The Wood Room

Years ago, when your great grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother was a little girl, and when

your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was a little boy, and the President’s assassination was just a few years past, there lived a little girl and a little boy in the country, rather near to the coast. In that country the sun smiled on the tall grass that rippled in the breeze, and in the summer smelled of hay and blackberries. The little girl grew up in her colorful dresses and frocks made by her aunt with whom she lived. The little boy grew up with his learned, but modest, father and mother, dreaming about travelling to faraway lands to fight dragons and evil kings.

Never knowing her mother or father, the little girl depended on her aunt for almost everything, and her aunt provided the girl the love and care needed. The boy too, was a source of solemn childish friendship for the girl. Every morning the little girl ran over to the little picket fence separating their houses to call the little boy to play after chore-time. Usually, the boy’s father swung open the rickety green wooden door, nod to the girl with a smile (which she returned, not without a childish blush), and called back into the house, “Alex, Laurel’s here to see you!” Laurel, for that was the little girl’s name, then jumped excitedly, and straightened her little skirts in remembrance of her aunt’s teachings. Alex came running down the stairs (or sometimes, if they had something especially fun planned, he slid down the banister to save time), ran straight through the door which his father was holding open for him, and shouted back, “Laurel! Laurel! Let’s go to the pond!” or “Today we must go looking for the dryads!” Both George Alexander Astley and Laurel Margret Murdock had a tendency to search for the things they read about in books. Together they hunted down the infamous Jack Smooter, the dangerous and cunning bank robber, who always found some crafty way of hiding his diamonds, sapphires, and hundreds of pounds of gold. Or another time they would chase the little streams, following wood-elves and water nymphs, and listening for the Music of the Past. Sometimes Alex brought wooden swords his father had carved and they’d have duels.

But of all their haunts, the old brick mansion was their favorite.

The old brick mansion was actually a place called the Ash Manor, owned by an old man who had no near relatives or close friends, save the housemaid, the butler, and his dog Alcott (a large aristocratic border-collie). It lay not a mile from Alex and Laurel’s houses, which were around three miles from town. Alex was the one who had spied Ash Manor first, and he had begged Laurel to go with him. Laurel had consented to go because from a distance the ash giants in the lawn and climbing rose bushes against the brick walls had looked so romantic. They befriended the old man, Mr. Byron. At first Laurel was scared of him, and didn’t want to occupy the same room as the kindly gentleman. But after a while she began to trust him, and he gladly welcomed his young company every time they trudged over. Inside Ash Manor stood stately high walls, long halls, and magnificent paintings and statues. There was practically a room for everything, including music (in which there was a multitude of instruments, varying between harps and flutes, violins and cellos, and pianos and clarinets. On the walls were framed concertos and symphonies.), an art gallery and studio (which held some original masterpieces of the early French Impressionists), and a wondrous library with shelves full of all the kinds of books the children loved. But there was one room in which they had special interest. It was referred to plainly by the housemaid and butler as the ‘Wood Room.’ But to Alex and Laurel, the Wood Room was the most wonderful room of all. Dark Italian wood panels carved with flowers and Grecian designs served as walls, the floor was a dark rich cherry colour, and on the wall opposite the door stood two resolute windows, providing a view for the orchard below with a quaint table beneath its sill. On the walls next to the windows sat two ornately carved curio cabinets, displaying delicately painted blue china. On the ceiling, carved vines crawled up parallel pillars, and between them hovered a dove, cleaving to an arrow and a scroll. Under it was written, “Vita sine litteris mors est.” The room itself held a mysterious air; as though it had seen many souls walk through its doors and heard many a lonely cry in the night. It was this place where Alex and Laurel began to spend the bulk of their time imagining things and fantasizing about the future together. Though both were naturally guarded towards others, and had to later learn to not always elude the display of their character (this was especially difficult for Alex), they confided all their hopes and dreams with each other. And though they differed greatly in heart and mind, there remained hardly a question unanswered between these two kindred spirits. Whenever they found themselves in a disagreement about something, they always managed to overcome it (even though it could be quite painful for one of them at times). Old Mr. Byron was often in their company at Ash Manor, and the children learned to converse with him too, in a way that most others found difficult.

Many a long winter night was spent outside wrapped up in quilts and over-large coats gazing at the stars, and many a summer night was spent depicting ghost stories and other legends they came up with. Mr. Astley, Alex’s father, played or romped with them on occasion, volunteering to play the villain. An accent was added, an eyepatch put on, and with a loud “AAAAARGH!” he chased the laughing children through the fields of long grass and wildflowers until he seized Laurel in his arms, tickling her so she laughed delightful notes. That’s when Alex jumped onto his father’s back from his covert and shouted fiercely, “No! No! Let her go!” And then all of them laughed and giggled until they couldn’t take it anymore, falling onto the ground.

