beginnings in search of a plot
Jan. 13th, 2004 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ursulaI have a couple of different premises bouncing around my mind. They involve roughly the same character, at about ten years' difference, but very different genres. Here are some mullings, and a scrap of the first.
***
I've been rereading The Lord of the Rings, quite slowly. One of the things I'm noticing is the amount that Tolkien knows about plants; his many emulators aren't nearly as good at landscape, at the sense of actual place, and in part that may be because they don't know what half of those trees are. I'm no good at trees, though I ought to be, since my mother is a gardener on a grand scale. I do know one landscape well, though. It isn't at all European, but I wonder . . . Does that matter?
What follows is a scrap of classic high fantasy, set essentially in my home town. The main character is not me, nor is her mother my mother.
***
The mist came off the river at night. It covered the feet of the hills, filled the valleys, and hovered at the edges of the hazelnut groves, so the even lines of trees faded toward infinity. Marta’s mother said she shouldn’t go walking. The War might be over now, the battles might have happened miles away, but still, who could tell what sort of monster or mangled veteran might come stumbling through the fog? Marta went anyway. She ought to be at home, she knew, spinning or shelling peas or crafting globes of light to ease her mother’s knitting; she was letting her family down. But life at home was difficult now, had been difficult ever since Marta announced she was going away next year, to study sorcery at the University in Aberwick. Her family was glad for her, glad that she was going. But still there was an underlying feeling . . . not that girls didn’t do this sort of thing, since in this day and age anyone might be a sorcerer, but more that the University was for eldest sons, or someone like Alan Barton who had taken all the prizes his year, even in Rhetoric, not for girls like Marta who had solid Seconds, could spin a fine thread, and were sure to find a nice quiet boy one of these days. So Marta went walking. She went quietly, feeling the damp in the air all about her, and remembering the joy of sparks at her fingertips. The grass in the valley was thick and wet, and snakes of briars wound through it to trip the unwary. It was blackberry thorns and damp, not the mist at all, that kept Marta from looking about her–- at least, that was what she was thinking about, when she tripped over the goblin.
The goblin looked starved. It was just Marta’s height, but gaunt and gray-skinned, and there were twigs matted in its close-cut hair. It snarled. Marta stood and stared. I’m sorry, she thought. I shouldn’t be out here, I didn’t mean to run into you, are you from the War? Are you hurt? But she didn’t know what language goblins spoke. There was bread in her coat pocket. She clenched her hand around it. She wondered if goblins ate bread, and if it thought she had a knife.
***
I've been rereading The Lord of the Rings, quite slowly. One of the things I'm noticing is the amount that Tolkien knows about plants; his many emulators aren't nearly as good at landscape, at the sense of actual place, and in part that may be because they don't know what half of those trees are. I'm no good at trees, though I ought to be, since my mother is a gardener on a grand scale. I do know one landscape well, though. It isn't at all European, but I wonder . . . Does that matter?
What follows is a scrap of classic high fantasy, set essentially in my home town. The main character is not me, nor is her mother my mother.
***
The mist came off the river at night. It covered the feet of the hills, filled the valleys, and hovered at the edges of the hazelnut groves, so the even lines of trees faded toward infinity. Marta’s mother said she shouldn’t go walking. The War might be over now, the battles might have happened miles away, but still, who could tell what sort of monster or mangled veteran might come stumbling through the fog? Marta went anyway. She ought to be at home, she knew, spinning or shelling peas or crafting globes of light to ease her mother’s knitting; she was letting her family down. But life at home was difficult now, had been difficult ever since Marta announced she was going away next year, to study sorcery at the University in Aberwick. Her family was glad for her, glad that she was going. But still there was an underlying feeling . . . not that girls didn’t do this sort of thing, since in this day and age anyone might be a sorcerer, but more that the University was for eldest sons, or someone like Alan Barton who had taken all the prizes his year, even in Rhetoric, not for girls like Marta who had solid Seconds, could spin a fine thread, and were sure to find a nice quiet boy one of these days. So Marta went walking. She went quietly, feeling the damp in the air all about her, and remembering the joy of sparks at her fingertips. The grass in the valley was thick and wet, and snakes of briars wound through it to trip the unwary. It was blackberry thorns and damp, not the mist at all, that kept Marta from looking about her–- at least, that was what she was thinking about, when she tripped over the goblin.
The goblin looked starved. It was just Marta’s height, but gaunt and gray-skinned, and there were twigs matted in its close-cut hair. It snarled. Marta stood and stared. I’m sorry, she thought. I shouldn’t be out here, I didn’t mean to run into you, are you from the War? Are you hurt? But she didn’t know what language goblins spoke. There was bread in her coat pocket. She clenched her hand around it. She wondered if goblins ate bread, and if it thought she had a knife.