Frozen

Above all things that were strange in being pivotal that day, the strangest was the conundrum of the weather forecast.

People talk about the butterfly effect. As if stepping on a butterfly could change the future of the entire human race. As if the tiniest of events could be the cause of a huge and life-changing chain of events, that would alter the course of one person’s future, or even several people’s futures, entirely. Like stepping on a butterfly.

And like the conundrum of the weather forecast. I’d gone out that day under the false impression that the following twenty-four hours would be very different to how they actually turned out to be. Really, never trust a weatherman. Or weatherwoman. They usually have no idea what they’re talking about.



“Today, all day, the weather will be a little cloudy, with a chill wind, but towards the afternoon we can look forward to plenty of warm sunshine. Back to you in the studio, Jeff.”

The weatherman’s final announcements were the sunshine he was forecasting. Music to my ears. I smiled to myself, and twisted around to kneel up on the sofa. I pulled back the curtains to see exactly what I’d expected. The sky was a clear, pale blue, like forget-me-nots, and the sun was shining weakly through a scattering of clouds that floated by in front of it. It was my perfect weather. Not too hot, not too cold. I had to get outside and enjoy it while it lasted.

For the first time in several weeks, I was glad that we’d been given such a long exam leave. GCSE’s were over, and the summer holidays had begun. Although it wasn’t really summer yet, and only a small percentage of the students at my school weren’t stuck in stuffy classrooms. I loved the holidays, but I loved school, too. I know it sounds strange, bordering on psychotic, but it was true. It was hard to explain why, but knowledge was a big attraction to me, which was one reason why I read so much. That, and the fact that you could completely shut out the world for hours inside a tale which somebody, somewhere, had actually taken the care to tell you through the written word.

It was beautiful.

So I grabbed my ‘essentials’ - the things I hardly ever left the house without – and shoved them into my little black rucksack…

Within minutes I was out of the house in my trainers and black jacket, and was plugging my iPod headphones into my ears. I switched to Muse, and was instantly appeased by their all-too-familiar streaming guitar riffs, shattering drumbeats and genius vocals. I allowed myself to be washed away in the familiar complexity of the first song, the drive in the lyrics building up my contentment. I smiled as warm rays of sunshine split through the clouds and caressed my cheeks. This was my kind of day.

I strode off with the woods in mind, the suburbs of the town which slowly dwindled into sparse amounts of trees, and then, at the wrong turning, would alarmingly bloom into full-frontal forest. It was lucky I knew the area reasonably well. After all, I’d lived here as long as I could remember.

The wind the weatherman had forecast gushed around me, startlingly me for a second. It was a little unexpected, and cold. I shrugged my light, early summer clothing around me more tightly and strode on, the song changing to a more melancholy number. The eerie chords fit my little scene well, and I almost laughed to myself…

Half an hour later, it occurred to me that the ‘chill wind’ had become a little more than just that. A freezing gust which caught at my ankles and chilled my feet through my shoes, whipped my hair out of its ponytail, mussing it none-too-gently. This was now the weather. I would never trust a weatherperson again. It was as if liquid ice was swirling around me. It certainly felt below freezing out here. And ‘a little cloudy’?

The sky, in the space of just over thirty minutes, had turned a dark, ominous grey. A nervous feeling in my stomach and the fact my nerves were tingling told me…storm weather. It didn’t look good. Here I was, fifteen, alone, in the outskirts of a forest. Not to mention the storm that seemed to be approaching…

A low rumble on the horizon answered my thoughts. Great. For once, I regretted being right.

I wasn’t too far into the actual forest; when I turned to look behind, light from the clearing filtered between the high canopies of the trees. Where I walked, however, seemed to be darkening by the second, as the sky had turned so rapidly. I knew it was a bad idea to be stuck in a forest during a storm…but it didn’t take a genius to work that out.

What I needed was shelter.

Another rumble echoed across the valley; a wild, untamed animal. Waiting. A storm was one big metaphor. It still made me uneasy, though.

I quickened my steps, the dark green and other yellow-orange leaves a carpet under my feet. I really hadn’t come out prepared today. It was a wonder I’d left the house with even a key to get back in.

