The Other Door (short story)

    The bond with her great-great-great-grandfather Walwyn Randal Norvin Kenrick (well chosen first names) was very strong.
Most likely because they shared a strong will and stubborn and brave character, something that had been missing for generations of offspring; not my words but those of Walwyn. Yet I agree with him, I served many generations of this family whose history goes back to the Vikings.

   This great-great-great-granddaughter was the first female descendant of the old Walwyn and I expected him to be disappointed it was a girl who inherited his warrior genes. But he wasn't, he was over the moon when he saw her soft blond hair with the red glow. He almost howled like the wolf in his coat of arms. He ran through the castle, kissed every female (who still wonder where the light touch came from) he passed and returned to the nursery where he looked in great admiration to mother and child. He loved the mother from the moment she set foot in the castle. Unfortunately he could not pet himself on the shoulder for arranging this marriage – it was outside his restrictions – but someone somewhere must have arranged it from above. One day he was going to thank this Angel.

   And now this useless, lazy, ignorant great-great-grandson and his wife produced a female copy of him. And lo and behold, one of the names of the child was the female version of his own Randal: she was named Edrea Randall Bedelia.

Little Edrea and old Walwyn developed a bond from the very first moment; even before she saw him, the little child was aware of his existence. Her mother knew there was something in the nursery where her daughter reacted to but it did not feel bad and with her Welsh roots, she knew there was more between heaven and earth.

   The father who was mentally not fit to cope with the character of his wife, let alone that of his daughter, spent more and more time elsewhere; hunting, gambling and drinking with his friends. His wife who tried everything to keep her husband at home and who learned to hate his lifestyle, gave all her love to her daughter and it was no surprise to everyone in the castle that there were no other babies.

   It was a very strange household: the mother with her beautiful child and enough staff to serve 10 times more people. Life centred in a few rooms, all others were closed until the guests for the annual hunting games arrived; the one and only time his lordship was at home.

    When Edrea (who was a curious and studios girl) grew up, she explored the castle.
A few rooms were closed and in others the furniture was covered in white sheets against the dust. Her interest in the previous use of the rooms was touching, it was as if the history made her blood boil. Holding her favourite doll tightly in her arms, she told it she was going to bring the castle back to its original glory but that her father had to die first as Mummy once cried that he was spending all the money and if there came no end to it, they would be poor as a church mouse in no time. Not that Edrea ever saw a church mouse but with Mummy being so very sad, it must be extremely poor.

   The little girl did not know what she was thinking and wishing, yet her wish was fulfilled when she was 10 years old and riding her pony during the hunting event. For the first time her father showed some interest in his daughter who looked so self assured in her riding outfit. Everybody who looked at her saw what a beautiful woman she was going to be. Father and daughter guided their horses in a slightly different direction than most of the hunters. No one could tell why they did it, who's idea it was because after the accident Edrea did not say a word about what happened.
   She came back alone, a straight back and no emotions when she told one of the footman to get some help while she was going to see her mother to tell her “father was thrown of his horse and not breathing any more”.

   Edrea nor her mother cried a tear about the loss. They never spoke about it either, at least not in front of other people. The mother took over the finances and after a year of sleepless nights, paying creditors and talking to all staff members she managed to save the castle from it's downfall. We all admired her for her effort and our loyalty to her was stronger than ever.

    It was around this time that I decided it was the right moment to arrange a meeting between Walwyn and Edrea. Yes, you are right, they knew each other already but they never met in his world.

    At one day Edrea found the door of one of the rooms that was always closed, open. You might think it was odd that she never asked why it was closed, to whom it belonged or what was in it. She only tried the doorknob once and never again in the following 6 years. But today she walked into the room as if she knew it was open and waiting for her. In a sense it was, I arranged it.

    She looked round and walked to the large chest that stood open. She closed the lid and sat down on it; her feet crossed and her hands folded. Very much at ease she absorbed the atmosphere in the room where the family stored old belongings that were not used any more. She looked at her pram and smiled raising her hand if she wanted to touch it but she was to far away.

   “Hello grandfather Walwyn”, she spoke. “I am glad it is time to meet you. Will you guide me?” Walwyn smiled, opened his arms and looked at me for approval. I nodded, it was indeed the right moment.

    The two people with so many generations in between but so alike, walked hand in hand in my direction. I opened Edrea's eyes and the door and bowed when they passed me. I carefully shot the door and waited for their return.

   The old man dressed in a purple velvet jacket, a white blouse with lace collar and sleeves, trousers just over his knees, white stockings and shiny black shoes with silver buckles, his long grey hair held together with a beautiful purple ribbon, watched the young girl that looked like a little princes in her white dress with also a purple ribbon at the back. He was so proud of her and made a promise that the man who would hurt her was going to have a miserable and timely death; he did not hesitate a year ago and he would not hesitate doing it again. Particularly with this precious descendent at his side; they proved to be a good team.......


   I stand here in reflection, my heart full of melancholy.

When I think of Edrea I have to admit I fell in love with her. She was not only beautiful but also kind and generous. The people who were honest to her, knew they found a very loyal friend. She was never tired of looking after them in any way she could think of. They were always welcome in the castle and there was always food and a bed available to those who made a long journey to see her.

