Wind chimes ring behind our house
in random harmony,
riffing with each passing bird
and
...
[+]
In the darkest hour of the night, when the silence was louder than every whisper, he was still there. At his desk, waiting for words to come out. Everyone asleep, only he was left. Searching, crafting, for the right one.
Archibald took a deep breath.
-It's not good enough, he said loudly running his hand through his pale blonde hair.
He sighed. The tiredness could give him a reason to stop but Archibald knew he had to get over it. Overcame it, to become what he always wanted to be.
Yesterday, at the library, for one of his research, he met an interesting old man babbling about his life.
-You know what i found the most fascinating about the Egyptians, he shared with passionate eyes, it was the fact that they were celebrating the dead. Life is the most precious thing, of course, but death didn't mean the end for them, it was a transition. Like passing a door to go to the afterlife or to be reborn. As an historian and you, my boy, as a writer, we are the instruments of these relics of ancient time, we are the vessels that remember.
He took a book off the closest bookshelf and pointed his wrinkled finger on it.
-That is the power, I use my voice and you use your pen.
-But, is a pen always right ?
-No, not always, but neither is my voice, he replied with a smirk to a thoughtful Archibald.
-Then, how do we know what is wrong and what is right ?
-You don't, that's the beauty of it. You can only interpret, decipher, that's what we do. That's what you are doing in this very exact moment.
-How do you knew you wanted to be an historian, asked Archibald while switching gears.
-I've been attracted to history for a very long time, as long as I can tell, I think. I studied abroad, travelled a lot to discover new cultures. I was eager to learn everything I could about civilizations. One of the greatest mystery I fancy is the myth of Atlantis.
-I heard about it, commented Archibald. It was indeed quite a mystery.
The man agreed in a nod.
-We should get coffee one day, he said, you seem to be a very interesting boy to hear about.
-It would be my pleasure, answered Archibald. I would love to ask you about one particular culture for my project.
-See you then.
After the exchange, Archibald went for a walk in the streets. The sun was slowly disappearing over the horizon. Dead leafs on the sidewalk gave fall colours to the city. Scents of cinnamon and coffee, with a shade of rotted apples, were lingering in the air. But Archibald didn't pay attention to it. He walked mecanically, his feets cracking over the leafs, his thoughts wandering around. Especially about a line in his book. I should have switched for realize. Or discover. Maybe I should change it all. Does it sound better ? I don't know. He was so concentrate that he almost bumped into a little girl.
-For God's sake, be careful young man, shouted her mother.
He didn't even replied, unwavering.
-Freak ! Go to hell !
Hell. He stopped. However, he didn't turn back to face the mother. Hell. Why does it sound so smooth ? So attractive. Could it go with his story ? His current book whom no one know the details, the magic words. Only him. It was his dream. A quest that became part of him. Am I becoming an instrument like the old man said ? No, he was wrong, i am the master.
Archibald arrived to his appartment on the brink of dusk. Locked himself, opened the window to let the cold and scented wind come inside. He had lost too much time, he should get back to work. He took his computer, sat down at his desk, started tapping.
He spend two hours writing non-stop. Then came a hesitation. Why does it occured now ? He was in such inspiration. His stomach grumbled. Should he go eating ? He will lost his track. You should continue, whispered a voice at his ear. In spite of his hungriness, he kept going.
Half past eleven. His hunger was no more. It was freezing. He allowed himself to take a break, he closed the window. He took a glance at the night sky and stared at the gibbeous moon. Its intensity was hypnotic. Such a beautiful scene. You should write about it, something of that vehemence, it is a one-chance opportunity. Archibald took the words of the voice as an order.
Slowly, the words begun to fade away. The sentences ceased to be satisfiying. They didn't even make sense. Why, why, why ? Archibald began to shake. His hands became tense. How could he fulfill his destiny if his writing was not good enough ? He would have put so much effort for nothing. He punched his desk.
-Ouch !
You shouldn't do that, you would hurt yourself. (The voice left a silence) Not being able to write your book would be devastating.
-You are right, he replied loudly alone in his appartment. I shall not get angry. I am who I deserve to be and I will achieve whatever objective I give myself.
Good boy...
Archibald Ravenscroft, the famous writer. It was a dream. It became his number one priority. That is why he stopped worrying about his family. He made sacrifices, and prayed for the one that could grant him his wish.
-What did I do wrong, he said in the silence hoping for the voice to answer.
Nothing.
Nothing answered. Endless nothingless.
He layed down on the ground, closed his eyes.
In that dimension, in that realm, nothing matters anymore. He could go wherever he want, do whatever he want. He could feel the excitment towards his book's publication, the joy of all readers and the questions.
-Why is he like this ? What will happen ? Did he knew ? That character will not die, will he ?
Every possible question flooded his mind pleasing him with a sense of achievment. He was no longer a poor boy, unsure of his work, he was fiery and confident. He was over the moon.
A sharp tear escaped with a loud guffaw.
Dreaming is not reality... Dreams happen, reality occurs.
-What do you know about all that, he suprised himself answering.
...
-What do you know, huh ?
Wasn't it yours ? Success
He opened his eyes questioning. Indeed, success would be the icing on the cake. Wiil he be happy about it afterwards? But what would come after ? Will he be forgotten ? And would he strive again to reach the top once more ? It would be a never-ending rollercoaster.
Archibald felt a sudden change in his thoughts.
-I... I don't...know
How can you don't know ? It was your dream... Our dream...
-I just...
You don't seem to understand
-What do I have to understand, he frownded completely exhausted.
We are bound my friend... My will is yours... Your mind is mine...
-Nonsense, he muttered.
Archibald stared at the ceiling.
-My dream...
Soon yours...
-Why ?
You asked...
-Did I, he sighed.
In the cold room, in the middle of the night, Archibald was given food for thoughts. Why does he felt like it was not right ? « There is always a price to pay. Greatness doesn't come alone. » It was the old man's words. Wise words.
-I couldn't care less about it anymore.
A story needs an end...Like all stories
-Then, find it yourself, he shouted. I'm tired.
He went back at the window to behold the pale moonlight. The voice went silent. Archibald looked down on the deserted streets. Another world was the night. Dark and cold but peaceful. And in that world of mysteries and magnificence, only the moon could hold the truth.
The dream could wait.