The winter days are perfect for writing, warm in bed with a laptop and a cup of tea. I don’t care that I’m outnumbered, I just love winter.
With a few ‘chapters’ tentatively written, here is a very rough draft of the Prologue and first chapter to a story I am currently working on – this time, not a children’s story 🙂
Prologue
The sky lay in the background as she had always remembered it – a navy blue canvas on which a palette of orange had been transferred in static tufts, tinged yellow at their swirled edges. The muted blue cast a calming light on the town below, insufficient in illumination despite its beauty. The cobbled streets were striped in a dull glow, radiating from motionless flames held in the silhouetted street-lamps that lined their path. She marveled at how, like the irregularity of the cobbles, each flame tilted in unique fashion.
Pushing open the heavy door of the ancient library, the smell of aged paper welcomed her with a noxious, yet inviting pull. In books she had read of such wonders as drifting clouds and dancing flames, of trees that bowed, and of stars that winked – so fanciful a world it seemed, that surely only the most imaginative of minds could have created it. But long since the days of imagination had time passed.
Aislin’s pale complexion shone in the darkened expanse, her echoing footsteps seemingly shouting her entrance to the empty building. As usual, she paused to confirm – she was alone. Solitude embraced her lovingly, squeezing the breath held awkwardly, until now, behind her tiny lips.
She climbed the sturdy stepladder, replacing the maroon volume with its embossed and faded gold lettering where she had discovered it. She had thought this author to be particularly ingenious – to imagine an ocean that could recede, leaving behind moist, putty-like sand that could mould watery footprints. She wiggled her toe at the thought. And water falling from the sky – an odd thought indeed! Lights, she decided, would be much more appealing – yellow and white. She smiled as she searched for another book, but her smile faded as she wondered, once again, what had happened to people like these? The ones who had put these thoughts to paper; who had written so vividly of a world that changed, that moved, that lived – a world where the grass grew long and the sun changed the colour of the sky.
Chapter One
Callum was a quiet man, a man whose physical age had caught up with his soul far too late to have provided him a smooth life. Now, at the age of sixty three, Callum’s face showed the delicate traces of years of silent contemplation, and the accompanying experience that had in his youth, been both intangible and unexplained. Like marbles held towards the sun, his green eyes reflected the depth of a man who looked in before he saw out. Callum knew he had lived a good life, and that he had loved.
Picking up a cold mug of coffee, Callum walked to the window and looked into the dark night sky. He had always found the hours between sunset and sunrise to be comforting, providing a quiet, motherly embrace to the beginning and end of each day. The rhythmic sounds of cars passing along the distant street outside his cottage were the only reminders that he was not alone. And yet he was, alone. For years now Callum had lived contently by himself in this home. Like the lines on his face, it had grown more representative of his character over the years – a carefully chosen antique kist added here, a selection of treasured books and records scattered there, black and white photographs framed in varying shades of wood hung every now and then in new clusters on the walls. These coming and goings of contents were constantly changing what had once begun as an empty space, decorated only by the most beautiful hardwood floors and shuttered windows.
Callum closed the window and drew the curtains, muting the sounds of the weaving streets that led friends and lovers to each other. He returned to the sofa, warm and indented by the hours he spent seated on its soft cushions. Pulling his laptop from the coffee table in front of him onto his lap, he switched it on and waited for the fluorescent light to cast a white light on the room. Since retiring at the age of fifty five, Callum had entrusted over seven years of his life to fulfilling a voluntary position at a small inpatient clinic tucked behind a large Starbucks and a secondhand bookstore on the High street. His love for people often mystified those who were also familiar with his love for solitude, but Callum had since childhood had an overpowering and quietly magnetizing connection to others, and an innate ability to understand more than he had himself experienced.
When his email appeared onscreen, he scanned the bolded subject lines, deciding which of his new mails to read first. He had settled on a routine – deleting junk mail before opening any ‘real’ mail, reading mail from work before friends and family, and finally cherishing the correspondences from those he held close to his heart last. There was but one exception to his routine, one that each time, as the Internet hurriedly searched to retrieve his mail, he hoped would interrupt his customary clicking. When he saw that name, bold and symmetrical on the white background, a surge of joy jolted his chest, and in a never fading excitement he smiled and paused before reducing his number of unread mails by one. But tonight he had to settle for routine, discarding an ‘amazing-all-expenses-paid-holiday’ to the Maldives before opening the single mail from work. He had not planned to visit the clinic over the weekend, but discovering that Georgia, the resident psychologist, had taken ill, he felt a loyalty to the kids he had come to love as his own, and so replied that he would be in by eight the next morning.
The books on his shelves were scattered in what seemed liked complete disarray. Tidiness was not something Callum considered important or indicative of an organized mind, and instantly locating the anthology he had promised to lend to Cassidy, he pulled it from its position causing a pile of poetry to fall into a new formation on the shelf. Paging through the musings of Keats, Callum thought of Cassidy – her porcelain skin, dark eyes, and ash blond hair that fell long and straight around her bony shoulders. Her appearance was delicate and weak, her eyes innocent and searching, but Callum recognized the strength of character that hid behind the searching and patiently allowed her to explore whatever it was that she had been tasked to discover. He placed the book in his briefcase, eager not to forget it at home the next morning.
