Strange Dominions: a collection of paranormal short stories (short story books) (12 page)

Among the dusty tomes of Fendlesham Library he studied the antique parchments spread out before him. All but the latter had been penned by Edmund D’Lyle and bore the unmistakable ramblings of an unsound mind. Even so, there were rare moments of lucidity in which he wrote of his filial devotion to Lucy, the girl he had liberated from the cruel servitude of the farmer who had found her in the chancel. Because he had no rightful successor, Edmund knew that on his death his fortune would fall to the Crown. He therefore made adequate provisions for his youthful ward. She would at least be spared the harsh deprivations of impoverishment.

Edmund wrote the last parchment, from which Jenny had made her copy, predominantly. The latter portion of text, however, was not. Lucas thought at first that an ill-educated scribe had written the Latin text, with its glaring grammatical errors and structure. He was soon to discover how wrong he had been. In them he saw the unmistakable hand of Jenny Bowcombe reach out to him across the centuries, as she must have hoped they would:
‘Time will bring to light...’
they began.

The ferry’s shrill whistle pierced the noon air, heralding its imminent departure for Arken and Lucas gazed out across the horizon, secure in his conviction that the incredible events he had borne witness to were no mere arbitrary acts of nature. From the outset they had exhibited a purposeful intelligence, and a design borne of a compassionate heart.

Young Danny Braithwaite had but one thought on his mind as he sprang from his bed and dashed to the window. ‘This time.’ he thought, excitedly drawing back the curtain. A harsh white light invaded the bedroom, chasing the sleep from his eyes, and he let out a jubilant
“Whoop!”
at the magical transformation that had taken place overnight. He had waited almost an entire year and, at last, the snows had arrived.

“C’mon young’n!” he urged, shaking his brother violently from his slumber, “It’s been snowin’, Let’s get ready and go out to play.”

Alan, two years his junior, pulled the covers over his head and grumpily told him to ‘nick off ‘, adding that it was far too cold to get out of bed. Then, suddenly, the import of the message struck home, “Snowin’!” he shrieked, sitting bolt upright.

“Yeah! Look – it’s as deep as anything”.

Alan scrambled to the window, blankets in tow, “Cor! Look at that. It must have snowed all night to get
that
deep.”

“What’s going on in there?” a familiar voice called from the adjacent bedroom.

The celebrations came to an abrupt halt, “Er, nothin’ mam,” Danny sniggered, “Where just gettin’ ready to go out.”

“Not until you’ve had your breakfast, you’re not. And besides,” she continued, “it started snowing last night, so I want you both properly dressed.”

“Yer know what that means, young’n,” sighed Danny, “Before we get out of here, she’ll have us done up like Eskimos.”

That morning the conversation at the breakfast table was animated. Alan was helping himself to his third spoonful of strawberry jam, which he dolloped into his porridge and swirled around until a glutinous pink mass stared up at him from the bowl. Danny was in the throes of a protracted argument with his sister Carol, the eldest of the trio, over whose Christmas presents would occupy the sofa the following morning.

In the midst of their dispute an innocent question brought everything to a shuddering halt.

“Mam – what’s the ‘Big C’?”

Every eye was now trained on the youngster as he noisily sucked the dregs of porridge from his tablespoon.

Mary’s face blanched as she slowly lowered the coffee cup from her lips. “What do you mean, love? Why do you ask?”

“Cos Ricky Pinder said he heard his mam and dad talkin’ about me dad, and they said he had the ‘Big C’!”

“Did they now!” she snapped, her face turning an angry shade of red. “Well you just take no notice of anything they have to say, sweetheart.”

Sipping the last dregs from her cup, she rose to collect the breakfast dishes from the table. It was then she noticed that her daughter had become very quiet and seemed preoccupied with her thoughts.

Carol was fourteen and was fully aware of the situation concerning her much missed father. When he had first been admitted to hospital she and her brothers had been allowed regular visits but, as his condition worsened, only the adults were permitted to see him – a decision that she had found unbearably cruel given that he would not be with them for very much longer. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she pondered a life without him.

“Alright kids,” Mary chirped, “Seeing as how it’s Christmas Eve, why don’t you each write a note to Santa telling him what you want.”

She knew, of course, that Danny and Carol were almost past the age of innocent belief, but this was a family tradition and besides, there was still the youngster to consider.

As she had hoped, Carol’s sombre thoughts were soon distracted as they each took up pen and paper and began writing in earnest.

The task completed, they folded their sheets and ceremoniously burned them on the coal fire, the premise being that the smoke from the ashes would somehow be carried to the North Pole where they were reliably informed Father Christmas would, in some undisclosed manner, read them and fulfil their wishes.

Danny was first to be ready and waited impatiently as his mother dressed the youngster. True to his earlier statement, she had ensured that each of them was suitably attired for the wintry climate. However, they had no sooner left her sight when off came the balaclavas and scarves, and an energetic snowball fight ensued. As it progressed so did the number of their group until, at length, it seemed as though an entire army of children were fighting a pitched battle at the end of the street. Eventually, the group filtered down to a mere handful and it was suggested that better fun could be had on the neighbouring pit-heap.

