Behind The Door
“Thank you,” I smile at the elderly woman behind the large wooden desk of the museum.
“Enjoy,” She responds, her creaky voice sounding out of use. And it probably is, the museum is a small one, an ancient-looking house tucked away in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. The victorian style build, finished with faded blue paint and white trim, sported a wild, overgrown garden, wildflowers dotting the yard, and ivy climbing up the side of the house. With nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon, I headed to the park, a book in my bag, to take advantage of the midsummer sun. As a newcomer to the neighborhood, I had yet to discover its ins and outs but had run across the quaint building with a sign reading “Piper’s Museum” stuck in front by the sidewalk. Intrigued, I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and walked up to the graceful building. Upon entering, I spotted the tiny, white-haired woman sitting at the front desk. After buying a ticket and leaving my bag by the door, I am ready to explore the rest of the old house. To the right, I see an old sitting room, furniture upholstered with pink flowers printed on white, wallpaper matching. Smiling softly, I continue down the hall. To the left, I spot a dining room and turn to enter. The beautiful, dark-stained wood table, accompanied by several chairs the same color as the table, was roped off. I read a bit of the history from a plaque nearby, but nothing really sinks in. Inspecting the room further, I see a clear indication of the time period based on not only the furniture but the decorations around the room as well. Ornate frames accent dark paintings of severe-looking men and made-up women. A gold candelabra gleams on the mantle of a large fireplace across from the table. The table itself sported a plastic imitation feast, from a large roast goose in the middle to half-filled wine goblets at each place setting. The red and gold carpet muffles the sound of my boots, but I find myself walking quietly nonetheless. The silence adds a dream-like quality to my adventure. Moving on, I enter a hallway leading to the next room. The hallway is dark but the next place is well-lit, giving the appearance of light at the end of a dark tunnel. Smiling to myself at the thought, I exit the hall. What I see stops me in amazement. Instead of the expected style that had been present throughout the house, the room was what appeared to be the bedroom of two young boys. The structure of the room was decidedly Victorian in style, but the furnishings were anything but. Two bunk beds covered in multicolored train prints backed by blue flanked the window in the far wall like sentinels guard palace gates. Clothes and toys litter the floor, and I almost trip over a toy car as I make my way further into the strange place. Looking around the room in bewilderment, I turn a full circle, taking in as many details as possible. Across the room, I spot a cracked door, golden light shining through, pooling liquid gold on the dark hardwood floor. The moment my eyes light on the door, I feel a pull. Not physical, not even mental, something reaches from it and plunges a hand deep into my chest, latching on to my spirit and yanking my conscience ever closer. The door is simple, made from a dark-stained wood with a curved top and very little design bordering a typical round nob of dull burnished silver. I cross hesitantly to the door despite the tugging on my soul, taking a last look at the room behind me, and pulling the door open wider. The golden light recedes as I open the door wider, revealing a sloping stone passage, curving down to the left, typical of a more medieval-style staircase. In the case of a castle keep formed in such a way, a right-handed warrior would be able to expose less of himself to a potential attacker, only showing his sword arm whereas a right-handed attacker would have to expose their entire body to mount the staircase spiraling to the right. Slipping through the opening, I softly shut the surprisingly heavy oak door behind me, clutching my book to my chest. The passageway darkens further, only illuminated by torches burning every ten feet or so along the way. Trailing my left hand along the slightly damp stone, I make my way down, never looking back. My dress snags on something and I turn back to tug the dark green material free, shifting my bag behind me from where it had crept to my hip. I inspect my dress for a moment to ensure it remains undamaged, momentarily forgetting the tug on my soul. Making its presence felt once more, the tugging beckons me on. Resolutely, I secure my bag on my shoulder and tuck a wayward strand of long, curly, brown hair behind my left ear. The tunnel begins to lighten, though the torches become less frequently placed along the wall. I round the final turn as the passageway levels out. Perhaps twenty feet ahead of me appears the end of the passageway and the golden light is back. But now, as I squint against the sudden glaring brightness, I recognize it as golden sunlight. I stopped when I rounded the corner and now started again, more cautiously, stepping softly, though the pull on my spirit was stronger than ever. Determined to explore this new place, I creep to the opening and peer out, back pressed against the right wall. My mouth falls open and my brain is a whirlwind of confusion as I take in the scene before me. