by M. J. Mallon
‘No problem, it’s my pleasure,’ he replied. He turned to face me, and with an elaborate bow, his face lit up with a confident smile as his eyes met mine.
I grinned back and chuckled when I realised Ryder reminded me of a princely actor. I thanked my lucky stars he had crossed my path. I shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t come by when he did. I felt unsettled by that pathway where the shadows seemed to come alive. Those boys were weird. I shook my head, trying to get the image of their blank eyes staring at me out of my head.
A residue of uncertainty remained. Those shadows lingered in my mind, resurrecting buried memories from my thirteenth birthday: an imprint on glass, a charades card, and a young man’s beguiling voice bewitching me. I shivered, feeling the coolness of the air. Glimpsing up at the sky, I noticed that grey rain clouds were gathering.
I looked over my shoulder at Ryder. ‘I better get back. It’s going to rain.’
Ryder glanced up at the gathering gloom. ‘I think you’re right. If it’s not rain, it’s darkness that follows me. You never know what’s lurking in the shadows. With that in mind, let me walk you home.’
What a strange thing to say, I thought as we turned to walk down the path toward my home. Ryder’s words sounded creepy, and I couldn’t shake my uneasiness. Perhaps, I should have run away, but instead, I allowed myself to walk with him. I do not understand what possessed me to do so. It must have been the irregular hiccupping of my heart.
Stealing a glance at Ryder, I drew in a sharp breath. I had been so absorbed in the drama back at the river that I hadn’t noticed the subtleties flickering like wraiths across his face. I took the time now to note that he had blue-black hair that gleamed in the gloominess of the day. As the rain began to fall, I found myself drawn to his unusual eyes. His inky black eye contrasted with his green eye and had to be his most stunning, and unique, feature. He had long lashes now slicked with raindrops that gleamed in the failing light. Unable to look away, I stared into those captivating eyes as if they were two dark, mysterious pools pulling me into their depths. I imagined myself sinking into oblivion. I felt light-headed as if I’d lost my grip at the top of a high cliff, free-falling, tumbling over and over again, but instead of fighting against this frightening sensation, I welcomed it.
At that instant, I realised that I’d been staring at him for a long time. My unspoken thoughts had said yes, but I hadn’t replied to his question. ‘That would be very kind of you,’ I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. I could feel my face burning an even deeper scarlet than the shirt I wore. Self-consciously, my hands flew to my face.
We both turned and sauntered down the wet path. The walk back didn’t last long enough for the blush in my cheeks to subside. I felt them smouldering like two hot red coals. As we walked, I made a silent wish, a desire so insistent that I wondered if Ryder could hear it. When we arrived at my doorstep, Ryder magnified my thoughts by saying, ‘Sometimes chance brings together those who might not have met. Let’s meet again soon.’
I wondered at the peculiar choice of his words and the odd way he had spoken, but I answered, echoing his final word.
‘Soon, that would be great.’
He leaned in towards me, sending my pulse racing, a track with no end stop. ‘Next Saturday evening at 7 pm would be perfect. I’ll pick you up from here.’ His eyes lingered inches away from my face as if waiting for a response.
Without a second thought, I repeated his last words again. ‘From here? I’ll look forward to it.’ I turned to open my door but hazarded a look back. It surprised me to see that Ryder had already gone. He had disappeared into thin air. I hadn’t even heard his footsteps departing. As I entered my house, I realised that disconcerting feeling I had felt earlier had returned and prickled at the back of my neck.
Puzzle Piece 4:
Ryder’s My Secret
A secret something,
Draws me to it hugging me,
In a mystery,
That confounds my family,
In this strange life of secrets.
I crept on tiptoes into the house, slipping down the hallway.
As I reached the stairway, my mother Eleanor spied me. ‘What are you wearing, Amelina? Is that even a skirt? As for those tights, they’re ridiculous.’ I froze, her words piercing and chilling me to the bone. I drew in a breath of relief that my mum hadn’t noticed Ryder departing. It was easier if I said nothing in reply, although that just fired her up more. She pursed her thin lips and scowled at me.
