He's an unlikely menace.

The Scarlet-Gypsy Song is a bit different than most books [even fantasy] because the cause for all the trouble in the tale is double-breasted. You see, Randolph Fitz-Hughes is the villain, indeed, and yet all the trouble in the whole book is rather inadvertently caused by one man:

Mr. Adoniram Woolcott Macefield 

He's  an author, you see, and Cecily Woodruff, Diccon Quarry, Lad, Dear-Heart, even the villain himself were all created by his pen. The events in the story are dictated-to by Mr. Macefield's imagination. It's all part of his book that he hopes to publish and get wealthy by. So when he children get into his book and his heroine gets out of it, there's rather a kerfuffle. Here's the scene directly after Cecily has told him the truth about what has happened:

The clock ticked, beating a funereal rhythm into the otherwise silent room. Cecily remained seated, her eyes still fixed on Mr. Macefield who had not stirred for ten full minutes from his current position—head on desk, arms over head, hair sticking wildly up like untrimmed grass around a fence. She wondered if this man had been so overcome by her tidings that he’d fainted—but such a person would hardly be worthy of the name of Man. He must be lost in thought, as she herself had been when she heard the news. She shifted in her seat and the chenille of her dressing gown made a soft hushing noise—enough to rouse Mr. Macefield from his brown study. He raised his head a mite, his eyes darting from one corner of his desk to the other, as if the thing he had lost were to be found somewhere under the litter of papers and empty, coffee-stained teacups.

Cecily cleared her throat, sufficiently encouraged by this sign of life to get on with the business of solving the monumental problem before them. Mr. Macefield responded with a slow shake of his head as if he’d been a great Newfoundland just waking from a nap.

“You’re quite sure they’re gone?”

“Quite.”

“Ah. I thought so.” Mr. Macefield’s lips pressed against each other and it struck Cecily that he looked a much older man now than he had but a quarter of an hour before.

“What can be done, sir?”

“That would be the question, would it not, Miss Woodruff? I—I mean, your Grace.”

Cecily’s smiled at the quick recovery and the discomfited expression on her author’s face as he stole a sidelong glance in her direction. She put out a small, white hand and bowed her head. “I am not worthy of any such title, sir. I have done a terrible deed this morning.”

Mr. Macefield dropped her hand, which he had taken reverently, and scraped his chin. “You don’t mean to say you did it on purpose?”

“Never, sir!”

“No—no, your Grace. Forgive me for even wondering.” He scraped his chin again and chuckled nervously.  “You are not capable of any such thing—ha ha! I wrote you—I ought to know that much—you are kindness itself and beauty, grace, accomplishment, and modesty besides. Do forgive me.”

“You are forgiven, Mr. Macefield, but I can’t help wondering what is to be done in the matter?” Cecily fumbled with a pile of trimmings from pen-nibs and fixed an intent gaze on the man before her. He shrugged, tugged at his cravat so it lay even more cocked to one side than usual, and harrumphed.

“In cases such as these,” he began, frowning, “it is customary, I believe, to call the policeman.”

“The policeman! Surely you would not put the future queen of Scarlettania in—”

“Jail? Certainly not. A blunder again. But what else does one do in the case of missing persons? And so many missing all at once.” He tossed his hands in the air, fluttered his fingers like a covey of doves, and smiled. It was apparent that, for the moment, the idea had rendered him quite helpless.

Cecily leaned forward in her chair. “There is one difference in our case than most others, sir.”

“Indeed? Is there? The children are missing, and nowhere to be found, certainly?”

“But that is not so, Mr. Macefield—they are to be found. We know where they have gone—the only trouble is, we cannot get at them.”

Mr. Macefield smiled again. “Capital logic, Miss Woodruff—er, your Grace. I ought to have thought of it myself.”

Cecily smiled; glad to have her piece spoken. The matter was entirely in her employer’s hands now. It was only he who had the power to do anything to change to course of events. She sighed. Court-life had not taught her how to handle such a dilemma, though it had taught her many a valuable skill. A sun-beam warmth crept into her heart, the precursor of a laugh—perhaps they ought to begin a royal class on What To Do If One Loses Her Charges. But there were graver matters at hand.

