Ophelia - Gorecki (most read books of all time .txt) 📗

by Alistair. She was only seven; Charlie had been eight at the time. They lived on a farm, now, after a year with only Charlie the whole place was dead. It was something from a story, the old pig shed had caved in, straw blew as it willed and the pastures had become over grown. The house was okay as far as you’d go. There were no windows and the wooden roof was rotting, the steps were cracked and the kitchen smelt like rotting cheese. There were no beds, just straw and hay on the floor where he had slept. In the end Charlie gave up living there altogether and moved into the forest, he's built himself a tree-house, it had cost him a beating every day at school to turn up scruffy with mud stains and grass in his hair but it meant Charlie had avoided the death trap his home held. By morning the villagers would have arrived, they would burn down the weeds and fertile the soils, someone else would buy the land and a new family would start all over.
‘Just the way the wind blows’ Charlie muttered softly as he continued to cross the fells, on the edge of lights vision he could see Wolf fell. By any luck he’d be there by tomorrow afternoon.

‘Lilly, Lilly are you okay darling? You seem awfully quiet’ Mrs Birch gave her daughter a worried glance as she stood from the table and moved towards the fire place, poking the embers with a long iron stick, the fire replied by spitting out a bit more heat and some red hot ashes.
‘I’m fine mam. Just, just a bad day at school that’s all.’ Lilly didn’t look up as she continued staring at the words before her. She’d been reading the same page for nearly thirty minutes now and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘Cold out there, autumns on its way no doubt there’ Mr Birch came into the room stamping his large boots on the floor. He had just finished putting the horses to keep and looked ready to collapse. He was a big bloke, six foot five with short curly blond hair; he had friendly brown eyes and a large bushy beard. He was on the plump side, his belly spilling over his trousers and his shirt sleeves ending at his wrists. On the contrary his wife was small and pale as a mouse with long lavishing red hair and freckles. Lilly took a mixture of the two people on her own body. She was already taller than her mother and her blond hair was slowly darkening into a deep crimson red. She had freckles under her eyes and was considered the best looking girl in the town.
‘I’m sure it is love, come now, nice and warm by the fire,’ Mrs Birch led her husband to a chair and sat him down before turning back to her daughter. ‘Darling, it’s a bit late now, perhaps if you had a bad day you should go and get some kip?’ Lilly nodded without a word and left, trudging up the stairs to her room. It was small and bare, a bed took up most the space and in the corner was a chest of draws containing her clothes. An old mirror reflected the tiny room from on top o’er the draws. She moved to the only window there and kneeling on her bed stared out at the fells. She watched as the moonlight fell on the old shadow of a farm. For a moment she thought she saw Charlie as he walked across them but she knew he would already be long gone. When he said he left at dawn he meant he’d be lost from Pennyton and straying onto new worlds. She couldn’t help but wonder if he would see the new world, knowing him he would some how manage to hide himself away on a ship and see the amazing free land. Her heart panged as she stripped and climbed into her bed. By eight am tomorrow morning the whole village would know that Charlie McHarvey would never return.

Dawn light stretched over the lands, the night had brought on a winter chill not rare for the season. Dew had gathered on every blade of grass as well as Charlie, he was damp through but that didn’t matter. It was going to rain today, you could feel it in the air. The clouds were dark and miserable as they strut across the sky, the sunlight being lost behind the floating sheep as he walked. His feet ached, he suspected blisters had formed under his heels explaining the swollen sore with every step. Easing himself down onto the compact earth he allowed himself a brief nibble at the dried meat he had packed and a swig of the water before pulling of his boots strapping them to his back pack and moving on. He had walked faster at night, the coldness had edged him on and already he was looking at wolf fell. The place was lonely, it was unusual for a villager from Pennyton to come here and there were tails of wolves and witches living here. Now though, as he watched the first drops of rain begin to fall he could see how those myths had begun. He moved almost silently for the whole day, the rain had got into every inch of his skin and come night fall he was escalated to find a small abandoned cow shed to sleep in. Laying down his pack he stripped of his clothes and hung them carefully from nails that projected from the wooden walls. Then, satisfied that he was safe from any night creatures he let himself drift of to sleep. He found him self waking with a start. He had heard a scream, he was sure of it. Having lived his whole life with a younger sister who had nightmares every other night he knew when he heard a girl screaming and it wasn’t his dream because he was positively sure he hadn’t been dreaming. Lifting his head he fumbled in the darkness to find a piece of timber. Striking it against the dry wood the match flared into life, the pathetic flame wavering, the wind outside was howling like the wolves and the rain was coming down in sheets, horizontal sheets. If someone had been screaming they had to be close by. Using what little light he had Charlie dressed himself into his still soaked clothes, the white shirt clinging to him and his trousers sticking like glue. He shuffled into his boots and grabbed his pack. Then, with the last light the match had to give he pulled lose a long black stick. He metal was cold against his flesh; it shone as the match died and Charlie was left in darkness that seemed fixed on him. He loaded the gun, he didn’t need light to do that, for over three years he had looked after the gun as his own now he had the chance to put it to use. Staring out into the hungry black he saw nothing. He had a feeling midnight had been and gone so first light shouldn’t be to far off yet he had a horrid feeling that what ever screamed wouldn’t be alive by then…