I knew I had stumbled upon a pit of fury as I watched Mum turn to face me. She exploded like a bomb and shrieked, ‘Get out of that horrible excuse for clothing right now and put on something decent. You’ve never worn the black trousers and top I bought you. Why don’t you ever wear them?’
I recoiled at her tirade. I had no intention of wearing those horrible, ugly, old lady trousers. I would appear like some sad old person on their way to a funeral. Yeah, it felt like a funeral in this wretched house, but did she need to remind me?
I stared as my dad, Mark, appeared in the hallway, clutching the wall for support and looking so frail and haggard that I wondered if he would collapse. He spoke in a paper-thin, rasping voice. ‘What are you and your mother shouting about?’
‘My choice of clothes, Dad,’ I replied, my voice softening.
Glaring at my mother, I stormed upstairs and slammed my bedroom door shut with an almighty bang. The sound seemed to reverberate throughout the house, shaking the walls until they threatened to come crumbling down. Downstairs, I could hear a commotion. A ruckus blasted from the kitchen as my mum took her daily dose of temper out on her unfortunate pots and pans.
Every nerve ending in my body flooded with a multitude of emotions until I felt like a quivering mound of nervous, trembling jelly. Taking deep soothing breaths, I reached for my headphones to shut out this horrible, senseless world. I craved ear-piercing rock, a vault of high adrenalin noise. That would be sure to do the trick.
I turned up the sound and relaxed, lying in my bed. My thoughts returned to Ryder. What did I know about him? He appeared as a stranger and then surprised me by coming to my rescue. He scared those creepy boys off. I had to admit that I didn’t understand him or them either. His personality had switched. One moment he’d been all smiles, and then boom, he’d changed—a scary intensity erupting out of those incredible eyes. I imagined his face staring at me again. He had a mysterious power in him, that much I could see, so much so that even the ground beneath his feet responded to him.
I remembered that Ryder had introduced himself to me but hadn’t bothered to ask my name. I scratched my head in puzzlement. Yet he knew who I was. Somehow, he knew those boys’ names too. It struck me as strange and unsettling. But one thing I knew for sure: I experienced a trickle of life flowing in my veins. This sensation had long been missing from my life. It heralded an awakening, and I shivered in delight. I felt excited, confused, and more than a little scared. But I felt alive.
I experienced this magnetic pull of some hidden power that drew me towards him. With little difficulty, I realised he was a secret I would be wise to keep to myself. Mum and Dad would go mad if I mentioned that I’d met him down the river pathway. Hero or Prince, they wouldn’t understand. Besides, the possibility of keeping dark and mysterious secrets appealed to me. They were the best, most wicked kind.
Puzzle Piece 5:
Aunt Karissa’s Gift
Hey, unwrapped presents,
Can give lots of surprises,
And these gifts can be,
Chock full of rich mysteries,
So beware, magic, watch out!
A few days after I had met Ryder, a beautifully wrapped present arrived in the morning’s post—a gift sent from my Aunt Karissa. My hands shook with excitement because she always sent me strange and mysterious presents. A smile formed on my lips as I opened the parcel. I admired the handsome box carved out of the finest mahogany. My heartbeat grew when I noticed my na
me intricately carved on top. Little palpitations of excitement fluttered in my chest, quivering like released butterflies.
I opened the lidded box and gasped. Inside was a painting set. A sense of longing came over me as I imagined myself painting with the magnificent brushes and paints. I caressed the fine brushes, noting that the handles were lined with a gold filament. The brush heads were divine and filled with varying thicknesses of real horsehair.
My attention turned to the colour wheel enclosed within the box. I marvelled at the individual crystal paint pots: Purple Amethyst extolled creativity, Red Jade represented courage, Orange embodied joy, Olive symbolised awakening, Green encouraged discovery, Yellow represented enlightenment, Violet depicted intuition, Black symbolised protection, White ice exemplified calcite, and Natural White denoted moonstone. Excitement coursed through my veins at the display of colours—a rainbow of hope.
I couldn’t wait to begin. I rushed off to find my half-finished school art project. The new paintbrushes beckoned. I could hear them calling. ‘Paint me! Paint me!’
