Dragons – Ice and Fury

Much to Whit’s surprise, Gordo was waiting for him just outside the entrance to the Hallerman administration building. During normal class hours, he had behaved as if they had never met, and in response Whit, disappointed, had refrained from approaching him.

“Ah, my favorite spy,” he grinned. “Well, are you going to visit us again today? I suggest that this time you enter through the front door rather than crawl through the thickets. After all, old chap. How much blood can you stand to lose.”

Whit blushed then quickly added, “Elise invited me to return, but I’m not sure if she really wants to see me. She didn’t show too much enthusiasm when I left.”

“Oh, that’s just Elise. She likes you well enough or she wouldn’t have asked you or spent as much time with you as she did. She’s very particular, you know. You can come with me, if you like.”

“Are you leaving now?”

“Not at all. I’m headed directly to the Parade Grounds. First tryouts for the rugby squad, you know. Did you play last year?”

“Rugby? No. It’s not an American game, and to tell you the truth, I’m not too interested in team sports.”

“Tennis, golf?”

“No, I’m afraid that I don’t play those either. Actually, I don’t play any sports.”

“Good. Then it’s time to build up those muscles,” he grinned, slapping Whit on the shoulder vigorously. “Come along. We’ll tryout together. Did you bring a kit? No? Well, I didn’t either. I just learned about the tryouts myself. We’ll have to make do as we are.”

“Is rugby a popular sport here? It’s virtually unknown in the States.”

“Popular? My God, Whit, have you never heard of the All Blacks?”

“All Blacks?”

“It’s the national team; they’re the best in the world. Well, once in awhile arch rivals South Africa and Australia have been beaten them, but forget about the European teams. The national teams from the southern hemisphere national are on a completely different level, much higher. Rugby is an obsession in New Zealand, bigger than cricket or football.”

So, it had been decided; they would be teammates as well as classmates. Whit really had little choice in the matter.

§

The Parade Grounds consisted of a wide expanse of lawn spread out behind the Hallerman academic buildings. Play areas had been reserved for practice in the three major sports in which the school participated: cricket, football, and of course rugby. Actual matches were held on Saturday mornings in Wakefield Stadium, a pitch encircled by elevated rows of spectator seating but a venue rather less splendid than its name implied.

At the moment, the field was swarming with several herds of boys, pushing and shoving each other about. They were maintaining a sonic blanket of shouting and laughter, but not a ball was in sight. About a dozen adults from the school’s athletic department were also in attendance, evidently the coaching staff for the rugby program. Gordo and Whit joined their stampeding schoolmates on the field just as a chorus of whistles erupted from the gathered coaches.

“All right lads, gather around. That’s enough horse play for now,” a tall, muscular man wearing a peaked cap began. “We’re holding tryouts today only for Hallerman rugby teams. If you’re interested in a different sport, please leave. Schedules for football and cricket tryouts will be posted later in the week.

“We’re planning on fielding three teams this term: varsity, for seventh through ninth graders, mid-level for fifth and sixth, and juniors for lower grades. No promotions this year. You may not play for a team above your level. I shouldn’t have to add that demotions are also prohibited. In other words, no mixing of grades except within the divisions I just described. Any violations and you’re out of the program permanently.”

“I heard there were a rash of injuries last year,” Gordo whispered. “Head Master put his foot down.”

“Form yourselves into three groups according to those grade levels. Do it now, people! You’re wasting daylight.”

In agreement with everyone else, Gordo and Whit quickly followed instructions, searching about for classmates and then joining their designated groups. Their oversight in not bringing proper kits to the first practice was soon forgotten; it was, apparently, a universal offense; no one else they met had brought any gear whatsoever.

§

Rugby practice was as rough and tumble an affair as Whit had feared it would be. Reeling from exhaustion, emblazoned with another layer of cuts and bruises, he and his teammates staggered from the field and collapsed on the sidelines, grasping for breath.

One of the assistant coaches, carrying a clipboard of roster sheets approached them and made a brief announcement.

“Take a breather, lads, you did well today. We’ll post our preliminary cuts tomorrow. Thank you for your efforts. If your name’s not the list, you can still try for another sport. We can’t take everyone; there’s only so many positions to be filled. There will be one additional cut before our final selections. I wouldn’t advise purchasing any gear until you’ve definitely been picked for the squad.”

“Thank God, that’s finally over, “ Whit said, turning toward Gordo after the coach left. “I’ve never felt so beat up in my life. I’m so tired that I’m not sure I can manage the walk home. One more scrum and I would have died on the spot.”

“Don’t let it get you too depressed, old boy. We’ll have another tryout in two or three days.”

“You may have another tryout, Gordo, but I’ll never survive the first cut. Of that much I’m certain. I was positively pathetic out there.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll past through the first cut. You did fine, better than any of the other beginners, as well as me, in fact; and I’ve played rugby before. Both of us are going to make this team.”

That was not exactly the reassurance that Whit had welcomed. In addition to a new assortment of minor injuries, his clothing had been reduced to a rag-like bundle. He was certain that his mother would forbid him to continue in the sport. At least, that was the tenuous hope that sustained his spirits.

After a few moments, the group of battered players gathered themselves together, struggled to their feet, and began to leave.

“Are you coming home with me?” Gordo asked. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Elise, now,” he grinned.

“No, not in this condition. Tell her I’m sorry, but I never suspected that the afternoon would end this way.”

“Can I offer you a ride home? No troubles; it’s on the way. My father’s carriage is waiting on the edge of the campus.”

“No thank you, Gordo. I have a stop or two to make first. It’s an easier enough walk, even in my present, massacred state. Tomorrow, in school?”

“Yes, until then,” he replied, extending his hand for a rather formal handshake.

Reluctantly, he watched Gordo walk toward the front of the administration building. Under different circumstances, he might have accepted his offer, regardless of his shabby appearance, but he had seen his brother Walton sitting near the back entrance. He waved and walked over.

“What are you doing here? Not trying out for rugby, I hope.”

