Walking Contradictions
American culture, which is rooted in the Puritanical thinking of our ancestors, is innately moral and dualistic in its thinking. In any given situation we try to separate and label the good guys and the bad guys. Part of growing up is realizing that this either-or thinking is not only overly simplistic, but perhaps causes more problems than its simplicity tries to solve. No one is all good or all evil. Some of the best stories are those where the good guys make some really bad choices and where the bad guys prove to have some good in them, no matter how deep down and hidden.
This idea that good characters are not always perfect and bad guys are not all bad is what made creating the characters in Twisted so much fun. I fleshed them out and then set them in difficult situations and let them figure out how they were going to handle their problems, allowing for them to mistakes and redeem themselves wherever seemed natural. Thus Aoife’s maternal instincts to protect her child drive her to do some pretty terrifying lengths and Ronan and the little man, who both want nothing more than pure love and affection, engage in some shameful behavior as well. Like most stories, the pages of Twisted end when most of the characters have managed to redeem themselves to some degree. However, even as I write this blog, I know that if I picked up the story again and wrote a sequel (which I do not have plans to do), I would find the ‘good’ characters making mistakes and the ‘bad’ characters revealing their softer sides again and again. Characters, like people, are only as good as the given moment at which we see them.
This shift away from viewing character, people, political parties, candidates, and cultures as all good or all bad is just the type of shift I think we could all use in today’s world.
Who are some of the real life people, historical or current, who have surprised you in some way by revealing that they are more than the simple label we tried to apply to them?
Twisted: The Girl Who Uncovered
Rumpelstiltskin’s Name
Bonnie M Hennessy
Genre: YA Fantasy
Date of Publication: November 19, 2016
ISBN13: 978-1539753421
ISBN-10: 1539753425
ASIN: B01N3MC1K4
Number of pages: 306
Word Count: 75,000
Cover Artist: Andreea Vraciu
Book Description:
An old tale tells the story of how a little man named Rumpelstiltskin spun straw into gold and tricked a desperate girl into trading away her baby. But that’s not exactly how it happened.
The real story began with a drunken father who kept throwing money away on alcohol and women, while his daughter, Aoife, ran the family farm on her own. When he gambled away everything they owned to the Duke, it was up to her to spin straw into gold to win it all back.
With her wits and the help of a magical guardian, she outsmarted the Duke and saved the day.
Well almost…
Her guardian suddenly turned on Aoife and sent her on a quest to find his name, the clues to which were hidden deep in the woods, a moldy dungeon, and a dead woman’s chamber.
This is not the tale of a damsel in distress, but a tenacious, young woman who solved a mystery so great that not even the enchanted man who spun straw into gold could figure it out.
Not until Aoife came along.
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/3SDfW7PY3wY
Chapter
1 Excerpt
The morning mist
had almost lifted in the village of Stanishire, the farmers and fishermen were
readying the market, women were shouting chores to sleepy children, and Aoife
was on her way to collect her father from the town brothel, where the painted
ladies entertained men’s nocturnal needs.
When she reached
the main street, she dismounted and tied her horse to a hitching post. She
walked around the corner of the brothel where no one could see her, adjusted
her skirt, and ran her fingers through her hair. Practice had taught her how to
jiggle the finicky latch so its reluctant grip released and granted her
entrance. The back hallway was dark and quiet. Maggie, the young girl who
helped cook and clean, was opening windows to release the sweat and
perfume-laced air. Broken glass littered the floor, and cards from unfinished games
lay scattered on tables.
“Maggie,” Aoife
whispered.
Maggie turned
into the dust motes in a sliver of daylight. Over the years, Aoife had learned
to call her gently and not to sneak up on her lest she startle the young girl
as she had done the first time they met here when Aoife was eleven and Maggie
just nine.
“Eeeeef-uh!”
Maggie’s eyes lit up as she called Aoife’s name. She had always over-enunciated
each syllable in what sounded like a sigh of relief.
She took hold of
Aoife’s hand, pulling her around the corner and into the kitchen, one of the
only places in the residence that passed for a respectable room.
“Wait here,”
Maggie said, kissing Aoife on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Aoife looked
around at the pots hanging on the wall that Maggie kept so shiny. A rolling pin
on the counter was coated with flour and the smell of bread baking in the oven
filled the dimly lit room. In the corner was Maggie’s chair with a basket of
women’s stockings waiting to be darned. Aoife turned her back to the parlor
door and everything that happened there, pretending her visits with Maggie by
the fire were no different than a visit with any other village girl. The sight
of Maggie humming as she patched up stockings always made Aoife think of her
younger sister, Tara, lying under her heavy blankets, sewing away at some
pattern their mother had her working on. Aoife felt that Tara and Maggie would
have enjoyed chatting over their sewing, if only Tara were not stuck in bed
with a perpetual cough and Maggie the progeny of a brothel.
“Aoife. You look
quite bright and alive considering the early hour.”
Aoife jumped as
Maeve strolled over and pulled a leaf from Aoife’s hair.
