This chapter seems to be the in-between chapter to me. The end will be probably two chapters on, so it's coming to the conclusion.
Disclaimer- I do not own the wonderful characters of Roald Dahl's, or the characters in the 2005 CatCF movie by Tim Burton. I definetly don't own the sonnet by W. Shakespeare, wich has been taken from an anthology. I discovered it in much the same way as Charlie, in a tree, reading my the collection of Sonnet. It seemed so perfect. '
Enjoy.
Mr. and Mrs. Bucket marvelled at the work that had commenced since Wonka strode through the doors at exactly ten o' clock, after his absence. He had walked through the doors and clapped his hands, issuing the sharp cry that brought forth an Oompa Loompa. As the morning wore on he had watched from their dilapidated house. Oompa Loompas dressed in a pixie like uniform that seemed to startle the eye ran to and fro, carrying bauble or decoration, moving a plant or opening cages, setting more different candy animals free. Soon the air was tinted with the sound of birdcalls; the new plants seemed larger and thicker in areas. And of course, in the centre of it all rose the tree. It was easily twenty foot high, and from every point exploded colour. This was no ordinary tree. Its decorations, for one thing, moved. Hundreds of clockwork machines tinkled and intertwined, somehow silent. A train track ran around the tree, performing many impossible curves and loop, curling round the tree like a snake. Out of the tree trunk burst clockwork animals, moving and chattering. Most magnificent of all was the juggling hands. They were placed strategically around the tree, looking disturbingly like severed hands. They sat there, white and pale until Wonka, bored while waiting for Charlie to return had presented their use to the Buckets.
"Hey….Look at this" he had said to the curious people. He took one simple Christmas bauble, of the finest blown sugar and handed it too…well, the hand. The hand moved, Charlie's mother gave a little gasp as it did so and tossed it high into the air. Another hand above it caught it and threw it sideways, to yet another waiting hand which, at the last moment, caught it gently and dropped it to a hand below. Wonka loaded another and another. A green one, laced with gold. A pink one with golden stripes. A clear one with writing all over it. A creamy white one. A clear one filled with sweets.
He seemed to have many millions. The sight was mesmerizing, the little baubles moving around the tree, avoiding the moving clockwork animals and branches seemingly magically. Finally one reached the top. Wonka sat and watched it, wishing Charlie was by his side. He clicked his fingers absently and a hand stopped briefly to throw him a bauble. He looked at it, shiny and round, perfectly clear. It was crystal blue, with small white lacing all over it. He held it and looked at his reflection, bulbous in the distorted sphere. Then, looking at the Bucket crowding around the tree, gasping with delight and wonder, he absently ate the bauble. He held out the last fragment before eating it quietly.
An Oompa Loompa approached and gave some shaken signal. stood up, and followed the Oompa Loompa, taking the elevator to the entrance hall, biting his lip. The Oompa Loompa hadn't come running, so Charlie wasn't in immediate life threatening danger, but Wonka was worried nonetheless.
As Charlie saw the sight of movement around the tree beneath him he gasped, and ran out as the Elevator landed. He stopped in front of the tree.
"I…it's beautiful…"
Like you, Wonka thought before once more pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He walked forwards proudly. He gave a secret nod to the Oompa Loompa who pulled an over-elaborate lever. Hundreds of thousands of tiny snowflakes fluttered down,settling like snow. It covered the parts of the tree that weren't moving, gathering in banks slowly on the ground. Charlie gasped.
"How did you do all this in the time I was gone?"
Wonka merely smiled. His smiles looked, to the watching Buckets, insane or slightly disturbed but Charlie watched his face passive. Inside he was watching more attentively, trying to define the feelings within him.
And so a day easily passed, Charlie wandered around the banks of the chocolate room, reading a new book his mother had given him and admiring the Christmas tree. When Wonka came upon him, several hours later he was half sitting, half lying against the curve of a Candy Cane tree some height off the ground. He was reading. He did not hear Wonka approach, he did not hear Wonka stop and look at him.
