- Pronoun
- he/him
Written for a short story competition at school.
The manor had sat on its hill longer than living memory recalled. It had been beautiful, back in its day, but now the peeling paint and creaking floorboards gave it hope for little more than a dignified end – a stately gentleman, advanced in years, who now retired to his estate, well away from the buzz of society, to live out the rest of his life in peace.
There is elegance in such a thing, and a deep, deep sadness. Few people visited it now, and those who did did not stay long, the weight of years on their shoulders too oppressive.
It was a cold day in early winter and the promise of snow hung heavy in the air. My breath misted before me as I trudged up the hillside, but the ground beneath was still muddy enough to cling to my boots insistently. My thoughts turned, with a brief longing, to the warmth I had left behind. Curiosity drove me onwards, though, as it is wont to do.
The manor seemed to rise up before me as I crested the hill. The day’s fog had mostly risen, but stray wisps still wrapped themselves around the building’s upper floor. It looked foreboding, and for a moment I was gripped by an irrational panic, an urge to flee this place and return to the safe, warm houses below – but I had come this far, and I would never forgive myself if I turned back now.
The rotting wood of the veranda creaked ominously under my feet, but held my weight solidly enough – had the stairs crumbled beneath me, I think I would have left without another thought. The windows looking out onto the veranda were intact, but the door – a thick affair, the panels engraved with intricate curls of ivy – stood slightly ajar, twisted off one of its hinges. I stepped through carefully, not wanting to disturb the peace of the great house.
The room beyond was the entrance hall. The air was noticeably colder and had a musty smell to it, and a thick layer of dust covered everything – even this could not hide the room’s former grandeur. Tall windows lined the far wall, their panes mostly gone or broken. Twin staircases swept to the right and left, up to the second floor. On the wall to my right hung a number of empty frames – the yawning gaps jarred when my eyes swept over them.
There were no footprints in the dust. No one had tread on this floor in a long while, and for a moment I thought I was alone. But there were other entrances, and I was a little early besides.
A gilded bronze chandelier had crashed down and obstructed the right staircase, but the left was marginally clear, only the flotsam of decades of neglect covering the steps. I advanced gingerly, one hand on the banister, but the wood had been protected from the worst of the elements and barely made a sound.
The stairs ended directly in front of a set of open double doors. A corridor stretched in both directions, but I could feel a breeze blowing through the room in front of me, and it seemed right – something drew me on, as if I had walked these halls hundreds of times before.
There was more furniture in this room, and in better repair, but I paid it no mind. On the far wall, a door opened onto the balcony and I could see someone through it, leaning against the balustrade. The wind tugged at my clothes as I stepped through the door. The sun had climbed above the distant hills already, but it did nothing to dispel the bitter chill of winter.
I stopped beside her and rested my hands on the cold stone. It wasn’t intricate, probably granite from the old quarries, but felt firm and unmoving beneath my gloved fingers.
Neither of us said anything. I was more than content to wait for her: it was a truly beautiful place, the columns crumbled in places and overgrown with ivy in others. The balcony looked out over a garden long given over to neglect, flowerbeds overflowing with leafless bushes. A large oak tree in the centre was the only thing that still had any leaves.
‘Do you think there are fairies?’ Her voice was soft but easy to hear in the supreme quiet.
‘Fairies?’ I replied.
‘You know, at the bottom of the garden. Fairies.’
I thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure I even know what the bottom of the garden is.’
‘Far end.’
‘Oh.’
We were silent for a time. The wind picked up, and I wrapped my coat more firmly around myself.
‘So, do you?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,’ I began carefully. ‘Do I want to answer?’
She turned to face me. Her black hair was tied back, and the red dress she had on oddly formal. ‘It’s a straight up question.’
‘Not what I asked. Aren’t you cold?’ The dress didn’t seem warm, and when she raised one slim hand in irritation I saw she wasn’t wearing gloves.
‘I’m never cold. You know that. And don’t change the subject.’
I sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. Why?’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘This place is beautiful, isn’t it? Old, but beautiful. And the garden! You should see it in spring.’ A smile crossed her lips, then her expression darkened. ‘But they don’t see it. They look at the trees and the flowers and the wildness, and all they do is insist there are fairies at the bottom of the garden. Why is that?’
‘Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,’ I quoted. There was no point in asking who “they” were.
She laughed softly. ‘Keats was a fool. The beauty is in the discovery, not the mystery. An invented mystery is an empty lacquered box, enticing on the outside but ultimately meaningless.’
Her voice had taken on the clipped tones she used when thinking every word through. I nodded, for lack of a better response.
