Willoughby – Page 3 – The Princelings Books: Jemima Pett

16 January, 201518 May, 2015

Jemima is writing book 7!

I wasn’t supposed to be writing this till later in the year, but I suddenly had it in my head, the start of it, anyway. It may be that Willoughby had been doing the Narrathon over Christmas, so I was not ready to let go of the character. Or it may have been one of those weird things as, sad to say, the real Willoughby – a guinea pig in New York – died suddenly on January 8th. I’d been writing the second chapter that morning, and I haven’t been able to put it away since. I’ve got a widget on the sidebar of my blog which tells you how I’m getting on with it.

Its working title is The Chronicles of Willoughby the Narrator (which is too long), and it stars Willoughby from his arrival in the realms to… well, some time in the future from where we are now. And that now is after Bravo Victor, after Fred’s Yuletide Escape and after Dylan’s Yuletide Journey (those two might be in the other order, anyway). At present I’m dividing it into three sections: I may stop after Part 1, which brings us to the end of The Talent Seekers, which is where you will find Willoughby for the first time in the published series. Part 2 will follow him through his career until he solves the problem that he and King Fred were talking about as he left Castle Marsh after the Yuletide Narrathon! and Part 3… well I’m not sure where that will end. I may need to write book 8 before I can decide that.

I was going to give you the first few paragraphs (as they are at present) as a taster, but I’m not sure… does it give too much away? I’ll give you a bit of the next section instead – there are plenty of clues to where and when we are if you’ve read the books!

“You will never be an effective ninja, Willoughby, until you learn to focus.”

It was fine for my teacher to tell me that, again, but if he was tickling my nose of course I would be distracted. I frowned and tried again, but he sighed, stood up and waited for me to copy him. We bowed. That was the signal for the end of the lesson.

I went out into the afternoon sun, pausing for a moment to look out from the sky courtyard onto the towers that grew up from the murk below me, fingers against the shimmering ribbons of the rivers joining together in the distance. It was a great view, and it always calmed my mind. Yes, I needed to focus more, but I was making progress in my training, and my teacher knew it. My hearing was coming on exceptionally well, mainly because I got in a lot of practice listening to my uncle and the Professor Saku wrangling about the time tunnel. All sorts of theories about it: concerns about its side-effects, plans to meet the cola orders that came through, and whether to train up a new travelling salesman as a replacement for Hugo. I had not so far discovered who Hugo was. We didn‘t have a Hugo at Hattan, so it must be someone at the far side of the tunnel, the place they called the Realms. The guys who looked after the deliveries down there did so in shifts, and were shipped off for a break as soon as they came back, so I never managed to find out what they did. I was planning to slip down there myself, just working out when and how.

I waved at my cousin Raisin, who was lounging about on sentry duty. We had a sentry in the sky courtyard just because it was an easy job for one of us juniors, and it gave us basic training before we got into serious work. I heard him make out he was accosting someone as I left the yard to nip down to see Saku.

“Stay where you are! You are completely surrounded!”

Yeah Raisin, I thought. It does get boring, doesn’t it?

1 January, 201529 March, 2015

In which we eavesdrop on King Fred…

The Narrathon is over, the Solstice is past, the Yuletide celebrations have finished and all the residents have renewed their allegiance to Castle Marsh on a surprisingly mild and windy Green Willow Day.

Willoughby the Narrator has said his goodbyes to his followers and to his many friends at the castle, but King Fred accompanies him to the gate.

“You are very welcome to stay, you know.”

“Thank you, but I think I must move on, or I could get too comfortable in one place all winter.”

“It didn’t stop you taking the residency at Buckmore,” Fred says, referring to the previous year when Willoughby had been Narrator-in-residence, an initiative of Prince Lupin’s that had turned into a fixture.

Wiilloughby smiles, and looks over the southern marsh and the expanse of reeds he must travel through before he reaches the line of trees in the west.

“Where next, anyway?” asks Fred.

“I think I’ll visit the ladies.”

Fred laughs. “Well, they’ll give you a warm welcome. Then you’ll be eaten alive by their own story-tellers!”

“Yes, they’re very good. Glad they don’t go travelling or they’d put the rest of us out of work.”

“I have a job for you to do, if you want to keep moving. Actually, I have a job for you if you don’t, as well.”

“I know you need a steward, and I am thinking about it. Seriously. If you don’t have one this time next year…”

“Come for our Narrathon next year, then, and it’ll cover what I’d like you to do in the meantime.”