On those days, when Alex and Mr. Astley got home and into the kitchen where Mrs. Astley was usually concocting some sort of delicious treat, Alex related to her excitedly, “Mother guess what I did! I saved Princess Laurel from the evil pirate!” “Aye, you did have some grit,” Mr. Astley responded. And triumphantly Alex would march up to his room to find a book about pirates while his mother whispered to her husband scornfully, “I wish you wouldn’t encourage them like you always do. Remember who her parents were? What if they...fall in love? How can we prevent that? And with all the people in town, word can get out quick and--” Mr. Astley would calmly interrupt, “Rose. Her parents were not entirely accountable for what happened. And even if they were, she never knew them, and Anna is a good, respectable mother-figure who teaches her about all the etiquette you could hope to find in a young woman, she teaches her about our Heavenly Father, and how to think with a level head. Remember when we all came here together to settle, Anna was going away from their past. And if…” He paused for a second. “If they do fall in love, I believe it will come to a good end. Besides,” Mr. Astley would smile, “She’s already like the daughter I never had.” “Daughter or not, her parents disgraced themselves.” Years came and went, and Alex and Laurel shot up like the sunflowers they planted along the picket fence. Alex was a tall young man with ambitious dreams and strong ideals, while Laurel was a handsome, accomplished young woman who dreamed on all the same as she had when she was younger. Both were bright, and often identified ways to incorporate their fantasies with school, consequently making most of the other students unable to wholly understand them. But if you were to ask their classmates, they were perfectly good companions in everything else. Laurel was invited to the other girls’ houses for tea and discussions about poetry and the new trends. Alex was often selected out of the other boys by the wealthier ones to embark on small sojourns to nearby towns. One friend of his (who happened to be the mayor’s son) invited him frequently to town meetings. This was of the utmost joy to

Mrs. Astley, who relished the picture of her son as a politician, and who still snubbed Laurel a bit, though Laurel was completely clueless on why in the world she regarded her thus. But the mirthful fellowship of the others never took the place of the relationship between the two dreamers.

Alex got to know Anna, Laurel’s aunt, and Laurel got to have some good conversations with Mr.

Astley. Every time after Alex left Anna and Laurel for his house after a lunch they had spent together,

Anna looked at Laurel, whose eyes were still sparkling after Alex, and she asked if there was anything

‘more’ between them. And every time Laurel blushed and answered, “No, auntie. We’re just friends.

Good friends. And even if there was something more, Alex still wants to go to college and see the world. And I want to travel also, independently to figure things out. To help people who really need it, perhaps through writing.” But one time after they had dined with the Astleys in their house and Anna and Laurel had gone, Anna noticed that a certain light had gone out of Laurel’s eyes. That night they had talked about the future. Mrs. Astley had not been nearly as pleasant as Mr. Astley had; she had bluntly stated that she wanted nothing less for Alex than to marry someone of pure heritage, someone who understood the important things in life like class, and someone who did not share in idle fancies and uncivilized manners (such as running in the meadow with her hair blowing as a savage) like Laurel. It was that moment Anna had noticed Alex’s eyes wander over to Laurel, who had lowered her eyes already and dismissed the idea of her and Alex being together. Mr. Astley, through all this, had tried desperately to lighten the mood, and halfway succeeded, until Laurel had asked for a moment with him alone. Upon the close of her private conversation with Mr. Astley, whom she trusted nearly more than her aunt or even Alex, Laurel had politely requested leave to go home so she could take some medicine for a, ‘frightful headache.’ Anna, seeing the state Laurel was in, had requested permission to leave too, to accompany Laurel and help her in any way she might need.

Upon entering the house and lighting a candle, Anna asked Laurel as gently as she could, “Laurel, dear, how long since you and Alex have gone to Ash Manor?” Laurel kept her eyes on the ground and answered in a strained voice, “About...a fortnight.” She silently stepped a few feet away from her aunt.

Anna hummed and nodded, looking around the room before asking, “You can tell me anything you need to get out, Laurel.” Laurel looked up through tears that threatened to fall at a moment’s notice and replied, seating herself on a cushion while Anna remained standing expectantly, “Aunt Anna, I know it’s selfish of me to want everything that I want, and to think that I deserve anything I must be blinded by pride, oh

Aunt Anna! But what have I done to deserve Mrs. Astley’s disapproval? And I, I love Alex! Oh, maybe not in that way, but I know at least like a brother, or maybe something else, and Mr. Astley is like my father, and he let me confide in him. I just… I just want to be able to—to feel what I do without having to worry about what Mrs. Astley or anyone else thinks. Auntie, what can I do?” There was a note of desperation in her voice as she raised her head to look at the shadows the candle made on the wall. “I want everything to be perfect and peaceful. I want my happily ever after. But I have no control over this and I feel as though I’ve lost a battle I didn’t even know I was fighting.” Anna looked at her as she silently prayed, “Lord Jesus, give me wisdom to answer her.” Then she sighed and spoke softly, “I know it may be hard hard to hear this, but,” Anna took Laurel’s hand and looked at her a moment. “But you need to go. You need to see things and experience them. You need to follow your dreams outside of this place. The world is growing up around you and you wish it wouldn’t, that it would stay the same. But dear, you can’t. God has it this way for a reason. If the things around us didn’t change then neither would we. We wouldn’t learn to trust in him the way we need to find his peace. I know you,” Anna’s voice broke and her listener turned her head to her to show she was listening. In all Laurel’s life, she had never seen her aunt cry. Never, until now had she even truly listened or appreciated her for just being her. Anna had stayed with her when she was left as an infant. Anna had taught her almost everything she knew. She had taught her how to be strong. Now she was teaching her to be wise, and she, Laurel, had to leave.