“Hello, Whit. No, I just came over to watch when I heard about the tryouts. I didn’t realize that you were coming out for the team. You look rather slaughtered like everyone else, but you did well out there. It’s encouraging that someone in the family is athletic.”

“That might be an overstatement, dear brother, but shall we walk home together?”

“Why not? Everything that happens must happen for a first time,” he replied.

§

They chose not to speak again during the twenty minute walk from the Hallerman campus to their home on the northern end of Wakefield Village. Marika greeted Walton with a brief hug and smile; for Whit, she summoned a Draconian scowl.

“Those clothes! Off. They’re furnace bound.”

At dinner, Whit waited until the soup had arrived before bursting forth with an excited, detailed description of the trampling he had received on the rugby pitch. Henry listened politely to his account, traces of a frown creeping over his features, mumbled a few inaudible words, and the matter, as far as he was concerned, cleared from the agenda, returned to his chicken noodle soup. Only Olivia seemed vaguely pleased that her older son had become a sportsmen; not so much, as Whit reflected on her reaction later, for his participation in a manly after-school activity, as the singular fact that both of her offspring had walked home together peacefully.

§

“It’s a damn shame we’ll have to wait so long before we can join the All Blacks and beat the living crap out of the Aussies,” Gordo exploded. His prediction of yesterday had been accurate; both boys had survived the first rugby cut according to the list of names posted on the bulletin board outside the gymnasium. Another tryout session had been scheduled for the following day.

“Now that you’ve dressed properly, I expect you’ll be coming home with me after school. I’ll wait for you by our carriage.”

“Gordo, was Elise annoyed that I didn’t come by yesterday?“

“Elise? How the devil should I know! Ask her yourself. I don’t read minds.”

And before Whit could comment, Gordo had hurried into the science building, and thereafter, in perfect symmetry with his behavior the day before, proceeded to ignore him until classes had ended.

§

At the final bell, Whit stuffed his pencils, notebook, and texts into the storage compartment beneath his desktop. Rugby tryouts would resume the next day, no minor event in a New Zealand school, and in consideration of the gravity the occasion deserved, no homework had been assigned to any of the grades from which team members would be chosen; all school supplies, therefore, could remain on campus.

Whit exited the building and walked toward the wide driveway fronting the landscaped campus. As promised, Gordo was waiting, slouching against a lamppost, a mischievous grin creasing his expression. His brother Bear was also in attendance, but the usual horse-drawn carriage he expected to see had been replaced with Avram St. Martins’ recently acquired, gleaming black Austin motorcar.

Avram was a small man, wiry in build, only an inch or two taller than his younger son. He was neatly dressed in a double-breasted grey tweet suit, white shirt and regimental striped ascot, an elegant homburg hat. His hair held more grey than Henry Downes’s, but his beard was shorter and spread across more cheek than his father’s goatee.

“How do you do, young man,” he began, though not offering his hand— apparently a greeting he presumably reserved for adults—as they climbed into the car. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day.” He looked over at Whit who had seized his arm rest in a firm grip as soon as he was seated and smiled. “You may relax, Master Downes. I’m not as accomplished a driver as our chauffeur, but I promise to drive slowly. I’ve never had an accident.”

“Not yet, anyway. The car is brand new,” Gordo laughed.

They followed a roundabout route away from Hallerman School, circumventing the village, driving northwest further into the countryside. The day was still warm, this late in the season, but cool, fragrant breezes from the flower-carpeted meadows brought welcome relief, and Whit, who had regarded the open seating with some apprehension, had come to appreciate the design.

“I know of your father, young man; he’s one of the most eminent scholars at the University. His field is linguistics, I believe?”

“Yes,” Whit replied, surprised that a wealthy industrialist like Avram would be familiar with his father’s relatively obscure speciality. “He’s interested in the semantics of comparative Germanic languages.”

“I assume, then, that you’re conversant with the results of his studies” Avram chuckled.

“No,” Whit stammered, while Gordo in the front passenger seat and Bear beside him laughed, “I’m just repeating what he told me. I know very little about his work.”

“I see. You’ll know more once you reach university. Plenty of time for that,” Avram said, trying to ease the boy’s discomfort.

“My mother teaches as well, at the Technical College. Mathematics.”

Avram nodded without comment, concentrating on the twisting road before them. It was not unusual for strangers to recognize his father’s illustrious academic reputation, Whit observed, but his mother Olivia was the greater achiever of the two. She was one of only a handful of women mathematicians in the world who had risen to stand amongst the leading authorities of her profession; she had been a fully tenured professor at the University of California. When the parameters of her speciality were taken into account, she probably had no peer, yet her husband received all the honors while she waited for a subordinate position. He should mention that fact to Elise, he decided, but casually, not as a topic of major concern.

Now they were passing through farmland, cultivated rows of fruit and vegetables, each homestead separated from its neighbors by birch woods and thickets of hickory.

“This is your second year at Hallerman?” Avram suddenly asked, abruptly ending the prevailing silence of their drive.

“Yes. We moved to Christchurch from San Francisco at the beginning of the last year. Have you been here long?” It was an obvious question to ask in response to his, even though Whit already knew the answer. He had begun to suspect the reason for their protracted ride: Avram was conducting an interview before giving permission that he be granted access to their home.

“As residents, yes, but we’ve operated our plant here for nearly a decade. During that time, I’ve visited periodically, but it’s a long trip: a week crossing the Atlantic, six days on a train from New York to Los Angeles, ten days across the Pacific. We plan to keep return trips, if necessary, to a minimum. It’s entirely possible that New Zealand will become our permanent home.”

They drove across a narrow bridge over a stream that dry weather had reduced to a trickle of water and turned at a railroad caution signal onto Clifton Road. Bramford Manor lie just ahead.

§

Once past the entrance, the crushed gravel road led through a wooded area toward the main house, concealed by the lush foliage. As they slowly approached, Avram steered the Austin along a circular drive and stopped before the front portico.

“You’re very late,” Miriam shouted, running out the front door, followed by Rebecca, Gentry, and another servant dressed in livery.

