Well, here we go. Let me forewarn you that I am exceedingly verbose, and it is quite apparent in my writing. That disclaimer being vocalised, (or typed), read on.
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INTRO
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My name is Hattie, and I am a pirate.
I do not live in the 16 or 1700s. I know what a television is, and I can program a computer. I've seen movies, and I've played video games.
I always preferred books, though. Movies were fun, video games at least passed the time, but books could capture me. I learned about pirates from books. One, though not exactly historical, was the first to seize my imagination, and it never let go.
The first time I ever read of the island that stars pointed to, I dreamed of it. I hear that many children do, but most dreamed to be lost children, or Indians, or faeries. I was one of the few who looked to piracy. At my first memories I could draw an at least recognizable Jolly Roger. Oh yes, piracy seemed very attractive to me. Freedom, adventure, the sea breeze, and those masterful ships: they all appealed to me, and to my inner self-reliance. But what first drew me in was held only within the covers of that first book.
In the First Book, there was a man of great gentility and greater command. He had long ebony curls and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, save when he cut one through, at which time his eyes had in them formed two spots of bloodiest red. This was he who drew me to piracy, this was he who commanded my imagination with the same authority that he commanded his ship.
Of course, all children grow up, save one. I was not that One, and I grew to the age of 18 with naught but the occasional hope and daydream towards my childhood dreams. Never, Neverland had never, never existed, and my daring, dark Captain had never even attended Eton. Some small voice urged that he had simply destroyed al of his own records, hadn't I read that? Another voice, louder now that I had grown, said that I was foolish and should stop daydreaming about people-who-are-not. No such man or boy had ever existed to even destroy any records, much less his own, which never existed anyways. That other voice was often snippish, like that.
I can pinpoint the exact moment where my imagination died. It had been sickly, but having gone to Charleston and the beach, it had seen a soaring recovery. That was not to last. The moment I was at my highest point, someone said something very poignant.
"What are you going to do for a living?"
They did not ask me what I wished to be when I grew up, (was I already there?), nor did they ask me IF I wanted to make a living for myself. In truth, I had not thought of earning wages until that very moment. It was then that I realised I must learn to earn a living, and study to find a good job. It was then that my imagination died.
And so I sat, having entered my first year in a University, in an accounting class. I had always thought to be a history or an art major, perhaps to teach, or be a historian or artist. Those jobs do not make money, I was told. You must earn a living, they all said. So here I sat, an accounting major. It did not bother me, though: my imagination had already died, it could suffer no longer. Every morning, I woke and went to study to be an accountant, and every night, I went to bed without any hope of dreams. I sometimes wondered if I wouldn't even be thrilled with a nightmare, so long as it wasn't this grey reality I lived. Colour itself had faded from my vision; when I thought myself destined to be an artist, I could notice the finest detail or brilliance. In even a stormy sky I could see purples, blues, and even a tinge of bright green-now I could see only grey, and darker grey.
One strange and unusual weekend, I had worked so far ahead that I literally had no other work or projects or writing assignments to even look at. I glanced about my room, and my eyes landed upon my bookshelves. One book in particular caught my attention: it was bedraggled and worn looking, but not the sort of worn that came from misuse. This was the sort of wear that came from many years of use and love, albeit perhaps a rougher love than some scholars would have dealt a prized tome. Something stirred within me, something I had not felt for some time now. I felt myself move towards the shelf, and my hand reach out for the First Book without my knowledge or consent. A spark of something almost (dare I even say the word?) magical ran from the rough binding to my fingers. I spent my hours that evening pouring over and over the First Book again and again, and I suspect that I fell asleep while reading it. I say I suspect, but I am rather certain, as I woke up with my face planted squarely in the midst of the it's pages.
I would love to be able to say that this is the end of the story, and I simply had my faith in imagination renewed, switched to an art major, and went on my merry way to happily ever after.
However, there was no such happening. I spent that Saturday in deep emotional torment, without knowledge of what my life had been spent for, where it was going, and how to get it where it needed to be, or even where it, in fact, needed to be.