Anna continued. “Your mother was like this. When she felt, she would feel strongly. She had to

go places to find herself. She was my best friend, but Laurel, she didn’t listen to the voice of God. She

thought she had to go through this by herself so she sought love and comfort in the wrong places. Before you go, I must tell you about your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Astley know this, and perhaps it is why she is so intent on affronting you.” Anna repositioned herself in preparation for the story. “Years ago when your mother was young, she searched for love too early. She flirted and flaunted with many young men until she met one who paid her the most special attention, and thought it was destiny. She did not wait to see that really he was a greedy, peevish weakling and a coward who hid his disgrace from the world. So she followed him into his trap, and when she found out she was pregnant, she knew she had to get married to cover it up. Then when she had you, she knew her disgrace was too much to tell you about, too much of a burden you shouldn’t have to carry. So she gave you to me, and asked me to take care of you. I told her I would, and from that day on, you were mine. A few months later, they were killed in a carriage accident. I expect that to be Mrs. Astley’s reasoning: that you are like your mother in that way.” Her voice suddenly became stern. “Laurel, you need to follow your dreams and chase your elves and fairies, writing about new worlds and new adventures. But you cannot find fulfilment in anything or anyone other than your Heavenly Father. His ways are higher than our ways, and his thoughts are higher than our thoughts.

Remember Him. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your path straight.’” Laurel picked up her skirts and ran to

Anna, embracing her. “I won’t forget, Auntie. And I’ll miss you ever so much. I promise,” she affirmed through tears. “I know, dear. I know. But,” Anna said softly, “No matter what, I love you, and so does Alex if he’s any good. And I daresay he is,” she finished with a smile. Laurel leaned back into Anna’s arms and Anna held her and sang to Laurel like she did when she was little and couldn’t sleep.

Down in the valley, the valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Hear the wind blow, love

Hear the wind blow

Down in the valley, the valley so low

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“Mother, how could you? You affronted Laurel grossly tonight! Sweet Laurel who has never done a thing to you in her life!” Alex was infuriated (and albeit, ashamed) with his mother’s behavior. That was the first time she had raised his ideas in this manner. “Alexander! Whatever do you mean? I laid out my standards just the way they are.” Alex turned to face her, slightly raising his voice. Her expression was calm, but cold. “Whose standards?! Mine, or yours?! And even if I did agree with you I would be ashamed of how you so delicately put it tonight. Have you no respect? For aught I know she could leave just because of how you have treated her. And her only living relative is her aunt. Who else does she have to go to? At least Father tried to actually help her. I just,” Alex lowered his voice and stopped pacing. “I wish I could feel what I feel, without pressure from the other boys here, and I want to be able to think of my own ideas and opinions, especially concerning who I will marry. And when you try to stick your nose into my life like it’s yours, and you start controlling it, insulting the people I love, the only thing it shows me is how much bitterness is in your heart. If you can’t learn that holding onto those things will only send people away, then you already have no one standing with you. ”

As Mrs. Astley studied her son, she perceived there to be a white flame in his eye; something of a youthful passion that could not be contained. A part of her wished she wasn’t so cruel, so selfish and unwilling to let anyone enter into her heart but her husband and son. And when her son’s words fell upon her ears, colored with anger and tinted with sarcasm, it felt as though a dagger was piercing her pride. She staggered backward and sat on the couch, leaning forward, surrounded by her guilt. “Will you at least agree that I am your mother, whether you will it or not, and I have the right to say whether I approve of your choice or not?” Alex peered down at her and scornfully responded before walking out of the room,

“I do not know if I can agree with you on anything now. I don’t know you.”

Then walking up the stairs, Alex pleaded to his father with tears in his eyes, “Tell her that I’m sorry for speaking so rashly. And tell her goodbye for me; I’m leaving in the morning for England on the

6:45 train. I’ve been accepted into Oxford. I’ll send telegrams and letters every so often. I wanted to discuss it with you two tonight, maybe with Laurel and Anna, but now I think the best decision is just to leave.” Alex paused and looked down. His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I understand. Remember that we both love you, and so does the Lord. Christus superat in omniae acies. Christ overcomes in all things. Don’t forget that.” Alex looked up and nodded. “Take care of them, please.”

“I will. I promise. Goodbye, Alexander. And Son… Laurel would never leave you because of something your mother did.”

“Thank you, Father. Goodbye.”

Mr. Astley reached for an embrace with his son, whom he knew he was not to see for a few years

at least. When they let go, Alex sighed and trudged steadily up the stairs.

The next morning brought the trains on which both Alex and Laurel were to embark. Alex was to ride his up to Boston, and from there board a ship to England. Laurel was to travel higher North to Canada and unearth some inspiration to write. Aunt Anna was hurrying and bustling around the house faster than Laurel, determined she would not miss the train to Halifax. “Auntie it’s alright, you don’t need to trouble yourself so. I’ve got all my bags—” “But you haven’t got any breakfast, and I refuse to allow you to go to some other country without any food, or with the temptation to use up all your money for

it.”

