Young Writers Society

This is a writing exercise I've been working on for a week or so. I hope you like it.

Chapter 1

The gates to the fence were quite impressive, heavy granite pillars with iron bars anchored between, and welded onto that entryway was a magnificent crest. The creature depicted was fantastically real-looking, with spiraling horns, hooked talons and meticulously fashioned fangs. It was not, however, a scary dragon. In fact, though if encountered in real life such a creature would indeed inspire unquestionable speechlessness, it looked more on the side of good-natured than menacing.

Nonetheless, the little girl in the back seat of an approaching automobile stuck two fingers in her mouth at the sight. Dragons, after all, inspire feelings in children and the childlike which more cultured and ‘grown-up’ folk remember to forget with an almost infallible consistency. For the moment, the dried tears on her cheeks were forgotten as her less than inexperienced yet still largely innocent mind surveyed the massive gate and its surrounding environment. On one side of the road leading through it grew a dense, rather ominous-looking forest. Not, of course, the way the newspaper is ominous, but ominous in a lightly dark sort of way, where the fears are imagined, and at least partially known to be so, and it is more fun than anything else to be thusly scared.

On the other side was something of a beach, and closer to the gated property a bit of a cliff. The ocean itself, to use a rather obtuse word simply for the fun of being obtuse and for using such words, was scintillating with the light of the noonday sun, its surface in a rolling flux, like a grand, liquid mirror. The little girl had not been to the ocean; at least, not having been old enough to remember going to the ocean, so seeing it was for her quite marvelous, in spite of everything.

Rolling slowly to the gate, the middle-aged driver stopped, whistling, his bushy and peppered mustache bouncing about as if dancing in a rather ungainly fashion to a tune mostly out of key – such mastery of musical talent as to be unable to whistle a tune being a rather sad result of taking oneself too seriously.

The little girl heard her driver speak with someone, and then that magnificent gate drew apart, admitting the vehicle and its passengers and then closing once more. Gasping with delight, the child could not believe the marvels of the fine estate.

In the very center of the winding drive was a most wonderful fountain. It had many levels, and at the top stood a jovial looking gargoyle, spouting water that sprayed high into the air and fell like a shower of ribbons. The sparkly water crashed into the bowl beneath the gargoyle, and spilled into the larger one below that, which drained into an even larger bowl under it, and so on. The fountain’s base was carved exquisitely, with images of birds, fairies, dragons, unicorns and other creatures. It was a most splendid fountain to the little girl.

Beyond the hedges on the drive was a garden filled with a dazzling assortment of flowers, trees and benches in the shade. These benches each afforded a lovely perspective of the fine garden, and the child wanted very much to sit on those benches and explore the fine garden.

Birds tittered in the branches of trees, and a warm, pleasant breeze carrying comely fragrances filled the automobile. There were traces of that pristine sea-smell typical of such estates.

The house itself was more of a small mansion, with three floors and wide, open windows, and one of those white-washed porches that wrapped about the entire dwelling. The little girl hoped that she would be allowed to run about that porch; it did look like a lovely place to run.

It came to her attention, which tended to be quite scrupulous, that tiny creatures were fluttering about, sparkling in the sunshine. They would have been mistaken for butterflies by the dull perspective of most any adult, but the girl certainly knew better. Why, these were fairies! Of course, being a wise little girl, quite in the way little girls tend to be, though perhaps a little more than usual, and knowing adults to be far too boring to see fairies even if such a creature were to pinch their noses, she did not bother to point this obvious truth out to her driver. You see, he was a very nice, kind man, but by no fault of his own he was old, and therefore unable to see what the little girl did. No matter, she thought, for this way she could have the fairies to herself, her own little garden-secrets.

“Well now, my dear Natasha, we are here! Oh, but please do stop your daydreaming, now. It would be dreadfully impolite of you to drift off while your goodly grandfather is welcoming you into his home. Come now.”

He led her up the stairs and to the doorway – a very beautiful door, with shiny, lion-head shaped door knockers and cracks like the wrinkles of an old, kindly mouth. The whole house seemed to the young girl like the face of a friendly, sleepy grandparent, beckoning one inside warmly.

The driver knocked on the door three times with the shiny doorknocker – Oh, how she wanted to touch one! But she kept quiet, remembering well her lessons of politeness and most likely being herself a rather courteous individual. While they waited for an answer, the kindly driver fussed over Natasha, wanting her to look presentable before the aging man who lived her.

“Your grandfather is quite the man, you know,” he said, nodding and smiling but looking over her and away, dialoguing more with himself than with her. “Yes, quite the fellow – A genius, in fact, they say, though of course he would never call himself that. An esteemed scholar, an authority on many sorts of knowledge . . .”

