There were other things amidst the sea of darkness. (This sentence, or at least one nearly exactly like it, still begins Chapter 5 of The Journey) There was at times the sensation of burning, intense heat, which could change just as quickly to icy cold and uncontrollable shivering. There would be hands holding him down, gently and yet firmly. There were times when he knew that he was drinking something with a queer taste, which seemed to ease the fierce pounding in his temples. And there were the voices. Always, it seemed, the voices. (And can I just say that the number of expletives, i.e. "there was, there were" in the past several sentences was unbearable.) "...Ohhh! He looks dreadful..." It was Marjorie. But she wasn't here... she was back at the camp, because he had failed... but he hadn't, had he? ... or had he? ... it was so hard to think... "Shhh -- easy... easy..." A deeper voice, a stranger's voice... It somehow felt as though there was a huge load of bricks on his chest... he was panting, gasping wildly, struggling for breath. (My word. Did he contract pneumonia or what? Fred has the constitution of a Victorian heroine.) Something was going down his throat; it left a strong aftertaste... (the ellipses are strong with this one) The darkness spread over him again, like a blanket. He was falling into sleep -- deep, peaceful sleep...

It is my great pleasure to announce that we have reached the end of the ellipses. Also the end of that half-a-page-long paragraph.

Fred opened his eyes. There was a strip of bright sunshine across the blanket that was on him; otherwise the room around him seemed dim. He was vaguely glad, somehow. Bright light in his eyes did not feel like a comfortable thing right now. Where was he, anyway? He made as if to raise his head.

Can we please just assert something for real? All these "seemed", "somehow", "vaguely", "feel like". *throws self on desk and snores*

"Ah -- a-a-a. Don't even try it. Awake at last, I see; and well you should be. After the fever broke you slept for twenty-four hours straight, more or less. How do you feel right now, lad?"

Fred considered for a time. Did he really feel like anything right now? (I don't know, do you? Is it the curse of this chapter for everyone to be unsure of their state in life and everything in general?) And then, quite suddenly, he realized that he was hungry. In fact, he was ravenous. "Hungry," he said aloud.

"Mm." The man, whoever he was, sounded satisified. Stranger danger, Fred. Look out. Got the pepper spray handy? "That's a good sign. Well, you'll have some sustenance soon enough. And while you wait for that, I think there's also some sisters who want to see you if you're not too tired; I don't know about the brother. Excuse me while I go fetch them."

No, unnamed and unknown character of possibly unsavory origins. You are not excused.

There was the sound of the door shutting. Minutes afterward, it reopened, and Marjorie and Sandy were at the foot of his bed with startling speed. He studied them anxiously; they seemed to be none the worse for wear other than some rather dark circles under their eyes.

Yes, they were worrying themselves sick over you because you had a physical breakdown, after, recall, one night and one day of walking with the occasional break and a parcel of food to sustain you.

"So you're awake at last," said Sandy ungraciously. "You took your sweet time about it, too."

"Sandy!" protested Marjorie gently.

Actually one of my favorite Sandy/Marjorie moments in the old draft. Sandy being her awkward self, trying to cover up her worry with resentment, and Marjorie coming in quickly with a gentle reproof.

"I knew I should have gone," persisted Sandy. "He was in no fit condition to do it -- see, he practically killed himself."

No kidding. And now we're back to Sandy being the smarty-pants, talk-too-much person who's quick to validate Fred's martyral complex.

"How long was I sick?" Fred wanted to know.

Sandy shrugged. "A few days... lessee, two or three I think. Not four, anyway."

"Well," sighed Marjorie, "we made it."

"Yes," Fred agreed tiredly. "We have." But why did he still feel a curious emptiness inside him? Like there was something... missing?

Two words, Fred.

Plot.

Convenience.

Plot convenience. That is the only reason. You have everything you ever wanted laid out in front of you and are on your way to recovery. You should be in transports of joy.

But hold on, readers. The worst is yet to come.

