Shadows and Despair
August 8th, 1956
I’m so hungry.
It’s difficult to concentrate on the words, which is unfortunate, for what I have seen over the past day has filled me with wonder and amazement. True, too, it’s also terrified me beyond anything I’ve ever before experienced.
I arrived here in the early morning, or what may have been early morning, yesterday. With no timepiece as my guide, I’ve had only the rotation of the sun to know for sure. Regardless, my last meal at the Orphanage–mid-day two days ago now–has long since left me. I found a stream, from which I drank for an hour, but thus far no food. The water refreshed me, cooled my skin against the blazing sun, but the hunger persists. The levels to which I would go to at this moment for a proper meal! Semi-proper, even. It’s a troubling concern, and I do all that I can to distract the mind from its attempts to recount the taste and consistency of Cook’s mashed potatoes.
I must find food. But the evening is upon me. For now, I wait. Tomorrow morning, I hope. If indeed this is the Elysium of my creation, then I know where I am.
I found the cottage this afternoon, nestled between two towering oaks, atop a hill of the greenest grass I have ever seen. I recognized it from afar. It’s one of the many homes I’ve drawn, the most recent, in fact. I drew the cottage after the third of my dreams, inspired by the rolling hills and distant mountains. Seeing it there, the mountains looming beyond, drew upon energy I believed gone for good, propelling me into a state of excitement better reserved for another time. I had but arrived upon the doorstep when I passed out from exhaustion. I don’t know how long I lay upon the steps before waking, but I rose to my feet with a great deal of difficulty, and proceeded to knock on the door. Perhaps, if my mind had fully been with me, rather than dwelling upon the potential for food in this lovely home, I might have considered what it represented: the first notable sign that I had indeed stepped into Elysium.
I believe the full realization is only now reaching me. Still, I’m in awe of the possibility. Amazed by the question haunting me most. Did I create Elysium, or has it always been? Did I invent the cottage, or did its image come to me from beyond? Through the mirror, even?
The one truth I could rely upon, many minutes after beginning my barrage on the door, was that nobody was home. The occupants, for that matter, might well have not existed at all. I may have drawn the cottage, but never did the idea of inhabitants enter the fray. I drew an empty cottage, and that’s what I’ve found. I don’t know what to make of it, fully. Perhaps it lends to the possibility, mind-numbing though it is, that this is a world of my creation. Time will tell. I do know, however, that I spent the remainder of the afternoon contemplating who would live in such a place, removed from the living world as it is. I imagine a family. Mother and Father, children rolling playfully down the hill. Meals together at a rickety, wobbly, table in the center of the small interior. Fire in the hearth. The warmth of that image is nearly enough to drown out the rising cry for food.
Nearly.
Realizing the link between what I had drawn and the structure before me offered me the peace of mind to cease knocking and simply enter. If nobody lived there, then there would be nobody to decry my improper entry. I thought, initially, that I saw the Sister on the opposite side of the door, ruler bouncing in a hand, but the cottage sat empty. It wasn’t the first time I’ve believed her nearby. At times, I feel certain she’s still chasing me. That she, too, found her way through the mirror. Times in which I’m positive I’ve seen someone out of the corner of my eye, only to find no one when I turn. It sounds silly as I write it, and perhaps it’s nothing more than the product of my hunger.
I am awfully hungry.
When I drew the cottage, I placed it on the map of Elysium, not too distant from a large grove. I’m hoping to find that grove tomorrow. More so, the grove leads to a pass between the rise of two mountains, which I stare upon through the window of the cottage as I write, the light of day fading to a wisp. Beyond the pass, I should find–according to the map–a valley. In that valley should be the city I have most dreamed of seeing. The city I would have most longed to grow up within. The city of Demos, and its grand array of beautiful buildings, lush greenery, and notable charm. I hope to find it there. I hope to walk the streets. I hope to see that the Elysium I have written about for so many years, is truly this world. Whether by my hand or another, that it lives, and that I may live within it.