Photo: @marshallubx (Instagram)

  
   She did keep her promise to restore the castle to it's former glory. I can not tell you how she did it but somehow it happened, probably with the help of Walwyn who knew the castle so well and who revealed all it's secrets to her.
   Walwyn kept his promise to protect Edrea who's marriage only lasted a few months before her husband died. There were no children.
  
   Edrea moved permanently to Walwyn's world a very long time ago. And to you it might look if the caste is abandoned but you can be very mistaken. Maybe you are related to the two people I loved most in my life, who knows. I hope so!

   Try.... stand in front of me and tell me if you too see in me the light behind the other door to the other world.....

Word of thanks: the photo of @marshallubx (Instagram)) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Marshall!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @marshallubx

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Last Performance (short story)

   His body moved passionately with every note, absorbing the music.
His fingers kissed the ivory and ebony keys in changing tempo's. The violins in complete harmony; tender and loving.... energetic and impressive. Or in total silence, listening to the careful touches, waiting to join in.

   Beethoven was always his favourite composer, particularly No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Finale, Prestissimo. It was the first music he heard as a little boy of only 2 years old, during a concert at home, organized by his parents. He sat in a little chair in the corridor upstairs, looking down at all the guests in their beautiful clothes. Jewellery shone in the light of hundreds of candles which sent their warmth and the scents of all the different perfumes his way. It did not bother him, with his eyes wide open he listened and listened.
His little hands mimicked the hands of the pianist in the black suit. His head moved in the same rhythm, his blond and silky hair waved. His little body relaxed when the music was slow but straightened by a higher tempo. Although he was too young to describe his own feelings, he knew that he had never heard something as beautiful as this.
   His governess watched him, thinking she needed to talk to his parent. This beautiful child was born to play the piano and the lessons needed to start at a young age.
She did not notice the tears at her wrinkly cheeks. Tears because she knew the childhood of this lovely little boy was going to be different than that of other children. But how could she keep it away from him? Look at his face with the soft cheeks that coloured red by the emotions he felt.

   She was right, this evening changed his life.
His parents were delighted to learn about the musical gift of their child and looked for someone to teach the boy piano lessons. Their choice was Monsieur Augustin Joguet, a Frenchman famous for tutoring gifted pupils.
But M. Joguet never met a child as young as the little boy who was even at the age of almost 3, also very stubborn. A child that heard music in his head, music his hands wanted to play on the beautiful grand piano in the music room. His young attitude drove M. Joguet almost insane by the look of his behaviour; next to the child (the poor boy was never called by his name) he made little jumps on his chair, raised his white hands with the long pointy fingers in the air, dramatically shouting: "Mais non, non non!!! Ze child first needs to learn ze scales!! 'E can not play Beet'oven at once!!" Then shook his head, spreading desperate little drops of sweat.
   Arguments about his payment, patience and to his great annoyance also his competence, followed.
The little child did not understand what was said, he did not even hear it. His head was full of beautiful almost heavenly music where dissonance was not allowed; he closed his ears for the ugly music produced by the adult voices. Instead he let his little wide spread fingers search for the right tones of the performance he heard during that  beautiful evening. In his head the violins.

   M. Joguet resigned; thinking he might be too old for this which worried him far more than the future of this gifted child who played the piano in unawareness. Parents and governess wondered if he had even noticed his teacher left for good.
   A new teacher arrived. And another one, and another one until the very young pianist that understood the music in the child's head and the connection between these tones and his fingers performing an excellent translation.
Of course there were other lessons to follow and as long as the child knew the piano was waiting for him, he obediently listened to his governess and made his homework.

   At the age of five he had his first performance for the guests of his parents.
The sight of his little innocent body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the guests, was very touching and many ladies could not hold their tears.
The child's teacher sat next to the piano, his hands folded, his eyes fixed on the boy as if he read the notes inside that little head. There were no music pages to turn, the boy knew it all by heart.
   The evening was very successful although more realistic people agreed that this child should climb trees or play cricket instead. Though the parents were very proud.

   The years went by, he became very famous, his parents added extra space to the music room to entertain more guests because the only problem was that the child, a man by now, never wanted to leave the house. The sound of the outside world confused him, too many notes that did  not make sense, notes causing agony and disorder. He once described the sounds outside the walls of their stately home as 'ugly' and the way he pronounced it, left no doubt.
   A situation causing great concern with everyone involved, not in the least his parents. They shook their grey and wrinkly heads but could not avoid leaving this world when old and tired; like the guests. The younger generation the man wasn't familiar with, developed a different taste for music.
He wasn't aware of it and as long as people looked after him, he played and played until his body also bent for physical decay; his back round and aching, his knuckles swollen in pain. He did not want to give up, did not want to stop. He could not stop, there was so much music in his head.

   Still came the day of his very last performance.
The sight of his shrunken lean body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the non existing guests, was very touching and angels above could not hold their tears.

Photo: @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram)

The translucent posture of his long gone teacher was seen next to the piano, his eyes fixed on the man. There were no pages to turn, the fading fingers of the man found their way without thinking. Beethoven's No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Prestissimo was the man's personal Finale; he played with all the energy that was left. The tones echoed against the walls and ceiling, made the structure move; tearing the plaster apart until the tones slowly drifted away when the teacher reached out for the man who allowed the elements to take care of his beloved grand piano. His music travelled with him to never be heard again.


Word of thanks: the photo of @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Mathias!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @glory.of.disrepair

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen