised (or utterly lost) in its natural procession to a satisfying ending.
Redcoat in Boston
Ann Finlayson
The real skill of an author is to make any character believable. The ability to step into a different perception so thoroughly, that we are completely immersed in a different mindset and simply accept it – while at the same time, keeping it clear in the narrative that the mindset is not correct. Written with a droll, matter-of-fact masculinity that is delightful to behold – where it’s simply accepted that boys will be boys – and matters of honor and vengeful fisticuffs are the order of the day. Historic details are woven seamlessly throughout the story, coupled with the engaging narrative and relatable characters.
It was also a treat to have the main relationship be between our young hero, Harry, and his sister. Far too many interesting relationships are often tossed by the wayside in favor of a prefabricated, homogenized romance. It was a joy to see a book centered and anchored around siblings. The author also tackles something people conveniently forget – the culture clash between British and American cultures. From the weather to poison ivy to Christmas – cultural clashes abound. Finlayson does an excellent job of showing two groups of peoples, chaffing and jostling one another, a powder keg of tension that is both humorous and foreboding and moves inexorably towards an explosion known as the Boston Massacre.
Read my longer review here – or find it on Goodreads.
The Crippled Lamp
Max Lucado
As we turn the beautifully illustrated pages of this book, it’s clear where we’re going – a beautiful journey of confirmation that God loves us and has crafted our story with a pure and perfect love.
I don’t usually get misty over books, but I confess I did a bit with this one – because it’s so full of the Truth of God’s Grace and His perfect plan.
For anyone that’s ever felt looked over, abandoned or crippled – this book is for you.
Stephen’s FeastJean Richardson
A wonderful story of sacrifice and generosity that is gorgeously illustrated. I could almost hear the wind swirling in my ears and feel the snowflakes brushing my face. A lovely read that seems to hold winter between its pages.
Marlon Bundo’s Day In the Life of the Vice President
Caroline Pence
A charming little book featuring the darling pet bunny, Marlon Bundo! Illustrated by the talented Second Lady of the United States, Mrs. Karen Pence’s career in art therapy is clear in these illustrations, full of soothing and gentle watercolors. Written by the Vice President’s gracious daughter, Charlotte Pence in a loosely rhyming style with some fun facts sprinkled throughout. I especially liked the emphasis on Mike Pence’s faith and his nightly reading of the Holy Bible.
“At last he gets out his Bible,
And he quietly bows his head.
I place my paw on his hand
For one little prayer before bed.
and I remember how blessed I am
To call his great nation my home.”
Master of Morgana
Allan Campbell McLean
They simply don’t write clean intrigue like they used to. Beautifully written and with just enough intrigue and adventure to pique one’s interest. I was certain early on that I had figured out the mystery, only to keep turning the pages and be completely surprised. The descriptions are incredibly evocative and the reader is transported to the Isle of Skye – and in the misty hills, the rocky cliffs and waving grass – we are trapped in a mystery. In the echo and crash of the surf and the creak of the oars – we hear danger. Elements of the story were a “modern” day take (this book was written in the 1960s) on Treasure Island – with clever nods to the original woven in a natural and intriguing way throughout the novel, especially in regards to certain characters (I can say no more, due to spoilers). The story runs all the way to the very last page and ends with a twist that will illicit a gasp of surprise and a laugh of delight. Not to mention a great deal of head shaking.
Searching for Dragons
Patricia C. Wrede
Our characters are charmingly casual about being magical and living in an Enchanted Forests – everything is approached with a down-to-earth feeling and the fantastic becomes the ordinary. Everyone in this world is bursting with personality – including the Forest itself.
There is a darling randomness to this book – here we bump into a lion guardian a magical pool, here we have breakfast with giants, and here we ride a magic carpet. A sweet and unexpected romp. As we embark, we have no idea what will happen – we bump into Dragon Queens, or we just might encounter Rumplestiltskin, and apparently, he has a far different motivation than we are lead to believe! A cute little fairy tale with fun world building and an enraging and smooth narrative.
For some reason, something about it made me think of my Tales of Ambia series – perhaps it was its laid-back zaniness.
July 17, 2018
June In A Nutshell
Well, look who’s back!
Obviously, this post is incredibly late. Sorry about that, folks!
I was feeling really bad for the last two weeks of June and basically wasn’t working – let alone writing or blogging. I’m still feeling bad and scrambling to play catch up. Blogging (and basically everything else) might be a little irregular for a bit – so if I disappear off the radar screen of life – I’m still alive, just absent.
Now, onto the belated nutshell! As a further note, this post will be a bit shorter. 1) because I didn’t do as much last month as I might normally do in a month and 2) because I’m behind in everything and I’m going to actually keep it short for once!
At least, I’ll try.
June 16, 2018
The Thief, The Damsel, and the Dragon – Cover Reveal!
I have exciting news, my people! My sweet friend, Angela, is releasing a novella!
I was delighted to participate in The Thief, The Damsel, And The Dragon cover reveal . . . and that’s what we’re going to do!
You ready?
Scroll down . . .
And down . . .
Anddddddd – HERE IT IS!
Isn’t that pretty???
The Synopsis:
“… the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.” ~ Psalms 91:13
Edward Prosner is going to steal from the small town mayor of Fall Springs, North Carolina. He’s got a flawless plan of action and is determined to return honor and justice to his father’s good name. The problem he faces? He needs a date for the mayor’s dinner party.
Lucy Levitt is a huge romantic at heart, but with her family’s ranch and her part-time job, she has no time for dating. She believes God will place her soulmate in her life when the time is right. When the new man in town asks her out, how can she say no?
The first date seems ordinary enough, but then they begin to realize that they can’t fight their dragons alone.
Author Bio:
Angela R. Watts is a sinner saved by Yahweh’s Grace and she strives to glorify the King in all she does. She’s a homeschooled highschooler who lives at Step By Step Sanctuary, Tennessee, with her loving family and ranch animals. She’s been writing stories since she was tiny and hasn’t stopped since, though she also enjoys ranch and housework, painting, babysitting, and watching sunsets.
Blog | Youtube | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Pinterest
The Thief, The Damsel, And The Dragon will be releasing in June/July – so do what I did and add to your Goodreads shelf.
Happy reading, my friends!
June 4, 2018
May In A Nutshell
Can anyone tell me what happened to May? It seemed to pass by me in a blur!
I still seem to be at sixes and sevens as I write this – so if it seems a little vague or choppy – my apologies!
As I look at this post, it doesn’t look like I did a whole lot – but believe me, I was busy. And here’s why!
– Watched –
*coughs* This looks like . . . a lot. That’s because TV is a family event and how I hang out with family in the evenings. Trust me, I did more than watch TV in May. *slinks away*
The Pixie Hollow Games:
Judge all you want. I. Love. The. Tinkerbell. Series. The Pixie Hollow Games is an adorable and funny spoof off of the Olympics and, as always, features solid character arcs and themes. Can I also mention all the fabulous world building and the tiny little details of the fairy world?
The Hobbit Trilogy:
So I’ve read the book but . . . . I liked the movies better.
I thought the movies did a great job of fleshing out basically . . . everything . I cared more about the Dwarves and their quest. When Bilbo pledges his help to reclaim their home . . . *trails off for a moment, sniffing* . . . I was ready to pledge my fealty with him!
There were so many beautiful moments – such fine acting and good storytelling. Granted, I only saw about . . . fifty percent? . . . of each movie. Less for Battle of the Five Armie. Basically I just didn’t watch many of the scenes with orcs, goblins or dragons because I don’t like looking at them. #yuck
But that tells you something, because even with that percentage, I still liked them better than the book.
And by the way, I loved Tauriel and Kili – I thought their relationship was perfect and precioussssss.
I still seem to be at sixes and sevens as I write this – so if it seems a little vague or choppy – my apologies!
As I look at this post, it doesn’t look like I did a whole lot – but believe me, I was busy. And here’s why!
– Watched –
*coughs* This looks like . . . a lot. That’s because TV is a family event and how I hang out with family in the evenings. Trust me, I did more than watch TV in May. *slinks away*
The Pixie Hollow Games:
Judge all you want. I. Love. The. Tinkerbell. Series. The Pixie Hollow Games is an adorable and funny spoof off of the Olympics and, as always, features solid character arcs and themes. Can I also mention all the fabulous world building and the tiny little details of the fairy world?
The Hobbit Trilogy:
So I’ve read the book but . . . . I liked the movies better.
I thought the movies did a great job of fleshing out basically . . . everything . I cared more about the Dwarves and their quest. When Bilbo pledges his help to reclaim their home . . . *trails off for a moment, sniffing* . . . I was ready to pledge my fealty with him!
There were so many beautiful moments – such fine acting and good storytelling. Granted, I only saw about . . . fifty percent? . . . of each movie. Less for Battle of the Five Armie. Basically I just didn’t watch many of the scenes with orcs, goblins or dragons because I don’t like looking at them. #yuck
But that tells you something, because even with that percentage, I still liked them better than the book.
And by the way, I loved Tauriel and Kili – I thought their relationship was perfect and precioussssss.
