Ready for another installment of the weirdness?

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The next morning Fred stretched, yawned, and opened his eyes. For a moment, his eyebrows nearly met in a puzzled frown as he stared at the intricate lattice-work of twining dark twigs and pale sky above him; and then everything came rushing back. He remembered last night, Marjorie wailing that the bears and lions were sure to get them, he snapping back that no-one had even seen a bear in Keelover, much less lions. (Dude. She's overreacting but she had a tough day. Be a little sympathetic) Marjorie had sulked herself to sleep; Powhatan and Sandy had gone out like lights; but he had lain awake for at least an hour after that, dreading the awful responsibility that had only then begin to thrust itself upon him. What shock and immediate necessity had driven from his thoughts confronted him as he had lain there in the dark, warm enough outwardly in the hollow, sheltered by the ancient tree and all the bedding he could carry, but chilled inside by the terrible knowledge that he was the sole protector of what was left of the Thorn family. Never before in all his life had he wished more for Lancelot, for someone, anyone who could help him in this.

This is where we suddenly get confronted with Fred's "real" side. This was supposed to be the main character arc of the book: Fred's struggle and transition to acceptance of his responsibility for the family. I was writing the book partly for the cool stuff, the crazy stuff, the epic journey, but the main thread that I wanted to hold it all together was Fred and his growth. And, as you will see, my attempt to do this posed a lot of difficulties... and completely altered Fred.

But it was morning now, and nothing looks quite so bad by morning, especially a crisp December one with the indefinable scent of winter in the air and snow on every side. And really, he thought, it was only to the Egbert place... surely, when they got there, there would be somebody...

Sorry for any weirdness in this, by the way. I'm pulling another two pages out of memory. *shakes fist at dead notebook*

They reached the outskirts of Crepton in early afternoon. Fred did not give either Marjorie or Sandy a chance to start an argument, but walked straight in. After some time he dared a glance over his shoulder. Sandy was coming, scowling. Marjorie opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, and followed, looking slightly foolish. Powhatan took it like he took everything else: without noticing it at all.

Despite his outward assurance, Fred immediately began to feel uneasy. No-one had ever seen anything like -- well -- ghosts and such in here, but everything was too quiet -- the kind of quiet that gave a waiting sense with it. It did not help that Sandy was next to him muttering under her breath about ghouls, goblins and witches.

Fred turned to glare her into silence. But even as his eyebrows frowned downward they rose up again; his mouth went dry.

Standing behind Sandy was the tallest man any of them had ever seen.

His arms reached down only to his waist; the fingers were all of exactly the same length, with no nails at all. His jawline was compressed upwards so that his chin was level with his ears. And Powhatan, who was an even six feet, could only have reached the creature's waist by reaching his arms above his head.

The giant was looking at them; and the most incongruous detail of all was that he was dressed in an immaculate evening suit.

"Hello," said the giant in a smooth, oily voice.

"H-hello," Fred stammered, feeling like he ought to make some kind of reply.

"My name is Andrew Wilson," continued the giant. "Wouldn't you like to come to my house? I'm sure my family will be pleased to see you."

Pleased to see them -- and what? Eat them?

But there is no use denying a giant as tall as two men, with the strength of ten. Fred felt suddenly tired. "Do as you wish."

A slow smile oozed across Andrew Wilson's face. Without another word he scooped all four of them up in his arms and began walking with long strides through the empty streets. Fred stole a glance at Marjorie, and saw that she was too terrified even to scream.

Andrew Wilson left the town behind and approached a large house on a hill. It was well built, with many carvings and intricate details, yet it seemed to Fred a twisted kind of loveliness; and it was all black.

I always loved the idea of this house. Eventually I carried it over into The Village, and the black house that exists there.

Andrew Wilson set them down inside a huge entry hall. "Dorothy! Danielle Ann Susan Joseph Phillip Ellen! Where are you hiding, my doves?"

A huge racket sounded from all directions, and a minute later one giantess and six giant children came thundering into the room. They lined up from oldest to youngest, while Andrew and Dorothy conversed in low tones. Fred studied them apprehensively, feeling like a cornered mouse. He moved protectively in front of his brother and sisters.

Now comes the section where Fred unrealistically remembers all the names that Andrew Wilson yelled and decides that he can figure out who is who because he arbitrarily believes that they are standing from oldest to youngest.

