Kiddo and I were sitting in our attic room prattling excitedly about nothing. We do that a lot. It is our thing. Kiddo is my brother. He's five and I'm eight. He thinks he can catch up and race me to ten. He's silly like that, but he's my best friend. We are happy, just the two of us getting lost in the myriad of worlds that we create.
We live in the attic of the house in which my mother works. She cooks, cleans, shops, and takes care of the master's house. He doesn't like it that we call him that, but our mother insists.
The house is beautiful, but barely lived in. Master lives in the city and he comes to stay here few times a year. I wonder what it would be like to live in a city. Kiddo thinks it would be cool, but that's his new favourite word. I love the house. I love our snug little attic room which smells of sand and sea. Most windows overlook the beach.
Mother is busy throughout the day. It doesn't matter whether master is in or not. She is constantly working. On days when there is nothing much to do, she will rearrange the furniture, only to put it back the way it was earlier. So, Kiddo and I spend a lot of time together. Mostly, we are in our attic room with its low, slanting wooden roof, two little beds, a cupboard, and the locked door.
The locked door is a source of many adventures. We would spend hours talking about the world that lay behind it and how we would fit right in. Some days there was a fairy land beyond the door, with unicorns, pixies, talking animals and lots of magical creatures, both good and evil. Kiddo took care of the evil side. He could paint quite a picture about wicked witches, hungry, hissing pythons, sly jackals, and his favourite evil magician, Moo. I have told him time and again that Moo doesn't sound even remotely frightening, but he is adamant. I always picture a sweet, placid cow when he brings in Moo and these adventures generally end in a fight. On other days, especially when Kiddo takes charge, there are skeletons, mummies, fire-wielding sorcerers, pirates, treasures, and various creatively defined forms of ugly, decaying monsters.
Once we made the mistake of asking Mother what she thought was behind the locked door. She said it was most likely a dusty little broom cupboard full of cobwebs and mold. Mother is singularly unimaginative.
Today, the locked door was an entrance to Moo's deep, dark den. Kiddo has never spoken about Moo's lair, so I refrained from enquiring if we should take a bundle of hay when we went to visit him. The steps leading down to the black depths were steep and broken in many places. The walls were alit with a reddish glow, and the silence pressing upon our ears was unbearable. Just as we had covered about a hundred steps and defeated several monsters, most of which were stabbed and thrown in the flaming crater by Kiddo, mother entered the room with a pile of washed clothes. The sight of a practical person, doing practical things kills the imagination like nothing else. We gaped at her, and she, in her brisk manner, asked us to get dressed, pack our bags for a night and meet her downstairs in twenty minutes.
Tonight is what we call Night under the Stars. Every year on this night, we pack our bags and walk to the very end of the beach, where Marky waits for us with his big, black telescope. Marky is not his real name. It's short for something really long which doesn't even have an M in it. Marky used to be the gardener at master's house until he won the local lottery. The winnings are said to be enough to ensure ten years of reasonably comfortable living. Marky's almost ninety, though you would never know that by just looking at him. We hope he doesn't live beyond a hundred. Mother says we shouldn't say things like that, but we mean well. He lives alone and fights with almost everyone, so who would take care of him after he spent all his money?
We had a lovely night, counting stars, tracing constellations, and listening to Marky tell us about the stories behind the names of certain stars. We didn't know if they were true, but lying on the soft sand, under a dark blanket studded with silver, twinkling lights, breathing in the salty air, nothing sounded more beautiful or more believable.
Kiddo was shaking my shoulders and whispering my name. I mumbled groggily at him. He said he had forgotten Mr. Ted at the house. Everyone knows that Kiddo can't sleep without his soft, brown teddy with its black and red checkered bowtie I hoisted myself on one elbow to see Marky's chest rising and falling like waves upon the shore. He let out a puff of breath every few seconds which made his great moustache quake and quiver. It would take a storm to wake this man up.
I agreed to walk back to the house and fetch Mr. Ted on the condition that I get to choose the shapes for all the cookies in our next baking session. Kiddo didn't look very happy about this, but there was no way he would walk back to the house in the night. He resigned himself to a batch full of heart and angel shaped cookies.
I wasn't scared of the night. I loved the soft, velvety darkness coupled with the cool sea breeze. I pocketed a pale blue shell. It looked worthy of being an addition to my splendid collection.