May 30, 2018
Life At Hedgerose – Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The New Housekeeper
Titus only heard brief snatches of the argument between Folrolf and Honey Winstalk—he deliberately clattered pans in the kitchen so as not to hear much of it—but from the bits that he heard, it sounded as if Honey were taunting Folrolf and claiming that he couldn’t do half of the work that women did.
Apparently Folrolf had not been able to rebuff Honey’s claim to his total satisfaction, for when he charged into the house a few minutes after, he was muttering darkly and had a face like a storm about to break. But aside from being pensively quiet at dinner, he did not mention anything of it to Titus.
Titus had quite forgotten about the argument—Folrolf had so many of them it was easy to lose track—until the next morning. It was the last day of the week, and as was their custom they had risen early and retreated into the library for some light reading before the morning meal. Titus had just begun to rouse himself out of the depths of his favorite armchair to make breakfast when Folrolf cast his book down on a side table and leapt out of his chair. “Wait a minute, Titus. I’ll do that.”
“You?” Titus blurted in disbelief. “Do . . . what?”
“Make breakfast, of course.”
“But, Folrolf!” Titus protested.
Folrolf glared at him. “Titus Benjamin! How many times have I told you I cannot countenance stammering; no more buts! It’s about time you listen to your elders and do as I say.”
Titus subsided without another murmur into his armchair, perching as gingerly in it as if it were full of gunpowder as he watched Folrolf march indignantly from the room. Titus stared at his book without seeing the words, his ears ringing with the marked silence from the kitchen. Titus finally gave up and set aside his book. Feeling distinctly uneasy, he went to the kitchen door to find Folrolf standing stock still in the center of the room. Folrolf swung around and cleared his throat.
“I believe . . . I shall collect apples first.”
“Apples.” Titus repeated.
“Yes. For a pie.”
“For breakfast?”
“No! Of course not, don’t be foolish. For something savory in the afternoon, or maybe for tea. Perhaps I shall even pick some pears too. For tarts. After which, I shall make a hearty breakfast for you. It won’t harm you to eat it later. Give you time to work up an appetite. Go run about in the garden or something.” And Folrolf caught up a basket and tromped outside into the small orchard behind the cottage.
He was back a moment later—having forgotten the ladder—and dragging it out the door with a ferocious clatter began struggling with it on the lawn like a soldier in pitched combat.
Titus set some tea onto boil and watched from the window.
Folrolf had the ladder propped against a tree in a few moments and, hitching his robes into his belt, clambered up it. For a few seconds, everything progressed nicely and nothing eventful happened until Folrolf reached for a particularly glossy apple just out of reach and lost his balance.
He began waving his arms in one violent flurry in a massive effort to keep his balance with a surge of flapping that sounded like a group of herons taking wing. Despite all his efforts, he tumbled over backwards behind a hedge, grabbing the ladder as he fell and bringing it down on top of him with a mighty crash.
For a moment all that could be seen were two black boots kicking dazedly and rather vaguely in the air and a hat perched at a jaunty angle on a rosemary bush. Folrolf’s head finally emerged from the foliage, with his robes over his face. He yanked the robes away, revealing a very red face and a beard full of leaves.
Folrolf leapt to his feet with a savagery that nearly finished the bush he had already mangled, seized the ladder in both hands, and threw it across the garden hedge with a mighty heave no human could imitate. Titus stopped sharpening the bread knife and watched with his mouth open as the ladder sailed through the air like the projectile from an army’s ballista. It landed with an earth-splitting crash on top of Honey’s roof, propped at a drunken tilt against the chimney.
Folrolf’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his aim, then he smiled with some satisfaction, rescued his hat from the rosemary bush and screwed it firmly down on his head.
He was distracted from his momentary victory by a several loud caws in the garden.
“What’s this?” he exploded with a roar of outrage as he swung about to look.
Crows were bobbing about the gleaming stalks of corn, pecking at the kernels, and crowing on a decidedly mocking note.
“Out!” Folrolf screamed. He snatched up two apples and a pear from the basket and sent them flying at the birds. One crow struck on the beak, another on the foot, and the third on the tail. They screeched in protest and shot into the air with an eruption of feathers, but they merely fluttered a few feet away, cawing angrily at Folrolf.
“How do you like that?” Folrolf yelled. He sent another barrage their way with dazzling success, and two escaped to the air, while the braver ones remained in the garden or took up a sulking vigil on Honey Winstalk’s roof.
“You’re not getting away that easy!” Folrolf bellowed. He upended the basket of fruit he had just picked and darted into the garden, trampling a few unfortunate tomatoes under foot as he rushed towards a dizzy crow that had suffered a pear to the head and trapped it under his basket.
“Now I’ve got you, you thieving beggar!” Folrolf roared in triumph. He jiggled and shook the basket vigorously in a series of dizzying circles until he was red with exertion. “And now I shall tromp all over you for good measure, bird!”
Fortunately for the crow, Folrolf lost his footing and as his hold loosened on the basket. As the basket tipped, the dizzy crow made good his escape.
“Parasites!” Folrolf yelled, shaking a fist after them.
One solitary crow stared at him resentfully from Honey’s rooftop and cawed.
An apple sent him flapping and squawking away.
“And don’t come back!”
~
After collecting the bruised pears and apples, Folrolf stumped inside. He did not hoe, rake, weed or water the garden because, as he had told Titus and other villagers numerous times before, he did not believe in gardening. He stuck fiercely to his deep conviction that things of the earth should shift for themselves. Instead, Folrolf proceeded to make an apple pie.
Titus had retreated to the parlor and was making a brave attempt at reading. He had tactfully laid out everything Folrolf would need for the pie before he quit the kitchen, and now he watched through the open door as Folrolf tied on an apron that was draped conveniently over a chair and reached for the large mixing bowl Titus had set in the center of the table for Folrolf’s use. Folrolf caught Titus’s eye and beamed at him.
“You see? I can find everything I need perfectly!”
Folrolf spent some time considering the immense barrel of flour in the corner. Titus realized with chagrin that he had forgotten to set out a small cup for measuring. He was about to rise and retrieve it for Folrolf when the Welkin set the mixing bowl on the floor, seized the barrel and tipped it, pouring what looked like half a barrelful into the bowl with a smile of satisfaction. Flour cascaded in a powdery stream into the bowl, then Folrolf’s hands slipped on the barrel and he poured half a pound on the floor before he could right the barrel. The smug smile vanished as Folrolf stared at the little white mountain at his feet. Setting the barrel down and muttering darkly to himself, he stomped to the closet and out of Titus’s line of sight.
Titus skimmed over another chapter, cocking an ear at the frequent crashes and noting the growing vehemence of the mutterings coming from the kitchen. Folrolf stormed into view again, carrying the broom and tray and utterly unaware that his apron had come untied and was now trailing behind him, clinging in his robes like a cotton spider web. Folrolf slammed the broom tray down on the floor and swept the pile of flour a trifle too vigorously into it, causing a cloud to fly up his nose, resulting in several violent sneezes. He took the tray to the window, pushed it open, deposited the flour into the rose bushes, and slammed the window closed again with a tinkle of broken glass. Folrolf took several deep breaths, bent, swept up the glass from the broken window and tipped it out after the flour.
Folrolf tromped back to the table, blowing his nose loudly on a handkerchief, and finally, inevitably, tripped on the apron strings wrapped around his boots.
He staggered about thunderously, bellowing like a mad bull and then he stepped in the bowl of flour and tipped it over onto the floor. After a considerable amount of thrashing, Folrolf freed himself of the apron, rushed to the window, sent the offending apron after the broken glass.
Titus whipped his head back to his book as Folrolf glanced furtively in his direction. When Titus glanced towards the kitchen again, Folrolf was hastily scooping the flour off the floor and into the bowl with his cupped hands.
Titus considered asking Folrolf if he could help but when he dared to poke his head into the kitchen five minutes later, one look at Folrolf’s face encouraged him to keep his tongue in check and his head on his shoulders. He went up to his room to check on the dragon egg, ensuring that it was warm and comfy in its makeshift nest. The egg hadn’t twitched for days. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
When he returned downstairs, Folrolf was smashing his mangled and limp dough into a pie pan and crimping the edges. Titus took up his previous position in the parlor and picked up his reading again, making a show of turning the pages.
Flushed with success, Folrolf turned his attention to the bruised apples, chopped them core and all and tossed them into the pan. Garnishing them with a veritable hailstorm of cinnamon and sugar until the apples were covered in a blanket of dirty snow, Folrolf stirring them vigorously with a spoon, causing several apple slices to tumble to the ground. Folrolf dropped to his knees with a painful crack and a bellow of anguish then, grimacing, crawled under the table to retrieve the slices, banging his head on the edge as he clambered to his feet.
“PESTILENCE!” Folrolf roared, glaring fiercely and stirring all the harder with his spoon before he slammed the pan down on the counter and turned his attention to what remained of his misshapen dough, struggling with the lattice that would form the pies upper crust. He sliced mercilessly and brutally at it with the knife, tossing stripes aside in a growing pile that—Titus could not help but notice—stuck firmly together. Folrolf finished slicing the last strip, frowned at the pan, stared a long moment and bellowed: “Titus!”
