Jim Henson, David Bowie and the various corporate machines own everything! Oh, except Greensleeves, the original lyrics of which have most definitely fallen into public domain. But anyway, I own nothing except the order in which the words were written down… and the Lake Country (but you've not seen that yet), and some new critters (ditto)…
Thanks go to "miguida" for beta reading and a level of planning which enters the realm of co-authorship.
Here is Chapter one for your delectation, there may be a bit of a wait before posting again, exams are truly imminent, but this story will not be forgotten!
Xxx
PaintR.
Forgetfulness
A snowy owl soared and wheeled through the wide open sky, heavy soft feathers creating a soundless, mesmerising dance as the dazzling bright white plumage of the bird cut through the glorious explosion of blue and mauve and lavender. The setting sun washed the clouds with a delicate pink tint, colouring and defining the great turrets of cotton wool, and the hazy spider silk of the higher clouds. The bird, still silent, changed direction with a swoop and began a lazy spiralling decent, intently scanning the ground below. Suddenly it plummeted towards the ground, the tinted clouds and the dappled gold and green of the hilltop trees in the distance blurred past, their colours streaming together behind the white plumage as the bird plunged to the ground, trapping some small creature in its feet, tipped with dark heavy talons, and crushed its prey to the turf. Hopping off the crushed animal corpse the owl inspected its dead prey, clutching it firmly with one foot, as similar creatures scuttled to hide in the crack of the large, old sandstone wall.
Transferring its dead prey to its beak, the owl took off; a single quick whooshing noise was all that signalled its take off, as it resumed its silent flight. The world spun beneath its wings as it plunged through low wisps of cloud and fog; the sandstone wall fed into others, like some immense, almost organic maze, giving way here and there to hedges and rivers, before climbing an immense far off hill, to some indistinct golden structure shining bright in the distance.
The land beneath his wings changed and shifted, the walls ended, giving way to pasture, and then dense dark forest. The owl plummeted down over the canopy of the trees, losing altitude in the cooler air, before catching an updraft as the woods in their turn gave way to golden fields of ripening wheat, then buildings and roads… a town, tinted gold in the evening light. Finally the owl landed, settling on an old, decaying tree trunk, not yet claimed for timber. It firmly grasped its prey in its claws, and, since the captured prey was too large to swallow whole, the owl began to plunge its beak into the soft, still warm flesh of the creature.
The lightening-blasted ancient tree trunk stood amid carefully manicured lawns which sloped gently down to a river. Standing on the grey stone bridge over the river was a young woman, leaning idly on the crumbling stone wall, fingers gently tracing the lines of old, eroding cement as she stared out towards the fruit trees on the far bank, their foliage just starting to shift colour, glimpses of golden and red invading the green, the odd few leaves swirled down in the light breeze which whipped up eddies every now and then, causing some hidden wind chimes to start their echoing song, before depositing the leaves on the gentle surface of the water. Straightening up, Sarah watched with lazy interest as a leaf was swept under the bridge by the current and she crossed to the other side to follow its progress. After a few moments, idly playing with a loose curl of dark hair that has escaped the shining gold ribbon binding it back from her face like a coronet, she realised that the leaf had not emerged.
She crossed the bridge, and strode down the bank to the water's edge, looking for the leaf. Eventually she saw it in the shadows, caught, and trapped by an eddy in a maze of sticks. She smiled, wistfully and headed back up the grassy slope towards the open space and the strangely incongruous tree trunk.
The light, as she looked up at the owl perched on the branch, dazzled her, and she raised a hand to her head to shade her eyes. The wind picked up, whipping her pale dress around her legs, revealing her smart little black shoes. "Well hello," she smiled up at the bird, imagining that it could understand her, "what have you got there?" The owl looked out imperiously, tilting its head in such a way that Sarah had a clear view of its blood stained beak before it turned back to its meal without even glancing at the girl standing below. "It doesn't look like a mouse, but it's definitely not a bird… where did you find it, whatever it is, hmm?" The bird just continued to devour the increasingly unrecognisable creature, completely oblivious, or perhaps just supremely disdainful of her presence. "What do you think he's got, Merlin?" she asked, slightly louder, turning round. The park was empty.