Wonka half smiled at Charlie, who had discarded his coat in the heat of the Factory, in his vest and his white shirt under it, sleeves rolled up to just past the elbows. Where there had once been slightly messy black hair his head was now bald, a fact that Charlie hated. Charlie reached up absently and plucked a small candy fruit growing there and ate it, his eyes fixed on the page.
"Watcha reading there?" Charlie looked up and smiled. He held up the leather-bound, thin book. It had a simple cover, embossed gold frame and the words "The Sonnets of William Shakespeare".
"Shakespeare? At your age? Booo-ring."
"Not really. I like them. Listen." He read out one, one of his favorites. Wonka listened, for all his bored look he felt like time had slowed when Charlie read the Shakespeare, the words falling on his ears like light rain. As the sonnet ended the sound of the waterfall and the Oompa Loompa's soft singing returned to him and he looked at Charlie's face.
"Beautiful" he said, not knowing which one he was talking about, Charlie or the poetry. Charlie self-consciously rubbed his head and swung his legs over. His shoulder was now at Wonka's head height. Wonka stood next to him, strait backed and chin high, surveying the chocolate room before him. Charlie looked around with him.
"Everything in here is beautiful. Everything is so perfect. I don't belong."
"And why not?" Wonka asked, grinning his insane grin again. Charlie subconsciously raised his hand to his head again.
"I'm not perfect in any way. My head is ugly and I haven't really done anything to be proud of."
"Firstly, your head is not ugly. Nor is any part of you. And not done anything to be proud of? Charlie look around you. Since you have come here, what changes have you made in this room since you arrived?"
"well, some of the plants have changed….The Balcony, animals….lots of little things, I guess." The Balcony had been designed by Charlie with Wonka's whimsical designs in mind. It swung from the side of one roof, almost like a spider web across a corner. It was there that Wonka and Charlie sat and talked about ideas, above the chocolate room.
Charlie sat in silence for a little, trying to bring the courage to himself to say what he meant. He finally ripped a page out of his book. He hated hurting the books he loved so much, but he knew this was important. He handed Wonka the page and walked away quietly to his house. It was perfect.
Wonka, taken aback, looked at the page. It was another of Charlie's sonnets.
LXXII
O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, what you should love?
After my death, dear love, forget me quite
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie
To do more for mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
Wonka read it several times, wondering what it could possibly mean. He suddenly realized as he re-wrote the section in his head, his expression changed.
LXXII- Wonka Take Two, what the sonnet seems to mean.
If everyone asks you to tell
What I was good at, why you loved me
After I die, forget me
Because you just can't prove I'm good enough
Unless you lie.
That's too much for me to accept from you
If you give some lie about how good I was
It would be a lie, and a bad one.
If your love is untrue, If it even exists
Than forget my name when I am gone
And don't be sad when I go.
For I am ashamed of my own feelings
And you should be for loving what's not worth loving.
Did that mean what the sonnet was written? Charlie had chosen one that said so much. Wonka thought about his translation, slightly less graceful than the master of word's own version. But could Charlie possibly feel like that?
He felt flustered and confused, but decided to act on it at once. Immediately he changed his mind, then shook his head and strode off purposefully in the direction of the house, but turned again as he lost his nerve. He took off his top hat and impatiently brushed off a few of Charlie's snowflakes. Lowering his eyes he read again the sonnet, it seemed more sad and beautiful that anything he had seen before.
That you for love speak well of me untrue
My name be buried where my body is,
How could Wonka forget Charlie, ever? He realized the truth as soon as it hit him. He loved Charlie; he could no longer push it away or hide it. He accepted the fact with cold reality and furrowed his brows, rubbing his eyes as he wondered what to do.
The sonnet's lines were muhc closer together in microsoft words, I apologise for the space they take up. Wonka's interpretation is not meant to be poetry at all, just stating what each line means. Thank;s for rading, please review.
C.Clementine.