Story Fragments

He stood in front of the school door wondering how he could possibly open it, the knob was hopelessly out of reach and there was nothing he could use to climb. Life was not always easy when you were only two and a half feet tall.

“What’s the matter little man? Are you lost?” a young girl asked, scooping him up in her arms. He should have been used to people behaving that way, but it still annoyed him. The girl cradled him in her arms and swung him gently from left to right as if he were a baby or a doll that needed reassuring.

“I’m not lost,” he replied, struggling to seem dignified, “just little.”

The girl looked at him puzzled.

“Don’t let my little size lead you astray,” he explained, making an effort to be patient, “I’m not as young as I look.”

He watched as understanding finally dawned on her oversized face which went red with embarrassment and she held him away from her. He was afraid she might drop him. It had happened before.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, confused, then she bent forward and placed him at her feet.

He retreated a couple of steps so he could see her face.

“My name is Tim Brightweather. I’m new at this school.”

“I’m Sandy,” she told him, bending down in his direction as if she had to make an effort to bring her face to his height.

“Could you please open the door for me,” he asked.

She did, revealing a swirling mass of giant boys careening down a corridor headed in their direction, dribbling a large round ball in front of them. He braced himself for the shock but the girl whisked him up at the last moment and ducked out of the way. The boys tore past, unheeding, letting the door slam behind them.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised, putting him down cautiously in a quieter part of the corridor beside some lockers. “I don’t think they noticed you. Boys hardly notice anything but themselves.”

A fat boy sidled up and began taking books out of one of the lockers.

“Hey! What’s that?” the boy shouted, catching sight of Tim. They all had such loud voices, it hurt his ears.  “You bring your dolls to school, Sandy?” he asked, grinning as he prodded Tim with a podgy finger.

“Leave him alone, Graham, you lout,” Annie said. “His name’s Tim and he’s a new pupil.”

Graham tweaked Tim’s nose with his grubby fingers. “Cool!” he said turning Tim round to look at him from all sides. “A real live dwarf.”

Tim shrugged. Humans always made that sort of mistake. They had such short memories. The difference between dwarves and little people had long been forgotten. He knew there was no point in trying to enlighten the boy, instead he bit Graham’s finger, then pulled back in case the boy tried to retaliate. Tim’s teeth might be little, but they were razor sharp. Graham immediately withdrew his finger and stared at the blood flowing freely for a long moment until his knees crumpled and he fell slowly to the floor.

“He’ll be OK,” Tim said once the boy could fall no further. “He’s just fainted.”

“Let’s get you to class before he goes whining to the teachers that he’s been attacked. Who’s your teacher?”

“I’m in Mr. Baxter’s class,” Tim said.

That’s my class,” she relied, apparently pleased they were in the same class. “Bad luck though. Mr. Baxter is off ill.”

“I know,” Tim told her. “I’ve come to replace him.”

Despite her small stature, Maryse had always been full of energy and determination. That was before the fire in which the rest of her family perished. Now she was frail and tired and hungry. Above all, she was cold, bitterly cold. The tips of her fingers had gone blue and her nose and ears stung. Her toes had long since lost all feeling.

The year was drawing to a close amid flurries of snow. Maryse’s threadbare coat and torn dress were no match for the biting easterly wind. The paths were treacherous with ice, even for those who were well shod.

She drew close to the shop window like a moth attracted by the light. On the other side of the glass, tiny packets of sweetmeats glistened in the lamplight. Rows and rows of jars of preserves and honey and bottles of ice-wine filled the shelves. Well dressed children tasted the wares on thin slivers of dark bread. In the hearth, a log fire blazed invitingly. A solitary tear formed in her eye, freezing as it rolled down her cheek. It was so beautiful, like peeking in on paradise. She pressed her face against the ice-cold pane that locked her out.

One of the young girls stopped to stare at her, her bread uneaten. Maryse turned away, embarrassed. She would seek shelter, hopefully out of the wind, and sleep through Christmas, and if the Lord were to take her, what better day than the Nativity.

“Miss,” a voice said. Startled, she realised someone was tugging her sleeve. She looked up to see the girl from the shop, her hand held out, tending a piece of bread dripping with blackberry jam. “Merry Christmas,” the child said.

