Chapter 3
The thing that journalists fail to understand
is most of the time it’s not you who finds a story, it’s the story that finds
you. I had got in my car and went in search of some facts to base my story on.
From interviewing the street boy who was apparently more ill-mannered and
naughty than Denis the Menace and conducting numerous interviews with
inspirational community souls from church leaders to animal saviors, I realized
that it was a rather daunting task being in search of a story or more so
discovering a lead character for my story. One lazy afternoon while visiting a
friend, a house on the street behind hers had caught on fire. Needless to say a
story begin to write itself when the chocking smoke filled the humid air, when
the red light on top of fire engines signaled danger and when the hoses washed
away the flames in an attempt to salvage the remains of the already burnt out
double-storey. That’s when I came to grips with the fact that my story would
find me rather than me finding my perfect story and I was right.
Granny Marsha had excitedly called me up, mum
had mentioned I was searching high and low for some story information and she
was eager to help.
She was sending through letters she had found
when she and granddad purchased their dream house about fifty years ago.
According to grams Marsha the letters were tattered, torn and fading as if they
existed for over hundred years before she had found it, from way back when
their country was named after a flower.
I never knew much about the country Begonia and it barely featured in my
history textbooks. Granny Marsha’s enthusiasm shone through her comforting
voice but I was unsure as to what to expect. Initially the story of some lady
who faced the brutality of the war that destroyed her country yet still managed
to find love among the chaos didn’t stir up any interest. Yet I pretended for
Granny’s sake to be overly enthused to avoid hurting her fragile heart.
The parcel arrived two weeks after my chat
with granny Marsha. She had included a thorn-less pure white rose in the
parcel. Gran Marsha included a note that read: Read your heart out, enjoy and let the past inspire you. Remember a
rose without thorns never pricks, don’t hate the rose.
It was from grans’ note that I concluded my
journalistic talents were inherited from mum’s side of the family more so from
my grandmother as opposed to my mum who was a math’s wiz and found it queer
that I was fascinated by words. It was in my final year of my schooling feat
that I decided that I wanted to pursue a career as a journalist and even though
my parents never understood why I would chose that career path they supported
me anyway. At age eighteen I was accepted at university and begun my
journalistic journey and I was already discovering how rewarding this journey
would be. I got to write peoples stories for them, reveal their guilt in my
stories and by simply using words I could prove their innocence. My first story would have to be the one
derived from the letters that Gran Marsha had so helpfully sent for me.
“Leah!” my friend Melanie had shouted out of
her car window as her beetle’s engine jerked to life, “good luck with your ‘antique
of a story’.” I gave her a cynical smile as her mocking eyes winked one last
time before she sped out of our drive way. Melanie had always euphemistically
mocked my chosen career. She saw me as being so much more than just a “writer”.
However I was confident that when “Leah Clearwater” appeared as the byline on
the much talked-about magazine and newspaper articles, everyone would
understand why I had chose to be a journalist.
I had put off reading the letters for the
entire weekend. I guess part of me was afraid the letters would not contain
anything resembling what I was in search of. I trusted Granny Marsha but I did
not always agree with her taste in many things and neither was her choice my
cup of tea so trusting her taste for my first feature piece was risky business.
However in the dark of the night when insomnia begun to win the midnight battle,
I opened my eyes to the hope that the contents of those letters would be a
solution to my writers’ block. I quieted my inner hesitant thoughts and reached
for the switch on my bedside lamp. Its funny, when I can’t sleep reading often
causes my eyelids to tinge after at most fifty words, allowing sleep to
overcome even the most stubborn of insomnia. However this wasn’t the case
tonight…
To whoever finds this…..