Sleep calls. Perhaps tomorrow I will eat.
I hope. I cannot stand the hunger much longer.
A Reflection of Imagination
August 7th, 1956
Oh, have I a tale to tell!
Something magical has happened. Something so wondrous and divine that I wonder if I will have the words to describe it.
I found the mirror. To a degree, I feel I must say that finding it was simple and precisely as James Rudolph described it. However, reaching it was another matter altogether.
You see, the Sister did indeed read my journal. I wondered, there in her office, with the journal in her hands, whether or not she had. As I hid in the attic, awaiting the cover and secrecy of night in order to seek the passage to the cellar, it seemed unlikely she had read through entirely, otherwise she would have surely hunted me through the passages I described. But time ticked away, and though I can say with no level of certainty how long I waited, I know morning was closer than midnight when finally I began the slow, quiet, crawl to the panel above the Sister’s closet. The portion of the attic I sought sits atop her chamber, which made an unforgiving journey for my elbows and knees, but I wanted to ensure that no sound reached her. My notebooks, maps, writings and James Rudolph’s Bible were stowed away in a sack I had draped across my back. When the sun rose, Cook would find no pleasure in the pile of potatoes strewn about the pantry floor, but there was no other way. I wouldn’t leave the Home without what was mine.
The panel opens directly above the small, squared off closet, with no more than three inches of planking separating the floor of the attic from the roof beneath. I recalled, from my previous visit to the Sister’s closet, that shelves lined the interior, stacked to the ceiling, loaded nearly to capacity with items once belonging to my fellow orphans. At that time, afternoon light sliced through the loose boards of the Home, illuminating much of the space for me to review. At night, however, the closet door closed, a dim glow, granted by the Sister’s bedside light, was all afforded me. James Rudolph’s note claimed I would find the door to the cellar in the closet, but finding it would be no easy task, even in such a small space.
Delaying the descent no further, my heart hammering so hard in my chest I felt certain the entire Home vibrated with it, I strapped the sack to my foot, and lowered myself gingerly, feet first, through the panel. Beforehand, I had but reached for the top shelf, where the convenience of my belongings left me with little need to go further. This time, I attempted to brace myself on a shelf, in order to lessen the weight of my dangling body. My grip on the opening to the attic was slight, and when I found footing on a shelf, I relaxed. Unfortunately, what I took to be shelving must have been an item, something lengthy and solid, protruding from the shelf. With my weight shifted, the item gave, sending me crashing to the floor in a thunderous clap. Several shelves emptied their contents atop me, leaving throbbing pains in my shoulder, arms, and forehead. I felt a warm trickle across my nose and knew as I wiped it free and reached for a shelf to pull myself up that I had left more than a trail of debris. I didn’t have time to consider how injured I was, nor had I a concern. Surely, the Sister heard my arrival and would be upon me in a flash.
Only then did it occur to me that further reconnaissance would have aided me considerably. The note mentioned a door, true, but there, in the confined space, with a mound of shadowy belongings around me, I saw nothing of the sort. All caution lost, I dug through shelves, touching every portion of the covered walls with a rising sense of panic all but closing off my throat. I saw nothing resembling a door! Neither, however, had the door to the closet opened. After a frantic minute of desperate searching, my curiosity bested me. Surely, the Sister heard the commotion. Surely she would haul the door open any second and call upon the Hand of God to smite me.
Nothing.
Breathing heavier than I could carry, I took a moment to compose myself. My mind whirred, my heart raced, blood continued to trail the length of my nose. Still, the Sister didn’t show. Carefully, with more caution than I had thus far demonstrated, I turned the knob to the door, and opened it the tiniest crack in order to peer into her chamber. The simple light beside her bed illuminated a sight as baffling as anything thus far. The Sister was not only not in her chamber, her bed was pristine, sheets tucked tightly to the corners in the same manner she decreed our beds to be made. I would like to say this calmed my edgy nerves. The opposite would be true. Dread, pure absolute dread, filled me. Where was she?
