Crystal, Fire and Water, Page 3

  Blinking back tears, she drew her knees closer to her and watched as the new light soared higher in the sky. A fresh day. Why, oh why, had she drunk so much last night? Enough to make her feel ill; enough to push her pain back where she could ignore it.

  Her father had always told her that to move forward in life, you had to face your pain and overcome it. But this hurt too much, and every time she took a peek at it, it felt like a huge black ball of distress and heartbreak looming above her. It was overpowering; how would she ever find the strength to deal with it?

  She shoved her hands through her hair, grimacing. She needed a shower. Sitting here on the beach for hours, getting cold and salty and ever more gloomy, had not perhaps been the best idea she'd ever had. But after . . . No, she couldn't bear to think of his name, not yet. She breathed as the knives stabbing at her broken heart sheathed themselves in the darkness again.

  A sudden shadow on the sand startled her, and she leapt to her feet. A child, no more than six or seven years old, was standing, watching her with clear green eyes. His brown hair was lifting in the light breeze, his cheeks softly pink. The sun was rising higher still, casting rose-hued light over the sea and sand.

  “Hello,” Tara whispered to the child. “Where’s your mummy?”

  The boy didn’t answer her question, and his stillness scared her. It was unnatural for a child to be so motionless, those blinking green eyes his only movement. Then the child moved closer to her, and folded his small hand into hers.

  “Oh!” Tara exclaimed. She’d never held the hand of a child before, was surprised by how deeply the boy’s act of trust impacted her. She couldn’t prevent her smile, or the warmth that flooded her chest. Kneeling on the soft sand so that her face was level with his, she said, “We need to find your mum or dad.”

  The boy shook his head. “No,” he replied. “It’s just you and me for the moment.” His face was solemn, but he didn’t seem afraid.

  Tara sat back on her heels, the boy’s hand still interlinked with her larger one. “Right. Why’s that, then?” Her eyes scanned the beach but she could see no other adult. She, at nineteen, just about qualified, but didn’t really want the responsibility for this child who had come from nowhere.

  “Because I am here to help you, Tara. Not the other way round.”

  Tara blinked. “What did you just say?”

  “I’m here for you, not vice versa.”

  Tara’s eyes were drawn to the child’s hand placed so trustingly in hers, then back at his face. He looked like a child, but he didn’t sound like one, at least based on her limited experience. Unless he was a child prodigy or something. And where were his parents? Or an older sibling?

  “You have not listened, Tara.”

  She withdrew her hand from his. “How do you know my name? Who are you? What is this?”

  The boy merely answered, “I am here to help you. That is all you need to know.” He held his small hand out, his soft fingers brushing against hers, but she pulled away, rising to her feet.

  “No.” Turning her back, she walked away, moving closer to the cliffs that wrapped the top of the beach in a protective embrace. Tara crossed her arms and held her pain to her, not willing to share it, not willing to uncover it. No-one could help her. It was too raw, too soon, too big. And anyway, how could a mere child - another male, at that - ever understand what she was going through, or what she needed?

  “Tara.”

  She spun round. “What, did you not hear what I said? I said No. You can’t help me. Leave me alone. Go home.” Tara turned away again but found there was no way forward. This small child had somehow backed her into a corner, rock on three sides, the boy on the fourth. How had that happened?

  “You can trust me, Tara. You can tell me anything. I won’t tell anyone else, I promise.”

  She stared at him. Gold lights glinted in the warm tones of his hair, and she followed the lights to the sky, where the sun had infused drifts of cloud with the most gorgeous soft reds, apricots and golds. The sky itself was a wash of palest lemon and opal, and suddenly its majestic beauty caught at her throat. “That’s . . . awesome,” she whispered.

  The boy smiled and nodded. “It is. And only you, standing here in this particular spot, are seeing this sunrise in this particular way.”

  Tara’s eyes roamed over the colours, the textures, sensing the feeling of space beyond the painted sky. The space drew her, but she realised she could enjoy it from where she was, no longer feeling the need to be part of it, to be gone. The sunrise was working its magic on her heart; it felt less brittle. Still cracked, but not broken beyond repair. And the cracks were allowing the light in, nurturing her inside as her skin tasted the sun’s gentle warmth.

  She looked down at the boy, who continued to watch her in his gentle, quiet way. His hand reached out to hers, and this time she took it.

  “How do you feel, Tara?”

  A moment’s consideration, then she felt able to answer. “Scarred, but not beaten. Hurting, but still wanting to live.” She exhaled a long breath. It was a relief to have someone to share this with.

  The small hand grasped hers more tightly. So small, yet she felt such strength and support from the gesture.

  “I still don’t know what to call you,” she said.

  “My name doesn’t matter. Only that you open your heart again. You see things from a perspective that only you can have. The world needs you, Tara.”

  She looked into his face, so young and clear and fresh, hiding so much wisdom and . . . love. She saw love there.