“We took a scenic route,” Avram explained.

“Guess what, Miriam,” Gordo shouted. “We’re going to make the rugby team. Well, we passed the first hurtle, at least, but I’m confident we’ll be picked after tomorrow’s tryout. Where’s Elise? Whit came here especially to see her.”

Whit lowered his head and thrust his hands in his pockets to hide his embarrassment.

“Elise is ill,” Rebecca said, “but I’m sure she’ll be disappointed to have missed you.”

“She’s sick a lot,” Miriam added.

“Hush, you,” Rebecca admonished.

“Never mind,” Gordo exclaimed. “Let’s have a bite and shoot some arrows before it gets too dark.”

§

After a quick snack of cookies and milk on the portico, Whit followed Miriam and her two brothers to the garage where the archery equipment was stored. Once there, Gordo bellowed out orders and assigned everyone a task: Bear, the smallest of the four, carried the arrows, and Miriam hoisted the bows. He left the heavy, canvass and wooden targets for himself and Whit to drag to the side of the house.

They spent the rest of the rapidly darkening afternoon hours practicing their marksmanship, competing with each other informally: no prize for the winner had been declared. It was Whit’s initiation into the sport, which gratefully he found less threatening than rugby.

“Is Elise all right?” he asked Gordo in a near whisper.

“She’s just having an off-day; she’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Why is she ill so often?”

“Don’t listen to Miriam. She dramatizes everything that happens around here. She’s the worst source of information about anything You’ll see. Elise will be fine. Don’t worry about her; concentrate on the tryout tomorrow.”

Whit looked toward the house at a flickering light. Avram was standing on the front porch smoking a cigar, watching. They had lost track of time; it was almost dark.

“I’ll drive you home, Whitaker. Gordon and Bearworth will come along for the ride.”

“No, thank you, sir. It’s not far. I can walk.”

“Nonsense, I insist.”

He was about to protest when Gordo nudged him sharply in the ribs and nodded. His father obviously wanted to know where and how he lived.

As they were walking toward the Austin, Whit glanced up at the second floor. Elise was standing by the window. He wondered how long she had been there watching. He waved, and she waved back; then she smiled and left.

Much later, Whit lie in bed and tried to follow his friend’s advice that he concentrate on the coming ordeal on the rugby pitch, but each time those thoughts vanished and were replaced by his memory of Elise watching him.

Christchurch, New Zealand

May, 1908

A dense, neatly trimmed privet hedge, three feet thick, reaching eight feet high in most locations, rising to ten feet in others, enclosed the Bramford Manor estate on three sides of its perimeter; the fourth side, its western end, needed no artificial barriers to bar unwanted intrusions; here, manicured lawns gave way to thick bush and then to old growth stands of oak, ash, and maple—woods, dark, damp, swarming with life, extending to the edge of the sea. Otherwise, the boundary of hedge continued without interruption, except at the center of its eastern delimitation on Clifton Road, where two stout wooden doors guarded the interior driveway, and a side door of similar construction permitted favored pedestrians to enter. No moats or fortress walls of stone and mortar could have provided greater privacy; only dim traces of light between the tiny overlapping leaves revealed any details of the opaque interior of the property.

Along the southern edge of the estate, a shallow gully that served for drainage had been naturally excavated by rainfall; though now dry and choked with weeds, it was not entirely empty, for Whitaker Downes, an eleven year-old boy from the nearby village, was making his way along the bottom of the narrow depression, probing for weaknesses in the formidable hedge. He was certainly planning an incursion, that much was undeniable, but he was driven by pure curiosity, not plunder. For the past two weeks of the new term, Whit, as he was universally called, had been following one of his classmates, Gordon St. Martins, from school to his Bramford home. His reasons for this close surveillance were less well defined than the unwavering route they traveled everyday.

The previous term in the Hallerman School had been his first, a happenstance not of his choosing. His father, Doctor Henry Downes, a professor of semantics at the University of California in Berkeley, had been offered a visiting chair on the faculty of the University of Canterbury, a prestigious recognition of his research, one that could not, given the professional contingencies, be refused. Subsequently, he had moved his entire family—wife, cat, Whit and his two-year-younger brother Walton—from their lifelong residence in San Francisco to a different home in a different country, thousands of miles from their homeland, the length of their stay indeterminate. Had Whit been younger, the adjustment to another environment and new classmates might have been easier, as it had been for his brother, but on arrival, he entered the fifth year of primary instruction, the penultimate level before middle school. He soon realized that existing friendships in Hallerfeld had been long established, and he found himself a stranger among his fellows, an immigrant from a foreign country, speaking with an odd accent. In consequence, It was a long, painful, lonely year, so when Gordon St. Martins, another new student, obviously not of New Zealand provenance, appeared at the beginning of the sixth grade, Whit felt that their similar circumstances could lead to friendship. How that might be accomplished was far from certain; hence Whit began his covert operation, awaiting an opportunity. He was not an overly dependent youth, but he was desperate for companionship, that and an insatiable curiosity had brought him to his late afternoon crawl along the dusty gully beside the impenetrable hedge lining the Bramford estate, a property border and an obstacle to any future friendship he might develop with Gordon.

Now, it should be noted that another schoolboy in Whit’s situation might have elected a rather different approach to trying to form a new friendship; he might, for example, have confronted Gordon St. Martin directly, either at recess or during another opportune time; that method, of course, would have required a degree of confidence and social dexterity, one that unfortunately, Whit had not yet attained. So he chose a roundabout way, surely not the best alternative, but perhaps the only one available to him at the time.

§

For nearly twenty minutes, he had been proceeding along the gully slowly, in a methodical way, when he noticed a slither of sunlight emanating from the bottom of the hedge, falling across the path he was following. Excitedly, he scrambled to the top of the embankment. What he had discovered could not be described accurately as a pathway through he bottom of the privet hedge; it was rather the possibility of taking advantage of a lessening in its woody density, of creating a corridor by bending branches, contorting his body, and crawling worm-like along a narrow shaft, all the while being assaulted and scratched by sharp twigs as he proceeded. Progress would be difficult, even painful, but objections be damned! He had found a way forward toward the beckoning green of the lawn beyond, and he would not be deterred. The next phase of his exploration, what precisely he would do if successful in gaining access to the interior of the property was never considered.