Titus snatched up his book just as Folrolf came tearing into the parlor, catching Titus by the shirt front and heaving him out of his chair. “Titus! Why are the apples brown? Your apples never turn brown like that!”
Titus swallowed against his rapidly tightening collar. “That’s because you forgot the lemon juice, Folrolf.”
“This is an apple pie not a lemon pie, you little button head!” Folrolf roared, releasing Titus and storming back into the kitchen. “Lemon juice, ha!”
Folrolf swept back into the kitchen and struggled in vain to pull the strips apart. Titus watched in fascination as Folrolf’s face changed colors rapidly from cherry, to scarlet, to maroon.
“BLAST IT!” Folrolf grabbed the clump of dough, smashed it flat with his fist, slapped it over the pie, crimped the edges with blurring speed and threw the pan into the oven with a thunderous bang. He went through the entire process again, grumbling like a pot about to boil over, and left the second pie on the table to be baked later.
Distracted by the pies, Folrolf produced a harried breakfast of burned oatmeal and toast, undercooked bacon, unsalted biscuits, and two poached eggs that refused to be cracked, no matter how hard Titus whacked at them.
“I don’t understand it,” Folrolf muttered thumping an egg disconsolately with his spoon. “It must have been an ill chicken that produced this egg. It’s as solid as a rock.”
Titus coughed to get Folrolf’s attention and pointed wordlessly to the plume of smoke coming from the oven. Folrolf flew out of his chair, but the pie was beyond saving.
A black-faced Folrolf glared at Titus. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, you young fool? The house could have burned down around our ears!” He dropped the burned pie on the table and stormed out of the room.
Folrolf had apparently had enough with baking for the time being, and he turned his attention next to the ancient and fading hall rug. Making a show of cleaning up the kitchen, Titus managed to catch glimpses of Folrolf’s activates.
Folrolf gathered up the carpet in his long spider arms and staggered outside, tossed it over the laundry line before tromping back inside to find the rug beater.
It was some time before he returned outside—apparently he couldn’t find the rug beater and was loath to ask Titus. When he did, he grabbed the rug in one hand, pulled it taut and gave the rug a deafening thump with the beater. The rug promptly tore in half, one end falling to the ground and the other fluttering pathetically on the line as Folrolf stared in stupefaction from one piece to another. He glanced about quickly, gathered both pieces in his arms and charged inside.
Titus poked his head around the corner of the parlor doorway to watch Folrolf laid the two separate pieces gently on the floor, pressing them together and looking at them hopefully. He licked his finger and pressed the broken threads down in place, nodding in satisfaction as he went to collect soap and a bucket to clean the windows.
Folrolf seemed to have decided to clean the attic windows first, and after hunting about for a long rope, he clumped upstairs to find another ladder. As he was opening the little door to the attic, his boot broke through a stair and sent him plunging to his knees, scrabbling for a handhold in the enveloping sea of robes. After extricating himself, he gave the stair an ill tempered kick, stubbing his toe and dislodging several birds nests from a rafter above which lodged momentarily down his back. He was looking quite hot and irritable when he shook the door handle and realized the attic door was locked and had been for more then five months.
Folrolf kicked the door several times. “Who locks this confounded door in the first place?” He roared, galloping downstairs and turning his library desk upside down in search of a key. He found it and charged up the stairs again, catching his foot in the broken step a second time, which caused him to pitch forward and bang his nose against the door.
In the parlor, an almost musical series of thudding and clattering could be heard by Titus, punctuated by booming ejaculations whose phrasings were muffled, although the meanings were fully evident. Then there was a crash, a howl of rage and pain, and something was being half dragged, half kicked down the stairs, with a din that sounded like the clattering of a thousand horses on cobblestones and the clanking mail of their mounted knights. Titus contrived not to look up as Folrolf finally wrestled the ladder through the door and outside. He got a basket and went outside to pick cucumbers for tea as an excuse to watch what happened next.
Folrolf hauled the ladder towards the south side of the house and propped it against the roof, hitching his robes up to his knees and clambering up the ladder with a pail of sudsy water. Perched precariously on top of the roof, Folrolf tied a rope to the pail’s handle and lowered it over the edge of the gutter until it was on level with one of the four attic windows. Grunting in satisfaction, he tied the other end to the chimney. He anchored his second piece of rope to the chimney as well and tied the other end to his boot. He lowered himself over the gutter until he was staring into the attic window. Humming to himself, he planted his boots against the side of the house, hanging onto the rope with one hand, while he dipped his cleaning rag into the pail beside him with the other.
Titus was distracted for just a moment by a weed, but a yell and a terrific noise of something banging against the side of the house and landing in the rose bushes caused him to leap to his feet.
He raced towards the side of the house, just as Folrolf leaped out of the bushes like a flea, trailing several vines behind him.
Judging from his spry—albeit agitated—movements, it was clear Folrolf was all right, and Titus knew better than to ask him. He thought now might be the time to have mercy and help Folrolf cobble something together in the kitchen and bring the house back to order.
“Luncheon?” He suggested.
“Get your own blasted lunch!” Folrolf snarled as he stalked into the house.
Offended, Titus stomped into the parlor and resumed his reading, waiting until Folrolf had disappeared into the library with a cleaning rag before he got his own lunch; though he found an excuse to walk down the hall several times, to sneak glances into the library.
Folrolf surveyed the rows of bookcases and volumes all frosted in a thick layer of dust.
Folrolf placed the rag on the spines of the books to his left and ran the entire length of the room, dragging it across the binding. He twirled at the far end then ran back again, dragging his rag across the shelf. He did this hastily for each bookcase and left the dust on top of the shelves and behind the books alone. He studied his desk thoughtfully and gave it one swift swipe, which caused a lamp to fall over.
Muttering furiously and steadily under his breath, he scooped the glass up with the ends of his robes and pushed it into the coal scuttle before rushing out of the room and closing the door behind him.
He had just gathered another soapy bucket of water and rags to scour the house floors when he spotted the pile of mending waiting in the parlor.
He dropped his bucket and rags in the hall, causing some of the water to slosh onto the floor, and clomped into the parlor where he began to pull cushions and blankets off chairs, delving his hands into the black recesses of the gap between the seat and the arm, though his search only turned up the sticky remnants of a piece of bread and what must have once been honey.
Folrolf shook his hand vigorously to rid himself of the mess and tossed it out the window.
“Where are those blasted darning needles?” He roared, flinging himself into a chair and finding the pointed implements he sought with painful rapidity.
After searching the cushions for any more sharp objects, Folrolf settled himself gingerly into a chair with the darning needles and a moth eaten sock.
Despite never having done it before—at least, to Titus’s knowledge—Folrolf managed a lumpy knot where a hole had once been. He appeared to be growing calmer with this sudden victory when, without warning, he poked a bony finger through the hole. He glared at the sock irritably. “Furies!”
He exploded from his chair and went storming into the hall, tripping over the bucket he had left there earlier and upsetting more water.
Folrolf snatched up the bucket and moping accouterments and dragged the entire lot into the kitchen and closed the door, so Titus could not see what happened next. It seemed Folrolf had made some success though, for when he reappeared some time later, he was beaming, and a glimpse of the kitchen behind him revealed sparkling floors.
“I don’t know why women always complain of house work,” Folrolf said pleasantly to Titus. “I find it most invigorating.”
Titus noticed the kitchen looked strangely bare. “Folrolf . . . where are all the chairs? And the table?”
Folrolf waved a hand vaguely. “I moved them outside so I could scour the floor. Move them back in won’t you?” He strode past Titus into the main hall, whistling cheerfully. He flung open the front door, then set his back against a hall table, and shoved it out the door and onto the lawn with the driving force of a plough horse.
“Folrolf!” Titus spluttered.
Folrolf surged inside a moment later, ruddy and virtuous. “Now, Titus. I know what you’re going to say. I shouldn’t be troubling myself over such trifles. Normally, you would be right. But don’t worry; this doesn’t bother me a bit. I tell you I’m enjoying these little diversions. Now just you wait, I’ll have this done in no time and then we shall have tea.”
He picked up a corner of the hall rug and pulled energetically upwards . . . leaving half of carpet on the floor. He flushed crimson. He quickly gathered up both pieces of the carpet, turning his back so that Titus couldn’t see, and threw them hastily outside after the hallway table. He avoided Titus’s look as he went to the kitchen for more water.
Titus had barely finished wrestling the tables and chairs back into the kitchen again when Folrolf sailed into the kitchen.
“I’ve just finished the hall,” he said comfortably. “Oh by the way, Titus. You can move the chairs and table outside again. I just decided that I shall wax the floors, since they’re clean.” And he disappeared into the broom closet to find the wax.
Titus gritted his teeth and put his shoulder to a hutch he had just wrangled into position.
Folrolf method of waxing was to wrap rags around his immense boots and skate back and forth across the hall until it glistened, a method so efficient; Titus had to rush through luncheon to keep up with moving the furniture in and out of the house. He was beginning to have a sore spot between his shoulders.
Sliding into the kitchen and waving cheerily at Titus, who had just finished shifting the table back into place, Folrolf began swirling about the kitchen, narrowly evading running into the china hutch.
