89. A star in the lake (part 3)
Peter Lake was thrown into the East River on January 4th, 1917. Dropping straight down, like an arrow, and disappearing in the waves.
After thirty five years, he finally learned to drown.
This event wasn't taken into account, by any means. After all, no one knew Peter Lake. No one claimed or mourned him. No newspaper inked down the exact details of his demise. The state of his body, his mind. Who would miss him in this frigid city.
Humpstone John would die without knowing what had become of the man he had raised. The child with the lost laugh. A baby born of the bay. He went the same day, too. Near the sea. Quietly, without pain.
The Penns returned home from the funeral without hearing a word of what had happened to him. They wouldn't know for quite a long time, as it turns out.
What was recorded, at least in passing, was the blizzard that ended with that final splash of water. Skies emerging among the clouds. A draft of sweetness slithering through the alleys of New York.
Pearly Soames fled the sunlight with his wolves. Some of them ran with him. Others ran the other way. Some were shot. Others were tackled. Most ran, and ran, and kept on running, regardless of consequence. A few got away. Shedding their fur and leaving a trail.
Miraculously enough, frost thinned to puddles. Rosy tinges washed across the silk-like clouds. A peachy fragrance frolicked around the city. And for the entirety of that day, New York believed in summer once again. The citizens applauded their faith and collected prayers.
Never mind the oddity of there being a sudden breeze of heat on January. Spring hadn't shown itself in quite some time and summer was unthinkable. Therefore, its return, for that blessed day, was welcomed without question.
Coats were discarded indoors. Children took off their shoes. Snowmen perished under a slaving heat. Soldiers of winter, melting to the applause of the very hands that had formed them.
Winter ended on January 4th. At least, for a short while.
As these brief celebrations were taking place, Peter remained underwater. Bloodied and beaten and broken.
Beverly slept in her bed of darkness. Underground. Away from the changing temperatures and the madness that had once swept her off her feet.
Orange skies blazed through the evening. Rhombi of amber caressed his face. Paint dripped from above in dashes of silver.
Sadly, winter returned before the sun went down. Summer, disintegrating. Petals of magic, discarded on the sea. Joining Peter Lake in his grave of water.
And New York went back to sleep.
Little Willa kept her window open that night. She stayed awake, weeping, murmuring under her breath. Looking out. Up.
Naturally, she didn't know the state Peter found himself in. Where he was, or how. In fact, she was distraught over something completely different. Her only concern was the number of stars on the sky.
She couldn't help but feel like one of them was missing.
On January 5th, 1917, in the dead of night, under an incomplete mosaic of stars… Peter Lake emerged from the East River and swam to shore.
Moonlight glimmered off the glossy surface of his clothes and hair and skin. He crawled back to the rocky skirts of the City of Justice, the shore of pebbles, and lay back, and looked up.
And waited.
—
This story will continue on
THE FLIGHT OF THE MAGPIES
(Coming soon)
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
As always.
I don't know what to say. I... have no words, truly. I never imagined I'd get this far with this "little experiment". That I'm not even done yet. That I could never be done. Because I love to linger on the magic of this film. And its characters. And its light, its optimism in humanity...
I told you things would only get worse for Peter. And, yeah, he has a long road ahead. But things will get better, too. That's the beauty of "Winter's Tale." That... there is always something good waiting for you, somewhere. That you may never imagine what it could be until it arrives before you.
Part 2, as you can see, will not be named "A Century of Chalk and Frost," as I initially planned. I changed the name to "The Flight of the Magpies," which I think sounds way better. I have to thank my best friend for helping me decide on a new title, too. I had other alternatives but ended up choosing this.
And it will have a shared POV: Peter and Beverly. I have so many plans for this. I am legit giddy at this point. Especially when it comes to Beverly's POV, considering that she's, well... dead. I'm excited to start writing from her perspective. And also shedding light on just how positively Peter affected her life, and vice versa. How much she cares for him. That's always something I love to write about. It's the reason why I keep editing and re-editing sections of their last chapters together. I keep going back to them. They are what matter to me in this tale, of course.
And I want Part 2 to be about them, their bond. Why they are still breathing. Why they keep going. They will be together and separated at the same time. I have all the tools to work with - not a lot, but enough. The rules that the movie's universe sets up - the concept of fallen angels like Gabriel, guardian angels like Cecil and Athansor, and the way Beverly shows up in the last third, as literal beacons of light - are scarce but solid. And I think I have all the necessary materials to have a blast writing the rest of this story. One thing I know for certain is, I cannot leave this unfinished. I have to finish this.
But... I am scared of ever finishing it, really. It's why I took longer than usual to publish this final chapter of Part 1. I'm halfway done.
And... now more than ever, writing this story, about this subject matter, and clinging to this film, keeps me afloat so many days.
Just yesterday I got news of the overturn of Roe v Wade. And today, a horrifying shooting at a gay bar in Norway. And my family is still in a fragile spot. My brother is getting better but he's not there yet. And my parents are exhausted. And many days I am exhausted too. I was exhausted yesterday. I'm still a bit sleepy now.
And... I cling onto a movie like "Winter's Tale" because I really wish I could close my eyes and become a part of it. To fly on Athansor's back. To dance under a ticking clock. To belong to a world where things like this do happen. Where no matter how badly things look, there is always light at the end of the tunnel. And perhaps there is light at the end of my tunnel, but I won't bring my hopes up till it's there. Right in front of me.
I have said this before in this site, but... Peter Lake is a character we've all met. So is Beverly.
We all have that one person that brightens up our lives, in the most unlikely of ways. A lover. A friend. A miracle. Someone who keeps us on our feet. I know so many Peter Lakes. My family. My friends. Even random people I interact on a daily basis. Strangers. The other day I was at a supermarket, and an old woman was talking about her husband having Parkinson's Disease. For sixteen years, no less. I said "sorry," I couldn't help myself. She didn't hear me at first, so I said it again. And she thanked me. And that's it. But... I keep thinking about her. Feeling sorry for her. And feeling glad that I randomly offered one or two words of comfort to this person that I didn't even know.
This movie is the embodiment of those gentle, seemingly-small interactions. It's not a perfect film, but it is a perfect message. A perfect feeling that it gives you. I know that it returns my faith in humanity whenever I lose it. And I hope it does the same for you. We need more stories like "Winter's Tale." More encouragement. We need hope.
Thank you, as always, for being here. For checking out my stories. For getting all the way here, after all these chapters and all this drama XD. I hope to see you again in Part 2. And that you enjoy it, as much as you can.
I love you, whoever you are, wherever you are. Thank you. Thank you.