  “You are not of this world, are you?” she guessed. “You look like a child so that I wouldn’t be scared of you. So that I’d let you stay.”

  “Yes.”

  “So how old are you, really?”

  “I have no age. It is of no matter. I am here to allow you to express your feelings to someone safe . . . and perhaps then you might be able to work through them. Please trust me, Tara. You may speak freely.”

  Tara let out another breath. “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Really, Tara. I know the source of your pain. You need only express it and so release it.”

  “It’s not that . . . I don’t know how. The words aren’t there . . . I can’t . . .” She shook her head. “It’s too big for me to get my head round.” Her head was spinning with thoughts and feelings, but suddenly there was clarity, and the words came. “He - Mark - I thought he was my life. Now he tells me that he’s not ready to settle down and make a commitment . . . the change, it’s too wide for me to see beyond. . . I thought we had so many plans, and now my whole life has shifted in one night and I’m too scared to look ahead.”

  “There,” the child said. “You don’t need to talk for hours. Just share the essence of the burden, and part of the pain is already releasing.”

  Tara kneeled on the sand, facing the boy. “Thank you. For making me acknowledge it. I still have a way to go, but that was a first step, right?”

  “Right,” the boy said, releasing her hand. He put his small arms around her neck and held her briefly. “You’ll be fine, Tara,” he said as he let her go. “Are you ready to talk some more, or do you want to make the shift by yourself?”

  Tara smiled, lifting her eyes to the sunrise-streaked sky. “I can handle it now, I think. Thanks so much for being here for me. For the hug. For the support.”

  “It’s why I am here,” the boy answered with a quick smile. “Love can heal anything. You just need to find it inside yourself.” Then he walked away, his small feet leaving no mark upon the sand. Tara watched him until he disappeared from view.

  Then she looked into her heart and let the tears fall.

  ~~*~~

  Delights of the Dart

  Vicki’s sat nav instructed her to turn left. She drove through wide, open gates, passing a sign announcing her arrival at The River Dart Retreat, and followed the directions for Reception. With any luck she’d be met by a hunk with a warm smile, rugby player thighs, and
a clear invitation to get to know him better.

  One hand on the wheel, she stroked her silk-smooth blonde hair. She was ready for some fun. What had she been thinking, dating an accountant? She was so over Richard. Her friend Paula had promised her she’d have a great time at this place, and would return ‘feeling a new woman’. Vicki was sure she would have a great time, especially if this retreat included ‘feeling a new man’.

  She parked her Clio and walked into Reception. A young man with auburn hair gave her the key to her cabin. Drat - not a rugby player, by the looks of it.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” the man said, his mouth tipping into a shy smile. “My name’s Jim.”

  Vicki muttered her thanks, took the key, and immediately forgot him. Pulling up outside her cabin, she unlocked the door, and walked in. To her shock, it was a single room, with a single bed, and a narrow wardrobe. Where on earth do I put all my clothes? The bathroom wasn’t much more than a cupboard. She huffed. And where’s the TV, for heaven’s sake?

  Face pinched, Vicki unpacked her belongings from the car. Closing the door behind her, she sat on the bed. Minutes passed; she wondered how on earth she’d fill the next four days. A knock on the door interrupted the heavy silence. She opened the door.

  “Hi, Miss Walsh,” Jim said, offering her a leaflet. “I forgot to give you this. We have guided walks at 10am every day. Breakfast’s at 8am; supper starts at seven. The rest of the time’s your own.”

  Vicki stared at him. “Walks and meals? That’s all you offer?”

  “Well, yes,” Jim said. “This is a retreat - for quiet time, y’know? Oh, there’s something else . . .”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, you’re the only guest this weekend; a stag party cancelled at the last minute. So, er, it’s just me on duty. I’ll be looking after you.” His face flushed.

  “Just my luck,” Vicki mumbled. A stag party would’ve been ideal. A bunch of men looking for a good time. Here she was . . . and here they weren’t.

  However, Jim was still here. His voice was hopeful. “So I’ll see you at Reception at 10 o’clock, then, for the walk?”

  Vicki cast a desperate glance around the tiny cabin. “Yeah. Fine.”

  Jim took his leave, and, with dusk falling, Vicki surrendered to the inevitable, and had an early night.

  Waking rested, she had a shower, then realised there was no electrical socket for her straighteners. Annoyed, she waited for her hair to dry into its natural waves, arriving at Reception with barely a minute to spare. She hadn’t bothered with make-up; who was there to impress?

  Jim was waiting, his eyes bright. He reminded Vicki of a perky red squirrel. She suppressed a giggle. “Where’s this walk go, then?” she asked.

  “It’s lovely,” Jim assured her. “We go through some woodland, just over there, then we meet up with the River Dart, and follow it for a mile or so. There’s a lovely little bridge. I’ve packed a picnic since it’s just the two of us.”

