Hästscenen del I

Okay, här är nu hästscenen. Den är ganska lång, så jag har delat upp den som en liten följetong. Och den är inte klar, men nästan. Kommentarer, förslag, kritik eller rent av bannor tas gärna emot.

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Utdrag ur Legacy
Copyright Linda Govik, 2007


The banging was so hard it made the whole door shake. Jacob sat up in the bed, eyes gleaming in the dark, and Léan quickly pulled the cover to her chin, heart pounding with shock. The banging turned to a hard shake, but as the door didn’t budge – Jacob had bolted it from the inside, like he always did – it soon stopped, and everything went silent. A harangue of foul words followed, ending with a harsh order, demanding immediate obedience; “Foreman, open the door.”

Léan met Jacob’s gaze. “It’s his lordship.”

It was an unecessary clarification, and he nodded, very briefly, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

She considered pulling the blanket over her head, hiding herself completely – but changed her mind. The cover was too thin, and would reveal her body contours ridiculously well, but since there was no other place to hide – the single room was sparely furnished, almost naked – she stayed in the bed still. Backing as far up against the wall she could, she pressed the blanket to her chin and stared toward the door, a lighter, rectangular shape in the room’s dusky gray.
As soon as it opened, Charles Hawthorne pushed Jacob to the side. Briskly, he walked straight into the room, stayed at the centre where he bent his head, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. A hesitant hand on the door, Jacob kept it open, showing the earl his visit was highly unwelcome. Rendering no reaction, Jacob looked at Léan across the room, and she gave a short shrug at his silent question. When the moonlight was shut out, the room turned dark, and the men became mere shadows in it: eerily swaying figures, the faint rustle of their clothes being the only thing solid enough to convince Léan they were real, and not ghosts. She gripped her crucifix, and held it tight, feeling her pulse throb against her knuckles.

“Milord... ?”

Jacob’s voice had been low and respectful – yet it made the earl look up and swirl around, as if shot through the back. The sudden movement almost made him trip, and he cursed profusely, for a brief second allowing himself the support of the small table beside the window. Then he straightened up – and the posture was so rigid it seemed strange, even unnatural. Stomach clenched with worry, Léan stared at his back. Her eyes had adapted to the dark, enabling her suddenly to notice that his one side was smudged, and that the elegant fabric of his coat had gone dark with mud or grass. It was torn, showing a brief glimmer of a white shirt underneath.

Jacob tried again. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes. The horse. I need help with the damn horse. It’s gone down.”

“Gone down? What...”

The earl’s hand cut the air – and Jacob’s questions. “The New Years celebration. You know we had a small gathering this evening.”

“Of course.”

Léan heard the dry tone in Jacob’s voice, and smirked a bit herself. Anyone with a fairly decent hearing would have noticed the “small gathering” of his. The earl had a huge circle of friends, and while ongoing, the roaming could be heard several distances away. Léan wondered where Mrs Grant had been during it. Surely, she’d kept from participating – she didn’t seem the person to enjoy such festivities, and somehow, Léan doubted she’d even prove loyal to her husband by attending.

The earl looked for somewhere to sit, discarded the rickety chair by the table and, almost losing his balance, drove his fingers through the blonde hair.

“Well, it was a great evening. Good company... Wonderful food... bright futures... all that... And after the guest’s had left, I was... in a splendid mood. King of the world.” He smiled, hastily and ironically. “So I decided to take Salim out for a ride.”

He had wanted to explode through the night, sense the powerful horse underneath him, make its strength his own, experience the intoxicating feeling of controlling the beast. And the horse had been impatient, fiery, and answered to his touch, just as eager to stretch its limits as was he. The reckless self-confidence – possessed by them both – had made him drive the horse toward the fence just outside the mansion’s lawn. Just by the grove, where the night had been the blackest, and the ground slippery and soft from the last rains, he’d forced the horse to jump.

“I had it under control, I swear. I’ve done that jump a thousand times before. And I thought the damned creature could make it, but it slipped and went down. Almost fell over me, it did. Damn near killed me, too.”

Jacob didn’t answer that – Léan got the feeling that if he had, what he’d said it would have been most insulting. She too was shocked. So shocked she could feel the beating of her heart against her ribcage, and the naseua pulling over her like waves on a shore. Salim? Mrs Grant’s best horse? Her pride and joy? And the most beautiful horse Léan had ever seen – and, she guessed, the earl had ever seen as well. Without thinking, she drew her breath. A faint sound, she thought no one would notice – but it was enough for the earl. Instantly, he turned to the bed. A moment of stunned silence followed, as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing – then he smiled.

“My, my... Doing some New Years-celebrating yourself, foreman?” He took a few steps closer and looked down on her with interested eyes. “And if it isn’t with the little elf, too. I should have known, of course, the way you two are always running around eachother... “ He took a scornful bow, addressed to Jacob, indicating his good fortune. The movement bringing with it a whiff of something Léan hadn’t felt with him before – the rank, stale smell of alcohol, fresh sweat, tinged with the acrid smell of fear. “Is she any good, then? I wouldn’t mind trying her out myself, you know.”

“Shut up!”

The earl didn’t even bother turn around. “Watch your language, foreman. I’ve had people flogged for less.”