‘The mind searches for order in chaos,’ she continued, ‘refusing to accept there is none.’ A pause. ‘No, that’s not it. There is order in chaos, supreme, inherent order – but they don’t see it, and they look past and invent their own.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Thus, the fairies in the garden.’
I wondered briefly where this was going, but talking to her was always like this: playing catch-up with the thoughts of her labyrinthine mind. ‘Maybe they like the look of lacquer.’
‘Entranced by meaningless trinkets?’ She laughed, short and humourless. ‘That sounds about right.’
I was beginning to grow a little uncomfortable and opened my mouth to say something about respect and celebrating diversity, but she cut me off.
‘No, don’t give me the let’s-all-hold-our-hands reel. You know I’m right. You know their mindset is dangerous.’ She sighed and reached up to rub her forehead. ‘It’s a mindset rooted in fear, ignorance, and self-importance.’ Her voice was quieter, but it was no less intense – almost desperate, trying to make me understand. ‘They can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, we’re only a collection of cells, each to live our lives in this transient flicker of existence, and then die and be gone.’
There was silence for a time. I leaned more heavily on the balustrade, listening to the susurrus of the wind as it blew through the dry branches of the oak tree. Her words, for all that I tried to tell myself she was overstating things, wandered through my head one by one, refusing to leave me alone.
‘We aren’t special.’
I looked up. Her pale blue eyes looked back intently, but for a moment I thought I saw a flicker of something else pass across her face, of despair and wildness.
‘We aren’t. There’s no life-thread you are following, no irrevocable purpose to your life. One day you’ll die, and that’ll be that.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Take my advice. Your life is utterly unimportant on the cosmic scale, but who cares about the cosmic scale? Your life is utterly important to you. So live it for yourself, and forget the big picture. There are no fairies at the bottom of the garden, waiting to be found. The beauty is there already, if only you’d look.’
I didn’t say anything, and she turned to go.
‘Wait,’ I called after her.
She turned back, one eyebrow quirked.
‘Isn’t it… empty? Living without anything… greater, I mean.’ As soon as I said the words I realised how ridiculous they must sound.
A genuinely amused smile flitted across her lips. ‘It is what you make it. You can take life by the reins or you can let it atrophy.’ She shook her head and laughed again, but this time there was real mirth in it. ‘Listen to me spouting clichés. But it’s true: life is what you make it – whether it’s empty or not depends on you. That’s the point. It’s your choice. You control it. It is freedom. To some, freedom is an infinitely terrifying notion, but it’s the only way you can truly live.’ This last in a wistful tone.
Her words tugged even more insistently at me and slowly overcame the ingrained instincts that railed at me to leave. I found myself drawn to her voice as moths to a flame, but the difference between hearing and doing could fill the vastness of the universe. And she was right in more ways than one: freedom was terrifying.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said. ‘Maybe not. But I don’t know why you asked me here.’ I indicated the manor with one hand. ‘As beautiful as it is, crumbling stone and overgrown gardens aren’t going to convince me any more than words have.’
She was silent for a few seconds, then: ‘This was my place, once. Years ago.’ She paused again, clearly searching for words. ‘It is a place of transition. The old and the new. I left the old behind, here. I won’t say I hope you can do the same, and it doesn’t really matter if you do or not. I just hope you’ll give it a chance.’ She raised her hand in a gesture that was half wave and half salute, turned around, and left. A minute later she emerged from the east wing of the manor and, walking briskly but with an odd stagger, quickly vanished behind the curve of the hill.
I stood for a long time on the balcony, watching the sun rising slowly over the dilapidated garden. The grass glittered with reflected sunlight, the rays reflecting off what frost was left from the bitter cold night. Clouds were slowly starting to fill the sky, unbroken and dull grey. I don’t know how long I stood there, just looking out over the garden, but when I finally looked up to the sky again the sun was well past its zenith, and the temperature was slowly starting to fall.
I left the same way I had arrived, through the large room that led out onto the balcony. It was curiously warmer inside, and I slowed down to admire the furnishings. The walls were in better shape than their downstairs counterparts, and some of the brackets appeared to hold old candle stubs. I could imagine the room, lit by the soft glow of the antique candles and the lamps above, the owner of the house sitting by his massive desk… The image in my head was so very vivid and so very anachronistic. Her words flashed in my mind: The old and the new.
I left by the right staircase, carefully stepping over the remains of the chandelier. The entrance hall was unchanged, save for the prints my boots had left in the dust. I stepped outside. I had been inside mere minutes, but the sun had slipped behind a cloud, wreathing the world in a dull brown. I felt an eerie sensation, looking out over the oddly twilit landscape below.
Then I stepped off the veranda and started down the hill. About halfway down, I felt a speck of coldness on my cheek and looked up.
It had started to snow.
I've already handed it in, but any comments and criticisms are much appreciated.