"Merlin!" she called, before pursing her lips and letting forth a piercing whistle. Within a few moments, and with a great rustling clatter, an Old English sheepdog lumbered out of the undergrowth of the fruit trees and rushed across the bridge, wagging his tail happily. "Look at you, disgusting dog, what am I going to do with you? Were you off down rabbit holes?" Merlin shook violently, forcing Sarah to jump backwards to avoid getting her dress covered in mud. "Not rabbits, then… what about squirrels? No…badgers? Or were you chasing those pesky goblins again?" Merlin wagged his tail happily, tongue lolling out as he sat to look up at her, recognising the indulgent, amused tone in her soft voice. "Look at all this mud." She leant down to pat him noisily, through his long hair, matted with mud. "Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, you fought your muddy way to the castle of the goblin king, beyond the labyrinth, to take back the bone that they had stolen…" she smirked to herself, as she perverted the lines from a story her mother had told her so long ago.
A bell began to chime in the distance, the sweet clear sound carrying across the park. "You know, Merlin, I don't think he's coming…" she cocked her head to one side, listening to the bells "I think I've been stood up again… honestly, being willing to break curfew just to get stood up again…" her dark eyes opened wide as the bell chimed for the seventh time, and then began to fill up with tears. "Oh no, Merlin, it's seven o'clock, he's definitely not coming now! Oh it's not fair!"
Suddenly the owl, which had finished its messy meal, took off into the air, flying over her head, and off across the river towards the denser trees. Sarah's eyes followed its path even as the tears began to roll down her face.
Hitching her skirt she began to run, she whistled for the dog, unable to call, feeling the tears beginning to choke her. She crossed the river, and sped down the path leading her home, the dog gambolling along behind as the heavens opened, crying for her, hiding her tears.
Sarah burst out from the cover of the trees, and down a bank, and along the road as Merlin sped up to run in front of her. The rain slashed down around her, droplets bouncing off cars and pavement with little tinny noises, the road growing slicker and harder to navigate. Sarah sped up to avoid tripping, imagining her feet lifting almost before they were set down.
Finally Merlin turned, and Sarah followed him up the inclining path to the house, her way less slippery, sheltered by the trees which lined the roadside. She collapsed against the wall, under the eaves of the porch, and sluiced the rain from her face with her hands.
Suddenly the front door slammed open, startling the birds in the trees. Sarah looked up at the pigeons as their wings clap clapped as they took flight. She squinted up at them. Surely not… no, not the owl, it must just have been a white pigeon or a dove. Sarah wondered if they were the same thing as she stared up at the grey sky, the cords of rain falling from the sky less thick, and less frequent.
"…are you even listening to me, young lady?" Her stepmother's voice snapped her back to reality.
"I'm sorry," Sarah said quietly. "I…" Her stepmother cut her off waving her hand, adorned with beautifully lacquered red nails,
"Never mind, come into the house before you freeze." Sarah looked down, toeing off her shoes and picking up her skirts to step past the woman in the evening dress.
"C'mon Merlin," Sarah called softly.
"No, not the dog. Garage, Merlin!" she chirped.
The dog just sat there in the mud, his tail thumping dully down into a puddle. "Go into the garage, Merlin!" Sarah called, as the front door swung shut behind her.
"So Sarah, where have you been? I asked you to be home by 6.30, your father and I have decided to go out," her voice grew softer, "we so rarely get the chance," she said wistfully.
"You go out every weekend!" Sarah called resentfully as she made her way up the stairs, flicking her wet hair back over her shoulder. "You don't even ask me if I can baby sit anymore, you assume I can, but what if I had plans?" She demanded, leaning over the balustrade to look down at the immaculately dressed and coiffed woman below.