The author reads his text: Maryse goes to Paradise

The forest was shroud in mist. Tiny droplets hung in fine lines on the spiders’ webs. The earth, which was dark and dank, reeked of mould and decay. All sound was muffled. The ring of a distant bell hovered in the air. An angry dog barked once only to be silenced with a yelp. Stone workers laboured to break stones in the nearby quarry. Drips fell from the branches onto fallen leaves.

“Evil little buggers,” she cursed, spitting as she swiped at the toadstool with a stick, signing a cross with her free hand. You never knew what manner of filthy blighters hid there. It was the bright red that made them worse. Everyone knew red was the colour of the devil. The whole forest was bleeding with it. Green had seeped from the world and leaves hung yellow and orange and red, limp in the damp air. Not a breath of wind stirred. Death was on the prowl. It was All Hallows.

She took aim with her stick and sent two more toadstools flying. They sprung up in circles, just like hags in a coven, messengers of the dark one. She screeched and slashed left and right, laying into the red toadstools, some as high as her knees.

“I wouldn’t be doing that, if I were you,” a hushed voice said.

She spun round, her stick at the ready. She didn’t immediately spot the little man, his russet jacket and breeches and light brown boots blending with the forest. He was leaning in the shadows against a tree, his hands in his pockets.

She looked at his face. A shock of red hair stood awry on his head. His lips were thick and sensuous, his skin was ruddy red, his dark brown eyes, wild and full of fire, eyes that bent you to their will. “No!” she screamed and turned and fled. Not towards the path. But away between the beeches. Staggering over fallen branches, swerving around moss-covered stumps. Away. Away from those eyes.

A branch snagged her face leaving a deep gash across her cheek. Her shawl caught on a bush. She ran on letting it hang. On, on she raced, dodging the trunks that sought to catch her, those terrible eyes following.

Abruptly the trees came to an end and mist swirled around. The quarry! She screamed, but it was too late. The ground had fallen away. Others screamed as her body hit the ground with a muffled thud and her blood seeped red over the rock littered floor.

Tina opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. There was no point.

She shut the door gently behind her, embarrassed that it should squeak so noisily in the silent house. Not that anyone would hear. The house was empty now that all the mourners had left. The windows in her former bedroom had long been shut. The curtains were drawn and the air was stuffy. In the dim light that filtered through the curtains, she recognised her bed. Dolls’ heads peaked from beneath the eiderdown, just as she’d left them years before. A tiny ball-gown hung from a hook beside the dresser, its blues and greens now faded with time. On the table beside the bed lay the books of her childhood: adventures, love stories, but above all tales of music.

“Oh Mother!” she said tentatively, her voice cracking at the mention of the tyrant. “How could you?”

Tina picked up the uppermost book and brushed the dust from the cover. Unsung heroes. She must have read the story twenty times. She knew it off by heart. A young girl wrongly condemned and locked in prison, sang songs at the bars of her cell till one day the prince heard her sing and, delighted by her voice, had come to release her.

Tina had admired that girl with all her heart. She at least had had the courage to sing despite her despair. Tina had always wanted to sing. But she couldn’t. Each time she tried, her throat constricted and her voice croaked. Had not her mother told her. She was hopeless at singing. She could still hear her mother’s words: “Your voice is a disaster. Never let me hear you sing again.”

Tina clenched her fists. She would willingly have screamed, but even that she couldn’t do. Instead, she pushed aside the dolls and curled up on her bed burying her head in the lace-bordered pillow to muffle her sobs. When her tears ceased, she listened to the sounds of birds singing outside till she finally slipped into sleep.

When she awoke, the birds sang on, but her soft bed was gone. In its stead was rough stone and a stench of urine and cabbage soup. She heaved herself to her feet, alarmed to find chains around her wrists and ankles. The room was in darkness, but for a narrow ray of sunlight that entered nearby. Dragging her chains with her, she made for the light.