College, I have decided, is the first time you are really, truly forced to grow up. Oh, I know what you all are thinking, and Wendy did indeed face difficulties in leaving the nursery. However, Wendy was not faced with the thought of money, of marriage, or of children. She was simply told to move across a hallway to a new room, and take on more ladylike characteristics. Not to sound the braggart, but Wendy Darling's problems paled in comparison to my own. The only reason, though, that my problems overshadowed that of Miss Darling'ss is that all-consuming problem of Time. Time was running out for me far faster than for Wendy at the time of her crisis. I could very well have adopted Tempus Fugit for my life's motto. I had just been informed I had roughly a year and a half to decide what to do with the rest of my entire life, and three and a half more years to learn how to do whatever I chose in the first span of time. Time, to me, had finally fled completely. I had no hope...and I became an accounting student.
My confusion mounted. Somewhere, deep within my soul, a fledgling phoenix of my imagination had stirred. It called out against the injustice of its caging and unnatural death. Oh, it had been wakened, but it was still very much caged. An artist's imagination cannot take flight in an accountant's mind, and thus, my imagination had woken to find itself inside of an unfamiliar vessel.
After that weekend, I went back to class. Monday morning, my first course was that of Business Administration and Accounting, (almost everything I took had 'accounting' somewhere in its title), and my imagination ceased its cries, choosing comatose dormancy over the droning of ledgers and accounts.
This is where the real story begins.
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It was a quiet night in the piedmont suburbs. The sweltering Carolinian weather had finally begun to feel somewhat crisp, and a chill breeze wafted through the dark neighborhoods. Across the city, a single light shone from a window. That window belonged to house high on a hill, and inside of that window sat a petite figure, bent over a desk full of papers.
Hatherleigh Jones had been working at those papers for hours. Weeks, really, but only hours this particular night. She arched her back momentarily, allowing herself the smallest of yawns. Night was quickly turning to early morning, and even the most dedicated of workers must get some form of sleep. That is, unless you are Hatherleigh Jones, who no longer believed in sleep, unless perhaps you were ill. Finishing her smallest of yawns, the accountant-to-be went back to her sums and papers.
What Hatherleigh did not know, yea, could not know, is that there are creatures who notice far more than the outside of a person. Stars, for example. They have nothing more to do than sit and shine all night, and so they have become avid people-watchers. One little star had taken a distinct interest in the goings-on of the house on the hill where the Joneses lived. This star had been called Myariosa Rigel by some scientist or other. Of course, only faeries an call the stars by their true names, as the names are made up wholly of different bursts of light. Because it would be foolish to assume anyone could write light, much less read it, we shall call this little star Sa'Rigel. (I would call her Rigel, of course, but another star tends to answer to that name more readily.)
Sa'Rigel had always watched the Joneses house, even when it was occupied by the Morgans, beforehand. Stars live ever so much longer than humans, or even trees, and trees live a very long time after all. Sa'Rigel had seen Mr. and Mrs. Jones bring home their baby girl, and watch over her in the nursery. The little star had watched as the nursery became a playroom, then an art studio, and finally, a miniature office, that so happened to contain a bed, should the girl ever decide to sleep. As sadly as a star can ever get, Sa'Rigel watched as the creative little girl grew into a boring adult, almost within half a year.
Now, it is true that stars are immobile, but that does not mean that they are somehow invalid. Stars are very vocal, after all, and make good friends of the equally chattery faeries. Sa'Rigel's best friend, in fact, was a fairy named Gardner. Gardner was a gentleman of a fairy, as sweet and kind as any fairy could hope to be. Always willing to lend a hand, or an ear, or perhaps a nice plant bulb. Plants of any sort were of fascinating interest to Gardner. (Fairies do tend to be aptly named.) So, it was upon Gardner that Sa'Rigel decided to call, to discuss the fate of one Hatherleigh Jones. Gardner, after all, had a vested interest in the girl: he was HER fairy, hatched from her first infant gurgle of laughter.
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