Willoughby looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“It should be easy. Just keep your eyes open.”

“I always do that.”

“Well, we need to know what’s going on at Vexstein. Really know, I mean, not just what they tell us. What the people think, how they are treated.”

“Whether the rumours are true, in fact.”

Fred nods, lips grim. “Be careful, though. We’ve not seen any refugees from there for months. Many months.”

Willoughby sighs. “I also need to check the situation at White Horse. And nobody’s seen Prince Kevin of Deeping since the spring.”

“If you go to Vexstein, tell Lupin or me that you’re going in, and tell us when you come out, too.”

“How long will you wait after I go in?”

Fred pauses. He’s not thought of that. How long will Willoughby need to find out what’s going on? How quickly should he or Prince Lupin take action if they don’t hear from him? And how long would make it too late?

“If I go in,” says Willoughby, having worked through the same questions in his head, “I’ll make sure someone knows how I am each day. I’ll let you know. If I go.”

Fred nods. Being a king is no fun, most of the time.

Willoughby grins. He sets off down the track from the castle, round the pond and off towards the woods. His fiddlesticks are casually slung across his back, and he whistles a jaunty tune. Being a narrator is fun, all the time. Especially when you have hidden talents.

29 December, 201430 November, 2017

Yuletide Narrathon – The Twinkletree Fairy

We are in the upper courtyard of Castle Marsh, listening to the Yuletide Narrathon…

King Fred stepped up to the fiddlesticks and stood beside them. He looked around at the happy people in the courtyard. This is how it should be, he thought, and let them chatter on about the last narrator until they saw him waiting, nudged each other, and waited for him to speak.

“Well, everybody, we come to the final story in our Narrathon. I’ve enjoyed it hugely, and I think you have too, haven’t you?”

Cries of ‘yes’, ‘enormously’, and other murmurs rippled round the courtyard, out-competing the cold wind.

“I have a small surprise. It’s customary for an award to be given to the best story at a Narrathon. Given this is our first one with a proper narrator,” he saluted Willoughby, sitting the other side of the fiddlesticks, waiting his final turn, “I felt it was a little obvious that he would win.” Laughs all round, and a sheepish grin from Willoughby. “I hope he doesn’t mind, but instead of giving him the prize, I’m splitting it evenly between our three home-grown talents, who were very brave in tackling the task of entertaining you all.”

Cheers, cries of ‘hear, hear,” and ‘absolutely!’ greeted this announcement.

“So, Geoffrey, Marcus and Marina, here is a small hamper for you and your families to enjoy.” Three of the king’s assistants each took a small basket of food and treats over to one of the home-grown tale tellers, to the applause of the crowd.

“So now we come to the final story in the first real Castle Marsh Narrathon. For the last time this year, but I hope not for the final time, I give you… Willoughby the Narrator!”

Huge applause and cheers, even though most people were huddled in family groups under blankets, cupping hot drinks to keep warm.

“Well, well, thank you, King Fred, and all of you, for keeping a poor Narrator warm and comfortable through a cold winter’s day.” Many laughs: Willoughby had been keeping himself warm by various fires and in the dining hall for most of the day in between stories.

“My last story of the night is one that may give you dreams tonight – if you can stay awake to listen to it.” A loud yawn from one of the younger members disturbed his speech. Appreciative chuckles from the audience, many of whom hugged sleepy youngsters to their sides.

“It was Green Willow’s Eve – maybe it will happen again on this Green Willow’s Eve, who knows – but anyway, people had gathered together under the big Yule Tree in their courtyard,” he waved at the tree decorated with ribbons and lights standing by the steps leading to the lower courtyard. “It was decorated just such as yours, with ribbons, and little lights, but also with small metal sculptures like harps, and flutes, and spiders’ webs, and snowflakes. Underneath the tree lay a pile of presents for the children and the families, all wrapped in pretty paper, and on top of the tree a small figure looked down on everyone. She was very small indeed, not even as big as your hand, little one,” he said, looking at one of the youngsters in the front row. “Even smaller than one of King Fred’s ears!” Most people glanced at Fred, but he laughed, and his daughter Jasmine pulled his ear and then whispered into it, making him smile again. Fred had very large, handsome ears.

“It was, of course, the Twinkletree Fairy on the top of the Yule Tree, and she looked down on everyone, to make sure nobody was left out or unhappy, unless they were like Drood and insisted on being miserable to spite themselves.