“What is your course of action?” Cecily asked. Her employer’s course of action, at present, seemed to be to clutch his hair and stare, sighing now and smiling then, frowning in between.

He stirred. “I suppose the only thing to do is to…write them home.” He sighed then, and overwhelm registered so strong in the slump of his shoulders, Cecily could hardly bear to look upon him. “But see here, your Grace—is there not another way? What about the box? Surely you have it with you?”

Cecily shook her head. “I’d thought of that—but your children are most thorough in their mischief—they took the box along.”

Mr. Macefield nodded and scratched his nose. “I only wondered—I might have gone in after them.”

“And what then? The box can only carry people forth—never call them back. Where it dances once it cannot tread again.”

Mr. Macefield slid half-way down his chair till only his cravat, his head, and his hair were visible above the sea of paper. “I had forgot that.”

“Then, sir,” Cecily said, standing and smoothing her skirt. “You had better start writing.” She turned to leave.

Mr. Macefield scrambled under his desk and blocked her retreat. “Isn’t there another way? Something else I can do right now?”

Cecily peered over his shoulder at the desk, chair, bookcases, and tables awash in manuscript. A brief interlude in the madness might aid the poor man’s agony. Then her stomach turned a somersault as remembrance forced itself upon her mind. “Well, there is one thing that must be done immediately.”

“Alleluia—what is it?”

“We must tell your wife, sir.”

"The Tales that Haunt the Brocken..."

There are some poems that paint gorgeous pictures in your mind. Not all poems do that, you know. Some paint victorious, or epic, or dangerous, or sweet, or touching, or solemn pictures, but it is not every poem that gathers shreds of rainbows and scarlet-maples and brook-water and can spin it just so into your imagination that you stand in the scene. This poem does that for me. It's special. It's beautiful. And I love it. I often find myself musing over snatches of the dancing rhyme. "Woodsy and wild and lonesome..." "The tales that haunt the Brocken and whisper down the Rhine..." *happy, happy sigh*
Don't worry if it looks long--it flies by, I promise! I love this winsome, ethereal, fairy-like poem. :)

"Cobbler Keezar's Vision"

John Greenleaf Whittier

The beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day,
The minks were fish-wards, and the crows
Surveyors of high way,--

When Keezar sat on the hillside
Upon his cobbler's form,
With a pan of coals on either hand
To keep his waxed-ends warm.

And there, in the golden weather,
He stitched and hammered and sung;
In the brook he moistened his leather,
In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the good-wife's reckoning
In the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing
Who dress the hills of vine,
The tales that haunt the Brocken
And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
The swift stream wound away,
Through birches and scarlet maples
Flashing in foam and spray,--

Down on the sharp-horned ledges
Plunging in steep cascade,
Tossing its white-maned waters
Against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
East and west and north and south;
Only the village of fishers
Down at the river's mouth;

Only here and there a clearing,
With its farm-house rude and new,
And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,
Where the scanty harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers,
No vintage-song he heard,
And on the green no dancing feet
The merry violin stirred.

"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar,
"When Nature herself is glad,
And the painted woods are laughing
At the faces so sour and sad?"

Small heed had the careless cobbler
What sorrow of heart was theirs
Who travailed in pain with the births of God
And planted a state with prayers,--

Hunting of witches and warlocks,
Smiting the heathen horde,--
One hand on the mason's trowel
And one on the soldier's sword!

But give him his ale and cider,
Give him his pipe and song,
Little he cared for Church or State,
Or the balance of right and wrong.

"'Tis work, work, work," he muttered--
"And for rest a snuffle of psalms!"
He smote on his leathern apron
With his brown and waxen palms.

"O for the purple harvests
Of the days when I was young!
For the merry grape-stained maidens,
And the pleasant songs they sung

"O for the breath of vineyards,
Of apples and nuts and wine!
For an oar to row and a breeze to blow
Down the grand old river Rhine!"

