But that's because I haven't been accomplishing much.
HOWEVER -- all that has changed in the past week, you will be glad to hear. I mean, I really shouldn't be telling you what to think or feel, but if you're reading this, like I always say, it must be for SOME applicable reason. You must enjoy some part of my posts, even if it's merely to chuckle to yourself about silly (not-so-very-)old me.
Anyway . . . I must report that I have TRULY gotten a lot done on The Book. I repeat, A LOT. Some little niggling details that just weren't working suddenly came into focus, and I've spent most of the day checking things out with different lenses, so to speak, to see what else can be joined together in the same manner.
For starters, I finally figured out how Nathaniel got to the middle of the Northern Australia bush without so much as a handkerchief, which certainly made Bilbo Baggins complain, and I discovered what made Kensington truly hate the Fletchers of Fell's Bridge, Wiltshire, England. And it's a real zinger, too. Some people are unbelievably evil!
Taunting? Not really. To prove it, I'll post something!
'He took a deep breath that rattled down his throat into his burning lungs and struggled to lift himself up onto his elbows. Blinking, he turned his head slightly to the left, and saw his rescuer standing about six yards away beside a group of rocks, which were jutting out weirdly from the earth like a cluster of gems on a ring. After a few seconds the man bent slightly, looking at something in his hand, then knelt on one knee and ran his hand over the ground in a smooth, contemplative motion. A cloud of red dust rose from the earth, and he bent closer to gaze intently at something on the ground. The stranger spared no attention for his surroundings, not for the mule that scuffled and snorted at the head of the wagon, not for the overwhelming light and heat, and not for Nathaniel, who took the opportunity to study him.
He was dressed in rough, badly-dyed brown trousers, with an old-fashioned striped red vest thrown carelessly over a loose, stained linen shirt. He wore the sleeves rolled almost to his elbows and a strip of speckled fabric tied around his neck above the open collar. The shirt, which was missing several buttons at the top, gaped open slightly to reveal a muscular chest that, like his face and arms, had become a deep brown by long exposure to the sun. He would scarcely have attracted notice if he walked through Greymantle, but in spite of his attire, he still somehow did not strike Nathaniel as a working man. There was a vague, niggling aspect of his conduct that he could sense but could not quite place, something unnatural or even theatrical. His thoughts swayed and bobbed like empty bottles on the tide, but he managed to form a sketchy impression before easing his head back down toward the packed, dry earth.
He realized what the difference was suddenly: every motion seemed deliberate and calculated, as if he had gone over all possible meanings and interpretations of each gesture before committing himself to it, and expected others to view each one in a certain light. He held himself with a rigidity that could only have been the product of a lifelong study of proper posture, and which implied a constant sensitivity to what others saw and thought when they looked at him. Here is a man, Nathaniel thought, who seems wholly at home in his environment and wholly competent at his task, whatever it is. However, that did not seem right. Despairingly his mind added, I have no idea what he is doing. I have no idea what is happening. Without raising his head he turned to look back toward him, and suddenly the man turned, as if sensing Nathaniel’s gaze. He rose to his full height, which was considerable, and tilted his head slightly, shading his face with one broad hand. Slipping whatever he had been holding back into the pocket of his vest, he strode back to the wagon, ducking underneath with surprising gracefulness to settle on one knee beside Nathaniel.
“How are you?” he inquired, the words clipped, perfunctory. “Better, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you. I owe you my life.”
“Obviously.” An uncivil sentiment, but spoken civilly enough; Nathaniel barely noticed. The man’s eyes, which were so dark that the irises were indistinguishable from the black of the pupils, darted over Nathaniel, taking in all the new and lingering bruises and badly-healed seams of his face, his ragged clothing, and the lack of luggage or of anything else – unaccountable for being in the middle of a desert. Nathaniel winced, not from the other man’s blunt comment but from the cold scrutiny in his eyes. He turned his head to look out at the horizon. The impossible brightness that greeted him made his head ache more, so he looked back at his rescuer, who was still gazing squarely at him without a word. He attempted another speech of thanks: “I cannot express my gratitude, sir . . . Had it not been for you, I would be . . . ”
“Quite dead,” the other supplied flatly, tilting his head slightly downward as if impatient, eyes turning shadowy under his brow. “The kites and God knows what else would have made short work of you.”
“No doubt,” Nathaniel muttered uncomfortably. There was a pause. They continued to look at each other.
“Forgive me,” the man said suddenly, and put out his hand. “My name is Kensington. Étienne Kensington.”
“Your servant.” Nathaniel took the offered hand, shook it briefly, and let it go. Its palm was rough with callouses. The two and two of Nathaniel’s arithmetic was not adding up to a sensible four, and his already overwhelmed mind sank further into confusion. Kensington began to speak again, and he struggled to focus on the words.
“Please, pardon my intrusion into your personal affairs, but I must ask: who the devil are you? And how does someone – anyone – come to be in the middle of the desert without water, transport, or at the very least, some sort of guide?”
Nathaniel inhaled deeply before answering, keeping his eyes shut tightly.
“My name is Nathaniel Daire. I came into port a few days ago, at Greymantle, on H.M.S. White Dove. I was mistakenly captured by some – by some disreputable individuals.”
“And how did you manage to escape?”
“I threw myself over the side of their wagon.”'
There. I haven't done THAT in a while.
Also, I found a notebook from perhaps six years ago that was filled with half-finished descriptions, character sketches, and even a "chapter" or two of this self-same work. Pretty horrid and embarrassing, for the most part, but there were a few salvageable pieces. It was funny, though, many of the names have since changed, and some of my former choices were RIDICULOUS. Still, like I said -- some usable stuff. I'm happy. See my happy face?
:-)
Hope you saw that. Anyhow, today was most profitable. I haven't forgotten this blog!!