Laurel chuckled lightly as she looked out the window to the early summer sun. She was aiming to board the 8:00 train to Halifax. The only thing was… it was 5:55. “Auntie you know the train doesn’t leave for another two hours, right?” Aunt Anna said with a lilt to her voice, “Of course, of course. But never can you be too prepared. Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Laurel lifted a finger to say something, but decided against it. Again she looked out the window and onto the fields of long grass, tinted gold in the morning light. She walked over to the door, and gently with memory, grasped the handle and slipped out onto the porch. She stared out beyond the fields, towards Ash Manor.

“Laurel!” She heard a familiar voice call her. Glancing over to his yard, Laurel beheld Alex and his father loading a buggy with luggage. Alex started jogging toward the picket fence. “Laurel, I’m sorry for what happened last night.” Laurel met him at the fence, shaking her head. “No, I realized something then that would have taken me much longer to find out otherwise. And with that realization I also discovered that I can’t stay here. I need to go out, and find my own path. I’m going to Prince Edward Island to write.” At that moment Laurel couldn’t understand Alex’s expression. “What is it? Why is your father packing all those bags into the buggy?” She read Alex’s eyes and understood. “You’re leaving too.” He nodded and took her hands in his, slowly speaking, “Laurel, dear, you have been my closest friend for many years, and you know me better than my own mother does.” He looked down, and she squeezed his hand. “I want to say that your friendship has meant more to me than I can ever say, and I truly, sincerely hope we meet again. And maybe, when we meet, we can resume what we have now.

There will never be a day I won’t think of you, and I don’t ever want to leave our memories behind. Laurel, this might sound off to you, and I apologize if it does, but I think I love you. Maybe not romantically, but I believe there are more kinds of love than just eros and agape.” He feigned a cough and added, “As they say in the books.” Laurel laughed and looked to the sun once more. “Yes. Did you know

I came to that conclusion last night? Well, you’re right, and what you just said was beautiful. I don’t know if I can match it. Though it is quite possible that someday hence we will find ourselves thinking differently. But in dreams, I’ll wait for you to meet me. Then we can run through the fields and woods, on the beach kicking sand behind us. We can go back to the Wood Room where we can tell stories and get caught up with each other’s life. Oh Alex! Someday we will meet there, under one of the giants, and we’ll walk side by side, greeting Mr. Byron and old Alcott.” They smiled and gazed up into the dawn, dreaming together for the last time, about what was to come.

“Alex! You’re going to miss your train. Hurry up! We can’t stay and watch the grass grow.” Alex nodded to Laurel and climbed into the buggy. Mr. Astley waved goodbye, and Laurel waved her hand up high until they disappeared around the bend, whispering, “Goodbye, Alex. And may we meet again.”

Then she headed inside to pack some last-minute items that were necessitated (aka, two volumes of

Homer and a large notepad accompanied by her writing pen).

At length when the train was about to leave and Anna and Laurel had arrived at the station, and given all her bags to the attendant, Anna gifted Laurel with a few last parting words along with embraces and some tears. So Laurel and Alex were both on separate journeys (quite literally), and off on their new roads in life.

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The first year of college went well for Alex. He thrived in the constant flow of new ideas and ways of thinking. Most of the special Societies and Clubs preferred him above others for his quick thinking, popularity, and discipline. He was a favorite of many of the teachers for his creativity and wit, and worked hard to earn high marks. A certain Latin professor expressed interest in him, and their relationship blossomed into a new friendship, in which Alex learned much (including that his father had had the same professor as he.). During the holidays, he worked as an intern in a business company so he could have enough money to keep paying for school, and later, his own estate. He was naturally adept at making friends, so the crowd usually hung around him. But after a while, the absence of his family and Laurel began to weigh down on him. With his studies and social groups, however, he seldom was able to write to his parents, let alone Laurel. And while he was away from home, he realized how much he missed it. It wasn’t perfect, but in reality this ‘new land’ he had gone to explore wasn’t much of a fairy tale. However he decided for the time being that it was probably best that they stay apart for a while; as much as he missed her, he knew he was still young and adolescent. He wanted to make sure he still thought on both sides of everything.

Yet night after night, he remembered what she had said about meeting in dreams. He didn’t know how much of that she had meant, but it seemed that night after night he did dream of her. Of them. Of the room where they conspired. Every night he found himself going back to his childhood, and every morning he seemed the wiser for it. He dreamt of the time when he and Laurel pretended to be married, and he had made a flower ring for her. Another time he dreamt of when he had found a snake and scared her with it so many times that she began to like it, and named it Reginald. He recalled the time when she was only seven and he was only nine, and they had sworn to each other that they would be together always, no matter what. It was an oath of solemn friendship.

Laurel was becoming a well-known author among the people on Prince Edward Island. She drew inspiration from the red roads and breathtaking coasts. The sea grass that rippled in the wind, and the lightning illuminating the sky were used in her stories. She wrote about people, mostly. About the different trials they experienced, about the bends in the roads; when you can’t see where you’re going but you trust that God does, though she did find herself struggling with fully trusting God every day. But she found that when she did not surrender to Him, for that day at least, she would come off as cold-hearted, which always left her bitter. Laurel assembled with other authors and was invited into some femaleauthor circles and discussions. She stayed in Kingston with a farming family, and got to know them well.

