The Other Side of the Sea by Becky Wheeler
Chapter One (rough draft)
Tristan once told me there was hidden power within the
written word, before he went to fight in the war that divided our family. A war
his letters stopped coming from and mine eventually stopped going to. I
believed what he told me, that the power of my written word, my letters, would
keep him safe. But now I know how foolish that thinking was. My letters did not
protect him. And the letters I still have from him do nothing to relieve the
pain nestled in my chest, close to my heart. The place once reserved for my
living, breathing brother is now occupied by the cavernous, hollow reminder
that he once existed in my life. His letters are useless to fill the void.
I do not stop re-reading them.
We never received a condolence letter from the British Army.
I don't even know if they send them to Irish civilians. I haven't gotten up the
nerve to ask. In my family, any line of questioning comes from the top down,
not the other way around. My mother used to come up with reasons why Tristan's
letters had stopped, but as the weeks dragged into months, the reasons became
more and more ridiculous.
"I'm sure they're on the move and haven't had a chance
to sit and write," she used to tell me at the beginning of this slow slip
into a new world we had all helplessly slid down into. I think her last comment
was several months ago when the mail arrived and there was still no word.
"They must be out of paper in the Army," she said
vacantly. The absurdity of this statement made me want to giggle and laugh, but
the desolation in my mother's fevered eyes drove any mirth out of myself and
after that, his letters were never mentioned again.
This weekend is my fourteenth birthday and my mother has
somewhat drawn herself out of her depressive stupor to plan my party. I think
it is good she has something else to focus on. She does seems to have a bit
more energy these past few days. I hope it stays. Watching her listless form
move about the grounds was beginning to be too much for me to watch. I was
beginning to think she didn't even care that at least I was still around.
The preparations for my party began weeks ago. Mother
invited Lucy and Mary from Wicklow Town and every child of good standing within ten
miles of us. She even invited cousin William and cousin Anne from Dublin. I'm
not sure if they'll bring Gabriel, but I hope they do. He was terribly cute in
his bassinet the last time they were up. Although I suppose he would be a year
older now and most likely walking on his own. It will be good to see Anne. She
and I started a new club in the hedge when she was here last year and I even
managed to save our badges. Girls for Green. It is a gardening club for only
the very special. Well, only for Anne and I actually.
I am very excited about all the people my mother has
invited, but I think I am the most excited about the pear tarts Cook is baking.
The last of the season's pears have been saved and I can't wait. I don't know
if it's my taste buds growing up and learning more about how to taste, but
every year the tarts seem to taste better than the last. Cook even told me I
could help her make them, and that means I'll get to lick the mixing bowl!
All this week and the week before, the manor has been
getting a cleaning and straightening it might not have seen since last holiday
time. And I think the staff are quite excited about having guests again. The
manor has always opened its doors to the finery of Dublin when they fancy a
little craic in the countryside, yet with my mother's disposition, we haven't
had guests in quite sometime.
Conal has been letting me help in the gardens, as well. He
is our gardener and has been the groundskeeper of these lands since before my
father owned the manor. Cook jokes that he was born out in the patch of heather
on the southside near the creek and has just never left. I'm not sure if I do believe her. Whenever I ask Conal
about it, he just winks at me and smiles, then gets busy with whatever he was
doing.
I love helping in the gardens. Conal walks through them all
with me making me identify each plant and each flower and their medicinal uses,
if they have any. Today, however, I have a second intention of walking with
Conal through the gardens. There is a secret place back in the woods
surrounding the manor to the west that no one knows about except Conal. Well,
and Tristan, but what does that matter. It is a small glade with a gentle
waterfall at the east side I discovered a few years ago, across a small creek
and south of the giant oak we used to luncheon beneath as a family when I was
younger. I believe the glade drew me to it, and when I am there, anything that
is bothering me or troubling me slips off my thoughts like butter sliding
across a pan and melting away. It is my place, my sanctuary.
When I was there yesterday, I noticed a flower I have never
seen before and I'm hoping Conal can help me identify it.
"Conal?" I ask after I answer his question about
"Yes, lass," he replies.
"I saw a flower yesterday in my glade that I've never
seen before. Can you tell me what it is? It's purple with a yellow stamen and
thin leaves that come to a point." We had stopped walking and he was
looking down at me. I always imagined that if I ever got to have a Grandfather
I actually spent time with, Conal would be it. My father's father was an
insufferably busy man who I'm not certain has ever said more than three words
to me in my entire life, although I've been told of his preference of me over
all the grandchildren. He and Tristan stopped speaking when Tristan announced
he wanted to go to the war and fight against the Germans and after Tristan
left, I heard him tell someone he no longer had a grandson.
"Hmmm," Conal scratched his chin. I think
scratching his white whiskers made him think better because every time I would
ask him a question about a certain type or variety of flower, it's what he
would do before he answered. "I might have an idea, but why don't you go
down with your sketchbook and bring me back one of your famous flower sketches
for me to identify it from?"