In a new minutes, he was halfway through beneath the hedge, scratched and bleeding as expected, but he was also stuck, pinned in placed by protruding, twisted branches, unable to move forward any further, unable to extricate himself by reversing direction. He suppressed a frustrated sob as best he could manage then startled, looked suddenly upward in response to the appearance of bright daylight.

“Have you been spying on us!” a young girl exclaimed from above, while moving aside two handfuls of privet branches. It was phrased as a question but was really an exclamation of wonderment, rather than an accusation. She was probably a year or two younger than he, with short sandy-colored hair, wearing corduroy overalls, obviously quite pleased that she had apprehended an intruder.

“Not actually spying. I was trying to find a way inside, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten stuck.”

“Bear, come quick. I’ve captured a thief,” she called out to a nearby boy, a year or two younger than she. A moment later, Gordon St. Matins, ostensibly the original objective of Whit’s ill-fated adventure, joined the group of three children excitedly surrounding this unexpected guest.

“A thief, you say. Well, that is extraordinary, little sister. Wait, I know you. You’re in my class at Hallerman! What in the world are you doing here?”

“I was exploring the area and became curious at what was behind the hedge. I didn’t realize you lived here.” That was only a partial truth, he knew, but to confess otherwise would render him as ridiculous to everyone. More importantly, it would effectively exclude any chance that they might become friends. “I promise. I had no intension of invading your home or stealing anything.”

“Well, that’s to be determined,” Gordon decided. “In the meantime, let’s haul him in. Bear, fetch the clippers from the greenhouse.”

A moment later, the younger boy returned with a rusty pair of gardening sheers, and after some delicate surgery to the privet, the three of them pulling strenuously together were able to drag Whit onto the lawn without further injury.

Gordon helped Whit to regain his feet, then extended his hand. “We’ve been together in class nearly everyday, but I don’t believe that we’re ever been properly introduced. I’m Gordon, but everyone calls me Gordo. This is my sister Miriam and my younger brother Bearwortth, but everyone calls him Bear. Miriam is just Miriam, at least for now.”

Whit glanced at his new companions. Gordo was a little taller than he was, more athletic in his appearance. Both he and Miriam, his eight-year old younger sister, were tanned in complexion and lightly freckled from the sun; they shared the same wavy, sandy-colored hair, tousled casually across their foreheads. Neither of them displayed any especial delicacy, their developing biceps, where revealed beneath their clothing, were evidence of growing athleticism. And the two of them shared other characteristics as well. Both were confident and socially adept, even around complete strangers. Bear, on the other hand, was a year younger than Miriam and at least three inches shorter in height. His hair was dark and straight, his body slim and lithe. He was quieter than his siblings, and under different circumstances of age, he may have made a better companion for Whit than the aggressive Gordo.

With introductions completed all around, Whit turned his attention to his surroundings. As an estate, Bramford Manor consisted of a spacious main house, on a low hill in the center of the property, constructed of red brick and wood, painted bright white with yellow trim, and a clustering of a half dozen out-buildings, including a greenhouse and a garage large enough to accommodate several wagons and vehicles. Wide swatches of meticulously maintained lawn extended in every direction radiating from the main house, and far toward the rear of the property, he could just perceive the darkness of the encroaching woods. Croquet loops had been inserted into the grass nearby, and scattered wooden mallets and balls were an indication that his sudden appearance among them had interrupted their game.

In fact, he was so engrossed in examining and cataloguing his new location and acquaintances that he completely overlooked the presence of still another person in the vicinity, a young girl sitting at a table beneath a broad sun umbrella, perhaps thirty feet away on the upslope of the great lawn.

“Elise!” Gordo called out. “We’re captured a thief sneaking onto the property.”

“Bring the prisoner forward, then, so that he may be interrogated,” she replied, lightly gesturing with a waved arm. Immediately, Whit and the three siblings strode briskly forward in response to her summons. She was sitting behind a propped up, leather-bound volume with gilded pages, several sheets of cream-colored writing paper scattered on the table, a sharpened pencil dangling from her slim fingers, a concentrated frown fixed tenaciously on her face.

She was wearing a white, angle-length dress of crenelated material, trimmed in lace, white cotton stockings, and matching shoes with low heels.

“I see you’ve met my siblings. My name is Elise. May I inquire as to yours and the reasons for your presence here?”

“I’m Whitaker Downes. I’m in the same class at Hallerman as your brother Gordon. And yes, I’ve met Miriam and Bearworth.” Whit paused before continuing, considering his next words carefully. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your family. I was passing by and noticed the hedge around your property. Curiosity is a weakness of mine, so I decided to see if I could take a look. As you can see, I managed to tangle myself rather thoroughly in your landscaping. I’ve also interfered with an ongoing croquet game. My apologies on both counts.”

She looked at him, titled her head thoughtfully, and smiled. “I think the real explanation for your sudden arrival amongst us is a tad more complicated than you care to share, but I do believe that your reasons were innocent enough. Ill accept your explanations for now. Come and sit with me. Miriam, please go into the house tell Mama that we have a guest. And bring back some iodine and bandages. Those wounds need tending to before they’re infected.”

§

Even though, at least according to Whit’s estimation, Elise was adequately shielded from the sun by the large, colored umbrella anchored within beneath the garden table, she was also wearing a broad straw hat with a wide floppy brim, which she continually adjusted as they spoke, repositioning the dangling lavender ribbon from one side to another. Her complexion was pale, he noticed, more so than either of her brothers or or her sister; evidentially, she needed additional protection from the strong New Zealand sun, sun even though it was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and the days were growing progressively shorter with the approach of cooler weather. Her eyes were dark brown, liquid pools of reflected light beneath heavy brows that matched her long, brown cascading hair that fell in ripples to her waist. In his opinion, her smile, accompanied by parallel dimples on either cheek was warmer than any sun he had experienced. He instantly decided that Elise was the most beautiful female he would ever encounter.

