The Guardian

by Carol Robi

  We buy my bike from a middle-aged woman. Hers is an old 3cm female city bike. I immediately fall in love with it, because it is a lovely maroon with a shopping basket on either end, 7 gears and very light in weight. It will be easy to cycle uphill on it, I think. We drive back home satisfied with our day, with our two bikes secured at the back of the car.

  Tomorrow will be dad's first day at work, and he needs to get to bed early, a point I promptly remind him of. He chuckles lightly but listens to me. After he settles in for the night on the sofa-bed in the living room, I sit up on my bed in my room and study the sketch I made the day before. I look at the intricate lines, tracing them with my finger. The temptation is too strong to resist tonight. I must paint it!

  I set up my simple drawing board as quietly as I can. I throw the small window wide open and then set out to start painting a larger magnification of my sketch, pouring some of the water from my water bottle onto my palette and the cup I use to wash my brushes in.

  I keep going relentlessly, listening to Alicia Key's Discography over and over again until dad's alarm shakes me from my trance. That is the moment I stop and step back to admire my work. I have now magnified the creature to fit an A2 size paper, and the details I’ve drawn on it are amazing. I am not sure whether most of it is from imagination, or what my subconscious saw. It simply is a beautiful painting, one I’ll have to complete another day.

  Dad's shuffling movements in the living room snap me into action. The last thing I want is to explain why I spent the whole night painting superman with wings. I quickly take down the sketch and hide it behind my other works, facing it to the wall so as not to smudge it. I then promptly turn off the lights and jump into bed. I can now hear dad opening the door to check on me, as he brings in his beddings to stack them on to the chest of drawers under the window.

  Oh no..! I think, remembering what I forgot to do.

  "Ouch!" Dad suppresses his cry as he crashes into the drawing board right in front of the door. I know he wanted to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake me up, so he had not turned on the lights. I bite my lower lip with guilt. I should have folded up my drawing board. I hope he is not too badly hurt, especially not on his first day at work.

  I fall into a deep slumber not too long after.

  Chapter 4

  This is a deadbeat town!

  It is the smallest town I’ve ever been in, 10 000 or so people, and yes, there is nothing, absolutely nothing to do. Though it’s only my first week here, I’ve explored just about every nook and crevice of Lejtoft and its neighboring towns; at least those that I can get to with my bike. The summer has been holding up pretty well, a little cool, and a few drizzles now and then, but otherwise it’s been fine so far.

  Dad's first week at work goes by well too. He does appear to be bored out of his mind though. Whenever he gets home, he wants us to do stuff together; bike around, discuss my drawings, go house hunting, running, and swimming. He has a gazillion ideas of what we ought to be doing, clearly overcompensating for having missed out on my childhood.

  Over the weekend I tell them about a flock of birds I’d noticed flying North East. They had been Greater Scaup birds, if I am not wrong. I am still new at bird gazing, a new hobby I have taken up now that I have a lot of free time. The birds had been beautiful, flying against the backdrop of the clear blue skies, with their shades of grey and black feathers and their white coloured underbellies. It had been impossible to keep up with them on my bike. In the end I’d given up and turned back home.

  "They must have been flying towards Rundskov Park," dad answers me before biting into his hotdog. It is a wonderfully warm and sunny Sunday afternoon, and we are having barbeque outside for dinner.

  "It is a beautiful park. So many birds flock around its pond. Do you like bird watching?" Grandpa asks.

  "I don't know. A little. I love drawing them sometimes. I am not an extreme enthusiast about them." The second part I say in English, too lazy to try remember the Danish vocabulary for it. Grandpa looks a little lost, so dad translates what I just said, to which he smiles.

  "I love bird watching," grandmother says. "If you want, I can drive you over to the pond," she suggests. I am quite torn in two, because on one hand I know she is trying to reach out to me, on the other hand I want to go there alone, and draw in private.

  "Thank you grandma, but I think I’ll bike there instead."

  "It will take you all day to get there," she answers. Surely she must be exaggerating.