The central path I walked eventually ended at the outskirts of the woods, so there was bound to be a cottage or a house somewhere, but I’d never paid much attention to any of the homes out here. The nature was what I walked for, and my imagination ran riot, picturing it all in my mind. The fresh feeling of early winter around me, light snow crunching under my feet. The fragrant smell and bright blue colour of the bluebells splashed through the trees in spring. The heat of the sun, filtering through trees in summer, and the calm, changing scenery in autumn; the traces of gold, orange and red turning the deep, brilliant colours of the leaves into flames, licking the branches of the forest.

I loved it all, because I’d spent my childhood in these woods. In another time, another life it felt like. My steps over the leaves, steady and rhythmic, required hardly any form of conscious effort. They were my beat, and they lulled me into a stupor as my mind drifted back into my memories…

A high, pealing cascade of laughter echoed through the trees. A gangly boy of twelve or thirteen raced just off the path, grinning wildly as he recklessly, or so he thought, dodged each danger at full speed.

I hung between my parents, Mum and Dad. I giggled again as they lifted one of my hands each as we walked, my feet just lifting from the ground. My toes brushed the leaves, which crushed pleasantly in their autumn way. Autumn was my favourite time of year, when the whole forest changed entirely.

“Joe, be careful!” Mom suddenly shouted, and I was disappointed as she let me down and began to walk more quickly after my brother. Jonas loved to take risks. A broken leg was nothing to him if it meant fifteen minutes of adrenaline. Dad gave me one of his little smiles then, just a small pull at one side of his mouth. I mirrored his expression, with the contentment I always felt, knowing this was just between us. Something no-one else understood. We had it all to ourselves.

Our hands, interlocked, swung as we walked, the figures of my mother and brother drifting into the distance. A thoughtful expression crossed my father’s face, his curling, dark hair like a halo, framing its picture.

“Dee,” he whispered, and the word seemed to echo in the expanse of the trees. No-one else had ever called me by that name, the nickname of my childhood. I looked up at him expectantly.

“You know that I love you more than anything in the world, don’t you?” I nodded, not laughing. Not like usual; I could hear a very serious edge to his voice. His brown eyes, speckled with gold and green, beautiful as the forest, sparkled down at me.

“There may come a time, when you’re older, when you feel something for someone…more than in just a friendly way…”

I felt my jaw drop, my mouth open in pure horror, and quickly clamped my teeth together, whining through them, “Daaad…no…”

“Dee, I’m being completely serious.”

“I know Dad, but it’s so-“

He cut in, “Embarrassing?”I nodded, unspeaking, “I can promise that you’ll go through a lot more embarrassing things than this, in your life, Dee. But I’ll go easy on you.”

I resisted the urge to grimace, but settled my impulse, wondering what on earth my dad, my joking, wistful, dreaming dad, could ever say to me on this subject.

“You have to be careful, Dee, careful with your…feelings,” he began, looking more than a little awkward. Just as I felt. I fought the urge to laugh knowing that my father could never deliver that ‘average’…sex…talk. This would actually be helpful, I hoped. Maybe even to look back on one day, when this strange subject applied to me, if at all. If ever. Perhaps I could be sensible, and keep my emotions inside myself. Not give anyone my affections. Could I do that? It was difficult to comprehend at that age, let alone predict the future.

“You can get so caught up in what someone looks like, how they speak; if they look at you in the right moments, if they smile or laugh when you hope they will. You can get so caught up in how someone seems to be, that you don’t know who they really are.” My father looked at me, a frown similar to my own, at that moment, crinkling his brow. His eyes were suspiciously shiny. Wet.

He sighed, and then came to a halt. He faced my eleven-year-old self with a fierce expression, and spoke words I’d remember forever.

“Don’t fall in love until you’re sure, Dee. Don’t spend your life pining over someone who will never love you back. Don’t let someone kick you in the head and trample all over your heart…because you’ll never forget the pain.”

“The right man is out there for you, somewhere, but there will be many men who you will strive to see as right, before you find him, and even whilst you do. Follow your instincts, and don’t let assumptions misguide you. You have a good mind and a strong heart, Dee, so don’t let them down.”

I opened my eyes.

I was immediately startled by how the scenery had changed since I’d lost myself in my memory. Sometimes I just spaced out so far, I forgot where I was, my problems. It was so easy to revisit something from the past, and forget the present. As I was doing now.

The trees were finally thinning, and I found recognition in the place. The oranges and reds seemed more prominent here – a sign that autumn was further along than in the rest of the forest. I twisted on the more difficult path, loose rocks littering the soil under my feet, and took in the mahogany of the ancient oaks, startlingly dark next to the young, silver-sheened birches.

