Peter: A Darkened Fairytale

Peter: A Darkened Fairytale

by William O’Brien

Copyright 2011 William O’Brien

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1466012554

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Contents

I Mrs Kipple

II The Surprise

III Chamislock

IV The Shylong

V Ice

VI The Purple Forest

VII Cirinian

VIII Chantowald

IX The Cenectarians

X The Mausoleum

XI Ghosts and Dwellers

XII The Spirit Door

XIII Demons and Fears

XIV 402

XV A Place of Knowing

Acknowledgements

For Nana and the many others who helped and inspired

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A special thanks to David Ford Williams for cover design

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About the Author

Living in a small village in Lancashire, England, the author has written his first book, Peter. In the 1990s, the author had twenty-one articles published, both nationally and internationally. After gaining an honours degree in Geosciences, doing post-graduate study in Occupational Health and Fitness, and earning a masters degree in Science Communication, he developed an interest for simple communication. A passion for writing again emerged, and combining various interests in fine art, museum exhibition display, biology, geology, poetry, and the mystical led to the story of Peter: A Darkened Fairytale. The author still retains a childlike vision of the world, which is conveyed throughout the book.

Chapter I

Mrs Kipple

In a small village tucked behind Bodenlea Park lived a boy called Peter. A delightful young child with huge potential was how he’d been described by one his teachers. However, required to attach his feet firmly to the floor. Peter’s hypnotic grey-green eyes and hazy smile did give him a somewhat bewildered look. Attendance: Good. Appearance: Well turned out, with the exception of his rather unkempt strawberry-blonde hair. Punctuality: Tends to wander within his own time frame.

Well, your subjects are good, but I do wish you would stop daydreaming, said his mother.

Peter nodded, not paying the greatest amount of attention. He was a quiet, well-mannered child, raised to understand that children should be seen and not heard, as his mother had so often reminded him. Usually he was dressed in short grey trousers – holding a proud crease – and a pressed white shirt with a diagonally striped navy blue-and-yellow tie. Peter’s shoes were of the traditional tie variety, black and polished to the highest sheen. Grey knee-length socks helped to keep him warm, along with a tweed coat and charcoal flat cap. The wearing of short trousers and the attractive colour of grey was imposed by Mr Quigglepots, Peter’s headmaster. Quiggers, as most of the children referred to him, was in his middle years, withdrawn in the face, with black, greasy hair slightly broken with his beloved grey. Although one of the taller folk, he was a rather annoying, spindly man with tiny, beady eyes. As if hunting for prey, he constantly scanned the corridors from behind the black plastic frames of his glasses. Communicating through his pale, thin lips and clenched, tobacco-stained teeth, he abruptly commanded orders to the younger ones.

Peter was pleased that it was the beginning of winter break from school because his extraordinarily long legs felt the cold terribly. Sometimes the other children used to make fun by calling him Spider Face, but on many occasions he had looked in the mirror and failed to find any arachnidan qualities. Tomorrow was Peter’s birthday and he was so excited, as he would now be a double-bubble. Grandfather had told him this was much better than a one-bubble, which he had been for such a long time – over nine whole years, to be exact. One was supposedly a lot bigger than half a grownup on one’s tenth birthday, which could only mean better things, at least when they arrived in the form of presents.

Peter, get your coat. We are going to visit Mrs Kipple, called his mother as she finished off the washing-up. Peter pulled his coat down off the peg and put it on.

If we get a move on, we can stay for about an hour and maybe have tea and biscuits, his mother said as she fastened up his buttons. Collecting her keys from the hook, she closed the door behind them and continued down the garden path. Luckily, it wasn’t too far to walk to see Mrs Kipple, only to the end of the street and over a stone bridge.

Mrs Kipple was the lady who owned the village antiques shop. A large, double-fronted premises with three floors and a big red door, it was numbered 62 Raven Road. Peter had no idea why it was called Raven Road, because there were certainly no ravens on it! Mother opened the large red door as Peter trailed behind.

Good afternoon, and how are you on this cold winter’s day? enquired Mother.

Jack Frost is nipping at my nose, but it’s what to expect when you get to my age, answered Mrs Kipple.

Peter’s eyes began to wander around the shop. It was amazing what could be found in the collection of rooms, all of it weird and wonderful. A large lacquered Japanese cabinet filled with cupboards and drawers stood proud in the centre of the shop. It was inlaid with coral, bronze, silver, and mother of pearl. Many times his mother had attempted to purchase the cabinet with no avail. The cabinet had been handed down to Mrs Kipple by a relative of age, although she had promised it to Peter’s mother when she passed on to a better place. Mrs Kipple was a warm-hearted old lady who had always claimed to be 82 years young. Dressed in a long floral dress with the most pressed and starched white linen apron, she seemed to glide from room to room. Mrs Kipple had hair of silver-grey that she wore tied and set in a bun, which reminded Peter of her cat when it slept against the fireplace hearth.

