Happy Sunday! I found this second part to an unfinished scene between Grand Aunt Bee and the her Grand Niece Maevis. Maeve has been wondering where all her scenes have gone lately, and why I’ve been so busy finding ways to distract myself from her story.
It’s a cliche to say that characters at some point take on a life of their own but in this my first attempt to write a book, I’ve found it to be curiously true. I can’t force the stuff, but when I start typing and sketching or scribbling with them in mind, they seem to know what I should say, and where they should go.
Where do stories come from?
Maevis Morgan is the main character, and I know this because she’s always the one most insistent on getting on with the plot (even though she doesn’t like fiction). Bee on the other hand seems most to understand that things must happen in their own good time.
That said, if I am to say I should like to be a writer someday, I do at some points here and there need to write.
The girl then thought for a spell
The Grand Aunt giving her time,
As she nearly always did.
The Wimsels, thought Maeve, really were fluttering all about
In that gently illuminated midnight rainbow dance
Beneath the breeze-tusseled trees
Set before a deep blue and silvered sky.
So, so much colour and fuss.
And why should she be there to take it all in,
Through ears and nose and eyes and skin?
Well, the old woman always knew
When the young woman was practicing
the art of being awestruck at her world –
And so they both waited ,
One seeing the other seeing her world
for that first time and in her new way.
She struggled so hard sometimes to understand
What was it that guided the spirits who alighted upon her elder’s hand?
Maeve shook her head. Where had all that come from? What had Bee’s question been?
“About what?” Is what Maeve asked. What had the question been?
“About what, what?” Bee playfully asked, turning the girl’s question upon itself as so often the girl herself was prone to do.
“Well, what are the Wimsels fluttering about for? It seems like a lot of work for nothing, if you ask me”, but the girl did not at all wish them to stop – she could sit on this back porch forever, with the old woman and these fragile and floating things, ageless and airborne.
What would Blueberry and Niall and Liz and Chuckless think, if they were to see these? What her mother think? Where was her mother, again and anyway?
Bee’s hand, outstretched, let two swirl and dance across her palm for the moments it took them to fall together and merge and then at last depart, roots growing to stems and to flowers, then seeds at their tops, to start the rooting process all and over again, winds taking them where they may.
She could sense the storm approaching across the far horizon. It would be upon them in three days, perhaps four, but no more.
“Maeve, you must not tell anyone about this garden. This garden is yours and mine alone.”
“Why do you always evade my questions, Aunt Bee?” Maeve wished she had brought her phone. She wanted photos. The Internet had told her nothing at all about Wimsels.
“Is that what I do?” the elder chuckled almost to herself, now up and climbing the short steps to the back veranda. “Come in soon – the night will grow cold in a moment”.
Maeve did not turn to watch her Grand Aunt go – she heard the screen door close, Dooley’s toes clickety clacking upon the wooden floor within, waiting for the old woman to come in to safety, worried about the young girl out alone, facing the dark line of trees across the expanse of unmowed back lawn. He did not must trust those trees after the sun went down.
“I’ll be right there Dooley, don’t worry yourself” Maeve reassured the old Half-Hound, unwilling to take her eyes off the Wimsels as they disappeared, one by one, into the grass and leaves and darkened evening air.
For a moment she too felt the storm’s slow approach, though she knew not how that could be.