Solid bars protected the small opening, preventing any escape. Standing on tip-toes she glimpsed a stone courtyard below a tiny square of blue sky. A flash of red caught her attention. Pulling herself higher with the aid of the bars, she saw the prince strolling thoughtfully across the courtyard. Stopping from time to time, he cocked his head to one side as if listening for something. She had to sing. Now was the time. But she couldn’t, she daren’t. Forcing her mouth open, she filled her lungs but no sound issued from between her parched lips. Desperate, she tried again, bracing every muscle in the effort. A feeble croak was all she could manage. The prince turned away and strode towards the exit.

Her fingers relinquished their hold on the bars and she slid down the wall her face  and bare arms chaffing against the rough stone till she sank to the filthy floor where she curled up in dumb despair.

She pushed aside the soaked sacking that hung across the entrance to her rough stone shelter and peered out. She could make no sense of the all-too-familiar mountainside through the solid wall of rain. The longest day! It had taken a long time coming. If she hadn’t been counting the days with marks scored on the wall of her hovel she might never have known today was the day. Despite the years she’d spent alone on the mountainside tending the sheep, she had no natural feeling for the elements. Bessie Trumpet, down in the village always knew when the special days were upon them. But not her. She felt the rain and the cold in her bones, and sometimes the sun on her wrinkled skin, but nothing more.  No deep movements of mother earth echoed inside her. If there was anything, it was a faint hint of distant promise in the smells bourn by the air. Once she thought she smelt the sea. On rare occasions when the rain held off, you could see its silver line on the horizon.
She turned back to her room, stuck a fresh log on the fire, stirred the soup with a large piece of wood and then pulled down her plaid off its hook. She’d woven it herself a long time ago in the days when she been welcome in the village. It was still heavy and wet from rescuing one of the sheep trapped in the rocks. She shook the drops of rain from the cloth, wrapped it around her head and shoulders and stepped outside. To her surprise, the rain had ceased, but the sun was still masked by the heavy clouds scudding across the sky. A momentary finger of light pierced the clouds and pointed at the distant lake, catching a fishing boat unawares. Several of the sheep, seeing her coming, huddled close, their cold, wet woollen coats soaking her dress. She shoved them away. They were hungry. So was she. But they’d all have to wait till nightfall.
She picked up a large kettle that hung from the doorframe and trudged along the sodden path that wound its way between the scattered rocks. The rain had washed the air clean. When she moved away from the ever present reek of sheep, all that remained was the smell of drenched rocks and the occasional soggy soil. And then, from nowhere, there was something that didn’t belong: a distinct scent of a flower she’d never come across before. Few flowers grew where she lived. What with the continuous rain and the lack of sun, it wasn’t surprising. And the farther she went the stronger the scent grew. It was alarming. Such unbidden smells didn’t bode well. She decided to turn back. They’d have to do without water from the spring. But as she began to turn, a voice stopped her. “Don’t leave yet,” its bell-like tones rang out.
She fought against a growing desire to glance at whoever it was that spoke. But she knew better than that. She stared fixedly at the sodden ground. “What do you want?” she asked gruffly, shocked at the rough sound of her own voice. Being alone all the time, she rarely had a chance to talk and her voice sounded so course in comparison. “Surely we can exchange a few words in peace, you and I,” the voice asked. It was high and melodious, but she wasn’t sure it was a woman’s. She’d never heard anything like it. It made her hungry and thirsty in one go. Like the smell of a newly baked cake and fresh malt beer rolled into one. She sighed, struggling with a deep yearning that threatened to drown her completely.
To her alarm she felt a gentle touch on her arm, warm and inviting. A pale hand with slender fingers and sharp nails brushed the back of her hand lightly, sending wild sparks into the deepest reaches of her body. She had just the time to catch a glimpse of the intricately embroidered tissue of a sleeve before the hand flitted away. “I know what you think,” the voice continued, moving closer, its sweet breath wafting around her. “People say frightening things about us. But what they say is not true. Not of me, at least. You know that, don’t you?” The soft fingers were back, flirting with her hair this time, tugging at burrs that had got stuck there. Such thoughtful tenderness and loving attention almost undid her. A sob caught in her throat. How could she have lived so long and not known she was missing this? The realisation was like a bitter sweet balm that eased its way into her every pore, defying all resistance. She reached up and cupped the slender hand in hers, bringing it to her lips, pressing them against the pale fingertips. The smell of wild flowers they gave off was delicate but intoxicating.
She couldn’t help herself, she looked up into the exquisite face: the soft rosebud lips, the pert little nose, the rosy cheeks, the delicate curls of auburn hair cascading down over her ears and on to her shoulders and the eyes, dark brown and fascinating. Any further resistance was useless. She stepped forward and the waiting arms closed around her. She buried her face in the swirls of hair and was enveloped in a cloud of delight that soothed with her own long years of regret and suffering. “Hush, hush,” the voice said as she sobbed uncontrollably. “It’s over. No need to shut yourself away. Your exile is over.” And she felt the warmth of the soft lips pressed against her cheek, kissing the tears that streamed down over her face. “It is time to return home, my sister.“

