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old and forgotten, this frozen sand
Oct. 17th, 2020 05:08 pmEven as a child, Darlington understood how singular, how private, a place Black Elm was. His world was its crumbling towers and vast hallways, the ever-changing, ever growing gardens that surrounded the house on all sides, its only inhabitants himself, his grandfather, and their housekeeper Bernadette. It was all he needed, a magic he didn't have to seek to understand because it was always there.
And when things changed, when Daniel Tabor Arlington III was dead and buried and the care of the house fell to him, it was that long-practiced secrecy that kept him safe. He bolted the doors after his parents left, learned to survive in bits and pieces, selling what he could to ensure that the house--and himself, though the wearier he grew, the less important that seemed--would make it through another day, another winter, another year. Having so rarely invited friends over before, it didn't seem strange that even those scant invitations stopped, or turned into far more polite alternatives: the public library, staying late after school, refusing a ride back to Westville with a gracious smile and a thanks, but I have my bike. With no one to see the house standing empty, there were no questions he had to field about what a teenaged boy was doing all on his own, about where his parents were (New York, as always) or when they would be back (never, if he could help it).
Darlington had no problem with lying, not really, but avoiding it entirely meant he couldn't be trapped, that his secret was safe--for another day, another winter, another year.
The desperation of it faded with time, though even then he was sparing with when and to whom he showed Black Elm. It had become an outgrowth of his heart and his soul, the one thing tethering him to the world. Dean Sandow had seen it, of course, and Michelle, an act of trust towards the people introducing him to another kind of magic. Alex's invitation had been slightly forced, like so much else about knowing her there and then; both of them drenched in a thunderstorm and not that far from the house, its vast fireplace just waiting to be put to work.
That hasn't changed much in Darrow, now that Black Elm is here. Alex has opened the doors to far more people, had friends over or merely extended an invitation for some future time, while he still waits and thinks, wanting to be sure in some way he can't define. It's something that should change, and that knowledge pushes him to pick up his phone and give Caleb a call. There are repairs to be done, that perpetual fight against age and time Darlington's been aware of his whole life, and having another set of hands will only make it easier. They make plans for that weekend, a Saturday afternoon that promises to be clear and just a little chill, exactly the kind of autumnal weather he's always loved. As he waits for Caleb's knock on the door, Darlington wanders through the ground floor of the house, room by room.
And when things changed, when Daniel Tabor Arlington III was dead and buried and the care of the house fell to him, it was that long-practiced secrecy that kept him safe. He bolted the doors after his parents left, learned to survive in bits and pieces, selling what he could to ensure that the house--and himself, though the wearier he grew, the less important that seemed--would make it through another day, another winter, another year. Having so rarely invited friends over before, it didn't seem strange that even those scant invitations stopped, or turned into far more polite alternatives: the public library, staying late after school, refusing a ride back to Westville with a gracious smile and a thanks, but I have my bike. With no one to see the house standing empty, there were no questions he had to field about what a teenaged boy was doing all on his own, about where his parents were (New York, as always) or when they would be back (never, if he could help it).
Darlington had no problem with lying, not really, but avoiding it entirely meant he couldn't be trapped, that his secret was safe--for another day, another winter, another year.
The desperation of it faded with time, though even then he was sparing with when and to whom he showed Black Elm. It had become an outgrowth of his heart and his soul, the one thing tethering him to the world. Dean Sandow had seen it, of course, and Michelle, an act of trust towards the people introducing him to another kind of magic. Alex's invitation had been slightly forced, like so much else about knowing her there and then; both of them drenched in a thunderstorm and not that far from the house, its vast fireplace just waiting to be put to work.
That hasn't changed much in Darrow, now that Black Elm is here. Alex has opened the doors to far more people, had friends over or merely extended an invitation for some future time, while he still waits and thinks, wanting to be sure in some way he can't define. It's something that should change, and that knowledge pushes him to pick up his phone and give Caleb a call. There are repairs to be done, that perpetual fight against age and time Darlington's been aware of his whole life, and having another set of hands will only make it easier. They make plans for that weekend, a Saturday afternoon that promises to be clear and just a little chill, exactly the kind of autumnal weather he's always loved. As he waits for Caleb's knock on the door, Darlington wanders through the ground floor of the house, room by room.
