Have I mentioned that the original notebook this was written in is falling apart? The first few pages are now completely missing. So, some portion of this I have pulled from memory, supplemented with a slightly later computer draft.

Without further ado...

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THE JOURNEY

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CHAPTER ONE

Fred Jed Thorn rounded the corner of the sagging porch, hoping he had safely eluded Great-aunt Bridget, whom he had left sitting by the fitful fire in her ancient rocking-chair. She would likely remind him that it was his twenty-first birthday, and then chatter on about everything in general and nothing in particular until his ears ached.

He had never much cared about birthdays; when his mother was alive she had usually managed to scrape up some kind of a present, but she had died on the day he turned twelve -- one thing that Great-aunt Bridget never let him forget.

Their father had taken them all out of school after that. "I'll not be wasting money on something that does ye no good as I can see!" he had informed Fred, eyebrows bristling.

Fred often wished his mother had named him, instead of his father. The children his mother named got names like Electra Cecelia, or Hunter Hubert. His two christened names even rhymed.

She had been pretty, his mother. She had not been born in Keelover -- supposedly named thus because the unimaginative person who had discovered it had keeled over at the sight -- and she had always seemed to Fred slightly other-worldly, and very different from the people one met on the street.

His father had named Sandy Jess, and Guy Mac. When he got the news that Gwen Liv was a girl, Fred had heard him rage that it should have been a boy, he had wanted to name it Biff Bob. Fred had felt rather glad for the baby that it was a girl. Where was Gwen now? He wondered. He mentally ran over the list of children who were not there anymore.

So, now you have a basic picture of Fred's life. First sentence is decent writing, if I do say so myself, but after that it goes kind of meh. And very info-dumpy. And it ain't getting better either...

Lancelot Lester, who would be twenty-three now if he was still living. Fred remembered the day Lancelot had run away. His father had come storming down the stairs, raging at the top of his lungs, "That -- that BOY! Where is he?!?" (don't remember exact punctuation, but I think that was fairly accurate) (apparently "boy" was the worst insult I dared come up with) They had never heard from him again.

Next were twins, Iphegenia Hilda and Bacchus Bruce. Fred remembered that Bacchus had hated his name (and I don't blame him...), and had fought anybody who called him that, even at school where the teachers called him willful and headstrong. A year younger than him, they would be twenty.

Iphegenia later became Isabelle without much fuss. Bacchus' name process however was interesting. I kicked Bacchus for obvious reasons later, and gave him his middle name instead. But Bruce is my father's name and it never seemed to quite fit the guy for some reason. I tried name after name after name, and the only one that fit him was Daren. So Daren he became.

Marjorie, Powhatan and Sandy were all here still...

Then Grover Gibberish -- he had to admit he didn't really like that name -- gone to the main intersection of town ten years ago to watch a band of traveling musicians and had never come back. That was the same year that Electra Cecelia and Hunter Hubert, 5-year-old twins a year younger than Grover, had run away, though not together. He remembered them as very different; Hunter had been dark like Lancelot and rather talkative, and Electra pretty with long golden hair and brown eyes. She had not been shy, but instead withdrawn and slightly aloof, even at that age.

Hunter eventually took Lancelot's place as the oldest, and Lancelot disappeared altogether. Electra Cecelia, later trimmed to just Cecelia, stayed one of my favourite characters and one I would gladly have spent more time on than was allotted her in the book.

Guy Mac, probably about 13. That was one person he didn't miss much. As a toddler, Guy had begun by getting a package of matches and some kind of explosive(they never knew where or how) and setting up elaborate explosions all over the county. This had not pleased his father or the neighbors. Once he even set fire to an old barn full of mice and rotting hay. The last they heard of him was when, at age five, someone had seen him galloping like mad towards the old ghost town of Crepton on an old screw of a horse that someone had intended to send to the pound.

And finally Gwen. The youngest. Eleven now -- if she was alive. Fred felt a sudden chill, and it was not from the early December wind that was moaning and whistling through the empty streets.

It had been less than a month since their mother died. Gwen, two years old at the time, was sleeping with Great-Aunt Bridget. All they ever knew was that the next morning, the lock was gone, neatly unscrewed from the door, and Gwen was not there. Their father had sent reluctantly for the police, who were not any help. They said it was a professional kidnapping job, no way to trace the offenders, better hope they received a ransom note, since if they didn't the whole affair was likely planned for fun and they'd probably never see the child again. All Brick Thorn said was, "One less mouth to feed." Of all the disappearances of his siblings, Fred hated this one the most.