Miriam soon emerged from the main house carrying the medicine and bandages that Elise had prescribed; and with these supplies in hand, his self-appointed nurse began attending to the cuts and bruises he had sustained during his improvised entry into their sheltered garden. As she was completing her ministrations, Rebecca St. Martins, the mistress of Bramford Manor and mother to the four children arrayed about her lawn, made an appearance, followed by Gentry, a footman in formal livery, carrying a tray containing a pitcher of lemonade, glasses, cloth napkins, and a plate laden with freshly baked oatmeal cookies. She introduced herself, smiled at Whit—in a friendly but noncommittal manner, or so he thought—then returned to the house.

“She didn’t ask why I’m here,” Whit remarked, surprised that Mrs. St. Martins had not breached the subject, more surprised still that she had accepted his attendance so casually, without seeking an explanation or voicing any reservations of her own.

“Oh, I’m certain that Miriam provided her with an elaborate narrative. So, you and Gordo are classmates,” she said, sipping her flavored drink. “Bear also attends Hallerman, of course, but he’s much younger than you two and in a lower grade. Undoubtedly, you never noticed him.”

“Well, no, I haven’t, but I’ve only just met him. I’ll certainly look for him in the future. I’m sure I would have noticed you, if you had been attending. Do you go to a different school?”

“No. Neither Miriam nor myself attend school. We’ve been on home study for years. Tutors visit twice a week, but Mama provides most of the teaching herself. It’s different for boys, I suppose. According to Papa, Gordo and Bear need to socialize with chums their own age. They have to learn to compete in the classroom and on the rugby pitch. Girls have different needs, you know.”

“Were you doing school work when I first arrived? I’m afraid that I couldn’t help but notice that you were concentrating intently on a book, taking notes.”

“Working, yes, but not on school work. I was trying to fix a poem that I’m writing. It’s been going rather badly, I fear.”

“You’re a poet?”

“That,” she laughed, “would be putting rather too grand a description on my efforts; perhaps someday, but not yet a poet. I think it a sacred calling, you see. Whether it will be mine, only time will reveal. It’s still early. I’m only thirteen.”

“You’re thirteen!” he exclaimed, astounded that a girl so much older than he would expend so much attention on a boy his age.

“Yes, thirteen!” she laughed. “Is my physical appearance so unsuitable for my age? My dear Whit, you bestow complements so profligately!”

“No, no. I didn’t mean it that way, please. You just seem older older than other girls at school. You sound more mature.” Clearly, Whit’s lack of experience with girls was reenforcing his stumbling efforts in trying to retract his ambiguous and unintended words.

“Well, if you’re trying to fashion an apology, I’ll accept your intentions if not the clumsy choice of words themselves,” she smiled, not unkindly. “Please, I’m only teasing you. Just a little,” she added, placing her fingers softly on the back of his hand.

For a brief moment—he hoped it was imperceptible—he caught his breath at her touch; it was so soft, it barely registered, but he shuttered inwardly nevertheless. He made a show of consulting his watch to help conceal his embarrassment to the intimacy he felt. Surely, her intent was different than its effect, he decided. “It’s almost six. I should be heading home. We dine at seven.”

“Very well,” she replied, instantly dismissing him as she lowered her gaze and returned to her book. “Oh, shall I ask Mama to drive you?”

“No, it’s not that far, but thank you anyway. Ah, and please extend my gratitude to your family for their gracious hospitality.” He stood to leave and then realized that he had fallen so completely under the aura he imagined swirling about Elise that he had completely forgotten about Gordo, Bear, and Miriam. He noticed now that they had retuned to their croquet game, laughing and shouting boisterously, sounds he apparently never heard. Nor for their part, did they pay him any further attention; the novelty of his presence among them had apparently passed. He began to wave in their direction but decided not to disturb their game again. He began walking toward the driveway then abruptly turned back toward Elise.

“Could I visit you again?”

She raised her eyes over the rim of her book. “If you like. But come home with Gordo. Please don’t trample the shrubbery again.”

He spun away and resumed his steps.

“Come tomorrow,” she added without looking up.

By the time Whit arrived at the entrance to Bramford Manor, he had forgotten to ask if one of the household staff could unlock the gate for him. The large swinging driveway doors were firmly closed, a thick length of timber set in brackets reenforcing the exterior locks, but the side door designed for pedestrian egress swung easily open. He stepped across the threshold onto Clifton Road, the door locking itself behind him as it closed.

Whit could have followed Clifton to Templeton Street, the most direct route to the village and his home, but he decided to retrace his earlier steps and began walking along the line of hedges just above the drainage ditch that had concealed his approach to the estate several hours before. With the rapidly falling light, the opacity lend by the towering hedges was magnified, but the cries and laughter arising from the ongoing croquet match reached him unimpeded. Those sounds undoubtedly came principally from Gordon and his sister Miriam, a girl who, home schooled or not, he decided, would have been as much at home on a rugby pitch as he and her brother, and in his own case, at least, even more so. The younger brother Bearworth must have contributed to the cacophony they emitted but not to the same degree as his more clamorous siblings. And in that characteristic, he felt a trace of kinship with the quieter of the three St. Martins children. To others, especially to adults, the two of them, both Whit and Bearworth, probably seemed shy and reticent, but it was more a case of preferring the quiet to the nose, he thought, than contrasting introvert and extrovert. In fact, he appreciated the company of his mates as much as anyone, but he never accepted the maxim, as many of his acquaintances evidently had, that a person must proceed behind a barrage of sound announcing his every step. Instead, he found it so much more pleasurable to listen to others rather than spew forth his own vocal accompaniment. He was making superficial judgements about his newly made friends, he knew, but was that not the natural order of things, to reach conclusions hastily upon the flimsiest of evidence, questions of validity throw to the winds, so to speak. And now he paused and complimented himself on the wisdom he had seized for himself, no matter how temporarily. He also took note, strikingly so, that he had omitted Elise from his pontifications about the others; he had most assuredly assigned her to a very special category, indeed.

