Aella 9, - Refuge
Previously: When Aella was nine a stranger murdered her mother and cursed her in a ploy to steal the key her family have protected for generations. For years she has been isolated, condemned that whenever the sun shines she must be a mermaid, but now a storm has forced her to come to land in a little seaside town south of her lonely cove.
Cold. Wet. Alone.
The village of Willingham huddled next to the raging ocean as the storm did its worst. Savage gusts of wind howled between houses. Rain pelted down in sheets. Thunder and lightning rumbled uncomfortably near. The tempest had begun suddenly last night and showed no signs of relenting. Locals bolted their doors, drew their curtains and regretted not getting their roofs fixed earlier.
A solitary girl knelt on the seafront.
Near to the beach, housing became less common and souvenir shops and cafes became more so. The best property was by the promenade where – in good weather – happy tourists would wander and concrete steps led down on to the beach itself. There customers could see the ocean while they gossiped over lunch. No-one looked out now.
It was so cold. The girl was soaked through and her flimsy beach clothes were no protection from the elements. Even when the waves washed right over her, she could barely bring herself to move.
A flash of silver glinted in the light of the failing streetlamp: the key she wore tied to her wrist. She realised that if she did not find shelter she would die. It was such an effort to move though, a large part of her wanted to just stay here and rest. A large part of her wanted to not have to face the unknown behind her.
When she finally did manage to stagger upright her legs gave way. Only a hasty grab at the safety barrier kept her from tumbling back in to the sea. She slowly turned to face the town, leaning on the railings for support. The cheerful beach holiday clatter seemed pale and strange in the storm. With an almighty effort she pushed herself away from the bars and managed to stand unsupported.
Shivering, she managed to put one foot in front of the other away from the sea front. She had no idea where she was or where to go so wandered aimlessly, concentrated on keeping moving. The rain was unrelenting. It stung painfully as it beat against her. She was covered in scrapes and bruises from her previous exertions and her feet were bare and unprotected against terrain that wasn't soft sand.
On each side of the road she passed shuttered houses and locked doors. For a brief moment the thought flickered through her to knock on a door, ask for help.
The bolt on the gate was stiff and her numb fingers couldn't make it budge. Who would believe her anyway? What help was there for a girl who was cursed? Did she really dare face anyone after so very long? The people of Willingham slumbered on, oblivious to the wretched figure struggling through the streets.
She tried to remember what warmth felt like. The concept seemed obscure and distant. Her body was screaming at her to stop, lie down, rest. She didn't dare imagine what sleep would feel like. She could not think of any reasons why she should still keep moving
But Aella staggered on.
Then a voice snapped her back to reality. "Don't you think you should come inside dear?"
One resident of Willingham had looked out into the storm after all.
"The worst thing about that night wasn't the struggle to make it to land, it was the emptiness. That's what absolute cold feels like, emptiness. I was devoid of warmth and strength and hope. Then an absolute stranger invited me inside.
For a moment I didn't understand what was happening. There had been several times during my trek through town when I had thought I had heard something only to realise it was my imagination. I didn't even know how long it had been since anyone had spoken to me kindly.
I stared at the old lady standing in the doorway to one of the older stone cottages. She must have been at least in her eighties, with deep wrinkles, wispy white hair and a worn pink dressing gown she clutched tight around her against the cold. Her eyes were pale blue and filled with a lifetime of experience.
"It'll be warmer in than out there," she prompted me, holding out a hand. I realised that her house was the only one without the curtains fully drawn. A ground floor one was slightly drawn back; she must have seen me through the gap that I could now see a welcoming fire through.
The fire decided me. The fire was warmth.
I almost collapsed as I reached the door but the old woman steadied me and led me inside. Her home was bright and cosy and warm. I sunk down in front of the fire with a heartfelt sigh. I could not remember the last time I had felt this relieved.
The strange lady fetched me a towel and pottered about in the kitchen as I tried to dry myself. Next to me the fire danced, radiating heat and life; its shifting patterns seemed fascinating to me and I curled up in the towel as if it were a blanket and stared into the flames.
A whistle from a boiling kettle brought me back to my surroundings. The sitting room was small but comfortable with a bookshelf on one wall and two excessively stuffed armchairs facing the hearth. On the mantelpiece were numerous photographs of my hostess when she was younger, some of them including a handsome young man I assumed to be her husband. In one she was clutching a carefully wrapped bundle as if it were the most important thing in the world.
"My daughter," she informed me, catching me looking as she entered the room, "Elizabeth. Would have children of her own by now if she were still with us."
She handed me a steaming mug. I sipped at it quickly before snatching it from my mouth when the liquid burned my lips. Instead I just held it, treasuring its warmth. I felt like I would never be dry again but feeling was beginning to creep back into me along with the aches and pains the night had inflicted on me.
My curiosity stirred, "What happened?"
The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about it and it was too late to take them back. This stranger was caring for me out of the goodness of my heart and I was quizzing her on an obviously personal topic.