The house was dark and silent. I climbed up to our attic room, quiet as a cat. When I reached the top, I froze. A thin slit of yellow light was emanating from behind the locked door. In my mind, it will always be a locked door. I peeped through the gap. I could see a large wooden shelf with many square compartments, lots of books, strange little trinkets, a small desk with an old typewriter and a table lamp casting yellow light. I scanned the room from all possible angles. I pushed open the door and walked in.
For a room that was always locked, it was surprisingly clean. I pressed the keys of the typewriter. In the still night, it sounded like shots from a machine gun. I spun around and waited, but nobody came in. I moved away from the table and ran my fingers over the worn and peeling dust jackets of rows upon rows of books. There were a distracting number of shiny objects on the shelves. A broken pendulum, several pendants, what looked like a compass, a silver thimble, delicately carved miniature horns, strange and fascinating coins, a handsome watch, rings, and scores of showpieces that cast merry reflections on the opposite wall.
?My daughter collected them?, said a soft voice. I started, almost dropping the translucent pearl I had been admiring. Master was standing at the door frame. There was something melancholic about his stance, and the way he seemed to take in the room, in one sweeping look. I greeted him squeakily and fell silent, eyes lowered.
?There's no need to be scared?, he said. I could hear a smile in his voice. ?I was just as curious as you and your brother are when I was your age. A locked door in your room must be a mystery and a constant source of annoyance in equal measures, I'm sure.?
I nodded. He continued to talk with a faraway look in his eyes. ?She loved this little nook. It was her sacred place. I wasn't even allowed in, so it was locked to me as well. Most of these books and objects belonged to her mother. The good die young.?, he sighed. ?I always wanted to know what lay behind this locked door. Whenever I would ask, she would smile mischievously at me, her face lit with the ghost of a suppressed secret. Now I wish I never had to know. I could stand not knowing this little secret just to watch her give me that smile again.?
I didn't know what to say. He walked out of the room and returned moments later with Mr. Ted. ?I noticed that your brother left this behind. Now run along and give it to him. He must be having a sleepless night.? I took the soft toy, my gaze lingering on the inside of his wrist which was inked with today's date.
Kiddo demanded to know what took me so long. I didn't answer him. I just looked out into the dark sea. I felt older somehow. I don't think Kiddo and I will be playing The Locked Door game ever again.
?How are you, Ginger? It's been too long!?
The plump orange cat stares back at me blankly. Perhaps a little annoyed, even. Truthfully, I can't blame her. I never have any food for her.
?Really? Nothing??
I tentatively reach out my hand toward the open window where she's perched on the sill. When my fingers are mere inches away, she quickly rises, stretches, and jumps to the ground below. For a moment, it looked like she even rolled her dark green eyes.
?So much for making friends,? I scowl after her. She'll be back when I'm making dinner, of course. She always is.
I finish lacing up my shoes before walking out the door and locking it behind me. I trip as soon as I cross the threshold, cursing as I catch myself on a bike railing. I glance at the ground, annoyed as to what could already make this horrible day any worse. One half of a bright green broken pencil wobbles where I tripped over it. Too lazy to throw it away in the trash can in my apartment but too anti-litter to leave it there, I snatch it up. I'm about to put it in my pocket when something catches my eye?a faded label. A faded label?of my name.
I squint my eyes. There it is ? ?ELLE? It's a bit discolored and shabby, but I can make out my name clearly. There might be another letter there, right at the end, but it's too worn to see clearly. I stare at my name for a moment longer before I shrug and slide the object into my pocket.
It's quiet as I make my way down to my favorite spot on the island. No surprise there; since the day the bus dropped me off here eight weeks ago, the quiet has become a close companion, always nearby. It's as if this minuscule piece of the world is muffled and muted by the expanse of water surrounding it. A suppressed town. The stories here don't seem to make it past the ocean.
A great location for an aspiring writer, clearly.
Gentle water laps against the docks as the ocean comes into my view. Small businesses?closed for the holidays?line the long, windy sidewalk that runs along the beach. I follow the path along the water's edge.
Breathe. I inhale deeply. As I exhale, I make the conscious effort to lower my shoulders, both of which had been creeping higher and higher throughout the day. I think back to this morning when I'd awoken; my shoulders were low. Relaxed. And then, as I stared at the blank page on my laptop, my eyes burning into the screen, I felt my shoulders rise with each ticking minute. I shut the laptop in frustration as morning became late afternoon, without a single typed letter to show for it.