She was as a governess to a bub and sis: James, the ten-year-old boy, and Heather, the five-year-old girl.

Mr. and Mrs. Dastan were the parenting party. Laurel assumed the responsible role of an older sister to James and Heather, portraying to them the old stories she and Alex had read and composed. She narrated mysterious tales of an old, huge mansion with ash trees and an old wooden room brimming with secrets. She clowned with them and pretended with them, remembering her past, but trying to not let it get too close. She would write to her aunt and Mr. Astley, along with some other friends from school. But for the most part, she restricted her thoughts to what was happening then, and not what had happened. She had always dreamed, but since she had left her home and the room behind, her dreams seemed to grow more vivid and more real. They called her back to a time when she was young, when she wasn’t known by many people, and when she was content. Recently Laurel seemed to desire more than she had. Often she asked herself what she was lacking, and she asked God too, but every time she let herself remember, the emptiness consumed her.

Years came and went, six years, to be exact. Neither visited during the holidays, and the faint letter exchanging slowly died. Alex involuntarily became the main interest of several young ladies who attended Oxford’s sister school for girls. One of them, Anne Lisbeth, followed him around during the common breaks (a regular vexation), giving off airs and flaunting her scarves and pearls. Some of the rather gossipy girls pronounced them ‘an item.’ One evening after his studies, Alex felt exhausted and overwhelmed with work, as well as all the political trash he was hearing about. After a bit of contemplating, he figured going outside, maybe to the community garden would help more than sitting inside for the remaining hours of daylight like a caged animal. So he let his mind drift as he wandered along the streets of London until he found the garden. This is where he had a tendency to find himself when he had nowhere else. The small herb sprouts brought to mind the herb pots his mother used for cooking, and the rich air summoned back to his memory a time when Laurel had led him to the garden at Ash Manor, and Mr. Byron had stood there laughing with them while they fell in the mud and had begun a mud-battle.

Alex smiled to himself sadly, and thought, “It was beautiful then, when we lived in our own world. Before we met Age and he took us away from it.” He sighed. He longed to go back, especially now since college was becoming increasingly stressful and many of his classmates were either brooding alone over hard studies, or had abandoned the endeavor entirely. The jovial clubs that remained had turned shallow and it was difficult to find someone to just be himself with. Even his Latin professor grew more cross with each coming day. This line of thought brought him back once more to his past. As he thought more of his house, Ash Manor, his father, mother, and Laurel, he felt tears come to his eyes. “I’ll go back. When the year ends.” He whispered quietly to himself. “Only another month. Then the sunflowers will be high, the ash trees speckled with the red berries, and the long grass will wave in greeting to whoever passes by.”

“Alex...! Whatever are you doing here?” Alex was jolted out of the sentimental moment by a high, teasing voice. Anne Lisbeth stood there, a ridiculously bright orange bonnet sitting atop her head, and shading her painted white face. “You love the flowers, I know. So do I! Though I do think these chrysanthemums are a little high, and that shrub is so dark and drab, why would they even consider having it in a greenhouse?”

“Lis, those are hydrangeas, and that ‘shrub’ is called laurel. It’s used for cooking as an herb in the

Mediterranean.” Anne chattered on. “Laurel… sounds like a weed to me. Like the stinky king Charlie.

Not very pretty I should say. A rather dull character if you ask me.”

“She is not!” Alex snapped. Anne Lisbeth took no offense, however, and continued to insult the laurel and parade about the garden while Alex was away in his mind with Laurel. “I don’t believe it has any good properties about it at all. Compare it to the other herbs. It does not appeal to the eye, and certainly does not fit in. Its plain leaves do not accommodate the royal name, and to have it sitting as a crown of the

Caesars! Well, let’s just say that to have a vicious honor like that is no honor at all. Rather barbaric, I do believe. But see here, that shade of green would look rather nice on a woman. Oh Alexándrè! Do you think it would look well on me?” Alex mumbled quite irritably, “It looks as good as any other color.” The flirt babbled on. “I do believe it is evergreen! Why so suddenly cross? But those plants never amount to much, I daresay. You’d get so tired of looking at it, season after season. Withstanding everything the world throws at it, laurel sounds rather poetic, but again it is not much in my eye. Say, did you hear about Sierra Deadlock? Apparently her father has just thousands of pounds, but he owes millions.” she added with a chuckle. “I do not think I could bear to live with someone that much in debt! Especially since the price for pearls has gone up--I do so relish pearls. They say, you know, that if you push coal enough it turns into pearls! Or was it diamonds? But there is a fine business to go into. But as it turns out, with a name like Deadlock you cannot expect much. Not from that breed.”

Alex had had enough. He wanted to go home, to be himself. (Isn’t that why he left in the first place?) He knew now after the years spent at college and in the world that the only one whom he could be truly himself around was Laurel. So he made up his mind, then and there, to leave on the next train— within reason. But first of course, he could not just leave the blabbing woman, so he answered her promptly and irately, “Gatsby, woman! Will you never stop? All you say is balderdash and tattle! I apologize for my unorthodox behavior, and you must excuse me, but I am saying goodbye now— and forever! So farewell, lady. I shall happily never see you or your pearls and bonnets again. May you find a sickly, cantankerous man who is as vain as you, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. Live long and prosper!”

