This was homework for 6th March and a bit rushed. It was meant to be 1 side of A4 and it grew so was handed in with typos included!!
St Swithens was a very secluded village. No one ever came or left. The population always stayed the same. Whenever someone died, another was born, so it was obvious a pregnant lady was a bad omen. Everything flowed majestically in St Swithens. And if it didn’t, it wreaked havoc. So if an unexpected child was born, like me, a sacrifice had to be made, and quickly; usually the father the morning after the birth. They went to the white church on the cemetery, and never came back. It was said that if you saw the inside of the church, you never saw the outside again. To the children, it was called the door out, and it did seem to be. But my mother went down to the white church, with the intent to strike a deal with whoever was inside. She never did, and once she went in, no one saw her again.
That’s just how it worked in St. Swithens. It was one of the things you learnt to accept and grow with in St Swithens. And no one knew anything else, anything better. It was said that beyond the high, frosted glass walls at the edge of the cemetery, lay a world of machines covered in black dust, where life was automated, powered by the same thing as lightening was made of. Even though I’d heard of lightening, I'd never seen it, as was the case with many things in St Swithens. I’d never seen lightening because I’d never been out in the rain. It was just another thing about St Swithens. Yes, people went out in the rain, but they were never quite the same afterwards. Memories were tangled, the light in their eyes seemed faded and even in the wrong light they looked as though they shimmered, not quite there. I feared it more than death, not knowing who I was.
But apart from a few problems, life in St Swithens was a nice and sweet, sometimes too sweet. Bittersweet. In summer, it was hot, but not so hot a water ban was called for. In winter, it was cold enough for snow, but never too cold for numb fingers or long lasting ice. Illness was few and far between, then easily cured. Everything was just so – the grass green, the autumnal leaves colourful, the sky cloudless, the paths clean, the flowers bright, the lemons sour, the honey sweet, bittersweet. Of course being an unwanted child, my life was far from perfect.
I woke with a start, blinking my eyes fast against the bright sunlight, flooding into my room. My curtain rail had fallen down a few weeks ago and my father claimed that 15 was a good age for children to start being more responsible for themselves, and that I should do it myself, which was code for ‘I don’t like you. You as good as killed my wife, so you can fend for yourself’ the attitude he always took, although he wouldn’t admit to it. I dragged myself groggily from my bed, and pulled on some crumpled cloths from the floor. 11 o’clock. My father would have left for work hours ago, which was good. I decided if I took some money from his room, I could get myself lunch and dinner and be back late enough to go straight up to my room and avoid any awkward conversation. I went to get some money, double checked my room was locked, the stumbled downstairs to our oak finished kitchen, all light reflecting off everything, and blinding me, stopping me in my path. I spotted a note on the table and, shielding my eyes, shuffled over to pick it up. It read: ‘Need you to go to the shops for food for dinner. Put it in the fridge. And pick up something nice for a change.’ Ignoring the note, I snatched up an apple on my way out of the heavy oak door, slamming it behind me. My father and I weren’t very close.
I inhaled a cleansing breath of fresh air, thinking of the long six weeks that lay ahead of me. Swallowing a cough, I headed down the narrow paved path, between blooming flowers on either side. My swallowing attempt failed and before I reached the small iron front gate, I was doubled over in a coughing fit. Within minutes my eyes were watering. I was the only person in St Swithens to have hay fever, and I hated it.
Feeling thoroughly shaken up, I carried on my route to the pretty little park in the middle of the village. On my way, I stopped by a corner shop to pick up some food to last me the day, and a brightly coloured sign in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I walked over and picked up a leaflet from the tray below the poster. The St Swithens day celebration, an event which all year, every year, I had managed to avoid. But this year, seeing as it fell in the summer holidays, I felt I had to go. The celebration was all about everyone in the village coming together as a community and doing things together. Which was, evidently, why I hated the day. A day full of laughter and happiness with a community I had never felt a part of. I suppose I could put up with half a day of joy, then run off to my mother’s grave and spend the afternoon there, watching the blurred images of the outside world I’d never seen through the frosted glass.