The television cameras whirred into action as the judge stepped into the courtroom and went to sit at his place. “What do you have to say for yourselves?” the judge asked, his voice severe as he looked at the two young teenagers standing in front of him. The boy and girl glanced nervously at each other and then continued staring at their feet. “Were you not taught in school that such behaviour is strictly forbidden?” the judge went on, his face twisted in disgust. “Did not your parents educate you properly?” All four parents, who were seated in the front row of the audience, nodded vigorously no doubt hoping they would not end up on trial as well.

The children were about thirteen years old. The boy’s hair was light brown and cropped short. Whoever had cut it had not done a very good job: clumps of hair stuck out at irregular intervals from under his cloth cap. His deep brown corduroy trousers were baggy, almost too large for him, making it look like he’d escaped from a circus. He’d tied the trousers tight around his waist with a belt under which he’d tucked his long-sleeved white shirt. His left hand fidgeted nervously with something in his waistcoat pocket. If it weren’t for the prominence of his nose and his assertive chin, his face might have seemed almost effeminate.

The girl, in comparison, was taller, such that the boy had to look up every time he glanced in her direction. Her straight, black hair was shoulder length, hanging down across parts of her face leaving only her dark eyes, her arrogant nose, her bright red lips and her prominent chin visible. Her loose-fitting pink blouse could not conceal her broad shoulders and her muscular arms, no more than her pleated skirt hid the power of her legs. Standing there barefoot she looked like a panther in disguise.

The judge, who seemed irritated at their silence, glared at the couple. “This is your last chance to speak up before I pass sentence,” he reminded them. “We have no need of further proof of your guilt. Your presence here as you stand is evidence enough.” He paused a moment, quelling his exasperation. “The least you could do is to excuse yourselves and ask for pardon,” he added. The girl took a small step forward at which several of the courtroom guards took at warning stride in her direction but the judge waved them back. The girl looked up at the judge and starred him straight in the eye. “We feel no need to offer excuses,” she said proudly. A ripple of protest ran through the audience. Several people voiced violent threats. “Your laws and rules are archaic. We choose to be together this way and refuse to change.”

The judge was visibly making an effort to control his anger at the girl’s defiance, not wishing to appear unjust to the television audience.”Who encouraged you to act this way?” he asked, glancing at the four parents.  ”Nobody encouraged us,” the boy said, taking a step forward to join the girl. The two held hands causing a number of people from the audience to hiss at them. “Your laws cannot change how we are …” he began, but he didn’t get any further because a woman broke from the audience and tried to force past the guards to attack the two children, screaming: “Twisted bastards! You’re against nature!” The guards quickly got her under control but she continued to scream abuse as she was dragged from the courtroom. “Any further disturbance,” the judge said, “and I’ll have to clear the court and you’ll have to watch the trial on television.” Profiting from the distraction, the girl had slipped her arm around the boy as if to reassure him. “Stop that immediately,” the judge insisted, having the guards separate the two.