“I used to be quite an ice skater,” Folrolf reflected as he hurtled past Titus, “when I was a young sprout.” He pushed Titus aside with an arm and began rubbing the spot where he had been standing with tremendous care, as if he thought Titus was tracking mud.
Titus retired to the parlor, still chewing the sandwich he had been forced to keep cramming into his pocket, and feeling decidedly sore and out of sorts.
Folrolf was still gliding and twirling elegantly about the room when Emma Copplestone’s face appeared at the open kitchen door. Emma was a fat good-natured widow, with a face like a scrubbed and freckled potato and her round little eyes were the size of turnip bulbs as she stared at Folrolf, who continued obliviously to sweep about the room.
“Goodness, Mr. Folrolf, sir!” She gasped at last. “I never knew you could dance so fine as that!”
Folrolf whirled about in surprise, then flung his arms wide. “Ah! Mistress Copplestone!” He bowed so flamboyantly and with such an audacious raise of the eyebrows, that Emma—who had been widowed for some time—flushed scarlet up to the roots of her curly white hair. “Would you do me the honor,” and Folrolf bowed again, admirably, “of a dance?”
“Well, mercy!” Emma said finally when she had got her breath back—decidedly pleased and a little alarmed too. Titus guessed that it had been years since she had been asked to dance; probably no one had felt up to lifting her well padded person. Emma pulled her cap firmly down over her ears and had barely set her basket down when Folrolf flung open the bottom half of the door, seized her hand, and dragged her into the room, twirling her about so fast she nearly slipped.
They made an unusual looking couple, Folrolf was so tall he had to bend nearly double to reach her and Emma was so short she could barely look up at him and seemed to spend most of the dance bouncing off the front of him and trying desperately to hold onto her cap, as her round eyes grew even larger.
Still, it was a strangely elegant dance, and it was certainly lively. Emma, who was not gifted with natural grace, was still managing rather well as they careened about the room, thanks to the slipperiness of the waxed floor and the prowess of Folrolf, who heaved her about the room with hearty ease. Titus had never in his life seen Folrolf deliberately set out to charm a lady before and it was well worth the watching. His guardian was feeling expansive and conversed warmly through the entire dance and, judging from the look on Emma’s face, his conversation was as sparkling and witty as a poet’s. Titus couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, since they were crashing about the room like a herd of collywompuses. Folrolf even extracted one high pitched giggle from an astounded Emma, whose expression was gradually changing from alarm to intense enjoyment.
By the time the dance was over, Folrolf had gained himself a conquest, judging from Emma’s dazed mumblings. She handed him the basket of fresh bread she had brought for Titus, blushed numerous times and gave one final titter before she scurried out the door.
Folrolf swept one last elaborate bow at her departure and turned slowly, his fingers hooked in his belt, bouncing a little on his heels as he meet Titus’s open mouthed stare. He took one look at Titus’s face and his satisfaction was evidently complete.
“You’ve dropped your book, Titus,” Folrolf said serenely, as he skated past Titus and into the library with the bucket of soapy water.
Titus looked down and discovered he had not only dropped his book, but had left his chair in the parlor and was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and had been for some time.
~
Folrolf’s sweet temper did not last long. It seemed he was having some trouble with moving the furniture, judging from muffled crashes and shouts of pain. Titus guessed that the occasionally howls of anguish and feverish murmurings that sounded like a mother soothing her child, was Folrolf accidentally upsetting water on his precious books and papers.
Titus was listening to all this from the kitchen, when Diggle McCunn walked through the open door and tipped his hat to Titus.
“H’llo,” he said, making himself comfortable in a chair and giving a great wheeze on his pipe. “Having a cup of tea, are you? I wouldn’t mind having one myself.”
Titus poured him a cup without saying anything, distracted by the loud crashing in the library.
Diggle took the saucer and cup from him and gave him a friendly nod. “Thank ye.” He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “I saw you and your guardian had moved all your furniture outside of the house and the missus asked me to ask you if you were getting it off of your hands.”
“Well actually—” Titus began, hoping to recruit Diggle’s help in moving a particularly heavy chest of drawers back inside when Folrolf suddenly barreled into the room.
“Titus! How do you get ink out of a carpet?” He demanded.
Diggle waved at him cheerily, “Hoi Folrolf. How’do. I hear you’re quite the charmer with the ladies! First Honey and now Emma!” He gave a low whistle.
Folrolf whirled on him with a ferocious look. His gaze narrowed on Diggle’s pipe, then he snatched it out of the astounded man’s mouth shook it violently in his face. “Don’t you dare smoke in here! I just finished scrubbing every inch of this house and unless you’d like your own face scoured you won’t let one puff of smoke anywhere near this place!”
Folrolf’s voice was loud enough for Diggle to actually hear and understand every word. His eyes had widened to the size of ripe tomatoes. “Cleaned?” he squeaked. “By you?”
Folrolf glared at him savagely. “Yes, me!” he growled. “And just what is that matter with that? I can clean just as well as anyone!”
“I—I’m—sure you can!” Diggle dropped his tea cup on the table and raced out the door—undoubtedly to tell his wife everything.
Folrolf grabbed a towel and sopped up the spilled tea. “Barbarian!” he muttered, slinging the soiled towel out the window.
~
Tea was disheartening. The delicate bite sized sandwiches that Titus always prepared were nowhere to be seen. They had been replaced with gigantic slabs of bread and thick slices of unpeeled, liberally salted cucumber. The gingerbread had apparently been found in the pantry, for it was stale and the tea was scorched beyond drinking. Folrolf’s face relaxed only partially when he presented the dishes of strawberries floating in cream. Titus couldn’t help noticing they had not had the pips taken out of them or their stems removed, but he said nothing.
Unfortunately for Folrolf, in his hurry, he had salted the berries instead of sweetened them, and the cream had turned sour. That was the only thing on the table that wasn’t Folrolf’s fault, but it was unfortunate that it would happen on the day he was making tea.
Titus stirred his tea, even though there was nothing in it to stir and Folrolf sat very still beside him in stony silence as he surveyed the table with a displeased eye. Folrolf rose stiffly and walked out of the room, leaving Titus to pitch the failed meal out the window.
Folrolf reappeared a moment later to push the second apple pie in the stove and left again to return once more to the broom closet.
He started a fire in the stone fireplace on the lawn and rolled the giant metal washtub out to prop it on top of the fireplace. The washtub crouched over the fire on its four iron legs. He built a fire underneath it and made several trips to the kitchen pump to fill the tub with water, shaving soap into it and stirring it vigorously. Then he retrieved a second wash tub and filled it with cold water. Folrolf kept dipping his finger into the water of the first tub to test it and became impatient when the water did not boil. Folrolf stumped into the house and hauled the dirty clothes that had been cluttering up a basket in the kitchen pantry onto the lawn. He began dropping them into the warm water, stirring them slowly with the long wooden paddle. When the clothes had soaked to his satisfaction, Folrolf wrung them out over the grass, dropped them into the second tub to rinse, wrung them out again and hung them over the line. Observing him from the window while he munched on a piece of gingerbread he had found squirreled away in a tin, Titus had to admit that Folrolf was following the right steps—even if he wasn’t using boiling water.
Folrolf was so absorbed in what he was doing he did not notice the Firestrike’s family wolfhound, Gertheart, ambling up behind him.
Gertheart sat bolt upright near the rose hedge, watching intently as Folrolf wrung a shirt out over the grass. His ears cocked as Folrolf shook it out and his back end began to rise slowly off the ground. Folrolf flung the shirt over the line and it flapped violently in a gust of wind. Gertheart’s entire concentration was focused on that shirt; his muscles were tensed and ready. Titus leaned forward and cleaned the window pane with his sleeve to get a better view. As Folrolf turned his back to the line, Gertheart lunged, catching the shirt in his teeth and ripped it off the line.
Folrolf whirled. “You bounder!” He bellowed. “I’ll teach you to play with my clean washing!” He jerked his paddle out of the washtub and swung it at Gertheart. The pair of trousers that had been wrapped about it was flung clear and sent sailing into Honey’s lawn. Gertheart danced easily out of the way of Folrolf’s paddle. He set the shirt down long enough to bark, friendly-wise, then caught the shirt up again in his teeth, wagging his tail eagerly.
“You infernal cur! I’ll teach you to wag your tail at me!” And Folrolf swung repeatedly at him, in a dizzying and violent attack.
Gertheart’s barking became agitated as Folrolf backed him into a corner against the side of the house. Folrolf bashed the wall in several places as Gertheart scuttled back and forth just out of reach of Folrolf’s weapon. Titus was just racing to the door to intervene when Gertheart made a bolt for freedom. Folrolf swung and missed but stepped on Gertheart’s paw as he tripped on a hoe and staggered to keep his balance.
Gertheart yelped and—being rather stupid—turned and ran directly towards Folrolf instead of escaping the garden when he had the chance.
Folrolf was bowled out of the wolfhound’s way, shouting at the top of his voice. Gertheart crashed into one of the washtubs and sent the entire thing tipping over. The rinsing water gushed over the tub’s rim, surging into the garden and drowning several tomatoes stalks. Balled up socks oozed across the grass like flotsam in its wake. Folrolf galloped over the clean clothing, roaring vengeance and leaving muddy footprints all over the washing as he swung at Gertheart again.