After I’d paid for my food, I left the shops area and continued to head for the park. I saw people around me off all ages, children, older siblings, parents, grandparents, going out of their way to avoid me. I wasn’t really surprised. I’d been getting it all my life, people crossing to the other side of the road, changing direction, in some cases just plain seeing me, turning round, and walking away. I don’t know if I emitted some bad vibe or if everyone just knew, but everyone seemed to know I was an unwanted child, and I was treated as though I was a walking curse. I had no friends, but then, seeing as everyone hated me, I had no enemies either. No one dared get close enough to pick on me. In many respects, everyone feared me.
By the time I got to the little park, it was just gone twelve o’clock. I settled down on a little wooden bench under gentle leafy shade. I never understood how the paths were kept so clean, throughout the year. It wasn’t like leaves didn’t fall off the trees, because they did, and it wasn’t like they didn’t fall on the paths, but they never seemed to build up. It was almost like at night, someone came and swept up all the unnecessary leaves and just left a few out for show. But I knew this didn’t happen, for I had spent many long nights out on those paths when I was younger, after arguments with my father, where he claimed I was no child of his, and would turn me out the house for days on end. I would have run away, but in St Swithens, there was never far to run, and it was easier to hide until he felt he had lost me then turn up one day and have him so relieved to see me again, he swore he’d never do the same thing again. I knew he was lying, but I let him think I believed him. I managed to sit on the same bench for almost three hours, because although I didn’t have the charm of St Swithens, St Swithens still had a charm over me. It was beautifully picturesque, and just looking at all the children playing on the play park made me smile. They seemed so innocent, so oblivious to the fact that St Swithens was almost a roofless cage and that were locked inside it, with walls of glass and hedges. I smiled at a few of the children as they walked past me, but more often than not they ignored me. ‘Old enough to tell that I’m not real’, I thought to myself. A few of the younger ones went to wave at me, but their mothers pulled them away before they could. In all honesty, I hated my life. I never had anyone to talk to about how I was left out – I never had anyone to talk to about anything. I had to be content with my own company, because that would be all I’d ever get.
I dragged myself away from the innocence of the park, and walked east, to where the stile that led out of St Swithens was. A stile with a low hedge on either side. It seemed stupid no one had ever been able to leave, but that’s how it was. The closer you got to the exit, the less you wanted to get there. It controlled your will power, and if you got too close, your breathing. Every day I tried to get over the stile, but I could only get as far as it would let me. It stopped your breathing, like a hand clenched around your throat, until you lost all feeling in your legs and arms. Then a sort of invisible force, like a warm wind, would push you away, and it wasn’t within your power to stop it. No one ever came, and no one ever left. I didn’t know how many people had ever been as far east as the stile, but it did seem as though all my things I left there were untouched. Years ago, I went out there, to the edge, and built a den, out of branches from fallen trees nearby. I knew the branches wouldn’t last forever, so I planted six trees in a small circle, with a gap on one side. When the trees were big enough, I made them all lean to a point in the middle, and tied them together. Now I had a home that grew, as I grew. It was my hideout from the world, where everything was normal, and I could be myself.
I stayed there for about five hours, and then left to head back home. I had hoped I could have avoided my father, but luck was not on my side that day. As I walked through our door I saw him sitting at the table, picking at a cheap takeaway. He looked up as I came in. Again, I had hoped to avoid talking to him, but that was not my day.
‘You’re home then’, he began.
‘Yeah, seems like it.’ I wanted to hurry past him to my room, and think about what I could do tomorrow.
‘Sit.’ It wasn’t an offer, as much as an order. Reluctantly, I sat.
‘You eaten?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not get me anything?’
‘No, was I supposed to?’ I decided to go for the innocent, oh-I-didn’t-see-your-note attitude.
‘Yes. I left a note on this table’ -he slammed the table- ‘And I know for sure that you saw it. Any reason why I shouldn’t be fed?’
‘No…’ When he was in one of those moods, it was best just to go along with it.
‘I spent my day working for food for you, and just how do you thank me!?’
‘I don’t,’ I replied simply, a stupid response, but it shut him up. I strode upstairs and slammed my door on his shouts. I fell asleep quickly, comforted by the knowledge that he couldn’t get past my lock.