“You realise there are far more of us than you think,” the girl said defiantly, putting her arm back around the boy’s shoulders amid cries of indignation from the audience. “It’s the ambiguity you can’t bear,” the boy said, abruptly unbuttoning the top of his shirt till his budding breasts were clearly visible to the TV cameras. The judge put up his hands as if to protect himself from the sight. “May God protect us!” he prayed. Guards jumped forward to conceal the breasts from the cameras. “And what if your god is like us?” the boy taunted, raising his voice to be heard over the outcry of the audience as he struggled with guards who were trying to button up his shirt. It was almost comical the way they tried to avoid actually touching him as if he would contaminate them. His act of defiance was too much for the judge. The man drew himself up to his full height and thundered: “I sentence you both to the capital punishment for intolerable  crimes against the sexual denomination act. You will be electrocuted tomorrow morning at dawn.” The boy and girl flung themselves into each others arms and embraced passionately, desperately clinging together as the guards struggled to separate them. The court was in utter confusion. The parents were wailing in distress, not so much at the sentence as what their children had done. Many of the audience were shoving angrily forward, hoping to deliver their own justice only to be thwarted by the guards who ushered the two children out through a back door. And the cameras filmed all.

The prison was only a short drive from the courthouse, a mere five minutes. But the police van had hardly driven two minutes when it came to a halt, it’s way blocked by a large lorry that suddenly veered across the road. At the signal, the boy pulled a small locket from the pocket of his waistcoat and pointed it at the guards who fell unconscious to the floor. The back door of the armoured van was flung open and several extravagantly dressed people ushered the two children out. “You were marvellous!” one of the girls said flamboyantly in a falsetto voice, hugging them. “Real stars of television,” another added as the children were hurried to a waiting car. Once inside and speeding away the two paid no more attention to their rescuers but melted in a long embrace.

“Next!” he called out. An old woman entered, closed the door and shuffled into his office, unsteady on her feet. Her old-fashioned flower print dress hung loose over her emaciated body as she swayed forward. She halted hesitant in front of his desk. “Take a seat,” he said. She was a new patient. Must be new to the area. He’d never seen her around town before. If he had, he would immediately have recognised those sunken, haunted eyes, wide open as if she were terrified. “What can I do for you?” he asked, once she’d settled opposite him. She laid her hands slowly in her lap, linking her gnarled, bony fingers in a cradle and looked up at him, her eyes full of sorrow. “I can’t go on,” she  said, her voice cracking and tears formed in her eyes. “How old are you?” he asked. “Eighteen,” she replied. He must have misheard. “Sorry?” “Eighteen,” she repeated. “You like to joke, I see,” he said, smiling. “It is no joke, doctor. I was eighteen three days ago!” He’d heard of cases of premature ageing, but nothing like this. “When did this begin?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat as if something compelled him to get closer to her. “On my last birthday,” she told him. “What happened?” he asked. Maybe she’d been ill. Or maybe it was in her family. “At first I didn’t notice anything strange,” she began. “I just felt tired and my muscles ached.” She ran her hand over her eyes in a nervous gesture. “Then I saw the wrinkles. I thought I had caught some illness. I felt washed out. I had no strength left.” She was tense, as if every muscle was straining to hold on. He had the impression she was struggling with all her force against something that was not visible to him. “It’s time,” she whispered. “It’s not running right.” Her words startled him. He couldn’t rule out the possibility she was crazy. That the story about being eighteen was just an invention, nostalgia for long-lost youth. “You don’t believe me,” she said, hopelessness in her voice. “Nobody believes me.” He was reminded of a silly story about two psychiatrists trying to convince each other that it was the other one that was crazy. If what she was saying was true, no one would believe her. “Tell me,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring as he leaned further across his desk and laid his hand on her bare arm. Her skin was icy cold. She didn’t reply immediately. “Every time I blink,” she said, “time flashes by. Minutes, hours, days. It’s not the ageing that is the worst,” she said after a short pause. “It’s that I miss so much. My life is full of gaping holes. It takes an enormous effort to have even a short conversation like we’re having now, doctor.” All of a sudden he understood why she was so tense and seemed to be fighting an unending battle. She was trying to stay with him the length of a conversation. “Where do you go during the holes?” he asked, aware that he had to hurry. “Nowhere. It’s as if I didn’t exist. That’s why I didn’t notice what was happening at first.” He sat back in his chair, oppressed by the thought of her condition. What a nightmare! And how was he supposed to help her. He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. He looked up, about to ask another question, when he saw that the chair opposite him was empty. She’d gone, blinked out of existence.