I came to this little Croatian island to be a writer, to narrate all the places I'd gone and all the people I'd met. I was going to spin stories of gold and silver and weave all the intricate moments I'd experienced into a poetic tapestry.
My shoulders are rising again. Breathe. I force them to drop.
It was all to no avail. For eight weeks I've been staring at the blank page, willing a beautiful memoir to appear Wishing that my fingers could do all the work. And for eight weeks...nothing.
I told myself that the first week didn't matter. I was getting accustomed to the island. Right? I needed to settle in. The second week? Still adjusting, of course. The third and fourth weeks were dedicated to exploring. I hiked all over the island, found hidden beaches and alcoves, meditated to sunsets and sunrises. During the fifth and sixth weeks, I focused on figuring out what I wanted to do when I returned home after this trip; I couldn't go back home without an idea of what I want to do with my life. And the seventh week was?well, also for figuring out my life, because I still hadn't done so after the fifth and sixth weeks. And actually, if I'm being completely honest, I still haven't.
The eighth week consisted of me finally opening my laptop and staring at the screen. The sun rose and fell and rose and fell? six times. Seven times, now, with tonight's sunset. The sun is still slightly too high in the sky to count it quite yet, so I guess that's one positive aspect from today. I still have an hour before I determine myself to be, yet again, a complete and utter failure.
I thought I would have more time. But I leave in one more week, and still, the page remains blank.
The sidewalk ends here, and so do the buildings. I forge ahead, picking my way across a small field of rocks. The tide hasn't gotten to them yet, so they're dry and sturdy. The water laps gently a few feet away from me as I follow the rocky beach. It curves gently to the right. And there, at the edge, far away from any other indications of human population, is a crooked, lonely, barren tree. As I walk toward it, I see the sun beginning to dip down, the sky turning my favorite rosy pink.
I smiled at the card in my hand. Guess I wasn?t alone anymore.->The tree beckons me into its lonely arms. I fall into them. The trunk is long, thick, and crooked, enabling me to lie at an angle on it and watch the sunset, leaning my head against a branch.
The sky continues to transform into a display of colors. It's more orange now, as the sun scatters its rays far and wide. Bits of pink and red splash across the few spots where small clouds gather.
Is this all I'll amount to? A washed-up writer before she even had a chance to do the washing part? I've heard it everywhere; it's an impossible road to be a writer. No, not impossible to be a writer; it's an impossible road to be a memorable writer.
The sun kisses the horizon line, sending a blinding flash of light across the water, almost too bright to look upon. Almost.
Maybe if I burn my eyes out I'll actually have an excuse?er, a reason?as to why my story is nonexistent?
?Get a grip, Elle,? I hiss through clenched teeth. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Lower the shoulders.
I try to let it all go. Every memory, every expectation. The sun continues to set, the sky turning a deep and romantic purple.
I rise to my feet to make my way back home. The once dry rocks are slippery and shiny now, and I walk through them slowly. I breathe again when I reach the sidewalk. Inhale. Exhale. Drop shoulders.
My body is heavy as I make my way to my apartment. With each step, my feet seem more and more leaden, until I feel as though I need to physically pick up each limb and maneuver them toward that empty room and that empty page.
A few feet from my apartment door, I pull my keys out of my pocket. As I'm fumbling for them, I manage to trip again, catching myself on the same bike railing as before.
?You've got to be kidding me???
I stop short. There, on the ground, is the other half of the pencil, in the exact same spot where I found the first half. I stare at it. I lean down and pick it up, pulling the other half from my pocket at the same time. I put them both together, and gaze at the label.
?STORYTELLE? it reads. The last letter??it must be an ?r?. ?STORYTELLER?.
I stand there for several minutes, just staring down at the little broken wood item in my hands, unblinking.
I walk to my apartment. Unlock the door. Sit at the table. Open my laptop.
I carefully place the broken pencil in front of my screen, so that the letters face me. I hear a small scuffling sound, and glance toward the window. Ginger sits there, tail curling about, looking at me with those dark green eyes with what appears as faint curiosity. I smile at her before turning back to the screen.
And I begin to write.
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