Dorothy Wilson had short, straggly brown hair and seemed to wear a permanently self-satisfied expression. Fred paid less attention to that than her skirt, which was covering less than half her lower leg. Unlike Marjorie, he was not so particular about Sandy's clothes, but a grown woman...

Thirteen-year-old prudishness and Little House on the Prairie ideals...

He transferred his attention to the next person, who, if he was anything at guessing, was Danielle. He felt, instinctively, that she was too pretty; everything about her was so perfect that nobody could like her. But the thing that stood out to him with the greatest clarity, then and afterwards, was her hair. Longer than her mother's, it slid over her shoulders halfway down her back. And it looked like honey. He was almost convinced it was honey.

He might not have stopped staring at Danielle's hair if he had not heard a loud, nasty voice yelling, "Move over, Susan. Just because we're standing in line from oldest to youngest (just to prove to the readers that Fred's arbitrary decision was grounded) doesn't mean we have to squeeze together like shrimps." Fred turned and surveyed the speaker and spoken-to. "Remember who I am," continued the taller girl. (Author uses lame way to make sure readers get the names of everybody.) "I'm Ann Wilson, your sister. Or had you forgotten?" (Lame, people. So lame. Do not use it.) She looked slightly younger than Danielle, Fred decided -- 17 or 18, perhaps. He looked narrowly at her hair. Did all giantesses have strange hair? Ann's was shockingly short, and a strange, undefinable hue: the more he looked at it the less he felt sure of its color. Finally, he gave up, after changing his mind from bronze-green to mud, and looked at Susan.

I am breaking up the paragraph here because it continues on for literally another quarter of a page, and my head cannot take any more.

Susan Wilson, he made up his mind, looked like a china doll. She had straight, shiny, even oily black hair braided in two braids -- the first attempt at any kind of hairdo that he had seen among this family. Her skin was so pale that if she had not been moving around he might have thought she was a mannequin. As it was, he was sure that she must at least have some kind of consumptive, invalid history. And she had wide, china-blue eyes that should have looked innocent, but they did not. They were full of a quiet, underlying menace and he was somehow reminded more of Andrew Wilson than with either of the other two girls.

He looked at the two boys for barely a moment before passing on. They both had shiny black hair and round, expressionless faces; they were not the kind of person to make much of an impression on anyone. The only thing Fred could remember later was that he was sure they must have been identical twins.

The last person was another girl; she could not have been more than fourteen. She had, like Danielle, golden hair and blue eyes. Hers, though, had very long, sweeping golden lashes, and *she* was fluttering them -- Fred gulped at the sudden realization -- *at* him. He wondered desperately if he dared tell her to stop -- but then his attention was diverted by Andrew, who was raising his voice now to be heard.

I will be breaking paragraphs up again. This one goes on for nearly two pages.

"Strangers and guests," began the giant in his oily-smooth voice. Deep inside, Fred tried to smother the fear he felt welling up. He could not lose control now. Yet the very sound of Andrew Wilson's voice was filling him with an almost unreasonable terror.

"Strangers and guests," Andrew repeated. "My sweet Dorothy and I have come to a very wise decision. We have no doubt you will agree, and accept these conditions." He paused, as though to note the effect his words were having, and then continued. "Ordinarily--" the voice was now filled with a faint menace -- "ordinarily the penalty for trespassing in my territory is life imprisonment in my dungeons -- which I need not tell you are not at all comfortable. (It cracks me up that I thought it the most natural thing in the world to have, in a radius of twenty miles, an early 20th-century civilization, an 1850's ghost town, and a weird giant with ideas out of the feudal system.) In your case, however, I have changed my mind for once. You are being given a very special chance that no-one else has had. Think well on all these things, therefore, before you refuse my offer." He came to a full stop, obviously expecting some answer.

Fred's jaw tightened for a moment, and then he said in a low voice, "We will agree -- or not agree -- when we have heard the offer. Continue."

So brave *clutches heart* *swoons*

He had no way of knowing that Andrew was lying; no way of knowing that Andrew had given the same choice to everyone else who had ever passed this way. No way of knowing that they had all refused.

Andrew continued. "The offer pertains to my children."

They all stared at him uncomprehendingly; not counting Powhatan, who was muttering unintelligible things in an almost inaudible voice.

"My dear sons and daughters--" there was a plain undercurrent now of pure malice in his voice -- "are all in want of--" he gave one final pause for effect -- "a spouse."