“The time came for the presents to be given out, and everyone crowded round to receive their gifts. Of course, there were squeals of excitement as the children tore off the paper (or unfolded it very carefully to smooth it out and put it aside for next year),” general laughter, since Marsh folk were known to be careful to reuse things. “There were toys to play with, music things to blow or play, corn-dollies to look after and play ‘imagine’ games with, and one whole troop of wooden soldiers with painted faces and green jackets.” A few cheers rippled around for the small group of soldiers who had been stationed at Marsh for so long they were considered part of the castle.

“But suddenly there was a snowstorm, and everyone dashed inside, leaving most of the presents where they lay, under the tree, save for a few that children had been holding when the snow came. Since it was late, the children all went to bed clutching those few presents, or empty handed.

“One of the empty handed ones was Clara. She lay in bed thinking about the soldiers out in the snow, wondering if the corn-dollies would get wet and soggy, and whether anyone would think to bring them inside when the snow stopped. The castle grew quiet, since it was late, and Green Willow Day is a busy one, so everyone goes to bed early. The moon got up and Clara could see its light on the snow outside, so she crept out of her bed, pulled a blanket around her – just like you – and tiptoed out to the Yule Tree.

“The fairy on the tree saw her and flew down to her shoulder. ‘What are you doing, Clara?’ she asked.

“‘I’ve come to see if the toys are all right,’ she said.

“‘Wait here with me and watch!’ the fairy said.

“And Clara crept under the boughs of the tree, into the shade, with the fairy on her shoulder, and she watched, and didn’t feel at all cold, because the fairy sprinkled fairy dust over her, so she could see magical things without freezing in the dark of the night.

“The snow glistened in the moonlight, and the moon swung around to light the lumps and bumps that were the toys hidden under the snow. As Clara watched, the lumps began to move, and out of each of them came the soldiers, and the corn-dollies, and the gingerbread voles, and the furbees, and they all danced around and had their own party in the moonlight. And the musical instruments all played, and it seemed to Clara that the toys had grown, or she had shrunk, because she was dancing with them, and the handsome soldier bowed to her and danced her all round in a circle in the snow, whirling and twirling and kicking up snowflakes like a gossamer ballgown.

“Then suddenly the music stopped in a jangle and the corn-dollies started screaming. Mice had run out from the depths of the castle and were attacking the partygoers! The soldiers cried to the rest of the toys to get into a huddle at the bottom of the tree, and they fought off the mice, hand to hand in the darkness, since the moon was setting above the castle walls. Clara joined the huddle, but she could see the soldiers fighting with the mice, and suddenly her dancing partner wasn’t there anymore! The rest of the soldiers beat off the mice, who ran away back to the depths of the marsh, and the huddle broke free and started to chase after them to make sure they had really gone. The soldiers called them back, and they returned to the base of the tree.

“But the party was over. The toys went back into their snow mounds, and Clara found she was her normal size again. And there in the snow was her handsome soldier, his head knocked off his shoulders, all broken.”

Willoughby paused, gauging the tension in the audience. There were a few sniffs, and he could see light glinting in a few eyes where tears had welled up.

“The Twinkletree Fairy came to Clara’s shoulder again and asked why she was crying.

“’My handsome soldier is all broken, and he fought so bravely for me and for all the others.’

“’Thus does it happen, sometimes, my child,’ said the fairy, ‘that people have to fight to defend the safety and peace of the others.’

“’Poor, poor soldier,’ said Clara, and she picked up the pieces and held them together, and kissed them. And the Twinkletree Fairy waved her magic wand and the pieces repaired themselves, and the soldier had his head again, and his arms and legs. Clara laughed and said ‘thank you!’ and skipped back to her bed, the wooden soldier in her hands. And she put it by the side of her bed, and said goodnight to it. And the soldier looked over her while she slept, and for who knows how many years afterwards, to keep her safe from harm.”

Willoughby looked around his audience, judging whether to finish on a happy ending or a moral.

“So keep your twinkletree fairies safe, dear Marsh folk, and be prepared for aggressive mice, but otherwise, have a very happy Green Willow Day, and thank you very much for your hospitality for this poor Narrator, this Yule tide.”

And he bowed deeply, all round, so that each person in the audience felt he had bowed specifically to them, then he jumped up into the air and disappeared in a flash of white smoke.