The shop was crammed with all sorts of unusual things, lots of blue-and-white Chinese porcelain, furniture from every corner of the globe, mirrors, statues, but, most of all, Peter’s favourite – boxes! Peter had never seen so many boxes anywhere. There were different shapes and sizes, some wooden ones, even metal ones, but, best of all, they were boxes. One of the rooms, which had the word Taxidermy on the door, was full of glass cases with dead animals inside. Apparently, people used to like to rip the innards out of animals and have them stuffed with something or other. However, sometimes they did have the decency to surround them with their natural habitat before placing them in sealed tombs. A red squirrel, with a motionless, frantic stare, peered at Peter as Mrs Kipple shouted through from the other room.

Peter, would you like a nice cup of tea?

Yes, please, replied Peter as he strolled from the back room toward the stairs. Reaching over, he picked up a cup, and he thanked Mrs Kipple as she handed him a dry biscuit.

Go on now, try to keep yourself amused around the shop. I need to talk to your mother about grown-up things, she whispered.

Upstairs, in a darkened corner of the old antiques shop, there was a dusty china pot. Peter had seen this many times before when he had visited with his mother. The urn was of an odd shape, had a dragon at either side for handles with a mottled background of gilt and chocolate-coloured patches that looked almost good enough to eat. Peter lifted the small, squat lid and an exotic aroma emerged, a sweet spicy scent that somehow reminded him of his grandma’s bedroom.

What are you doing, young man? One must be careful regarding where one puts one’s nose. People say that smelling from the dragon pot will send you to far-off lands when you sleep, said Mrs Kipple as she appeared behind him.

Peter was a timid kind of boy and almost curled up in a ball when voices were raised. Sorry, I didn’t realise, he murmured as he quickly replaced the lid.

Mrs Kipple smiled and descended the staircase to engage in the monotony of adult conversation.

Peter continued to explore the odd shop and its collection of curios. Placed carefully were things on things, things in things, and many things that were probably not even things at all! Peter moved a thick, maroon chenille curtain to reveal a cyan leather chair with a dusty box upon its padded seat. It was wooden with small enamelled symbols on the front section, was dark in colour, and it opened up to reveal a cross-shaped compartment. Peter felt so sorry for the worn, tired box that he decided he had to take it home; it would be ideal for things of no importance. Walking quickly, Peter went through the shop to find his mother, who was sitting in the parlour deep in idle chitchat. As mothers do, she instinctively knew that Peter was about to ask for something.

What have you found now? she asked.

Peter produced the tatty wooden box. A little pink tag on the side swayed on its thin silk thread; it was twenty-five pence for the ownership of this item. Peter thought it was such a bargain that even Mother could not refuse. After saying goodbye to Mrs Kipple, Peter and his mother were soon on their way, Peter with the scruffy-looking box tucked inside his coat.

As they arrived home, raindrops were starting to fall on Peter’s head. They were fairly large and landed with a splodgy sound as he removed his cap.

Looks like we just got home in time; there’s a storm brewing, said Mother.

Peter went off upstairs to his bedroom, and sitting on his bed, he opened the box to investigate. A display showing a large cross-shaped compartment in the middle, and four smaller surrounding squares gave a symmetrical pattern. Uncovering a carpet of dust and the smell of old wood, Peter saw on the front of the box three unknown symbols. The sides of the box were made up of rough planks, and one seemed to protrude ever so slightly. Peter tried to push it back, but it was very tight. Determined, Peter pressed harder, until his thumb went a darker shade of plum, he heard the sound of a spring, and a hidden drawer swung open from the side. Inside was a dark blue velvet pouch with traces of silver thread running through it, as fine as a spider’s web glistening in the morning light. Peter could not believe his eyes. It felt so soft, and it had a silvery-green cord holding it closed together with a polished wooden bead. Eagerly he opened the bag and emptied the contents into the palm of his hand: a silver ball, a pineapple chunk, and the most wonderful key he had ever seen. The key was made of beaten copper with lilies swirling around it, and the number 402 was engraved in the centre.

Early next morning, Peter was awakened by the sound of trickling water from the stream outside his window. Stretching his arms up, Peter yawned, rubbed his eyes, and stepped out of bed. He heard, Are you awake Peter? Happy birthday! I have made you a boiled egg and some soldiers.

Gathering his excitement, Peter got dressed, picked up his box, and ran downstairs. In one corner of the living room, two presents sat wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

Eat your breakfast before it gets cold, Peter; we have to pop out.

Where to?

To see Mrs Kipple. She told me she has a surprise for you.

Wow – I can’t wait!

When we get back, you can open your presents. Aunt Greta has told me that she’s calling around to see you.

Peter, after squeezing toast soldiers into a rather small egg and causing the best bit to run down the side, began to get ready, and he was soon venturing down the road to visit Mrs Kipple again.

Chapter II

The Surprise

Peter noticed the sign in the window was turned to Open as his mother pushed the heavy door and they entered the shop. Passing a large stuffed brown bear that was not looking the slightest bit happy, they progressed toward the back of the building. Mrs Kipple was sitting in a rocking chair, staring out of the back window at a fresh blanket of snow which had dropped into her backyard.

Good morning, said Mrs Kipple as she rocked backward and forward in front of a blazing coal fire.

Hello, Mrs Kipple. It’s a bit chilly out there today, replied Peter's mother, rubbing her hands together.

"Cold enough for penguins!