It was a chilly, early morning in October when I set out on my journey. There were no other travelers to be seen for miles and so I rode through the mist in silence, contemplating what my next course of action might be. There are certainly many authors who might go on to describe this scene in minute detail until you were sick of reading it, but in an attempt to ingratiate myself with my readers, I will leave it for them to imagine. I continued on in this fashion for some time, until I rode by a small pond, where I happened to catch my reflection out of the corner of my eye.
"Upon my word!" I said to my self. "I certainly don't look very heroic!", and this was entirely the truth. As I gazed at myself, I saw the image of a well-kempt, respectable clergyman, but alas, not a hero!
"This must be fixed before I go any farther, or I shall never get anywhere." I thought, and dismounting, began my transformation. I was well aware of the fact that modern audiences tend to prefer the scruffy, manlier types, so I lost no time in making my hair into a perfect mess and liberally applying dirt to my face and hands, something that I usually would abhor. This being accomplished, I removed my greatcoat and inner jacket so that I wore only a light undershirt, and also took off my cravat, exposing my bare neck to about my collarbone. (Very shocking, I know) This shirt I also temporarily removed and dipped in the water so that the cloth might stick to the skin and give the desired effect of being translucent. In short, I became very "sexy"… and very cold.
As soon as I had finished, I put these articles of clothing into my knapsack and resumed my trek, trying very hard not to shiver every time the wind blew. By this time the mist had cleared off, and not long afterwards I noticed a gentleman on horseback coming up the lane. As he approached, I saw that he was older and had a stately bearing, and within half a minute I recognized him as being my own father, Sir Thomas Bertram. He stopped short and stared at me for a moment with some astonishment.
"Edmund!" he cried. "What on earth have you done to yourself?"
'A disapproving parent?!' I thought. 'Was there ever a better chance to distinguish myself by being rebellious?' (Another characteristic of the usual present-day protagonist)
"I am an adult, sir," said I, with a look of defiance. "Can't I chuse my own attire?"
Contrary to the expectations of stereotype, my father, rather than becoming enraged and insisting on my explaining myself, merely looked at me with great surprise and replied thusly:
"Why, my dear son, what are you about? You have always been the most responsible of your siblings, and this is most unlike you! Pray, is there something that you are trying to prove?"
In truth, I did not want to become estranged from my Father any more than was respectable, so I soon explained myself and my actions.
"Become hero of another genre? (said he) This is very unusual indeed, but I believe I understand your reasoning, and I wish you success in your endeavours- Ah!-" he added with a slight smile. "But I am not playing my part well, then. I ought to threaten disinheritance at the very least!"
We both laughed and then he asked me what sort of story I was going to try first.
"I think I will begin with a fantasy adventure- that is a very popular genre and it will be interesting to try something so different from my present course of life."
"That could be… unusual. Shall you be Edmund the Barbarian then, or something more civilized, such as an arch-mage?"
I was very surprised at my Father's apparent understanding of the genre and wondered how such a grave sort of man came to have it, but I imagine that he must read something on those long voyages to Antigua, and it may as well be fantasy as anything.
"Well," said he after a moment, "I suppose that I must give you something for your journey." He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a coin purse and a box of breath-mints.
"Father, is there something you are trying to tell me?" I asked, looking dubiously at the latter item.
"Why Edmund, if you had done your research on the genre, you would know that when a hero is given some item by his parent or trainer, it almost always turns out to be magical, or at least useful in some way. I'm afraid that I have nothing else with me that I can give you, but I'm sure they will prove invaluable at some crucial point."
I thanked him, and though I wondered why we couldn't just run to Mansfield for half a minute and get what I needed (it was scarcely a quarter mile off), I thought that it would be best to leave my Father to his business since these sorts of meetings should always have a more spontaneous quality to be truly affecting. We embraced (we were no longer on horseback, obviously) and he charged me to write to him whenever I could and not hesitate to ask for money if I wanted it, and I promised to do both with all the affection of someone who would have done both anyways. We parted, but before I got far, he stopped and called out to me over his shoulder.
"Oh, and please do put in a good word for me on your travels! I'm afraid that my reputation still has yet to recover since that horrendous film adaptation (Mansfield Park '99) that portrayed me as a tyrannical lecher."
What malevolent creatures these Hollywood filmmakers are, who defame a perfectly upright and well-respected literary character without once bestowing a thought on the poor soul that they are injuring!