Done with the soliloquy on missing siblings. Whew.

He shook his head, stretched, and shivered. It was a cold morning and his coat was worn thin and had a hole in one elbow. Maybe it would be possible to slip past Great-aunt Bridget again if he went quietly --

Just then he heard the front door open verrrrry slowly and shut verrrrry slowly. Oh no. Great-Aunt Bridget, he thought. He made for the back of the house, but she poked her head round the corner too quickly. "He's gone," she said in her old voice that sounded exactly like the front door.

Fred sighed. "What do you mean, Aunt?" he asked resignedly.

"Your father, of course," she croaked impatiently. "Gone for good."

"How do you know?" Fred asked, suddenly interested. Great-Aunt Bridget was half-blind, and it wasn't as if she could sweep her eyes over the bedroom and tell at a glance that their father had left forever. If he had...

"Crawled around the whole room on my hands and knees, and I didn't feel a pin," she informed him, obviously proud of her achievement. "Of all the days to do it!" she went on. "You know, Freddie, today – "

So because all his belongings are gone he's gone for good? I mean, possible, even probable, but certain? No. Don't jump to conclusions quite so quickly, ma'am.

Fred cut her off; he had to go see for himself. "Excuse me, Aunt," he flung over his shoulder as he fled to the kitchen.

There he skidded to a stop. On the wobbly table was something which would have saved Great-Aunt Bridget feeling around the whole floor of his father's room. Scribbled in Brick Thorn's heavy, rather uncertain hand were the words leeving forevr goodd ridins. Fred stood there for a while, finding it hard to believe it was actually true. Finally he went outside again and cautiously looked around the corner of the porch. Great-Aunt Bridget was leaning back on the bench against the wall, mouth parted in her congested snore. Fred carefully drew back, turned to face the street – and his mouth dropped open.

I like the parts best where it talks about Bridget. Her characterization is actually very well executed.

Standing before him was the dirtiest boy Fred had ever seen. His face looked as if he had liberally plastered it with pure soot. His clothes looked stiff with grime. It baffled Fred how anyone could get so dirty. Another thing he could not fathom was how the boy could have come right up to the door like that without making a sound -- along with the muddy gray-white horse that was trailing behind. The boy grinned at Fred in a way that made Fred feel uncomfortably like he ought to know him, and then walked straight past into the house. Fred was speechless. The -- the audacity! He stalked in, grabbed the lad by the collar, and jerked him around. As he did so, a bottle fell out of one of the urchin's pockets. The boy made a dive for it, but Fred grabbed the container first and read the label aloud. "Super Nitroglycerin in liquid form." Everything seemed to fall slowly into place. "Guy Mac Thorn," he muttered. The boy grinned cheerfully at him. "So what? Now gimme the bottle."

So, you've just reunited with your long-lost brother, haven't seen him for eight years, and all you can do is growl, "Guy Mac Thorn"? Granted, he's something of a pyromaniac, or was the last time you saw him, but you could be polite about it. "Guy! I can't believe it's you. Welcome home!" If you ask me, your cold greeting was what triggered his revenge...

"No, I definitely won't give you the bottle! How do you come by things like this anyway? You don't pick up bottles of dynamite off the side of the road! (True enough) What were you going to do, blow the place up?"

Bad suggestion, Fred.

"Well, why not?" Guy smiled in a most aggravating way. Fred spluttered. Finally he turned and walked upstairs. To his relief, Guy did not follow. As he went up to his room he looked into the other bedrooms to check that everyone was accounted for. Marjorie was sitting on her bed, crying about goodness-knew-what again. Disgusted, Fred slammed the door.

Really? Do you realize that Marjorie, an emotional, sensitive eighteen-year-old girl, is responsible for all the cooking, cleaning, and other housework in this house? You know Sandy doesn't help her, and Powhatan just sits around counting his medicine beads, and You are always gone looking for work except when you lounge around the house checking on your siblings. To top it off, her mother is dead and her father is gone and no girl in town will be her friend. She has many reasons to have a good cry in her room.

Jerk.