Header image © Jacquie Lawson.com

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22 December, 201415 January, 2015

Yuletide Narrathon – The Solstice Ghosts (part 2)

We’re continuing our exclusive content on the Princelings website; this is the concluding part of the third of Willoughby’s tales in the Castle Marsh Narrathon.

The Solstice Ghosts (2)

Willoughby jumped back on the table, watched the scurrying of his audience as they resumed their places, and as a hush crept over his audience, he cleared his throat.

“The mean and miserly Drood has received his warning from the ghost of his former partner, Darley, but do you think he’s taken any notice? No, he has not!” he added, answering his own question as some of the audience who joined in with a smattering of “No” from the more alert members near the front. Willoughby gave a piercing glance to those still settling down, and continued where his story had left off before the break.

“Drood found it hard to get to sleep. He was cold, which he was used to, but had no guilty conscience, since he didn’t have a conscience at all. But the sight of his partner, Darley, and the huge chain he dragged around, that bothered him. How could his chain be longer? He did nothing wrong, he worked hard, he did nothing frivolous, he kept himself to himself and asked nothing of no-one. He tossed and turned, and might have drifted off, but he heard the castle clock striking the hour, and on the stroke of twelve, he heard a noise which chilled his heart. His door (which he had carefully locked after Darley’s departure) swung open and a presence entered the room.

“and then….

“very slowly…

“some… thing… pulled the blanket from his head.”

“’I am the Ghost of Solstice Past,” said the pale female who stood in front of him. “Come with me, Drood, and repent.”

“’I don’t want to repent, and I don’t want to come with you!’ Drood replied, but the apparition took hold of his arm and whisked him off through the wall, which was transparent once more, up into the cold night air, over marsh and moorland, till they landed in a castle far from home.

“’Why, this is where I grew up,’ Drood said, and he watched as the apparition showed him a youngster standing next to other youngsters at a Solstice celebration, standing at the edge and refusing to join in the games for fear of making a fool of himself. ‘Is that lonely boy me, spirit?’

“It is you. Before you turned away from friendship. Maybe it was the beginning of your lonely life.’ They waited, watching, until the games were ended and the castle speech was made, and the inhabitants had made their Solstice promise. And, through it all, young Drood said nothing, did nothing. ‘Why did you not join in?’

“’I was destined for other things. It would have been beneath me.’

“’Even the Solstice speech? The king joined in.’

“Drood just shrugged, and the spirit took his arm and they flew to another place, where an apprentice Organiser sat at a desk while all his colleagues enjoyed a Yuletide party organised by their boss. Drood watched as a female sat by the younger Drood and talked to him about joining in the dancing, but he shook his head, and excused himself. Three more times, the spirit showed him Yuletides in the past, where a younger version of himself avoided the celebrations and immersed himself in his work, so as not to notice everyone else enjoying themselves. Then the apparition took him home.

“’So, you mean to show me the error of my ways, I suppose? Well, that is that, and what is done cannot be undone. Bah! Farewell, spirit, and if there is another one, as Darley said, I hope they can do a better job than you.’

“The Ghost of Solstice Past said nothing, but looked sadly at him, and shimmered into the wall and disappeared.

“Drood pulled his blanket back over his head, but hardly had time to close his eyes before he heard the clock strike twelve again. Curious, he thought, and then pulled the blanket off his head as a bright light and warmth filled the room. A huge person stood in front of him, wielding a fistful of herbs in one hand, and a bunch of fresh celery in the other.

“’Well, Drood,’ the stranger’s voice boomed, ‘time for a little fun! Let’s go and see what’s happening outside, shall we?’

“’Er, no,’ stammered Drood, pulling back from the stranger’s grasp, with no success whatsoever. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

“’I am the Ghost of Solstice Present, and I assure you we are going outside and I, at least, will be having fun!’ and he took a huge bite from his celery, tucked the rest into his other hand, and took Drood by the arm. They flew over marsh and moorland, seeing the formal dinner at Castle Buckmore, and the free-for-all celebrations at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness. All around the castles, people were busy, getting ready for the celebrations, putting up decorations, bringing in a Yule log, taking food out of storage and preparing delicious dishes. They found young people playing with carefully prepare gifts from their friends and family, and lovers, old and young, holding hands and exchanging tokens. It was the same all over the realms, even at far-off Castle Haunn, where the princelings of the north were dancing Strip the Green Willow and other dances with the blacksmith’s daughters at their ceilidh.