“I see you’ve
been busy with your studies,” Maeve added.
Aoife touched
her hair, searching for more debris. Maeve’s dressing gown exposed her cleavage
and her long, dark curls draped over her bare shoulders without apology. Aoife
had seen her dressed, powdered, and painted since she was a girl, and she
admired the way her gaze, so piercing, seemed to command respect from everyone.
But what had captivated Aoife the most was something more powerful and more
impressive than Maeve’s beauty. Although crow’s feet now punctuated her eyes,
and her waistline had thickened, the most powerful men deferred to her, bowing
their heads in her direction when she traveled through the streets.
“I couldn’t
resist the path through the woods,” Aoife replied, knowing she could hide
nothing from her.
Maeve stared at
her. The affection in her appraisal was always slightly distant, stopping just
short of motherly.
“Seamus is
taking care of things,” Maeve said with her usual calm.
Aoife nodded and
looked again at the shiny pots, trying to focus on anything but Seamus’ highly
embarrassing ritual of waking her father, the fairly infamous Finnegan, from
wherever he had ended his evening and saddling him on his horse. Maggie pulled
a loaf of steaming bread from the oven and set out plates, knives, and a bowl
of fresh butter. Each of them took their place around the table as Maggie generously
portioned out the bread. Maeve let her shawl fall over the back of her chair
and straightened up her shoulders, exposing even more of herself. Aoife flushed
and bit quietly into her bread, savoring the flavor and the moment.
There was an
honesty and warmth in this kitchen that she never felt in the presence of her
own mother. Conversation and warm bread was what made coming to get her father
for all these years worth the lashings she used to receive from her mother when
she returned home.
“I hear that your latest suitor was seen
heading out of town yesterday,” Maeve said. “I gather his hasty departure means
that there will be no nuptials?”
Aoife shook her
head and cast a quick smile at Maggie.
“I can’t imagine
why you didn’t want to marry that one,” Maeve said. “Lots of gold, a manor
house to the east with more land than you and your horse could ever discover,
and handsome, too. What more could a girl want than a man with piles of gold
and a good set of teeth?”
“A man who is
blind and deaf and preferably feeble – with deep pockets, of course. Then I can
live my life in peace and never have to worry about his teeth – or mine for
that matter.”
Maggie giggled,
and Maeve raised an appreciative eyebrow, offering her signature half-smile,
half-smirk. Aoife grinned and took another bite of the steaming bread.
“And what do
your parents say?” Maeve asked. Her features had softened, but her thoughts
remained inscrutable. “I can’t imagine they find your refusals as entertaining
as we do.”
Aoife fell silent.
This was an unexpected detour in the script. They avoided direct references to
Aoife’s family. It made breaking bread between them possible, since the money
Maeve took from Aoife’s father by night was one of the greatest strains on her
family’s resources, reputation, and love. The medicine that Tara often went
without after her father’s reckless trips was reason enough for Aoife to
despise Maeve, but she had learned to avoid dwelling on these realities. She
needed Maeve enough to tolerate her father’s indiscretions, since rescuing him
had now become a means of escaping her life. Discussing her family jeopardized
everything.
“Well, no, they
are not exactly pleased,” Aoife replied, her brashness fading.
Maeve wiped the
corner of her mouth and cleared her throat. Something in the air had changed.
“You know, at
some point, perhaps sooner than you might expect, they will stop coming. First,
the young ones with stacks of gold and good teeth. They have the most fragile
egos and will seek out friendlier pastures. Then eventually, even the wrinkly
ones, with and without gold, will find calling on you not worth the effort,”
Maeve paused. “The tales of your beauty will be replaced by tales of new faces
with more welcoming smiles. The choices left to you will be slim.”
The bread balled
up in Aoife’s throat. She could have had breakfast in her own home if she
wanted this type of talk. She suddenly felt incensed that Madame Maeve dared to
criticize her.
“My mother mires
me in these traps daily,” Aoife dusted the crumbs from her hands. “She
appreciates neither the risk to my reputation I take coming here nor the fact
that I am the one who has run the farm for years now.”
“This is true.
Your family would be in the poor house and your sister probably with God if not
for your courage and your brains,” Maeve said. “But I’m not talking about them.
I’m talking about you and your future. You must understand that there are
consequences for you, whether you say yes or no to the suitors who come your
way.”
She raised an
eyebrow, which seemed loaded with a warning left to Aoife to decipher. It had a
familiar ring to it, like the warnings her mother made so often about the
consequences of Aoife’s trips to Maeve’s house.
“No respectable
man will ever want to marry a girl who consorts with vile women, not when he
thinks he can pay a few coins for her instead,” her mother would say.
Her mother lived
in such a dream world she did not recognize that Aoife was trying to protect
the family’s reputation and as much of their finances as was possible. Her
mother worried more about Aoife’s reputation than the food on the table and
Tara’s medicine. And because of that, a chasm had grown between them too deep
to ever cross.