Powhatan Hazard Thorn was sitting bolt upright on his bed, staring straight ahead with his ridiculously long black hair twisted into those ridiculously feathered braids dangling behind. Goodness knows what he's doing, thought Fred. Ever since their mother had told Powhatan that he was the namesake of a great Indian cheif who used to live in the faraway world -- the one you could only reach by finding the huge fountain in the middle of the Salty Sea -- he had become the fanatic of fanatics. Overnight he was suddenly arrogant, acting King as well as just Indian. He completely disdained even speaking to most people. The attitude did not win him any friends, and he had done terribly the few years that he had gone to school. But he seemed to delight in these very facts, and had distanced himself all the more. Fred had often thought it was a good thing that Powhatan had been born with black hair; otherwise he probably would have dyed it.

One question... From where do they get their extensive information on Native Americans?

Sandy's room. Door wide open. Bed stripped. Knackily knotted sheets and blankets going out the window. Fred groaned inwardly. There was no time to lose; it was unpredictable just what she had climbed out the window for, but you could bet anything it wasn't proper. (Fred: I'd bet anything! I'd bet, I'd bet my life! Sure, why not?

fifteen minutes later*

Sandy: Hi, Fred, I was helping this little old lady across the street.

Fred: ...

Sandy: What?

Fred: I... I... my life is forfeit...

Sorry, y'all. I can never resist picking up implications) He slid down the rope himself, hesitated a moment, and took off running. Rounding a corner after about five minutes, he saw that his guess had been right -- Sandy was in one of her favorite haunts. She was literally running along one of the barbed-wire fences that were all over the worst section of town, sticking her tongue out at the boy who appeared to be struck dumb, and twirling a dead rat by the tail.

As usual, she was wearing one of the dresses that Marjorie considered indecent for a girl of 17, with the hem about six inches above her ankles. But then, nothing about Sandy was ever ladylike. Most of the time her hair wasn't even brushed. "Sandy Jess Thorn!" he hollered. He almost hoped she would fall off -- into the yard with the large dog skulking around in it.

You hoped what? Oh, let me rephrase that. You hope your sister will be mauled by a ferocious creature, leaving her who knows what kind of damage, besides repercussions from falling headlong off a high fence?

She nearly did, made it to the corner of the fence, and somersaulted off. She gave a superior smile to the gaping youth, and turned to face her brother, returning glare for glare for about fifteen seconds.

Count 'em. One... two... three.. four... that's a long staredown.

"Well? What are you here for?" she asked finally. Fred had to think quickly; if she didn't want to come, there was nothing that could make her. "There's a surprise at the house," he told her. She looked at him suspiciously. "Really," he insisted. "It even surprised me." He could tell her curiosity was up -- she would give in soon. "Oh, whatever," she said. And then, warningly, "It better be good." Fred gave her one more disapproving stare, and walked off, Sandy following. As usual, it ended in a race. Fred really couldn't help himself; how could anyone just stay there and let their younger sister win? (*winces heavily at wrong pronoun usage*) They were going neck and neck up the road, the house was in sight and Fred could see Marjorie and Powhatan standing at the foot of the porch. Powhatan was walking down the porch steps (I thought he was at the foot of the porch two seconds ago?), head held high, and Marjorie was wringing her hands and calling up to the chimney. Startled at this, Fred stole a quick glance up, and saw Guy perched on the top of it, waving something small. (It was a match. Never clarified.) Then three things happened, at precisely the same time. Marjorie screamed, Guy launched himself into the air, and a huge explosion rocked the ground under their feet. Fred was thrown to the ground; half-stunned, he saw dimly a cloud of thick, choking smoke rolling over him and instinctively he shut his eyes and mouth... And then there was something cool brushing over his face – wind! Cautiously he opened his eyes. For a few long moments he thought only that he was alive, after all. Then he heard Marjorie shriek, "Great-aunt Bridget!"

Fred found himself running over to the armchair which was sitting, miraculously unharmed, in the ruin of the old kitchen. Great-aunt Bridget opened her eyes.

"Children," she croaked, "I am an old woman. I do not know who has played this prank, but the shock has been too great for my poor heart. I am going to die."

Fred gasped. "But, Great-aunt Bridget -- " he protested.

"Hush, child. Take the others to Egbert's Home for Children. There is a map in my pocket. You know, Freddie..." Her voice was getting very low. "Today...is..." Then she went still.