My life is slipping through my fingers like beach sand on
a windy day. He let me live and I have no inclination as to why exactly he did
that. I have reason to believe that a worst fate awaits me, the others were
lucky to have escaped the torture quickly. I am imprisoned in a cell of fear,
danger, anxiety and hopelessness. He should have ended my life with theirs;
instead his locked me up in my own house. The four walls of our “safe” home is
now a torturous prison filled with lifeless bodies and the nauseating stench of
fresh blood. The memories of this house haunt me as the night engulfs our
lightless house filling it with pure darkness. Tonight I will relive my fears
of the darkness that I had courageously learnt to overcome. My guiding light has been buried and tomorrow
I will be buried too. Till I reach my end like the rest of my Begonian
community I will write these letters that captures my memories better than any
portrait ever can. When my end approaches at least my soul will rest easy
knowing that someone will find this letter and know my story or at least some
of it. You will understand my helplessness and empathize with my pain. We were
innocent and we were victims but it’s rather rare that the victims end up
triumphant. I won’t be triumphant in this battle, I have succumb to the torture
without any willingness to put up a fight.
My name is Clarity Wintermoore and this is my story…
“Caution”, just a simple word but it meant a lot to me. I
had always lived life cautiously. That was probably the reason why even though
our community was so close knit, I only trusted and had one real friend. Isa Adam had saved me from much darkness. He
was the orphan son of my late aunt and uncle. Albeit he was years elder and
wiser than me he understood me like no other. When I had reached the age of
five my mum and dad realized I was getting “too long” to fit in their double
bed. Needless to say I got shifted to my own bedroom. My bedroom was spacious
yet cozy. It was painted an ice cream pink colour and had two French windows
that opened out into our huge secret garden. A raw metallic silk curtain had
eloquently covered my French windows. For two years after my departure from my parent’s
room I suffered much torture and torment. Being alone in darkness frightened
me. In the dead stillness of the night my idle mind would irritate the peace
and quiet. My inner voice would stir up a ruckus in my head causing my made-up
fears to eat away at my bravery. Even the shadows the trees would cast on walls
would be made out to be monstrous figurines out to get me. My parents had said
when I would yell due to fear in the middle of the night it would be such
torturous screams that even the listener would begin to feel scared. When Isa
had come to spend the summer with us to learn the art of gracious horse riding
he had become the glow light I clang to during the torturous nights. He used to
lay in bed with me holding my hand gently but firmly and make fun of all the
things I found to be the scariest. He had made me laugh by insulting the tree
monster and showing me that it looked more like a fluffy teddy bear than a
monster. The ticking of the clock that became louder in the quietness of the night
had initially scared me but Isa had reduced that frightful noise to the sound
of the beating hearts of two lovers. Isa would hold my hand until I fell asleep
and thereafter return to his own room. It was because of Isa that I was able to
seal my eyes without any fear or any hesitation. By the time the wintery season
had marked Isa’s departure, I didn’t need his hand anymore. I was brave. Isa
stayed my closest companion as he had brought light into my life and he had
eliminated the fear. As long as Isa was around my life was filled with light.
‘Caution’. My days of caution and cautious living were
beginning to be numbered when I reached my eighteenth birthday two weeks ago.
The summer rains that poured down on the day of my eighteenth birthday brought
with it risk. The rain would wash away my childhood and my maturity would start
to blossom just like the flowers in our garden had. Choosing to take the risk
in itself was a sign of maturity. My engagement was set in stone three months
before my eighteenth birthday. The eligible suitor, Nate Sliverstone was a few
moths elder than me but was rather mature and responsible. He was dad’s choice and he was selected for
me because of dads close friendship and business relationship with his father.
All it took for the arrangement for marriage was a trip to the farmers’ market.
A small discussion of their children had inevitably led to a larger discussion
of marriage between their children. Before the engagement I had never caught so
much as a glimpse of the lad yet I had heard his praises from both my parents.
In a short span of time they had grown so fond of him that he was talked about
as their future son as opposed to their future son-in-law. I cannot say that I
wasn’t expecting to be engaged when my life had just begun to reach its peak.