My hostess seemed not to notice the impertinence of my question. She gazed at nothing I could see as she replied. "She got ill, never was a strong child. Didn't make it past a year. Matthew and I never had another. He's gone too now, a good twenty years ago."
I squirmed with the shame of bringing up such painful memories for someone who had been nothing but kind to me. "I'm sorry." I murmured. The scrapes and bruises were less painful by far.
"Oh nonsense, child. If I didn't want to remember I wouldn't keep their pictures where I can see them," the old woman assured me. "I loved them and the good memories I have of them are worth the bad." She shook her head, "Enough about the dead, who are you?"
All my fears came flooding back. How could she believe me when I told her? What would she do? What would she think of me? This was why I hadn't dared ask for help earlier – part of the reason – any conclusions that she could draw from my unlikely explanation would be far from favourable. By dawn I would have to be back on the beach again or the whole town would suffer from my curse. Her kindness made me want her to think well of me. I forced myself to answer, "Aella."
She nodded, "Lovely name. I'm Molly Tillinghast. Now if you don't mind, Aella, where exactly are your parents?"
Now it was my turn to see ghosts. "Dead" I told her, trying not to let any feelings slip. I hadn't cried since the day my mother died. She didn't press any further.
For a minute we were silent, remembering people we had loved. Outside the storm wailed and buffeted. A clock ticked. How long had it been since I'd come indoors anyway?
A sudden thought broke through my recollections. "What's the date?"
Molly appeared slightly thrown by my unexpected query, "20th Febuary"
"What year?"
She told me, I calculated quickly. I had been nine when my mother was murdered, by her count that was six years ago. Now I was fifteen. I had been trapped and alone for six years.
The bookshelf caught my eye. At nine I hadn't been one for reading and I'd had no means of doing so after that but the old covers caught my imagination and Molly was more than happy to fan the flame. We discussed literature, history, fairy tales and more; she was by far the more knowledgeable but was happy to hear my opinions and encouraged me to think about what I learned. By unspoken agreement neither of us spoke of ourselves or our families.
Hours passed. Finally we fell into a companionable silence.
The hot chocolate was now drinkable. After so long on plain water and bread it tasted like paradise. "Thank-you," I told Molly. "For helping me I mean. You have a lovely home."
"It suffices. I spent some time in a retirement home after the cancer took Matthew but the staff were far too nosy for my liking." She sighed. "Besides, I wanted to keep a closer eye on the museum now it's got no curator. It's closed now you see, after young Gedney died in the war."
Another minute stretched by in a silence neither uncomfortable nor quite at ease. She was remembering another dead friend and I was coping with the realisation that I had missed a war.
"You really don't have to crouch down there," Molly told me, returning to the present, "Have a seat. You still haven't told me what you were doing on your own out there."
I sank cautiously into the armchair and tried to think of something to say. Then I glanced up at Molly and I met her eyes. She was listening, really listening. The words started tumbling out and then they wouldn't stop. I told her everything, about my mother and the curse and the storm that had brought me here. I knew it was a mad tale even as I told it but now I was committed and had no choice but to see it through.
When I'd finished speaking I dared look at her again, expecting disbelief and anger. Molly was gazing at me thoughtfully, absolute acceptance in her gaze. "Well, I suppose you really should start thinking about what to do next."
"What can I do next? I'm cursed. I'm a prisoner and tomorrow night all this might as well have never happened."
She snorted, "It seems to me that this unpleasant magic man has been keeping you a prisoner mostly by convincing you there's nothing you can do. As long as you think that your curse means you've got to stay where he's put you then he's got no worries. But look: you can go elsewhere, tonight proves that."
I blinked, considering possibilities. "What can I do?" I asked again but in a different tone.
"Try some research. A library or that interweb thing young people seem to spend so much time caught in. Maybe even find some people who can help you. You've got two choices; you can go back to that beach of yours and pretend you never left or you can put up a fight for yourself."
If I went back then this would all end the way I'd known it would, with me giving in. Molly pressed her case, "As you tell it you've got a job to do keeping an eye on that key and whatever it unlocks. Are you going to just sit back and forget that or will you do what you promised to?"
To fight would mean to risk everything, to face my fears. The old lady sitting opposite me smiled sadly, "I'll help you if I can, for however much that is."
I had a sudden flash of insight. She needed me, just as much as I needed her. She'd had a good life but now that was the past and everyone she'd known was dead and gone. For too long she'd been forced to just wait for the inevitable while the world changed around her because that was what she'd been made to think was the only option. In her own way, Molly was just as lonely as I was.
My mind was made. "I'm not going back."
Molly beamed and the two of us set about plotting. There was so much to do and such a lot of time to make up for."
Aella
More stories by me can be found at Rhiannon's Stories. Some Aella stories aren't there because the site needs updating and they are 6, 7 and, just a bit down the board, 8.
By Rhiannon Rose Watson
Concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2006 reserved by Rhiannon Rose Watson. The right of Rhiannon Rose Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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