  "How far is it anyway?" I ask, before deciding to rush into the living room to grab my iPad.

  We all pour over the mapping website I open, discussing what route I could take, should I bike there. We settle for a route that goes along the town's main road, branching into the golf course and runs along its perimeter, cuts across the adjoining forest, before meeting the park from its south west corner. The bike trip will take me a little over two and a half hours one way. I am already burning with excitement in anticipation for my long bike trip on the morrow.

  So the next day I wake up at 5:00am. The sun is already up and streaming through the small window. I drag on a pair of tights, and some denim shorts over them. I grab a striped t-shirt on and wrap a jumper around my waist. I pack up my sketch pad and pencils, stick my drawing board under my arm, before running to the kitchen to throw together a bunch of sandwiches and grab a bottle of water. I can hardly wait to be off on my excursion. I sneak out of the main door silently, as dad is still sleeping. He normally wakes up at 6:15 on weekdays.

  The bright sunshine hits my face as I walk out, and I immediately put on my sun glasses before unlocking my bike. There is a chilly breeze, but that does not scare me. I will soon be hot from the long bike trip ahead of me.

  I relish the cool wind blowing against my face, as I nod my head in tune to Bob Dylon's music blaring out of my earphones. It is a splendid day, and the route we chose is scenic and breathtaking.

  The change is very slight at first- so gradual that I do not notice it for a while. I am therefore not sure exactly when it began, as I have been riding for over two hours already. As I emerge at the edge of Rundskov forest, and ride along the road that meets the park, it is unmistakable then.

  The air is thick and heavy. Heavy with... heavy with something. Something heady, almost too sweet smelling. Like nectar, like grandpa's garden in the morning, at the furthest corner among the lilies of the valley. Intoxicating.

  I gasp out aloud as the narrow winding path in the thick forest breaks out onto a clearing that can only be the park I’d been told about. Mesmerizing!

  It is clear to see that I am not the only one enchanted by this little piece of heaven. Hundreds of birds swarm around the park in large flocks, along with butterflies and numerous other flying insects of varying colours. Rabbits scurry around untamed, squirrels and beavers of sort, as far as I can tell. It is a little jungle in here, protected by the tall Ash and Birch trees that are typical in this part of the world. The sun's rays filter weakly through the trees’ canopy, showering the clearing in a warm orange glow. The same glow is also reflected over the pond's waters, with the wealth of life in its waters proving just what great magic this place holds.

  I am enthralled by all around me, for never have I seen or experienced anything as beautiful. I waste no time in jumping off my bike and setting up my drawing board. I soon start to sketch.

  A blissful trance sets over me as my passion takes over my senses. My pencil flies across the paper like it is possessed, my eyebrows knitted tightly together as I concentrate hard on replicating the enchanting views before me.

  It is hours later when I finally set down my pencils, but I daren't look at my phone to confirm the time. I have used up half of my thick sketchbook, each page filled with landscape sketches from the different angles of this little paradise. There is just so much to capture, each angle seemingly as enthralling, or even more, than the last one, and just had to be captured.

  My stomach growls, and I re
alize I haven't eaten anything the whole day. I sneak a peek at my watch, 8:37pm, and yet it is still as bright as it had been when I arrived this morning. I start making my way back to my bike, which is lying on the ground at an odd angle on the other side of the pond from where I first hopped off.

  I feel the warmth spread out through the slightly chilly breeze before I see him, it. I do not react, though. I know better than that. I place one foot in front of the other, and work on keeping my breathing steady. He is floating beside me, at arm's length off to my right.

  He moves with me, beside me, at my pace. I know he can move faster, for I saw him speed past me, flying, as we were fishing on my first weekend here. I resist the urge to look up, and the urge to walk faster. I bite the inner lining of my mouth as hard as I can, using the pain as an anchor to control my heartbeat. I taste the blood as my teeth accidentally penetrate the soft skin.