Gertheart sprang away from him and sailed magnificently, beautifully—a wild brindled hound against brilliant grass and sky—into the tub of hot water.
A sheet of water surged upwards and landed in a resounded slap in Folrolf’s astonished face, drenching him instantly. Folrolf let out a howl of pain as the hot water hit him—though luckily, the water was not really boiling, though it was obviously still hot enough to hurt pretty badly. Gertheart, who had never liked getting wet, added his own frenzied baying to Folrolf’. Gertheart had no sooner cascaded into the tub before he was hurdling out of it again in a wild leap that sent him directly into Folrolf.
They went over together in a confused jumble of wet flapping robes and splayed paws, and then Gertheart was rushing, wild eyed, around the house and disappearing into Honey’s yard.
Folrolf lunged to his feet and stormed out of the garden, leaving the kettle on its side and clothing draped about the lawn like peculiar festoons.
Titus got down on his knees and made a good show of sorting Christmas cutlery in the hutch’s bottom drawer, peeking at Folrolf out of the corner of his eye as his guardian swept into the kitchen. He checked himself in mid-stride and stalked over to the oven, throwing the door open and bending down to look inside. The kitchen grew curiously quiet as Folrolf peered into the oven, trying to locate his apple pie. Titus glanced over his shoulder.
A great deal of it seemed to be on the top and sides of the oven. Dough hung down from the top of the oven like stalactites and what was left of the crust was a mere fringe of black around the dish. The filling was a depressing lump of shriveled apples, floating in evilly bubbling juices.
Folrolf slid the pie out of the oven and held it a moment, staring at it.
He grunted, dropped the pie on the ground, slammed the oven door shut and flew past Titus down the hall and into his study.
~
Folrolf locked his door and did not come out for the rest of the day. The pie had landed perfectly intact and in its pan without anymore damage and Titus delivered it to Alban Alicott to use as swill for his prize piglets.
Nothing was said of dinner, save that the aggravated sounds emitting from the study seemed to increase and Titus went into the kitchen to have bread and cheese by himself. The evening turned out nicely for him at least, for he discovered Emma’s basket that had been set aside earlier and found a regular feast from the goodhearted woman tucked away inside a napkin.
Titus cooked breakfast the next morning and resumed all of the household duties.
Nothing more was said of Folrolf’s attempt at housekeeping.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© . Please do not use or copy without permission.
OKAY, WHEW. I posted it. I nearly lost my nerve to post chapter two. *nervous smile*
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The New Housekeeper
Titus only heard brief snatches of the argument between Folrolf and Honey Winstalk—he deliberately clattered pans in the kitchen so as not to hear much of it—but from the bits that he heard, it sounded as if Honey were taunting Folrolf and claiming that he couldn’t do half of the work that women did.
Apparently Folrolf had not been able to rebuff Honey’s claim to his total satisfaction, for when he charged into the house a few minutes after, he was muttering darkly and had a face like a storm about to break. But aside from being pensively quiet at dinner, he did not mention anything of it to Titus.
Titus had quite forgotten about the argument—Folrolf had so many of them it was easy to lose track—until the next morning. It was the last day of the week, and as was their custom they had risen early and retreated into the library for some light reading before the morning meal. Titus had just begun to rouse himself out of the depths of his favorite armchair to make breakfast when Folrolf cast his book down on a side table and leapt out of his chair. “Wait a minute, Titus. I’ll do that.”
“You?” Titus blurted in disbelief. “Do . . . what?”
“Make breakfast, of course.”
“But, Folrolf!” Titus protested.
Folrolf glared at him. “Titus Benjamin! How many times have I told you I cannot countenance stammering; no more buts! It’s about time you listen to your elders and do as I say.”
Titus subsided without another murmur into his armchair, perching as gingerly in it as if it were full of gunpowder as he watched Folrolf march indignantly from the room. Titus stared at his book without seeing the words, his ears ringing with the marked silence from the kitchen. Titus finally gave up and set aside his book. Feeling distinctly uneasy, he went to the kitchen door to find Folrolf standing stock still in the center of the room. Folrolf swung around and cleared his throat.
“I believe . . . I shall collect apples first.”
“Apples.” Titus repeated.
“Yes. For a pie.”
“For breakfast?”
“No! Of course not, don’t be foolish. For something savory in the afternoon, or maybe for tea. Perhaps I shall even pick some pears too. For tarts. After which, I shall make a hearty breakfast for you. It won’t harm you to eat it later. Give you time to work up an appetite. Go run about in the garden or something.” And Folrolf caught up a basket and tromped outside into the small orchard behind the cottage.
He was back a moment later—having forgotten the ladder—and dragging it out the door with a ferocious clatter began struggling with it on the lawn like a soldier in pitched combat.
Titus set some tea onto boil and watched from the window.
Folrolf had the ladder propped against a tree in a few moments and, hitching his robes into his belt, clambered up it. For a few seconds, everything progressed nicely and nothing eventful happened until Folrolf reached for a particularly glossy apple just out of reach and lost his balance.
He began waving his arms in one violent flurry in a massive effort to keep his balance with a surge of flapping that sounded like a group of herons taking wing. Despite all his efforts, he tumbled over backwards behind a hedge, grabbing the ladder as he fell and bringing it down on top of him with a mighty crash.
For a moment all that could be seen were two black boots kicking dazedly and rather vaguely in the air and a hat perched at a jaunty angle on a rosemary bush. Folrolf’s head finally emerged from the foliage, with his robes over his face. He yanked the robes away, revealing a very red face and a beard full of leaves.
Folrolf leapt to his feet with a savagery that nearly finished the bush he had already mangled, seized the ladder in both hands, and threw it across the garden hedge with a mighty heave no human could imitate. Titus stopped sharpening the bread knife and watched with his mouth open as the ladder sailed through the air like the projectile from an army’s ballista. It landed with an earth-splitting crash on top of Honey’s roof, propped at a drunken tilt against the chimney.
Folrolf’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his aim, then he smiled with some satisfaction, rescued his hat from the rosemary bush and screwed it firmly down on his head.
He was distracted from his momentary victory by a several loud caws in the garden.
“What’s this?” he exploded with a roar of outrage as he swung about to look.
Crows were bobbing about the gleaming stalks of corn, pecking at the kernels, and crowing on a decidedly mocking note.
“Out!” Folrolf screamed. He snatched up two apples and a pear from the basket and sent them flying at the birds. One crow struck on the beak, another on the foot, and the third on the tail. They screeched in protest and shot into the air with an eruption of feathers, but they merely fluttered a few feet away, cawing angrily at Folrolf.
“How do you like that?” Folrolf yelled. He sent another barrage their way with dazzling success, and two escaped to the air, while the braver ones remained in the garden or took up a sulking vigil on Honey Winstalk’s roof.
“You’re not getting away that easy!” Folrolf bellowed. He upended the basket of fruit he had just picked and darted into the garden, trampling a few unfortunate tomatoes under foot as he rushed towards a dizzy crow that had suffered a pear to the head and trapped it under his basket.
“Now I’ve got you, you thieving beggar!” Folrolf roared in triumph. He jiggled and shook the basket vigorously in a series of dizzying circles until he was red with exertion. “And now I shall tromp all over you for good measure, bird!”
Fortunately for the crow, Folrolf lost his footing and as his hold loosened on the basket. As the basket tipped, the dizzy crow made good his escape.
“Parasites!” Folrolf yelled, shaking a fist after them.
One solitary crow stared at him resentfully from Honey’s rooftop and cawed.
An apple sent him flapping and squawking away.
“And don’t come back!”
~
After collecting the bruised pears and apples, Folrolf stumped inside. He did not hoe, rake, weed or water the garden because, as he had told Titus and other villagers numerous times before, he did not believe in gardening. He stuck fiercely to his deep conviction that things of the earth should shift for themselves. Instead, Folrolf proceeded to make an apple pie.
Titus had retreated to the parlor and was making a brave attempt at reading. He had tactfully laid out everything Folrolf would need for the pie before he quit the kitchen, and now he watched through the open door as Folrolf tied on an apron that was draped conveniently over a chair and reached for the large mixing bowl Titus had set in the center of the table for Folrolf’s use. Folrolf caught Titus’s eye and beamed at him.
“You see? I can find everything I need perfectly!”
Folrolf spent some time considering the immense barrel of flour in the corner. Titus realized with chagrin that he had forgotten to set out a small cup for measuring. He was about to rise and retrieve it for Folrolf when the Welkin set the mixing bowl on the floor, seized the barrel and tipped it, pouring what looked like half a barrelful into the bowl with a smile of satisfaction. Flour cascaded in a powdery stream into the bowl, then Folrolf’s hands slipped on the barrel and he poured half a pound on the floor before he could right the barrel. The smug smile vanished as Folrolf stared at the little white mountain at his feet. Setting the barrel down and muttering darkly to himself, he stomped to the closet and out of Titus’s line of sight.
