by Ron Sexsmith
To Colleen for encouraging me to write this book and for believing that I could actually write one.… To my adult children, Christopher and Evelyne, as well, who I’ll forever miss reading bedtime stories to.
I would also like to dedicate this book to the many writers who’ve inspired me with their stories, their humour, and their wisdom (Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Roald Dahl, The Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, L. Frank Baum, and Ray Bradbury, to name a few).
Preface
Prologue
A History of Hinthoven, Hinterlunds, and Hedlights
Hinterlund Home
Jacques Tourtière
Hedlight Goes A-Hunting
Memories of Crad Grimsby
In the Clearing
Fist and Firkin
Deer Friend
Of Maggie and Crad and Griff and Gruff
Beautiful Morning
Out of the Woods
Crad’s Big Day Out
Lucky and Claira
Hedlight Home
From Bad to Worse
Augustafest
The Gathering Gloom
And Not a Moment to Spare
Enough as It Is (In Six Parts)
Changes
Epilogue
Hello and welcome to my book.
As a songwriter, I’d gotten used to waking up with a melodic or lyrical idea in my head, but this time ’round it was different. I could tell right away that this was not a song, but in fact the arc of a story. The idea, which first presented itself to me in a morning dream, had me at a loss in terms of what to do with it.
My first thought was that it could be a screenplay for an animated movie, and I spent the next year or so telling actor friends and getting their take on it. But not knowing the first thing about how to make a movie, I began to think of it as a concept for a children’s storybook with illustrations.
Around this time, I got an unexpected email from a prominent publishing house that had heard through the rumour mill that I had a book idea and was interested in hearing all about it. (I realize this is not how it usually works for novelists, but that’s what happened.) Anyway, some weeks later I was sitting in their boardroom and relaying the very basic gist of the story across a long table with not a single word of it written down. Well, after hearing me out, they could see it as being more of a novel or novella and encouraged me to go off and write it, AND if possible to have my first draft in by the end of August 2015. (It was March at the time.)
Now, in hindsight, they may have just wanted me to go away. Maybe they didn’t think I would actually do it? I’ll never know for sure.… Nevertheless, I got right to work on it, writing every day while out touring my latest record, until lo and behold … I delivered my first draft and right on time!
For reasons that are unimportant now, this particular publishing house decided not to go for it, setting into motion a mercifully brief period of rejection and disappointment as I shopped it around.
I was beginning to feel like the laughingstock of the Toronto literary world until it fell into the hands of an editor at Dundurn who seemed not only to like the book, but also to get what I was trying to do.
So as you can imagine, it’s with equal parts pride and amazement that I sit here today with this, my first ever work of fiction. I had so many questions along the way about structure and punctuation, pacing, etc., but I kept at it and was surprised to see how so many unforeseen characters and subplots would emerge from what was originally a skeletal arc. And how happy coincidences would occur later in the book that lined up with things I had written in earlier chapters. It was just so different from songwriting in so many ways.
I could see the town and the characters and became attached to them to the point where I was quite sad to see some of them go.
In closing, I’d just like to thank you all in advance for your perusal of it. A fairy tale often requires us to suspend our disbelief for a while in order to come along for the ride.
So with that in mind, I invite you now into this fictional world of magic and loss, friendship and heroism, among other things that are very much rooted in the world we’ve all come to know.
With love,
Ronald Eldon Sexsmith
Leaves in the whirlwind, scarecrow’s clappin’
All good children ought to be nappin’.
The cows in the tree, the bird’s on the ground
For your dream’s just a nightmare upside down.
These were the only lines she could recall of a schoolyard song overheard in passing. Its melody, though, kept them both in good company as it floated on the breeze to the rhythm of their footsteps on gravel.