"Well I assumed you'd tell me if you had a date. I'd like it if you had a date, you should have dates at your age." Her deep blue eyes followed her stepdaughter as she rounded the corner at the top of the stairs. "A girl your age should be having dates!"
Her father appeared on the landing, holding the baby and a bottle. "Sarah, you're home. Where were you? We were worried!" She just brushed past him as she went up the stairs.
"What was all that about, dear?" he asked, turning to his wife.
"Sarah doesn't have any dates," she answered simply.
Sarah stopped abruptly outside the door to her room. "I do have dates," she murmured resentfully, "I have so many of them and the same bloody thing happens each time. I get stood up, and they never talk to me again." She opened the door, and stepped inside. Her movements were brittle, overly controlled, as she gathered up her things and went into the bathroom, slowly closing the door so that it shut almost painfully quietly behind her, as fresh tears rolled down her face, eventually merging with the steam rising to fill the air and the water in the bath. "Am I some sort of challenge?" She asked herself quietly, "Is it a dare for all of the local sports teams?" She put on a snide voice "Ask out the loner and then stand her up. It'll be funny!"
Sarah stripped down to her underwear, nice matched bra and knickers, sensible white to be sure, but with pale blue lace decorating them, not that anyone was going to see, and stared into the mirror, as the steam climbed up the still cool glass.
Sarah heard her father call through the bathroom door, telling her that they had put Toby to bed, and that they were on their way out. If he said what time they would be back, then Sarah didn't hear it, sinking below the water level in the tub, and listening to the pipes gurgle. At length she resurfaced and stood up, drawing a deep breath, which, given the humidity and heat of the bathroom made her feel light-headed. As she sat down on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for the world to stop spinning and for her vision to clear she thought, just for a moment, that she saw a face that was not her own staring back at her out of the mirror.
At length Sarah emerged fully dressed from the bathroom and, towelling her hair dry, walked through her parents' room to the baby's cot. He was sitting up, holding onto the bars, with a pathetic, hopeful expression on his face, like a convict wrongfully accused.
Sarah sat down heavily on her parents' vast four-poster bed. She felt bile rising in her throat as she remembered how it had been before her stepmother moved in, before the baby, when it was just her and her father, after her mother had gone off with him, that bloke from the theatre. The room now was so different, but in some ways it was like her parents' old room, back in their old house, before the move; frilly, lacy, cluttered and stifling.
There had been arguing in the beginning, her mother's strong personality ground her father down to next to nothing, and had clashed with Sarah's own. There had been tears, and slammed doors, upheaval and histrionics with every new play, every new casting and each review. Then there were tears and hoarse cries from Sarah the child when her father had, over a badly made breakfast at which Sarah was given her first cup of black coffee, announced that "Mummy has gone away, and she may be away for a very long time, maybe even forever."
But, gradually, as breakfasts improved, and the coffee lost its bitter edge, the tears and shouting were replaced with comfortable silence. They moved, and their new house became a calm little world within four walls, where the space was filled with soft music instead of soft rugs and fussy doilies. Companionable silence and understanding without words grew. It was a pure clean lifestyle, undemanding, except when Sarah, still young and upset would bring back the spectre of a perfect loving mother to hurl at her father, using that same, but in this case occasional, temper to do so. Then the photograph albums, old awards and scrapbooks came out, were dusted off, and reminded her of the instability of that young life.
Of course, eventually the spectre of a loving mother came back, in the form of a woman, who, less dramatic than her mother, retained a similar cutting temper and flamboyant style. The house was gradually softened, feminised, filled and finally baby-proofed. But Sarah had grown up and despite her father's hopes, she could not bring herself to call Amanda "mother". Her father's calm, easy going identity slid, once again, behind a dominant, ceaselessly enforced femininity, just as his oak bed, with its bare pillars and dark sheets, had been covered with a duvet, then a quilt, then cushions and curtains.