The early celebrations woke me the next day, shouts of the local people gathering to enjoy a day together. It was said that if it rained on St Swithens day, it would rain for forty days and forty nights afterwards. I sure hoped it didn’t rain. I stole some money out my father’s room again, and headed outside, ignoring any note he may or may not have left for me. I rushed past all the festivities, and headed past the south end of the village, down to the cemetery. I still had some food left in my coat from the day before, but I stopped to pick up some more anyway – I didn’t know if I’d be back before dark. I sat on the grass by my mother’s grave and didn’t even eat until the sun began to go down, just staring at the rest of the world through the frosted glass. I sighed. I had always wanted to know what lay beyond.
The sky began to cloud over, but at the time I just assumed it was because the day was drawing to a close. Then I heard it. The rumble of thunder far in the distance, and even through the glass I could see the lightening striking far away. I jumped up, grabbing my coat and turned, running, to the overhang by the church. I waited for a few seconds to get my breath back before I decided what to do. The overhang was small, and on the other side of the cemetery, rain was starting to fall already, and at an angle. If it kept that up, it would come straight under the overhang – and reach me. The rain advanced in a wall, forcing me to make the decision – lose my mind, or risk whatever was inside the church. I chose the latter, and creaked open the huge oak door. I stepped slowly inside, and tripped the rest of the way.
The entrance slammed shut behind me, echoing for what seemed like an eternity in the vast space. It was dark inside, but strangely comforting as well. I settled down on the floor with my back to the door, and rested my head in my hands. Suddenly, a cold shiver came over me, and I felt an ice cold hand grab my wrist. I tried to scream, but a searing hot hand clamped down over my mouth. To say how fierce the hands felt, they seemed oddly friendly at the same time, and didn’t hurt at all. More hands grabbed me, pulling me to my feet and shoving me to the front of the church. The further I got to the front, the brighter my surroundings were. I was pushed up the few steps to the cross, and the light blinded me. Red hot hands gripped my face and forced my eyes to stay open and stare at the cross as it shone. The heat and the light combined felt as though it might kill me, but then the hands let go of my face, and I blinked rapidly. The hands that had grabbed me picked me up a few feet, lifted me over the cross, and dropped me to a stone cold floor. I looked up. I saw pews facing me, as though I was standing at the front of the church. I turned around, and saw a tall cross, nothing like the one I had just seen, and beyond it the front of the church. A bell rang out from the roof, shocking me back to reality. Where was I? What had happened? Was I in the same church? Questions flooded through my head, too fast to comprehend each one individually. I pulled myself up, using the nearest pew for support. When I had my strength back, I walked to the door at the end, and swung it open. I saw a neat little graveyard, nothing like the one in St Swithens, and a road beyond. I walked up to a person sitting on a bench. When they didn’t walk away, I tried talking to them.
‘Hi…erm…excuse me…sir? I seem to be a bit lost… I was in St Swithens… and now… I’m not really sure…’
‘Oh another one, eh? You’re a bit young to be a mother I might say!’
‘Wh…what do you mean, sir?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, you wouldn’t understand, would you? All the people from St Swithens who go into that church come out here.’ He said it like it was the most natural thing possible.
‘So…’ I thought it through. If everyone who went into the church came here then… ‘Do you know someone called Tanith Hargreaves?’ It was a long shot to hope my mother lived here, but I thought I may as well try it.
‘Why yes, I do. She lives just down that street there,’ he pointed over to the left.
‘Thank you. And is St Swithens anywhere near here then?’
‘Yes of course. You see that hill behind the church that the light reflects of? That’s the glass surrounding the village.’
‘Oh, thank you. You’ve been very helpful,’ I turned to walked towards the hill.
‘It’s alright dear. Welcome to the real world.’
The hill to the glass wall was long, and I was glad my food had come through from St Swithens with me. I reached to touch the glass and followed it round to what I guessed was the east. I saw the stile, and a little girl sitting beyond it. The little girl was me, what I had looked like when I was planting the trees for my den, years ago. The girl waved at me, and although I felt cruel, I couldn’t physically lift me arm to wave back. There was…a bad feeling coming from her. She turned and walked off crying then, and I wanted to shout and tell her it was going to be alright, that if she stuck it out, it would be okay in the end, but I couldn’t. I remembered being that little girl, with the older girl on the other side who wouldn’t talk to me. I went back every day, hoping I would see her again…but I had never realized she was…me. I turned and walked down the hill, on the other side of the glass, in the world of black dust and automated life, in a world I belonged in. In a world I had a family. In a world I was home