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, as though my dreams have combined with a fairytale story and suddenly come to life. The bustling sounds of laughter, shouting, and talking float to my ears on the warm summer breeze coming from what appears to be a market square. The wooden stalls and carts are constructed in the middle of a clearing in the most gorgeous forest I’ve ever seen. Tall, solemn trees ring the clearing in irregular patterns, interspersed with ferns and low bushes on a carpet of emerald grass. The chirping of birds now becomes evident as I regain a hold of myself and close my mouth with a slight clop. I step onto the path in front of me, paved with large, flat stones a few inches apart. Curling both hands around the book now resting in front of my stomach, I step carefully closer to the clearing. The people in the market are dressed in clothing from the Renaissance era and the market square is the most medieval-looking place I have ever had the fortune to encounter. I see children running around in a mostly clear area, weaving brightly colored ribbons into ornate patterns on a pole. Each child holds a ribbon and is running around the pole, ducking under others’ ribbons, or holding up their own for other children to pass underneath. Nearby, a band is playing a lively tune, a young man with messy brown hair singing sweetly alongside a girl slightly older than him with flowing blonde hair. The band includes a white-haired man playing the lute, a middle-aged man who looked like the singer boy’s father beating drums, and a young girl who looked to be about fifteen playing the flute and dancing, her black tresses writhing wildly around her head like snakes. Turning my gaze to the market stands closest to me, I spotted an older woman haggling with a man over the price of what appeared to be a large trout, a baker bending down to present a blushing boy with a loaf of bread as his laughing mother counted out the money. The closest stand to me held beautifully crafted garments, from capes and cloaks to skirts and trousers. Intrigued, I stepped forward, reaching out to brush the smooth fabric of a skirt with my right hand. I was still listening to the sounds of the crowd around me, the woman who wanted the fish was insisting “Seven shillings is ridiculous this fish weighs no more than thirty-two ounces,” and the smiling baker was asking the boy “Helping your mam with the shopping eh? What a little gentleman,” as the seamstress approached me.
“Hello,” I smile at the elderly seamstress who grins back with half the normal amount of teeth.
“Hello, lass, looking for anything particular?” She asks, eager to help. I consider the question for a second, since it’s not winter I won’t need anything like a heavy cloak for months yet though it may be cooler at night, but the warm air is inviting for a skirt.
“I’d love to find a skirt to pair with a white blouse,” I answer after a moment. I see her eyes light up and she turns to the cart at the back of the displayed clothes. Tutting to herself, she begins to riffle through a pile of clothes and many bright colors flash by like parrots as she tosses garments to the side.
“Aha!” The woman says triumphantly, “This will look perfect on you,” she holds out a white layered skirt. As I take it, I not the silver thread that is cleverly woven into the waistband, giving the skirt a sheen when the light hits it. Despite the many layers, I can feel that the skirt is light and breathable. I look more closely at the pattern sewn onto the fabric with impossibly tiny stitches as though by a mouse. Dark green vines snake their way around the folds of fabric, accompanied by brightly colored butterflies that almost appear to flap their wings as though ready to detach themselves from the skirt and fly away. The seamstress snatches my book from my hand, setting it to the side and motioning for me to hold the skirt to my waist. I oblige, looking down and swaying my hips slightly, watching the fabric move.
“Oh look at you,” the old woman says breathlessly, “you are a vision,”
“You are so sweet,” I reply, still fascinated by the way the skirt shimmers and shines. The woman seems to remember something and hurries back to the cart. I look up as she returns, a dark green cowl over her arm. She drapes it over my shoulders and ties the hood under my chin. The light cloak, perfect for chilly summer nights, hangs to my waist and matches the color of the vines perfectly. The light hood can be pulled up to cover my hair in the event of rain or a more pressing cold. I stand still for a moment, marveling at the clothes, the way I seem to fit right in here, though I still don’t totally understand where I am or how I got here. I see the woman beaming at me out of the corner of my eye and turn to smile back. Then realization hits and my face falls.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money. I apologize for wasting your time,” I drop my hands sadly, reaching up to undo the neat bow of the cape. When I offer the clothes back to the woman, however, she shakes her head, still smiling, and pushes them back at me, placing my book on top.
“Consider them a gift,” her eyes crinkle with her smile. Shocked, I shake my head.
“I can’t accept this, they must go for a small fortune to a wealthy woman,” I reason. The seamstress simply winks and walks away. Smiling faintly, I carefully fold and stow the clothes in my bag, once more cradling my book against my stomach as I make my way farther into the market, heading towards the music.