The baby was still staring at her, with Amanda's blue clear eyes, so different from Sarah's own, which held a torrential darkness at bay behind them. She let the towel slide to the floor, as she went back to the cot, and extracted the bear from the corner. "Lancelot has to go back to his bed now sprog, but if you're good while I sort him out, when I come back I'll tell you a story. How's that for a deal?"
Sarah gathered up the towel on her way out, and, hanging it over the rail on the radiator, she tossed Lancelot through the open door to her room and onto her bed before heading downstairs. She walked through the kitchen to the door to the garage, and let in the now dry Merlin. She locked the exterior door, sliding the heavy bolts with difficulty and moved his food and water inside, before locking the internal door as well, leaving the key in the lock. She rinsed her hands off under the tap, watching the rain pour down the windows, and realising just how quickly night had descended. She stared out into the inky blackness, lost in thought. Suddenly, a face appeared in the window, and she yelped, leaping back. She looked out cautiously, and laughed nervously when she realised that it was just her own reflection which had shifted suddenly as Merlin knocked into the door to the hall, shifting the light source.
Her heart still racing, and feeling rather embarrassed, considering that only the dog saw her moment of fear, she checked that her father had locked the front door behind him and quickly went around the house drawing the curtains.
Running up the stairs she went into her own room. Her dressing table was a clutter of cosmetics, pencils and piles of books which had overflowed off her shelves. A photo of her mother, cut from a newspaper was rammed between the glass and the frame of the mirror, and a playbill from one of her productions was wedged between two of the books on the desk. Reminders.
More books on the shelves were crammed in, some lying flat on top of others, some shelves with a second row of books hidden behind the first. Here and there were stuffed toys, old friends from childhood, still too dear to leave behind, and it was onto the one entire shelf filled with more of these childhood treasures, that she placed Lancelot. He went behind a pack of cards and between a group of little china figurines and a single, old fashioned, porcelain faced doll dressed in lace and silvery wire.
Her posters were not what her friends would have expected, had any of them ventured to the house. No teen idols, or horses, or pretty landscapes. Instead there were art prints. All of them a little too grownup, a little too bizarre; there was Escher's room of staircases over the bed, a few Dali postcards scattered around, and a there was a print of Hegel's Holiday, a glass of water on a floating umbrella, in the blank space of wall.
Her room was neat, in its own way. Everything was, to her, very obviously where it should be, and to put things away, like the pencils on her desk, would just be inefficient. But the floor was clear, the bed, with its bright cheery spread was neatly made, and once Lancelot was safely put back in his place the room was complete.
Sarah picked up a thin book, bound in red leather, with worn, gilt-edged pages, and began to leaf reverently through the pages, caressing the spine with her fingertips, making sure not to strain it. She flipped open a little carved box, which turned out to be a music box, but instead of a twirling ballerina, there was a stationary male figure attached inside. She hummed and then finally sang softly along with the familiar tune as she read; "If you intend thus to disdain, it does the more enrapture me, and e'en forgot, I still remain your lover in captivity."
Toby's crying carried across the landing and through the open door, interrupting her. Sarah snapped the book shut and with a single finger she flicked the music box so that the lid shut with a satisfying heavy click. She scooped up the box, and walked into the room with Toby, flicking on the lights as she did so, as the rain and clouds really had settled in for the night very quickly, bringing thunder and lightning with them. She put the book and box down on the bed, and scooped up the baby, and strolled around the room, jiggling him up and down. "If you don't calm down, I won't tell you a story, Toby!" she warned. Eventually the baby stopped crying and she settled him down in the cot, and tucked him in, "There, isn't that nice?"
"Do you think that Merlin wants to listen too, Toby?" She interpreted his gurgles as a yes, and let out another of her piercing whistles. Thumpety, bumpety, thump went the dog's footfalls as he made his way upstairs, wagging his tail furiously, delighted to be allowed upstairs.
