My Rubbish: Windfell Heath

Hey there! Fiona again!
Here's the first chapter of yet another one of my novels (my only contemporary drama actually) which is at this very moment sitting on five literary-agents' desks. I'm awaiting a reply with much anticipation! But in the meanwhile, I'm editing, rewriting, editing, rewriting... Good grief - it's sooooo boring!
Without further ado... Here is the first chapter of Windfell Heath.
P.S. Fiona O'Ryan is my pen-name. Heehee...

Chapter 1

The living fear death their entire lives. But once you get here – to Eternity – you’ll realize it’s not so bad at all. And for me, it was actually a relief to come to this place of rest and peace.

When I was alive, I was a really weird girl.  

I was born with a “gift”. Or so my mother called it. But she wasn’t the one watching people die before their time came. No, she didn’t understand. She couldn’t. She wasn’t the one born with the curse.

Yes. I was cursed.

Ever since I was a little girl, I had a strong sixth sense. I knew when something good or bad would happen. I knew when there would be a good crop or a bad crop, or a baby born or a sudden death.

I always knew. How I knew? I don’t quite know. It was as if the signs were everywhere around me, impossible to ignore. I saw them, heard them, felt them, tasted them.

Rays of light dancing over the sea and babies’ giggles drifted in the wind, and so I predict a birth. The sky was dotted with clouds that look like plowed earth, and sure enough, Dat had the greatest harvest ever.

But then I also saw all the tragedy. Like the death of my mother.

I heard the bombing before it exploded. I saw the flashing new reports before it happened. I saw the shadows chasing my mother. They followed her into the laundry room, they accompanied her to the stores, they sneaked behind her in the kitchen. And sure enough, she became just a shadow of my memory.

And it was all my fault.

At least that's what I've believed for so long… Until I met Andro.

***

I was running. Running from the man I once knew as a father. But he was no father. He wasn’t even a man. He was an alligator wallowing in a swamp of grief.

My home was not home any longer. It was a strange dark place filled with dirty dishes, smashed bottles and piles of laundry. It was too much of a reminder of the days my mother lived – the days of a clean house and her American accent calling, “Wipe your feet!”

I remember that day so clearly. The way the clouds tumbled across the sky as if following me, trying to capture me and drag me back to the darkness at home. The rain sweetened my bitter tears – I remember the taste of it so vividly. I hardly noticed the thunder or even cared about the lightning. My only thoughts were those of survival. At eight-years-old, my drunken father was a monster in my eyes – one that I had created. It was terrifying. My only chance of living like a child again was to run away.

I remember contemplating Neverland , but they were mostly boys there. And what were the chances of Peter Pan collecting Lost Girls? Then I considered jumping into the ocean. A dolphin can carry me away to safety like that story Mom told me once. But most of the run, I was focused on putting as much distance between myself and home as possible.

I clambered over the slippery moss of rocks and stopped only to catch my breath. The rain poured down my face and over my weeping eyes. There was the shadow of a shelter ahead – a little shack I’d never seen before.

It stood on a cliff over the sea, small and deserted. It was small and dilapidated, but in my eyes at that moment, it was a fortress.

I climbed from the rocks, but the moss was slick with rain. I remember the sound of my bones crunching in the rock and then veils of pain falling until sound was no more. I fainted.

***

Eyes had always fascinated me during my living days. There are shiny eyes, hungry eyes, dull eyes, clouded eyes, beaming eyes, milky eyes, cat eyes, eyes filled with light, and eyes like the core of a chopped tree. But Andro’s eyes weren’t like any of these. Because Andro’s eyes held the entire world within them.

And that’s what I woke up to that stormy afternoon. He was hovering over me, just inches from my face. I don’t know why I screamed and backed away from him. Was it his closeness or his filth? I don’t remember. But I do remember that I fell to the floor again, holding my ankle in pain.

I winced and flashed my eyes angrily at the him as if he were the one who caused all my suffering and injury. “Where am I?” But he just stared back at me with his large blue eyes beneath masses of long dark hair.

He was covered in mud and his clothes were torn and prickled with briars. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Charles Dicken’s novel – the only thing missing was the chimney-brush.