I decided that spending any further time in reflection over the Sister’s absence only enhanced the dangers–after all, wherever she was, she could return at any moment–so, I took advantage of the greater lay of light in the closet to begin a more methodical search. Small does not truly describe the closet. If I much more than turned a circle, I clipped a shelf. I waded through the items on the floor–shoes, board games, and books amassed the majority of what I saw–and made my way to the lower shelves.
I can’t say what triggered the thought, but it occurred to me then I might be thinking of Rudolph’s message in a flawed light. He referred to a door in the cellar, which I took literally. But hadn’t he also mentioned a passage leading below? Inspired by the revelation, I scoured the floor, my nails gripping at any possible seam in the boards. I found it toward the rear of the closet. A panel, covered by a lower shelf! I hastily emptied the contents, making more noise than prudently called for, pulled away the shelf to reveal the full panel beneath. Had the Sister known of it? Had she covered it intentionally?
I pushed aside the questions, opened the passageway, sought out my sack of affects and lowered myself without care or concern below. This time the drop was significant. Adding to my aching knees, elbows, arms, shoulder and forehead, I twisted my ankle as I landed badly on the concrete surface.
The pain was enough to make me cry out, but what I saw beyond my misty vision, tucked it away into a nice ball of fear.
The cellar spanned the entire base of the Home. Most of it, I couldn’t see for the enveloping darkness. What it held, beyond the sight just before me, I have no clue. Much was covered in dusty, moldy, sheets. The sandy floor offered a gritty welcome as I drew myself to an upright position. A fireplace flared as charred logs shifted above red-hot embers, casting an orange glow across the immediate area. The Sister smiled sickly at me, her forehead bandaged from her earlier fall, a paddle in one hand patting an open palm. Behind her, the light reflected off a glass surface, making the intricate wooden carvings of the oval frame dance in shadow. The mirror!
“I knew you would come. Very impolite to leave your elder waiting so long,” she said, far too pleasantly for my liking. I didn’t respond. Despite her presence, the mirror stole my attention. From my vantage, the reflection captured only the Sister’s backside. It stood as tall as she, her closeness to it all but blocking my view.
“I can’t allow you to come any closer, child. Nor can I allow you to leave, either, not that you have much say in the matter.” The Sister glanced up at the opening above me. “This time, you will pay for your sins. This time, Salvation is not within reach.”
I moved a step to the side, making no secret of my desire to gain a better view of the mirror. The faintest touch of blue and green appeared alongside the Sister’s reflection. “You knew about this?”
“Of course I knew! This mirror has been here since long before you were born, locked away in the cellar, where it belongs! However, I didn’t know until yesterday that you were aware of it.”
“You did read my journal then?”
The Sister laughed. “A portion. Enough to know that you were, as suspected, up to no good, roaming about the Orphanage through the walls. Oh yes, I know about those. How could I not? James wrote all about them. Filthy little urchin that he was. Your little statement about imagination told me you knew of the mirror. James said that as well, before he left.”
“James Rudolph?”
Her grip on the paddle tightened and she surprised me with a sharp slap of her leg. Amazingly, she didn’t flinch. For a moment, she seemed primed to strike me next, but the muscles of her jaw relaxed. She forced a smile. “If I had known that you were aware of him, I would have put an end to your escapades earlier. But, as you were nearing sixteen and a likely candidate to be released, I let it be, despite your fiendish thievery and continued need to dwell in worlds of fantasy that bear no mark of Divine Law. After all, what good would that be to you when you were on the streets, fending for yourself, relying not upon imagination, but upon the mercy of God?”
I inched further to the side. The Sister still filled most of the reflection, but the green and blue I had glimpsed was more pronounced. I wanted to believe what it meant, but it seemed so improbable. I needed to see the entire view. I needed to know. The Sister, however, wouldn’t allow it. I had to make her move.
“And still, you all but ignore what I say in order to meet your own selfish desire. I cannot comprehend what goes through your mind, child. This is why it must end now. This is why I will not attempt to punish you myself. This time the punishment comes from God. When the sun rises, I will send for the authorities. They will know what to do with a young man who prides himself upon striking his elders.”
“Striking? What are you talking about? I haven’t struck you. Sure, I accidentally knocked you into the bureau, but you were going to burn my journal!”
Without a word, the Sister raised the paddle to deftly bring it down upon her arm. I still cannot say whether the crack was from wood to skin, or if the impact shattered bone. Her strained wail against a heavy bite of lip that brought blood, however, left me to believe the latter.
What I knew, more than anything at that moment, was I would never know the answer. In the aftermath of her swat, her reaction that caused her to drop the paddle and lower ever so slightly, I saw the mirror. It wasn’t a reflection, exactly. Instead I saw rolling green hills, a magnificent blue sky, mountains rising in the distance, and my reflection, standing mere feet away–precisely my distance from the mirror!
The Sister noticed my stare, and backed into the glass, arm braced in a soft grip. “Stay away! Whatever it is you see is the Devil’s work!”
My foot touched the sack on the floor as I shifted once again. I knew what I had to do. “You can’t see anything in it, can you?”
“I see all that I need to. It is the essence of evil, tempting children with lies.”
I somehow managed a laugh, albeit brief. “Lies. You keep this mirror hidden in the cellar, and preach to me about lies.” I rummaged through the sack until I found what I needed. I flipped through the Bible of James Christopher Rudolph, emptying the pages of his notes. “This, ironically, is the reason I found this mirror. It belonged to James. He left a note in it and hid it in the attic. So, much though I hate to say it, you were right. All this time, you were right. The Bible has shown me the truth. Now it will show me the way.” I tossed the Bible into the fire. The lightweight pages immediately caught aflame as the binding spread over the logs.
The Sister leaned toward the fireplace, the horror on her face replaced with rage. She didn’t attempt to fish the book from the fire as I had hoped. However, she moved enough for me to see the mirror in its entirety. I didn’t need to question the grand landscape the mirror showed me. It was the same as in my dream. It was Elysium! In that moment, all matter of doubt or uncertainty melted away. I approached the mirror, my reflection matching my steps. We stared at one another, only a few feet apart, separated by the mystical glass of the mirror, when the Sister attempted to block my way, the paddle once more in her grip, poised to strike.
Then a strange and unexpected thing happened. The paddle, over her shoulder and inches from the mirror, disappeared from her grip. She wheeled to face the mirror and gasped.
My reflection held the paddle, patting it the same as she had when I first arrived. He–or I suppose I should say I?–winked at me, said, “Now I’ve struck you,” and leveled the flat edge against the Sister’s cheek in a quick swipe. The force sent her into a spin and she collapsed to the floor with a hollow thump.
I stared at her limp form, beyond bewildered, unable to suppress a smile. When I found my reflection, it smiled back.
“You knocked her out!”
My reflection peered around the mirror’s frame. “Did I? You sure about that?”
I realized, at that moment, the paddle lay in my hand. I dropped it as quick.
“Grand. Now that’s out of the way, what say you grab that sack of yours and join me?”
“You mean, there will be two of me?”
The reflected me laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess so, but, no, I mean really, join me.”
He beckoned me with a finger. I could have thought about it. I could have stared at the wonder of what I saw. I could have even tested what the mirror would offer me in resistance. Instead, I jumped to action as if there were no other option. My affects in hand, I nosed the mirror, staring into my reflection as if it were no more than any I had ever seen. I took one final look at the Sister, stepped forward, passing through the mirror as if it were no more than the morning mist.
I stood on the plush grass of a perfectly sculpted hill, alone. The mirror was gone.
I’m here now. Writing my first entry in a new world on the slope of a hill, beneath a vast blue sky. I don’t know if the mirror is gone forever, or if I would even return had I the choice. I have no idea where I will go, or what I will find here, but I know, for the first time in my life, I am home.
The Last Day
August 7th, 1956
I believe it may be my birthday. By now, it must be.
I’m sure that seems an odd thing to say–I do know my birth date after all–but I can’t be certain that it’s past midnight. For that matter, I can’t be certain that it’s not well past midnight. The Home is quiet, and has been for some time, so I presume that everyone is asleep. If so, then it’s nearing the time for me to leave the attic, and, hopefully, the Home forever.
Strange. I always imagined sixteen as the age in which I would be forced to leave, yet I never dreamed it to be this way. Fortunately, I’ll not be departing into the streets, a bag over my shoulder and nowhere to go. Unfortunately, I’m not entirely sure where I’ll be going, or if it’s even possible for me to leave as I wish. If the mirror truly is in the cellar, as James Christopher Rudolph suggested, then I can only hope that it is precisely what he claims it to be: a passage into another world. The world that I have created. Elysium. If it isn’t, then I’m uncertain as to what will become of me. As it is, the Sister won’t be offering me a day in the Closet, should she find me. No, this time, she’ll cast me out herself, perhaps even have me detained.
It wasn’t my intent to hurt her. Certainly not. But she left me no choice, no alternative but action and escape.
I had no idea as I stepped into her study, carefully avoiding the teetering bookcase beside the door, that the Sister had already decided my fate. No idea that my own words, secret though I had kept them, would be used as a weapon, as a means to grant her a victory I could not overcome. I thought it would be another lecture, another attempt to right my wrongful ways, another lesson in God’s grace. However, I knew the moment I faced her beaming grin, her stubby fingers gripping the edges of my journal, that grace was not on her mind.
Toby found my journal, apparently. My best guess is he, out of a desperate need to make my life more unbearable, made a mess of my bed, or moved the mattress aside to do who knows what. Regardless, I kept my journal between the mattress and springs, so it must have been an easy find. I’m not sure how much of it he read. I’m guessing little, if any, given his poor reading skills, as well as his general lack of disregard for the written word. Still, he felt the need to hand it over to the Sister, and she must have read enough to find the material worth my exile from the Home. I can only guess that she breezed through the pages, rather than reading them in depth, or she would have known of the passages. Would have sought me out until finding me hidden away in the attic as I have been for these many hours.
Instead I am still here. Waiting for the silence to offer me a path to my final escape.
The Sister wasted little time and offered me little comfort. Her study has always been home to a heavy air. Almost as if the weight of her presence alters the atmosphere of her study. I always envisioned swimming my way toward her desk, rather than walking. Today, however, the air was not only heavy, but warm. For reasons, initially, I could not fathom, her fireplace burned with a bright, searing, heat. I’ve often seen the fireplace as her personal portal to the Underworld, no more so than today. Her devilish smile unsettled me.
“You have a problem,” she said to me, tapping a finger on the cover of the journal.
I wanted to respond, but the words eluded me. I couldn’t remove my gaze from her desk. Panic overtook my senses.
“Your silence is admission enough. I want to know where you have hidden the belongings you stole from me.”
“They were mine!” I admit, my tone was unhelpful, but I found no reason to be accused of stealing items that had been, in fact, taken from me first.
“This,” she indicated the journal, standing it on end before me, “is an admission of your sinful ways. You have continued to decree yourself a God–using an imagination surely granted you by the Devil–despite my warnings, despite my punishments. You are no God, child. There is only one God, and through me, He has decided that simple punishments are not sufficient. He has decided that greater means are necessary. He has decided that you are not suited for the sanctity of this Home. I have tried, for far too long, to give you faith, to grant you peace, in the hopes that you would overcome the grip of sin on your soul, but no more. Other boys have come into our nest, and they have found homes with loving parents. You, on the other hand, have not. You are unwanted. There is nothing more we can offer you.”
