Arguing With Myself

Working with quirky characters can be a challenge.  You never know who's going to bully you into writing an extra scene, or sending the storyline in an entirely different direction to accommodate their antics. Imagine trying to do this with a dozen sisters, a pair of smitten gardeners, various self-important noblemen, and a bevy of opinionated servants, and you'll get a picture of the conundrum I face every time I sit down to tap out a new scene.

I think I've finally gotten my willful characters under control.  The girls--all twelve of them--have been informed that they will each get their moment to shine, if they will kindly refrain from talking at the same time. They've agreed to these terms.  However, they insist on being introduced, at least as a group.  Jonas, the elder of the aforementioned deep-in-smit gardeners, will do the honors.

Imagine a scene along the lines of the following...without the entire cast of Downton arranged around Highclere Castle, of course.

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               Scratching at the day’s growth of beard I hadn’t had time to shave, I attacked a particularly determined root with the shovel.  It was a puny thing, no thicker than a twig, but twisted into the soil as it was, it cost me a good five minutes.  Pausing to swab the sweat from my brow, I leaned on the handle of the spade and glanced around at the other men hard at work.  The grounds, a grand expanse of trimmed lawn interspersed with flowering beds, artfully shaped shrubbery, and a curving cobbled path, stretched from the big house all the way to the edge of the forest.  Most of the men were bent over their tasks, industrious as always.  The only exception was the fellow nearby with the wide-eyed expression of a trout.  Muttering incoherently, he was engaged in uselessly stabbed the ground with a hoe.  I rolled my eyes.   I’d lost track of the number of times I’d lectured him on the proper use of gardening tools.  With Lumis, once was never enough, or in this case, a score of times wasn’t enough.  I asked myself, not for the first time, why it must be my responsibility to look after him. 

                A strange hush fell over the men, even Lumis’ mumbled curses ceased as he glanced toward the house.  Guessing what it was before I looked up, my breath caught in my throat the way it always did.  My chest felt tight when I lifted my gaze. 

                In all the colors of the rainbow, they poured out of the main building, as graceful as butterflies drifting over the manicured lawns and blossoming beds.  The flowers, even in full bloom, paled beside their beauty. With delicate fingers they lifted their skirts and skimmed over the grounds, their tinkling voices and gentle laughter as musical as their footsteps were light.  Every one of the twelve—from the youngest, in her early teens, to the eldest, in her late twenties—kept her eyes averted from the workers.  They were adept at this, as we too should have been.  After all, it was the cardinal rule of the household, the one that even the lowliest stable boy knew by heart: Thou shalt not meddle with the Master’s daughters.  On pain of death.  

                 Or was it dismemberment?  Either way, it was serious. 

                Yet, like the other men, I could never resist looking up, just in case I caught her eye.  Amidst so many beautiful women, she should have been difficult to pick out, but I always located her in the first second. I heard her, even as I saw her, arm in arm with her favorite sister, their heads together as if confiding the deepest of secrets. Her voice was low and amber-hued, rich and captivating.

                The handle of a rake smashed into my ribs and I bit back a cry, treating the individual beside me to a venomous look.  Gregor, holding the rake in question and not looking at all remorseful, hissed out, “Do you have a death wish, Jonas?  Close your mouth and get back to work!” 

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(Excerpt from Twelve, by Sarah E. Boucher, all rights reserved.)