“At last they came back to Drood’s home, but not to his rooms. The spirit took Drood to his nephew’s room, where they stood behind him and his family and friends as they enjoyed a carefully prepared meal with all sorts of good things they’d dried or preserved from the summer. The nephew proposed a toast, and included his uncle Drood, which caused a great deal of argument about why they should drink to a miserly old meanie. Drood shifted on his feet, but nodded in agreement when his nephew explained that Drood was only doing what he thought best, working everyone to the bone so he could be successful, and not to worry, since when Drood went, hopefully the nephew would inherit the business. ‘Well, maybe,’ muttered Drood.

“Then the spirit took him down to the castle’s lower levels, and they found Bob and his family squashed round a table, and Mrs Bob bringing in the best food they had managed to grow, and even though it was very little for a feast, they helped the little weak one to a big share before everyone else tucked in. And Bob took the weak one to bed and told him a bedtime story, and the weak one said he thought Bob would make a wonderful Narrator. ‘But my job is with Mr Drood, my dear one, and it is him we thank for our good fortune in having food to eat and a place to live.’ Drood nodded as he heard this, but wondered how Bob could live on so little, and with so many mouths to feed.

“After this the clock started striking the hour. ‘I must leave you now,’ said the spirit, ‘but remember, the things you see here are only the Solstice Present, and many other Presents may exist, if you change your ways!’ And before Drood could argue the need to change his ways, the spirit vanished, leaving Drood alone in a cold, dark lane, a place he didn’t recognise, although he thought he knew the castle very well.

“The clock finished striking twelve, and a sinister hooded figure blocked out the remaining light at the end of the lane. Drood stepped forward, hesitating over whether this was the third Ghost that had been promised. Then the hooded figure turned and beckoned to him.

“’Are you the Ghost of Solstice Yet to Come?’ (Willoughby put a tremor in his voice). The hooded figure nodded to him. The apparition was huge, towering over him, menacing and mysterious. Drood squeezed his eyes shut and gulped. ‘Have you come to show me the future?’

“The apparition turned and swept his cloak around Drood. When Drood felt himself uncovered, he opened his eyes and found they were in a graveyard. It was dark, mist was dripping from the leafless tree in the corner, and some people stood around a freshly dug grave. ‘He was nothing but a slave driver,’ said one. ‘Good riddance’ said another. ‘At least we can all be free of him now,’ said a third. ‘Maybe his nephew will be a better master,’ said another, who looked uncommonly like Bob, ‘but it comes too late for my wee bairn.’ He turned away and walked to another part of the graveyard, where he comforted his wife and the rest of his family before they walked sadly back to their home.

“Drood said nothing, strangely moved by the sight of Bob’s child’s grave, and of the one on the other side. The spirit wafted him on, to other places in the castle, where he heard nothing but people pleased to hear that ‘the old miser’ had died. It gradually dawned on him that it was himself they were talking about, it was him that was dead in the first grave. And everyone was pleased. No-one had a good word to say about him. His life’s work was counted for nothing. He remembered what the previous ghost had said. Many other Presents may exist, if you change your ways. He asked his dour companion if that was the case, but the hooded apparition said nothing, just moved forward to envelope him, and Drood felt himself swooning, drowning, sinking into the dark folds of his cloak.”

Willoughby paused. If there were such a thing as a pin to drop, it would have been heard. Willoughby stayed still, imagining the hopeless descent into the depths of the blackness of the cloak, and whispered…

“The Spirit of Solstice Yet to Come faded into the night,” Willoughby raised his voice gradually up to a shout, “but Drood found himself fighting the cloak, fighting and fighting! He didn’t want to die! Not alone! Not like this!”

Stunned silence.

“The cock crowed. Dawn came. Drood unwrapped himself from the blanket that he had got so terribly tangled in during the night. It was all a dream, he said to himself. But as he got out of bed, he stepped on some celery leaves, and a few herbs, scattered by his door.”

Willoughby looked at his audience, half of whom had their mouths open in awe.

“I never did find out if Drood changed his ways,” he said. “But I bet he didn’t risk the fate he’d been shown by those three Ghosts of Solstice. Now let’s all join in a dance, yes, even you, hiding by the back door!”

And despite the crowd they were in, they all stood up and did one of those dances you know so well, where you stand on the spot and do strange moves with your hands and your hips and everyone laughs because it’s so hard to remember what comes next. Willoughby led them for the start, but then someone else jumped onto the table and carried on, and Willoughby slunk away to a nice mulled apple juice in a quiet part of the castle, to rest until his final turn of the Narrathon.