A tear in his blue eye glistened
And dropped on his beard so gray.
"Old, old am I," said Keezar,
"And the Rhine flows far away!"

But a cunning man was the cobbler;
He could call the birds from the trees,
Charm the black snake out of the ledges,
And bring back the swarming bees.

All the virtues of herbs and metals,
All the lore of the woods, he knew,
And the arts of the Old World mingled
With the marvels of the New.

Well he knew the tricks of magic,
And the lapstone on his knee
Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles
Or the stone of Doctor Dee.

For the mighty master Agrippa
Wrought it with spell and rhyme
From a fragment of mystic moonstone
In the tower of Nettesheim.

To a cobbler Minnesinger
The marvellous stone gave he,
And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar,
Who brought it over the sea.

He held up that mystic lapstone,
He held it up like a lens,
And he counted the long years coming,
By twenties and by tens.

"One hundred years," quoth Keezar.
"And fifty have I told
Now open the new before me,
And shut me out the old!"

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness
Rolled from the magic stone,
And a marvellous picture mingled
The unknown and the known.

Still ran the stream to the river,
And river and ocean joined;
And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line.
And cold north hills behind.

But the mighty forest was broken
By many a steepled town,
By many a white-walled farm-house,
And many a garner brown.

Turning a score of mill-wheels,
The stream no more ran free;
White sails on the winding river,
White sails on the far-off sea.

Below in the noisy village
The flags were floating gay,
And shone on a thousand faces
The light of a holiday.

Swiftly the rival ploughmen
Turned the brown earth from their shares;
Here were the farmer's treasures,
There were the craftsman's wares.

Golden the good-wife's butter,
Ruby her currant-wine;
Grand were the strutting turkeys,
Fat were the beeves and swine.

Yellow and red were the apples,
And the ripe pears russet-brown,
And the peaches had stolen blushes
From the girls who shook them down.

And with blooms of hill and wildwood,
That shame the toil of art,
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms
Of the garden's tropic heart.

"What is it I see?" said Keezar:
"Am I here or am I there?
Is it a fete at Bingen?
Do I look on Frankfort fair?

"But where are the clowns and puppets,
And imps with horns and tail?
And where are the Rhenish flagons?
And where is the foaming ale?

"Strange things, I know, will happen,--
Strange things the Lord permits;
But that droughty folk should be dolly
Puzzles my poor old wits.

"Here are smiling manly faces,
And the maiden's step is gay;
Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking,
Nor mopes, nor fools, are they.

"Here's pleasure without regretting,
And good without abuse,
The holiday and the bridal
Of beauty and of use.

"Here's a priest and there is a Quaker,
Do the cat and the dog agree?
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood?
Have they cut down the gallows-tree?

"Would the old folk know their children?
Would they own the graceless town,
With never a ranter to worry
And never a witch to drown?"

Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,
Laughed like a school-boy gay;
Tossing his arms above him,
The lapstone rolled away.

It rolled down the rugged hillside,
It spun like a wheel bewitched,
It plunged through the leaning willows,
And into the river pitched.

There, in the deep, dark water,
The magic stone lies still,
Under the leaning willows
In the shadow of the hill.

But oft the idle fisher
Sits on the shadowy bank,
And his dreams make marvellous pictures
Where the wizard's lapstone sank.

And still, in the summer twilights.
When the river seems to run
Out from the inner glory,
Warm with the melted sun,

The weary mill-girl lingers
Beside the charmed stream,
And the sky and the golden water
Shape and color her dream.

Fair wave the sunset gardens,
The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud,
And love goes sailing by!

This quiet marriage of Heart and Mind

Sometimes I wonder...what is it that I love about writing? Why do words have such an alluring quality for me about them? Why do I even bother? Do I have any talent in this arena? Am I only stylizing myself a writer as Monte Cristo stylizes himself a Count?

And then I begin to answer the questions point by point.

Why do I love writing? Because I love the beauty of story. I love the shadowy impression of The Story that each subsequent tale bears. I love the adventure, the friendships, the romance, the nature of stories.

