Since its inception, Munsonville has been an "everyone welcome here" village.
In the ten chapters that comprise the first part of "Bryony's Story," the village and the characters grow and develop while the plot lengthens through that development like a sneaky thread of mold.
Chapter seven, currently in progress, introduces three pivotal characters and shows the change in current ones. Instead of relying on description, I allow the reader to meet them through observation and the opinions of others, like this:
After services, as Bryony filed into the narthex with the
chatter of the villagers bumping around her like molecules, she heard Mrs. Fisher's
voice rise above the rest: "Twins, you say?"
"Yes, Maybelle,
Scandinavian, 'ccording to Teddy, and very, very reclusive."
"Reclusive?
Oh, my, what a thought! I just don't see how anyone in or near this village
could possibly be reclusive, not when we have..."
"The
boys won't speak, and the father snaps if anyone approaches them. He talks only
to Owen and only when necessary."
"Oh,
them! James didn't say they were twins, but he did insist that their fishing
skills were unlike anything he's ever seen or heard. Why just last night, when
we were sitting down to one of Clyde's excellent dinners of..."
"Happy
Easter, Bryony," Luther said, falling into step with her as Leo socked him
on the shoulder and walked past, grinning. "That's a pretty bonnet. Is it
new?"
"Yes."
Twins?
"...although,
Sally, I once read that Scandinavians are quite naturally the most superior
fishermen in the world. Do you know what Uncle Clyde once told us? The Pacific
Northwest attracted so many fishermen from Denmark, Finland, Norway, and, yes, even Sweden
that it was nicknamed Little Scandinavia. Why, do you know what James said..."
Mrs.
Fisher, who looked larger every time Bryony saw her, and Mrs. Bass, pretty as
always, even though she was growing stout, too, walked outside, right behind
Mr. Parks and Mr. Bass (who were discussing the latest fishing lures), taking
the intriguing story with them.
Twins? Real
twins like The Prince and the Pauper,
not simply a close resemblance, like eleven-year-old Leo and ten-year-old
Luther with their matching brown trousers and suspenders and hair plastered in
place?
Bryony
touched the brim, happy someone, even if it was only Luther, noticed it. "Mrs. Parks sewed it for me,
and Mrs. Pike made the flowers."
The door
opened, and Mrs. Hasset stepped inside. She wore a fitted coat that reached her
boot tops.
"Luther,
let's go." She gestured with a gloved hand to the waiting carriage.
The sheen
of the coat's gray fabric and matching buttons reflected the natural light.
Bryony stared, mesmerized at such lovliness, only half-hearing Luther say, "We're having Easter
dinner at Mayor Pike's house."
Reluctantly,
Bryony turned her gaze away from the beautiful Mrs. Hasset. With a look of
apology, Luther added, "I...I wish
you a pleasant day with Mr. and Mrs. Parks."
"Thank
you."
"Where
is your Uncle Orville?" An agitated Mrs. Parks was tying her bonnet
strings and prodding Bryony to the door with her elbow. "I've looked all
over for him?"
"I
think he's outside with Mr. Bass."
"Those
men and fishing! And on the Lord's Day of Days, too." Mrs. Parks held out
her hand. "Come, Bryony."
They walked
in silence to the Parks' until Bryony asked, "Uncle Orville, who are 'the
twins'?'"
"Arvid
Borgstrom's lads."
"Who's
that?"
"New
fisherman in town. Durned fine one, too."
"Orville!
Such language!"
But Mrs.
Parks' outburst couldn't dampen Bryony's curiosity. "Are the boys
fishermen, too?"
"Bryony,
don't be so inquisitive. Orville, are you certain Mr. Griffith doesn't wish us
to bring dinner?"
"For
the sixtieth time, Bertha, Ida is helpin' at the mayer's partee; Harv is goin'
to Fisher Farm with Owen; and Gus jest wants to forgit about holidaze and celebratin.'"
"He's
not the same since Pearl's passing. I'm worried sick about him."
"Gus
is a growed man. Just let 'im be. And yes, Bryony, the boys fish, too."
"Are
they good fishermen, like Mr. Borgstrom?"
"Dey
git along."
They had
reached the Parks' small balloon-frame home, its maize-colored exterior, bright
blue door and window sashes, and whitewashed trim a cheery beacon against the
cold. Mason
Woodrow's rockers, Mrs. Parks' broom, and a napping Puss were missing from the
porch, but Bryony knew Mr. Parks would replace the items once the Arctic air
departed, and Puss would reclaim her chair once he did.
The trio
headed to the back, as proper, per Mrs. Parks. Only company entered by way of
the front. Bryony didn't mind. Extra walking no longer exhausted her, thanks to
the magical power of meat.
"I've
never seen the Borgstrums. Where do they live?"
"In
yore parents' old cottage near the lake."
"Orville!"
"Bertha,
tame yore feathers. The truth ain't gonna make Bryony brake like glasss."
Mrs. Parks
stomped up the steps. "When you're done chit-chatting, I need her
assistance with meal preparation."
WHAM went
the back door. Mr. Parks, grinning, started for the barn, where Old Drew paced
restlessly, hungry for Easter dinner. Bryony shadowed him.
