Overcomer - The Journey, Judy Colella [book reader for pc txt] 📗

features had remained as clear, rather than as fragments and blurs.

Another memory came with that one – sitting by the fire with her on colder days while she told him stories...

Stories! That’s it! How simple!

After supper, when everyone but Cian and George was busy clearing the table, Cian headed for the hall, trotting after George. “May I speak with you?” Cian slowed to a walk as he came near. “If you have a few minutes, I mean.”

“Sure.” George shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I, um, I need your opinion about a… a story. I’m not sure where it should go, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re writing a story?”

“Trying to finish one. Can you help?”

George looked at his watch, nodded. “Okay. I want to catch a TV show, but it doesn’t start for another hour.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“Where’d you want to talk?”

“How about the library?” The large room, Mr. Geller had told him, was at one time a front parlor, but now housed a sizeable collection of books on built-in shelves that covered two full walls and part of the third. The fourth wall held a huge picture window flanked on either side by diamond-paned casements. A friendly room, good for conversation, Cian assured himself.

They crossed the foyer to the open set of double doors on the far side. With the other boys occupied with their after-dinner chores, the library was empty.

“So what’s this story?” George sat at one end of the sofa, draping an arm across the top.

Sitting in the opposite corner, Cian hesitated, not sure how to start. Even as a fictional account, it would sound a little crazy. Still... “Well okay, it’s about a family in Ireland, and takes place a long time ago. Back when people fought with swords and rode horses. Anyhow, there’s a father, a mother, and a son. One day a harper comes to their village –”

“A what?”

“A harper – someone who travels the countryside with his harp and sings about what’s been going on in the world.” Cian frowned and looked down. How could he explain about harpers to someone like George, whose family origins were so unlike his?

“Oh! You mean a bard?”

Or not. “Yes! You know about bards?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I mean, dude. Being an orphan doesn’t make me stupid.” He said this with a twisted smile, but didn’t sound angry or annoyed.

Cian nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s only that your culture is so different, but I suppose that’s irrelevant.”

“My culture?”

“I’m… I’m not from America, and still can’t be sure what things Ireland and this place have in common.”

“Okay – got it.” George waved a hand. “So go on. What happens with this family?”

“Well, the harper – bard – comes to the village and stays at their home for the night. He stays awake after everyone has gone to sleep, but the son, whose head is still full of the stories the man had sung to them, is awake, too. He sees the harper go outside, follows him, and finds him talking to an old man. The harper is saying how he believes he found the one they were looking for, and the old man says they have to be absolutely sure, because to send the wrong person could destroy everything. And then the harper asks if he should show the Door to this person they’d been looking for.” This memory was sharp, as though it had occurred only minutes before.

George shifted and held up his index finger. “Wait – so the bard tells the old man that he’s found some person the two of them had been looking for, right?”

“I’m not entirely sure it was only the two of them looking, but I guess that’s good enough.”

“Okay. And then this bard asks the old man if whoever this person is should be shown the door... what does that mean? That he should be thrown out?”

What? How could he think I meant… oh. “I see. No, that was literal. He’s asking if, okay. There’s a Door. A, uh, magical Door you might say, and the harper knows about it, and so does the old man. For some reason, the harper wants to know if he should show this magical Door to the person he found who, as it turns out, is the son in this family. I think. I’m still not certain about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it seems they’d have been seeking someone older, is all.” Cian looked away for a moment, having considered that point many times in recent weeks, but then took a deep breath and continued. “The boy is intrigued. He has no idea what they mean by all of that, but has a feeling he shouldn’t be caught listening in on their conversation, but it’s too late. The bard sees him, but isn’t angry and introduces the old man. After they speak a few words, the boy returns to the house and goes to sleep – ”

“Hold on. How could this kid see the bard leaving in the first place? Were they in the same bedroom?”

Cian raised an eyebrow. “The same bedroom? No, there were no bedrooms. It was a small cottage by a hillside not too far from Donegal Bay and had only one large room. Everyone slept on straw on the floor.” He’d given the modern name of the town this time, although he suspected it didn’t matter.

George shrugged. “All right. Then what?”

“Well then, um, the…” Cian looked up at the clock over the doorway and shook his head. “It’s a long story, and I know you want to see your show, so I’ll make it brief. The boy ends up going through the Door with his parents, finds out it’s a Door into Time itself, and eventually comes here, to this century. Along the way, he meets some people who try and explain what’s going on, but he’s too young to understand all of it. So he goes along with everything, but well, he can’t seem to find his way back and gets stuck here, looking for someone he’d once been told to find who could help him.”