Was it so improbable, he wondered, that she would spring forth from her cocoon-like shelter beneath the protection of a beach umbrella and participate in a croquet contest with her brethren, adding her cries of joy and laughter to theirs? Or had he assigned her an overabundance of dignity that would preclude such behavior, or at least permit behavior undertaken with less exuberance? Then he remember the delicacy of her touch and felt the heat of embarrassment.

Before he could examine his feelings in more depth about the oldest St. Martins daughter, his thoughts were interrupted by the slam of a heavy wooden gate and the grinding of gravel against rubber tires from beyond the wall of privet hedges. That must be the father, he assumed, Avram St. Martin retuning home from the factory in his shining black Austin motorcar. A brief moment later, his assumptions were verified as the sounds he had associated with the croquet match were replaced by the loud chatter of several people vociferously competing to be heard: a reunion of family members, he further surmised, sharing the latest happening amongst themselves. How different an experience would be awaiting him upon his own return home. He speculated whether the topic of his own intrusion into their sequestered family life would be part of their conversion or whether it had already been forgotten, discarded like the crumbled papers of Elise’s poems, an inferior version she would improve upon in time.

§

After leaving the perimeter of Bramford Manor, Whit followed a worn path through the bitch and maple forest, a serpentine route, twisting in one direction and then in another, before emerging onto Collegiate Way, the main thoroughfare of Wakefield Village. Inwardly, he expressed gratitude, as he invariably did upon returning home, that the elders of their village had refrained from the unimaginative temptation taken by so many of naming the main artery through their town either Main Street or Broadway It was a meager blessing to be sure, but one gratefully accepted nevertheless; words and names were important, not labels to be applied indiscriminately.

He continued along Collegiate, peering in shop windows as he proceeded, nodding to a few schoolmates he encountered, then turned onto Evergreen Drive. The Downes resident was the fifth building from the corner. Marika, the Maori housekeeper they employed, greeted him as he entered.

“Good evening to you, Master Whitaker. You’re late for dinner, again. As usual. Go to the table before Mrs. Connelly throws a tantrum.

Whit hung his torn, stained jacket on the coatrack in the foyer, took note of the frown expressed by Marika assessing its condition, and entered the dinning room. Both his parents and younger brother Walton were already seated, picking their way through the first course, a mixed salad of nuts, greens, and iceberg lettuce. He nodded to everyone and took his seat, purposely ignoring his father’s disapproval, judgments never expressed verbally, always displayed visually. His mother for her part acknowledged his presence by calling to the cook, “He’s here, Brianna. Please bring another plate.”

Brianna Connelly, the other member of their household staff, pushed her way through the swinging door to the kitchen, bearing a filled salad bowl which she unceremoniously deposited in front of the seated Whit, all the while murmuring under her breath a stream of Gallic profanity that not even a renowned professor of semantics like Dr. Henry Downes could comprehend.

Like her distinguished husband, Doctor Olivia Downes (nee Prescott) was an academician, a highly regarded professor of mathematics who was presently teaching two classes of complex variables and one class of abstract algebra at Christchurch Technical College, a new institution founded two years previously. It was a temporary arrangement. Olivia had been promised a position more in alignment with her research accomplishments teaching graduate students at Canterbury, as soon as the next vacancy occurred. Expectations were that this would happen momentarily, before the start of the coming academic year. It was actually a condition of Henry accepting the chair in linguistics.

Henry and Olivia had met while graduate students at the University of Vienna. Coming from such divergent fields of study as mathematics and linguistics, their union initially seemed an unlikely one, but Olivia’s research interests lie in the foundational structure of mathematics, a rapidly growing speciality, while Henry’s studies focused on formal linguistic systems, especially semantic relationships, about which he was always going on about “structure” this and “structure” that. In general, then, it might be said that both his parents were structuralists of one order or another, and in any case, they had managed to find common ground intellectually and perhaps romantically as well, at least after a fashion.

Within the Downes domesticity, soup invariably followed salad, and tonight’s marquee feature was tomato soup, overly salted in accordance with Brianne’s dubious beliefs about the concomitant health benefits of sodium, each bowl awash with floating and submerged oyster crackers. During this secondary course, Whit glanced at his parents and brother Walton. His father Henry was below average height but otherwise slim and fit; he was an avert swimmer and walker, solitary activities he practiced every morning and evening before taking meals. His appearance was every bit as distinguished as his academic achievements. He dressed practically, never spending too much or too little on the three piece worsted suits he favored, always a white shirt and solid colored bow tie, his trim, pointed goatee beard, always neatly kept.

Olivia was several inches taller than her husband, her body thin with long extremities. Most singular was the length of her neck and nose on which metal spectacles were usually precariously merged, as they were tonight, threatening to disappear with a swan-like dive into her tomato soup. Whit had overheard one of his father’s brothers refer to her unkindly as resembling an ostrich. It was true, he supposed, that his mother was not an overly attractive woman, but her intellect was sharp and incisive, and her warm smile could disarm the severest critic.

His parents, then, were well matched for all their physical and intellectual discrepancies. The same qualities of compatibility could not be claimed for their children. Neither he nor Walton resembled each other or either of their parents. Among his classmates, Whit was average in weight and stature, not a resounding weakling perhaps but falling far short of attaining Gordo’s impressive athletic skills and physical strength. His appearance strongly suggested personal carelessness: his hair was usually askew, his clothing often soiled and required mending—a button here, a threadbare elbow there. He loved literature and writing, reading historical accounts and novels, keeping a random journal for thoughts and events he decided worth preserving. In other fields of endeavor, athletic or scholastic, he was entirely indifferent. In class, he did enough work to get by, never more; any additional efforts he would have considered wasteful of his time and energy. As far as his father was concerned, Whit was adrift, lacking both direction and the ambition to find one. Olivia was more patient with her older son; he would discover his own path eventually, she insisted; it was all a matter of time and experience. What neither one of them realized was that Whit had already chosen a future: he planned to become a novelist and take his place within the pantheon of authors he worshiped: Dostoyevsky, Stevenson, Clements, Turgenev, Gogol, and many others, American and European. For now, he kept those goals to himself; his parents, if they knew his aspirations, would lecture him ceaselessly about the impracticality of writing fiction; and among his acquaintances, he had thus far failed to find anyone in whom he might comfortably confine, no one at school, and decidedly not his younger brother Walton.