After a moment of silence, he grinned over at me. “I thought you was dead.” That voice… Ha. When he grew up, he grew out of that thick English accent and bad grammar. I made sure of that. But remembering his young voice – as gross as his looks – always makes me smile. Even here in Eternity.

“Thought I was dead!” I cried. “If I was dead, I wouldn’t be talking!” I glanced about myself now and realized that we were in a small, one-room cottage with a furnace and a cot.

It was a musty old place with cobwebs in every corner. The glass windows rattled in the wind and the door was pushed about with its force as if someone was trying to come in.

My tone slightly softened towards him. “What is this place?”

“My home.”

“This isn’t a home.” I laughed childishly. “This is a house. A home is a place where a family lives, and you’re not a family all alone.” I glanced about again. “Where are your parents?”

“Got none.”

Somehow knowing that he didn’t have a mother either instantly made him some kind of family to me. It was like he had said the magic word and poof! – we had a friendship. Excited by this, I told him, “I have a father, but my mother died last year.”

“I know.”

“You know?” I squinted up at him suspiciously.

“I seen her grave, it’s a nice one.”

“Her grave?” My eyes widened. “So that’s who you are! You’re the man who digs graves!”

“No, I’m just the groundkeeper’s helper. He’s nice. He pays me to help ‘im dig graves with him.” The boy now began to smile again. “I was hoping you were dead so’s we can dig a grave for you.”

I gasped in horror.

“A job’s a job.”

 I glanced at his torn shirt and shredded sneakers. “Does anyone take care of you?”

“Take care of me…?” He thought for a while as if I asked him a riddle and then shrugged. “Windfell Cemetery pays me just enough to get by.”

“But what about when you start a family? What then?”

“I have time.” He waved a hand casually like a confident business man. “I’m planning on starting a family on my eighteenth birthday. That gives me eight whole years to find a good job.”

“I’m only eight years old,” I said excitedly. “Maybe I could help you straighten this house for when you plan to settle. I have plenty of time for me to help you since I’m not planning to marry for the next ten years!”

He frowned at me with puckered lips and brow – I loved it when he made that face. He thought for a long while in the manner before unleashing a slight smile and nodding. “Okay.”

I smiled and held my white and to his grimy one. It was that polite gesture Mom taught me a long time ago. “My name is Anne-Marie MacKeats.”

But he made the face one makes after sucking a sour lemon. “What, you don’t you like it?”

“Too long.”

“You can shorten it. My mom used to call me Nan.” His facial expression relaxed and he nodded .

“And your name?”

He shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes. “They call me Digger.”

“But what’s your real name?”

“Don’t matter…” He murmured, gazing out the window. He brightened. “Look, the rain’s stopped. You’ll go home now – right?”

“I can’t walk.” I grimaced at the clearing skies. “It hurts too much – Ah, my ankle!”

“I could run to town for Reverend Markham.”

“No, no!”

“But Reverend Markham helps me all time, and even reads to me from that Christian book.”

“The Bible?”

“Yeah, the Bible.”

“Can’t you read for yourself?”

He nibbled at his lower lip insecurely. “Don’t know how.”

“You don’t go to school?”

He shook his head.

I beamed . Another thing in common  between us! “Me neither! I’m unschooled. It’s like learning without school. And you get to stay at home and read about all sorts of places or go there for yourself.”

He was silent and shrugged again edgily. The next moment he started for the door. “I’ll go get the”-

“Wait!” I cried. “I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you to read!”

“Don’t need to.”

“Do to!” I exclaimed hotly. “How’re you gonna make a good living for your family if you’re not educated?” I remember being proud of using such a grown-up word so spontaneously – it actually surprised me.

He snorted at me. “You talk funny.”

“It’s my American accent – I talk just like my mom. She was from California.”

He shrugged again and turned back to the window. “Okay. Whatever.”

But I was not so easily put down and continued to show of my “grown-up words”. “I’m determined to teach you, Digger. We’ll start tomorrow.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You have to let me stay until my ankle’s better.” I pointed a finger at him with serious eyes. “And don’t tell my dad.”

“Why not?”

“Because with my injured ankle, I can’t run!”