Why do words captivate me? Perhaps they run in my blood as they do in my head and my heart. In any case I cannot avoid loving words. Harnessing those horse-wild groups of letters and making them bear my fancy is invigorating, challenging, and wonderful.

Why do I even bother? Because I can't help Bothering. I was born to Bother with writing just as assuredly as I was born to dance and sing and make merry. "A star danced, and under that was I born." It is in my nature, and one cannot separate oneself very efficiently from personality.

Do I have any talent in this area? It wouldn't matter if I could barely string "The Man Went To The Store" together. My heart and hand bid me write and did I scrawl nothing but paltry nursery-rhymes, I could no more stop than I could now, up to my neck in numerous Projects.

Am I only stylizing myself a writer? Could I pretend to be anything else? I am not a musician, though I love music. I am not a painter, though I can wield a brush with a passable hand. I am not a dancer though my feet cannot stand still in the presence of rhythm and melody. Therefore I can only conclude that I stylize nothing. I am a writer, and that's all there is to it.

And quick as that my doubts and fears and hopes die away altogether in the great calm of knowing I am in my element with a pen and paper. I do think the Lord has given me a gift (however small) in the area of writing. All the glory must go to Him, and so though I acknowledge I am a writer, I wonder at it myself.
Me? How did this happen? Why do words bend for my pen?

It is a great mystery, is it not, this quiet marriage of heart and mind with word and deed?

Thus Goes Everyone in the World

It is a well-known fact that "mind over matter" really  can work. One can forget where one is in the beauty of imaginings. I am sitting here at the computer desk hoary-headed, covered in plaster-dust from cleaning a construction zone today, and yet I held the most fascinating conversation with the two sides of myself that is resulting in a little bit of a play. I have never written a play, and this is not to be a full play, but it is a dialog, which is rather what plays are made of. And it all came from me scraping plaster, paint, and who-knows-what off of windows. Who knows but some of the dust I swept up could be Brilliancy Dust? Would that I could bottle it up and sell it to the rest of you. ;) Anyway, here's to imaginings! :)

"Why this sad countenance, cousin? In faith, you look as if the last man on earth had died in fearful agonies upon your dainty slippers! I let my dreams out of their gilded cage that they may see the daylight while they may. True, I could coddle them and keep them close and young forever in my secret heart, but I have a dim hope that some of them may come homing back to me, at some distant day, not altogether empty-handed."

~Thus Goes Everyone in the World by Rachel Heffington

Much Ado About Nothing. :)

All I will say is, I now officially adore Shakespeare. I now officially adore Kenneth Branagh's acting. You may not expect me to walk around the house quoting "Trust God, love me, and mend." "A star danced, and under that was I born." "Thou wilt be condemned to everlasting redemption for that!" and many other pieces of Much Ado About Nothing. Okay people. I even dreamed in Elizabethan English all last night, understood all of it, made the most brilliant repartees, and can't remember a single stitch of my wit this morning. How's that for gratitude? :D Anyway, read my review on the Much Ado About Nothing movie here! :) ~Rach

Introducing "Higglety Hill" :)

Well, just to get an idea out of my brain and down onto paper, I wrote this little piece of nothingness. I suppose I'll keep it on hand if I ever need another novel idea! (As I'm sure I will :) This is mainly characterization, as it is told from a narrator-type voice, but who in the world cares when one is scribbling inspiration? ;) So here I give you, for your enjoyment:

 "Higglety Hill"

By Rachel Heffington

 To have suggested they nail down the loose step so it would not creak would have been heresy. To recommend a few more real pieces of furniture among the telephone-wire spools and orange crates would have been blaspheme. For, the owners of Higglety Hill were adamant—not a thing should be changed. Could be changed. If one began meddling about dear Higglety Hill it would quickly slide into the ranks of Just Another Place—“Japs,” the children called those legions of blind, unloved, empty houses scattered over the countryside.

Higglety Hill began as a Jap. But that was, of course, before the Beckett children had discovered it and given it a name. Now to suggest that Higglety Hill had ever been such a thing would earn you an indignant stare from Olivia, a fierce growl from Hugh, and a pained cry out of Jemma.