§

Walton was only two years younger than Whit, but no two brothers so close in age could have been more different. He was born immaturely, five weeks before his appointed time, and was never expected to survive infancy; nevertheless, in spite of the lugubrious prognosis, he clung to life and survived, only to undergo more trials: a succession of childhood illnesses, the usual ones naturally but others, too, some of them serious enough to kill most of their victims. Rubella, chicken pox, scarlet fever, mumps, whooping cough, allergies, cardiac irregularity, all came and went, all leaving permanent traces of their stays; yet he survived, in spite of all. He was the shortest child in his class, shorter than the shortest girl and so thin in body that Whit, not incapable of occasional displays of malicious humor, suggested that he resembled a skeleton covered with a taut, shallow layer of skin and called him “drumskin,” once even directly, a transgression for which he was still being punished with periodic reminders of parental opprobrium.

In complexion he was pale, a shade almost spectral in quality, but the harsh southern sun paid him little mind, perhaps deciding that better prey lay elsewhere. Unlike Bearworth St. Martin, who was quiet by inclination, Walton was quiet by self-inflicted banishment; he was, essentially, a recluse within his own body. He still visited doctors’ offices frequently, and once or twice a year, it became necessary that he be hospitalized; in collated form, the copious history of his sundry ailments could be mistaken by its bulk for a continental novel.

Life, then, had chosen to burden Walton with severe physical and emotion deficits before he had barely undertaken living one, but he had also been granted a few compensations to balance the scale. What he lacked in good health and social facilities, was replaced with imposing intellectual gifts. He was, by any academic measure, the brightest student in Hallerman School, regardless of class grade; he was the brightest member of his family, whatever distinctions his parents had earned; indeed, he had yet to meet an intellectual rival who could provide him with meaningful competition. He was learning algebra, topology, and analysis from his mother; he could parse the most complex of sentences; while Whit enjoyed reading translations of Cato, Archimedes, Lermontov, and Goethe, Walton read the same authors in their original Latin, Greek, Russian, and German. He was an extraordinary child prodigy, and in comparison to his younger brother, Whit was a mental pauper.

A budding genius he may have been, but the shadow of death seemed to linger just behind him, waiting its time to pounce, and Whit was expected to prevent that happenstance, to protect his weaker brother from any threats, even sacrifice himself if necessary. His parents had appointed him Walton’s guardian without consulting him or asking for his permission, and he resented the assignment. Outside their home, Whit avoided Walton, especially at school, apprehensive that someone might notice they were related. It was not that Whit disliked his younger brother; he was ashamed of his weaknesses, and for that reason he was even more ashamed of himself.

§

Presently, the main course was served: braised chicken breasts, garlic mashed potatoes, stalks of asparagus. Olivia and Henry poured red wine; the children drank milk. Thus dinner proceeded according to custom, in relative silence; conversation was never a feature of family gatherings. It was not, as in some families, a matter of preference that speaking might interfere with nourishment; food, within the Downes’s residence, much to the indignation of their cook, Brianna Connelly, was never highly regarded. Food was necessary for life, nothing more. Whatever enjoyment the taste of their meals might bring was incidental. The quiet preserved at their meals was practiced in most other locations as well, in the parlor, the garden, the bedroom. Each of them was wandering through the wilderness of personal thoughts; it would never have occurred to anyone that an inner life could be shared with another.

It was not that the children were neglected or avoided; most of their primary care had been undertaken by household help. Beyond the essentials of food, shelter, and clothing they were largely left to their own devices, providing their own entertainment, making their own decisions. Parental intervention in everyday matters was infrequent and only initiated when absolutely required. Olivia and Henry were too busy, you see, in their academic pursuits, their teaching and research, to provide traditional parenting; the utilitarian, spartan character of their lives precluded much interaction with their children. So these four personages, two parents and two children, went their separate ways, immersed in their separate lives, moving together in silence. Was it indifference they felt for each other? No, and it was less a matter of poorly chosen priorities, or inappropriate choices taken; these people loved each other; they just were unable to show it.

Hence, silence prevailed this evening, as usual, until Whit decided to end it.

“I made some new friends today.”

“Oh, that’s a very positive accomplishment, I’m sure,” Olivia said. “It’s good that you’re getting past last year’s awkwardness when you were the new boy in school. Are they classmates?”

“One of them is, Gordon St. Martins. After school, we went to his home, and I met most of his family. I left before Mr. St. Martins arrived.”

“You visited Bramford Manor?” Henry asked, his interest piqued.

“Yes, do you know them, Dad?”

“Not personally, no. They immigrated earlier this year from somewhere in the United Kingdom, England, I believe. Wealthy people, apparently, with a large estate at Bramford. Ball bearings as I recall.”

“Ball bearings?” Walton asked.

“Ball bearings, yes. St. Martins senior owns a manufacturing plant in Christchurch. Apparently, he’s been awarded an enormous government contract to provide ball bearings for the railroad and in various other applications. They’re used extensively in many industries. I suppose they came here to supervise the process more closely than from abroad. Good people to know. Mind your manners when they’re about.”

“Oh, I will. The grounds around their home was impressive.”

“Whom did you meet today, Dear?”

“Well, there’s a younger brother Bearworth. Everyone calls him ‘Bear.’ You might know him, Walton.”

“Yes. I’ve seen him at school, but he’s in a lower grade.”

Whit paused for a moment, digesting that information, uncertain of its import. “And then there’s two sisters, Miriam and Elise—she’s thirteen, the oldest, very pretty, I would say.”

