Status: Re-uploaded 29/09/2012. Paperback $15- http://www.lulu.com/shop/tristrum-rees/the-macabre-tales-of-young-edgar-paperback/paperback/product-20248115.html
The Macabre Tales of Young Edgar
Cleansing
November fifteenth, 1841
Passage from the diary of Edgar McAbre
The glare off the clouds was heavenly when we emerged. The air was moist and electric, while, above us, the silvery sun lit up the fat, swirling mass of foam above the skyline until it was a perfect mirror for the tumult in the bay.
I couldn't help but wonder whether the storm was a coincidence.
There was water everywhere- in the air, in the harbour, and gathered in delicious, crisp pools on the leaves. It streaked the horizon so that the distant, violet hills ran like a watercolour painting. Everywhere there were rivers, streams, rivulets and oceans of cleansing. The cool downpour relieved my every ache. It streamed down my cheeks like the tears I didn't have the strength to cry, while in between claps of thunder it was a force to be reckoned with.
The rain had its revenge. It lasted all afternoon, following us as we climbed, drenched and bloodstained, from the mouth of the cave, where I had found Edmund. It mixed mud like cups of coffee in puddles at our heels. It sheeted on our backs as we ran for the cover of the Manor's foreboding front porch. When we reached the safe threshold, it poured off our clothing in bucket loads.
Finally, it drummed harmlessly against the glass as we hid indoors, brooding over teacups that didn't contain ripples like the ones outside. Trapped in china, the rain was microcosmic and easy to reflect on. I sipped it at whim, and blew my breath across it, so that its moisture was carried away. Neglected behind velvet curtains, it became filmy and white, as cataracts began to form on windows and memories. It screened us from the outside world. It gave us space for thought, and the reassurance of a rhythm to think to. There was too much to process all at once.
Still soaking wet underneath a dressing gown, I sagged into an armchair by the tallest window. I was vaguely aware of Lord Edmund perched opposite me, scribbling on a piece of paper, as I watched the dim sunlight creep across the carpet.
There, I fell asleep.
I couldn't help but wonder whether the storm was a coincidence.
There was water everywhere- in the air, in the harbour, and gathered in delicious, crisp pools on the leaves. It streaked the horizon so that the distant, violet hills ran like a watercolour painting. Everywhere there were rivers, streams, rivulets and oceans of cleansing. The cool downpour relieved my every ache. It streamed down my cheeks like the tears I didn't have the strength to cry, while in between claps of thunder it was a force to be reckoned with.
The rain had its revenge. It lasted all afternoon, following us as we climbed, drenched and bloodstained, from the mouth of the cave, where I had found Edmund. It mixed mud like cups of coffee in puddles at our heels. It sheeted on our backs as we ran for the cover of the Manor's foreboding front porch. When we reached the safe threshold, it poured off our clothing in bucket loads.
Finally, it drummed harmlessly against the glass as we hid indoors, brooding over teacups that didn't contain ripples like the ones outside. Trapped in china, the rain was microcosmic and easy to reflect on. I sipped it at whim, and blew my breath across it, so that its moisture was carried away. Neglected behind velvet curtains, it became filmy and white, as cataracts began to form on windows and memories. It screened us from the outside world. It gave us space for thought, and the reassurance of a rhythm to think to. There was too much to process all at once.
Still soaking wet underneath a dressing gown, I sagged into an armchair by the tallest window. I was vaguely aware of Lord Edmund perched opposite me, scribbling on a piece of paper, as I watched the dim sunlight creep across the carpet.
There, I fell asleep.