George chewed on a knuckle and stared hard at Cian for a moment. “Okay. I take it this is the part where you’re unable to like, I don’t know… you have what they call ‘writer’s block,’ right? And you want to know what should happen next?”

Cian nodded. Writer’s block. Sounded reasonable. “He finally finds this person, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“How about talking to him?”

“Her.”

“Fine, her.”

“He did, but hasn’t told her everything yet because there was no time.”

“Why not? I mean, telling her something that important should have been a priority.” He gave a short laugh. “This is a really complex story line, man. Almost sounds like something that really happened.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” He sat forward. “Look, since this chick is the right one, he needs to talk to her, and then get his ass back home, right? I mean, why make things more complicated than they already are?”

Cian stared at the darkened window for a moment, then looked back at George, smiling. “You’re absolutely right. That’s exactly what I’m doing – complicating everything. Thank you!” He got to his feet. “I really appreciate your help.”

George got up, too. “No worries. Glad I could be of assistance.” He gave a mock bow, eliciting a grin from Cian, and left the library.

After a moment, Cian went up to his room. He’d had a passing sense that George was beginning to suspect the story was an actual recounting, but the moment had gone by without further inquiry and, as Cian had expected, the older boy had given him good advice.

Feeling better, he settled himself at his desk to tackle his homework. When he was done, he was surprised to see it was almost time for lights-out. He got up and stretched, closed the curtains, and got ready for bed.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to her and explain everything. Keep it simple, right? Things are difficult enough.

While he was returning from brushing his teeth, the chime for lights-out sounded; he made it into bed as the room went dark. Closing his eyes, Cian told himself not to do too much thinking, and took deep, relaxing breaths. Within minutes, he was asleep.

 

*******

 

Celeste stared at the harp. Her father had placed it on its side in the fluffy packaging. The wood was dark yet filled with golden undertones, a lovely brown luster where the light played over it. The strings were dark as well, tarnished with age and neglect. She lifted it out of the box, settling it on her lap, and touched the lowest string, brushing a finger lightly across the metal.

It spoke to her. Not in words, but in a distinctive voice, one that was deep and soft, not too dissimilar to Cian’s, and she pulled back her hand, startled. The last thing she wanted to think about was Cian, but the glistening note of the harp brought speeding back into focus all the thoughts of him that she’d been pushing away since coming home from school. How could a musical note do something like that?

After a moment, she became aware of an odd feeling on the finger that had touched the string, and raised her hand. A dark, thin smudge ran diagonally across its tip. With a frown, she turned the instrument so she could look directly at the string. The dark coloration was gone where she’d touched it, revealing a pale, reddish gold patch that gleamed in the light of the nearby lamp.

“I wonder...” Replacing the harp with care, she got up and hurried to the kitchen.

Her mother looked up from the cooking magazine she was reading at the table. “Everything okay? And why do you look so flushed? Are you coming down with something?”

“I hope not. Mom, do you have any metal polish?”

Eileen puffed out her cheeks and then expelled the air slowly through pursed lips. “In fact, I do. Why? You going to polish the silver for me?”

“No, the harp strings.”

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Really! Why do you think they need polishing? And is that a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? Anyway, when I touched one of them – never mind; I’ll show you.” She ran back into the family room, retrieved the harp from the box, and returned more slowly. Setting it on the table, she pointed to the golden spot on the bottom string. “When I touched it, some black stuff came off and that’s what was underneath.” She held up the smudged finger.

Eileen abandoned her magazine and stood, coming around to the adjacent side and turning the instrument directly into the light. “Oh my goodness…”

“What? What is it?”

“I think this, well, I could be wrong, but It looks like gold, Celeste, real gold. The polish should be under the bottom shelf in the back pantry, probably behind some other cleaning things, um, left side. Better turn on the light in there.”

Celeste ran, tearing open the pantry door and nearly yanking the light pull out of its hole in the fixture. She groped around for a few seconds, pushing bottles and boxes out of the way, until she found a small, square tin painted white with shiny copper lettering describing it as a polish for fine metals, including gold, and which was still heavy with liquid. “Got it!”

“Good! Turn off the light, please!”

When Celeste returned, she saw her mother had spread several sheets of newspaper across the table. A small pile of cleaning rags sat next to the harp, her mother’s magazine dangling half off the counter near the sink.

“Should we get Dad?”

Crossing her arms, Eileen put her head to one side. “I’m not sure. After Katie left, he went upstairs to make phone calls about a meeting tomorrow, so it might not be a good idea to interrupt him. Tell you what. Let’s clean off the strings first. He should be done with his calls by then, and it will be