Olivia smiled at his assessment. In a few years, she thought, those were qualities that would completely occupy his mind.

“The mother’s first name is Rebecca, and Gentry is one of their footmen.”

“Had you lingered long enough, you probably would have encountered Avram St. Martins as well, master of all, factory and home,” Henry remarked, then turned back to his meal, his verbal supply evidently exhausted.

“Will you see them again?” Olivia asked.

“Perhaps. I was invited to visit again tomorrow, but I might be busy after school.”

“Rebecca and Avram. Gordon, Bearworth, and Elise. What a peculiar combination of names,” Walton observed.

“I doubt very much if any of them are truly English,” Henry added.

Not writing is not acceptable. Not writing is creative death. Simple enough mantras I suppose. Why they cannot be adhered to is the overriding problem. Nanowrimo has been over for two days, and this is the second day that I have been writing since I validated my novel. That in itself is a modest miracle. In past years—this is my fifth time—I’ve made a series of promises to resume writing as soon as I caught up with everything that had been suspended during November to accommodate Nanowrimo. But I never have. There is never a lack of distractions or excuses.

During the past month, I have dipped into Chris Baty’s book from time to time, not to read it systematically from beginning to end, although I really should do precisely that, but to rest my eyes by focusing on a different target. He has a number of things to say about a writer’s Inner Editor. Here are a few:

“The doubting, self-critical voice that we all inherited around puberty as an unfortunate door prize for surviving childhood. The Inner Editor is a busybody and perfectionist, happiest when it’s tsk-tsking our shortcomings and weaving our past blunders into a rich tapestry of personal failure. . . . We invite this fun spoiling tyrant along with us on all our artistic endeavors.”

For me, Inner editors and Muses are peculiar notions. I know this is heresy, but it would be dishonest to say anything different. The more I read about them, the less clear these descriptions of mystical people become. In my own case, I am reasonably certain that I do not have a muse. Of course, I occasionally feel inspired while writing, but I am not aware of any need to ascribe those feelings to a nonexistent, anthropomorphic figure. Let me be more explicit. Writing is a job, though to be sure a job with particular advantages. One must report for work in a specified place at a designated time.

Returning to my own example, I have reserved a block of time during which I must sit at my desk and attempt to write something, To be as productive as possible, I try to have something specific in mind to write about before I sit down; but that is not always the case. I ofltentimes sit in front of my computer without the haziest idea of what to say. My mind is not blank during these moments; it tends to wander through a thick catalogue of topics, none of which are remotely related to English composition. Eventually, a thought knocks on the door, and I invite it in. I write a sentence or two to describe the visit., then remove my fingers from the keyboard and look over what I have just accomplished. As so often happens, the results are awkward or inaccurate or even ugly. So I try to patch things up before moving on to the next group of sentences. Is my Inner Editor dictating these changes? According to the conventional Nanowrimo wisdom, I should refrain from editing my work and immediately move on. Why should I do that? If something is broken why not fix it on the spot? What do I gain by leaving flotsam in my wake. Which is better: a manuscript of 30,000 perfectly written words or one of 300,000 words that must be completely rewritten? For myself, the joy of writing includes molding words and sentences into coherent text that, as much as possible, accurately reflects the thought I want to convey in an entertaining way. By striving to achieve quality work am I sacrificing creativity in favor of misguided perfection? Is it better to produce quantity and ignore its quality, at least for the time being?

I took on NaNo as a lark. I first heard about it sometime in mid October and foolishly metioned it to a friend who suggested I give it a go. I was reluctant because…well, I disagree with the premise of these things, and I was well into a novel at the time. But I thought a month long break from my ‘serious’ writing could be beneficial, so I recycled an old yawn that was more or less designed by committee. I sat down and wrote a 17,000 word outline, very formal, plot points identified and so on. And I did some character sketching, nothing too elaborate, about 20 or so major/minor/other players in the drama. All I had to do then was write it all down, which, given the detail in the outline, wouldn’t have been that difficult to accomplish.

It’s a real pot boiler set in post nuclear San Francisco: evil corporations, mutants, zombies, street battles, vampires, a dragon here and there, and my hero, the noirish PI. It also has a few more serious themes: redemption, prejudice, love and revenge, and the butterfly effect–small ripples moving the world forward. I’ll be honest; it has a good setting, strong characters and even a decent plot, but some of the episodes are just outlandish. I’d call it complicated, but my thesaurus doesn’t have more accurate alternatives.

I got started on November 1. I finished a few chapters, one about the global calamity, then one dealing with local conditions, describing the neighborhood and introducing some, but not all, of the characters. Then I ran in trouble, sort of. I described the previous life of my PI hero, then a recent love affair he had with a Salvation Army volunteer, a girl from England. I was about to kill her off according to my outline, when I decided that was far too abrupt, so I expanded her role and started telling her previous life as a long flashback. I’m still on the flashback–it has a bit to go yet–but I’m only 2750 out from the 50k. I’ll probably just stop writing, add a paragraph or two proclaiming the wedding of my hero and his soon to be murdered lady friend. Then type “The End” and collect my validation icon from the NaNo site.

I won’t really kill her. I like her too much; in fact, we’ve been living together for much of the month. What comes next? No idea, really. I’ll write a retrospective of the entire NaNo process and post it in my journal and perhaps on some of the creative forums, if only to generate some (hopefully) useful discussion about these things–Julia Cameron’s “morning papers” is a similar exercise to NaNo. Then I’ll look over the batch of words I’ve produced and decide what to do with them. There are some good things in there, so I won’t just toss the baby out with the water. I’ll start cleaning it up, divide things into conventional chapters and finish the flashback portion. I’ll spent a little time thinking about future plot directions–if any actually exist–although I might just discard the whole idea for now. It just depends. But the kicker is, you see, that I developed this elaborate outline and used the two or three paragraphs then wrote an entirely different story. Well, it’s not really a story yet; perhaps a fragment of a fragment would be a more descriptive phrase.

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