They’d only been walking a few hours when they saw the light of an inn just up ahead. Their shadows were practically there. Eleanoir and her dog, Jupiter, had found the last town to be a tad unfriendly, even more so than the town before and the town before that — although at first glance, it would be hard to imagine how anyone could take a dislike to either one of them. Eleanoir, for example, was strangely beautiful. (Well, in a frozen lake sort of way, I suppose.) And in keeping with this metaphor, there was never any way of knowing the cold thoughts that swam beneath the surface of her eyes, but then she liked it that way.
As for Jupiter? He was a hybrid, to say the least. Part wolf, part husky, with eyes like frosted windows through which a vague sense of helplessness and other humanlike emotions struggled to see out of. Though at a glance he appeared as loyal as the day or his tail were long. And as far as anyone could tell, this coldly attractive woman was quite possibly his best and only friend. For when you’re a dog, one friend is oft times all you get.…
Upon reaching the entrance to the inn, a rustic sign that was at first impossible to read came into focus at last. THE WILLOW TREE, it hailed proudly, albeit faintly. The faded etching of a tree, in fact, could still be made out behind the green letters (though whoever the artist was had apparently never seen a willow tree before).
“Well, Jupiter, I hope this place is to your liking,” said Eleanoir as the moon rested on her shoulder. Naturally, Jupiter’s tail wagged in canine approval.
Once inside, there hung the unmistakable odour of armpits and shame. A few patrons were scattered about the room in various stages of drunkenness while an impressive fire roared in the corner. Not a soul looked up, however, except for the innkeeper, who went by the unfortunate name of Crad Grimsby (a rather beery-looking man, stout but with kind enough features) who came floating over immediately to greet our weary travellers. Even crouching down (with great difficulty) to give Jupiter a pat on the head, creating a flurry of dog whimpering that sounded almost remorseful, or so he thought. “You’re a fine boy, aren’t ya! Yes, you are!” Crad spoke before struggling (with even greater difficulty) to get back on his feet.
“S’pose you’ll be needing a room tonight, ma’am?” he asked once at eye level with Eleanoir. T’was then he noticed the strange purple tint to her eyes, which made all the colour run from his face. He’ d seen these sort of eyes before as a child back in Hixenbaugh. Eleanoir had seen his expression before, too.
It was not lost on her. “Mr. Grimsby?” she slyly inquired. “Is there something wrong? You look pale.”
“No, ma’am,” replied the innkeeper while attempting to collect himself, with decidedly mixed results. “Mistook you for somebody else is all,” he said, smiling back nervously. “A sad symptom of age, I’m afraid.”
“Really? Well, that’s
odd,” said Eleanoir. “Although I’ve been told I do look an awful lot like my mother. You know, once upon a time. Maybe you’ve seen her somewhere before? In Hixenbaugh, perhaps?” she continued as two fingers tiptoed on the edge of her chin. “That is where you’re from, is it not?”
At this curious line of questioning, Grimsby’s smile faded to make way for a new look of discomfort, which had spread across his pie-shaped countenance like strawberry jam.
“Well, no matter,” said Eleanoir with a dismissive laugh. “A room would be lovely. And if possible, could you bring us two bowls of …”— and glanced skeptically toward the kitchen — “… whatever’s in that pot over there, and some wine if you have any?”
“Yes, of course,” replied the innkeeper with a newly ruffled energy that darkened his otherwise light demeanour. “Coming right up!” But turning to fetch these items, he stopped short, as if forgetting something of great import, and turned once more to face her.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners? Would you and your furry friend here care to take a seat by the fireside?” came his half-hearted invitation with arms outstretched, as though he’ d conjured up the fire with sorcery.
Eleanoir simply shrugged as Jupiter sniffed a curious crumb on the floor. “I guess it has gotten quite chilly out there, hasn’t it?” she added.