Titus skimmed over another chapter, cocking an ear at the frequent crashes and noting the growing vehemence of the mutterings coming from the kitchen. Folrolf stormed into view again, carrying the broom and tray and utterly unaware that his apron had come untied and was now trailing behind him, clinging in his robes like a cotton spider web. Folrolf slammed the broom tray down on the floor and swept the pile of flour a trifle too vigorously into it, causing a cloud to fly up his nose, resulting in several violent sneezes. He took the tray to the window, pushed it open, deposited the flour into the rose bushes, and slammed the window closed again with a tinkle of broken glass. Folrolf took several deep breaths, bent, swept up the glass from the broken window and tipped it out after the flour.
Folrolf tromped back to the table, blowing his nose loudly on a handkerchief, and finally, inevitably, tripped on the apron strings wrapped around his boots.
He staggered about thunderously, bellowing like a mad bull and then he stepped in the bowl of flour and tipped it over onto the floor. After a considerable amount of thrashing, Folrolf freed himself of the apron, rushed to the window, sent the offending apron after the broken glass.
Titus whipped his head back to his book as Folrolf glanced furtively in his direction. When Titus glanced towards the kitchen again, Folrolf was hastily scooping the flour off the floor and into the bowl with his cupped hands.
Titus considered asking Folrolf if he could help but when he dared to poke his head into the kitchen five minutes later, one look at Folrolf’s face encouraged him to keep his tongue in check and his head on his shoulders. He went up to his room to check on the dragon egg, ensuring that it was warm and comfy in its makeshift nest. The egg hadn’t twitched for days. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
When he returned downstairs, Folrolf was smashing his mangled and limp dough into a pie pan and crimping the edges. Titus took up his previous position in the parlor and picked up his reading again, making a show of turning the pages.
Flushed with success, Folrolf turned his attention to the bruised apples, chopped them core and all and tossed them into the pan. Garnishing them with a veritable hailstorm of cinnamon and sugar until the apples were covered in a blanket of dirty snow, Folrolf stirring them vigorously with a spoon, causing several apple slices to tumble to the ground. Folrolf dropped to his knees with a painful crack and a bellow of anguish then, grimacing, crawled under the table to retrieve the slices, banging his head on the edge as he clambered to his feet.
“PESTILENCE!” Folrolf roared, glaring fiercely and stirring all the harder with his spoon before he slammed the pan down on the counter and turned his attention to what remained of his misshapen dough, struggling with the lattice that would form the pies upper crust. He sliced mercilessly and brutally at it with the knife, tossing stripes aside in a growing pile that—Titus could not help but notice—stuck firmly together. Folrolf finished slicing the last strip, frowned at the pan, stared a long moment and bellowed: “Titus!”
Titus snatched up his book just as Folrolf came tearing into the parlor, catching Titus by the shirt front and heaving him out of his chair. “Titus! Why are the apples brown? Your apples never turn brown like that!”
Titus swallowed against his rapidly tightening collar. “That’s because you forgot the lemon juice, Folrolf.”
“This is an apple pie not a lemon pie, you little button head!” Folrolf roared, releasing Titus and storming back into the kitchen. “Lemon juice, ha!”
Folrolf swept back into the kitchen and struggled in vain to pull the strips apart. Titus watched in fascination as Folrolf’s face changed colors rapidly from cherry, to scarlet, to maroon.
“BLAST IT!” Folrolf grabbed the clump of dough, smashed it flat with his fist, slapped it over the pie, crimped the edges with blurring speed and threw the pan into the oven with a thunderous bang. He went through the entire process again, grumbling like a pot about to boil over, and left the second pie on the table to be baked later.
Distracted by the pies, Folrolf produced a harried breakfast of burned oatmeal and toast, undercooked bacon, unsalted biscuits, and two poached eggs that refused to be cracked, no matter how hard Titus whacked at them.
“I don’t understand it,” Folrolf muttered thumping an egg disconsolately with his spoon. “It must have been an ill chicken that produced this egg. It’s as solid as a rock.”
Titus coughed to get Folrolf’s attention and pointed wordlessly to the plume of smoke coming from the oven. Folrolf flew out of his chair, but the pie was beyond saving.
A black-faced Folrolf glared at Titus. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, you young fool? The house could have burned down around our ears!” He dropped the burned pie on the table and stormed out of the room.
Folrolf had apparently had enough with baking for the time being, and he turned his attention next to the ancient and fading hall rug. Making a show of cleaning up the kitchen, Titus managed to catch glimpses of Folrolf’s activates.
Folrolf gathered up the carpet in his long spider arms and staggered outside, tossed it over the laundry line before tromping back inside to find the rug beater.
It was some time before he returned outside—apparently he couldn’t find the rug beater and was loath to ask Titus. When he did, he grabbed the rug in one hand, pulled it taut and gave the rug a deafening thump with the beater. The rug promptly tore in half, one end falling to the ground and the other fluttering pathetically on the line as Folrolf stared in stupefaction from one piece to another. He glanced about quickly, gathered both pieces in his arms and charged inside.
Titus poked his head around the corner of the parlor doorway to watch Folrolf laid the two separate pieces gently on the floor, pressing them together and looking at them hopefully. He licked his finger and pressed the broken threads down in place, nodding in satisfaction as he went to collect soap and a bucket to clean the windows.
Folrolf seemed to have decided to clean the attic windows first, and after hunting about for a long rope, he clumped upstairs to find another ladder. As he was opening the little door to the attic, his boot broke through a stair and sent him plunging to his knees, scrabbling for a handhold in the enveloping sea of robes. After extricating himself, he gave the stair an ill tempered kick, stubbing his toe and dislodging several birds nests from a rafter above which lodged momentarily down his back. He was looking quite hot and irritable when he shook the door handle and realized the attic door was locked and had been for more then five months.
Folrolf kicked the door several times. “Who locks this confounded door in the first place?” He roared, galloping downstairs and turning his library desk upside down in search of a key. He found it and charged up the stairs again, catching his foot in the broken step a second time, which caused him to pitch forward and bang his nose against the door.
In the parlor, an almost musical series of thudding and clattering could be heard by Titus, punctuated by booming ejaculations whose phrasings were muffled, although the meanings were fully evident. Then there was a crash, a howl of rage and pain, and something was being half dragged, half kicked down the stairs, with a din that sounded like the clattering of a thousand horses on cobblestones and the clanking mail of their mounted knights. Titus contrived not to look up as Folrolf finally wrestled the ladder through the door and outside. He got a basket and went outside to pick cucumbers for tea as an excuse to watch what happened next.
Folrolf hauled the ladder towards the south side of the house and propped it against the roof, hitching his robes up to his knees and clambering up the ladder with a pail of sudsy water. Perched precariously on top of the roof, Folrolf tied a rope to the pail’s handle and lowered it over the edge of the gutter until it was on level with one of the four attic windows. Grunting in satisfaction, he tied the other end to the chimney. He anchored his second piece of rope to the chimney as well and tied the other end to his boot. He lowered himself over the gutter until he was staring into the attic window. Humming to himself, he planted his boots against the side of the house, hanging onto the rope with one hand, while he dipped his cleaning rag into the pail beside him with the other.
Titus was distracted for just a moment by a weed, but a yell and a terrific noise of something banging against the side of the house and landing in the rose bushes caused him to leap to his feet.
He raced towards the side of the house, just as Folrolf leaped out of the bushes like a flea, trailing several vines behind him.
Judging from his spry—albeit agitated—movements, it was clear Folrolf was all right, and Titus knew better than to ask him. He thought now might be the time to have mercy and help Folrolf cobble something together in the kitchen and bring the house back to order.
“Luncheon?” He suggested.
“Get your own blasted lunch!” Folrolf snarled as he stalked into the house.
Offended, Titus stomped into the parlor and resumed his reading, waiting until Folrolf had disappeared into the library with a cleaning rag before he got his own lunch; though he found an excuse to walk down the hall several times, to sneak glances into the library.
Folrolf surveyed the rows of bookcases and volumes all frosted in a thick layer of dust.
Folrolf placed the rag on the spines of the books to his left and ran the entire length of the room, dragging it across the binding. He twirled at the far end then ran back again, dragging his rag across the shelf. He did this hastily for each bookcase and left the dust on top of the shelves and behind the books alone. He studied his desk thoughtfully and gave it one swift swipe, which caused a lamp to fall over.
Muttering furiously and steadily under his breath, he scooped the glass up with the ends of his robes and pushed it into the coal scuttle before rushing out of the room and closing the door behind him.
He had just gathered another soapy bucket of water and rags to scour the house floors when he spotted the pile of mending waiting in the parlor.
He dropped his bucket and rags in the hall, causing some of the water to slosh onto the floor, and clomped into the parlor where he began to pull cushions and blankets off chairs, delving his hands into the black recesses of the gap between the seat and the arm, though his search only turned up the sticky remnants of a piece of bread and what must have once been honey.
Folrolf shook his hand vigorously to rid himself of the mess and tossed it out the window.
“Where are those blasted darning needles?” He roared, flinging himself into a chair and finding the pointed implements he sought with painful rapidity.
After searching the cushions for any more sharp objects, Folrolf settled himself gingerly into a chair with the darning needles and a moth eaten sock.