“You’re kicking me out?” I can’t say for certain precisely what I felt at that moment. Part elation, part wonder, part terror. My mind wrapped itself around the image of my notebooks and maps, my stories and character biographies, my drawings and journal. They all had to come with me. I knew, however, that the Sister would not allow it.
“Kicking you out? My word, child. Such horrific phrasing. Makes me seem positively dreadful. No, of course not. I’m not kicking you out. You will simply leave. Now. By the weight of your own actions, of course. I cannot be blamed for your insolence, nor can I for your desire to waste your time with this garbage. God has absolved me of you.”
There were many things I would have like to have said to the Sister, none of them likely to paint me in a better light. I decided, against the thunderous beat of my heart and the chilling fear tingling its way along my spine, that the best course of action would be to do exactly as she wished. I didn’t know where I would go, but I knew I was ready to leave. Ready to face the world. “I’ll just get my things.”
The Sister laughed. I don’t recall ever hearing her make such a sound. It was unpleasant, cold. “Oh, you have no things. You have nothing, child. There will be no dallying about. You will turn from me, walk the the hall, head for the door and leave. Now.”
I couldn’t leave without my writings. Elysium was unfinished. But striking a bargain with the Sister was unlikely. I needed time. I needed a plan to retrieve them later. “Can I have my journal?”
“Your journal? Oh, child, this journal belongs to the Home, as does everything within its walls. The fact that you have written in it does not make it yours. All that means is that your tales, your lies, have made it unusable, and so it is worthless to me. Perhaps it will be a reminder to you. Imagination is a dangerous tool. Make believe is an abomination. And abominations must be destroyed.”
The Sister stepped around her desk, journal in her hand, extended toward the fireplace. I might have screamed, or I might simply have shouted within. I know only that my mind burned with a greater heat than the fire, and without a moment’s thought, I launched myself upon her, knocking the journal free and sending her crashing into a bureau.
I retrieved the journal, inching away from the Sister as she sat upright, a trickle of blood trailing her temple, her face a mix of horror and anger. I knew I couldn’t leave my belongings. If she had read about the passages, she would find my notebooks and maps and destroy them all. I thought of James Rudolph then, and wondered what he must have endured. I wondered where he ultimately went. I wondered if the mirror truly would lead me to Elysium.
I had to collect my things, get to the mirror, and see for myself. The Sister wasn’t going to grant me that opportunity. I needed time. I made my decision. I would have to hide away until the night, when the Home was silent enough to make my way to the cellar. However, the Sister had to believe that I had left for good. She couldn’t be given a reason to believe I was still there.
The journal felt light in my hand. I smiled, thinking of Rudolph, the boy who might very well have set me free.
“I’m leaving, so don’t worry. But a friend of mine wanted me to tell you something. He wanted you to know that there is always life in the reflection of a child’s mind.” The Sister’s face paled and she muttered beneath her breath, but I had no desire to find out what she said. Before she could right herself, I darted from the room, closed the door to her study, pulled on the wobbly bookcase and sent it spilling into the doorway. The bookcase bit into the wall, angling across the door. It wouldn’t block the Sister for long, but it would block her long enough. I sprinted the length of the hall, opened the front door, sped past the stairs ahead of a thunderous barrage of footfall, tucked into the Closet, the chattering boys running past without notice toward the commotion. I made my way through the panel, quietly collected my writings from their respective hiding places and continued into the attic.
I heard the Sister, several times over the next hour, shouting my name, my fellow orphans–led undoubtedly by Toby–stomping about, on the hunt. Before suppertime, the clamor softened, and the Sister’s voice faded. I hope she is content that I have left the Home. That she will never again have to look upon my face.
If all goes well, she will get her wish. As will I.
If all goes well, in the coming hours, I will be in Elysium.
If all goes well, I will be free.
Who is the Storyteller? 