  Can it smell it? I fake a look at my watch, and the gasp following it. Hopefully it will think that it is the reason for my tension, and quickening heartbeat.

  I can now see my bike, so near, if I can just get to it! I then watch as another of those creatures materialize besides my bike. The one that had been chasing the creature to my right.

  Don't panic! I order myself, don't react and most of all, keep calm!

  I see her lips move, but I hear nothing at first. Then it comes to me, a most melodic sound, spellbinding, entrancing- like a song in the wind.

  When he answers her though, it takes everything in me not to start in surprise. His voice is so powerfully quiet, gentle yet unmistakably authoritative as it resonates throughout the silent park. Even the animals react to it, standing a little straighter and pricking their ears as he speaks. I know he is a he, male, because she is definitely a she. Her voice rang of authority in beauty and grace, his was majestic and demanding of authority.

  I can now see her profile as clearly as I can make out my bike. The shimmery light brown curls cascading around her face, the striking feminine features that adorn her slight curves and long legs. Most interesting of all, the wings, the flowing swan like wings, powerful and muscular, long and graceful, their topmost tip towering a few inches over her head, and their lowest feathers sweeping the ground she stands on. The feathers are breathtaking, long silky wisps of a vibrant green colour, resting gently over each other.

  It is so hard for me to keep up my relaxed state, when I am so hungry and in dire need of peeing. One has to give. I must pee.

  I smile inwardly knowing it would be the perfect way to let them know that I, like all other humans, do not see them. Who in their right mind would, around other people, pull down their shorts, crouch down and pee? So I do just that.

  I hear the high pitched melodic laugh ring out right before his rumbling one. Surely they cannot possible still suspect me of seeing them, even if my heart might have skipped a couple beats when they had first appeared!

  When I am done, I get up and keep heading towards my bike. She materializes away before my eyes. I guess they were convinced by my performance after all.

  Well done, Caroline Gati Christiansen! I think to myself in satisfaction. I can no longer see the male one by my side as I walk on; but the air still feels warm, and I know that it means they are somewhere close. I make sure not to give way to my fear and run.

  I reach my bike and lift it upright, placing my sketchbook and pencils into the shoulder bag on the front basket. I place my folded drawing board onto the basket on the back, and secure it in place with an ugly long knitted belt one of my cousins in Kenya had made for me. I have finally found a good use for it, all right! When I look back up again- he is standing right in front of me!

  Does he suspect? I reach into my bag and pull out a sandwich and the bottle of water, as I lean my bike against me. I take a big bite, chew slowly, and chunk it down with the water.

  Why is he still here? I ask myself. I’m driven by an insane urge to look up, so that I can better see his face. But I don't dare do it. I fix my gaze straight ahead instead, which is really just a view of his ripped torso.

  I guess his species doesn't believe in T-shirts! I chuckle to myself in pleased satisfaction at the view, and then halfway realize that he’s heard my chuckle, because he moves forward towards me, faster than I have ever seen a human move, and stops right before me in a split second, his warm breath blowing onto my forehead.

  I have only that very split second to think, to stop my rising heartbeat in response to the threat of his close presence. I choose to continue with my chuckle, exaggerating it, letting it develop into a laugh. It is the only way I know to distract my thoughts from the idea of fleeing or screaming.

  "Dad's going to kill me for coming home late," I say to myself aloud as I laugh. Great now he thinks I am the crazy type of humans that speak to themselves and laugh out loud. At least my insane laughter has stopped his advance. For a second there I thought he would kill me with one swift swerve of the sword, whose hilt I can just make out behind his head. I finish off my sandwich and rub my mouth with the back of my hand as I keep my gaze staring straight ahead, onto his beautifully menacing chest. I then climb onto my bike and ride, bracing myself to bike straight through him. He moves away at the very last moment. I don't hesitate for a moment and keep biking at the same manic pace out of the park.

