The Beginnings of a Novel

Well, I'm trying my hand at a longer novel, so I thought I'd share it in sections as it progresses.  I have a good portion so far in longhand, so I'll type it out and post it bit by bit.  Hopefully I'll be able to do it regularly enough to keep you coming back for more.  I'm busier than a beaver right now, so I'll need encouragement along the way!  So for now, enjoy!

Kay's Story (I don't have a title yet)

A lark called in the distance.  A girl looked up, straining to see over the murmuring blue of the long water before her.  She saw a flutter of wings rise against the sun.  Breathing out a sigh, she closed her eyes and a faint smile stole its way across her face. 

            The years past has seen her visit this solitary place in the forest countless times.  It had drawn her with its peace, with its soft, caressing, kind air, with the unexpected joys that tingled their way into their eyes.  It was a place she could lift her heart to the Son and her face to the sun.  She had a wild love for both.  There was not, in any language anywhere, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that filled her when He reached out and warmed her, touching her with rays of truth and grace.  He made her world a glittering dream, dappled with butterflies, flared with flowers, strewn with the beauty of virgin hillsides.  But unlike a dream it was unshakeable, not easily torn from the mind and memory.

            This lone girl in the forest clearing was not ordinary.  Far from it.  To begin with, her outward features had about them a peculiar light that se her apart from others as much as a candle stands out in a room full of blank, cold stones.  A mist of magic and flame hung about her, charging the air all around with a subtle glow.  Not all had eyes to see his light, as many who miss the wonder in a blade of grass, or a leaf against the sky.  But it was there nonetheless.

            If a sleepy squirrel nearby had the words, he might have remarked that her hair fell delicately behind her, like enchanted, golden water.  He might have said that it appeared both softer and lovelier than his tail, and made him a bit resentful of that.  But when she turned, and he saw the form of her profile, and then those haunting blue eyes of hers peer back at him, all resentment fled away and sleep was forgotten.  He felt very small all of a sudden, and struck with a sensation of falling through the air from a great tree, knowing that the landing would be gentle and satisfying.  It was as though this creature before his eyes were what all other creatures should have been and had missed by some strange ordinance.  Or she was what every other creature was meant to set the stage for. 

            Now, if a girl can make a sleepy squirrel feel all these things, she must be far from commonplace. 

            The silence broke with the sound of a short giggle.  A wide grin was shining from her face as she gazed over the water.  She held a pen and paper in hand, and began to write. 

Dear David,

            Where have all the years gone?!  As I sit here reminiscing over so many past joys and sorrows, my heart cannot help but overflow with gratitude to the One who has bestowed on us the treasures of both darkness and light.  Isn’t He wonderful?  Just now I remembered the way you used to get so angry when I hid your shoes whenever I had the chance to give vent to my mischievous nature.  It made me giggle aloud, alone in this beautiful forest.  You know the one.  It is the clearing we have been to many times before, just beyond the Mayhurst fields.  Part of me wishes you were here to enjoy the scent of the pines, and the distance chorus of the frogs.  I can only wonder what you must be doing at present.  I want to imagine that some of my most importunate prayers for you have been answered, but sometimes my heart despairs over the years God seems to have turned a deaf ear, breaking my heart until there are cracks large enough to pour in more patience.  But we must trust in His unfailing love, must we not?  May our hearts rejoice in His salvation.

            I hesitated to write you a letter at all.  You know why.  But in the end it is something that cannot be quenched—a tide that cannot be stayed. 

            It would seem that nostalgia is as pervasive as life itself in this forest.  I can sense it seeping into me, firing memories, both lovely and painful.  Alas, I wish to relive so many of them, and revel in their nectar, savouring each drop with all my being, embracing the whole realm of sweet reality gone by, pulling it to my breast with such resolve and strength that it becomes part of me.  Oh David, I would kiss these memories if I could—kiss them long and slow—as we saw that couple doing at the edge of the Windsor’s meadow when we were young.  Do you remember that?  I’m sure you do, even though you feigned disgust at the time.  They never noticed us, even in the broad daylight.  Oblivious to the rest of the world outside of their universe of pleasure in the other.  In a way I feel that way now precisely.  Reality seems most vivid and real in the dreamlike memories that dance before my mind’s eye as I write.  The insistent present seems more hazy and distant, as an echo in the fog on the empty streets of London at three in the morning.  Why were we up so late?  I cannot recall.  However, I cannot forget what you told me then.  The words were halting and unsure of themselves, yet earnest and true.  Why did you wait so long to tell me that?  Oh David!  The look in your eyes as you said it—I can see it clearly as a May morning by the sea.  O, I miss the sea.  I long for—almost palpably—the times we rambled along the ocean’s edge in Edinburgh.  We were not there long enough to fully grasp all the splashing, rippling, salt-scented magic of that place.  The incessant din and lap and crash of the waves—such are my memories of you, never ceasing to break upon the worn shores of my heart’s dearest annuls.  Those waves in Scotland truly held the lore of a thousand legends.  The way they “gushed pearls,” as you used to say, streaming into our consciousness like a woman wild with gifts.  Even though Sylvia was with us for most of those moments on the shore, and I fought jealousy, the recollection still shines as one of my fondest.  How is Sylvia, David?  Stephen has asked about you of late, as have mother and father.  What shall I tell them?  I feel embarrassed to admit that I have little to no news of you.  Rosemary and Violet send you their love—they always make a point o remind me of that when I see them.  Oh, and I wish you could see little Frankie.  He has grown so much since he last saw you.  He still remembers you, David—as do most people who only have had momentary exposure to your person.  You seem to be rather unforgettable.  That is my problem as well.  Sometimes I wish I could forget you; then the ache might finally subside.  But I cannot forget you anymore than I can stop loving you.  And that love is a as persistent as those memories crashing in on me again and again, rushing, swirling glassy light, carving in the hardest stone, smoothing and refining the sand, tireless.  

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