Chapter 2, page 1

“The same thing that’s supposed to have killed the cat. I happened to see you when you drove up to cabin. I stay here sometimes, and it’s the first time I’d seen anyone here in quite awhile.”

“So you’re the reason cabin is so clean? Why don’t you wash the windows?” she asked, perplexed.

“But they’re clean!” he exclaimed.

And Phoebe looked out the windows again, peppered with raindrops and no dust nor a cobweb in sight, and remembered that they’d been clean when she’d walked into the house.

“But they weren’t yesterday,” she protested. “You can’t have done all this cleaning since yesterday.”

“No” he agreed, “you’re looking at them from inside. Inside they’re clean, they’re in my world. Outside they’re dirty, they’re in your world.”

She stared out the window, retracing her entrance into the little cabin, walking again through the front door. The windows had been dirty and cobwebby on the outside, but once she’d come in, the windows had been clear and clean.

“Why?” she asked.

He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, leaning forward a little bit. His head tipped down as he stared at the quilt underneath him, and he rested his chin on his knees. “Because,” he replied, “I don’t like dirty, cobwebby windows.” And he looked up at her, mirth twinkling from his eyes and a grin on his face.

Chapter 1, page 18

“What are you doing here?” She eyed him skeptically, still not believing her eyes.

“Waiting for you. I wanted to meet you.”

Now she was really leery, but still curious. Meet her? “Me? You wanted to meet me?” she inquired.

“I’ve been watching you the last several days, longer really. Since you got here.”

“You’re the butterfly that’s been divebombing me, aren’t you?”

He laughed, and answered “I wasn’t divebombing you, I was just getting close enough to read you. Sorry about startling you,” he said, and grinned at her mischievously.

She turned her attention to her boots, untieing and slipping them off, she drew her socked feet up and tucked them under her. Picking up the small dried flower arrangement on the table next to her, she touched each flower one at a time, examining it in detail, keeping one eye on the creature. She picked a piece of grass out of the vase, and held it up to the light so she could scrutinize it more thoroughly.

“Why?” she finally asked.

Chapter 1, page 17

“They’re beautiful,” she said softly, staring at them, totally ignoring the being the wings were attached to.

He leaned up against the pillows on the bed, hands behind his head, and stared back at her, relaxed.

“Thank you! I quite like them too.”

She sat in the dark green wingback chair set next to a second window, curtained in a cheerful green and white check with ruffled edges. A small table and lamp were next to it, with an arrangement of candles and dried flowers, and room for a book or a picture frame. Two small paintings decorated the wall opposite her, and depicted quiet river scenes that might have been taken from the woods surrounding the cabin.

The four poster bed Kellan lounged on was covered in a scrap quilt, dominated by the color green and flowered fabrics. The pillows he rested on, solid green shams with ruffles, were laid against a pine headboard. His bare feet didn’t touch the matching footboard, and the carved posts were short, reaching only a couple of feet above the bed. The dust ruffle matched the pillows, and draped to just above the floor, hiding anything that might be under the bed.

Chapter 1, page 16

Phoebe gaped at him. She scrutinized the winged creature, noting small details, his trimmed, clean fingernails, adorning scratched, sturdy hands. Mis-matched buttons on his shirt and a neatly sewn patch on one sleeve. Well-worn blue jeans, cuffed at his ankles, clung to his thighs.

“Well, speak, woman!” he demanded, “don’t just stare at me. You’re not a gibbering idiot!” he barked.

She continued to stare, stupefied by the creature in front of her. The only part of Phoebe that moved was her eyes, roaming over his wings again and again.

“Who are you? What are you? Can I touch them?” she finally squeaked out. She nervously pulled a stone she’d picked up earlier out of her pocket and let it slide around in her hand, rubbing her thumb over its smooth surface, waiting for him to reply.

He stared at her, weighing her, weighing what he should say. Finally, “I don’t know. Can you?” he snickered, his twinkling blue eyes belying the sneering tone of his voice.

She blushed, and then tightened her mouth. “Jerk!” she thought to herself, but didn’t speak out loud. She stepped towards the bed, reaching one hand out, and softly touched one wing. It was warm, slightly fuzzy, soft, and when it twitched, she jumped. Immediately she put her hand back on the wing, feeling it more firmly this time, realizing that she had tickled him.

Words should take you on journeys

Beauman, Sally. 2001. Rebecca’s Tale. pg. 271.

“Other nights I’d crouch in the prompt corner, listening to those winged words, learning those winged words. I knew tracts of them by heart, yet; they still light up my mind. I hear the meanings behind the meanings under the meanings – what an echo chamber! Max always wants words to be shackled, so “love” means this and “hate” means that. Lock them up in a poor prison of sense and slam the door on them. I don’t agree. Words should take you on journeys – and the journey that taught me that began and ended in the same place: Plymouth, in a street called Marine Parade, in a house called St. Agnes.”

A short break

Hello to my readers (do I have any??),

In case you’ve noticed, I’m taking a break from the novel. I’m trying to get some photos/figures done to illustrate the novel, and I am also suffering from a moderately severe case of computer burnout. I expect to get back on track in another week or so, and start posting daily again. In the meantime, I’ll be listing some sites you might find interesting.