I stopped and looked around the room. Were the paintbrushes talking to me? I shook my head in disbelief. No, they couldn’t be! That was impossible. It must be a joke. It had to be an Aunt Karissa speciality—perhaps she delighted in pranking me. I laughed as I mulled over the situation. Confused, I checked for a recording device, but I discovered none.
A crazy theory formed in my mind. Those brushes had to be enchanted! I couldn’t think of anything else that made sense. Aunt Karissa must have superpowers. That figures. I paused for a moment, wondering what further madness I would stumble upon.
I heard a noise and spun around as my eyes focused on the painting set. The fibres of the paintbrushes were bristling with anticipation. I could hear them whistling in a high-pitched neighing sound I couldn’t ignore. The paintbrushes kept rearing up, trying to escape the box, like a bunch of restless horses in a paddock. The whistles and pleading continued, driving me to distraction!
‘Okay, okay,’ I said, half laughing, and half shaking, ‘stop making that chatter, I need to think.’ I heard one last neigh and one last pleading note. At that point, all noise ceased, and I only heard complete and utter silence. Now that quiet had descended, I could focus.
I began painting by outlining an image of my house with the paint. I added more detail to make it look more realistic. There were two white shades to choose between, but only one black option. The Natural White Moonstone or the White Ice Calcite could be perfect shades to highlight with.
I tried to loosen the closed lid of the white Moonstone paint. I twisted it, but nothing budged. The whistling, and ‘paint me, paint me,’ voices started again and became louder and more urgent. I tried to pry the lid open with a paint palette knife, but it stayed shut. Then to my surprise, the pot lid exploded. It burst forth like a delighted champagne cork, whizzing across the room, sending little bubbles of shimmering crystals whirling in the air. I cried out in surprise. I stepped away from the table and gazed at the opened paint jar. Everywhere I looked; tiny crystals twinkled like a multitude of sparkling diamonds. I sighed. ‘At last, at last,’ the pot cried, and the bristles wolf-whistled.
I reached for one of the paintbrushes, and suddenly I experienced a strange, immediate and blinding sensation. It surged from the end of the brush, radiating an incredible energy up and down my arm. It felt as if the wooden brush had extended, becoming the skin, bones, and muscles of my fingers. An electric sensation blasted its way from my fingertips, all the way to the tip of my head.
In shock, I tried to dislodge the brush, fearful where this might be leading. I struggled, but I couldn’t open my palm. The brush had claimed me, and I succumbed to its control. I couldn’t escape what happened next. My nails became one with the colour of the brush’s fibres, turning a muddy brown in hue. Palpitations of fear and excitement hammered at my chest. I shook my hand again and again. But the brush remained locked in place, possessing me.
An angry voice screeched, ‘paint me, paint me,’ repeating the words until they echoed in my head. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I surrendered. Driven by a buzz of immediate energy that surged through me, I dipped the tip of the brush into the White Moonstone paint. As my paintbrush touched the canvas, the crystal’s heady orchid scent hit me in the face full force. My mind raced in an intoxicating whirl. I began to sweat, and the humidity of the room increased, becoming so stifling I could hardly breathe.
Sucking the air into my lungs hastily, the canvas and I became one succession of bold, mysterious strokes. As the painting took shape, I recognised the view of the winter’s sky I’d seen through the kitchen window the day I’d met Ryder.
The Black Obsidian paint pot called me next, beseeching me to open it. Just like before, it refused to do so. In frustration, I slammed it down hard. The pot exploded with a loud bang like a child’s burst balloon.
As I dipped the brush into the paint, a gripping sensation overcame me. I painted in haste with a multitude of dissolving crystal paint flecks staring back at me from the canvas. A dark grey, bluish black, sinister tinge blemished the artwork. Shades of varying hues moved across the painting, competing for supremacy in a powerful duality of light and darkness.
I tipped over in my chair, toppling to the ground with a loud crash. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stood and righted my chair. Thoughts and questions swirled in my head. I peered at the canvas and wondered why I’d drawn all those strange black flecks dominating the painting.