Whether he needed the sketch to identify it or he just
wanted another one for his collection, I did not mind. It was a bright idea and
I don't know why I hadn't thought of it first! "That's a great idea,
Conal! I feel silly I didn't come up with it myself."
"No need to worry, lass," he was smiling as me,
with that familiar sparkle in his eye, "your brain kicks in at age
14."
He was lucky he moved quick as he laughed at his joke,
because I took my hat off my head and swung it in his direction, hard.
"Well, you're lucky your agility hasn't worn off any, old man!" I
said, laughing as I tried again to hit him with my hat and missed.
I finally land one good whack with my hat on his arm and run
up to my room to get my colored pencils and sketchbook. They are sitting on the
windowsill that overlooks the circle drive. I glance down and see that my
father's car is parked in front like it just returned from somewhere.
I race down the back stairs and steal a slice of thick brown
bread from the kitchen on my way to the back door. Cook spies me. She is a
round woman whose cheeks are almost always pinned back in a smile. And even
though she is older than my mother, has never had any children. She told me
once when I was younger and asking about it that the Good Lord put her on this
earth to make food, not children.
"Sophia!" she yells.
I stop. I don't run from her. It's a deal we made a long
time ago. She stays fair with me about whyever it is I'm running or whatever it
is I'm doing, and I don't run from her. She always wound up learning what I was
doing every time anyway. So, I gave up.
"Hello, Meg!" I say, jovially. Hopefully she
doesn't keep me long.
"Where you going in such a hurry?"
"Just out for a quick hike." I am inching toward
the back door. "Is there anything you needed?" I'm almost to the door
frame.
"Only to remind you that your dinner will be down here
tonight, my dear."
"Okay!" I say and dip out the back door before
even thinking to ask her why.
By the time I reach the forest at the edge of the grounds, I
have finished my piece of bread and I slow to a walk through the familiar
undergrowth of the forest. Its shady coolness embraces my skin and I wish I
would have brought my sweater. There's no way I'm going back now, though. The
smell of the damp earth brings a slight smile to my face. I always feel at home
in the woods.
Tristan and I would come and spend hours in this forest,
leaving no inch undiscovered. We knew where our land was and he taught me all
the monuments and markers that announced the edge of ours and the beginning of
the O'Byrne's. He respected my glade and as I approach it tonight, the familiar
sting of unwanted tears burns my eyes and heats my face. I drag my sleeve
across my eyes and nose and shake my head. Not tonight. I have work to do.
When I was younger, I used to believe that my glade was a
faerie kingdom's court, with the flat rock on the North side where the King and
Queen would sit and enjoy the show put on in the glade for their honor. I
actually used to even put on shows, imagining the whole faerie court was my
audience. I haven't performed in a long time. After Tristan's letters stopped,
I tried coming here for comfort, but I found it even harder to be here. To be
anywhere in the forest.
I only recently began to come into the forest again. It is
still hard sometimes, but the glade is my secret place, my sanctuary. And I am learning
to love it again for what it means to me.
My pencils clink in my pouch as I cover the remaining
distance until the trees open up to reveal the magnificence of the clearing.
The quiet rush of the water is instantly comforting and the sun streaming down
into the open meadow lifts my heart.
Then I hear something. I instantly recognize it as footfalls
and I duck behind one large oak tree, trying to quiet my breathing the way
Tristan taught me when there were deer around. The thought of a stranger
stepping foot into my space suddenly drives a panic up inside me and I
involuntarily jump out in front of a boy maybe a little older than I am and
yell, "Stop!"
I frighten him terribly and he stumbles backward, trips over
a log and falls hard on his backside. Good.
"What are you doing?!" I demand. My face is a
furnace and my breath is hard and heavy. I jab my hands onto my hips like I see
Cook do when she's mad at one of the housemaids and I scowl down at him with as
much venom as I can muster. I don't even care what his answer may be. I want
him gone!
He just looks up at me confused and I wonder if he's going
to cry. I almost feel bad for him, but not for long. His face twists to match
mine. "What are you doing?! Are
you crazy?"
I do not recognize his accent, but I understand him enough
to reply, "This is my land. You are trespassing! You better get out of
here before my father gets here," I lie. I glare hard at him and hope he
just goes.
"Gladly!" he barks back. I watch him get to his
feet and rub his backside where he landed. His clothes look well worn. His
umber hair hangs partially in his face as he looks at me. "And tell your
father he should teach his daughter better manners."
The stick I throw at him bounces off the tree to his left as
he is running back the way he came. I wish I would have hit him with it! What
an awful boy! I pace back and forth in the glade, willing myself to calm down.
How dare he intrude?! I hope I never see him again!
I almost forgot what I came here for. The flower is right
where it was yesterday, unchanged, but for some reason, I feel like there is
something different about my glade. My sanctuary has been muddied, and I do not
like it.
I sketch the flower for Conal and walk home.
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