Dis Maartmaand, wat beteken dit is weer tyd om voor te berei vir Camp NaNoWriMo.
Nou, vir die van julle ouens wat dink ek praat skielik Koerdies, Camp NaNoWriMo is ‘n virtuele skryfgeleentheid wat elke jaar in April en Julie gehou word. Dit is verbonde aan National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) wat elke jaar in November gehou word. Vir NaNoWriMo moet ‘n mens 50k woorde in Novembermaand skryf om te wen. Camp NaNoWriMo is ietwat makliker. Of, dit kan makliker wees. Mens kan daarvoor jou eie doelwit opstel (bv 1000, 3000, of hoeveel ookal woorde).
My doelwit vir April se Camp NaNo is 50k woorde.
Ja, ek is mal.
Nee, ek gee nie om nie.
Ek beplan om die eerste manuskrip van my Perdeskool Dwarsvlei storie neer te pen, en ook aan die buitelyn van ‘n ander projek te werk.
My doelwit vir Maart is dus om Perdeskool Dwarsvlei se buitelyn klaar te maak en al die ander duisende dingetjies wat ek vir Camp NaNo gaan nodig hê. Speellyste…karakterbanke…inspirasieborde…
Ek is ook baie opgewonde oor die nuwe projek wat ek aan gaan proe gedurende Camp NaNo.
Die titel wat ek op die oomblik vir hom het is Girl Hood (dis ‘n Engelse storie!) en dit is soortvan ‘n Robin Hood-hervertelling. Hieronder is ‘n toneeltjie uit die eerste hoofstuk wat ek nou die dag neergepen het. Laat weet my wat jy dink!
When Ancret had finished with the wound, wrapping it securely in clean bandages and giving Allan strict instructions to keep it dry, she packed her satchel and bent through the rush curtain into the quiet firelight outside. She was still telling Alan about the pouch of valerian she had left beside Will Stukeley’s bed, when she caught sight of the hooded man across the fire. She froze.
Robin of Barnesdale, unlike Little John and Gilbert and both the Wills, seemed to have somehow neglected to become old.
In the firelight his face was still as leathery and tanned as ever. His hair and beard were still an even mixture of gold and silver. He still lounged comfortably on his haunches, his sinewy hands stretched out towards the warmth of the fire.
His eyes was the only thing that had changed, Ancret saw as she came closer. Gone was the easy twinkling, or even the molten fire, she remembered so well. They didn’t even seem blue anymore, but a lifeless, broken, black.
“Mistress Healer,” he said. “How goes it with Will?”
It was Allan who answered, when the silence had stretched out uncomfortably for a few minutes.
“He’s sleeping now, and looking better.”
The Hood bowed slightly.
“I thank you then, mistress.”
Ancret was glad of her own hood guarding her face from his piercing gaze.
“He would better keep it clean,” she said lowly. “And not try to draw a bow. It tears the wound open afresh, and keeps the infection coming back. If he had had it cleaned properly after the torture it wouldn’t have become this bad, but he has to guard it like a freshly hatched chick now.”
She realised her mistake as soon as the words were past her lips. He would suspect now.
“And what know you of what had happened to Will’s shoulder, all those years ago?”
Ancret dropped her head.
“Only what I’ve seen tonight, master. I must take my leave now…”
“Nay, let us see your face, mistress Healer.”
Why had she mentioned the torture? She moved towards where Bug was waiting for her, fat and safe in the glow of the fire. If she could reach him, if she could get in the saddle…
The Hood gave no order, but she found her path suddenly blocked by two green-clad men. Stoic faces looked down at her.
“What is your name?”
Ancret imagined the question hanging between her and the man behind her in silvery letters.
She remembered the last time he had asked her that question. It was a thorn, that memory, buried deep in her mind and festering there, for twelve long and lonely years, too deep to reach and pluck out.
Ancret realised that she was shaking. She had to leave. Now. Something was scratching at that thorn, and she knew it would tear free any moment, infecting her whole being with bitter resentment.
She tried to slip past the two men, but they fended her off, herding her back towards the fire.
“Come, girl, tell us your name and how you come to be here. Wouldn’t do for you to go off and alert half the town and the king to our presence, would it?”
Ancret turned to face him, still keeping her head low.
“You know how I came to be here, master. Your man Allan brought me. I mean you no harm. I swear I won’t speak to a soul of this.” When his expression didn’t falter, Ancret shook a desperate hand at him. “I swear it on the knife with which I heal!”
“What is your name?”
“Please let me go, master. I’ll go far from here, you’d never see me again.”
The Hood moved around the fire. Slowly, with the wolfish ease she remembered so well.
“Remove your hood and tell us your name. You’d be free to go then, I think.” And then, as she faltered, desperately searching for an escape route, he dropped his voice into a growl. “Do as you’re told, girl.”
She obeyed, because there is still man, woman or beast to be born that can disobey Robin of Barnesdale when he speaks in that tone.
She obeyed, even though her hands shook as she lowered her hood.
She obeyed, even though she could feel the thorn tearing loose from it’s festering hold inside her head, spilling memories as it went.
Firelight washed across her face, and she lifted angry eyes to meet his.
His face turned white.
For a moment, Ancret was glad. Glad that it hurt him as badly as it did her.
“Don’t you remember me, father? I am Ancret. I am your daughter.”