The Restless Pen: Sleeping Beauty, part 1

     Hello All. I hope everyone had a lovely holly-day season! We have been out straight, celebrating with all kinds of family, and now that it is the second week of January, we are holli-dazed and ready for life to return to normal. Case in point, I have plotted all kinds of posts for this month, let's see if I actually get to post even half of them, and for all of you tonight I have an excerpt from a short(ish) story I have begun called Sleeping Beauty. Am I not the most original person you have probably never met? (yes, I know, some of you have met me...). I don't really know where this story is going to go. I intend for it to be a short story, but the last short story I really dove into wound up a novel-length historical romance that I published with Kindle Publishing, then took back because I felt weird for having written a romance because I don't read Romance, but then I realized that was a really idiotic thought for a writer to have and so I will be re-releasing it via Kindle sometime soon. I need to chase my daughter down to model for the cover. That is not an easy task. (The chasing, not the modeling. She's gorgeous.) Anyway, I also have to admit that this post is really just to buy me time while I finish writing another one. It may even be up tonight, but don't wait up, just in case.

     And so, without further ado, Sleeping Beauty, part 1.

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            Why am I out here raking leaves, she thought. Whatever possessed me? She paused, leaning on the rake’s long handle, and looked up. The sky is pretty. That’s something, at least.

            She laughed then, at the ridiculousness of that thought. Why should that matter? It was, though. The sky was a clear bright blue, not a cloud nor bird marred its pristine color. It was perfect. The thought made her shudder for some unknown reason, as though contemplating perfection was to invite disaster, and she took her eyes away from the sky’s perfect beauty—what a lovely color for a silk—to look instead at the rusty imperfect leaves at her feet.

            The dusty deckled edges soothed her. She felt her pulse slow, unaware until now that it had sped up. She drew slow, measured breaths. “Une, deux, trois…”

It wasn’t until she got to neuf that she realized she was counting in French. French, she thought. I don’t know French.

            Suddenly the rake felt very heavy, the once-smooth handle sharp and splintered. She set it against the tree she stood under (an elm, she realized) and stepped around the piles of leaves. She brushed dust off her apron, a pale pink sprigged with darker pink rosebuds; it looked quite well with her yellow dress, she thought happily, and sat on a bench under the elm, facing the stretch of lawn and garden and cobbled stone patio at the back of the brick house.

            As she sat contemplating the soft red of the bricks and the way the fresh green leaves of the white azalea contrasted pleasantly with the red, a man exited the French doors and crossed the patio, walking in her direction.

            She was far enough away to have time to examine him as he approached. He was in his vest and shirtsleeves, but his red silk tie was knotted smartly and his gray trousers neat and without creases. His pale blonde hair was slightly mussed, as though he had just run his hands through it, but his whiskers were neatly trimmed. A gentleman, then. A gold chain twinkled across his embroidered vest, dazzling her eyes, and at once she was overcome with the same feeling of dread as when she had gazed at the sky. She glanced up. Still there. Still perfect.

            “Well Mera,” the gentleman sat on the bench beside her. “How are you today? My,” he looked about, “it is lovely today. No wonder you are out and about.” He looked back at her. “I’m sorry. Please, how are you?”

            “Mera,” she whispered. “That’s my name, isn’t it? It’s lovely.”

            The gentleman looked worried. “May I?” He took her wrist and pulled his watch out of his vest pocket. His watch chain gave her a sinister twinkle. “I fear you may have overtaxed yourself working in the garden. Your pulse is fine, though,” he put his fingers under her chin, tipped her face toward his. “Your eyes are clear and your breathing is slow.”

            “Have I been ill sir?”

            The gentleman nodded. “Yes Mera. I’m Doctor Wayne. Do you remember me? I was here two days ago to look in on you.”

            She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t. Why are you here today? I’m not ill. I feel very well in fact.”

            All of a sudden, she remembered why she had been raking. “I thought I would come out…I thought the air and sunlight would do some good. I was sitting here, in the sun…I noticed how untidy the leaves looked and thought I would rake them up. I didn’t think it would be too much work…” she broke off. Doctor Wayne was nodding. “Oh dear,” she felt her cheeks redden. “Mother must have seen me and thought I had taken leave of my senses and sent for you.” She looked at Doctor Wayne. “Didn’t she?”

            Again, the doctor looked concerned. “Your mother, Mera…try to remember.”

            “I’m sorry?” she was so confused. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

            Doctor Wayne cleared his throat and took her hand. “Your mother, and your father, have both died. They died of the same summer fever that you yourself are still recovering from.”

            The feeling of dread grew heavier, wrapping itself around her like a woolen cloak. “Died…my parents have died?”

            “Yes, Mera,” the doctor patted her hand gently. “Do you remember?”

            She shook her head, realizing she couldn’t recall what her parents looked like. She hoped she had a portrait of them somewhere. “I feel…empty. Lost. Why am I not sad? Why aren’t I crying?”

            The doctor patted her hand again. “It was long ago,” he assured her. “You were quite young.”

            “But you said I was still recovering from the fever that killed them.”

            “Yes…” he stood and pulled Mera to her feet. “Your grandmother is worried that you have overworked yourself. Come in for some tea.”

            “My grandmother…she’s very proper, isn’t she? I think she is. She must be angry with my foolish behavior.” Mera struggled to find an image of her grandmother’s face, but only came up with a feeling of immense disapproval.

            Doctor Wayne chuckled. “Yes, Mrs. Grant is quite proper. She isn’t angry, though, just puzzled that you were raking. When I explain that you thought a bit of mild exercise would be healthy, she’ll be sure to understand.”

            “Oh dear,” she sighed. The doctor chuckled again and tucked her arm into his elbow and began leading her toward the house. She looked about, her eyes bright and clear, glancing fearfully at the sky now and again. She looks healthy enough, David thought. And her speech is lucid, her mind quite sound. But her memory….David didn’t know what to do for her. He had said as much to Mrs. Grant. How exactly does one treat a person that has been asleep thirteen years?

~Nicole E Perkins, copyright 2018.