  Vicki couldn’t help but notice his eagerness. This could be a long day. She sighed. “Right then, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  As they walked through the trees, Vicki realised she was enjoying Jim’s company. He was knowledgeable about the area, knew the types of trees, even, pointing out leaf shapes, identifying birds by their calls, describing how the spores of the ferns travelled. Despite herself, Vicki found herself interested. They came to the river. Sharp flashes of light drew her attention over and over, the water glinting like tiny silver sequins as the river tumbled over boulders and rocks.

  Sudden lightheadedness washed over her; she rested her head in her palms. A vortex of light spun around her like dancing sparks in the black; her eyes sensed a pressure, there was a stabbing in her forehead, an uncomfortable piercing sound resonating through her brain . . . then the fireworks faded away.

  Dazed, Vicki opened her eyes. “What the heck was that . . .” she whispered. Now she could really hear the murmurings in the water, the chiff-chaff of the birds, the echoing knock-knock of a woodpecker. She was even aware of the stiff silence of the trees. And the air, it smelled of honey and warmth and soft earth.

  Jim’s eyes were soft and knowing. “This place is magical, don’t you think?”

  Stunned, she looked about her properly, for the first time recognising just how special this location was. For the first time, she appreciated the natural world around her, and felt somewhat shocked that she’d never seen it before, never even noticed it. There was life everywhere: constantly in motion, in growth, slowing and renewing. Dragonflies skittered over the river, darting iridescent shapes a blur of movement. She took a breath, held it, wondering at the transformation. A soft breeze whispered through her hair and she felt a welcome surge of freedom.

  “Magical just about describes it,” she murmured, wanting to retain this hush, this sense of sanctuary.

  Her red squirrel man, filled with vitality and purpose, seemed to look different, too. His clothes fitted well, and whilst he didn’t have the brawn she had thought she wanted, she realised that his lean body was all understated power and quiet strength. His movements were economical, and carried a grace she’d never appreciated until now. She began to wish her cabin had a double bed.

  Jim’s smile was gentle, and just for her. “So . . . ready for that picnic?”

  Eyes dancing, she nodded, and pulled him down to the ground beside her.

  ~~*~~

  The Haunting of Melton Grange

  Chloe jumped to her feet, glaring at the bottle of wine. Two glasses, and she was already hallucinating: she was certain someone had just tapped her on the shoulder. The wine in her near-empty glass sloshed over the edge, dark spots spattering her cream sofa.

  Since Mac was out for the evening, and probably far more drunk than Chloe, then clearly she was imagining things.

  Her gaze swept the room: empty, just as she’d expected. Just as it should be.

  Every nerve on edge, she waited. The boiler groaned, the dishwasher hummed, but that was all.

  “Silly mare,” she told herself. “Jumping at shadows just because you’re reading a spooky novel!”

  She laughed, but it sounded forced even to her own ears.

  She plumped down on the sofa, her mouth set firm, and retrieved the book. ‘The Haunting of Melton Grange’ was perhaps not the best book to read alone, especially since she was a bit on the jumpy side when it came to ghosts. But her sister had given it to her for her birthday and she felt guilty that she’d left it unopened.

  Chapter One had set the scene. A deserted manor (naturally), with dark, overcast night skies and a young couple, Robert and Ursula, who had dared each other to spend a night at the Grange. It went without saying that a thunderstorm would follow, providing the perfect flickering atmosphere for ghostly goings-on.

  But here, every light in the room was lit, the curtains protectively closed (Chloe always felt exposed if the darkness could see in) and the front door locked and bolted. It was just her and the book.

  Perfectly safe.

  Except that tap on the shoulder had felt so very real.

  It felt just as real when it happened again a few minutes later. A pointed, firm fingertip pressing into the top of her shoulder. Chloe screamed, the wine glass falling to the floor along with the book. Shivers and chills raced through her. There was no denying it, someone had touched her.

  She backed away from the sofa towards the kitchen. The door between the rooms was swinging slowly shut. She tried to hurry, but her legs were like jelly, and she watched, horrified, as the door closed with a click just before she reached it. She moaned, panic flaring. The door wouldn’t budge. She was trapped in the lounge, her mobile was upstairs, Mac wouldn’t be home for hours, and there was something in here with her.

  She didn’t dare move. And so she simply stood there, waiting, watching, shivering with nerves. When nothing happened, she released the breath she’d been holding and crept back to the sofa. Maybe she was comi
ng down with a virus and it was screwing up her senses. Maybe she just needed to sit down and rest, and close her eyes.

  Back on the sofa, feet curled beneath her, she willed herself to calm down. But she wouldn’t read any more of the Melton Grange book tonight. She’d wait until daylight. Retrieving the book from the floor, it opened at the last page she’d read, and she felt the tap on the shoulder again.

  “NO!” she cried out. “Stop this, it can’t be real, it’s ridiculous. Stop it now!”

  There was a faint groaning, like the sound of wind forcing its way through the treetops. Another chill chased up her spine. She tried to put the book down, but it seemed to be glued to her fingers. The groaning became stronger, clearer, closer. Chloe stopped breathing.