She had named the baby boy after her own historical one, a name Shakespeare used in his plays and, from what little she knew of the man, named a son from although if he had had a son he would have had it before he wrote plays so it might have been the play was named after his son. Either way Ophelia didn’t care as she looked into Hamnet’s face. He had fallen asleep against her leg and for a while she had been carried away in dreams as well. She was on the fells, past the forest and by the cow shed. There was a boy there and she screamed for him but nothing happened he didn’t come to save her. She woke with a start. She was panting like a dog, it was midnight, and she could tell from Lydia who stood by the metal web her waxy skin glowing, contained within a dull blue bubble that sat a couple of inches of her skin. She was talking, her speech getting louder and faster as the ceremony went on, and by dawn someone was going to be dead. She knew that as well as she knew that Lydia was evil and she would never escape her. She knew it like she loved Hamnet, the mother and son bond still strong even after witchcraft had crafted him. There was the sound of guns from somewhere on the fells, Lydia stopped chanting and threw her head up lividly.
‘No, I will not be stopped!’ the old woman leapt at the glass window and disappeared into the night without it shattering. She sped through the air and over the forest trees in search for who ever fired the missile. Ophelia wondered if it were the boy she had seen in her dream. Without hesitation she thought madly of a warning. Get out of there, drop the gun, throw it away and come quickly please. Through the forest, if you’re in the trees she won’t find you. She kept thinking it not knowing if anything were actually to happen.

Charlie watched the black as it howled around the cow shed, he didn’t get scared by what could be out there and “what ifs” but he was growing rather timid from the voice crying out to him. He was unable to tell whether it was coming from close by of far away but whoever it was needed him. Charging out into the downpour Charlie skirted towards the trees, their dark silhouettes just visible in the black cape of night. He was running as hard and fast as he could when he heard the wild cackling. It was mad, totally unreal and belonged to a witch. There was no question about it. He was being chased by a witch, he ran faster until he tripped. The ground underfoot went from slippery greasy grass to hard turf of a woodland. Scrambling to his feet he flung himself against a tree and listened, his breathing the only sound for a while. Whoever had called him said he would be safe in the trees, but he had no means of light and he hadn’t a map of the forest. Bent double he finally straightened up and moved slowly with his hands out stretched to feel anything in his way. From above there was a sudden wild screech as if someone had discovered an awful secret. Charlie wondered if it was the witch. Who was the witch keeping secret in her hide-out because that was surely where the cries for help had come from, who are you? Where are you, I need you to help me! Who ever it was he was rescuing had heard him, a small glowing ball of light appeared from behind a bush at his feet and floated harmlessly beside him. Hesitantly he followed the light; it guided him around the forest without getting him lost before stopping. Charlie had been so focused on the light and watching his feet that he nearly cried out at the sight. The cottage was nestled amongst the tall Ferns that sheltered the place from the wind and rain. Its front garden was tiny and held a mixture of weeds and other deadly looking flowers. The stench of pigs and blood climbed from the chimney where smoke was spiralling. The house its self was broken and horrible. It was worse than the farm house. There were windows shattered by a large blast or on a windy night, bricks were missing from the wall