Despite never having done it before—at least, to Titus’s knowledge—Folrolf managed a lumpy knot where a hole had once been. He appeared to be growing calmer with this sudden victory when, without warning, he poked a bony finger through the hole. He glared at the sock irritably. “Furies!”
He exploded from his chair and went storming into the hall, tripping over the bucket he had left there earlier and upsetting more water.
Folrolf snatched up the bucket and moping accouterments and dragged the entire lot into the kitchen and closed the door, so Titus could not see what happened next. It seemed Folrolf had made some success though, for when he reappeared some time later, he was beaming, and a glimpse of the kitchen behind him revealed sparkling floors.
“I don’t know why women always complain of house work,” Folrolf said pleasantly to Titus. “I find it most invigorating.”
Titus noticed the kitchen looked strangely bare. “Folrolf . . . where are all the chairs? And the table?”
Folrolf waved a hand vaguely. “I moved them outside so I could scour the floor. Move them back in won’t you?” He strode past Titus into the main hall, whistling cheerfully. He flung open the front door, then set his back against a hall table, and shoved it out the door and onto the lawn with the driving force of a plough horse.
“Folrolf!” Titus spluttered.
Folrolf surged inside a moment later, ruddy and virtuous. “Now, Titus. I know what you’re going to say. I shouldn’t be troubling myself over such trifles. Normally, you would be right. But don’t worry; this doesn’t bother me a bit. I tell you I’m enjoying these little diversions. Now just you wait, I’ll have this done in no time and then we shall have tea.”
He picked up a corner of the hall rug and pulled energetically upwards . . . leaving half of carpet on the floor. He flushed crimson. He quickly gathered up both pieces of the carpet, turning his back so that Titus couldn’t see, and threw them hastily outside after the hallway table. He avoided Titus’s look as he went to the kitchen for more water.
Titus had barely finished wrestling the tables and chairs back into the kitchen again when Folrolf sailed into the kitchen.
“I’ve just finished the hall,” he said comfortably. “Oh by the way, Titus. You can move the chairs and table outside again. I just decided that I shall wax the floors, since they’re clean.” And he disappeared into the broom closet to find the wax.
Titus gritted his teeth and put his shoulder to a hutch he had just wrangled into position.
Folrolf method of waxing was to wrap rags around his immense boots and skate back and forth across the hall until it glistened, a method so efficient; Titus had to rush through luncheon to keep up with moving the furniture in and out of the house. He was beginning to have a sore spot between his shoulders.
Sliding into the kitchen and waving cheerily at Titus, who had just finished shifting the table back into place, Folrolf began swirling about the kitchen, narrowly evading running into the china hutch.
“I used to be quite an ice skater,” Folrolf reflected as he hurtled past Titus, “when I was a young sprout.” He pushed Titus aside with an arm and began rubbing the spot where he had been standing with tremendous care, as if he thought Titus was tracking mud.
Titus retired to the parlor, still chewing the sandwich he had been forced to keep cramming into his pocket, and feeling decidedly sore and out of sorts.
Folrolf was still gliding and twirling elegantly about the room when Emma Copplestone’s face appeared at the open kitchen door. Emma was a fat good-natured widow, with a face like a scrubbed and freckled potato and her round little eyes were the size of turnip bulbs as she stared at Folrolf, who continued obliviously to sweep about the room.
“Goodness, Mr. Folrolf, sir!” She gasped at last. “I never knew you could dance so fine as that!”
Folrolf whirled about in surprise, then flung his arms wide. “Ah! Mistress Copplestone!” He bowed so flamboyantly and with such an audacious raise of the eyebrows, that Emma—who had been widowed for some time—flushed scarlet up to the roots of her curly white hair. “Would you do me the honor,” and Folrolf bowed again, admirably, “of a dance?”
“Well, mercy!” Emma said finally when she had got her breath back—decidedly pleased and a little alarmed too. Titus guessed that it had been years since she had been asked to dance; probably no one had felt up to lifting her well padded person. Emma pulled her cap firmly down over her ears and had barely set her basket down when Folrolf flung open the bottom half of the door, seized her hand, and dragged her into the room, twirling her about so fast she nearly slipped.
They made an unusual looking couple, Folrolf was so tall he had to bend nearly double to reach her and Emma was so short she could barely look up at him and seemed to spend most of the dance bouncing off the front of him and trying desperately to hold onto her cap, as her round eyes grew even larger.
Still, it was a strangely elegant dance, and it was certainly lively. Emma, who was not gifted with natural grace, was still managing rather well as they careened about the room, thanks to the slipperiness of the waxed floor and the prowess of Folrolf, who heaved her about the room with hearty ease. Titus had never in his life seen Folrolf deliberately set out to charm a lady before and it was well worth the watching. His guardian was feeling expansive and conversed warmly through the entire dance and, judging from the look on Emma’s face, his conversation was as sparkling and witty as a poet’s. Titus couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, since they were crashing about the room like a herd of collywompuses. Folrolf even extracted one high pitched giggle from an astounded Emma, whose expression was gradually changing from alarm to intense enjoyment.
By the time the dance was over, Folrolf had gained himself a conquest, judging from Emma’s dazed mumblings. She handed him the basket of fresh bread she had brought for Titus, blushed numerous times and gave one final titter before she scurried out the door.
Folrolf swept one last elaborate bow at her departure and turned slowly, his fingers hooked in his belt, bouncing a little on his heels as he meet Titus’s open mouthed stare. He took one look at Titus’s face and his satisfaction was evidently complete.
“You’ve dropped your book, Titus,” Folrolf said serenely, as he skated past Titus and into the library with the bucket of soapy water.
Titus looked down and discovered he had not only dropped his book, but had left his chair in the parlor and was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and had been for some time.
~
Folrolf’s sweet temper did not last long. It seemed he was having some trouble with moving the furniture, judging from muffled crashes and shouts of pain. Titus guessed that the occasionally howls of anguish and feverish murmurings that sounded like a mother soothing her child, was Folrolf accidentally upsetting water on his precious books and papers.
Titus was listening to all this from the kitchen, when Diggle McCunn walked through the open door and tipped his hat to Titus.
“H’llo,” he said, making himself comfortable in a chair and giving a great wheeze on his pipe. “Having a cup of tea, are you? I wouldn’t mind having one myself.”
Titus poured him a cup without saying anything, distracted by the loud crashing in the library.
Diggle took the saucer and cup from him and gave him a friendly nod. “Thank ye.” He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “I saw you and your guardian had moved all your furniture outside of the house and the missus asked me to ask you if you were getting it off of your hands.”
“Well actually—” Titus began, hoping to recruit Diggle’s help in moving a particularly heavy chest of drawers back inside when Folrolf suddenly barreled into the room.
“Titus! How do you get ink out of a carpet?” He demanded.
Diggle waved at him cheerily, “Hoi Folrolf. How’do. I hear you’re quite the charmer with the ladies! First Honey and now Emma!” He gave a low whistle.
Folrolf whirled on him with a ferocious look. His gaze narrowed on Diggle’s pipe, then he snatched it out of the astounded man’s mouth shook it violently in his face. “Don’t you dare smoke in here! I just finished scrubbing every inch of this house and unless you’d like your own face scoured you won’t let one puff of smoke anywhere near this place!”
Folrolf’s voice was loud enough for Diggle to actually hear and understand every word. His eyes had widened to the size of ripe tomatoes. “Cleaned?” he squeaked. “By you?”
Folrolf glared at him savagely. “Yes, me!” he growled. “And just what is that matter with that? I can clean just as well as anyone!”
“I—I’m—sure you can!” Diggle dropped his tea cup on the table and raced out the door—undoubtedly to tell his wife everything.
Folrolf grabbed a towel and sopped up the spilled tea. “Barbarian!” he muttered, slinging the soiled towel out the window.
~
Tea was disheartening. The delicate bite sized sandwiches that Titus always prepared were nowhere to be seen. They had been replaced with gigantic slabs of bread and thick slices of unpeeled, liberally salted cucumber. The gingerbread had apparently been found in the pantry, for it was stale and the tea was scorched beyond drinking. Folrolf’s face relaxed only partially when he presented the dishes of strawberries floating in cream. Titus couldn’t help noticing they had not had the pips taken out of them or their stems removed, but he said nothing.
Unfortunately for Folrolf, in his hurry, he had salted the berries instead of sweetened them, and the cream had turned sour. That was the only thing on the table that wasn’t Folrolf’s fault, but it was unfortunate that it would happen on the day he was making tea.
Titus stirred his tea, even though there was nothing in it to stir and Folrolf sat very still beside him in stony silence as he surveyed the table with a displeased eye. Folrolf rose stiffly and walked out of the room, leaving Titus to pitch the failed meal out the window.
Folrolf reappeared a moment later to push the second apple pie in the stove and left again to return once more to the broom closet.