With that, Alex left the gardens and walked swiftly to his dorm and packed, and was soon on the train to the ship that would bear him to his home country.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Alex stared out across the green fields. The air smelled of sweet hay and rain; the smell of spring. Two houses stood side by side with a picket fence separating them, one white, the other green. Slender green stalks with wide shady leaves branching out grew yards high along the fence, leaning on tall, sturdy posts. The warm sun was sinking below distant hills. Alex walked further on, heaving his luggage over his shoulder and dragging some behind him. This is what he called a ‘warm evening,’ when everything seemed to glow as it reflected the light from the radiant canvas above. He stepped up to the green house with a wooden door, worn with use, and knocked. The door was promptly opened by a woman who looked to be of fifty or so years. Her face was etched with sadness and regret, but softened by steady years of happiness, peace, and contentment. She opened her lips to say something, but before anything else could have happened Alex enveloped her in a hug. It was a sweet reunion for them, and a voice from above called, “Rose, who is it?” A man descended on the stairs nearby and ran to the people standing in the doorway. His wizened eyes gazed at his son in love. Alex looked up and whispered, “Father…” And the three embraced each other in forgiveness and tenderness, making up for the years they had lost, for the filial affection which held him to his family was an unconditional one that would go to the ends of the earth though all the fires and perils of hell were against it.

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After the reunion with his family, Alex solemnly walked to Ash Manor. As he passed through the gate, he envisioned Laurel, and could almost hear her voice. But when he had knocked on the door, been admitted and announced, he found himself faced with a dismal truth, and he realized that wishing for the past would never do; if he dwelt so much on it he would never learn to be content. He pleaded out to

Heaven, “Father, you hear my cry; teach me to be satisfied with the path you have laid before my feet.”

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“Have you seen Mr. Byron yet? How is he?” Mrs. Astley asked Alex the following morning. Alex looked down. “I did, but…” he paused. “He’s… he’s passed, Mother. I didn’t know it when I came, but Estelle told me he fell down ill yesterday, and today he wished to see me before…before he finished his journey.”

“Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that, Son.” said Mr. Astley, putting down his mug of tea. “He was a good man, and we owe much to him.”

During Alex and Laurel’s absence, Mr. Byron, Mr. and Mrs. Astley, and Aunt Anna had become friends, slowly, but surely, and had often searched for companionship in one another on the lonelier days.

“Mother and Father, he gave me Ash Manor. Before he left. It’s mine--all of it.”

“What about Estelle and old Victor?”

“They will be employed under me. I will be moving in within the week. You are most welcome to come with me if you wish.” Mr. and Mrs. Astley glanced at each other, and Mr. Astley responded, “No, Alex, I don’t think that’s how our story will go. We are grateful to you for the offer, but this was our home on this earth and always will be until we meet the King.”

“And, you know, we won’t be a mile away from you. It’s alright. We’ll manage. But we trust you and your wife to visit us often, and we will in turn,” Mrs. Astley said with a twinkle in her eye. Alex weakly smiled back, and said quietly,

“You may be sure that I will indeed, but there was only one whom I could have wed, who holds my heart though she does not know it. And I do not believe I shall see her again.” Mrs. Astley looked at him kindly and said tenderly, “I understand, dear, but while you might not trust to hope, do not give up entirely. The

Lord works in miraculous ways, and He sees more than we do.”

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Laurel woke to rain pelting on the window next to her. She had fallen asleep at the window-seat in what Heather and James called ‘the Tower’ (an old lighthouse), writing a book. She looked down at her ink-stained hand, and perused the last paragraph she had written. Quickly she scribbled down the final sentence and slammed her journal shut triumphantly. This story was a love story. It wasn’t very absurd or pathetic, but she saw it as beautiful. It was appropriate for the children, and she had been reading bits and pieces to them. They loved it, and she saw that it called out to the young man in James and the young woman in Heather. She sighed and pushed a loose strand out of her face and sat there, gazing dreamily outside at the rain and the mist, recalling the first lines of her book.

“Once upon a time, there lived a little girl and a little boy in the country, rather near to the coast. In that country the sun smiled on the tall grass that would ripple in the breeze, and in the summer smelled of hay and blackberries. The little girl grew up in her colorful dresses and frocks made by her aunt with whom she lived. Her favorite thing to do was smile and dance and laugh at everyone and everything. The little boy grew up with his father and mother, dreaming about travelling to faraway lands to fight dragons and

evil kings…”

Laurel smiled, but felt that longing ache she had been praying about. She longed to be with Alex, to talk with him, to hear him speak; he was always encouraging and calling her to be better. But a few nights ago, lying restless in her bed, she had quieted her mind and listened to the still small voice inside her that she knew as her Father, and the voice had told her to go back home. To Aunt Anna, to Mr. and Mrs. Astley, Mr. Byron, and to her childhood. She had told Mr. and Mrs. Dastan, and she had told the children. She had told them that she loved them and that she would visit them, and that she would write letters to them and dedicate books in their honor. Heather had cried and clasped her plump arms around Laurel’s neck, and James had been holding in tears, trying so hard to be a man and live up to Laurel’s standards. To compensate, she had stood up, shook James’ hand and told him to always stand up for his sister and to mind his father and mother so she would find him an honorable young man when she visited them.