The ‘heapy’, as the boys were wont to call it, stood almost fifty feet in height and had a broad, evened top that stretched off into the distance towards the pit-head, creating a plateau-like effect which the boys put good use to as their personal playground. In their time it had served a multitude of purposes. Today, however, it would be employed as a gigantic slide from which they would propel themselves on remnants of conveyor belting, hurtling at breathtaking speeds down the icy covered slopes.

With boundless energy and screams of delight they descended the south-facing slope, amid flurries of freezing snow, to the farmer’s field below. After an hour or two their youthful exuberance eventually gave way to the cold and hunger and so it was decided they would all go home for dinner, but return later to continue their adventure.

After a hearty turkey dinner, followed by freshly baked apple pie and custard, Mary informed the children that she would be visiting their father later that afternoon, and that they would be staying at Uncle Tom’s and aunt V’s until she returned to collect them.

For Danny, in particular, the idea of spending Christmas Eve with his aunt and uncle was an appealing one. They were a childless couple that lavished attention on the children whenever the opportunity arose.

True to form, Tom greeted them with a cheery smile and proceeded to pull from behind their ears of each of them, much to their amazement and glee, a fifty pence piece, which he deposited into their eagerly waiting hands.

On entering the living room they gasped in admiration. Dominating one corner was a brightly lit Christmas tree, bedecked with all manner of ornamentation, and surmounted by a glistening star of silver. From the four corners of the ceiling to its centre were draped richly coloured streamers of green and red. An advent calendar, its tiny windows peeled back, hung from the centre of the fire breast, flanked on either side with a wreath of holly. The entire room had been lovingly decorated in a multitude of effects to delight and stimulate the senses. Only when the house lights were dimmed and the multi-coloured tree lights switched on was their true effect fully appreciated by the children.

Within half-an-hour of Mary’s departure Alan suddenly announced, “I’m hungry!”

“You’re always hungry,” his sister declared.

Veronica looked up. “I think that should do it,” she said, applying the final strokes of the brush to her niece’s fine auburn hair. “There’s some cherry pie due out the oven. Would anyone like some?”

A chorus of
‘Yes please’
went out from the children, followed by a grunt from their uncle who was otherwise occupied showing off his latest feat of legerdemain to an appreciative audience of two.

“There’s no such thing as real magic!” Carol declared, defiantly, “Nobody can do
real
magic.”

Danny was becoming increasingly tired of his sister’s ill-tempered moods and was about to say as much when Tom intervened.

“Oh, and what makes you say that?” he quizzed.

“Because there just isn’t,” came the terse reply. “If people could do real magic then wishes would come true; but they don’t. They don’t come true, no matter how hard you try.”

She was now almost at the point of tears when her aunt entered laden with the food and drink.

“You know,” Tom said, between mouthfuls of freshly baked cherry pie, “wishes can come true; can’t they love,” He turned to Veronica and smiled a knowing smile.

She, in turn, smiled, the corners of her mouth accentuating her dimpled cheeks. “Alright then,” she relented, “If you must.”

It was then he announced, “We’re going to have a baby!”

Veronica coughed loudly.

“Well – that is -” he corrected himself, “aunt V’s going to have a baby. Soon you’ll have a new cousin to play with. So you see,” he said, turning to his niece, “some wishes do come true.”

Carol wanted to believe with all her heart that somehow things could be made different simply by wishing it; that by some magical process the love she had for her father was strong enough to overcome the illness that kept them apart.

In Danny and Alan, too, a longing for their father began to stir, engendering cherished memories of Christmas’ past.

Tom rose from his chair and moved to the window. He gazed out at the snow-capped roofs and the streets beyond. He, also, missed his brother and sniffed back a single tear that threatened his composure.

Quite unexpectedly, the phone rang. V was the first to answer it, and after listening for a few seconds she called out to Tom, “You’d better take this,” she said, her hand shaking as she handed him the receiver, “It’s Mary,” she whispered.

With an awful sense of dread he put the receiver to his ear and turned his back to the children. The first sound he heard was that of his sister-in-law’s weeping. Then came the words, “It’s Jim; he-”

“Oh God! Not tonight of all nights,” he interrupted, slumping into the nearest chair.

By now the children were aware that something was wrong and Carol began to whimper.

“No, no! You don’t understand. Jim’s in remission. He’s getting better.”

“But I thought there was no h-”

“No hope?” she cut in, “We all did, but that’s not the queerest thing, Tom. Jim told me he’d had a curious dream this afternoon. He said he’d dreamt that three tiny fireballs had entered through his closed cubicle window, and that as he watched each of them turned into a sheet of paper that fluttered onto his bed. He recognised the handwritings on them as belonging to the children. It was the very same letters they had written to Santa this morning, Tom; I’m
sure
of it.”

“But what makes you so sure?”

“Because of what they’d written. Ask them what they put in their letters, Tom, and I’ll bet it was ‘
Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is my daddy back.’
”

Tom did as requested and was stunned at their replies.

Later that night, as a fresh fall of snow gently descended over a peaceful village, Carol, Danny, Alan, and their aunt and uncle huddled contentedly around the tree, each knowing that something truly magical had taken place. It turned out to be a Christmas that neither of them would forget in the years to come.