  By the time I get to the golf course, it is pitch black. I can hear my phone's frantic vibration, but I daren’t pick it. I know dad must be worried sick, but I am completely tense from all that happened at Rundskov Park. All my courage was spent there. Now I am just a shell of myself, in desperate need to get home. Home to my dad, and mom. I miss my mom. Tears from my pent up tension start streaming down my face, but I cannot stop them. I do not even bother to wipe them away. They soak around my eyes, and my vision becomes even blurrier.

  When I finally make it out of the golf course, branching onto the main road, I almost crash into an oncoming car from straight ahead. I swerve wide as the driver honks frantically at me, and don't bother to stop, instead keep riding at the same insane pace.

  I slowly recover from my shock as I bike uphill. My phone is now vibrating incessantly, and it is impossible for me to keep ignoring it.

  "Dad, I am so sorry. I completely lost track of time." I blurt out the moment I answer it.

  "Where are you?"

  "I will be home in a quarter hours’ time or less." I answer.

  "I could come pick you up," he says quietly, not wanting to push me too hard, though I can sense the worry in his voice, and traces of disappointment.

  "No, I'll be alright dad. I am enjoying my bike ride," I lie, biting my bottom lip as I speak.

  "Ok princess, just be sure to get home soon."

  "I will," I assure him. I hang up the call, feeling much better again. The tension and panic I’d felt for the last couple of hours has been slipping out of my system during the hard, fast paced bike riding I had subjected myself to in the past two or so hours.

  I now relax my pace, and ease into a steady rhythm, feeling much safer out here on the open roads.

  When I get home, dad wakes up the moment I step into the house.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he waves away my apology and instead embraces me.

  I grab an apple from the kitchen before moving to my room, where I throw myself onto the bed and lie down facing the blank plain ceiling, pondering over the odd creatures I’d seen earlier today.

  What kind of ghost are they? Is the last thought in my head before I fall asleep.

  Chapter 5

  It's safe to say, as you have probably guessed, that dad never allowed me to go for long bike rides after that. It is always, be home by dinnertime, Caroline! Be sure to help your grandparents with dinner, princess!

  Dinnertime in Denmark tends to be at 6pm. My temporary curfew is therefore currently at 5:45pm, since I am at least expected to help out with setting the table.

  I spend most of my days at the backyard or at the closest beach by the fjord, wi
th my drawing board and paints. I have mostly been working on one of the sketches I made of Rundskov Park. It is painstaking work to paint, laboring and taxing. I am the kind of person that would be termed a perfectionist with my artwork. Especially with this piece of work, with which it is just so hard to replicate the image of perfection etched in my mind on to the piece of canvas before me.

  Unlike the landscape sketches I previously made at the park, I’m not painting a replica, but an interpretation of it. Using the sketches as a guide, I’m attempting to interpret the beauty and the life with colours on a blank canvas. Varying grades of colours for whatever emotion each entity, object, evoked in me. It’s something I learnt from my mother, and until now, I hadn’t yet met with a scene intriguing enough that I’d be tempted to undertake such a difficult interpretation process.

  Often on the afternoons grandpa and grandma would sit outside with me as I paint. Grandma would peruse her magazines while grandpa would smoke his hand made pipe, that I got him for Christmas five years ago, and follow my brush strokes with his eyes. It is a lovely ebony pipe that had been carved by my grandfather on my mother's side back in Kenya, when he had still been alive. He had given it to me because I’d been so fascinated with it as he made it, that he had even let me help with sandpapering it. My African grandfather would be pleased right now if he saw just how well my Danish grandfather is using his pipe, and just how much he loves and appreciates it.

  I saw my grandfather’s spirit immediately after his death. He’d visited me during second grade English at St. Mary's, my elementary school in New York. He’d just suddenly appeared at the front of the class, looking around him in confusion. I then knew immediately that he was dead, and was unable to stifle the loud sobs that escaped me when I saw him.

  He was so surprised at my reaction. It had to be the moment when he first noticed that his beloved granddaughter could see the dead. He walked over to me as soon as his surprise wore off, and tried to hug me in consolation, but his touch had dissipated through me.