“Higglety Hill a Jap? How dare you?” they might say, and naturally that would be an end to any acquaintance you might have with the place, for the Beckets were jealous as dragons over Higglety Hill. They were fierce about it, I tell you, which is why they swore that, were there any other children on Sparrowleave Lane, they should not be friends with them anyway. But there were no children on Sparrowleave Lane save themselves.

Jemma, who was six, might have been “Jemima” once, but no one could remember so no one cared. Her entire character could be pinned on that maxim, for Jemma was the quiet Beckett. She was the one people glanced at, forgot about, and were startled by the next moment when she cleared her throat and fixed her blue eyes on them, reproachfully.

Olivia was the oldest Beckett and it was she who had suggested they name Higglety Hill. She named everything, even a particular freckle on Hugh’s elbow that she christened “Moss.”

“Moss?” you might ask.

“Why not Moss?” she’d answer with all the loftiness twelve years bestows, and become even more mysterious. It was Olivia’s habit to be mysterious over the oddest things. You might be eating a picnic lunch and she’d raise the lid of her sandwich, peer inside, then look at you. “I won’t tell you what’s on mine.”

“What’s on yours?”

 “Not telling.”

“Pickles?”

“No.”

“Ketchup?”

“What?”

“Ketchup.”

“No.”

“Mayonnaise?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Mustard, ham, and cheese,” she’d say at last, taking an enormous bite out of her sandwich.

“That’s what we’ve all got!” You’d cry in frustration.

“I never said it wasn’t,” she’d reply, staring at you as if she found your company dull and rather taxing.

This particular habit of Olivia’s vexed Hugh who was always curious and therefore always asking questions. His favorite was “why?” or perhaps “what?” (pretending he was deaf) or once in a very long while “wherefore?” which he had read off of a torn page of Shakespeare’s Illustrated Companion next to a picture of a man in colorful tights whose named appeared to be “Romec.” The page was chewed by a mouse there at the last half of the word and Hugh walked about feeling that somehow there was more to fellow’s name than he had been able to decipher. “Romec” wasn’t any sort of a name at all.

In addition to Hugh’s curiosity, he was the Beckett no one could forget—his duckling-yellow hair made sure of that if his pert opinions failed, which they hardly ever did.

These were the owners of Higglety Hill, and this is their story.

The First Step Toward Terrific Terror. ;)

As I begin the query-process of getting A Mother for the Seasonings published, I have had the distinct honor of opening up a document I had laid aside, unsure it was worthy of notice, and finding that I have rather a charming story to my name. After six edits, I was sick to death with the story, the characters, the entire thing. I laid it aside intent on never opening it again till a publisher wanted it, and now I have resurrected the dear tale and am sending it off into the wide, wide world. It's also been interesting to write my query letter. I feel like those pigeons in Bolt!

"Wait..wait..wait. Get ready for it...."

"ALIENS!"

"Ooooh snap!"

 It's been funny to make a sale's pitch since I'm not that type of person. :D But I'm learning a lot. Later on [if any of them get results] I'll write up some tips, but for now I'm a novice. A perfect child! ;) The list of Christian publishing companies that accept children's literature (and unsolicited manuscripts) is teeny. But since I've never expected fame and fortune, I think I'll be able to find someone to take me. It might be a small place--I'm open to that. After all, I'm not sure my books could elbow their way into the ranks of those Great Companies anyway. They are much too modest and charming for that. They like retired corners of literarydom, becoming beloveds, and earning a respectable keep. They like popularity but not celebrity-status. If celebrity-status finds them they'd roll over in shock, but they don't think they'll ever win a Newberry Award. Still, they are social butterflies in their own right. :)
I would covet your prayers as I move into this territory of publishing. In theory it's amazingly exciting. It reality it's amazingly exciting while being, at the same time, tremendously terrifying. I'll need lots of wisdom and discernment, and a strong Pilot steering this craft. I'll make sure I keep you updated! :) ~Rachel