As I made out the luminescent green of what was unmistakably grass, about sixty feet away past the edge of the trees, I remembered. In a few seconds, a huge building, the largest and oldest I’d ever seen, would seem to materialise out of nothing, into what was the clearing. The grass in front of me would be wild and untamed; strict slopes all round the side, making the clearing seem like a huge basin.

I walked more quickly, eager to see that breathtaking sight again. I’d only seen it once, as a small child, but now I knew it had real impact if I remembered it so precisely, now years afterward. Then I finally broke through the trees and stood at the edge of the clearing. It was so much more than I remembered.

I couldn’t help but smile as recognition flooded through me, like I was surveying the face of a friend who I hadn’t seen since we were toddlers. I trod carefully, sideways, down the sharp slope, and took in my surroundings. The even longer, wilder grass, each strand billowing in the building wind, made the slopes seem softer somehow, and the trees seemed darker with age, but it was all familiar to me. Everything rang a bell of memory, deep inside my head.

That was when the first drops of rain began to fall. Random and dismissive; catching at my cheek, the back of my hand, the crown of my head. I tilted my face to the sky. It was really storm weather now. Could this walk have been a worse idea? The rain began to fall slowly heavier and I moved rapidly, but shivered as I reached the flats. My face was damp and my hair was frizzing into wisps of curls. A deep growl of thunder and a flash of hot, bright lightning across the sky, and I was running.

It was like a slow-motion scene in a movie:

Typical chase scene. The character is sprinting, but gently slowing with fatigue. They hastily throw a glance back every few seconds, to check how fast they’re being gained upon. Every now and then a random gunshot might sound, and the guy or girl’s face might flinch in instinctive preparation, but they keep running...

You guessed it. I was being chased by the storm, hundreds of ominous clouds rolling in, over my head. The gunshots that were glowing thunder and flashes of lightning, lit up faces in their dark masses, grinning menacingly as they drew closer. My brain made all the connections, and I was running faster than I ever had, before I knew it.

That’s what TV does to you.

Adrenaline, slight fear, and general disgust soon kicked in too, and I neared the abbey. I mean, I don’t have anything against rain - it can even be quite pleasant to cool down in if it’s a warm day in summer - but when it’s plastering every frizzy hair on your head, flat to your scalp, and it’s running, freezing, down your back and chest…maybe not so much.

I reckoned I’d been running for a couple of minutes, when I finally spotted a door at the back of the huge house amongst a row of recessed windows, and I practically hurtled myself into the shelter there. I breathed heavily and turned round to face where I’d come from, my hair and clothes making wet noises as they dripped rainwater to the stonework below.

I was shocked. Anyone with any sense at all wouldn’t try for a walk, knowing this weather was approaching. But I hadn’t known, had I?

Blame it on the weatherman…

It seemed to be worsening; the sky was now completely black with storm clouds, and the clearing, the grass and trees, just looked like a waterlogged mush.

I sighed, and slumped to the floor, resting carefully against one of the window panes. I hugged my knees, shivering. The heat that had been adrenaline was gone now, and the cold chilled my bones. It looked like I was going to be out here for a while. I peeled my soaked rucksack from my back, grateful it was waterproof and so its contents would be safe. I rummaged for my phone…

The screen flashed and as I expected – no signal. It was 11.42. About five hours until Mum came home. I’d need an hour to get back (once it was dry) and sorted – as in not dripping wet and freezing cold – so I had four hours. Here. Not even writing and doodles could keep me entertained for that long. It seemed I’d have to find some other entertainment for myself.

I then got to my feet and peered through the window of the house. Squinting to try and make it out better through the darkness, I saw a library. Towering shelves of dusty novels, an alcove in the corner with a reading lamp, several squashy armchairs, a window seat metres away. Unless I wanted to catch a seriously bad cold or freeze considerably, my only option was to get inside.

I wasn’t keen on breaking in anywhere, let alone into a beautiful old abbey like this, but I didn’t really have much choice. Anyway, I wouldn’t damage or take anything. I just hoped the old floorboards wouldn’t mind a bit of rainwater.