“I don’t bloody care.” Jacob’s voice was hoarse with rage. “Keep away from her or I’ll cut your goddamn throat, I swear it.”

The gaze let her go, instead turning to Jacob, fixing him with the indolence of a fed cat. Hastily, Léan snatched the chemise from the bedside table – almost knocking the candle down – and pulled it over her head.

“You could try, foreman. But before you do, you should know there’s a horse lying injured by the grove.”

Jacob seemed to grow several inches at that – an illusion created by his ribcage growing as he drew his breath. “You mean it’s still there?”

“Yes.” The earl sounded sullenly, like a child staring at his dropped toffee apple. “It couldn’t get up. It tried, but... “ He shrugged. “Broken front leg.”

“Oh god...”

“Yes, sweetheart.” Frosty eyes pierced her through the darkness. “That’s what I said too. And more. Well, I need you to come and take care of it for me, foreman. Bring the gun.”

“No!” Léan was up before Jacob had time to reach for it. She struck at his hand, but he took her by the wrist and gently moved her to the side, eyes full of pain.

“I think I have to, Léan. If it’s serious...”

“It is.” The earl watched them from the door, hand on the handle, ready to move.

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing else to do.”

“Mrs Grant...” She shook her head, started over, stumbled over the words. “Her ladyship loves that horse. She wouldn’t allow anything bad to happen to it. And she’d be devastated if... if you... If it...” They both stared at her. She tugged at Jacob’s arm. “Shouldn’t we at least wake her? Let her know? I think she’d want to be there if...”

“No time.” The earl’s voice bore no opening for a consiliation. “I don’t want her there, either. You get dressed and come with us, girl. You can tell her about it later. Women are always better at those things.”

Emotionella arcs

Minns ni mitt tidigare inlägg om arcs? Här är en annan variant; emotionella arcs. Berättar lite om en teknik där man i huvudsak strukturerar storyn utefter karaktärernas känsloreaktioner. Mycket intressant, och användbart. Här är artikeln.

Våga vara hård

Enligt detta inlägg var det William Faulkner som sa det först; kill your darlings. Och precis som författaren till inlägget snabbt förklarar, betyder inte det att man ska ta en motorsåg och göra rent hus därhemma - utan helt enkelt att man måste våga göra sig av med de där små styckena i manuset som man älskar så högt, men som egentligen inte har någon funktion alls att fylla.

Själv hade jag en scen i "Det rätta skälet" som jag tyckte var det bästa i hela boken. Problemet var bara att den inte riktigt kändes rätt. Jag skrev om den, och putsade och försökte göra den så bra som möjligt. Jag skickade den stolt till en betaläsare, som ett litet smakprov på boken (underligt nog hörde hon aldrig av sig efter det *host*) och jag var så stolt, så stolt. Tills jag insåg att scenen var totalt överflödig. Den ledde ingenvart. Den hade inte med historien att göra. Allt den handlade om var två människor som åkte till en strand, där ett mord begåtts femton år tidigare. Ingenting avslöjades. Det fanns heller ingen arc - det vill säga en fråga, som besvaras genom konflikt. Det fanns ingen konflikt. Alltså, var jag tvungen att göra det där hemska, som dock är så nödvändigt för att resultatet ska bli bra: jag var tvungen att döda min älskling.

Sådant här är givetvis tillämpligt på karaktärer också, och på ett betydligt mer handfast sätt än att markera texten och radera den. Onödiga karaktärer kan man helt enkelt ta livet av. I min nuvarande historia är det minst en som får stryka på foten: en alldeles väldigt trevlig, kärleksfull, till och med spännande man. Den sortens attraktive hjälte som alltid får flickan i slutet av boken. Nå, i min bok, får han inte det. För konstens skull får han offra livet - därför att han bidrar med mycket mer som död än som levande. Hemskt, men så är det (jag vill understryka att jag inte är riktigt så här blodtörstig när det gäller folk som rör sig i min verkliga vardag...).

Sätt dig ner och tänk efter. Har du något i ditt manus som känns speciellt kärt? En karaktär, en scen, en anekdot, en mening. Fundera riktigt länge på vad din älskling bidrar till. Om den bidrar med något. Gör den inte det, så ta modet till dig och gör dig av med den. Det är ett relativt snabbt ingrepp. Smärtan är värre. Men tro mig, den är övergående - och det blir snabbt bättre. När det väl är gjort kommer du att undra varför du inte gjorde det tidigare, och varför du inte på en gång insåg vilket lyft det blir för historien att bli fri från dessa älskade, men tunga och onödiga kolosser.

I den nämnda artikeln rekommenderar jag en surfning på länkarna i nederkanten. En del är fascinerande, andra... direkt underliga (som den som rör hur man tar död på någon med en ihoprullad tidning. Återigen vill jag understryka att jag normalt inte är särskilt blodtörstig). Värt en titt, iallafall.

Nästa inlägg tänkte jag tala om hooks och hur man ordnar sina kapitel. Och någon gång inom de närmsta dagarna tänkte jag också att vi faktiskt skulle titta på ett exempel ur "Det rätta skälet" - till skräck och varnagel. Och kanske ta lite lärdom av det också.