The sparse, blue-washed staircase at the rear of Burdett Hall spiraled upwards to all four storeys. Much less opulent an affair than the grand one of oak at the front of the house Mac was three quarters the way up it. Quickly climbing each worn stone step, he would rather be out of breath than take the ramshackle lift which offered an easier but more frightening means of reaching the attic. He needed no anxiety today of all days, no shiver, no dilemma. What awaited his arrival through the heavy door was obvious, or was it. Here on a whim there was no invitation to this event just some understanding that he should attend. Was he afraid? He did not think so. Should he be? Perhaps he should.
Blue paint flaked from off the wood and onto his hand as he pushed open the heavy door. The tight hinges creaked and moaned, not employed for some time they told a story of forgotten use. It may even have been him who had last exercised them many years ago, a child brought here by his Aunt on an ancestral fact finding mission.
“It’s just the same!” His words came out on a whisper.
The attic was just as he remembered, untouched by the intervening decades. The huge oak table, still centrally placed was, like the rest of the room, crammed full of memorabilia, so much clutter that it was difficult to negotiate what little space for movement there was. Tennis rackets, old leather satchels and brass bedsteads competed for space with travel chests, standard lamps and the like, all of them without exception gathering dust and cobwebs. Three pair of brown leather riding boots complete with protruding shapers stood to attention, and next to these an old wooden hatstand and fallen portrait of some ancestor or other. Aunt Bessie would know who it was but where was she, or Gramps for that matter? On a child’s boxwood chair in the alcove a red haired doll sat forlorn and forgotten, it’s shabby lace dress yellowed with age. Mac picked his way towards the farthest gable wall, holding onto a rafter or two to help keep him upright. On a small willow table a gramophone and trumpet readied itself for use, the needle poised over a cracked bacolite recording.
As he passed the only sash window, four panes of glass opalescent with grime, dozens of brown cardboard boxes tied up with string reminded him of his legacy, the corners turned over now and eaten away by time did not detract from the coat of arms embossed on each and every one of them. Every square foot of the room held onto a legacy, his family’s legacy, items left in care for safe keeping.
Outside on the window’s ledge a black crow called out, looked towards him with a dark round eye and caught his attention. Then it took to flight. The Morrigan! Now all was clear. She wanted him here. She, maiden, nymph and crone, She who mirrored Mater, new, waxing and old, She, the source of life giving, death and transformation, regeneration and renewing. Yes, now all was clear.
The door hinges creaked again.
“Hello dear boy.” It was Aunt Bessie. Her long silk dress of mauve flowers danced about her feet as she moved. She looked just as mysterious as ever. Gramps was with her too. He nodded an approval of finding his great grandson.
“Well met you two, fancy seeing you here.” His comment was more in humour than surprise for all three of them knew what they were about. The bracelet.
Gifted to him on his sixth birthday by his Aunt and in this very attic, his own bracelet had been around his ankle ever since. Now was the moment to activate it, furnish it with the power it had always promised but never delivered, the ability to tell of portals, timeslips to other worlds. The hierarchy were all together at last. Gramps, Aunt Bessie and now himself. The travelled, the ones abled to migrate through time. He had known them all of his life yet had no idea of their position and privilege until the last few months.
Gramps took off his riding jacket and hung it on the hat-stand, then he picked his own course across to where Mac stood. “So, here we are lad,” he began, giving a tight hug as he spoke. “Have you decided on your path?”
“I have Gramps, and it is to follow.”
Aunt Bessie came to join the two of them, her embrace not nearly as tight as her brother’s. She was only slight of build compared with their masculine frames. Sweeping his fair hair back behind his ears she planted a petit kiss on her nephew’s cheek. Only then did she speak. “Let’s begin then.”
Taking his hand Bessie ceremoniously seated him down in an old wicker chair, offering not much support Mac wondered if it would support him. Thankfully it did. Next she knelt down and dutifully lifted his left leg onto a tattered velvet footstool, pulling off his shoe as she did so. Rolling down Mac’s sock revealed what this was all about. His own bracelet, there for all to see.
Without no further ado she then unfastened her own device and simply clanked the two bangles together. A simple touch of metals but a far more magnificent effect. The resonance produced was pure sound, elaborate yet simple it came from times gone by, a note so empirical it offered so much hope, one of those sounds that enveloped and nourished every fibre of the body. His ankle began to warm with the heat from the activated metal. Now there was no turning back. It began to glow, that sheen he had never seen in his, but always had in that of his Aunt’s. Now he was on his way to his true destiny.
Strihc's Blog 