I wrung out the said water as best as I could from my clothes, and even my hair, but my shoes were a definite no-no. I tucked them beside a wilting potted plant, but one look at my socks, stretched almost translucent to my skin, caused me to lay them out as well. I wandered the side of the house briefly, the cold stone of the porch startling to my bare flesh, and was reassured that I had found the only nearby entrance. So, on impulse, I tried the single door’s handle, and was astonished to find it unlocked. How cliché.

Someone’s carelessness had been my saving, and I stepped through the doorway, the plush old carpet a blessing to my numbing feet. I closed the door gently behind me, its shutting blunt and wooden, and stared around myself in awe.

Huge, arch bookshelves were set into the walls and the bindings of the books - dark and creased, with age and with the love of many, many generations of readers - were so close that I wanted to reach out and touch them. I didn’t dare; one of those ancient bindings might’ve broken in my hand. OK, perhaps that was a little overdramatic, but still…if I picked a book up, I probably wouldn’t want to put it down again.

A beautiful old fireplace was at another wall, intricate and proud. The ceiling was a massive dome, decorated with swirls of lavender and purple, to match the deep plum walls. It was all breathtaking, and it suddenly made me curious. There would be other treasures in here. A gorgeous old house like this would be filled with history, with dozens of places to explore.

So, feeling like a child setting off on an adventure, but almost as eloquent as an adult, in feeling the beauty of it all, I wound around the flower-patterned armchairs to the door.

Dark mahogany, it invited me in, and I was happy to oblige.

I walked into a predictably impressive entrance hall, with one of those wooden staircases so wide, a whole party of people could’ve quite comfortably danced up and down it. A thick banister snaked down both sides of its length, prettily patterned, carved. My shoulders suddenly felt heavy, as if a great weight was pressing them down, and my heart sank in my chest. It made me think of my dad.

If he’d been here, he would’ve loved it. He would’ve run to the stairs, dragging me by the hand.

“Look, Dee,” he might’ve said, perhaps cautiously searching the room over his shoulder. That was an odd habit of his, whenever he was doing something the slightest bit ‘out of order’. I used to think, as a kid, that he was checking for ghosts. But then again, I thought now that I might’ve mixed that up with the expression, “The coast is clear.” Well, if Dad had seen any ghosts, I didn’t. Maybe they’d been ghosts of his memories, and not visible to anyone but him. Or perhaps it was some habit he’d picked up when he was younger, and never had wanted to give up, for the nostalgia.

As I did now, peering behind me. I shouldn’t be in here. But now I really didn’t want to leave.

He would’ve marvelled at the wood, going on about the carving, the colour, what date he thought it might’ve been from. What was brilliant about my dad was that he was never someone to leave a person out of anything. Almost instantly from his lecture’s take-off, he would’ve found a way to get me into it too. He was a great judge of character, and of course he knew me better than almost anyone. He knew what I cherished the most in the world, so he’d take my imagination to build on his passion for that old, beautiful history. Something that was once growing under the sun.

“What do you think, Dee?” Dad would’ve asked me, smiling our secret smile, “Where did it come from? Why this piece of wood?”

“What’s its story, Dee?”

I wandered over to sit on the bottom step of the staircase, and ran a finger along one of the fluid lines of the bars attached to the banister, so numerous they could’ve been vines from a branch. My finger came away white with dust. No-one had touched this spot for years…how long had it been since anyone had loved this place?

My gaze subsequently strayed back to the point I had touched, and I felt an unpleasant, sudden stab of déjà vu. A tiny, carved rose head was set into the wood. I mean, I’d seen wooden roses before; goodness knows how many carvings I’d seen with my dad, and hundreds of flowers. But this flower in front of me, this rose, was not unique to my eyes. I had seen it before.

No…impossible…

I hurriedly reached both hands behind my neck to unhook the clasp of my necklace. I had worn it the most part of every day, for the past four years. I twisted the pendant round to lie in my hand, filling maybe a quarter of my palm. Apart from a miniscule, hidden hole for the gold ribbon to run through, a small, but perfect, classic and flawless rose head, made from a gorgeous chestnut wood, was the pendant. My dad had given it to me on my twelfth birthday, a couple of weeks before he had disappeared.

Frowning, I held it up next to the carving beside me. It was nearly identical. The wood’s colouring was a few shades lighter on the other rose, but the shape and design were exactly the same. I knew, without a doubt, that my father had carved that rose. But what was it doing in an abbey that had been untouched since its building in the eighteenth century, over three hundred years ago?