“Yes, ma’am, winter’s heading straight for us, I suspect,” Grimsby prattled on while scrunching up his naturally scrunched-up face before scurrying back toward the kitchen. And so, in taking the innkeeper’s advice, Eleanoir and Jupiter moved over to the fire, where a drunkard now lay passed out, and in doing so, was taking up two whole seats! Jupiter growled at the unsavoury man, though if for reason of appearance, smell, or both remains a dog’s mystery to this very day. But no sooner had I finished writing the above sentence when Grimsby came rushing back as promised with wine and two bowls of something resembling fish soup. But after delicately setting the tray down on a low table near the hearth, he set about indelicately kicking the poor man back to life. “Wake up, Tom, I’ve warned you! It’s not a flophouse we’re running here! If you can’t stay vertical, then go and be horizontal someplace else.”
All of this he barked (and rather unconvincingly, I might add) while glancing toward Eleanoir at intervals, in the hopes of impressing her with these very dubious “take-charge abilities.” Even so, at the conclusion of this crude display, our man Tom rose and then mumbled a slurred apology to everyone he’ d ever wronged, before staggering off to the other side of the room (where he proceeded to pass out over there!). Soon Eleanoir and dog were warming their bones and enjoying the cozy atmosphere (and dare I say charm?) of The Willow Tree. Even the soup wasn’t half bad. “So, where ya heading to, ma’am? If you don’t mind me asking, of course,” inquired Grimsby from a safe distance behind the bar.
Eleanoir smiled a slightly forced smile and replied, “We’re not exactly sure, are we, Jupiter?” For he was just now gazing up at his master with that same pitiful panting face of oblivion shared by dogs everywhere. “How far to the next town?” she then asked, though purely for politeness’s sake (she already knew the answer).
“Hmmm, now let me think,” said Grimsby. His thoughts indeed went rummaging around his brain before arriving at the word Hinthoven after much eyebrow activity. (Though it wasn’t in any need of such consideration either, for he’ d lived in these parts all his life.) “If I’m not mistaken,” he feigned in earnest, “it’s just on the other side of these woods. With an early start, you can make it by suppertime,” before adding with a sort of ominous emphasis, “I would not recommend going through there at night!”
After which his dark eyes could be seen rolling off in the direction of the forest as he shook his finger to further impress on Eleanoir the gravity of whatever he was implying. “Well, it’s awfully kind of you to be so … concerned,” she said, now mindlessly patting Jupiter’s head and staring deep into the fire. “We wouldn’t dream of it.”
The town of Hinthoven was nothing much to write home about.
In fact, no one could even vaguely recall a letter, postcard, or package ever being sent to or from there at any point in time. For this reason and possibly a few others, it has been largely omitted from the pages of history. That is until now. And it is no secret that for many people living in nearby townships, Hinthoven had long been considered the punchline of numerous and humourless jokes. All manner of good-natured ribbing (as well as many not so good-natured things) had been said over the years in taverns and ’round dinner tables, such as “Hinthoven, the city that can’t take a hint” or “Squinthoven” (which apparently just sounded funny), and all said by folks who’d never even set foot there!
For the good citizens of Hinthoven, however, it was simply put: “A nice place to call home.” People were kind, the air was clean. The water was pure and life in general was … liveable. To look at it on a map, it would appear the whole town was caught in a perpetual headlock between a peaceful river to the east and a menacing forest to the west. Just outside the city centre and to the north a bit lay prime farmland, acres of orchards, vineyards, and plush, rolling meadows that seemed bent on rolling off the face of the earth. And wherever they were heading, the sky looked eager to follow.
The town itself got its name from one Marcus Hinterlund, who for many years had owned the land it was built on and much of the surrounding area, as well. The old Hinterlund farmhouse, too, standing today where it stood then, though occupied for some time now by his great-grandson, Magnus; Magnus’s daughter, Claira; and their faithful housekeeper, Tressa Mundy. (But we’ll get to them soon enough.…) If you were to stroll around the city centre on a day like today, you’d find a town fairly bursting with activity.