The manor had sat on its hill longer than living memory recalled. It had been beautiful, back in its day, but now the peeling paint and creaking floorboards gave it hope for little more than a dignified end – a stately gentleman, advanced in years, who now retired to his estate, well away from the buzz of society, to live out the rest of his life in peace.
There is elegance in such a thing, and a deep, deep sadness. Few people visited it now, and those who did did not stay long, the weight of years on their shoulders too oppressive.
It was a cold day in early winter and the promise of snow hung heavy in the air. My breath misted before me as I trudged up the hillside, but the ground beneath was still muddy enough to cling to my boots insistently. My thoughts turned, with a brief longing, to the warmth I had left behind. Curiosity drove me onwards, though, as it is wont to do.
The manor seemed to rise up before me as I crested the hill. The day’s fog had mostly risen, but stray wisps still wrapped themselves around the building’s upper floor. It looked foreboding, and for a moment I was gripped by an irrational panic, an urge to flee this place and return to the safe, warm houses below – but I had come this far, and I would never forgive myself if I turned back now.
The rotting wood of the veranda creaked ominously under my feet, but held my weight solidly enough – had the stairs crumbled beneath me, I think I would have left without another thought. The windows looking out onto the veranda were intact, but the door – a thick affair, the panels engraved with intricate curls of ivy – stood slightly ajar, twisted off one of its hinges. I stepped through carefully, not wanting to disturb the peace of the great house.
The room beyond was the entrance hall. The air was noticeably colder and had a musty smell to it, and a thick layer of dust covered everything – even this could not hide the room’s former grandeur. Tall windows lined the far wall, their panes mostly gone or broken. Twin staircases swept to the right and left, up to the second floor. On the wall to my right hung a number of empty frames – the yawning gaps jarred when my eyes swept over them.
There were no footprints in the dust. No one had tread on this floor in a long while, and for a moment I thought I was alone. But there were other entrances, and I was a little early besides.
A gilded bronze chandelier had crashed down and obstructed the right staircase, but the left was marginally clear, only the flotsam of decades of neglect covering the steps. I advanced gingerly, one hand on the banister, but the wood had been protected from the worst of the elements and barely made a sound.
The stairs ended directly in front of a set of open double doors. A corridor stretched in both directions, but I could feel a breeze blowing through the room in front of me, and it seemed right – something drew me on, as if I had walked these halls hundreds of times before.
There was more furniture in this room, and in better repair, but I paid it no mind. On the far wall, a door opened onto the balcony and I could see someone through it, leaning against the balustrade. The wind tugged at my clothes as I stepped through the door. The sun had climbed above the distant hills already, but it did nothing to dispel the bitter chill of winter.
I stopped beside her and rested my hands on the cold stone. It wasn’t intricate, probably granite from the old quarries, but felt firm and unmoving beneath my gloved fingers.
Neither of us said anything. I was more than content to wait for her: it was a truly beautiful place, the columns crumbled in places and overgrown with ivy in others. The balcony looked out over a garden long given over to neglect, flowerbeds overflowing with leafless bushes. A large oak tree in the centre was the only thing that still had any leaves.
‘Do you think there are fairies?’ Her voice was soft but easy to hear in the supreme quiet.
‘Fairies?’ I replied.
‘You know, at the bottom of the garden. Fairies.’
I thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure I even know what the bottom of the garden is.’
‘Far end.’
‘Oh.’
We were silent for a time. The wind picked up, and I wrapped my coat more firmly around myself.
‘So, do you?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,’ I began carefully. ‘Do I want to answer?’
She turned to face me. Her black hair was tied back, and the red dress she had on oddly formal. ‘It’s a straight up question.’
‘Not what I asked. Aren’t you cold?’ The dress didn’t seem warm, and when she raised one slim hand in irritation I saw she wasn’t wearing gloves.
‘I’m never cold. You know that. And don’t change the subject.’
I sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. Why?’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘This place is beautiful, isn’t it? Old, but beautiful. And the garden! You should see it in spring.’ A smile crossed her lips, then her expression darkened. ‘But they don’t see it. They look at the trees and the flowers and the wildness, and all they do is insist there are fairies at the bottom of the garden. Why is that?’
‘Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,’ I quoted. There was no point in asking who “they” were.
She laughed softly. ‘Keats was a fool. The beauty is in the discovery, not the mystery. An invented mystery is an empty lacquered box, enticing on the outside but ultimately meaningless.’
Her voice had taken on the clipped tones she used when thinking every word through. I nodded, for lack of a better response.
‘The mind searches for order in chaos,’ she continued, ‘refusing to accept there is none.’ A pause. ‘No, that’s not it. There is order in chaos, supreme, inherent order – but they don’t see it, and they look past and invent their own.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Thus, the fairies in the garden.’