My attention turned to the window. The sky had become dark and oppressive, as if etched with the murkiest ink. I felt an uneasiness in the air. It reminded me of the feeling I got when an eclipse of the sun had just taken place. I experienced a dull sensation in my temples.
A swift wave of dizziness and nausea hit me hard. The room spun, and I fought for control. With difficulty, I closed my eyes, willing the strange spinning to stop. Tentatively, my eyes opened, and a narrow tunnel of faded images came toward me in a giddy whirl. First, I saw a misty image of my dad playing his guitar, with my mum laughing by his side. In slow motion, I watched a replay of the day my father had disappeared, followed by the day he returned. The images swirled and blended until everything went black.
Puzzle Piece 6:
A Game of Charades
A missing person,
Disappears, rarely returns,
When they do it’s cause,
For a huge celebration,
But not for us, we’re tragic.
When my sight cleared, I realised that the portrait had taken me back to the dreadful day that my dad disappeared. I remembered that on that day, my thirteenth birthday, we’d been celebrating with music, laughter, and the promise of cake. The vision replayed in my mind, I could see and hear it all, the drumbeats of the stereo, the syncopated rhythm of the music, Dad’s flushed face, his broad smile playing havoc with the corner of his lips—but then it all changed…
My family had been dancing in the lounge, doing our own personal boogie, revelling in the music. Dad grabbed me, twirling me around and around until I stumbled in a breathless, giddy whirl. Mum joined in, too, laughing at our silliness. The open fire warmed the lounge, its flames roaring. Flickers of a strange light fell upon Dad’s ash brown hair, while he danced in time to the beat of the music. All this exertion had tousled his wavy locks. He stood up, stretching his tall frame to his full height in a series of irregular movements. He picked up his guitar, and we sang, scampering to catch up with the growing tide of his enthusiasm.
Eventually, Dad surrendered his guitar and propped it up on its stand. With a flourish, he opened a bottle of sparkling wine. The cork whizzed across the room, landing with an exultant bang. This became his cue to pour a large glass of wine for mum and a small glass for me.
Excited, I gulped it down in one huge swallow. The hiccups ensued as I struggled to get myself under control. My cheeks flamed red from the wine and the dancing.
Dad shook his head. ‘Amelina, it’s
not grape juice,’ he scolded, laughing. ‘No more, young lady, even if it is your thirteenth birthday!’
Our laughter filled the lounge, surrounding us in a unifying chord. Sinking down on the settee, I wallowed in the depth of its familiar feeling. Finally, my hiccups stopped. Smiling, I picked at the threadbare fabric. The settee had seen better days, but it felt cosy, like our family. Our sunny life made me feel so happy. We were floating by, drifting on our own chauffeured punt, a strawberry and champagne dream.
Breathless from the dancing and with our faces flushed, we settled down to play a game of charades. Much smiling and laughter continued as we acted out the words on the cards. Dad, always the lucky one, picked the first charade. He played the fool, pretending to eat spaghetti.
As the game progressed, we took it in turns. One minute Dad acted like a snail crawling across the floor, and the next minute Mum impersonated a hiccupping toad. My forehead creased with the exertion of trying to guess the right answer before the sand timer ran out. Nobody stood a chance to guess my next charade. They tried as hard as they could, but they failed.
Dad came to the rescue by picking another card. He turned it over. His face drained of all colour. He stared at the card long and hard, and then he trembled. His shaking progressed from a tremor to a full-on wine spilling. His grip faltered, and the card quivered in his hand. He staggered towards the fireplace and threw it into the burning embers. The fire raged, and a ring of flames circled the card, avoiding it as if it contained the deadly plague. The sand timer ran out. The fire burnt down, leaving its mark on the card with black, singed edges.
I felt a chill creep up my spine. When I searched Dad’s face for some clue to his strange behaviour, I reeled back, struck by the sight of a dull emptiness in his eyes. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his face. I thought I spotted a weird reflection in his eyes, maybe a bug, or something that flashed for a moment and vanished. Whatever it might have been, it lingered momentarily; a blink of an eye and it disappeared. I wasn’t sure what had happened because no answer transpired. Instead, the features on Dad’s face settled into an unfamiliar stony expression. I shivered at his transformation.