Waking to the harsh beeping of his alarm clock, Callum turned to assess the neon green numbers flashing in the darkness. Although he set his alarm each night, he always woke in the mornings hoping to magically find the electronic outburst occurring earlier than expected, giving him time to pull the duvet under his chin and snuggle into the pillow for just a few more minutes. It had been worse when Eimear was still alive. He would turn to her bare back and pull her warm body closer to his, feeling the softness of her breasts against his cold hands. If she stirred, she would turn to rest her head on his chest and the feel of her naked chest against his would suppress any desire to get out of bed and begin the day. Often he would make love to her in the mornings, sleepy and gentle, she was easily aroused and quick to be brought to pleasure. But Callum could not indulge in the comfort of Eimear or his warm bed this morning. He wearily sat up, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Since Eimear’s death fourteen years ago, he had been unable to sleep shirtless, the exposed skin too much of a reminder of where their touch in the night had once been. Dressing quickly to avoid the cold, he chose a green polo shirt, dark jeans, a fake leather belt, and matching shoes. It was not that Callum couldn’t afford real leather, rather that he was simply opposed to wearing it.
After a quick cup of coffee – two brown sugars, no milk – and a bowl of steaming oats, Callum grabbed his black coat and the hideous grey scarf his daughter had so lovingly chosen for him last Christmas, and headed into the misty morning. He lived close enough to the High street to walk, which he did unless rain forced him to catch a bus. He intensely disliked rainy morning bus rides – being pushed up against soaked raincoats and umbrellas holding more rain than they shielded their owners from, skidding on the muddy water that pooled on the grainy bus floor. He much preferred walking, and he reveled in observation as he did – a mother crouched, helping her rosy-cheeked toddler put on a pair of woolen gloves, a lone teenager plugged into an IPod blaring a personalized soundtrack to his morning, a young couple laughing as they emerge from a crowded coffeehouse, an orange leaf dancing in the mist and disappearing behind a face-brick wall – Callum found the sights and sounds of the emerging day stimulating.
KentHaven Clinic was run from what had previously been an old Victorian residence. Two stories high, with four exquisite bay windows, the stoney building was decorated with edgings of pure white paint and a black and white tiled terrace. Inside, it had a homey feel to it, with intimate rooms and comfortable furniture. At the back of the clinic, there was a small garden in which a large Willow tree grew and a painted wooden bench had been placed in its shade. While the clinic could house only eight patients at any time, the unit functioned in a familial manner, enabled by its small size and carefully chosen staff.
Callum opened the front door, savoring the warmness of the interior which was to him emphasized by the icy air of the morning outside. He hung his coat and scarf and headed to the small room in which either Georgia or himself spent most of the morning. On the door, a neat label read ‘Psychologist’, next to which was a newspaper cartoon that Georgia had pasted up in good humor of what went on behind the door. Although he saw the cartoon almost every day, it still returned from him a small chuckle or grin, and he blessed Georgia for her astounding spirit as he unlocked the door. After he had settled his papers and unpacked his briefcase, Callum picked up the poetry anthology and made his way through the carpeted hallway to the kitchen. As he should have expected to be the case at a quarter past eight on a Saturday morning, Cassidy and Dominic, a newer patient at KentHaven, were seated at the long table, mournfully eyeing the food on their plates. Cassidy looked up in mid approach to her toasted English muffin and graced a shy smile when she spotted Callum, before placing the uneaten food back onto her plate. Realising he had come at an inappropriate time, he simply greeted Maria, the counsellor on duty that morning, and motioned for Cassidy to visit him when she was finished eating.
About an hour later, Cassidy appeared hesitantly at his door, her pale face flushed from the indoor heating.
“Casssidy” his smile was genuine.
She gave him one in return.
“Come in” he gestured invitingly.
In all their interactions, she had been slow to warm. She possessed a reserved nature that slowly faded as she allowed herself to become more immersed in their exchanges, revealing a brilliant mind, and tenderly insightful emotions. Callum was careful not to stretch the boundaries of therapy, but like a handful of patients he had treated in his life, Cassidy intrigued him and he couldn’t help but feel their sessions to resemble mutual learning. Usually this happened with older patients, but at just seventeen, Cassidy was different.
She sat slightly awkwardly on the blue sofa, one leg folded over the other, her sneakered foot tapping the air.
“I brought you the poetry I mentioned last week” Callum reported, reaching over to grasp the thick book from his desk.
He handed it to her and she placed it on her lap, where it looked heavy and far larger than it had on the desk.
“Thank you” she looked down at the dark green cover, tracing the lettering with her index finger, and then opened the book to a page she did not proceed to read.
“…but I’m not sure that I will read this” she said after a thoughtful pause.
Callum was puzzled. Last week she had been utterly enthralled by Keats. He had brought this book specifically for her.
Her eyebrows frowned as she placed it back on the desk, still open.
“Poetry is for dreamers” she said.
The words flew uncharacteristically forcefully from her mouth. They were so incongruent with her nature that Callum wondered if she was planning a laugh for the two of them at the cynics expense. But she didn’t smirk and follow with laughter as she usually would. She stood abruptly up.
“Callum, my dreams..” she paused and stared at him with an eerily serious expression.
“Those are the problem.” it was a decisive statement.
“I’m scared of my dreams.”
Her words had an unfamiliar despair to them, as if for the first time, Cassidy was standing in front of Callum as a young girl, requiring guidance.
He didn’t understand where she was going with these statements, but she said no more.
“Callum” she hesitated at the door, as if to indicate that she would sometime be back. Then she left.
For lack of a better response, Callum looked down at the open page and settled on a simple quote written by Keats all those years ago.
‘Nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced.’ He read it out loud.
Callum sighed, closed the book, and wondered what had just happened.
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