~

Days passed; Fred was permitted to get up, and to walk around. His strength was returning rapidly -- and yet he felt restless, and ill at ease. He knew he was at Egbert's Home for Children -- but where was the fabled Egbert? (At least you have a reason, preposterous though it is, to feel upset now. Before you had no reason even in your own mind. But don't you think that the founder of this home might have more to do with his time than chat with everyone who comes here? He could be away. He could be dead, for pity's sake. How do you know EHFC wasn't founded three hundred years ago or something?) He felt an urgency to talk to someone, to know their current situation. He wanted to talk to Egbert, or whoever was in charge of this place... Such were Fred's thoughts as he sat by the window in his room.

As if in answer to his wish, the door opened and the doctor -- the man who had been by Fred when he woke up -- entered. He was frowning slightly, and his greying dark hair was rumpled as if he had been running his fingers through it. "You're doing a lot better, are you?"

"Yes, thank you."

*falls over* Politeness, unprompted, from Fred's mouth. And it actually sounds genuine. Will wonders never cease.

"Then Mr. Egbert Smith wants to see you. Come on; his office is this way."

Fred followed him, and entered a darkened room which appeared to have no life in it anywhere. Then a voice spoke out of the pile of bedding on the large armchair behind the desk. "Have a seat."

Fred obeyed.

A curly grey head rose up out of the bedding. Faded blue eyes regarded Fred with mild curiosity. The voice spoke again; it was creaky, old. "You came with three others?" Egbert Smith/Edgar Wiguel was much more frail in this draft.

Fred nodded wordlessly; his mouth was suddenly dry.

Scared he's gonna turn you out?

"You must be aware of the fact that none of you can exactly be viewed as children. But you no doubt trusted in my benevolence to overlook the fact. And that trust shall be rewarded."

Okay, so it turns out Egbert Smith is a nice guy. Fred can relax.

Fred continued to stay silent; no longer because his mouth was dry, but because he could not bring himself to say anything polite to that. Mr. Egbert Smith was jumping to a good too many conclusions.

*squints* *gets whiplash* what now?

Fred, what is wrong with you. Mr. Smith is speaking the perfect truth. You are 21, Marjorie is 18. Sandy is 17, and the only one who can get away with being called a child, depending of course on what the age of majority is in Keelover. But instead of kicking you out the door, he's extending a hand of generosity. Who knows what his motives are? And maybe he sounds a bit condescending. But he's at rock bottom an elderly fellow who's going above and beyond what anybody would expect him to do. Cut him some sLACK FOR PETE'S SAKE.

Let us hear the rest of Egbert Smith's benevolent monologue.

"You will be treated like anyone else here, and provided with food, clothing, and rooms of your own. I hear that your brother is suffering from some type of mental illness, poor lad; rest assured that we will send for the best of physicians to help him."

Here Egbert paused, no doubt because Fred looked like he was going to say something. But Fred merely drew in a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. He had come rather close to giving Egbert Smith a good piece of his mind, which included several not-very-nice names.

Hold it. Hold it.

Hold it right there.

Explain to me what Mr. Smith has said that is so offensive.

Do you not want to be provided with food and shelter? Did you want a do-it-yourself approach? Fred, what did you expect?

This is a home for children! You wanted desperately to get to aforesaid home for children so you could smash the burden of responsibility on another's shoulders! What is your deal? Has the lust for power suddenly become so strong?

And Powhatan IS brainsick. He needs freaking medical treatment. He has some type of delusion, thinks he's King Powhatan from Massachusetts in the 1600s -- are you going to begrudge your brother some therapy?

To continue the rant: YOU HAVE AN ATTITUDE PROBLEM, BUSTER! This guy is offering you the moon, and you're sitting here steaming, internally stamping on his generosity, and longing to start a cursing rant out loud. I'm serious, this is not okay.

"Some day, perhaps," the man continued finally, "you will repay these charitable gifts. But for now, relax. You are in good hands... You may now leave."

Fred was very far from relaxing just then. As he rose and pivoted to the door, he heard Egbert behind him. "Do not neglect to tell your siblings of their good fortune..."

Ignoring this, he left the room hurriedly, rushed blindly down the corridors, and found himself eventually outside, in a garden of some sort. There he sat down on a stone bench under a weeping willow and dropped his head in his hands. His thoughts chased each other in helpless circles...