Fred literally could not believe his ears. It was ludicrous -- impossible -- incomprehensible -- that the man should expect them to want to marry any of his children. He could not expect any money from them or their family by this. There was no plausible reason for this offer -- unless he wanted to be cruel to them on no apparent grounds. Fred looked at Marjorie. Her face frightened him momentarily -- he had never seen anyone quite so white. Her mouth was slightly open, her deep brown eyes wide with the dark lashes framing them as they flickered from one to the other of the two boys.

Sandy's eyes, on the other hand, were not opened wide; they were narrowed to defiant blue slits. She stared up at Andrew with feet planted apart, arms folded; the pose that Marjorie had deplored so often, and that he had found himself exasperated with so many times. Suddenly he felt a flash of admiration for his sister -- his tomboyish, misunderstood sister -- doing what he did not dare.

The funny thing about Sandy was, she needed a ton of character development, while at the same time Fred needed to realize her side of things -- but I was too quick to make Fred understand her. And because we only saw her from Fred's point of view, she ended up looking throughout most of the book as this kind of good-natured, supportive character, who was Fred's buddy when Marjorie didn't really "get it". The problem was fixed by adding Sandy's point of view into the story (much later) and suddenly she was full of a whole lot more flaws.

He really knew he didn't dare when a moment later Sandy said challengingly, "I don't care who you are, there is no way you're getting me to marry either of those overgrown..." she paused "...robots."

Andrew's face hardened momentarily; anger close to fury showed itself for a fleeting second. Then the oily, catlike calm came back. "No use arguing with muleheads like that," he said dismissively. "You'll be staying in the dungeons, little lady." He raised his eyebrows at the other three.

"Never!" Marjorie gasped. Fred dearly hoped this was not the precursor of a fainting fit or goodness knew what. But no: Marjorie merely collapsed to the ground with a great shuddering sigh as soon as Andrew Wilson withdrew his gaze from her, and began to cry quietly.

Powhatan attempted to look down his nose at Andrew(Andrew being about six feet taller than him, this did not come off very well). "Me not marry ugly white squaw," he said loftily.

Fred's jaw tightened as Andrew Wilson looked at him. "No," he said shortly. And then, because he couldn't help himself, "If I wanted to marry any of your daughters, and I don't, I wouldn't let you put my sisters and brother in your dungeons without me."

Yeah... but maybe you could help them escape with a little bit of brainstorming? It might turn out for the best, huh?

Andrew smirked. "How brave, how unselfish, how loyal," he said mockingly. "Very well then, I suppose my sons and daughters must wait a little longer." He scooped them up once again and strode off down the countless dark halls and passageways, intricately carved doors and lightless rooms. Always they were moving down. The corridor became musty; the walls dripped and every few yards the glow of a sickly torch illuminated their route. (One of those moments where I look at my old writing and be like, "You know, I had some stuff down here.") Suddenly Andrew Wilson paused momentarily, to grab a ring of gigantic keys which were hanging on an equally gigantic hook. He dropped them, unlocked a door, and, with a swift, fluid motion, tossed Fred in. The door clanged shut, and Fred heard the footsteps moving down again. There were three more clangs, each fainter than the previous one, footsteps past him again, and then silence.

He got to his feet then, and stared around him. Damp, dripping walls towered above him -- they seemed even taller than they actually were, since in the dimness he could not see the ceiling. He turned around and finally located the doorknob, situated on the mildewed wood door just above his eye level. He could not bring his hands to fit around it.

He whirled around again, and began to pace up and down, in an effort to keep his mind off the reality that thrust itself upon him. He could not. It pierced like an arrow into his consciousness. They were trapped in here. They could not get out of here. They would probably -- he shut his eyes and refused to let himself think it. They would not die here. There had to be a way. He would find something. He began to pace again, racking his brains until, exhausted, he at last fell to the floor and slept.

This is Fred at his best actually. It won't be many more chapters before his character starts deteriorating into more and more of a wishy-washy weakling.

~~~

Fact: the Wilsons were paper dolls that I had drawn several years ago. I even wrote a story about them. By the time I was thirteen I was scornful of those paper dolls and that story, and thought it an excellent idea to make fun of them by sticking them in The Journey as antagonists. The reason they were giants was because the paper dolls of the Wilson family were much taller than the paper dolls I made of the Thorns and other Legea families. The proportions detailed so clearly in Mr. Wilson were copied from my ten-year-old drawing.