"A Star in the Lake" and "The Flight of the Magpies" are my two-part reinterpretation of the movie "Winter's Tale" (2014).
I have NOT read the original novel by Mark Helprin, so my reinterpretation is based on the movie alone. Therefore, the events/characters that are exclusively in the book will not be featured in my stories.
I don't want to write something that's already been written. I want to create my own version of this tale. Helprin is the original creator of these characters, Akiva Goldsman is the adapter of his book, and I am an adapter of Goldsman's adaptation. This is not me trying to discredit either Helprin or Goldsman's versions of "Winter's Tale". This is me, a lover of these characters, a lover of this film, following in their footsteps while leaving my own, as well.
I don't own these characters. But I love them. I want to hold them for a while.
Given how little people know about this movie, and how poorly it was treated, I want to write about it. To think about it. To paint my own version of this tale and stay there for a little bit.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it.
Blanca
THE FLIGHT OF THE MAGPIES
Story begun on June 2022
1. Crickets
Beverly Penn never screamed.
A scream would have unleashed all sorts of chaos. And chaos was enticing to her, a rarity. A dangerous desire. Whispers of a heart that needed to be silenced.
The sound of her would have engulfed the walls in curtains of fire. She would have burned down the house and she would have felt light-headed, as weightless as a bird.
Beverly dreamed about it. One scream. All ills, all anger, fleeing her frigid body in leaping armies of heat. A relief so great it felt surreal. When had she last felt this light? When had this hand of fire loosened its grip around her neck?
For thirteen years, Beverly suppressed the urge to scream. And it was difficult. She longed for release. Her throat felt drier every day. Her chest, heavier.
She knew that the pleasure of screaming would be bitterly finite. She had much to unleash in her chest, but only one roof over her head. And a family. A father, a sister. The journalist and the ice skater. Both accomplished and defined in ambition and purpose.
One, old. One, young. Very young. Willa had done more in her little life than Beverly had in over twenty years.
But she would not sacrifice her family's peace for a moment of power. A second of pure happiness. A blink of sheer satisfaction.
She wouldn't break these walls or melt the glass that stood between her and the city. Windows encasing her in a wintry oblivion.
She was a petal, or maybe a fossil, drowned in a cube of glass. Encased forever. Never moving. Presumably alive, being kept alive. Polished and ancient and beautiful. Mysterious. She was a mystery. But she wasn't alive.
She couldn't scream. So she played, instead.
The piano was her mouth. The keys, her teeth. The string, her voice. And she liked to see the notes on the music sheet as crickets, trapped in jails of paper. Silently begging to be freed.
She liberated them. Ripped through their cells of ink, let them buzz into song and spiral around her body.
She played, loud and violent, leaning over the keys, crushing them into submission under thin, pale fingers. She dreamed of being a hero, anyone's hero. And she played with ferocity. And playing made her happy.
Beverly felt powerful when she sat before a piano. This box of wonders. A world of wood and string, queenless. At her mercy.
And she feared that she was becoming crueler with time, as the fever thickened, and her body grew wearier. She only realized just how merciless she'd become when Peter Lake first interrupted her conquest.
It squeaks.
And now, more than ever, she was glad for the interruption. She hadn't felt so excited in years. And she was grateful for it. She didn't want to be cruel anymore.
The floor squeaks.
Crickets had been hopping around the room, in the wane winter sunlight. And Beverly had felt cool and fresh as a dewdrop. And she'd been galloping, running through a fantastical daydream. The wind caught in her hair. Music spiking in mountains of light at the whim of her fingertips.
And then…
Squeak.
The thief had interrupted. With the tip of his shoe.
Her castles of music, collapsed. Her kingdom of sound, her army of crickets, defeated and conquered.
Peter Lake had stolen her anger.
Her desire to scream had all but disappeared. It was remarkable, truly, what a single moment could accomplish. A second crushed the weight of the last thirteen years. Her fury was spent. Her bitterness, vanished. All gone.
The moment she saw him. And he saw her.
Author's Note: To anyone who is here today, thank you for reading.
Here you have it. The first chapter of Part 2. I feel like before I get to the actual continuation of Part 1, I should touch upon the many things Beverly must have felt during Part 1. So, a couple of chapters for her preluding the events that will follow. In the same way my first chapter of "A Star in the Lake" touched upon Peter's first "theft," his childhood, I gave Beverly the same treatment, by exploring her anger. And the reason why she loves the piano so much. I really really like the crickets metaphor, I feel proud about that :3
I have mentioned before that hers is a pain that is not nearly as explored as it should be - same as Peter's, same as Willa's. She's cheerful and lively, but her lust for life clashes with a deeply-rooted loneliness and frustration that she silences. She doesn't feel happy most of the time. In fact, I'd imagine that she would feel extremely angry many times, more than the film could ever acknowledge. The way Beverly plays the piano in the movie is frenzied and impassioned. She plays very few times, so I gave her more piano-playing scenes in ASITL. And I also toed at the possible interpretations her playing could have. From Peter's POV, of course - now, it's from her own. The truth.
So... yes. I'm excited to continue with this. I hope I end up loving this as much as I have loved, and continue to love, "A Star in the Lake." I feel great about how Part 1 turned out, and had so much fun writing it. So... I'll keep going now. Writing each chapter is always so easy. It comes naturally. I love it.
So, thank you. Thank you for reading. Thanks for being here again. I hope to make this worth your while.