"Why
is she mad, Uncle Orville?"
"She
ain't mad. She's jest protectin' you, like a Fisher Farm hen hoverin' round her
chicks." He stopped and gently turned her to the house. "Now git in
dere and help."
Although
the day grew sunnier and brighter, a lingering chill hung in the air, enough
that Mrs. Parks interrupted dinner to walk through the house, shutting windows
and griping.
"So much for enjoying a spring
breeze on Easter Sunday," Mrs. Parks said as she tucked her napkin back
into her collar.
"You'll
soon be complain' 'bout the heat," Mr.
Parks liberally helped himself to more fish. "Now this is tasty. New
receipt?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Parks still looked glum. "Soaked in vinegar."
Mr. Parks
looked long and hard at her. "Afore long, you'll be beatin' rugs and
sweepin dust out the door."
"Maybe."
But she didn't sound convinced.
Bryony spied
the twins a week later, enroute to Mr. Drake's store. They had docked and were
hanging fish, an amazing amount of fish, from rope attached to poles, much as
Mrs. Parks hung laundry outside. The boys appeared identical: nearly fully
grown and lanky, with a shock of blond hair falling over their foreheads. They
worked in coordinated, rhythmic moves and spoke to each other in a language
Bryony couldn't comprehend.
"What
would Mrs. Parks have today, Bryony?" Mr. Drake asked as the door clanged
behind her.
"Mace
and cinnamon. She's frying crullers."
Mr. Drake
nodded to Addison. "The usual amount, boy."
Addison
slid off his stool to measure and package. Bryony drifted to the window and
only half-heard Mr. Drake talking to Mrs. Betts as he added up her purchases.
"Congratulations,
Phoebe."
"Fer
what?"
Two men had
joined the teens. One was Mr. Munson and the other looked like the boys, except
he was older, and his face twisted in a snarl.
"The
engagement of your son Paul to Ida Griffith."
"They
ain't engaged!"
Somewhere a
door banged, and a bell jangled.
"Your
order is ready, Bryony."
She
wondered from where they had come and why they had picked Munsonville to live
and fish.
"What
has caught your eye?" a voice behind her said.
It was Mr.
Drake. Bryony pointed to the fishermen and looked back at Mr. Drake. His smile
had fled.
"Yes. The
Borgstrums. Bryony, you must not delay Mrs. Parks' crullers."
Bryony
trailed Mr. Drake back to the counter where Addison handed her the paper sack.
He had written the cost on the side eight dollars: four dollars for an ounce of
powered cinnamon bark and four dollars for half an ounce of mace.
"Thank
you," Bryony said and moved toward the door, wondering all the way to The
Munsonville Times office why Mr. Drake didn't like them. Thoughtfully, she pushed open the door.
"Good
day, Miss Bryony."
At the
sound Leo's voice rising over the clickety-clickety-clack of the typewriters, Luther,
who was setting wood type on the cast iron press, glanced up. Beyond him, dark
splotches marred the board walls.
Mr. and
Mrs. Hasset, as well as Lillian, looking very much like Mrs. Hasset with her
hair put up, sat at the desks, studying shorthand squiggles while
their fingers zoomed over the keys. The atmosphere, taut like piano wire, crackled
with energy and smelled of ink and oil.
"One
copy of The Munsonville Times?"
"Yes, please,
Leo."
He pointed
to the stack on the counter. "That will be six cents."
Bryony
removed six pennies from her pinafore pocket, gave them to Leo, and then took a
paper. He carefully counted the coins and added them to the register. Luther had
resumed working, but he stole an occasional peep at Bryony.
"It
has the next installment of 'The Vicar's Ghost.' Mrs. Parks will like
that."
Bryony
giggled. "If Mr. Parks doesn't find out first."
The door
burst open. Mr. Borgstrom stalked in, slapped six cents on the counter,
snatched a newspaper, and stormed out.
"That
was rude," Bryony said.
Leo
shrugged. "Some folks don't have much to say."
Bryony
dawdled on the way back to the parsonage, contemplating the Borgstroms, the
dozens of strung-up fish, the confident capability of the twins, and the
impolite way Mr. Borgstrom had bought newspaper. She disagreed with Leo. Mr.
Borgstrom did have much to say. He
simply hadn't said it with words.
"Heavens,
child, what happened?" Mrs. Parks asked when Bryony trooped into the
kitchen at long last.
Bryony set
The Munsonville Times on the table. "Other customers."
Mrs. Parks
tore open the spice package and quickly began measuring. "If I don't
hurry, I won't see the paper until tomorrow."
"What's
the rush? You always read first."
"Your
father invited company to dinner." With loud
exasperated sighs, Mrs. Parks crumbled butter and sugar together.
"Who?"
"Children
should be seen and not heard. Bryony, please knead so I can peek at the news."
Bryony
rinsed her hands and hurried to help, not at all surprised Mrs. Parks had yielded to temptation. Mrs. Parks was already at the table hunched
over the newspaper, reading spectacles on, face cupped in her hands.
"Leo
said the next installment of 'The Victor's Ghost' is out," Bryony remarked
as she rolled and pushed the dough.
Mrs. Parks
didn't answer.