“Why would you need to run?”

“Because he beats me, stupid!” she scowled. “Didn’t your dad beat you?”

“I don’t remember my dad… or my mother. I lived in a foster home for a while, but I hated it. The foster dad used to … he would do strange things to me. So I ran away to live here.”

“You’re so brave,” I said quietly with a sense of awe. The idea of running away always captures the heart of the young. But it was especially impressive to me. “I’m just scared to go home. Since Mom died three years ago, Dat drinks and gets crazy. He beats me for everything. If it weren’t for Winter, I’d probably be dead.”

“Winter?”

“Winter’s my nanny. She tries to take care of the house and cook meals for us. She was Mom’s friend and a nice lady. But I hope she doesn’t come looking for me here. I can’t go with her, I can’t go back! I’m safe here.” I searched his eyes. “Right?”

He frowned at my words and thoughtfully went to the window as if keeping watch.

“Oh, yeah, keep a look out!” I nodded and crossed my arms, leaning back against a termite-infested wall.

He silently squinted in the distance. He scratched his cheek moodily and said, “I hope your nanny doesn’t wear a red hat.”

“Hey, how’d you know that?”

“There’s an old lady wearing an ugly red hat just outside.”

I struggled to my feet and yelped, “Ah, hide me!” I hopped around on one foot searching the place for hiding. No closet, no cupboard – it was hopeless!

The old woman must have caught a glimpse of my yellow scarf through the window and headed straight towards the cottage. She rapped at the door like a woodpecker.

“You selfish girl!” she shrieked through the wood. “I know you’re in there!” She opened the door for herself and glared condemnation upon my tear-stained face. I reflect now on how fun it usually was to see Winter in such a rage. Her temper was often my amusement. It was also so fun to watch her chubby cheeks fill with air like a red balloon before bellowing in her Yorkshire accent. But at this moment, her cheeks were not amusing and her accent did not make me laugh. “Anne-Marie MacKeats! What are you doing here?”

“I-I slipped and fell and hurt my foot! But he told me I could”-

She aimed her gaze at the boy I pointed to and threw her hands in the air. Her wrath was now redirected towards him.  “Why, you nasty child! Don’t you know you shouldn’t to keep a girl from her father?”

Digger’s eyes grew wide. “I”-

“It wasn’t his fault!” I cried, hopping in front of him as if taking an arrow. “It was me! I can’t return home, Winter! I can’t”-

Winter’s eyes widened as she stared at Digger for a moment. She raised a shaking forefinger at him. “You’re an Arab, ain’t you? One of ‘em Taliban kids that blow up innocent people, people like Nan’s poor mother!”

I remember turning back to the boy with clear eyes. Yep, he was a foreigner. His skin wasn’t dark because of the sun only – it was a natural tint. And his nose took a Middle-Eastern curve downwards. But still I stood before Winter and cried, “Digger’s not like that!”

“Even if he ain’t, you’re a selfish girl to not understand that your father needs you!”

My chest rose and fell heavily as I surrendered to sobs and fought to speak. “I don’t want him to hit me again, Winter! He scares me!”

Winter’s wrinkled old face, the face of a dried fruit, scowled darkly at me before gradually relenting with a sigh. “Ah, Anne-Marie… You selfish girl.” She shook her head and frowned. “You bring trouble upon your own head. Do as you wish and I shan’t tell where you are – But mind you return as soon as your foot’s healed!” And with that, Winter flew out the door. Had it not been a Tuesday, I would have wondered why she relented so easily. But it was Tuesday, and Winter’s favorite soap-operas were airing on their little TV set back at home. She couldn’t waste time arguing with me when there were so many fictional lives she had to observe.

Once Winter left, I turned to the boy before me with a heaving chest and cried, “I never want to go back again! Never!”

Now as I look back, I realize that I must have made him feel really uncomfortable. He’d never seen a girl cry before and the experience must have been disturbing. He probably felt like he should comfort me, but … what could he say? Instead, he just sat on the floor beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. But this action spoke all the words of love I hadn’t heard in years. And it was all spoken silently.

So that's the first chapter. What think you? :)

~ Fiona