Fred. Get. A. Grip.

There were footsteps. Someone sat down beside him. "Are you needing someone to talk to?" It was the doctor.

Oh my goodness no. Not the patently fake sympathy that is oozing from your pores.

Fred was silent a moment, and then said vehemently, "I can't stay here."

*takes deep breath* Say what now.

"Yes; I know."

OH YOU DO, DO YOU MISTER NOW WHAT IS YOUR DEAL WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE EGBERT SMITH HE IS GENUINELY THE KINDEST PERSON IN THIS BOOK SO FAR

"I do not want someone providing everything for me -- doing everything for me -- like I'm a baby! Now it all comes out. Let's hear the maudlin rant. I do not want my life under somebody else's protection; Is that not literally exactly what you did want a chapter ago I don't want Sandy and Marjorie depending on that -- that fat old spider for the rest of their lives."

"You feel better now that you've got those nasty names out of your system, don't you," said the doctor approvingly.

In one chapter, we have completely changed Fred's goals. Chapter 4 all he wanted was to hand over the responsibility. Now he wants it back? He is grudging even the smallest portion of it to anyone else? Is this even Fred? No, I'm sorry, Fred. You clearly are just a contrary five-year-old in a twenty-year-old's body who wants to do the opposite of what anyone tells you to do. You need a severe lecture and some time alone to think over your actions.

You definitely do NOT need this "feel-good" doctor who probably considers himself a psychologist of some wack-o stripe.

Fred's eyes were fastened on him in desperate appeal. Yep, go for the puppy-dog face. "What can I do?"

"Well, you know," the doctor answered thoughtfully, "there's a few answers I could give you, but I reckoned this would be the best one... Orden." He repeated the word, almost as if to himself. "Yes... Orden."

The curse of the ellipses is reasserting itself.

And here we have it. Fred goes to Orden, not because he has nowhere else to go, but because he needs to feel good about himself and not "have his life under someone else's protection".

Fred stared at him. Orden. Orden. Of course!

And then another thought brought everything crashing down. Feeling his face flush, he murmured hopelessly, "If I could, oh... but we have no money -- none."

Your pity probes are sickening.

Something small and heavy was laid across his knees. "This should buy supplies," said the doctor quietly.

And the doctor just sucks the pity probe right up. My hero.

"But I -- oh -- you--"

Stop stop stop stop STOP. Stop the protests-that-are-not-protests. What they are is chances for you to showcase a facade of nice mushy selflessness.

The doctor shook his head. "This means more to you than anything else in the world. I can see that. Take it; it is a gift."

And Fred takes it like the cheapskate he is.

Fred's eyes held the doctor's in mute, passionate thanks. He could find no words.

"Anything to get me out of Egbert's Home for Children!"

The doctor himself was silent for awhile. At last he said, rather huskily (oh the melodrama is making me cringe), "So, who's going to break the news to Mr. Egbert Smith?"

Fred's mouth quirked, ever so slightly. "I had better. He might have a stroke if I sent Sandy."

*scratches head* Break the news? Do you think that Mr. Smith has a very strong desire to keep you here or something? I think y'all need to break out of the slavery paradigm here...

~

Fred stood in the archway opening out onto the porch, watching Marjorie as she pinned up the sleek coils of her deep brown hair into an entwining bun. Sandy, having lately climbed the highest tree she could find, was also watching, scornful, flushed, and breathless. (This makes me think of a scene from Caddie Woodlawn) Fred was not worried about her -- or Powhatan, who would automatically trail along in a little world of his own. But how would Marjorie take it?

Self-consciously, he cleared his throat and both girls turned to look at him. "Sandy -- Marjorie? I -- I have something to explain to you."

Their eyes held his, waiting.

He said the words for the second time the day, though without the earlier vehemence. "We can't stay here."

Sandy whistled in relief; but Marjorie's eyebrows only lifted uncomprehendingly. He took a breath, and plunged on. Time to go charismatic. Let's see how good your persuasive speech skills are, Fred. "These people -- they will run our lives. They will live them for us... They will get doctors and -- and try to treat Powhatan for brain sickness." He was speaking by now to Marjorie alone, doing all his power to make her understand. Except how can you make her understand the incomprehensible? Your argument has no coherence. "I don't want that life for you -- for us. Can you understand, Marjorie? Will you trust me?"