Laurel wiped away a tear and left her newly finished story for the children to read and for Mr.

Dastan to take them to get it published. (It had been Heather’s last request, and Mr. Dastan volunteered straight away for his daughter.). She quietly slipped on her coat and umbrella, grabbed her bags, and climbed into the carriage a hand had prepared for her. She started off toward the ferry, and then the station at Halifax. At the station, a porter was running around, searching for a certain person in a somewhat desperate manner. “Misses! Misses! Whch of you is Miss Murdock?” He cried, waving an envelope in the air. Laurel turned around and walked quickly to him. “I am,” she answered. “Then, miss, this is for you, miss.” He handed her an envelope. She took it and thanked him, looking down at the paper in her hand. As each raindrop hit the envelope, revealing a little more of the black ink underneath, Laurel felt her heart sink lower and lower, but hid the wet paper in a fold of her coat, and dismissed it from her mind.

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The rain hadn’t lasted long, and Laurel found herself dreaming about being home and seeing all of hers and Alex’s favorite childhood haunts. She thought about the Wood Room, about how that would be the first thing she saw, after, of course, saying hello to Aunt Anna and Mr. Astley...and Mrs. Astley.

On the ferry she looked out onto the water, shimmering with the sun’s golden light, as the endless waves reminded her of the tall grass in the meadow. She took the envelope the porter had given her out of her bag, and carefully ripped along the top of the damp paper. When she unfolded the letter and read it, she gasped. Not wanting to believe the message it carried, she ripped it into shreds and flung the remains into the sea. Laurel hung her head and wept bitterly. It just wasn’t possible!

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It was early in the morning of June 16, 1894, when Laurel found herself carrying all her bags and bundles through the grass with her home in sight. Every step she took carried her closer to home. But she didn’t know if it could ever feel like home again, and a feeling of dread filled her when she seriously considered the letter as truth. Finally when she reached her house, she set all of her things on the white porch and swung open the door. There was no merry welcome, no blissful embraces or happy salutations. The house was void of the scent that came with baking. She found scattered rose petals along the table, dark red and not ten days old, in the kitchen, and up in her aunt’s room. A black lace scarf hung on the mirror there. The house felt empty and lonely, and Laurel felt the chasm open in her chest again. She fell on her knees in despair and sobbed until she was asleep.

When she woke, Laurel dressed in mourning clothes; nothing could better what had happened. She brushed her hair and braided in a faded blue ribbon--something Anna had used in her hair when she was little. She solemnly walked to the Astley’s house, where Mrs. and Mrs. Astley opened the door and embraced her, loving her like a daughter, and both of them making themselves available for her. Laurel knew in that moment that she forgave Mrs. Astley of any wrong she had done her--as Anna would have wanted her to do. They talked a while, no one dwelling on Anna’s death too long for Laurel’s sake, and no one mentioned either Alex or Ash Manor. So a little into the afternoon, Laurel gravely walked along the beaten-down dirt road that led to that splendid place. She gazed at the towering ash giants and admired their strong, lofty branches and ash-colored bark.

She walked up the stone steps to the magnificently carved wooden doors, reached a hand up to the iron knocker, and pounded it. The butler opened the door and welcomed her in, bidding her wait for the master. He did not show any signs of recognition, which dampened Laurel’s spirits slightly, but she figured it was something small, and it was better not to dwell on it. As she took in the wide halls and ornate decor, she felt her feet carry her in a haze of fancy to the Wood Room, her hand gently, lovingly, and sadly gliding along the old carvings, the medieval-style window panes, and the smooth table top.

Laurel took it all in, nearly breathless at all the memories that were coming back to her.

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“Sir, a young lady waits at the door, waiting to see you.” Victor told Alex, who was sitting on the porch, reading. He started, thinking immediately of Laurel. “I’ll see her now. Victor, will you prepare two mugs of coffee?” At that moment Estelle ran in, excitedly saying, “Master, Master! I do believe the young lady is Miss Murdock! She resembles her greatly!” Alex flew out of his seat toward the door, impatient to see her. “Not that way, master,” cried Estelle, waving her arms and smiling. “I saw her start on her way to the Wood Room--where you two would always go together.”

That was it. Alex darted as fast as he could to that room.