The door opened, and in the gaping portal stood the rigid figure of a man of uncertain age. His hair was slicked back, his nose long and wide and out of place on his smallish head, and he wore what must have been a dreadfully uncomfortable tuxedo; at least, Natasha thought so, if it made him stand so very tight and stiff.

“Ah, good sir,” said the driver, “I bring here Natasha, Professor MacDonald’s granddaughter. Is he here, that is, is the master of the house available?”

“Doctor MacDonald,” replied the man crisply, “is not here. He is a busy man, with many affairs with which to attend. Natasha was expected, of course.”

“Ah, good, good. Well, now, Natasha, I hope your stay here is pleasant!” He turned to leave, but she tugged on his pant leg. She would not speak until he lowered himself to her.

“I wish you would stay here with me, Mr. Brooks,” she whispered.

The driver’s eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away quickly. They hugged, and he patted her back.

“I am sorry, Natasha, but I must go.”

Natasha did not cry as she was handed over to the doorkeeper’s care, but her lips did tremble and her eyes were very shiny. Not terribly mean or harsh, the doorkeeper was nonetheless rather unaccustomed to children, and likely had forgotten that he himself had once been a child. So he led her to a fine anteroom stuffed with pillowy furniture, and tried to question her in the nice way one makes a child feel welcome, yet it was a manner of speaking most clumsy t the man. So he left her, sitting daintily on a cushioned chair, her hands folded on her knees.

Waiting for the next caretaker, sitting still as she had been told, Natasha studied her surroundings. There were big, fluffy couches covered in fancy embroidery and chais of similar make in abundance, and several end tables upon which sat reading lamps or picture frames. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, with a glass surface, and a thick, springy carpet covered the floor. A single light bulb above her lit the room, accompanied by the daylight streaming through a window.

In the garden outside, Natasha could see the fairies dancing about, playing tricks on one another or kissing the flowers; she knowing such things to be typical of fairies. It made her smile to watch them play, and the things which made her little heart heavy were momentarily lightened.

“My dear, why are you smiling?”

The voice was so sweet and loving that Natasha thought at first it was her mother, though she knew that could not be so, her mother being very sick back at home. Had the little girl thought better of it, she would have not spoken so truthfully. She hated to lie, of course, being a very good girl, but she was quite aware that it was best not to speak to adults of what she knew was real. As was mentioned, however, she had been taken by surprise, and so her answer was rather unguarded.

“Why, I was looking at the fairies in the garden.”

In that instant, Natasha regretted her answer, and she turned to see a nice-looking woman in plain clothes smiling sweetly at her. The woman chuckled the ‘knowing’ chuckle, thought Natasha with a repressed groan.

“Ah, I see,” she replied astutely, though the little girl knew that she was not believed. “What are the fairies doing out there?”

Natasha, being well raised, did not sigh or roll her eyes as is common among rude children, though she did feel a sickly knot of frustration welling up in her little belly. Children, you see, have an acute attachment to honesty, being novices yet at the subtleties of the tongue, and so are generally quite distressed to be patronized, even if it comes in the dressings of good intentions.

“I really do not know,” replied the child sweetly.

“Perhaps one day you shall. My name is Theresa; you are Natasha, right, sweetheart?”

“Yes. I am pleased to meet you, Theresa.”

The woman smiled again. “You are so very polite! I am your grandfather’s aid, one of them, and he has asked me to take care of you while he is away on business, which he shall be on most of the week. Come with me; I shall show you to your room.”

As Natasha walked beside her guide, she thought that the house was a very quiet, dull affair. Certainly, ordinarily such a spooky, creaking mansion with dusty books and hidden rooms would capture a child’s attentive imagination, but fairies were the muses of Natasha, and none lived indoors here, and in fact many preferred not to be inside most of the day. This is excepting brownies, of course, teeny little sprites who loved to clean, as if there was more fun to be had in a duster or a mop than any party, or certain miserable mischievous gremlins, who liked to snatch keys or break things at the most inconvenient of times. But children did not live in this house, ordinarily, and everyone knows that even the grouchiest fairy wouldn’t stay indoors to play only with grown-ups. This, you see, is why even good little children seem to bring mischief in a house: Fairies follow, and while most of them are kind and mirthful and want only to sing, dance and play, a few are mean, and would often try to get good little girls and boys into trouble. Natasha hoped that those kinds of fairies weren’t around.

And her hopes were safe ones, for the stuffy, civilized members of sophistication that served her goodly grandfather were evidently so stiff and boring that while the gardens burst with glowing fairies, not so much as the tiniest sprite showed its face indoors. This, though, was as disappointing to her as it was relieving, for surely none of the nice pretty fairies would enter the household to play with her. So, well before even reaching her room, the little guest of the old home resolved to find her way outside.