“My choices are
just as narrow as every other girl’s. I know that,” Aoife said standing up
abruptly. Her shawl dropped to the floor, its power to protect her no match for
the storm brewing in the kitchen. “But I’d never compromise myself – or give
men control over my body for money like you do. Of that you can be sure.”
“I wasn’t
suggesting that,” Maeve replied, completely unruffled. “But it’s interesting
that you did. And, Aoife, no matter what choice you make – your husband’s
house, my house, or the nunnery – you are exchanging control over your body for
money. Of that you can be sure.”
“I have given
half my life already to protecting my family. Everyday, whether I’m seeing that
fields are reseeded and sheep are sheared or carting my father home from here,
I am picking up the pieces of my family’s fortune that my father has broken
apart,” Aoife said with less command of her voice than she would have liked.
“And now, after I’ve done everything I can to save this family, they – and you
– expect me to sell myself off to the next buyer, supposedly to protect them? I
can’t do it.”
Aoife knew there
was no way for a woman to survive in the world without the protection of a man,
yet the security they offered was never guaranteed. Her father’s choices still
chipped away at the pieces of what was once her mother, Bronagh. Still bedecked
in the jewels of their courtship, she found her only solace and comfort in
embroidering ornate and regal designs and patterns by the night fire, awaiting
his return from Maeve’s as if her delicate hands could somehow stitch back
together the girl he had unraveled and the lives he had torn apart at the
seams. Bronagh would not even consider selling her tapestries or needlework to
help support her family, for that would have been beneath a woman of her
status. Aoife, however, was not built to sit and sew while their fortune and
Tara’s health deteriorated at the hands of her father. She needed to be on her
feet fixing the problem, not decorating the home they were sure to lose if no
one intervened.
Bronagh had
traded away her soul for a broken promise of safety and love, and she expected
Aoife to do the same. But now Maeve, too? Her advice was nothing less than a
betrayal.
“For women not
made to curtsey obediently through life, there is no easy choice.” A subtle
urgency belied Maeve’s calm. “However, refusing every suitor is not a means of
controlling your life, but rather giving over control to whatever or whomever
is left over.”
“So I should
marry the next man who comes along or end up in a whore house like you?” Aoife
said, wincing at her angry words.
She was angry
that Maeve had taken her mother’s side, but she did not relish wounding the one
person who had always been a source of strength and understanding. Despite her
words, Maeve’s features revealed not even the slightest hint of hurt.
“What I am
saying is that you ought to turn away any option which would leave you without
hope of peace and contentment,” Maeve replied. “But do not fool yourself into
waiting for a perfect choice to present itself, because it never will.”
Aoife felt her
stomach lurch. She needed to get away from this house, this woman, and the
truth. Turning around, she marched outside where her father was standing. She
walked to her horse and looked to see if he needed assistance. The legacy of
too much mead weighed on his haggard figure as Seamus helped him to his horse.
“I’m so sorry to
have inconvenienced you this morning, my sweet Aoife,” her father’s worn voice
eschewed sadly.
“I know,
father,” she replied. “You’re always sorry.”
He swayed
precariously in either direction and then took Aoife’s hand suddenly.
“You’re too good
to me, Aoife,” he whispered. “You should be reaching for the–”
“Stars,” she
finished. “I know, Father.”
He closed his
eyes and pressed her hand between his.
“My hand’s grown
since we spent our nights stargazing.”
He nodded and
Aoife felt a pang of nostalgia sweep over her. She missed the way he used to
pick her up from her mother’s side by the fire and take her out of doors to
look at the moon and stars. The memory of the polished scent of him from her
childhood came back over the stench of mead that clung to him now. He had been
a good father once upon a time. She looked up, searching for any fragment of
the man who tossed her high in the air as a little girl. The sparkle of a tear
danced at the corner of his eye. There he was. She kissed his forehead tenderly
and he sighed with the soft smile reserved only for Aoife. His favorite.
About the Author:
Bonnie grew up a shy, quiet girl who the teachers always seated next to the noisy boys because they knew she was too afraid to talk to anyone. She always had a lot she wanted to say but was too afraid to share it for fear she might die of embarrassment if people actually noticed her. Somewhere along the line, perhaps after she surprised her eighth grade class by standing up to a teacher who was belittling a fellow student, she realized that she had a voice and she didn’t burst into flames when her classmates stared at her in surprise.
Not long after that, she began spinning tales, some of which got her into trouble with her mom. Whether persuading her father to take her to the candy store as a little girl or convincing her parents to let her move from Los Angeles to Manhattan to pursue a career at eighteen as a ballet dancer with only $200 in her pocket, Bonnie has proven that she knows how to tell a compelling story.
Now she spends her time reading and making up stories for her two children at night. By day she is an English teacher who never puts the quiet girls next to the noisy boys and works hard to persuade her students that stories, whether they are the ones she teaches in class or the ones she tells to keep them from daydreaming, are better escapes than computers, phones, and social media.
Author website: http://www.bonniemhennessy.com/
Twitter: @bonnieMHennessy
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1 comment:
This looks like an awesome book! Thank you for the first chapter and the giveaw3.
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