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Laurel was taken out of her daydreaming when she heard quickening steps in the hall. She turned to face the door. Without warning Alex practically crashed through the doorway. Laurel froze, not believing what she was seeing. Alex was there, in front of her. In Ash Manor. “Laurel.” he said softly. “Alex… Is this real? Or is it a dream, like so many of the others? Am I in Heaven, where everything is suddenly perfect, with you and, and...” Alex tentatively stepped closer her, and whispered gently back,

“My dear, I think it is. God has brought us together again.” He took her hands in his. “Indeed He has.” Glancing at her black cuffs, he asked, “Laurel, did you hear…?” She looked down. “I did.” Alex held her closer to him. He waited a while before praying, “Laurel?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Are you willing to stay here, with me, every day, forever from this day hence? Will you become my wife? If it be too soon to ask this of you, then please excuse me. But you must allow me to tell you how passionate, earnest, and ardent my love is for you. And I ask this but once: do you love me as I love you?” “Alex...I...Yes!” she whispered. “You have always been in my prayers. There was never a day I didn’t think of you, and how deeply I wished for your uplifting, perfect company. I wrote about love, eros, though I did not know it fully until now when I was with you.” He stood up and with his arms around her, he kissed her. Laurel looked up at him and at that moment only knew the joy that was welling up within her. Everything was sweet bliss, and nothing else. She left her thoughts of grief behind to rejoice in the gift God had given her. Alex looked at his beaming bride-to-be. Her eyes shone like stars, her soul as radiant as the sun. And she was his. He was hers. And they would never be separated again. They would live forever and ever like they imagined when they were children at Ash Manor where he was the prince, and she was the princess. They spent the rest of the afternoon together, talking with each other and catching up on life. But they did it ever so slowly so that it took a very long time; for they now had all the time in the world.

In the backyard of the little green house there stood a small party of two, talking and laughing, conversing about when they were children (as adults do, for childhood is a sacred time in one’s life where everything is as you put it, and you keep those memories with you as little golden treasures for the rest of your life). Then one of them looked up toward the mansion in the distance. Walking toward them through the long grass were the two lovers, the setting sun shining on their glowing faces, as they ambled along, arm in arm, thanking God for the time they have now gained to spend with each other. “They look like us when we were young and in love.” “They do, dear. They do. But are we not still in love?” Mr. Astley took his wife in his arms. “More than ever.” she said, looking up at him. Then together they greeted the young couple, and headed back to their house for a celebration of a wonderful life well lived, and a new holy unity between the little boy now a man, and the little girl grown to a woman.

Epilogue

“You could phrase it like this: He lay there, cold as a wagon tire, dead as a doormat.” “No! Really, Alex, would you say that in front of the children?” Laurel laughed, but she was serious--her children must not be learning that slang. “But Mother, he is dead, ain’t he?” Asked James Alexander Astley, regarding a novel his mother, Laurel Astley, was struggling to write. “Honey, he’s just faking it.

It’s a farse for a play.” “But a falthhoodh ith a thin, wight?” their daughter Anna said. Alex looked at

Laurel and shook his head, smiling. “Dear,” Laurel began, prepared to give her son and daughter a full, Biblical explanation, but gave them a simpler explanation instead out of exasperation. “When we read books, we read about the bad things too, right? And when we recognize that it’s wrong, then we learn from it. And acting is not a sin, no matter what Mrs. Richards says. Because when you see a play, you don’t believe it as literal truth, but you do see the truth behind the story. Does that make sense, dearest?” Laurel looked at James and his younger siblings. Charles who was just a toddler, and Anna, who was the sweetest dear who ever tried to learn in her younger years how not to speak with a lisp... James and Anna stared at her confused at their mother’s short explanation, and Charlie started blowing spit bubbles. Alex laughed and walked over to the chair where Laurel was sitting, resting a hand on her shoulder. Laurel looked up at him and said with a smile, “Maybe they will just learn themselves. My patience is wearing thin.” Alex laughed and said, “My, my, has my lovely author run out of words our children can understand?” “Only around you.” “That’s fair. Sink me! If the damsel hasn’t just stolen my heart away again like a thief,” he said with a wink. “What do you say to a long walk in the garden, watching the stars after they’re in bed so we can read their pleasure-reading novels? Not, of course for our own enjoyment— why would we ever do a thing like that?” James caught onto him. “You want to read it for yourself!” “In the Wood Room?” asked Laurel. Alex nodded. “Odds fish, my dear, if I do not go in there at least twenty times a day with my beloved, I must be labeled as the worst husband to ever live.” James and Anna laughed, and the latter whispered to her brother, “Why ith Daddy talking tho funny?” Laurel laughed at

Alex’s teasing tone and counterfeit aristocracy. “I am in full agreement. Let them get ready for slumber!”

With that, Laurel stood up and clapped her hands in mock authority and spoke to Anna and James,

“James, Anna, you are to dress in your nightclothes and wash your face at once. But,” she leaned down and whispered in their ear as they simultaneously leaned in. “You must make haste; your father is going to tickle you if you do not.” Little James looked up at his father, who having heard Laurel’s message, feigned an evil smile. James quickly hugged his mother and ran squealing with delight to his room, not far off, nearly tripping Estelle as she was bringing the Master and Mistress their evening tea. Anna toddled off, calling after her brother, “Jamth, wait fo Anna!” Laurel picked up Charles, who was pulling on the fur of the exceedingly patient Alcott, and carried him over to his room to get ready for bed. She sang softly, her clear voice ringing through the halls that old lullaby, as the sun slowly sank beyond the orchards and gardens and the summer candle-lighting began. She sang that song because it carried memory for her, of a time where nearly everything in her world was pleasing and perfect, and now it was to be on a ship of dreams for her children, borne by the sea of time.

Down in the valley, the valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Hear the wind blow, love, Hear the wind blow

Down in the valley, the valley so low