Chapter 1, page 15

She went up the stairs, set off to one side of the cabin. A railing on the upper floor surrounded the edge of the opening, made of some multi-colored wood. She reached the top of the stairs, transfixed by the sight of the cloud-covered mountain peaks that she could see through the window that dominated the wall she faced. She walked up to the window and opened it easily, to her amazement, the view overwhelmeing her, and she spent the next several moments drinking in the rain-drenched view. The chill  finally penetrated her sweater, and she closed the window. Increasingly perplexed, she turned around to examine the rest of the upstairs.

She gasped when she saw the form on the bed. The wings were spread, thin, opaque, unsubstantial looking things. Curly brown hair covered the head, and bright blue eyes stared straight at her. Knees drawn up to chest, hands with long, sturdy fingers hugged the knees close. A smile in the middle of the deeply tanned face. A flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and not tucked into well-worn Levis dressed him. His feet were bare, boots and socks on the floor in front of him.

“I wondered how long it would take you to notice me,” he said, laughter in his voice.

Chapter 1, page 14

“This is adorable!” she cried, and stepped inside, totally forgetting Gail’s admonition to stay out of the cabin. She gazed around in delight at the old-fashioned furnishings, and couldn’t resist touching the rocking chair, setting it in motion. She picked up the pillow that sat in the corner of the green armchair, running her hands over the heavily embellished crazy quilt pattern, and enjoying the texture of the threads, beads, and buttons that decorated each patch. She examined the photographs in their old-fashioned frames sitting on a nearby shelf, and picked up one of the kerosene lamps, almost spilling some of the oil.

The fabrics and appliances clearly indicated that the cabin had been furnished in the late 1950’s or early 60’s. The stove in the kitchen appeared to be gas, and the refrigerator had rounded edges on the door, a style she could remember from her childhood. Gingham and calico were used at the windows and for hotpads hanging next to the stove. She sat in the rocking chair, set to one side of the wood stove for a few minutes, totally ignoring the rain pouring down outside. Her head rested on the pillow at the top of the chair back and she closed her eyes. Something was off, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it it. Her hands caressed the smooth wood of the arm rests, and her feet pushed her, rocking slowly.

Her eyes flew open, and she looked around the cabin again. Standing, she went up to the shelf above the woodstove and ran her hand over it. Her palm was clean. Where was the dust, the cobwebs, the animal litter, that ought to be in a cabin that hadn’t been occupied in forty years? The place ought to be filthy, mused Phoebe, not sparkling clean. She looked out a window; the glass was spotless, and yet she hadn’t been able to see in because of the grime just the day before. And there was no evidence of the fire that she’d seen at the corner of the cabin either; no smoke damage, no burn marks. And the stairs. Why was there a set of stairs? From the outside, the cabin just didn’t look tall enough to have much more than a tiny loft. It was much more spacious inside than the outside led her to believe.

Chapter 1, page 13

On her way back to the cabin, Phoebe watched summer storm clouds gathering. They slowly drifted in, until now it was getting dark, and large drops of rain were splatting down. She had reached the spot where she’d been dive-bombed by the butterly early that morning, but didn’t stop to take pictures of the dramatic sky. She didn’t mind the summer sprinkles, but this looked like it was going to be a downpour, and she didn’t relish the idea of coming home soaked to her skin. So she hurried down the trail, grateful for the speed she could hike while going downhill.

Just as she reached the old cabin, that Gail had warned her to stay away from, the skies opened up. She raced onto the porch with only her shoulders and hat wetted by the downpour. As she jumped onto the porch, the door creaked open.

“Jeez, I must have landed pretty hard to jar the door open that way!” she exclaimed to herself. She couldn’t resist peeking in, and pushed the door open further. It was exquisite inside; a rocking chair on one side of the stone fireplace, a wingback armchair on the other, with a side table in between the two. A braided rug lay in front of the woodstove, the perfect place for a sleeping dog. A nearby shelf held two oil lamps, full of clear yellow kerosene. At the far end of the cabin was a small kitchen, with gingham covered cabinets below the counter, and open shelves above. A small sink and stove, along with a floor to ceiling cabinet, completed the kitchen area. A set of stairs led upstairs, with hooks for hanging coats and hats underneath it. To the right was a writing desk. A door was off to one side, close to the kitchen.

Chapter 1, page 12

The next morning, Phoebe threw her journal into the daypack, along with some water, trail mix, an apple, and lastly the camera. She swallowed the last sip of coffee, put her cup in the sink, closed her eyes to the pile of dirty dishes, and walked through the door. “Another gorgeous morning!” she exclaimed to herself, as she went down the steps. Standing still for a moment, eyes closed, she took a deep breath of the foresty air. She knew that soon she would need to start inviting people up to visit, and make friends in the small town nearby, but for now she cherished her seclusion. She grinned widely as she walked around the tiny old cabin, heading for the trail she discovered yesterday.

The trail started off easily enough, then began to gain elevation. Phoebe was huffing and puffing, and beginning to sweat. Refusing to stop until she’d gained the top of the hill, she struggled on upwards. At last she was rewarded with a panoramic view of the valley below. She sipped on her water and caught her breath for several minutes, then couldn’t resist the opportunity to take some pictures. She took the camera out of the pack, and nearly dropped it, startled by the whir of wings as a butterfly dove nearly under her nose. A blur of yellow and blue was all she saw, as she straightened up, startled. It looked like the same one she’d seen a few days earlier.

“I really do need to get that insect book from the library!” she exclaimed, setting the camera back down so she could pick it up in a more secure grip. She started taking photographs, and quickly forgot about the incident, as the natural beauty of her surroundings took hold of her imagination. She moved on, now winding down the other side of the mountain, and continued hiking for several hours.