In Begonia it was law for girls to wed as early as possible since it was just better this way. There were no memorable love stories or long
term relationships just tales of brief moments of romantic eye contact and
electrifying touches when engagement rings exchanged hands, it was for the best
like this. I was glad dad had found a suitor for me, since I could never have
found anyone better or brighter than Nathan. Besides parents’ choices and
decisions ought to be respected. My parents choices had gotten me thus far and
to rebel against their decisions would be unwise and to doubt their choices
would be sinful.
Two days before my engagement a bright yellow butterfly
had nestled on my shoulder. I believe the delicate, beautiful creature would
bring me luck. When I narrated this incident to my mum she said that the
butterfly symbolized my transition from a caterpillar to a butterfly. My mum
and sister had seen the beauty in me that I had failed to see. Mum had often
compared me to a porcelain doll because of my condense-milk creamish coloured skin,
my cherry-red lips, my lengthy eyelashes and my hazelnut brown eyes. She had
always said it was the simplicity of my beauty that had made me all the more
appealing. I remembered her words, “The fact that you fail to see how beautiful
you are makes you more beautiful.” My
sister Sapphire had been born with a huge birthmark that spread across her left
cheek. Not many people became admirers of her because of it; people would often
ridicule and mock her because of it. People like that were fickle; she was the
most beautiful soul I had ever known. I wonder if my outer beauty was the
reason he had chosen to keep me alive, to torture me more or even rape me….
My mind had flashed back to the day I realized I had
actually become a lady- my engagement day. For my engagement, I had taken a
bath in silky, smooth goat milk. Nana (our helper) had said that bathing in
milk brings your inner beauty to the fore. As pure as milk that’s how pure we
were. I remember how my silky red and white engagement dress hugged me in all
the right places, accentuating my curvaceous body. I wore mum’s pendent that
was encrusted with a ruby red stone right in the middle. I still remember how
my teardrop diamond earrings added a sparkle to my eyes and brightened my face.
Nana and Sapphire had told me that I had never looked more angelic. I remember
the butterflies that had dwelled in my tummy that day and the nervousness I
felt. I remember walking into the engagement hall at a snail’s pace trying
desperately to catch a glimpse of my fiancée before I reached him. My hungry
gaze had met the enthused gazes of Isa and Sapphire. I remember the glimmer in
Sapphire’s eyes as she gave me her mischievous wink. Sapphires winks had always
put me at ease. I so needed one of her winks right now. Flash backs of my
engagement day reminds me of how I had blushed uncontrollably until I had reached
Nathan who was perched against our table. Once I had reached Nathan,
introductions were made. I remember the pride that filled dad’s voice when he
introduced me to Nathan. When I had lifted my gaze which was initially fixed on
Nathan’s well-polished black shoes, I remember I had blushed even more. Nathan
was equally as fair as I was neither a shade paler nor a tone darker than me.
He had emerald green eyes that weakened the knees and tugged at the heart
strings. My heart had beated faster than ever. His lips were a thin line of
pink glory and I knew no girl would ever forget the taste of them. I wish I
could have felt them against mines just one more time before they had wiped him
out of my life too. I recall blinking uncontrollably to capture the scene of Nathan-perfection
that stood before me. Nathan was the perfect soul that would complete me and
make me wholly perfect. The night of my engagement ended with a storm brewing
outside. Dad had always said that a strong storm in one’s country was a sign
that the Gods are vexed with the sins and ways of people of the country. “Thunder
is God’s way of lashing out at us,” he had said. Well a worst anger was outside our doors, the
soldiers scarier than the thunder of that night. Morning is approaching and I am uncertain as
to what he will do to me. I will hide this letter in case he finds it and gets
angry and does something worst than he had planned. If you find this, remember
we were innocent and our innocence was violated.
I had finished reading and rereading that
letter around two in the morning. Just then a flash of lightning had cut
through my beige curtains and I wondered if the storm was a sign that change
was coming to me too. What storm was she facing? How come there were so many
letters if “HE” had done the unthinkable to her? These questions that her
letter had failed to answer had baffled me and I wanted to know more. I picked
up the next letter and goose bumps had filled my skin.