Marjorie paused; there was a short, tense silence. Then she spoke tremulously. "Where do we go, Fred?"

There was an unwavering fire in his eyes. "We will go to Orden."

I find it disturbing that nobody even brings up the possibility that Powhatan might need brain help.

Sandy whistled again, from sheer excitement. As for Marjorie, there was in her face quiet acceptance. She trust me, he thought, and somehow it seemed overwhelming and deeply moving. They all trust me -- to make the decisions, to keep them safe... He could not fail them now. "Well," he said aloud, "if you've unpacked, it might be advisable to replace your things in -- oh, never mind. I'm going to see if I can get us proper packs. What was wrong with your old bags? Does it just feel too shameful to go walking around with pillowcases any more? Or do you simply have to do this adventuring thing the "right" way and that includes "packs"? Good-bye; for now... I'll be back soon." Never overcome one obstacle but another rises in its place, he thought dryly as he walked along the hall. Where on earth was anything that might be called a store? He knew one thing: he hadn't seen any. Do they keep them underground?

Fred, good grief, you've been in the one building the entire time. Just because you have not seen a store, just because you have not seen a town, does not mean a town is not there.

Here again it was eventually the doctor who came to his rescue; and leaving Egbert's Home for Children, he came after a quick walk of about a mile to something resembling a town.

To find what he needed was simple in so small a village. It was less than an hour later that, coming out of the general store with purchases complete, one of his swinging parcels struck a nearby leg with a solid thump. "Excuse me," he said hurriedly, turning to see the possessor of the leg -- his eyes beheld, in front of him, a rather coarse and ragged brown coat collar. Startled no little bit, he raised his eyes a good six inches before meeting those of the stranger. They were dark, scornful, and narrow. Rather like Andre's, he thought. Like Andre, too, this man had longish black hair; but Andre's had been thicker, and more wild... and, too, this person was cleanshaven. He also looked a decade or so younger than Andre, and he was quite handsome, in fact -- rakishly so. "Ex...cuse me," he repeated uncomfortably when the man made no answer. Still there was no reply. At last, angry, Fred turned on his heel and left the store in no good humor.

I'm not saying we don't all get angry about little things like this, but Fred, try to think outside yourself for one second. The guy could be deaf. He could have been lost in his own world, not noticed the bump, and been trying to figure out what you were talking about. He could have a quick temper and was considerately biting his tongue so as not to hurt your feelings with some angry words that he would have otherwise let out.

*bangs head* This Fred is SUCH A JERK.

Yet things were coming together quickly, he reflected that evening. They could leave tomorrow; leave for Orden. Orden. He sat by the window in his room and stared out into the dark night, the name ringing in his ears. Yeah, yeah, America, the golden land of opportunity. We get it. Go build your covered wagon. It still scarcely seemed possible -- him, of all people...

The door opened and he turned his head. "Just thought I would say goodnight," said the doctor softly.

"Goodnight, then," Fred replied very seriously. Then, remember the incident of the afternoon, he asked, "By the way, you wouldn't know a young man, with dark hair and eyes, shaves -- and I don't think he dresses very well (Oh look at Fred, the little snob) -- and very tall?"

The doctor looked quite flatteringly attentive. He demanded quickly, "How tall?"

Fred considered in turn. "Well over six feet... probably around six foot six."

The doctor nodded as if something had been confirmed. "Only one person who that could be," he stated flatly.

"Who?"

"He hasn't been here very long, and I don't think he means to stay either. Now when I met him on the street and asked what his name was, he told me John Smith; but that's not what he's registered at the inn as." (What a snoop.)

"What then?" The doctor was taking his sweet time to get to the point...

"Lancelot Thorn."

The end of the horrific Chapter 5. If you remember, the end of the current Chapter 5 is where Fred learns that his older brother passed through Menevace and established a criminal reputation there. In this version, Hunter is a separate brother younger, not older, than Fred.