I wondered briefly where this was going, but talking to her was always like this: playing catch-up with the thoughts of her labyrinthine mind. ‘Maybe they like the look of lacquer.’
‘Entranced by meaningless trinkets?’ She laughed, short and humourless. ‘That sounds about right.’
I was beginning to grow a little uncomfortable and opened my mouth to say something about respect and celebrating diversity, but she cut me off.
‘No, don’t give me the let’s-all-hold-our-hands reel. You know I’m right. You know their mindset is dangerous.’ She sighed and reached up to rub her forehead. ‘It’s a mindset rooted in fear, ignorance, and self-importance.’ Her voice was quieter, but it was no less intense – almost desperate, trying to make me understand. ‘They can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, we’re only a collection of cells, each to live our lives in this transient flicker of existence, and then die and be gone.’
There was silence for a time. I leaned more heavily on the balustrade, listening to the susurrus of the wind as it blew through the dry branches of the oak tree. Her words, for all that I tried to tell myself she was overstating things, wandered through my head one by one, refusing to leave me alone.
‘We aren’t special.’
I looked up. Her pale blue eyes looked back intently, but for a moment I thought I saw a flicker of something else pass across her face, of despair and wildness.
‘We aren’t. There’s no life-thread you are following, no irrevocable purpose to your life. One day you’ll die, and that’ll be that.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Take my advice. Your life is utterly unimportant on the cosmic scale, but who cares about the cosmic scale? Your life is utterly important to you. So live it for yourself, and forget the big picture. There are no fairies at the bottom of the garden, waiting to be found. The beauty is there already, if only you’d look.’
I didn’t say anything, and she turned to go.
‘Wait,’ I called after her.
She turned back, one eyebrow quirked.
‘Isn’t it… empty? Living without anything… greater, I mean.’ As soon as I said the words I realised how ridiculous they must sound.
A genuinely amused smile flitted across her lips. ‘It is what you make it. You can take life by the reins or you can let it atrophy.’ She shook her head and laughed again, but this time there was real mirth in it. ‘Listen to me spouting clichés. But it’s true: life is what you make it – whether it’s empty or not depends on you. That’s the point. It’s your choice. You control it. It is freedom. To some, freedom is an infinitely terrifying notion, but it’s the only way you can truly live.’ This last in a wistful tone.
Her words tugged even more insistently at me and slowly overcame the ingrained instincts that railed at me to leave. I found myself drawn to her voice as moths to a flame, but the difference between hearing and doing could fill the vastness of the universe. And she was right in more ways than one: freedom was terrifying.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said. ‘Maybe not. But I don’t know why you asked me here.’ I indicated the manor with one hand. ‘As beautiful as it is, crumbling stone and overgrown gardens aren’t going to convince me any more than words have.’
She was silent for a few seconds, then: ‘This was my place, once. Years ago.’ She paused again, clearly searching for words. ‘It is a place of transition. The old and the new. I left the old behind, here. I won’t say I hope you can do the same, and it doesn’t really matter if you do or not. I just hope you’ll give it a chance.’ She raised her hand in a gesture that was half wave and half salute, turned around, and left. A minute later she emerged from the east wing of the manor and, walking briskly but with an odd stagger, quickly vanished behind the curve of the hill.
I stood for a long time on the balcony, watching the sun rising slowly over the dilapidated garden. The grass glittered with reflected sunlight, the rays reflecting off what frost was left from the bitter cold night. Clouds were slowly starting to fill the sky, unbroken and dull grey. I don’t know how long I stood there, just looking out over the garden, but when I finally looked up to the sky again the sun was well past its zenith, and the temperature was slowly starting to fall.
I left the same way I had arrived, through the large room that led out onto the balcony. It was curiously warmer inside, and I slowed down to admire the furnishings. The walls were in better shape than their downstairs counterparts, and some of the brackets appeared to hold old candle stubs. I could imagine the room, lit by the soft glow of the antique candles and the lamps above, the owner of the house sitting by his massive desk… The image in my head was so very vivid and so very anachronistic. Her words flashed in my mind: The old and the new.
I left by the right staircase, carefully stepping over the remains of the chandelier. The entrance hall was unchanged, save for the prints my boots had left in the dust. I stepped outside. I had been inside mere minutes, but the sun had slipped behind a cloud, wreathing the world in a dull brown. I felt an eerie sensation, looking out over the oddly twilit landscape below.
Then I stepped off the veranda and started down the hill. About halfway down, I felt a speck of coldness on my cheek and looked up.
It had started to snow.
I've already handed it in, but any comments and criticisms are much appreciated.
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