He started a fire in the stone fireplace on the lawn and rolled the giant metal washtub out to prop it on top of the fireplace. The washtub crouched over the fire on its four iron legs. He built a fire underneath it and made several trips to the kitchen pump to fill the tub with water, shaving soap into it and stirring it vigorously. Then he retrieved a second wash tub and filled it with cold water. Folrolf kept dipping his finger into the water of the first tub to test it and became impatient when the water did not boil. Folrolf stumped into the house and hauled the dirty clothes that had been cluttering up a basket in the kitchen pantry onto the lawn. He began dropping them into the warm water, stirring them slowly with the long wooden paddle. When the clothes had soaked to his satisfaction, Folrolf wrung them out over the grass, dropped them into the second tub to rinse, wrung them out again and hung them over the line. Observing him from the window while he munched on a piece of gingerbread he had found squirreled away in a tin, Titus had to admit that Folrolf was following the right steps—even if he wasn’t using boiling water.
Folrolf was so absorbed in what he was doing he did not notice the Firestrike’s family wolfhound, Gertheart, ambling up behind him.
Gertheart sat bolt upright near the rose hedge, watching intently as Folrolf wrung a shirt out over the grass. His ears cocked as Folrolf shook it out and his back end began to rise slowly off the ground. Folrolf flung the shirt over the line and it flapped violently in a gust of wind. Gertheart’s entire concentration was focused on that shirt; his muscles were tensed and ready. Titus leaned forward and cleaned the window pane with his sleeve to get a better view. As Folrolf turned his back to the line, Gertheart lunged, catching the shirt in his teeth and ripped it off the line.
Folrolf whirled. “You bounder!” He bellowed. “I’ll teach you to play with my clean washing!” He jerked his paddle out of the washtub and swung it at Gertheart. The pair of trousers that had been wrapped about it was flung clear and sent sailing into Honey’s lawn. Gertheart danced easily out of the way of Folrolf’s paddle. He set the shirt down long enough to bark, friendly-wise, then caught the shirt up again in his teeth, wagging his tail eagerly.
“You infernal cur! I’ll teach you to wag your tail at me!” And Folrolf swung repeatedly at him, in a dizzying and violent attack.
Gertheart’s barking became agitated as Folrolf backed him into a corner against the side of the house. Folrolf bashed the wall in several places as Gertheart scuttled back and forth just out of reach of Folrolf’s weapon. Titus was just racing to the door to intervene when Gertheart made a bolt for freedom. Folrolf swung and missed but stepped on Gertheart’s paw as he tripped on a hoe and staggered to keep his balance.
Gertheart yelped and—being rather stupid—turned and ran directly towards Folrolf instead of escaping the garden when he had the chance.
Folrolf was bowled out of the wolfhound’s way, shouting at the top of his voice. Gertheart crashed into one of the washtubs and sent the entire thing tipping over. The rinsing water gushed over the tub’s rim, surging into the garden and drowning several tomatoes stalks. Balled up socks oozed across the grass like flotsam in its wake. Folrolf galloped over the clean clothing, roaring vengeance and leaving muddy footprints all over the washing as he swung at Gertheart again.
Gertheart sprang away from him and sailed magnificently, beautifully—a wild brindled hound against brilliant grass and sky—into the tub of hot water.
A sheet of water surged upwards and landed in a resounded slap in Folrolf’s astonished face, drenching him instantly. Folrolf let out a howl of pain as the hot water hit him—though luckily, the water was not really boiling, though it was obviously still hot enough to hurt pretty badly. Gertheart, who had never liked getting wet, added his own frenzied baying to Folrolf’. Gertheart had no sooner cascaded into the tub before he was hurdling out of it again in a wild leap that sent him directly into Folrolf.
They went over together in a confused jumble of wet flapping robes and splayed paws, and then Gertheart was rushing, wild eyed, around the house and disappearing into Honey’s yard.
Folrolf lunged to his feet and stormed out of the garden, leaving the kettle on its side and clothing draped about the lawn like peculiar festoons.
Titus got down on his knees and made a good show of sorting Christmas cutlery in the hutch’s bottom drawer, peeking at Folrolf out of the corner of his eye as his guardian swept into the kitchen. He checked himself in mid-stride and stalked over to the oven, throwing the door open and bending down to look inside. The kitchen grew curiously quiet as Folrolf peered into the oven, trying to locate his apple pie. Titus glanced over his shoulder.
A great deal of it seemed to be on the top and sides of the oven. Dough hung down from the top of the oven like stalactites and what was left of the crust was a mere fringe of black around the dish. The filling was a depressing lump of shriveled apples, floating in evilly bubbling juices.
Folrolf slid the pie out of the oven and held it a moment, staring at it.
He grunted, dropped the pie on the ground, slammed the oven door shut and flew past Titus down the hall and into his study.
~
Folrolf locked his door and did not come out for the rest of the day. The pie had landed perfectly intact and in its pan without anymore damage and Titus delivered it to Alban Alicott to use as swill for his prize piglets.
Nothing was said of dinner, save that the aggravated sounds emitting from the study seemed to increase and Titus went into the kitchen to have bread and cheese by himself. The evening turned out nicely for him at least, for he discovered Emma’s basket that had been set aside earlier and found a regular feast from the goodhearted woman tucked away inside a napkin.
Titus cooked breakfast the next morning and resumed all of the household duties.
Nothing more was said of Folrolf’s attempt at housekeeping.
This is copyrighted by Allison Tebo 2018© . Please do not use or copy without permission.
OKAY, WHEW. I posted it. I nearly lost my nerve to post chapter two. *nervous smile*
This is the point where you start leaving your feedback.
First of all, what do you think? And perhaps most importantly – is there something you would like to happen next? What are you anticipating in this story? Tell me everything!
(more detailed rules about how this serialized participatory story works can be found HERE )
And the first chapter of Life At Hedgerose can be found HERE. You can also add it to your Goodreads shelf HERE. Okay – I think that’s enough links, now.
May 1, 2018
April In A Nutshell
What happened to April??? Well, I survived it – that much I know. But as I look back on this month, I wonder why it felt so busy, when it seems I watched an awful lot of TV. “coughs” Ah, well – believe it or not – I was busy.
And here’s why!
– Reading –
I read 35 books in the month of April! *fist pump* I also reached a total of 80 books read so far for my 150 book reading challenge for 2018!
Big improvement over March – when I only read 8 books. I’M THE CHAMP! *smirks*
One of my favorites of the month.
Books Read:
Redcoat in Boston / Stephen’s Feast / The Crippled Lamp / Nutcracked / Nancy Drew Shock Waves / No Flying In The House / Heather at the Barre / Heather, Belle of the Ball / Downhill Megan / Alison Walks the Wire / Rose Faces the Music / Cheyenne Rose / Three Cheers for Keisha / Alison Goes for Gold / Mr. Midshipman Hornblower / The Best of Connie Willis / The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street / Mythical Doorways / Blood Road / Marlon Bundo’s Day In the Life of a Vice President / The Claim / Under Eastern Stars / Star Wars: The New Rebellion / Favorite Fairy Tales Told In Denmark / The Mystery of the Haunted Pool / Wilderness Days / Ella Enchanted / Proverbs / Exodus / The Secret of the Missing Footprint / Daughter of Silk / Susie Sneakers / Mystery of the Angry Idol / The Mystery of the Gulls / Nancy Drew Two Points to Murder.
In other bookish news – I whittled my TBR pile down from 825 to 764. I scrapped a whopping 61 books off my list, people!
– Watched –
Foreign Exchange:
Excellent cast and phenomenal scripting. The writers had the comedy of errors and hilarious miscommunication down pat. You can find out more about the TV show here and watch the first episode here.
Star Trek
– Assorted episodes from The Original Series, Next Generation, Voyager, Enterprise and Deep Space Nine.
Maverick:
This show is gold. First of all, it’s a pair of brothers. Secondly, they are the most diabolically clever gamblers you’ll ever meet. They are an exciting pair to watch, for they don’t just gamble with cards, they gamble on everything – and leap headlong into jaw-dropping deals and scenarios that we are sure they will never emerge from alive. But they not only come out on top – they do it with class.
The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe:
I’d forgotten what a good movie this was. While saying they are anything like the real series is a joke (please, don’t compare them) it was still an excellent fantasy film with a cast that is sure to grab your heart.
Prince Caspian:
Yes, I had to use both pictures because they are so adorable.
While not as good a movie technically as The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe (pacing, structure and execution were definitely off at points with some weaker story choices) this was still an entertaining film. And of course, it’s a treat to see the Four back together and developing their performances. I really liked the addition of Ben Barnes and turning it into a fivesome, and it’s a pity we didn’t see the Five together more.
The Forest Rangers:
If you haven’t see this wonderful Canadian children’s show made in the 1960s, you have really missed something fun and special. Cute kids and fun adventures as well as one really, really cool mentor (Joe Two Rivers, not featured in the picture above) make for some great episodes.
Tarzan:
There’s a reason this movie was MY movie when I was younger – I instinctively knew a good one when I saw one. A brilliant and beautiful film.
Ferdinand:
I got to show it to my older siblings on DVD. Charming and sweet, though nothing fabulous.
The Miracle Season:
Poignant and inspiring to think that a 17 year old girl could affect so many people for good in her short life – and even affect them for good in her death. Nevertheless, the execution was below average; choppy, sometimes dull and often focusing on the wrong moment. Okay, but not outstanding.
I saw this in theaters, and I must say the company (my sisters) and the popcorn and drinks were outstanding.