"My birthday," he finished shakily. Suddenly he wanted to leave, to get as far away from the house as it was possible to do. Anyway, someone ought to go for the police... he jumped up and ran off as fast as he could.

By the time the police arrived, he decided it had been a mistake. They began by asking his name and his age (he had told them both of these back at the police station), were they orphans? (Not... exactly), what did he mean by that? (his mother was dead), where was his father then? (he had no idea), was he the oldest? (yes, after all Lancelot didn't really count), did he have a past criminal record? (no!?!)

Suddenly Sandy broke in. "I found the map!" she shouted.

"Well, good, now leave me alone!" he shouted back.

*shakes head* Sure, man, you're under a lot of pressure, but could you please be more polite than that? Maybe it's not Sandy's fault that your family has such a terrible reputation.

"Did you blow up the house?" the policeman persisted.

Fred stared at him. Did the man really think that?

Guy's voice answered. "Man, you kidding?" The policeman turned to him. "You mean you really don't think it was him?" he said in a gently reasoning tone, getting down on his knees and looking at Guy. Fred thought he looked ridiculous.

"Oh, I thought so. 'Cause of course he didn't blow up the house."

The policeman knelt down so that his face was about eight inches below Guy's, dirtying the knees of his uniform and looking perfectly ridiculous. He spoke in gently condescending tones. "Are you sure, cute kid?"

"Nope," said Guy. "It was me."

"Jeepers!" gasped the policeman, standing and backing up a couple steps. Guy looked at him, turned, and walked over to the horse that he had come with. "I blown up a couple things before, but never a whole house," he said as he climbed on. "It sure is fun. I ought to do it more often!" He rode off like the wind.

Y'know, all these people were analogous to various LotR characters. Guy was Gandalf... and so the "muddy gray-white" horse corresponded of course to Shadowfax...

"N-noodles!" whispered the policeman, who had turned a rather unhealthy color. "Noodles 'n showercurtains! 'Ow did he -- do it!" Fred felt an irrepressible desire to laugh. Eventually they left, taking with them the body -- for which Fred was grateful.

"All right," he began. "No time to lose. We're all going to work hard, whether we like it or not--" he glanced at Sandy and Powhatan -- "and dig through these ruins for useful things to take with us. We're not waiting for the police to come back, and poke and prod all over the place, and ask us a million questions!" They all worked diligently, digging among the ruins. At the end of about half an hour they had uncovered plenty of bedding, food that would last them maybe two days, and one small but heavy bag that Fred had found in the region of Great-aunt Bridget's bedroom. (It was money, again something never properly clarified.) He told no-one about this, but dropped it in a pillowcase. Sandy had found a bread knife, and by cutting holes in a couple places on the inside of the hem of the pillowcases and threading strips of a sheet through them, he made four serviceable drawstring bags. "All right," he said after dividing up blankets, food, and waterbottles. "Let's go." "Where are we going?" demanded Sandy. He looked at the map of Keelover in his hand once more. "Crepton," he said firmly.

"What?!" yelped Sandy. "That -- that haunted town?"

"Foolishness," he retorted. "It's the quickest way to Purplesville, and one that the police -- who will probably try to go after us -- will not expect us to take. Now shut up and get moving." He started off at a quick walk. Sandy followed, grumbling. Powhatan marched disdainfully, and Marjorie trailed behind, reluctant to do anything that might muss her dress. Why she had even bothered to bring along her prettiest dress that she had found in the wreckage was more than Fred could comprehend. He refused to let himself think of what might happen on the way to Egbert's Home for Children, or what might happen when they got there. He set his teeth, and kept on walking.

~~~

That's it. The first chapter. A mix of theatrical unrealism, gritty themes, half-modernized Little House on the Prairie, snarky jerkish MC, and a general weird mess.

Purplesville, for the curious inquirer, was Bree-equivalent in this world. I named it Erbville later, and subsequently Eribville in the final draft.

Did you notice how Great-aunt Bridget said it was Egbert's Home "for Children"? In the later version I changed it so that she never clarified it was a home for just children. With the more medieval world that Legea had become it didn't seem likely that Fred would consider any of his siblings "children", much less take them to a refuge home for such. Granted, he was desperate, so he might have, but it also made their ultimate rejection more painful and unexpected.

On to Crepton! Which is, as you may have already guessed, Morarn...