Anxious-looking people rushing to and fro. Horses and carts going every which way. Street musicians ruining all your favourite songs. And children doing what children do best … alarming and annoying the grown-ups! To say it was easy getting lost in Hinthoven would be a huge understatement. Even those who’d spent their entire lives there could find themselves frequently disoriented, as if in a maze. For every street seemed to spiral into another, jut out unexpectedly, or end abruptly, so one was never sure if they were even on the same street they had started out on. You might think the city’s forefathers had been inspired by the great mysteries of the universe when designing their street plans. And clearly it had not occurred to any of them that more than one horse and cart might wish to pass down the same street at the same time. For each was ludicrously narrow and filled with pedestrians at all hours.
In fact, it was on one such crowded, narrow street where lived Deryn Hedlight and his mother, Maggie, in an abode so humble that it looked positively mortified to even be mentioned in this book! Today being the anniversary of Pearson Hedlight’s death (loving husband to Maggie, stern but patient father to Deryn), we find both in a reflective mood after their sombre gravesite visit. “What do you suppose Dad’s doing right now?” asked Deryn innocently enough.
“Well, if I know your father,” said Maggie, “and I do! I’d say he’s enjoying his pipe right about now. Assuming they let you smoke up there.” After which she took a moment to ponder this ancient mystery before vigorously stirring a pot on an old wood stove.
“You know, I never told you,” said Deryn after a moment’s reflection, “but Dad caught me smoking his pipe one time and —”
“Oh, I know,” interrupted Maggie. “Your father and I never had any secrets between us — he told me all about it! Why, I can remember him saying like it was yesterday: ‘A man must earn the right to smoke his pipe. At the end of a day’s work or after a hunt, when you’ve brought food home for the table.’ And he was right!” she exclaimed while pointing her wooden spoon seemingly t’ward heaven. Deryn looked wistfully at the spoon, then at the rifle hanging over the fireplace. “He was proud of his boy, though,” Maggie went on, sensing a shade of doubt in her son’s melancholy face. �
��And don’t think for a moment he wasn’t!”
“Oh, I know, Ma, I just wish I …” Deryn’s voice trailed off. For his attention was drawn to an imposing shadow now moving across the curtain. The shadow belonged to one Jacques Tourtière, noted hunter and local bully, who at that very moment was pulling a cart of fresh kill from his latest hunt. Tourtière supplied meat for the local butchers and made a pretty penny, too, when he wasn’t boozing or beating people up. To say he was well liked in Hinthoven would be a stretch, but if it mattered to him in the slightest, he never let it show. “Better to be feared than loved,” he’ d often say. To no one in particular. Deryn himself could recall quite a few unpleasant run-ins between his father and Tourtière over the years, so the mere mention of his name could conjure up a whole multitude of emotions. None of which were helpful in any way.
“Ma?” Deryn said after returning to the present.
“Yes, dear?” she replied with eyes peeking over the pot.
“Well, I was thinking that p’raps I’d go hunting tomorrow.” This he said with a hopeful yet altogether heartbreaking air. And though looking in the direction of his mother, his eyes were fixed upon a world somewhere beyond her and out past this once cheerful home. “Maybe it’s time,” he continued, “that I started acting like …” Here he paused to rise heroically from his low seat in the corner. “The man of the house, the man Dad always wanted me to be,” he said and finished off with an expression verging on bravery. (Though verging from a good distance, truth be told!) But still pondering the great mystery of pipe smoking in Heaven, Maggie responded as anyone snapping out of a daydream would. “Sorry, dear, were you saying something?”
Young Claira Hinterlund was said to be the spitting image of her mother, Camilla. She had no way of knowing this, however, since cameras had not yet been invented. Mostly, though, it was due to the fact that her mother had died not long before her first birthday. In those sad weeks and months following this tragedy, it became apparent to all those concerned that her love was the one light strong enough to reach down into her father’s broken heart and shoo away the darkness. And providing a formidable light of her own during this difficult time came their faithful housekeeper, Tressa Mundy. She had been brought in to help around the house when Claira was born and went on to become a source of great comfort as Camilla succumbed to her illness that last sad summer.