"Once upon a time there was a girl, who always ended up staying at home, looking after the baby. She didn't mind the looking after the baby so much, it was just the constant expectation that she would look after the baby, coupled with her fading hope, night after night, week after week, that maybe this time, this one time, she would get to go out. That someone would notice her, remember her, make her feel extraordinary, even for a moment. But hope fades, and dreams grow brittle without help. So she turned to the old tales, the magic of her sisters in times long ago, and tales of the deeds of her grandmothers, lost to history, and nearly disappeared from literature behind the tales of brave deeds of men."
She picked the musical box up off the bed, and wound it as she spoke, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the rug Merlin was laying on, which was nearly as fluffy as he was. "Once there was such a girl, who always ended up staying at home, looking after the baby, and she found a book of another such girl, who found such a book, so that the story's roots are lost to tales and myth. But in this tale, the lonely girls, each and every one of them, found help in the book, and began to dream again. Their dreams were so poignant, so beautiful, that they awoke the ancient spirits. The girls each in turn grew old, and died, but the ancient spirits did not, they remained, and they remembered, and some of them shaped themselves like the dreams," Her voice grew softer, as she walked, gesturing every so often, or stopping to grip the rail of the cot and look down at the baby, who was staring up at her, entranced.
"Do you know what happened then, Toby?" She asked, eyes glittering with excitement, "I'll tell you! These dream spirits waited, and found the souls of the dead dreamers, and made them live again for a while. In each generation the dreamers were born anew, as lonely girls who lost their dreams and found them again. The dream spirits called them, and the dreams became greater, with each passing year. But then the books, in time, grew hard to read, and became lost, and the dreamers forgot. Now the spirits are nearly always sleepy. But if a dreamer calls them, they will awaken."
"And they clues, the ancient spirits, to remind their dreamers of them, to remember them by, and the songs echo all around. Do you want to hear one?" Toby was silent, but Merlin thumped his tail happily, so she flicked open the musical box, and began to sing that old familiar song, but with unfamiliar lyrics.
"Alas,
my love, you do me wrong,
To leave
me thus discourteously,
For I have
loved you oh so long,
Delighting
in your company.
"Sweetest
dreamer you are my joy
And your
sweet dreams were my delight,
Sweetest
dreamer your heart seemed gold,
As you
made me slave to your dreams.
"Your
vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why
did you so enrapture me?
Now I
remain in my world apart
My heart
trapped in captivity.
"I have
been ready at your hand,
To grant
whatever you desire,
I have
moved all the stars and land,
For thou
hast set my blood afire.
"I had
my servants dressed in green,
To do your
will and wait on thee;
I gave you
gems, the finest seen,
And yet it
seems you forget me.
"All thy
desires I gave to thee,
I placed
my might beneath your hand
And, oh!
Beloved, eagerly
I made you
queen o'er all my land.
"In your
sweet voice and deep dark eyes,
I planted
magiks readily,
And if
thou callst, 'tis no surprise,
I have no
choice save come to thee.
"If you
intend thus to disdain,
It does
the more enrapture me,
And e'en
forgot, I still remain
Your lover
in captivity.
"Ah,
Sweet Dreamer for thee I wait,
Fear not
for my fidelity,
For now as
ev'r thou art my mate,
Come once
again and love me."
The music box exhausted, its final notes finally decayed into silence. Toby had fallen asleep, and Merlin was lying, oblivious on the floor. Poor Sarah, the tears were running down her cheeks. She picked up the musical box, and, switching off the light went into her room. She launched herself onto the bed and lowered her gaze to the pages of her book, periodically swiping at her eyes with her loose sleeves. "And one night, when the world seemed particularly cruel to her, the girl took the powers the goblin king gave her, and summoned his servants to rid her of her troubles."
What a pity I can't do that, she thought, putting the book and musical box down on her bedside table, and crawling under her sheets, still fully dressed. But how could someone take me away from my troubles? "Goblin King, Goblin King, rid me of my troubles!" She whispered softly. "I wish the goblins would… I don't know… make it better, or something. I wish I could find out what's wrong with me. I wish they could make it better." She reached a hand out from under the cover and turned off the light, as the thunder blotted out the muffled sniffing sounds from the bed.